The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves

by Ann Birch

  “Please, please come back!” she calls.

  But Roberta can think only of getting away, as far away as she can. But where is she to go? The next train to the city doesn’t leave until noon. What’s she to do? She turns back, calls, “I’m going downtown for a while. Be back in an hour.”

  It will give that asshole Neville time to get lost.

  Back on Victoria Street, she thinks of where to go for coffee. Not Thelma’s Front Verandah where Thelma would have a dozen questions about why she’s here and why she’s not having coffee with her mother. There’s the small store next door to Thelma’s where the proprietor, an East Indian newcomer to the town, sells dried fruit, nuts, spices, and pasta. There are a couple of tables in the back, Roberta remembers, where you can get coffee and scones.

  Not that she could swallow a scone, but coffee would be good. “Darsh” introduces himself and brings her an espresso. She’s just downed it when the door of the shop opens and in comes Nora Dorsey of Nora’s Nimble Needle, carrying a thermos. Roberta hears her asking Darsh for coffee to go. Then Roberta sees her glance to the back of the store. Oh boy, she thinks, now I’m in for some heavy-duty questioning. Damn, I should have bought a newspaper to hide behind.

  “Roberta,” Nora says, “why are you here? I saw you heading for Osborne Road half an hour ago. Thought you’d be having coffee with your mother.”

  “She doesn’t do espresso, and that’s what I needed. Up too late these nights marking damn essays. I wanted the jolt.”

  “Translation needed here: You walked in on her and Neville, right?”

  “You know, Nora, this town could very well function as headquarters for either the CIA or CSIS.”

  “Come on, Roberta. You don’t need to be a professional spy to know what’s going on. Everyone knows. Though the two of them try to keep it hidden. Every Saturday morning in this new year, Neville has left that dog of his in his apartment and walked up Osborne Road at about eight o’clock. Maybe, everyone’s saying, they’re just having a morning cup of coffee. But we all know that at Neville’s age, you can only get it up in the early morning.” She laughs. “They’re not fooling anybody.”

  Roberta looks into her empty cup. No way will she let herself get involved in this conversation.

  “You know,” Nora goes on, “I don’t see the attraction myself. Now that father of yours, he was something else. A good man in every way. Though goodness knows, he had…” Her voice trails off. “I won’t forget how he helped me once in a crisis….” She breaks off again, taps her thermos with a manicured fingernail. “In comparison, Neville is a nitwit.”

  “I’m really not interested in this discussion, Nora.”

  “Well, it’s obvious you’re not going to rat on your mother and I understand that.”

  Nora turns away. Roberta watches her go. She’s a strong-boned, solid woman, same age as Sylvia, but with none of her mother’s elegance. Still, Roberta thinks, she is a presence. I wouldn’t want to mess with her.

  She looks at her watch. She’s been here for more than half an hour. A saunter back up Osborne Road and she’ll be with her mother again, sans Neville, she devoutly hopes.

  When she arrives, there’s no sign of Don Juan. Her mother is sitting in the kitchen, fully dressed in a pretty loose pink shirt and black pants. She looks … well, younger. There’s a becoming flush on her cheeks. She turns away from Roberta and goes to the sink. “I’ll make us some fresh coffee.”

  “No coffee, Mother. We just need to talk.”

  “Okay, Roberta, I know you’re upset. People of your generation can be terribly censorious. While you’re all in favour of sex for yourselves, you just can’t believe that people my age can have sexual desires too.”

  It’s all sounding a bit like what Carl told me about Charlie and Ed’s generation, Roberta remembers. Am I wrong to condemn Mother for her natural desires?

  “Damn it, I see you and that man in bed, in the very bed where you and Daddy were….” She breaks off, remembering Sunday mornings when they all slept in late unless her father had an emergency at the hospital. She’d come down the hall from her own bedroom and climb in between her mother and father, relishing the warmth of their bodies on each side of her. She’d always have a book with her, and Daddy would read her a few pages while her mother dozed.

