The Winter Wives

by Linden MacIntyre

* * *

  —

  The first thing Peggy said after Annie dropped me off was that Annie had told her about my DNA results.

  –I’m not sure she was supposed to.

  –I was going to tell you anyway. Not sure where we go from here.

  She put her arms around me.

  –Goddam dementia. A fucking plague.

  –I’m okay, really, I said.

  I stroked her back, her hair, kissed her softly.

  –I’m okay, I repeated. It’s not official yet. Annie’s right. I have to focus on what’s happening in front of us.

  She stepped away, produced a tissue, blew her nose.

  –You should go see Allan. We’ll talk afterwards.

  * * *

  —

  Allan was asleep. I moved a chair next to the bed and it scraped along the floor. His eyelids fluttered open. He stared my way briefly. His eyes closed.

  No way he doesn’t recognize me, I thought. Not a chance.

  I sat there. Sounds from the living world seeped through the windows, the walls. He was very, very pale, his mouth hanging open. I found myself watching his chest to be sure that he was breathing. There was an occasional sound from somewhere in his throat, more snarl than snore.

  I shut my eyes, leaned back. Hoped for sleep, my refuge.

  And then I was seeing Allan, taller than everyone, crashing through a crowd, the men around him falling down like bowling pins, Allan with sunglasses pushed up on his head, racing along a freeway in a vintage car, Allan swimming like he owned the sea.

  Crumpled in the grass, folded like a fetus.

  The Great Chase. Now nearly over.

  And then something woke me, a silent flutter somewhere. I jerked upright. He was staring at me. He crooked a finger, moved his head slightly. Come here.

  I moved closer.

  –The drawer, he whispered.

  With another small movement of his head, he indicated his desk.

  –Top right.

  –No, I said.

  –Yes. It’s time.

  –No.

  He closed his eyes. Sighed. I thought that he had gone back to sleep, but he opened them again. Whispered.

  –Don’t forget.

  The strange snarling snore resumed. Then stopped. But his chest still rose and fell.

  In the clutter of the desk drawer I found the doctor’s business card. Beside it, the USB he’d showed me in the pub.

  Which of these am I supposed to use? The key to his treasury? Or his ticket to eternity?

  I looked back to where he was sleeping. Breathing normally.

  I put the USB drive in my pocket.

  * * *

  —

  I asked Peggy,

  –What happened?

  –Another stroke. And this time he fell hard.

  –Why isn’t he in hospital?

  –He made me promise not to take him. Anyway, there’s nothing they could do there that we can’t do here. I’ve made arrangements for home care. There are people who come every day to tend to him. And there’s a nurse.

  –Still, it’s too much stress for you.

  She smiled.

  –But I have you now.

  * * *

  —

  I was not surprised that night when she came to my bed just as I was drifting off. She slipped in behind me, draped an arm over my shoulder. Snuggled close.

  –I want to sleep here, she said.

  I started to turn to her, but she stopped me.

  –No, not that.

  –Sorry, I said.

  –We’ll just sleep, okay?

  –I understand.

  –You always do.

  And I lay there wondering if it was a good thing or my great misfortune to always understand her.

  * * *

  —

  I suppose I wasn’t surprised when I opened the file he had stored on the second thumb drive only to find another puzzle, in this case a passage from the Bible.

  For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven with a loud command, with the voice of the Archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever.

  I sat back, staring at the screen.

  Somewhere in it or around it was information that would reveal the whereabouts of bank accounts. The name of an offshore company, perhaps. I had a password, thepigswerecedrics, but what bank? What username?

  Do you even care enough to go to all the trouble?

  * * *

  —

  The appointment with the DNA detectives ate half a day. It started in a terrifying MRI machine that was like a noisy coffin.

  Later, they took blood and saliva samples. Urine, too. Checked my blood pressure. Tapped my knees. Tickled my feet. Basically, a full checkup. I hadn’t had one for a while.

  And they asked me many questions about the accident.

  –Mom was learning to drive a snowmobile. I got in the way. My leg got mangled, as you can see. I was knocked out for a while, they say.

  –How long a while?

  –I have no idea.

  They took notes of everything I said, asking me from time to time to stop until they caught up.

  I talked and talked. Maybe I was hoping that the talking would bring something deep to the forefront. I tried to impress them with my insights. I’ve been in hospitals a lot. They seemed to be determined to stick to their list of questions. They’d be shitty lawyers, I thought. No curiosity.

  As I was leaving, they told me it would probably be months before they’d need me for the next round of tests.

  –I’m happy to wait, I said.

  And every night, Peggy came to me and we slept warmly nested into one another, like children. Dreaming about childhood.

  * * *

  —

  Allan’s vital signs remained strong. Somewhere in the corrupted flesh, the spirit of the football player was still fighting.

