by L. R. Wright
***
Helen Mitchell had been put in charge of decorating the hall for the reception, and there wasn’t a streamer in sight, Alberg was relieved to note half an hour later.
The place was crowded with people. He hoped there would be enough food. But he put that worry instantly from his mind: it wasn’t his problem. The only thing he and Cassandra had to do was—Jesus, the receiving line thing. Okay, he thought, as he made his way with Cassandra to the front of the hall, in response to Helen’s imperious beckoning—okay, meet everybody in the receiving line, then wander around for a while, and then they could leave.
There were flowers everywhere. He hoped nobody on the invitation list suffered from allergies. There were vases of flowers on each of the tables set for dinner, on the gifts table, at the coat check—and there were banks of them where he and Cassandra were now gathered with Sid Sokolowski, his best man, and Phyllis Dempter, the matron of honor. It was ironic, Alberg observed, that both of the latter had not long ago separated from their spouses. What kind of a recommendation is that? he asked himself. What kind of support is that, for god’s sake?
“Come along, now,” said Helen Mitchell briskly, moving Cassandra into place, and then Alberg. His new mother-in-law’s silver hair shone, her skin glowed pink, her bright eyes were shrewd but happy, today, behind her glasses. “You stand here, Phyllis. And Sid—over there. Janey? Diana? Come on, children—you’re here.”
“How do you know these things, Mother?” said Cassandra, sounding exasperated. “How do you know where everybody’s supposed to stand?”
“I got books, dear, from your library.”
Alberg nudged Sid. “So what kind of a day was it?” He had to speak loudly to be heard above the talk and laughter, and the music being played by a trio in the corner.
Sid looked at him reproachfully. “You aren’t supposed to be thinking about work on your wedding day.”
Alberg spotted Sid’s wife Elsie in the crowd, talking animatedly to someone. Jesus, he thought, alarmed, I hope she hasn’t brought a date.
“Not much happened,” Sid was saying. “Drunk driver, in the middle of the damn day. Vandals broke into the drugstore and tore the place up. And we got a missing person who’s probably a runaway.”
People were starting to make their way down the receiving line now. Cassandra leaned close to Alberg. “Ready?”
“I resolve to be both courteous and attentive,” said Alberg, smiling at her. “You smell wonderful. What is that, anyway?” But he no longer had Cassandra’s attention, so he turned back to Sokolowski. “What missing person?”
“A sixteen-year-old girl,” said the sergeant. “Jeez, they can be trouble. Big fight with her mom, and boom.”
Alberg arranged his face in a smile and prepared to extend his hand to a woman he’d never seen before in his life. “Do her parents know where she might have gone?”
“Everything’s in hand,” said Sid patiently. “Come on, Karl. Enjoy your party.”
Alberg shook hands, and smiled, and accepted congratulations, and eventually he had met everyone there was to meet. Cassandra slipped her arm through his and he leaned over to kiss her, and heard a chorus of laughter and applause. Startled, he looked around him, at the smiling faces of family, friends, and co-workers, and thought how pleasant it was that they’d gotten all dressed up for this occasion.
***
Denise and Ivan deposited their package on the gifts table and turned to face the crowd.
This was always a bad moment for Denise. She and Ivan had gone to London for their honeymoon, at Christmas-time, and one day, in an ordinary square, they were suddenly enveloped and separated by a crushing crowd of people. Denise thought there had been some kind of emergency and that everybody was panicking, but they weren’t, they were just crowding each other, and there were no expressions on their faces. Denise had thought she was going to be squashed to death and her body trampled by those blank-faced Christmas shoppers, who hadn’t even seen her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t remember in which direction she and Ivan had been trying to go, and soon she stopped trying to go anywhere and concentrated on remaining upright. Eventually she was washed up against a building. She had leaned against it for a long time, breathing heavily, terrified, before Ivan finally found her.
Now she tried to take hold of his hand, but he was barreling forward to the receiving line. She took hold of the back of his jacket instead and let herself be towed.
