A Good House (20 page)

Mary was glad to see Murray although she had never known him well. There was only the quick year before she and Patrick were married and Murray had pulled back that year, giving her room, giving her first claim, and then he more or less disappeared into his work, into his travelling around. Sometimes they heard from Margaret where in the world he was and once in a while they found something of his in one of the Toronto papers, but they saw him only irregularly and only at home if they happened to be at Bill and Margaret’s when he, too, was in town visiting his parents. Charlotte had stopped going home with him to see the McFarlanes while they were alive, although she was firmly present at both funerals, thoroughly composed in a severe, black, sleeveless dress. She had moved through the crowded church basement, chatting up the elderly church people and touching their age-spotted arms as she spoke to
them, her transparently disciplined liveliness so false it clearly astonished them, left them shocked on her behalf and speechless.

Standing in the dining room in her own very early middle age, Mary thought now that Murray was quite good looking, compelling in a way that Patrick was not. His hair had thinned but this made his face unavoidable and she liked unavoidable faces. His cheekbones were his strongest feature, his cheekbones and his light-filled eyes. She attributed the thinking of these lusty thoughts, which were not at all normal for her, to altered hormones. She was always a bit randy when she was pregnant, a bit open. When she was carrying John, she had confessed this to her young doctor, mainly because she was curious to see if he’d say what he usually said, which was, “Oh sure, I hear that all the time, not to worry.” Lying on the table, conjuring fond thoughts about the pulsing baby just there under her thick, taut skin and about herself, her temporarily, she hoped, altered self, she did not pause long enough to realize that she was speaking to a man who probably assumed himself to be fairly good looking and who was just at that moment preparing to insert his gloved index finger into her vagina. When he frowned and offered the opinion that while he’d never heard of such a thing, he would guess that her feelings were likely just a slight aberration and certainly nothing to get excited about, she recognized with a thud her own stupidity and laughed so hard he had to stall his index finger and pretend to laugh with her. Later, when she replayed this scene for Patrick in their bed, snuggling into him, expecting raucous laughter, he just pulled back and lifted his eyebrows, waiting as he had waited before to be told just why this was funny. Disappointed for a week, she finally thought of telling Margaret, who was a better audience for almost anything anyway and who, hearing it, hooted most satisfactorily.

When he’d arrived Murray had made a sincere and appreciated fuss over five-year-old Stephen, who was Stephen Murray, and then over John, who at two was still small enough to be lifted and swung up into the air, and now Mary called the boys back into the dining room to say goodbye. After Murray bent down to shake the boys’ hands he turned to her. “You were never in my mother’s house,” he said. “Patrick gave her a rose bowl once and I’d like you to have it. And she
had a chest you might like. I think it’s walnut.” He held his hand at his own chest to indicate the height. “It has about a hundred drawers.”

Mary smiled and nodded yes.

“Come maybe Wednesday morning,” he said. “The auctioneers are going to be there Wednesday afternoon to look things over. I’ll hold back anything that catches your eye.”

Moved by this unexpected generosity, Mary told him she would come Wednesday morning for sure, and thank you. And she decided she would definitely choose something. If there was nothing she liked, she could just pick something small, something she could tuck away in a cabinet.

Before Murray arrived she had told Patrick she’d take off with the boys and it still looked like the right thing to do. She reminded him about all the ingredients available for lunch and then went out the door to settle Stephen and John into the car and take them the hour’s drive over to see Bill and Margaret and Sally. Bill in particular loved to look up from the cash register at the hardware store and see her standing there with his grandsons, come all this way to visit their grandpa at work. He always kept a stash of multicoloured Laura Secord suckers in the back of the register for his grandchildren and for all the other kids who came in, who were expected to stand stock-still and quiet while their fathers contemplated wrenches and roach poison.

