Why Men Lie

by Linden MacIntyre

“I remember,” JC said. “Jessie was one friggin’ witch when we were young. A little wildcat.” He laughed. “She was into throwing things when they were first married. We’d get gassed up at the Rondun or some place, and Danny would invite half the pub to come back home, if it wasn’t Sextus first, dragging us to your place. We’d arrive there and Jessie would go through the roof. More than once she chased us out.”

  There was another long silence.

  He reached across and placed a hand upon her thigh. “Of course, it was different at your place. You were what we always imagined the perfect wife should be.”

  She stared through the car window. They were in Creignish, where Stella and her brother had met when he was pastor there. St. George’s Bay sprawled off to the horizon, flat and black, the first lights twinkling on a distant mainland.

  “So how come you never settled down?” she asked, still staring at the empty bay.

  He seemed surprised. “I don’t know.”

  “You struck me as someone who needed that. Needed somebody and a place of your own. I never really saw you as part of that gang.”

  “Possibly,” he said.

  “So why not? Ever. I’m sure there were lots of chances.”

  “Fear, I guess.”

  There was another long silence. They passed the Creignish church, and she noted with surprise that he raised a hand and made what seemed to be a small cross on his forehead.

  “Did you just make the sign of the cross?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Old habits die hard.”

  She laughed, reached across and grabbed his free hand in both of hers. “So tell me, really, what you were afraid of.”

  “Women change,” he said. “Or, at least, evolve. It’s a good thing. But it makes life unpredictable.”

  “And men don’t change?”

  “Men don’t change.”

  “I’ve seen men change.”

  “You’ve seen behaviour change. Men don’t change, essentially.”

  “And women do?”

  “It’s a known fact. Scientific. A little witch like Jessie turns into Mother Teresa. Danny stays Danny, MS or no MS. Trust me.”

  “Trust you?”

  “Well … maybe not.”

  At the roundabout, where the causeway joined the island to the mainland, he asked: “So what happened to their boy? I gather he died.”

  “He killed himself,” she said.

  “Jesus.”

  “It was a tough time. It was hard on everybody.”

  “What did Duncan have to do with it?”

  “They were friends,” she said. “He bought their boat. That’s all.”

  Preparing dinner, she wondered privately about the silences. Surely they weren’t out of things to talk about already. She noted that he drank more than she did, kept topping up his glass with rum.

  “I didn’t know you were a rum drinker,” she said.

  He just smiled at her, as if through a glass doorway.

  She was alone when she awoke. She peered quickly through the bedroom window. The car was where they’d left it. She put on a housecoat and went downstairs. The house was empty. She boiled water for coffee.

  She was pouring when he returned, wearing rubber boots that were wet and flecked with grass.

  “Went for a walk,” he explained.

  “And did you see anybody interesting?”

  “Just a jogger.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  He came to her and wrapped his arms around her, kissed her forehead. “You don’t talk to joggers. But he waved.”

  “That would be John,” she said.

  “John who?”

  “John Gillis. My ex. One of them.”

  “Right,” he said. “Remind me. How many are there?”

  “Two. No, three. Counting Conor.”

  “Conor. Right. You haven’t told me much about Conor.”

  “There isn’t much to tell.”

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “Do you serve it in bed?”

  “That depends.”

  They left for town near noon. She needed house supplies, said that she could get anything she needed at the Walmart.

  “The Walmart?” he replied. “I don’t do the Walmart.”

  “There’s a bookstore at the mall,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll check it out. And I assume there’s a coffee shop?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s near the Walmart. We can meet there.”

  She entered the mall from the Walmart, searching for the café where they’d agreed to meet. Then she saw it, a space that was more an alcove than a coffee shop. He was sitting at a small table, a book beside his coffee cup, intently listening to the woman facing him. Effie couldn’t see her face, just the back of a blond head, and for an instant she thought it was Stella. But it clearly wasn’t. The woman was smoking a cigarette. Whatever vices Stella had, smoking wasn’t one of them. Then JC reached across and placed a hand on the woman’s hand, which she turned palm up so that their fingers were interlocked. The woman leaned toward him, and they kissed in what seemed to be a friendly way, cheek to cheek. She stood, and Effie changed directions quickly, flustered.

  The woman was young, maybe in her mid-thirties. JC stood. They embraced. The woman stepped back, brushed her cheek or perhaps a stray strand of hair. They were still holding hands. Another kiss, this time lightly on the lips, and the woman walked away. Effie could only think of one word to describe the look on JC’s face. Bereft.

  JC sat. Effie turned and walked quickly back to the Walmart, where she knew there was a washroom.

  He was sitting in the same position when she returned, now leafing through his book. He smiled broadly when she walked up to him. “Hey,” he said. “How was Mr. Walton’s mart?”

  “The usual,” she said, looking for evidence of deceit in his expression but finding only clarity.

  “Look what I found,” he said. “What a great bookstore.”

