Barrington Street Blues

by Anne Emery

  What? She had body parts other women didn’t have?

  “See anything you like?”

  “Of course I do. You’re a babe, Felicia, but I’m leaving.”

  A look of anger flashed across her face but was quickly masked. “Maybe you’d prefer Ken,” she suggested in a needling voice.

  “Nope. Ken’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

  “So tell Felicia: what’s on Monty’s mind right now?”

  “Work. And the two of us sitting across from each other in the boardroom.” And a whole lot of aggravation I didn’t need. And Ed Johnson’s laughing face if he could witness this little tableau.

  “That just adds to it for me, Monty. Well, you’ll certainly have a graphic picture of me when you see me in the boardroom. I’ll just have to use my imagination about you, unless —”

  “I look like everybody else. Now let me up. I don’t want to have to manhandle you out of the way.”

  “Go ahead!”

  After a brief skirmish I made my escape. I put the image of Felicia in her jammies out of my mind and turned my thoughts to Fanshaw and the drug venture. I told myself I would do some digging in the court office in the next couple of days, but researching every trafficking conviction in the past few years was a daunting prospect. I could certainly check Corey Leaman’s incarceration history, and made a mental note to do at least that. What were the odds that, of all the drug dealers in the city, Leaman was the one who had hooked up with Ken Fanshaw?

  †

  It was my week to have the kids, so they arrived on Sunday. I managed to be unavailable when MacNeil dropped them off and I emerged only when her car pulled out of the driveway. Not for the first time I wondered about getting Tommy a good used car so the kids could come without their mother, but I dismissed the idea as something that would set a bad example for my son.

  “Hi gang!”

  “Hi, Daddy!” Normie reached up, and I lifted her into the air.

  “How’s my girl?”

  “Good. What sharp whiskers you have today!”

  “The better to scratch and scrape you with, my dear!”

  “I get first dibs on the keyboard,” Tom announced, which was enough to propel his sister out of the room and down the stairs. We heard her playing “Big Teddy, Little Teddy.”

  My son looked me in the eye. “How long are you going to keep this up, Dad?” I didn’t insult him by pretending I didn’t know what he meant. “You’re going to have to deal with her some time, so why not get on with it?”

  “Tom, I’m sorry, more sorry than you can imagine, that you have to see all this going on. But I just can’t handle it. I think you’re old enough to know what this must be like for me. What would you do if Lexie told you she was pregnant with some other guy’s baby? How long would you stick around? I wish I could just shrug it off and go on the way we were before, but I can’t.”

  “I know, I know. But I don’t think she exactly planned this. You weren’t around; you two had split up. So she had a boyfriend. Just like you’ve had other people in your life. More than she’s had, I bet. And this happened. I wish it wasn’t happening but it is.”

  “I’ll try, Tom. I know I have to come to terms with it, but —”

  “You just did that to get rid of me!” Normie was back. “You wanted to talk to Daddy without me listening in!”

  “Well, you’re here now, sweetheart.”

  “Tom wants to invite Lexie over for dinner. Can I invite somebody too?”

  “Sure. Who would you like?”

  “Kim.”

  “All right, give her a call. We’ll pick her up. How’s it going otherwise, Tom? How’s school?”

  “Great. Do you think there’s such a thing as a just war?”

  “No idle chat from you today. Are you talking jus ad bellum or jus in bello?”

  “Huh?”

  “You haven’t looked into it yourself then, I take it.”

  “I have to do a paper. It’s my final, due tomorrow.”

  “And you haven’t started it?”

  “Well, I thought you mentioned this topic one time and —”

  “No doubt. I did a major paper on it myself in university.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Do you by any chance —”

  “Still have a badly typed copy of it with no updated references to all the unjust wars that have been waged since I was a college student? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Get to work! I’ll look at it when you’re done.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say. Can I use the car to pick up Lexie?”

  “Sure. And get Kim while you’re at it. But hit the books first. I take it you have books.”