  “You and he were together in that bed for all those years. And then I come home and find you’ve taken Neville right into Daddy’s space. I’m trying to convince myself that I don’t care what you’re up to, but for God’s sake, why does it have to be in that bed? Why not go to Neville’s place?”

  “Your father’s been dead all these years, Roberta. I’ve slept by myself in that lonely room for so long. Surely you can’t blame me for wanting a warm body beside me, someone to love, someone who loves me?”

  “I’m trying not to blame you. I just can’t process things at the moment. I remember eavesdropping on you and Daddy when I was a kid. You always seemed in harmony. That night he came home from aborting Janeen Dorsey’s baby, remember? I watched you and Daddy through the banister. You and he sat opposite each other, knees touching, and he told you the whole sad tale and you said — I remember every word — ‘You did the right thing, Robert.’ You always backed him in every good thing he fought for in this benighted little town. I guess I’ve always assumed your love for each other was everlasting.”

  “Oh yes, I backed him. I was for ever the perfect little woman behind his noble crusades.”

  “You sound bitter, Mother. What’s up?”

  “Something I’ve kept from you all these years.”

  “What, for God’s sake?”

  “I haven’t told you because you probably wouldn’t have believed me. You always adored your father, but you don’t know….” Her mother pushes her chair back from the table. The legs screech against the pine floor.

  Roberta has never seen her mother this angry before. It’s disconcerting.

  “Don’t know what? Get to your point, please.”

  “Your … Daddy … betrayed … me.” Then her mother is speaking so quickly Roberta can barely keep up with the sense of it all. “That heart attack that carried him off. He was with Nora Dorsey. Screwing her. That’s what finished him.”

  “Nora Dorsey? Mother, please.”

  But her mother goes on. “I’d gone for a day of shopping in Toronto. But I got everything finished by noon, so I took an early train back. No sooner had I walked in the front door than there was Dorsey, running down the stairs, a bath towel wrapped around her fat rear, screeching about Robert being dead. And sure enough, there he was, in that marital bed you’re going on about, only he wasn’t dead. I had to call the ambulance while that bitch got herself dressed and—”

  “Please, please, no more.” Roberta struggles to keep her voice steady. A dog can howl out its pain, but what’s a human to do?

  “Your oh-so-perfect Daddy. Don’t you think I’ve got sick of hearing that all these years? How do you think I felt having to keep it from you while you stood at his hospital bed saying, ‘Don’t leave me, Daddy’? I didn’t want to shatter your faith. And I’ve kept it all quiet ever since. Maybe I could get some small credit for that?”

  Her mother’s words spill out, but Roberta can no longer process them. She can think of nothing but the double betrayal: James and Daddy. The men she loved.

  Suddenly she knows she has to get away. “I’m so tired, Mother. So tired.” She stumbles up the staircase and falls upon her childhood bed. She’s so cold, so cold. She buries herself in her grandmother’s quilt, pulling it up over her head, and curling her legs up and into her chest.

  Daddy. James. Daddy. The names pound in her head.

  Sleep. Sleep. That is what she needs. “Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.”

  It’s about an hour later when Roberta gets up. She comes downstairs to find her moth
er still in the kitchen, a bottle of Chardonnay on the table in front of her. “Pour one for yourself,” her mother says.

  Roberta takes a glass from the cupboard and sits down opposite Sylvia.

  There’s a minute of silence and then her mother says, “Believe me, I tried to keep you from knowing. And I’ve succeeded all these years. But I’m wondering… Why did you come up here today anyway, out of the blue?”

  “I had some news for you. Something I should have mentioned before.” And Roberta tells her mother about Mira. It seems anticlimactic now.

  “I was worried about what you might think of it. And I kept thinking about what Daddy might have said about it. But it doesn’t seem to matter now. I just feel empty, as if everything I believed in and everyone I trusted….” Roberta starts to cry.