Driving down the highway trying to find some music on the car radio, Mary found instead a report of a shooting at Kent State University. Four American students had been killed by troops from their own National Guard. The troops had shot into a crowd of protesting students. That was the phrase the reporter used, shot into the crowd. Listening to the reporter go on about Nixon and rallies and demonstrations and Cambodia and casualties, the word
casualties
sounding as always like very much the wrong word, she thought, not for the first time, how good it was to be Canadian, to be alive in this country now. A Canadian in 1970 didn’t have to fear her own armed government. Patrick and Murray and Paul were not required by law to hand their lives over to fight someone else’s war.

She hoped Patrick would take the trouble to get to know Murray again, that Murray would stay around for a while, that they’d drink
beer in the sun porch all afternoon, listen to some of Patrick’s jazz, to John Coltrane or Thelonious Monk, get themselves loosened up. They had not seen much of each other for years but this could be understood as simply an ordinary interruption caused by jobs and marriages, distance, Murray’s constant moving around. She remembered watching them, especially that summer at Dunworkin, thinking that she heard in their casual, sometimes nasty banter an oblique male commitment, a kind of contract. They seemed to have been steady, easy, dependable friends and why not resurrect that? She didn’t know how grown-up men survived without it, or why. Her own friend Joan, who was married now, too, and living on the far side of Toronto, had become indispensable, like a sister who didn’t slow things down to a crawl with the need for context or background or explanation.

It might have been better if Mary had stayed with Patrick and Murray in the porch. She might have been able to give Murray more of what he’d come for.

With the wills out of the way, Patrick’s intention was to ask briefly about Charlotte and then to take the chance to get Murray to talk if he would about journalism. He thought he might be able to feel that he knew him again if he understood more about his working life. And he had a lot of questions, starting from the almost nothing that he knew about the job and from the assumption that anything Murray could tell him would be at least slightly interesting. But the one question about Charlotte, the simple, She looks good, how is she? took them straight down Murray’s line of thought, which apparently had been the plan from the start.

“Oh, Charlotte’s fine,” Murray said, answering the question with a nod and then adding quickly, as if it were part of the answer, “I’m going to leave her.” He tilted his head back toward the wills on the dining-room table. “There is substantial money now. She could live well enough on half of it.”

Patrick eased himself back from the edge of the reinvigorated friendship. He didn’t like divorce. Not at all. There was nothing to like about divorce. “Why now?” he said. “Why not earlier, before you got the money?”

Murray laughed. “Once a lawyer…”

“No,” Patrick said. “It’s just that, well, why would you want her to have any of that money?”

“Because it was not her fault that I married her. I married her because she has the best legs and the finest breasts I have ever seen. And I sincerely believed that would be enough to last me.”

“She is a very good-looking woman,” Patrick said.

“But you’ve never liked her,” Murray said, watching closely for a reaction that was not forthcoming. “Nobody has ever liked her. And now I don’t.”

“Charlotte must be similar to the rest of us,” Patrick said, getting up from his chair to get a couple of Pilsner from the fridge, calling back, “She must be made of all the usual stuff. Strengths. Weaknesses. Needs.” Coming out to the porch again with the beer, he said, “I admit I didn’t like her much at first, but I decided some time ago this was probably only because I was used to a different kind of woman. We were unfair to Charlotte, I’m sure.”

Murray waited until Patrick was comfortably stretched out in his wrought-iron chaise. “I hope you haven’t wasted a lot of your time feeling guilty,” he said. “She has never liked any of you. Almost right from the beginning, she had vicious nicknames for everyone.”

“Which I don’t want to hear,” Patrick said. “Not today or any other day. Anyway. I think everyone pretty much came around. I just assumed I couldn’t see what you saw.”

“And indeed you couldn’t,” Murray said, taking a long drink. “The fact that she’d been with quite a few other men has always been a bit of a turn-on but I never did get to like the idea that someone like you, for instance, might look at her and imagine her naked.”