  “A few. Well, more like articles.”

  “Get at it.”

  “Okay.”

  Normie sweet-talked me into renovating her bedroom. We cleaned off an old desk and bookcase, and hauled them up from the basement, transferred a worn Aubusson rug from another room, and moved her bed under the window overlooking the water. Then she went downstairs with me to help prepare a dinner of steamed salmon and boiled potatoes. Tom went out to collect Kim and Lexie, and we all sat down at the table when they returned.

  “Not sitting for Botticelli today, Lex?” She could have, with the long golden curls and amber eyes.

  “I might as well have, Mr. Collins, considering how long I sat and waited for Tom!” She gave him a stern look over the tops of her tiny rimless glasses.

  “I’m sorry, Lexie. I got all caught up in this paper I’m doing. You’re lucky you’re finished with high school.”

  “Wait till you get into university before you say that.”

  “Dad, you have to help me. I don’t have enough material. This paper is in lieu of an exam, so it’s really important. I’ll make it up to you, Lexie, I promise.”

  I looked at the little girl sitting across from me, gnawing on her flaxen braids: “Kim! Are you an expert on ‘just war’ theory?”

  The child stared at me wide-eyed. “I don’t think so.” Her eyes darted over to my daughter. “Did Miss Dunphy teach us that?”

  “No, we haven’t learned it yet,” Normie replied.

  “All right, Kim, dear. You’re off the hook. I’ll help you, Tom. Eat up, everybody. I slaved away all by myself to put this meal together.”

  “You did not! It was me as much as you! Don’t believe him, Kim!”

  Dinner was fun and I thought, for the millionth time, how much I loved the company of my children. As bad as it was sharing them week on, week off, it could have been worse. MacNeil and I had been civilized about this at least. I was thankful that I had limited my drinking the night before, and was feeling chipper.

  It was nearly ten before Lexie and Kim went home, and Tom was back at work. I joined him at the dining room table and tried to make sense of the notes and academic articles he had amassed. “Don’t you have Walzer?”

  “No. Somebody else had the book when I tried at the library downtown. And the school library didn’t have it at all.”

  “And where are these quotes from? Looks like St. Augustine, but where are the references?”

  “I took these quotes secondhand.”

  “You’re usually a little more organized than this, Tommy. Your work has always been top drawer.”

  “I know.”

  “Is anything wrong?” Such as the latest disaster on the home front? “No! Nothing’s wrong.” A loyal son. Should I keep at him about it? I decided it might do more harm than good. “I just kept putting this off,” he admitted.

  “What you need here are the original references from Augustine.”

  “Where am I going to get them at this time of night?” “Hold on.” I went to the phone and dialled a number. Only when the phone was ringing did I remember that things were a little frosty last time I saw my friend Burke. Well, I would act as if nothing had happened; more than likely he would too.

  “Hello.” />
  “You don’t have St. Augustine over there by any chance, do you?”

  “He is with me in spirit, in more ways than I would care to enumerate. Thank you for asking.”

  “Tommy needs to look at City of God. Do you have a copy? If so, I’ll take a run in and pick it up.”

  “Young lads these days don’t get enough credit. Though I should-n’t be surprised that your son is studying the Doctors of the Church.”

  “He’s doing a paper on just-war theory. It’s due tomorrow.”

  “He’ll want part of the Summa too. And I think I have a couple of short articles on St. Thomas’s thought on the matter. Can’t do much of a survey without citing Thomas Aquinas.”

  “True. It’s going to be a long night. I’ll be there in ten.”

  “I’ll run it out to you.”

  “No, no.”

  “Sit tight.” Click.

  So then it was Brennan, Tom, and I working on the paper, and Normie, in her Paddington Bear pyjamas, peering at us through her glasses and drawing pictures of us in neon colours. Including Brennan’s eye. But still: I could feel the tension of the last two weeks melting away. There was nowhere I would rather have been at that moment than home with these three people.