Later, sitting at one of the tables, Denise rested her head on his shoulder, and Ivan put an arm around her. “I don’t know anybody here,” she said to him. Ivan and Karl Alberg had been brought together by Alberg’s occasional talks at the school, and also because their boats were moored next to each other at the marina.
He nodded and smiled at someone. “That’s because you work in Gibsons,” he said, giving her a squeeze. Denise cradled her hand on the back of his neck. Gently, he took it away.
She whispered in his ear, “I’m not wearing any panties.”
His eyes flickered over the crowd.
She turned slightly and pressed her breasts against him. She whispered, “Let’s go outside and find a place to fuck.”
“Denise,” said Ivan, “this is not your party.” He stood up and made his way off through the crowd.
***
They pulled up in front of Alberg’s house at the head of a parade of cars, horns honking. The neighbors next door and across the street emerged onto their porches and stood with hands on their hips, or leaned against the railing, their weight on one foot—Cassandra saw one woman drying her hands on her apron as she watched. Cassandra couldn’t see their faces clearly, but she thought they were smiling.
“Christ,” said Alberg, waving halfheartedly as the parade departed, still honking.
When they’d disappeared, he got out of the car and hurried around to open the door for Cassandra, before she could do it herself.
“Look at the loot!” she said, gloating at the piles of presents in the backseat.
Alberg nodded to the neighbors and began to remove the strings of tin cans, which clattered as he did so. “Christ,” he muttered again.
Cassandra disappeared into the house with an armful of presents.
He got the first string off, then the second, and had started working on the bunting when Cassandra emerged. She came over to the car and stood beside him. “Karl.”
“Yeah? What?” She put a hand on his sleeve. He thought her very beautiful. Light from the streetlamp allowed him to admire her wavy, mostly gray hair, her wide-set hazel eyes, and her skin like cream—yes, just like Devonshire cream. He laid a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth. “You’ve got great legs,” he said. She was wearing a suit that had a long jacket and a very short skirt, pearls that were a wedding gift from her mother, with earrings to match, and shoes with heels high enough to make her legs look even better.
“Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Barry?” she asked.
Alberg considered this. “Is he the one who lives in New York?”
She nodded.
“Yeah. Your father’s brother, right?”
She nodded again.
“What about him?”
“He died,” said Cassandra. “There’s a message on the machine.”
“What, today?” said Alberg.
“A few days ago. But they read the will today. Karl.” She leaned close to him. “He left me some money.” She stood back and clasped her hands in front of her. There was a quizzical expression on her face. “A lot of money.”
May 1985 Abbotsford, B.C.
MRS. O’HARA WAS flat on her back in the dirt when she began regaining consciousness. She struggled to fumble her way out of a gray and blurry state of mind that she found not frightening, but thoroughly bewildering. She began trying to move before she knew anything about her physical condition, which she later thought was odd: she would have expected herself to lie still and gather her wits before attempting to budge, for who kn
ows what dangers budging might have incurred—but no, there she was flexing her limbs, urging her body upright before she was even completely conscious. She had gotten halfway into a sitting position and was leaning on her left elbow when she became fully aware of Tom, kneeling next to her.
A moaning sound burbled from his lips. He was on his knees with his hands clasped and his eyes closed, as if he was praying. And this gave Mrs. O’Hara a terrible start. For an instant she wondered if she had actually been dead for a while—then if perhaps she still was.
And that was when the pain began. A huge hurt thundered in her head, agony jabbed at her right elbow, and there was a sharp, vicious stinging in her backside. “Jesus Mary Mother of God,” breathed Mrs. O’Hara.
Tom stopped his moaning, drew in a quick shudder of air and threw himself upon her, his skinny arms flailing at her shoulders. “Oh god, you’re okay! Thank god you’re okay!”