  It was a red book, The Breed of Manly Men, a regimental history of the Cape Breton Highlanders.

  “How do you pronounce that?” he asked, pointing to a motto on a crest. She said it for him, swiftly. Siol na Fear Fearail. A Breed of Manly Men.

  “I didn’t know you were a military buff.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “But back at the house, I saw a photograph of some soldiers, and on the back it said they were Cape Breton Highlanders, in Italy, I think.”

  “My father was in that outfit,” she said. Then sat and folded her arms, waiting.

  “I’ll get you a coffee,” he said.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He seemed to hesitate. “The damnedest thing just happened,” he said. “I’m in the bookstore. I see this book. They only have one copy. On an impulse I decide to buy it. Forty bucks. Highway robbery, but what the hell. I take it to the cash, present my credit card. The woman goes away, comes back and asks me where I’m from. I tell her. Then she asks if I ever knew anyone from Isle Madame. I say maybe. And … if she doesn’t burst into tears …”

  “Not …”

  “Sylvia,” he said. “My kid.” Suddenly his eyes were full.

  “Oh my God,” said Effie.

  “I thought I told you about her,” he said.

  “Oh my God,” she repeated. “I’m so sorry …”

  “Sorry?”

  “I mean, I’m so happy …”

  “I brought her here, hoping you’d come back in time to meet her, but she had to get back to the shop.”

  “We can go there now,” Effie said.

  He hesitated. “No,” he said at last. “There’ll be another time. My head is kind of screwed up now. I’ve had enough emotional drama for today.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Driving back from town, he said, “You’ll have to forgive me.”

&
nbsp; She caught his hand. “You’re forgiven.”

  “I knew there was a remote chance that I’d bump in to her. But I never really expected …”

  “Just let it filter in,” she said. “It’ll take time.”

  “I asked her for a phone number,” he said. “She told me I could reach her through the shop. Do you think that’s strange?”

  “Perhaps her life is complicated.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  He seemed to withdraw then. She felt no resentment for his sudden melancholy. His visit had created an archive of new memories that would, in time—she was sure of this—renew the old place and make it unambiguously hers. They’d walked it and talked it, eaten it and drunk it, and saturated it with an uninhibited abandon neither would easily forget, if ever.

  “When we come back next year …”

  “Next year,” he’d said, continuing her thought. “Let’s try to make a trip in early June, or even May. Put some plants in the ground.”

  At home, she said, “I think I’ll take a walk. You interested?”

  “No,” he said. “I think I’ll put my head down for a bit. A little nap to freshen up. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She heard the chainsaw before she realized the sound was from the Gillis place. Walking up the lane, she calculated that she hadn’t been there in nearly thirty years. John didn’t see her coming, so she stood and watched him, trying to remember the boy she married so long ago, the man she fled. In 1968, in that field, Duncan, newly minted as a priest, had solemnly pronounced the terrible finality of their commitment, till death. Sextus had come home from somewhere and stood by, smiling. At the end, he kissed both cheeks lightly, like a foreigner, squeezed her hand.

  From behind, John had the shape and posture of an old man, shoulders rounded, back bent slightly. She could imagine skinny legs inside the baggy work pants. The sawdust flew; the noise was horrifying. Then it stopped suddenly, and the silence startled her. If he was surprised to see her, he managed not to show it. He slowly removed his work gloves, whacked his pants legs, then ambled toward her. She held out a hand. He hesitated, then touched her fingertips.

  “I meant to go over,” he said. “But you have company.”

  “A friend,” she said.

  “It’s been a while since you’ve been.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you come in?” He spread his arms, smiled shyly.

  “If it’s okay. Sure. I suppose the place is all changed.”

  “I suppose it is,” he said. “A bit of a mess, though.”

  There was a teacup and a bowl in the kitchen sink, newspapers and unopened mail strewn on the table, a jacket hanging on a chair. The kitchen seemed larger than she remembered.

  “I took out a wall,” he said, responding to her thought.

  “Where did that come from?” she asked, pointing toward a massive sandstone fireplace.

  “It was there all along,” he said. “That’s where the stove used to be.”

  She remembered that much.

  “I always suspected there was something behind that wall. I could tell from the shape of the chimney that it was probably part of a fireplace.”

  “The table?”

  “Found it at a yard sale.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “A bit battered.”

  “Now that I remember, it’s all changed, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose. Being here day in, day out, it’s hard to tell the new from the old.”

  “The old table was over there.”

  “I guess it was.”

  Face to face, she was suddenly surprised by how little he had changed. The hair, though prematurely white, was thick; the face was lined but healthy; the eyes were clear and interested. She knew that she, too, was being carefully inspected, and it felt, somehow, reassuring.

  “I could make tea,” he said.

  “No, don’t bother.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bother.”

  “So when did you discover the fireplace?”

  “Oh, Christ. It’s hard to remember. There were a few lost years there.” He laughed. “Yup. A few lost years, for sure. After you.”

  “You know why I ran away, John?”