  “Where did you get that T-shirt, Father Burke?” Normie asked. “I would kill for, or, well . . .” The shirt was ancient and worn, with the word Angelicum on it.

  “I always wear it when I commune with St. Thomas.” He leaned towards her and whispered: “The Angelic Doctor.” She gazed at him with wonder; Thomas Aquinas was someone she might have to work into her research. “When I take you to Rome, Normie, we’ll get one a few sizes smaller for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Cross my heart. Was that your doorbell, Monty? Though ‘bell’ is hardly the word for it. What an ugly sound. Get it replaced.”

  “I don’t think the previous owners chose it for the music, Brennan.”

  “Well, it’s yours now. Do something about it.”

  I walked to the front of the house, wondering who on earth would be calling at this time of night. I opened the door to a demure-looking woman with black hair. She was dressed in a pale pink sweater with a cream-coloured car coat over it.

  “Felicia?”

  “Hi.” She looked at me briefly, then cast her eyelids downward. What in the hell was she doing here? “May I come in? I’d like to apologize for last night. I had too much to drink and, well, I’m embarrassed.” She stepped forward, I stepped back, she was in. “I didn’t want to leave it till tomorrow at work. I hope you don’t mind. May I?”

  I moved aside and gestured with my hand.

  “Who is it, Daddy?”

  “Oh! You have company.”

  “My kids.”

  Normie appeared, and glared owlishly at the interloper.

  “This is my daughter, Normie. This is Ms. Morgan.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hi there, Normie. How are you?”

  “Tired. Bedtime, I guess.” She yawned ostentatiously.

  Felicia looked around. “What a great house this could be!” She moved in, casing the place as she proceeded. “Think what you could do with this living room. The floors are marvellous. Bird’s-eye maple. And the kitchen, all kinds of potential there. I suppose it looks over the water. Yes, and this must be the dining room. Oh! More company.”

  “My son, Tom. And this is Brennan Burke. Felicia Morgan. One of my colleagues at Stratton Sommers.”

  Brennan and Tom stood and said hello.

  “What are you working on?” She picked up a journal article Burke had brought over: “St. Thomas on War,” by Rocco Rosso, OP. “Who’s Rocco Rosso, OP?”

  “A Dominican,” Burke replied. “OP. Order of Preachers.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m doing a paper on just-war theory,” Tommy explained.

  “Sounds fascinating. But you know what they say: ‘All’s fair in love and war.’ Are you at Dal?”

  “No, still in high school.”

  “Really! You look older. The girls must all have crushes on you.”

  “Yeah, in my dreams.”

  “He has a girlfriend,” Normie piped up. “Her name is Lexie and she wears glasses. She’s beautiful.”

  “I’ll bet she is. Lucky girl!” She looked at my son as if she might have him for a little late-night snack. “Well, don’t let Monty and I interrupt you.”

  “Monty and me,” Burke muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t let Monty and me interrupt.”

  “I see. And what do you do, Brennan? Besides correct other people’s failings?”

  “That’s pretty well it. You might say I’m a corrections officer.” The kids looked at each other and tried to suppress their grins.

  “It might be fun to be corrected by you. I’ll call you next time I do something naughty and need to be punished.”

  “Feel free,” he said, and returned his attention to the Summa Theologica.

  “Monty?” She had walked out of the room and seated herself on my couch by the time I entered the living room. “As I said, I wanted to apologize for my behaviour last night. It was out of character. It’s just that . . .” She lowered her voice. “I find you so attractive and I know how good we’d be together. But enough of that. I said what I came to say.”

  She took herself off, expressing warm enthusiasm for seeing me the next day at work. Before she had cleared the steps I was mentally reorganizing my day and planning to divide my time between court and home, avoiding the office altogether.

  We got Tom through his paper and Normie into her bed.

