The Endless Knot

by Gail Bowen

Charlie took control of the situation. “Why don’t you guys join us.”

  Sean was clearly eager, but he was also polite. “Are you sure?” he said. “We don’t want to wreck your game.”

  “My game is wrecking me,” I said. “I’ve had enough. Besides, my granddaughters appear to need some supervision. You take over for me. Arden can play on Charlie’s team.” I glanced at Zack. “In or out?”

  “In,” he said. “And I’ll play on your old team.”

  “You really think it takes you and Sean to replace me,” I said.

  “No one could replace you,” Zack said.

  I kissed the top of his head. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  As he always did, Zack played hard, giving no quarter and expecting none. Arden and Sean were both natural athletes, lithe, quick, and aggressive. Huddled with my granddaughters in an old Hudson’s Bay blanket singing nonsense songs and cheering on whoever happened to have the ball was, in my opinion, the perfect way to end the weekend.

  The collision between Sean Barton and Mieka was quick and vicious. She was trying to intercept the pass that he was trying to catch. He leapt in the air, caught the ball, lost his balance, and came down on top of her. Even from halfway across the lawn, I could hear the cartoon sound of the breath being knocked out of her body as she hit the ground with Sean on top of her. It was clearly an accident. By the time I got to my feet, Sean had pushed himself off Mieka and was on his knees with his face close to hers checking to see if she was hurt. Charlie seemed to come out of nowhere. He hurled himself at Sean, wrapping Sean in his arms and legs and screaming at him to get away from Mieka. Sean was at least a head taller than Charlie and fifty pounds heavier, but when he tried to extricate himself from Charlie’s grasp, he couldn’t. Of the players on the field, Pete was the first to see what was happening, and he reacted immediately. He grabbed at Charlie and told him to back off, but Charlie was beyond hearing. Pete hung in there, pulling at Charlie’s arms and speaking to him in the tough, reassuring voice of a football coach dealing with an out-of-control player. “C’mon, buddy, let it go. Let it go. Let it go.” Finally, Charlie did, in fact, let it go. His body – all sinew and rage during the attack – went boneless. He released his grip, stumbled, and then drew himself to his feet. When I saw his face, I was filled with horror.

  I had been in the delivery room with Marnie when Charlie was born. He had rocketed into the world two weeks early. It was election night, and Howard was busy consoling the losers and celebrating with the winners. As Marnie’s doctor lifted the newborn into the air, the delivery room fell silent. He was a long, thin baby with a birthmark that made it appear as if half his face and neck had been dipped in blood. Like everyone in the room except Marnie, I struggled against revulsion. Over the years, Marnie had taken him to a dozen doctors, but Charlie’s blood mask stubbornly resisted treatment. We had all grown accustomed to it. The disfigurement – like his wit, his charisma, and his need – had simply been part of the person Charlie was. So that day, as I tried to catch Charlie’s attention, it wasn’t the splash of blood on his skin that shocked me, it was the wildness in his eyes. In that moment, he was a fierce stranger who was capable of anything. The moment passed. He shrugged, apologized to us all, and then extended his hand to Sean.

  “Sorry,” he said. “That’ll teach me to skip my meds.”

  Sean was gracious. “Hey, with that kind of pit-bull spirit, next time I want you on our team.”

  Zack had wheeled over to join us. “Let’s eat,” he said. He turned to Sean and Arden. “I dragged you out here on a holiday weekend, the least we can do is feed you.”

  When the others started up to the house, Zack motioned me to stay behind. “Do you think I should tell Sean to get a rabies shot?”

  I began folding the blanket the little girls and I had been sitting on. “No. Charlie and my kids have always been very protective of one another,” I said. “Still, that was really stupid.”

  “And predictable,” Zack said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever heard of hypermnesia?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the opposite of amnesia. People who suffer from it can’t forget anything – no matter how painful.”

  “It sounds like one of those curses the Greek gods used to hurl around.”

  “It is a curse,” Zack said. “I’ve seen it in about a half-dozen clients, and it makes them do crazy things.”