  She was surprised at having said it and by his easy acknowledgement.

  “I often meant to talk to you about that,” he said. “It was on my mind. But anyway, here we are.” He shrugged. They stared at each other and past each other, into time. “It’s a hard word, ‘sorry,’ sometimes.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Especially when you really mean it.”

  “I did. I mean it now. I don’t know what got into me, the night you ran away. I thought for a long time it was the old man coming out in me. I blamed him. But eventually I had to face the fact. Even if there’s some of him in me, I’m my own person.”

  “I never blamed you,” she said. “I was way, way out of line, and we both know it.”

  “Still, there’s no excuse.”

  Into the silence then, she said, “You’re looking awfully well, John.”

  “You’re looking pretty good yourself. You’re sure you won’t have a cup?”

  “Not this time. I left the company by himself over home.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s from Toronto. I think his mother was from around here someplace, but he grew up in Halifax.”

  “I see.”

  “How about yourself? Is there anybody?”

  “Well … yes and no.”

  She laughed. It was, she thought, the perfect answer—the safest answer. She placed a hand on his forearm. “You should come by,” she said. “Maybe later. Meet him before he goes.”

  “How long is he here for?”

  “He’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Ah well,” he said. “Maybe the next time.”

  “I hope.”

  JC was in her office reading when she returned. “What’s happening in the world?”

  “I dropped in on John,” she said.

  “Ah. How was that?”

  “It felt weird,” she said. “I see him each summer, but I haven’t been inside that house since I … left. We had a good chat.”

  He was studying her face.

  “I’ll tell you sometime.”

  “Your call.”

  She sat beside him. “How’s the book?” she asked.

  “Kind of dry,” he said. “But interesting. Lots of anecdotes. You say your dad was in it?”

  She walked to a bookcase, retrieved a photograph. Three men, two in army uniforms, one in work clothes, standing at the front of a truck. The civilian was holding a rifle in one hand and, with the other, propping up the antlered head of a deer that was draped across a fender.

  “Duncan gave me this before he went away. I didn’t know he had it. That’s my father there,” she said. “And that’s John’s father, Sandy. It was just before they went overseas.”

  “And the guy with the rifle?”

  “That’s Jack, Sextus’s dad.”

  “Well, well. So this Sandy … he’s the one who was shot. In the war.”

  “In Holland. Yes.”

  “I think I heard something.”

  “It isn’t a very pretty story.”

  “They rarely are.”

  “Would you care for a drink?”

  “Why not.”

  She was up early, to maximize the day, she told herself. His flight was in the evening. He’d have to leave by mid-afternoon. She was already resigned to the reality of his absence, resolved to keep the morning busy.

  Over coffee, he told her he’d like to revisit the bookstore, see if Sylvia was there. “Would you come with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. And curious.”

  “Good,” he said.

  But it was a stranger at the cash. “Sylvia’s not in today,” she explained. “She phoned in earlier. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Gi
ve her this,” said JC, dropping a business card on the glass-topped counter.

  The woman squinted at it. “Sure,” she said.

  “Wait,” he said. Retrieved the card and scribbled quickly. “There,” he said, and slid it back across the counter. Then he turned to Effie. “I put down your number too. I hope that’s okay.”

  She nodded.

  “That’s the cemetery over there,” Effie said as they drove away.

  “Is that where your dad is?” he asked, peering through the passing trees.

  “All three,” she said. “The men in the photograph. They’re all there.”

  “Can we see?” he said.

  She was surprised. “I suppose, but it’s been so long I’m not sure I can find them.”

  “Two Gillises over here,” he called out. “Alexander and Jack.”

  “Then my father isn’t far away,” she said.

  He was holding her hand. Then he put an arm around her shoulder. “You’re trembling.”

  “Chilled,” she said.

  She studied the simple headstone, wondering who had made the effort. Then she realized it was a basic military marker. “Cpl. Angus A. MacAskill. 2nd Batt., N.S. Highlanders.” And some dates. She hadn’t realized he’d been a corporal.

  She leaned her head on JC’s shoulder. She wanted to say, “Please don’t go,” but suppressed the impulse. “He was a very bad man, in many ways,” she said, and suddenly regretted saying it.

  He wrapped an arm around her and squeezed. “People aren’t bad,” he said. “They just do bad things sometimes.”

  “Maybe,” she said. She could feel the ground below her feet shifting, as if she was about to slide away. She placed her arm around his waist, held on. “I always blamed him for what happened to Sandy Gillis.”

  “I heard Sandy Gillis killed himself,” JC said. “Why blame your father?”

  “My father pushed him over the edge.”

  “How so?”

  “Sandy had no memory of the war or what happened there before he got shot. What they did—to the girl that shot him.”

  “A girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard it was a sniper.”

  “It was a girl.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “My father killed her. With a knife. After she shot Sandy.”

  She imagined that his arm had slackened slightly, that a tiny space had opened where their shoulders touched.

  “How do you know all this?”