She loved her books as she loved the knowledge they bestowed. But she was afraid of what he’d written; afraid of what he knew; afraid of why and what he wanted her to know—the power his knowledge gave him. What is the point, she asked herself, of knowing all the generalities if we are in the dark about our own particulars? Life is but an aggregation of particulars. But must we know them all? Is forgetfulness not merciful? She well knew how one particular of a forgotten part of life, suddenly remembered, can ruin everything.
On her desk there was a photograph of Duncan, standing on the bow of his boat. He was smiling broadly, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, arms folded. She thought of all the photos that litter people’s lives, stored in envelopes, inside boxes. No names or dates. People captured in moments that seemed important at the time. Moments of transient happiness, recorded as specific images, particulars of life that someone thought should be indelible; but without the words, the images are only mortal, as fragile as the subjects and the living memory.
She picked up the photograph of her brother and realized that she couldn’t precisely remember why or when she’d taken it—or if, in fact, she had taken it herself. Then it came back to her: Stella had given it to her. But when had Stella taken it? And what might explain that smile, a smile she knew—because she knew her brother well—to be unusual? Would there come a day when someone would invest a lot of energy and time to discover who this man was, where he was and when, and whom he was smiling at?
I could do it now, she thought. She could inscribe that enigmatic photograph so that blind posterity would know at least that it was Duncan, perhaps that he was Father Duncan; that the boat was called Jacinta, for reasons he’d never shared with her; that the moment was recorded by a woman whose name was Stella Fortune; that she was his friend, and maybe more than that; and that she wounded him. But now Effie was in the realm of speculation, and speculation is the mother of exaggeration and untruth and suffering.
She opened the briefcase again, studied the package that contained a manuscript, said the word out loud. “Speculation.” Then she snapped the briefcase shut.
The wedding celebration was to be in the house that Ray and Cassie shared in Riverdale. It was on a quiet street not far from Walden. A Thursday night, two evenings before the marriage, Effie and Cassie were busily preparing. It would be a small event, twenty special guests, all coming to the house after the ceremony for a gathering of close friends and family.
Ray was in his den, watching television. He called out, “Effie, you should come and see this.”
It was the evening newscast, and Molly Blue was reporting on a new development in a death-row story in Huntsville, Texas. As Effie arrived in the doorway, she heard a reference to the Texas governor, who seemed to be expressing disappointment in the action of a judge somewhere. There was a photo in the corner of the TV screen, a white-haired man with a kind face, the name Sam Williams superimposed. Then a picture of a small room, not unlike a doctor’s examining room. The only furniture in the pale green room was an imposing gurney. Molly said, “The stay came through just minutes before the scheduled execution.”
Then there was a slender woman, pretty in an earnest way, talking about another effort to get the Williams case before the United States Supreme Court. The woman was identified as Sandra Bowers, attorney for the condemned man. Then JC appeared. He was smiling broadly as if, in a way, the reprieve had been for him.
Molly asked him questions and he was objective in the answers, betraying no personal concern about the killer at the centre of the drama. He spoke of “process,” alleged irregularities at trial and certain ambiguities that raised disturbing questions in the minds of many people about the legitimacy of the death penalty. Effie remembered that “legitimacy” was a word he used frequently. Then he was gone, replaced by a group of protesters waving placards in the darkness outside what she presumed was the prison.
And then Molly was reporting something else, and Effie’s anger crystallized. She had watched him talking on the television screen as if he were a stranger, extracted from reality by the distancing effect of the technology. But now he was real again, as was the pain and disappointment he had created.
“He looks great on TV,” Cassie said behind her.
She couldn’t think of a reply.
“I wonder if that means he’ll be here Saturday.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Effie said.
“Not sure if you heard the news from here,” the message said. “In any case, I’ll fill you in when I see you. There’s a lot to talk about. I’ll be getting in late Friday, so I guess it’ll be at the church Saturday. Night, hon.”
She listened to the message twice as she sat with her coffee in the morning. Her kitchen looked out over the backyards of her neighbourhood. Artificial ponds and porches, back decks littered with the evidence of normal lives: bicycles, toboggans, skis. In her head she rehearsed what she felt would be their final conversation. She would be calm. She would be resolute. She studied the backyards, imagining the interlocking lives behind brick walls, beneath tight rooftops. Kids grumbling; couples cuddling or laying out quotidian arrangements; dogs and cats yearning for outdoors. She wondered why he’d called her “hon.” It wasn’t a word she’d heard him use before.
She stood, poured more coffee. The sadness thickened, threatening to metastasize to full-blown sorrow. For her own protection she revisited the scene on Jarvis Street. That a man could be so totally undone was shocking to her. It made Sextus’s serial transgressions seemed profoundly trivial. At least he channelled his infantile fantasies in directions that were, dare she think it, healthy. At least she could identify with them.
She thought of Stella: Who could blame him?
“I think I owe you an apology,” Duncan said when he called.
“Oh?” Effie was confused.