  “Oh, my dear,” her mother says, reaching across the table to touch Roberta’s arm. There’s a long silence. Then she says in a quiet voice, “Your father was right in so many things. I admired him for so many years.” Her face is pale, every line showing in the glare from the big window. “But finding him with Nora … that finished my love for him. I’ve been so angry at him all these years, but I’m moving on. I’ve got Neville now. I’m making a fresh beginning, and I’m asking you to understand my needs. That’s all.”

  She collects the wineglasses and sets them on the counter by the sink. She turns the water on full blast. Roberta moves into the hallway and puts on her coat and gloves. Then she goes back into the kitchen. Her mother is still standing over the sink, her back to Roberta as she looks out the window. Roberta turns towards the front door. There seems to be nothing more either of them can say.

  24.

  ROBERTA AND CARL HAVE SETTLED into banquettes at their favourite restaurant, the Hot Spot, where they have a fish-eye view of Front Street through the huge windows. They have gotten into the habit of meeting at the restaurant every other week. A bright mural of a sunny Mediterranean village covers the back wall, and a tall shelf of blue bottles partially blocks the view of the goings-on of the young lovers at the next table.

  “One of the pluses of this place,” Carl is saying, “is that they assume you can read the chalkboard. It’s nice to be able to order the house white and the pork chops without having to listen to the epic tale called Tonight’s Specials.”

  “You really don’t want to hear about the Aspromonte Oxtail Gyoza?” Roberta asks. “Or the Ionian Piquillos?”

  Carl laughs. He’s wearing a dark red shirt that sets off his grey hair and wind-burned cheeks. “So, tell me about the meeting with your mother.”

  Roberta gives the story. She’s gone over the wretched day so often in her mind that her narrative spills out now without pause. When the waiter brings their drinks, she interrupts herself to take a sip. “That’s it, Carl. Sorry for the rant.”

  “I guess it’s bound to be a shock for all offspring to find out that their parents have a sex life. But I know there’s more to it than that. It’s all about betrayal, isn’t it? Your father’s betrayal of your trust in him? But he didn’t know you’d find out. He didn’t set out to hurt you. Or your mother. I think it’s important to remember that.”

  “Maybe not. But now that I know, I don’t know what to do next. I’m wallowing in a morass. And I’ve been thinking, too, about James.”

  Carl sips his wine. Roberta is aware that he’s listening, not judging. It’s comforting. She takes several gulps from her own glass. “The buzz I’m getting from the wine encourages me to plunge into the next chapter of my saga,” she says.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I’m remembering his note. The last note. I still have the exact words in my head: ‘I tried to be someone else all the years of my adult life. I tried to be that father you were always talking about. I tried to be like those noble, upright, solid heroes in my favourite Victorian novels. But I’m no Sydney Carton.’”

  Roberta stops, tries to get a grip on where she’s going with this conversation. Then she says, “For the first eighteen years of my life, my father was everything to me. He was Captain Nemo, D’Artagnan, and Sydney Carton all rolled into one tall, handsome, perfect man who loved me too, who thought everything I did was perfect.” She waits, uncertain where to go next.

  “And then he died suddenly,” Carl prompts.

  “Yes. Only, as I told you, I didn’t know until this week it was a new form of coitus interruptus. I always thought he’d had a heart attack at his office. That’s what Mother told me all those years ago. For a while, there was a huge chasm. Then I met James. And I guess because I had this highly positive image of an adult male, I projected it all onto him. And he didn’t always measure up. How could he? But still, I want to believe that we were happy together at least until the last year of his life when he had that damn riding accident and everything disintegrated.”

  “And something’s bothering you now? I mean, beyond what you’ve told me so far?”

  She doesn’t answer. Carl looks at a point above her head and waits.

  “Did I betray James? By expecting him to be perfect, to be like Daddy? Only Daddy wasn’t perfect.” She starts to cry.

  Carl hands her his handkerchief, a carefully ironed square of immaculate linen.

  “Oh Carl, you’re so lucky you’re not like me. You have nothing to reproach yourself for. You were the perfect husband through all those wretched last days of Claire’s illness.” But as she says this, she knows she’s put a foot wrong. Carl’s eyes close for a minute. His tongue slides over his lips.