  “Thanks, Brennan. I appreciate your coming over. I hated to have to admit I didn’t have Augustine or the Angelic Doctor on hand.”

  “That’s my job, Monty, to bring the great works of Catholicism to those who haven’t had my advantages. So, who’s that rossey who came calling at such an unseemly hour?”

  “I told you. A lawyer at the firm.”

  “That’s what you told me, yes. She looked as if she was dressed up in somebody else’s clothing. I could picture her in something much less ladylike.”

  “You said a mouthful there.”

  “Well, hold on to your gonads.”

  “She’s not someone I’m interested in.”

  “I’d say she’s interested in you.”

  “She’d be interested in that broomstick if it had a promising investment portfolio. And once she got her hands on the money, no more riding around on the broomstick.”

  †

  Tuesday was choir night, and I was just about to leave the office for a quick supper with the kids when my phone rang.

  “Monty? This is Gareth Swail-Peddle.”

  “Oh, yes.” I had nearly forgotten the psychologist who had treated Corey Leaman at the Baird Centre, then had a falling out with management.

  “You must have been wondering where I’ve been.”

  “No, no, not at all.”

  “I finally got my notes together, relating to my interactions with Corey at the Baird. I would have got them to you sooner but I’ve been busy with an eating disorders conference in the southern U.S., which I had to attend and prepare for. Then there were some emergencies. Anyway, my wife and I are going to be downtown this evening. I don’t know whether you work late, or where you live, but I could drop the notes off.”

  “I’m just on my way out for dinner now, Gareth. Would you like to join me for something Greek at the Bluenose II?”

  “My wife can’t tolerate spicy food.”

  Greek? Spicy? “So how about a lobster sandwich?”

  “I’m allergic to shellfish.”

  “Well, they have everything else, but never mind. I’m going to wind up at the Midtown Tavern later on. If you’re downtown, you could meet me there. Or I could come to your office later this week.”

  “The Midtown! I might enjoy that. Penelope, my wife, has a meeting. I’ll pick her up and meet you at the Midto
wn if she’s feeling up to it.”

  “Sure. I’ll be there from about nine-thirty on.”

  I was looking forward to choir practice, particularly because I had started brooding again about the blow-up with Maura. The music always had the effect of elevating me from my workaday world into another realm. Though I did have to endure the choirmaster’s pointed suggestion that I take the music home and learn it more thoroughly. I had been guilty of slacking off. I was pleasantly surprised, however, to see Brennan’s brother, Patrick, turn up at the church. We had spent a fair bit of time together earlier in the year, in New York. He was making a one-night stopover in Halifax on his way to Ireland for a conference. The choir was introduced and warned that Father Burke’s brother had ears. Any false note, he’d hear it.

  Patrick came along to the Midtown afterwards. He was around six feet tall, slightly shorter than Brennan, with sky blue eyes and sandy blonde hair.

  “You look more like Monty’s brother than Brennan’s,” Ed Johnson remarked. “Maybe old man Collins crossed the Irish Sea some time during the war for a little R and R.”

  “Casting aspersions on our sainted mother, are you now?” Brennan said, while raising his hand to the waiter.

  “What the hell, it was wartime.”

  “Not in Ireland, it wasn’t.”

  “Well, you never know now, Brennan,” Patrick replied. “Our da was off on manoeuvres of his own in those days.”

  “True enough.”

  “Your choir was lovely. The boys sounded angelic.”

  “They didn’t sound too bad, the little Christers. Now if I could just get Collins to do some practising at home.”

  “This fellow has a big anniversary coming up,” Patrick announced. “Are you gentlemen aware of that?”

  “Well, it’s not a wedding anniversary unless he’s even more tight-lipped and mysterious than we think he is. Though I wouldn’t put anything past him,” Ed said.

  “The twenty-fifth anniversary of his ordination.”

  “Really! I guess I should have known that, Brennan,” I said. “Congratulations!”

  “Or condolences,” Johnson put in. “Which is it?”