“I never followed up, after your visit to the shelter. We were going to talk.”
“It wasn’t anything important,” she said.
“The Epiphany came and went. Are we any more enlightened now?”
“Not really.”
“Will he be back for the wedding?”
“It’s tomorrow,” she said.
“Aren’t you two celebrating an anniversary yourselves?”
“How so?”
“Wasn’t it last Easter, you and JC—”
“I’d forgotten,” she replied.
Saturday, April tenth, she rose early. The house was silent, and she sat for a moment, relishing the stillness. She wasn’t looking forward to the day. Even though this was her daughter getting married, she was prepared for the discomfort she always felt at weddings, all the rituals of happiness that were, no matter how communal, essentially exclusive. She was always happy for the couple, but was never able to rise above the sense of failure she felt when reminded of the false beginnings and unhappy endings in her life. She knew that she’d be spending time with all of them today: John, Sextus, Conor, JC Campbell. They’d be with her even if she didn’t go.
She dressed carefully. Her appearance, she thought when she made her final survey, was deliciously seductive. She called a cab.
The church was small. St. Martin’s was a place that Ray remembered from his student days. There had been a Mass in Latin and a choir that was exceptional, so he’d go there for the peacefulness he felt revisiting a liturgy he remembered from his boyhood. Ray had a sentimental streak, Effie had realized with some amusement. Duncan consulted with the chancery and was assured that the use of Latin had been authorized, that the church was “kosher,” as the deacon he had spoken with described it.
She was early, but Sextus was waiting in the vestibule. The dark suit made him taller, slimmer, younger. He hugged her, pressed his cheek to hers. “You look edible,” he whispered. She hugged him back, shushing him.
“Are we the only ones here?” she asked.
“Most of them are inside,” he said. “Maybe fifteen people.”
She realized that he h
ad placed an arm casually around her waist. She would normally have moved away, but she felt stabilized by the loose comfort of his strength. She’d long, long ago ceased to think of him as strong.
The church door opened and JC entered. If he was surprised to see them, he managed to suppress it. She instinctively moved closer to Sextus, felt his hip firm against her own.
“Hey,” said JC smiling.
“Well, look who’s here,” she said, and instantly regretted it. “When did you get back?”
“I got in late,” he said. “I left a message, but you’ve probably been busy.”
His smile was weary. He extended a hand, and Sextus grasped it warmly. “You’re looking jet-lagged,” he said.
JC seemed surprised. “Slept like a log.” Then, nodding toward the interior of the church, “I’d better go in. I’ll catch you later.”
Walking past them, he brushed Effie’s hand. The gesture was too casual, she thought, and the anger flared, but the church door opened again and it was Cassie, with Ray and his son, the best man, close behind.
At the climax of the service she realized that Sextus had grasped her hand and was holding it firmly. And when Ray placed the ring on Cassie’s finger, she felt what seemed to be a shudder passing through him.
JC was near the back of the church. She fought an urge to look around.
As the celebration unfolded around her, she resisted a powerful longing to be somewhere else, alone. It was a feeling of irrelevance, she realized, or maybe it was simply isolation. She wanted to just slip away. Wave down a taxi, retreat homeward. Surely anyone who mattered to her would understand her reasons, but she knew she had to stay. Simple courtesy dictated that she be there. She resolved to avoid the alcohol, except for mandatory toasts.
JC made it easy by appointing himself bartender. She couldn’t imagine engaging with him, even for the simple purpose of acquiring a glass of wine. She remembered she had brought a bottle of expensive single malt Scotch for Ray and had stashed it in Cassie’s office upstairs.
I’ll crack the bottle and have one, she thought. I can replace the bottle later. No harm in one. Then she hesitated, remembering her father.
He never stops with one.
A familiar wave of anxiety increased her need for a stiff drink and at the same time made her feel vulnerable and weak. She went upstairs with a water glass from the kitchen cupboard.
The little office was peaceful. She savoured the privacy and the sharp, smoky sting of whisky on her tongue. She felt removed from, but at the same time part of, the happy chatter she could hear spooling out below her, the strands of celebration like ribbons. She smiled at the ripples and, sometimes, small explosions of laughter. This quiet moment couldn’t last. There would have to be a reckoning. She drained the glass and walked downstairs.
JC was drinking cola. She watched him pour, squeeze a wedge of lemon, sip distractedly. He was smiling, easily engaging with the guests, pouring liquor liberally, frowning at the upraised hands of moderation. She could almost hear him: Let your hair down … this is Cassie’s special day.
The longing almost choked her. How she wished she could reverse their lives, rewind to the summer and the autumn of ’98, the spontaneity, emotional transparency, the feeling of security and confidence. All gone now.
Then Sextus was beside her. He leaned close, face flushed, drink in hand. “I plan to scoop tonight,” he whispered.
“Scoop?” she laughed. “I haven’t heard that in thirty years.”
“What about it?” he said. “Come home with me.”
“Home! What home?”