  I said to Peggy,

  –This could go on for quite a while.

  –I know.

  –I think it’s time for me to face facts and start shutting down back home.

  She nodded.

  –How much are you going to shut down?

  –Certainly the law practice. Maybe even the farm.

  –That would be hard.

  –Maybe not so very.

  * * *

  —

  The last time I sat with him, Allan seemed to be awake, but he didn’t respond when I spoke. I had the feeling that he recognized me but that he was finished with engagement. Just waiting now. I picked up his hand before I left and he gripped mine briefly, stared at it, then looked away. People who are dying seem resentful near the end.

  I hardly remember the airport, the long drive home. Early December. I know I’d missed the autumn colours in Barney’s River, Marshy Hope, Brierly Brook, and no longer felt the music in the place names. There was a shorter route, but I took the long one, delaying the inevitable.

  The darkened hills along the highway seemed menacing. Even the sky was anxious, impatient with its undelivered snow. I thought about a long-dead local poet and a phrase in one of his impenetrable Gaelic songs: the gloomy forest.

  When I stopped in the driveway, I hoped for the surge of energy that was once part of my arrival home. Waiting vainly for the magic from the crystals in the bedrock. Mom claimed she always felt that magic coming home, a psychic boost. Not that she ever went away that much. All I felt was the silent weight of isolation.

  I sat at the kitchen table with my coat on. The air was heavy with the damp staleness of an old house that hadn’t been liv
ed in for a while. I knew that I could mitigate the gloom by turning on a light, turning on the radio, turning on the heat, lighting the wood stove. I remembered a bottle of whisky in my office. I told myself: Start with that.

  My bed was made. I climbed in with my clothes on.

  * * *

  —

  Penetrating morning light. Somehow, before I’d fallen asleep, I’d lit a fire. Half-empty whisky bottle on the table. A glass of water at the bedside.

  I spent the morning on the phone with clients, asking for clearance to hand their business off to other lawyers. Everybody knew I’d been away. Everybody wondered why without asking. I drove to town for groceries, dropped in to see a real estate agent, who listened sympathetically. He had the manner of the undertaker I had dealt with after Mom died. Mournful.

  –Sad to see old places changing hands. It’s been in your family for—what?

  –Seems like forever, but I don’t know.

  –I’ll find out when we search the title.

  –Of course. It’ll all be there. The information. The history.

  * * *

  —

  In the drugstore, I saw Shirley. I had rarely spoken to her since my mother’s passing. I’d been avoiding her as I have tended to avoid most people here and the casual encounters that always leave me feeling false. I was scanning the shelves, distracted by the effort to remember what I was looking for. And then we were face to face.

  –Well, look at yourself, she said, instantly effusive.

  –And you…

  There were a few more of the usual pleasantries, and excuses made.

  –I never hear from anybody, she said, but she knew that Annie was living in Toronto.

  I suggested coffee. She looked uncertain, but supposed that she had time for a fast cup of tea.

  –You’ve been gone awhile, she said when we were settled at a table in the local café.

  –I pretty well shut the old place down. You’ll never guess what I found when I was cleaning out a closet in Mom’s room.

  She stared at me blankly.

  The old photo albums, I said. And an old newspaper clipping, about a trial for assault involving my father. It didn’t say who he assaulted.

  She looked confused, or ready to get up and leave.

  –Can you imagine my father assaulting anybody? I said, and laughed.

  I shook my head.

  –But it seems he got off. Not guilty.

  She looked at her wristwatch, fidgeting.

  –What I couldn’t figure out was who he hit. Who was it, anyway?

  –It was such a long time ago, she said at last.

  –I’d heard there was friction with my uncle, Mom’s brother.

  –Angus, she said, nodding.

  I waited.

  –It was a misunderstanding, she said.

  Her voice was trembling and I noticed that her eyes were wet.

  –I didn’t mean to upset you.

  –They were bad times. I don’t like thinking about them, she said, and stood, abandoning her half-drunk tea.

  I stood too.

  –I must go, she said.

  We hugged. She stepped back, fished a tissue from a pocket and blew her nose, and backed away.

  * * *

  —

  I walked the land. I stood where I had once explained to Allan how one winter night the ice moves in mysteriously, without warning, turning St. Georges Bay into a vast plain that reaches out from here, for all we know, to the Magdalen Islands, to Gaspé. Montreal. Toronto. And then one morning, just as spring arrives, it’s gone. The bay becomes its essence once again.

  There was a racket in my jacket pocket. Around me, nature settled down for winter. Time stopped. Waiting for the ice. The phone was buzzing and vibrating. I considered ignoring it, to hang on to this moment of liberating stillness, but I fished it out. I saw Allan’s number in the display.

  It was Annie.

  –Where are you?

  –I’m at the farm.

