The Winter Wives

by Linden MacIntyre

  He coughed slightly.

  –I’d rather be fucking dead.

  He nodded agreement with himself then ground the cigarette to nothing in the ashtray.

  –Let’s go.

  He opened the car door.

  –Where?

  –This is the guy who takes care of the laundry.

  –It doesn’t look like a laundry.

  –Well, that’s how the less fortunate get by. Jobs on the side. He’s well paid for it.

  He hauled the garbage bag out of the back seat. Locked the car doors. We entered a lobby that smelled like boiled cabbage where a couple of black guys lounged, watching us.

  –Hey, said Allan, smiling.

  –Hey, my man. One walked toward us, clasped Allan’s hand. There was lots of wringing hand business, nudging, laughing.

  –Guys you know? I said as we walked to the elevator.

  –Just guys I see around.

  We rode up twenty floors. I felt my ears pop. We emerged in a noisy hallway, loud music, a baby screaming, angry voices and more steamy cooking smells.

  Allan strode ahead of me, garbage bag under his arm. When he stopped in front of a door, he turned to me before he knocked and leaned close.

  –When we’re inside, you stand by the door with your hand in your pocket and don’t say anything. Okay?

  –I guess so. Why?

  –I never know who’s going to be here.

  He rapped lightly. There was the sound of a deadbolt and the door opened slightly. Then a chain sliding.

  A very thin guy with a ponytail hanging out the back of a ball cap cracked the door about eight inches wide and stared at me for what felt like a long time.

  –He’s okay, said Allan.

  We followed the ponytail into a living room. He was wearing a Blue Jays sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. There were two women on a sofa, watching television. Above them hung a lurid picture of a doe and a speckled faun by a pond, a sunset in the distance. They were staring at something. A hunter maybe.

  One of the women was leaning back into the corner of the couch, legs tucked underneath her, leaning her head on a hand.

  The other, who seemed a lot younger, was applying blue polish to her toenails. Neither acknowledged me or Allan. I stayed near the door as I’d been instructed. Right hand in my pocket.

  –Who’s this? asked the guy with the ponytail, nodding toward me.

  –East coast buddy, Allan said, and handed him the garbage bag.

  I shrugged. Said nothing.

  –Where on the east coast?

  –Nova Scotia, Allan said.

  –Nova Scotia, the guy repeated.

  –We’re in a bit of a rush, said Allan.

  The guy carried the bag toward a recliner and sat, dropping the bag at his feet. Sized me up and down.

  –Buddy got no tongue?

  –Tell him, Byron, Allan said.

  –Country place. You never heard of it, I said.

  –Why is it important? Allan asked the guy.

  –Just bein’ friendly. Always like to know who’s in my house. An east coast thing. Right? You should know. Didn’t you go to college there or something?

  Ponytail stood then and walked toward me. He was a bit taller than me. He reached out. I removed my hand from my pocket and he grasped it, squeezing hard, kind of drawing me toward him.

  –Byron, is it?

  –Yes.

  He released my hand.

  –Name’s Mike, he said.

  –Good to meet you, Mike, I said.

  –There you go. East coast formalities completed.

  –Where on the east coast? I asked.

  Allan chuckled, then rolled his eyes.

  –Is this important?

  –St. John’s, the guy said.

  –SinJans, said Allan, mimicking.

  Mike left the room. Allan turned toward the women.

  –You guys from SinJans too?

  –We’re from here, but our folks came from there, said the younger one, leaning down, blowing on her toenails.

  Mike returned with a large brown envelope. Allan held out his hand.

  –First things first, said Mike. And he upended the garbage bag.

  I’d guess at least twenty-five large, bulging zip-lock bags flopped out on the floor. Allan looked at me, stricken, and his face flushed red.

  –Jesus Christ, Mike.

  Mike picked up a bag, fondled it and opened it, sniffed.

  –Nice, he said, then handed Allan the package.

  –You didn’t have to fucking do that. Allan was furious.

  –Whaa? said Mike.

  * * *

  —

  –Wicked laundry, I said when we were back in the car, Allan driving fast down the freeway toward the city centre.

  –You weren’t supposed to see that. The fucker has no common sense.

  –You worried I’m going to tell somebody?

  –No.

  A sign said Gardiner Expressway. Sunset glittered on the looming skyline. Sailboats stood almost stationary on the lake, leaning north, away from the soft south wind.

  –However, if you were ever asked, I don’t think you’ve ever been a good liar, Byron.

  –So who’s going to ask me?

  He ignored the question.

  * * *

  —

  Next he took me to a tavern. It was dark, an all-male place. Couple of guys noisily playing shuffleboard. Allan was in a funk, crowding our small table with sprawling elbows, hulking shoulders, peeling the label off a sweaty beer bottle.

  –That was so fucking not cool.

  –What?

  –What happened in that shithole of an apartment. I have a good mind to…

  –To what? Replace your laundry guy?

  He stared at me. His expression was unfamiliar. Cold. Then he smiled.