  “And you think that’s what was behind Charlie’s outburst.”

  Zack shrugged. “It seems a distinct possibility. When he talks about his relationship with his father, he remembers every slight. And his loyalty to your kids – and to you, incidentally – is primal.”

  “Primal can be dangerous,” I said.

  “And expensive,” Zack said. “That Jaguar you’re so fond of driving was paid for by fees from a man who caught his wife cheating and opted for what my American colleagues call a Colt .45 divorce.”

  At lunch, there were two topics of conversation: the trial and Halloween costumes. Madeleine and Lena were dressing up as crayons: Madeleine was purple and Lena was orange. And so in the midst of the tense, revved-up talk of witness lists and opening statements, there were wistful reminiscences about Halloweens past and about going out as ghosts or pirates or witches. When lunch was cleaned away, Zack, Sean, and Arden went back to his cottage to work and the rest of us started loading the cars.

  After the last stuffed toy had found a home in Greg and Mieka’s car, Greg went inside to get the girls.

  Alone with my daughter, there were a hundred questions I wanted to ask, but I fell back on the host’s question. “All things considered, did you have a good weekend?”

  Mieka smiled. “All things considered, it had its moments.” She reached up and, in her invariable nervous gesture, began to pick at her lip. I pulled her hand away.

  “I’m thirty-one,” she said. “I should be allowed to disfigure myself.”

  Our eyes met. “But you have such a beautiful mouth,” we said in unison, and the tension between us broke.

  Her eyes met mine. “You’re not the only one who worries, you know. I worry about you too. Mum, how much do you really know about Zack?”

  “Enough to know that I love him,” I said.

  “People say things …”

  “People used to say things about your father. If you live a public life, people talk. It comes with the territory.”

  “But with Dad, you knew that the rumours weren’t true. He had integrity, and you two had this perfect marriage. How can you settle for less?”

  “Because what I have with Zack isn’t less. In many ways, it’s more. For one thing, we’re equals – that wasn’t true with your Dad and me.”

  Mieka put up her hands. “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just remember that no marriage is perfect. I loved your father, and I’m glad we stayed together, but it wasn’t always easy.”

  “Thus endeth the lesson,” Mieka said, and her voice was heavy with scorn. She shook her head. “Forget I said that. In fact, let’s forget everything we both just said.”

  “Good call,” I said. “Come on, let’s go over and say goodbye to everybody.”

  Zack, Sean, and Arden were sitting at the partners’ table, wholly engrossed in their talk.

  “Sorry to break your concentration,” I said. “But we’re heading out.”

  Zack frowned. “You’re not leaving too?”

  “I have to get back to the city,” I said. “Taylor has school tomorrow, and I should review a few things with Rapti.”

  Zack ran his hand over his head. “Shit, Jo. I blew it, didn’t I?”

  “You didn’t blow it. We had a great weekend.”

  “But we should have been together more.” He wheeled his chair towards me. “Is there any way you can hang around for a couple of hours?”

  Arden and Sean were closing their laptops. “I think we’re going to take off,” Sean said
quietly.

  Zack nodded approval. “See you at four – we’ll meet in the boardroom. My office …” He read the concern on my face and cut his sentence short.

  “Your office looks like a bomb went off in it,” I said.

  Zack looked sheepish. “Set myself up for that one, didn’t I? I’ve been trying to steer clear of the subject all weekend.”

  I met his gaze. “So have I. Are there any developments there?”

  Zack shook his head. “Nope, I talked to the cops this morning. No progress. Norine’s getting together a list of clients who have Looney Tunes potential, and she’s got workers coming in today to start the cleanup. Everything’s taken care of. Time to move along.”

  Arden checked her watch. “So, the boardroom in two hours, right?”

  “Right,” Zack said, but he wasn’t looking at Arden when he spoke.

  I turned to Pete. “Could you drive the girls home in my car, and let Charlie take your truck?”

  “Sure,” he said. He grinned at me. “You’re blushing, Mum.”