  –You sound outside.

  –I am outside.

  –How soon can you come back?

  –That depends. I’m trying to arrange things here.

  She paused, and in the pause there was nothing. Just dead air.

  –Allan’s gone, she said.

  * * *

  —

  I phoned the real estate guy.

  –Let’s put everything on hold, I said.

  PART FIVE

  THE

  GREAT

  CHASE

  24.

  And now I know neither where I am nor why. Suddenly awakened as if from a coma. Clearly on an airplane. On the aisle, where I always try to be when I’m on airplanes. I stare past the passenger beside me, out the starboard window, and see a wall of black skyscrapers rising, and then the tower. The landmark tower. We are floating down the black skyscrapers and the tower and there is grey, flashing water rising up to meet us. Then the tower is gone and all the dancing water and there is sudden land and the violent bump of it, the drag, the reluctant slowness. Finally, the purposeful acceleration. To the end.

  Allan died.

  Knowledge still far ahead of comprehension. Understanding frozen.

  Slowly, the perimeter of consciousness expands. A little. I made phone calls. I packed. I found the unfinished Scotch and finished it. No thought, just feeling. Fatigue, weariness. Self-pity bordering on rage. I don’t remember driving. Somehow, I am standing at a ticket counter looking for a flight.

  And then I’m in the air, all buckled in.

  Something has ended. An epic narrative, concluded. The finality of judgment.

  * * *

  —

  The carousel had stopped. The room was empty, silent. There was one bag on the belt. It looked familiar. My name was on the tag.

  Sitting somewhere in the terminal, I tell myself: You are not insane. The evidence is that I know now why I am here.

  My friend is dead. My friend who wanted me to be him.

  I know Allan’s address. Allan is no longer there, but I must go there because he is no longer there.

  Annie said she’d meet me at the airport. And now the phone is ringing in my pocket.

  –Where the fuck are you?

  –In the airport. I’ll come out.

  –I’m in the airport. I’ve looked everywhere.

  –I’m not sure where I am. But I’m here somewhere.

  –For Christ’s sake. Do you know where you’re going?

  –I’m going to Allan’s.

  –Do you remember the address?

  –Yes. Of course.

  –Say it.

  –Listen. I’m not…

  –Just take a taxi, then. I’ll see you there.

  –Sorry.

  –Never mind sorry. Just get in a cab.

  * * *

  —

  Intoxicated, Annie told me once, is another word for poisoned. The brain is poisoned and ill, intoxication a self-induced mental illness.

  That’s all it is. I got drunk and I’m not good at it. I got drunk at home. I got drunk waiting at the airport. They served wine on the plane. Everything went dark.

  I can explain to myself at least.

  * * *

  —

  Peggy opened the door before I rang the bell. She was frowning.

  –Where’s Annie? She was supposed to meet you.

  –She’s on her way.

  I walked past her, into the living room. Left my boots on. Deliberately but for no particular reason. Feeling pissed. At everything. Everybody. Peggy stood in the doorway, arms folded, looking up and down the street.

  –There she is, she said.

  I knew Annie well enough that I could feel her frustration even before she came t
hrough the door. She removed her gloves slowly, deliberately, said to her sister,

  –Wrong. Air. Port. Someone didn’t bother telling me he was landing at the island. So naturally, I went to the one he always lands at.

  –I called. I told you.

  –No, you didn’t. You called with the arrival time, but you didn’t say where you were landing.

  –I got the only flight available. I didn’t ask where it was going to land.

  –Well, we’re all here now, said Peggy.

  –Where’s Allan?

  The sisters stared at me, then stared at each other.

  –Allan died, Peggy said.

  –I know that. I want to see him, I said.

  –I need a drink, Annie said. I think we all could use a drink.

  She left the room. Peggy came to me, sat on the arm of the chair, took my hand in hers.

  –Are you sure you’re all right, Byron? You look wiped.

  –I need to see him. Where’s the funeral home?

  –Allan left very particular instructions. There’s no funeral home.

  I stood so quickly Peggy almost fell. My bad leg felt numb, like the old days. Unreliable. I passed Annie coming through the doorway from the kitchen with a tray and three drinks.

  –You shouldn’t go in there, she said.

  I yanked open Allan’s door. The steel bed was gone. His desk was clear. I hobbled over, opened the top-right drawer, still cluttered, but I could see the doctor’s business card was gone. I slammed it shut.

  I was shouting as I stormed back to the living room.

  –You called that fucking doctor. You put him down like an animal.

  They were stricken, staring at me. I wanted to rewind the whole arrival. I wanted to be me and not this stranger. But the stranger was now in charge and out of words.

  Annie led me to a chair and handed me my drink. I sat and stared into the drink for what felt like a long time. My mind cleared slowly. I raised my head and looked around. There was just me and Annie.