  “That’s the story Dad tells, but he’s dead wrong. At the end, I pitied Claire, perfectly aware that pity is despicable because it makes you a superior being and the person you pity, inferior. But I couldn’t manage anything but pity. I tried, oh I tried to love Claire as an equal, to go hand in hand with her to the end of her life, but really, I couldn’t get the stench out of my nostrils.”

  He breaks off, twists his hands together as if he’s washing them. For a second, she thinks of James.

  “The stench, Carl?”

  “All those poisons from the chemo on her skin and her breath and in her urine. I could smell them in the bathroom even after she flushed the toilet. And then there were those ugly radiation burns, red patches all over her buttocks, her throat, her chest.” He drains his glass and sets it down with a thud on the varnished surface of the table. “I wanted to do better, I wanted to help her. But I failed. I’m living with that failure, just as James tried to.”

  “Come on, Carl, I remember how you nurtured her that evening you came to dinner, how you wrapped your jacket around her to keep her warm. I remember how she seemed to lean on you, to look to you for comfort.”

  “You know, Rob, I think that was just a bit of theatre, part of an act we put on for people. She resented me mostly, resented the fact that I was staying in the sunshine while she was going down into the darkness. In the last months of her life, I think she looked forward to death. It all became clear to me on Valentine’s Day last year. I’d bought her a box of After Eight mint chocolates. I couldn’t give her flowers. Too evocative of what was to come. Her cancer had metastasized into her colon and her kidneys, and though she was just back from chemo, we both knew there was no hope. The doctor gave her five months, though her suffering went on much longer.

  “I took the chocolates into her room. We hadn’t slept together for weeks. I got some white tissue paper at the drugstore and I wrapped them up with a red bow. And the girl behind the counter knew what we were going through and she gave me some big red adhesive hearts, and I stuck those on. I sat down on the edge of the bed and handed the package to her. I tried, I tried, to say something about loving her, about our happy times together. I asked her if she could remember those times and love me despite her misery.

  “And oh, Rob, she took the chocolates and dropped them into the bucket where she’d just puked up the tea I’d brought her e
arlier. ‘The only thing I love now is Death.’ That’s what she said to me. And her voice was cold and dry and she stared at me through those pale grey eyes and her head was bald and she’d lost her eyebrows and her eyelashes and for a minute I thought those words were coming through the mouth of a snake.”

  Roberta takes one of his hands in hers. It’s cold. She wraps her own cold fingers around it.

  “I hated her at that moment. Yes, I hated her. I went into the bathroom, turned on the taps full force, and cried. And while I was blubbering away, all I could see were the clumps of hair she’d left in the tub and the row of bloody Q-tips she’d left on the counter along with a bottle of milk of magnesia.”

  “Milk of magnesia?”

  “She was always painting the sores inside her mouth with the stuff. She wanted me to see it all. In a way, she was trying to show me her suffering. And yet she wouldn’t let me go to the hospital with her. I begged her to let me sit with her during those long hours of intravenous chemo, but she said no. I tried to understand it all, but I couldn’t. Oh Robbie, when you talk about betrayal, you hit a nerve. I should have persevered. I should have tried harder....”

  He breaks off and signals to the waiter for the cheque. “Let’s go home now. I don’t think we want a gooey dessert on top of all these grisly details. I’ve got a Peter Robinson mystery I bury myself in when things pile up. And you?”

  “I feel so shivery now it’s into a hot bath. I’ve got a P. D. James. And then a hot water bottle and oblivion.”

  He helps her into her coat and picks her gloves up off the floor.

  They walk to the King Street subway station together. The wind is raw and cold, and the tall buildings hug the sidewalk, forcing the early evening hordes walking north and south to step carefully around each other. Roberta feels tired but less fraught than she was earlier in the evening. “You know,” she says to Carl as they go down the subway stairs littered with paper cups and cigarette butts, “in a strange way, I think we may have helped each other out tonight. We’ve confessed our sins.”