“I have a hotel room for the night. Then I’ll be staying here, after they leave for their little holiday or honeymoon … whatever they call it these days.”
“Thanks anyway,” she said. And walked toward the bar.
“I guess we should talk,” she said, forcing a smile.
Then they were sitting facing each other in Cassie’s office. She had turned away from his embrace, only a simple gesture of familiarity on his part, she felt. A hug exchanged by friends who haven’t seen each other for a while. Her reaction had set the mood.
“So,” he said. “I suppose you heard what happened in Huntsville.”
“You know what I think about Huntsville.”
“Yes.” He was studying his hands, twirling his thumbs around each other. “It was quite a moment. I went to see him yesterday morning.”
He nodded toward the whisky bottle. “Do you think she’d mind?”
“Go ahead,” said Effie.
He poured into the water glass she had used. “What about you?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Here’s to us,” he said, with a questioning expression.
“Yes,” she said. “We should talk about us.”
“Where do you want to start?”
She wanted to reply, “Let’s start a year ago, at Easter. Let’s relive every day and maybe find the moment when this awkwardness began.” But instead she said, “Let’s start on Jarvis Street.”
He seemed confused. He looked away. “Jarvis Street?”
She waited, then repeated, “Jarvis Street.”
He sipped his drink. “Okay. What do you want to know about Jarvis Street?”
“We could start with Tammy.”
“Ah,” he said. “Tammy.”
“I just don’t understand you,” she said. “Exposing yourself and, I suppose, us to the likes of that Tammy and her pimp—”
“What pimp?” he interrupted.
“Robert or whatever his name is … in St. Jamestown.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
He was standing, drink forgotten. “You’d better explain,” he said.
“Me explain?” she said, outrage rising.
“I want to know where you got that name.”
She’d never seen this look, this colour in his face. She looked away, suddenly afraid and sad. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Believe me,” he said, “it matters. Where did you get the name Robert? And St. Jamestown?”
“His sister told me,” she said wearily.
“Whose sister?”
“That Robert.”
“His sister?” Now he laughed, and sat down. “You’re good,” he said. “I’ve been trying to track that motherfucker down for months. And now you tell me what his name is and where he lives. You know his sister!” He laughed again. “His sister! Jesus Christ, I can’t believe it.” He drained the glass. “I’ve gotta go,” he said. And he stood again.
“Wait.”
But he was gone. She heard his footfall on the stairs, then heard the front door closing.
The door slammed behind her, but Conor quickly yanked it open.
“And where do you think you’re goin’ now?” he asked softly. Once she’d considered it charming, how he pronounced “now.” “Where you’re goin’ nye?” But the charm was gone.
“I need to be alone,” she said. “I need to think.”
The conversation had veered out of control quite unexpectedly. He’d been examining the business card with what she thought was amusement. “And what do ye think the RCMP security lads would want to talk to me about?”
“You tell me,” she said. “He wasn’t here long enough to tell me anything.”
“He didn’t mention any names at all?”
“Mr. Cahill,” she said, hoping that the ironic use of “mister” registered.
“Ah. Cahill. That poor fella has been a cop magnet all his life.” He sighed. “And did they say anythin’ else?”
“He called me Faye.”
“The Mountie did?”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“You’re the only one who calls me Faye.”
“Well, now.” An odd expression crossed his face, almost fear, and it empowered her.
“I don’t want you bringing whatever it is you’re up to into my house,”
she said, more loudly than she’d intended.
He smiled, fear now past. ‘ “My house,’ is it now?” His eyes were dark, with an unfamiliar glint. “Let’s not get too carried away with the technicalities of legal ownership.”
And perhaps it was the tone that made her feel the stirring of something she hadn’t known for years, the dark presence of danger.
She stood and walked resolutely out the door.
Now the paralysis of dread set in, the disorienting doubt. The integrity of his reaction left her baffled.
“Did JC just leave?” It was Duncan, his face perplexed.
She nodded.
“What happened?”
She shrugged, distrustful of her voice.
Duncan sat.
“I asked him about that Tammy,” she said finally.
Duncan sighed, folded his hands across his stomach. “And what did he tell you?”
“Nothing.”
Duncan reached for the whisky bottle and the now well-used water glass, poured a modest drink. Sighed again.
“I’ve known about her for months,” Effie said. “At first it never crossed my mind that he’d be so irresponsible …”
“You said he told you nothing,” Duncan said.
She struggled not to shout. “For God’s sake, he didn’t have to. I’m not a child. I know what men want from people like that. But Jesus, some child prostitute in an alleyway on Gerrard Street? You’d think he could do better than that.”
“Stop, stop, stop,” Duncan said. “People will hear you. And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, if you know so much, you tell me,” she said, tears threatening.
Duncan shook his head slowly, then sipped his drink. “He made me promise not to tell anybody.”
“Tell anybody what?” she said.
“How about if I track him down and talk him into telling you himself?” He leaned close to her, put a hand on her arm.
Why Men Lie Page 20