  “So are you,” I said. “Now give me a hug and get out of here.”

  After everyone left Zack turned to me. “It’s a forty-five-minute drive back to the city and that gives us an hour and fifteen minutes – ample time for a heavy-duty love sesh.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  We moved into the bedroom. “Something a client of mine told me about,” Zack said, unbuttoning his shirt. “My client’s theory was that a heavy-duty love sesh cleared the toxins from the body and made a favourable impression on the jury.”

  “That’s insane,” I said.

  “Maybe, but I leave no stone unturned.” He shifted his body from the chair to the bed and patted the place beside him. “Come on. We’re wasting Sam Parker’s money.”

  Sam got his money’s worth that afternoon. When we left Lawyers’ Bay, Zack and I were both relaxed and content. We drove home listening to a Beach Boys CD. Zack kept hitting number twelve – “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” – a plangent anthem to the joys of being married because it meant spending the night together and having kisses that were never-ending. When we pulled up in front of my house, Zack leaned over and kissed me. “So did the Beach Boys convince you?”

  “That we should be married?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “So we could be happy.”

  “We’re already happy,” I said.

  “Agreed,” he said. “But if you’d been listening harder, you would have learned that if we were married, we wouldn’t have to go to school.”

  I could hear Taylor’s music pounding from halfway up my front walk. No need to fumble for my keys; my daughter was in residence. Before I opened the door, I checked the mailbox. For once I was rewarded with more than flyers and the community newspaper. There was a padded envelope inside – obviously hand-delivered. It was addressed to Taylor. I tucked it under my arm, opened the door, and followed the beat of the drums.

  Taylor was curled up on the couch with her cats, doing homework. I turned down the decibels and glanced at the notebook in front of her. “Math,” I said. “Well, better late than never, I guess.”

  She gave me a corner-of-the-mouth grin. “So have you done all your homework for the trial tomorrow?”

  “Not a scrap,” I said. “What do you say we order a pizza and get caught up together.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said. She scrunched her face. “What’s in the envelope?”

  I handed it to her. “Something for you,” I said.

  She glanced at the address but didn’t open it.

  Clearly, she wanted some privacy. “I’ll go check our messages,” I said. “Let me know when you’re hungry.”

  There were ten new messages – a surprisingly high number considering that I’d had my cell with me all weekend and that Taylor’s friends knew how to reach her at the cottage. The mystery was soon solved. There was a curt message from Jill, saying she’d hoped I’d watched the Kathryn Morrissey interview and she’d call me after I’d done my report the next day. The rest of the messages were from Howard Dowhanuik, who had apparently forgotten the adage “Never drink and dial.” He had started phoning me Sunday night just as Kathryn’s interview aired. From his slightly off-centre articulation at the outset, it was obvious he’d fortified himself against the ordeal of watching Kathryn turn on the charm coast to coast. Judging from his speedy descent from toasty to drunk, Howard’s bottle of Canadian Club had never been far from his side. By the time he made his last phone call Sunday night, he had moved from belligerence to lachrymose affection. I was, he assured me tearfully, his last goddamn friend in the world. Given the fact that he had spent the evening berating me for failing to protect him from himself, the fact that he was friendless didn’t come as news.

  Howard’s final phone call had come at 7:05 Monday morning. He didn’t waste time apologizing for his behaviour the night before. It was clear that with the drunk’s breathtaking efficiency, he had simply wiped away the memory of his previous calls and moved along. He was now strategizing. His new plan was to track Kathryn Morrissey. From now on, he assured me, she wouldn’t take a goddamn step without him knowing what she was doing and who she was seeing. I would be getting regular reports. I could count on that.

  As I erased his final message, I was optimistic. In his previous life, Howard had been a lawyer. It was plausible that he had retained some knowledge of the laws governing stalking. Whatever the case, if he was hanging around the bushes eyeballing Kathryn Morrissey, he would be away from the rye bottle. Besides, the fresh air would do him good.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The first day of the trial our city was hit by a freak snowstorm. As I stood at my bedroom window watching the wind whip the branches of the evergreens in our yard and the snow pelt the window, I felt my nerves twang. Anything could happen. From his place beside me, Willie stared at the blizzard, unperturbed.