“I’m not okay,” said Mrs. O’Hara, who had put a hand to her face to brush aside the hair that was obscuring her vision and discovered that it wasn’t hair, but sticky blood. “Go get some cold cloths, Tom,” she said, cautiously touching the back of her head, which seemed to be the source of the bleeding. She must have landed on her stomach, or rolled onto it, and the gash had dripped blood into her eye until Tom had turned her onto her back; now it was soaking the earth beneath her head. “Go on, Tom. Quick.”
While he scrambled up the stairs and disappeared inside the house, Mrs. O’Hara finished pushing herself upright. Her hands stung, too, she noticed, and tried to examine the palms, but the light was too dim. She pressed her hands against her ears, as if to compress her head and the size of the pain in it, but to no avail.
Tom rushed down the stairs, carrying a dripping tea towel. “Where is it, where are you hurt, hon?” Then he spotted the blood flowing from her scalp. “Oh Jesus,” he whimpered, and thrust the cloth at her.
“You’ll have to take me to the hospital, I think,” said Mrs. O’Hara. “I’m pretty sure I need some stitches.”
Tom helped her stand, helped her to the car, helped her inside.
“I’m bleeding all over the damn car,” said Mrs. O’Hara faintly.
Tom leapt into the driver’s seat. “I’ll get those steps fixed, I swear it. I’m gonna get them fixed first thing tomorrow,” he said, as the car lurched out of the yard and onto the road.
“Who was there with you, Tom?” said Mrs. O’Hara, clutching the cloth to the site of her injury.
She was looking down when she said this and didn’t see his face, only knew that his head took a sharp turn in her direction, briefly; then he was looking out the windshield again.
“Who was who?” he said, in a voice scratchy like on an old record.
“Whoever was with you in the house. I saw somebody standing behind you, in the doorway.”
“I think you got your brain jangled a bit, hon,” said Tom. “There wasn’t anybody else there. Only me. And the cat. But even the cat wasn’t there, as it happens.” He attempted a hearty laugh.
“You’re such a terrible liar, Tom,” said Mrs. O’Hara. But she was too weak to argue with him.
She rested her bleeding head against the car seat and closed her eyes, comforted by the rhythm of the car purring along the highway and by the memory of the earthy warmth on which she had awakened, the fragrances of which she had been only subconsciously aware. She was comforted by the realization of her own strength, and by the knowledge that spring lived and was present in the world again.
In the hospital, Tom sat in the waiting room while they shaved part of Mrs. O’Hara’s head, cleaned her wound, and stitched it up.
He sprang to his feet as she emerged from the treatment area. Mrs. O’Hara regarded him wonderingly. He was extremely pale, although that could have been a trick of the harsh hospital lighting. His thinning hair was askew. His eyelids fluttered rapidly in a kind of an ocular stutter as he glanced at her, and away again. He was slightly hunched, and he didn’t hurry over to her but stood where he was, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Mrs. O’Hara felt embarrassed, as if she were seeing him with a clarity so intimate as to be shocking to them both.
Trauma and injury, she decided, had added something to her. She didn’t know what, didn’t know if this something had weight, or significance, or was just a momentary thing like a shiver or a tremble or the cold prickling of gooseflesh. But she felt it as a distinct addition to her total, unknowable self.
Would things be different now, she wondered, if they had had children?
If Tom had owned a hat he would have been turning it in his hands now, she thought, watching him; he’d be turning it by the brim, around and around, he was that nervous.
What she needed, of course, was a big hug, and maybe some crying time. Tears were about the best healer Mrs. O’Hara knew of. But she hadn’t enough trust to cry in front of Tom, and his scrawny arms couldn’t provide enough of a hug to comfort her.
She felt like patting him on the back. There there, she’d say to him. There there, Tom—it wasn’t your fault.
And it wasn’t, she thought, walking slowly, heavily toward him, cupping her right elbow protectively in her left hand, aware of the chalky bulk of the bandage on her head. She was prepared to put the whole business aside—the fall, the cut, her scraped backside, and all the bruises that had, even now, begun to stir and flower in her flesh—all this she was ready to put aside, to file away as the unfortunate accident she knew it had been.