  –Is that what you’d do? Replace the dick-brain?

  –Just making small talk, I said.

  –But you’ve got the right instinct.

  He sat back, drank. Waved at the waiter, held up two fingers.

  –So, what’s this bullshit all about? I asked.

  –Need to know, Byron. We should only know what we need to know.

  –What do I need to know?

  –I guess the truth, man. But only because we go back. I trust you, okay?

  –Okay.

  –The guy I work for isn’t really my dad. He’s kind of like my foster dad. It’s a complicated thing. I come, I go. I drive trucks for him all over North America. He doesn’t give a shit what’s on the trucks.

  –But you do.

  –Ninety-nine percent of it legit.

  –And the other one percent?

  –Hey, there’s a little risk in everything.

  –I told you I don’t have the stomach…

  –But that’s the life for me. The open road. My own wheels and a wallet full of cash. All I want for now. Okay?

  –Crossing the border?

  –So?

  –That’s gotta be tense.

  –No sweat. Pop a Valium fifteen minutes before you get to the booth. Calm as calm can be, that’s the key. Look at me. Friendly. Preppy.

  I looked at him. Close-cropped blond hair. A spray of freckles. Wide-set blue eyes. The ready, all-inclusive smile.

  –I hold up the manifest. They see a friendly white guy. They see themselves. Their sons and brothers. They wave me through.

  Then he was peeling the bottle again, once again adrift, distant.

  –No. That was definitely not cool back there. Gonna have to have a word with Mike.

  * * *

  —

  Saturday morning, he drove me back to the airport.

  –You sh
ould consider moving to Toronto, he said.

  –I’m going to law school, man.

  –They got law schools here. But why not forget about the law schools for a while?

  –It isn’t that simple. After dropping out, it isn’t always easy to drop back in.

  –Sure it is. You make it how you want it. Work here for a while and make some real money. Then go back to school.

  –Work in the laundry business.

  –You’d always have clean clothes.

  His smile was innocent, the smile that always served him well.

  –I’ve got all the money I need, I said.

  –But the point is to have more than you need. Because you never know how much you’re gonna need. Life is full of surprises. Money cushions many stumbles.

  –So, this is you, then. No more school?

  –I’m thinking of heading for the States, man. Centre of the universe is where I want to be. Preferably Florida. I’ve had enough northern winter to last a lifetime. You could come.

  –I’m going to law school, remember?

  He laughed.

  –You’ll never be without work. Lawyers live off criminals.

  –There are many kinds of law.

  –Whatever you decide, I’ll be here. Or, better still, down in the Sunshine State.

  As I was dragging my bag from the back seat, he said,

  –Whatever became of that little Peggy?

  –She’s around, I said.

  –Tell her I said hi. We got some unfinished business, me and Peggy.

  He winked.

  –Let me help you with the bag, he said as he tried to take it from me.

  –Thanks for everything. I can handle it from here. Catch you later, Allan.

  –Don’t be a stranger, Byron.

  * * *

  —

  Don’t be a stranger? Such a common phrase. Have a nice day! Safe travels! Don’t be a stranger!

  Empty words to me, for I have always been a stranger. I was a stranger then, as I am now. In other people’s faces I still see puzzlement, perhaps a reflection of my own uncertainty.

  What was it that Peggy saw in me? What did Allan see?

  Maybe that’s what bonded us for life, strangers with nothing more than curiosity in common. What is love but an extreme curiosity, an insatiable craving, to truly know a stranger?

  Byron. Annie. Peggy. Allan. Always strangers to each other, always strangers to ourselves. Who are we? Who am I?

  9.

  The man who lurks in the shadows of my memory was a stranger too, even though I wore his name until Peggy Winter casually replaced it.

  –I can’t see you as an Angus.

  That was how she said it. A declaration.

  –From now on, I’m going to call you Byron.

  And soon everybody but Mom called me Byron. Maybe Peggy didn’t know that the name, Angus, was precious to my mother. He was her only sibling, a constant presence in our lives.

  In my memory of Uncle Angus, golden shafts of light and dust are suspended in illuminated air. I remember the musk of domestic animals, dry hay, and sounds that make my stomach churn.

  I don’t remember the specific violence, but I feel it, as an impenetrable darkness. I feel it now as I have always felt it. Violence leaves the deepest imprint on all the senses. Sound, smell, jumbled images. Indelible.

  We were in the barn. He fell down. My uncle Angus fell down hard.

  I remember arms flailing to find balance. A man who is struggling to stand, failing, falling down again. Laughing at himself. Or crying.

  I remember laughing and crying and confusion. Snot and drool and blood trickling from some impact.

  I was only five years old, but it hit me like the punch that felled my uncle, sprawled and helpless, suddenly an empty thing.

  He was only trying to be nice to me.

  My father stood over him, breathing hard, hands clenched into ugly fists, one fist slightly bleeding, blood smeared on his boot.

  He was only trying to be nice.