  I scratched his head. “ ‘Winter is iccumen in,’ ” I said. “ ‘Lhude sing Goddamm.’ ” Literary allusions were lost on Willie; nonetheless, he cocked his head thoughtfully and followed as I went to the basement to unearth the storage bin that held our boots and the larger one in which we stowed winter jackets, mitts, and toques. I found our parkas, Taylor’s new boots, and my old Sorels, went back upstairs, and started layering up. Finally, equipped to battle the elements, I opened the front door and stepped into a suddenly wintry world. The streetlights were still on, and snow was swirling through the halos of light they cast. It was a familiar sight, but one I wasn’t ready for.

  Nor, as it turned out, was I ready for the sidewalks. Before we reached the Albert Street Bridge, I’d slipped twice. I gave Willie’s leash a tug. “We’re cutting our run short, bud.” We covered half our route, doubled back, and came home to a silent house. I filled Willie’s dog dish, poured myself a cup of coffee, and went back up to my bedroom to check my e-mail. There was a note from Charlie, thanking me for my hospitality and wishing Zack luck. I scrolled down to the quotation Charlie had chosen for his e-mail signature: Life is Painless for the Brainless.

  As he’d promised, Charlie had attached an MP3 file of excerpts from his interviews with the Too Much Hope kids. I clicked it on and went over to the chair by the window to watch the snow and listen.

  What I heard shouldn’t have shocked me. I had read Kathryn Morrissey’s book. I knew the histories of her subjects: the ones who had been discarded like toys their parents had acquired on eBay and had tired of; the ones who had been caught in the crossfire of toxic marriages; the ones who had been freighted with their parents’ baggage or whose lives had been appropriated by their parents to fulfill their own needs. And I had read Kathryn’s meticulous accounts of her subjects’ confused, raging, blighted lives. What I wasn’t prepared for was the agony in their young voices. Clearly whatever their failings, Kathryn’s subjects weren’t brainless.

  I was so absorbed in the voices on the tape that I didn’t hear Taylor come in.
<
br />   She was still in her pyjamas, and she was exuberant. “It’s snowing,” she said. She ran to the window seat and knelt among the cushions so she could peer out the window. “Sweet, eh?” she said.

  “Sweet,” I agreed.

  For a few moments she knelt with her back to me watching the snow, then the voices on the computer entered her consciousness and she turned to face me. “What’s that you’re listening to?”

  “An MP3 file that Charlie sent me of his interviews with the people in Too Much Hope.”

  Taylor settled with her back against the window, her legs crossed in front of her. When a female voice began to describe how, within weeks, she had gone from model child to truant, sexual predator, and druggie, Taylor wedged her hands between her thighs and leaned towards me. “That’s Olivia Quinn, the one who got raped.” Taylor’s lips were tight. “She tried to tell her mother, but her mother didn’t believe her.”

  I walked over to my computer and turned off the interview. “Taylor, you know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I know.”

  I sat beside her on the window seat. “Is something wrong?”

  She was still for a moment, tense with indecision. Then she leapt to her feet. “There’s something I need to show you.” She came back with the padded envelope I’d taken from our mailbox. It had been opened. I reached inside and took out Soul-fire: A Hero’s Life, Part IV. Like its predecessors, Part IV opened in the grey world of alienation and nihilism. Finally, shunned and miserable, the hero takes the pentangle from its secret place in the crypt, drapes the emblem around his neck, and is transported into the brilliantly coloured world of Soul-fire. The enemies Soul-fire encountered were familiar to me from his earlier exploits, but this time, he was not alone. On this quest, he was joined by Chloe, a light-boned young girl with huge brown eyes and fashionably hacked dark hair. The comic ended with Soul-fire and Chloe hand in hand on a verdant sanctuary called the Island of Celestial Light. Behind them, the city was burning.

  Taylor was watching my face. “What do you think?”