But Tom was, in fact, a very bad liar. You had to be an extremely able liar to get away with the things Tom had tried to get away with during their years together, and it was a skill he had never acquired. And Mrs. O’Hara knew that he had lied to her tonight.
“Let’s go home, Tom,” she said, taking his arm.
“Did they give you pain pills?”
“They gave me a prescription.”
“We can stop on the way home and get it filled. Watch your step now, hon,” he said solicitously, steering her through the door and outside into the spring night.
In the car half an hour later, the drugstore bag in her lap, Mrs. O’Hara was aware of pain kept at bay by the shot she’d been given at the hospital. Take things easy for a few days, they had told her. But if she were to ask for time off from work, she would find herself scheduled for a lot fewer hours when she went back. And she couldn’t afford that.
She was a big, strong woman, she told herself. She’d be okay. But what about the bandage? Maybe she could wind a scarf around her head. Pretend she’d done it in the name of fashion. Were they fashionable again, scarves?
“Who was it, Tom?” She spoke thickly, because of her tiredness.
This time he didn’t even look at her. “You’re crazy, hon. I told you. There was nobody there but me.”
“If it was that Ron Farber, Tom, I’m gonna hang you up by your ears and starve you to death.”
“I ain’t seen Ron for weeks,” said Tom sullenly. “Months, maybe.”
They drove on, along the highway that led to the U.S. border, and the high-riding moon silvered the rows of poplars whose branches were moving restlessly in the night. Tom turned left, onto their road, and they traveled parallel to the poplars for a while. Mrs. O’Hara watched them intently. She thought they looked like gray silk, and imagined she could hear the whispering of their leaves.
“Who, then?” she asked. “What grungy scheme are you working on now, and who’s in on it with you, if it isn’t Ron?” She felt unutterably weary. This was obviously explained by what had happened to her. A fall—losing consciousness, however briefly—this was going to totally deplete a person, of course it was, and cause her to feel teary, too.
But she couldn’t leave it alone, because she knew that she could not go through it again, could not suffer another of Tom’s crazy schemes, all of them teetering on a thin line between legal and illegal, all doomed to failure and ignominy.
They drove on in silence. Mrs. O’Hara wanted to open her wind
ow, but she was starting to feel more pain in her elbow and was reluctant to encourage it with even the slightest movement. She watched Tom’s profile, wielding upon it an imaginary magic crayon, creating for him a forthright chin and a sturdy nose. She considered adding, while she was at it, long sweeping lashes and a proud forehead and maybe some dark curly hair. But that would be too ridiculous. She sighed and turned away. She’d made her bed, after all. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
“I’m hurt, hon,” said Tom, with a quiver in his voice. “That you would think such a thing. I told you, no more funny business. And I’ve kept my word.”
As he spoke, Mrs. O’Hara heard the disquieting ring of truth, and was for a moment doubtful of her memory. She cast her mind back…
There she was, climbing the stairs. Her lower back ached, her feet hurt, and she badly wanted some hot tea. She had pulled at the railing with her left hand, climbed another step, let go of the railing, was about to take hold of it again when—the door opened. Suddenly. She had looked up. Stumbled. And fallen.
And just before she saw herself fall, she saw Tom, looking astonished.
And alarmed, too, she thought. She saw his right arm move swiftly behind him, pressing at something, or making an attempt to conceal. And she saw, flattened against his back, the specter, the white specter, the shape that could have been Tom’s shadow if it hadn’t been white.
“Maybe not Ron, then, but somebody,” she said, with conviction. “Somebody was there, Tom. I saw.” She threw him a swift glance and winced at the swell of pain this created in her head. “Either you’re up to your old damn tricks or you’ve got yourself another woman, Tom O’Hara. Huh,” she snorted.
And then she closed her mouth on whatever she’d been about to say next and looked blankly out through the windshield. With infinite care, she retrieved the memory once again. Saw the white shape draped against Tom’s back…
She turned and looked at him, incredulous. “Tom?”
He peered out through the windshield. “Almost there,” he muttered. “Almost home.”