  I remember my uncle Angus struggling to rise, and the crunch of bone as he’s knocked back down. And I remember running toward the door, running toward the daylight, the brilliant sunshine glittering on snow.

  Running blindly through the door. And the sudden deafening machine. And then I’m the one falling down. The snowmobile was like a living thing, rearing up, then crashing down. I can see my mother’s face, blinded by excitement.

  I think I remember the feeling of the snow on my face. I didn’t feel the weight on top of me. Voices. I remember voices shouting, and adults crying, and how it just went on and on and on. I couldn’t feel the leg at all.

  Then I heard the fire truck, and I remember looking for the fire, thinking that’s why everybody was excited. There must be a fire somewhere. And then someone picked me up, and started running, and I was bouncing in his arms as he stumbled toward the fire truck, then past it, to another vehicle behind, red, just like a fire truck, with flashing lights on top.

  I know my father blamed my mother and her brother. My mother blamed herself. But wasn’t I the one to blame? Wasn’t it all my fault?

  He was only trying to be nice.

  My father hit my uncle and my uncle fell.

  I ran toward the daylight. And I fell. And everybody suddenly was falling down.

  Forever.

  PART TWO

  MALIGNANT COVE

  10.

  I don’t remember when my uncle Angus died. Many years would pass before I’d know the details, the when, the where, the how. I still struggle with the why.

  Some of what I now think I know came out in bits and pieces when Annie lived here, in Malignant Cove, with me and Mom. The two of them would talk in low voices at the kitchen sink, or in Mom’s bedroom, or strolling in the yard. I’d see them gesturing toward where the barn once stood. Annie was discreet any time I’d ask her what Mom was telling her.

  –She imagines things, I warned.

  –Have you asked her directly about the accident?

  –What would I ask?

  –What she remembers. I think there are things she’d like to talk to you about.

  –There really isn’t all that much I need to know, I said.

  –You both were there, she said.

  –Yes and no.

  –Distant memories come back unexpectedly sometimes. Someday you and your mom will need to put your memories together.

  –That’s what I’m afraid of. Memories are subjective, Annie. Memories can lead to conflict. Memories cause wars.

  –Oh dear, Byron. Then we must never reminisce, you and I.

  * * *

  —

  After watching Allan and Peggy vanish into the airport, I drove home in a fog of memory. In the circumstances, I was glad to see Annie’s car parked where it always used to be when she lived here and basically ran the farm, ran my life. The long, slow years of our marriage.

  Annie left Malignant Cove when, like her sister, she became absorbed by Allan’s enterprises. She moved to town, half an hour away, for the conveniences. It’s what I told myself, when she was gone. It wasn’t about me. It was about the business.

  But though we lived apart, that same business kept us close for more than twenty years.

  She was at the stove when I came in, stirring something aromatic.

  –Don’t mind me, she said.

  I poured two drinks without asking if she wanted one. She accepted without comment.

  –So, you saw them off.

  –I did.

  –How was Peggy?

  –You spent a day with her at the hospital. You tell me.

  She put a lid on the pot she’d been stirring.

  –We’ll just let that simmer, she said.

  She sippe
d her drink.

  –Peggy’s going to be okay, she said.

  * * *

  —

  We watched the sun go down that evening. It’s part of why I’ve been rooted here for my whole life, days measured out by blazing sunsets. Hot as hell in summer; icy brittle in the winter.

  –I miss this, Annie said.

  –It’s always here, I said.

  –I think the time is coming when we’ll have to live without it for a while.

  –We?

  –Surely it’s as obvious to you as it is to me.

  –Toronto.

  –It’s unavoidable.

  –I hope you’re wrong.

  I wanted to ask her to stay the night, but the answer would have spoiled a quiet moment. The embrace she gave me before she left was genuine.

  –You’ll be okay here?

  –I’m always okay here.

  –We have a lot to talk about, you and I. About the future.

  –Yes indeed, we do, I said. But we’re in reasonably good shape. Right?

  –Up to a point. I think we’re soon going to have to make a bold assumption.

  –Meaning…

  –The Allan we remember will soon be gone.

  * * *

  —

  Allan wrote occasionally when he first moved to the States. Florida was exactly what he had hoped for. Warmth, basically, year-round. He didn’t miss the snow, or maybe just a little bit at Christmastime.

  He loved being on the road. He loved the States. Everybody was on the make down there, was how he put it. Buzz. A word I’d never heard before applied to a location other than a beehive or a wasps’ nest. He loved the buzz.

  –It’s the land of milk and honey, especially for lawyers, he wrote.

  More than once, while struggling through law school, I remembered how casually I’d dismissed Allan’s suggestion that I take time off from my studies to earn some easy money with him. We needed money. But Mom and I decided to sell the boat and fishing gear, and use the money for tuition and living expenses while I’d be in the city studying. I had no more time for fishing anyway. The licence to fish lobsters was worth more than I’d expected. We sold some land, and our few remaining animals, and I also borrowed money.