Patrick laughed a low male laugh, the kind women get to hear only by mistake. “You are deluding yourself a bit there,” he said. “I have never imagined the good Charlotte naked.” He had, of course. He caught Murray’s skeptical gaze. “Call it friendship,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Call it taste. Yours. Mine. Not necessarily the same.”

“If you say so,” Murray said. He had rested his foot on Stephen’s beat-up dump truck and was rolling it back and forth in front of
him. “And you’re right, she does have needs. What she needs is to feel superior to everyone on the planet. What she needs is to have received a good swift kick in the ass when she first started to strut her mind-boggling vanity, whenever that was. Before my time.”

“This sounds a bit like hatred,” Patrick said.

“The problem has become more about what it isn’t,” Murray said, “than what it is.”

Patrick started to run his thumbnail down the sweaty label of his beer bottle, shredding it. Murray dug round in his pockets and found his lighter but no cigarettes because he had purposely not bought any. “I’ve been smoking,” he said. “And now I’m quitting. Everybody I know smokes,” he said. “My car stinks of it. My clothes stink of it. Can you smell it on me?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. He thought about asking if there was someone new, a replacement, someone who was prompting Murray to admire Charlotte less than he had when he was a lonely, lusty twenty-four. He decided to wait it out. If there was a woman, and if Murray wanted him to know there was a woman, he would bring the conversation around.

“I wanted kids,” Murray said. “It never occurred to me that this was something you should have to ask a woman beforehand.”

“Charlotte doesn’t want kids?” Patrick looked at Murray straight on, as if this surprised him.

“She’d had herself sterilized before I even met her.”

“And didn’t say so?” Patrick asked, incredulous.

“What she says now is that she just assumed that because I was from the beginning so determined to get a posting in London and from there maybe to Southeast Asia or at least some place with some significance, that because we talked all the time about what she now likes to call with a bitchy little twist ‘the world out there,’ that I wouldn’t want to be tied up or tied down with the extra responsibility of a family. And because she was so up front about her own career, her own ambitions, she thought this made us a match. She assumed it didn’t have to be discussed.”

“You did talk all the time about your job,” Patrick said. “You talked endlessly about your possible career moves. And it looks like
you’ve done at least half of what you imagined doing. She has a point, perhaps.”

“She has a point? Perhaps?” Murray sent the dump truck rolling into the dining room. He leaned forward in his chair to face the floor, bracing himself on the long bones of his legs the way he had when they were boys, when he was a sometimes anxious boy.

“No, of course,” Patrick said. “She should have levelled with you. Given you the opportunity to make a choice, to do without the legs and the breasts.”

“So I’m just your average piece of pond scum?” Murray asked. “The one who sees he has to leave is automatically pond scum.”

“Usually,” Patrick said. “In my experience. Do you want me to get the divorce under way?” he asked. “Maybe a legal separation first and then see what her lawyer comes after?” He gave Murray a chance to think this over. “We could likely go for irreconcilable differences, which is just new on the market and quite generally applicable.” He waited again for Murray to take in what he’d said. “I’m assuming you don’t want to go after the sterilization, although we might be able to argue some breach there.”

“Irreconcilable differences would suit me fine,” Murray said. “From where I sit it sounds almost precise. And I won’t fight her, not unless she wants more than half. I doubt very much that she would go after more than half.”

Patrick laughed. “Oh, my son,” he said. “You might know your way around Heathrow but you obviously know dick about domestic life.” He stood up and went to the kitchen, came back with two more bottles of Pilsner and a bag of potato chips that he threw into Murray’s lap. “Lunch,” he said. “Or we can get in your dazzling new Volvo and go grab a hamburger. Or you could buy me a proper prime-rib lunch down at the Iroquois.”

“I’ll be wanting to get married again fairly quickly,” Murray said.

“As I surmised,” Patrick said. Waiting for it had made him more curious than he might have been otherwise. He assumed he wouldn’t know the woman. She would be a journalist of some kind, or connected to that world. “Who is she?” he asked. When he didn’t get an answer he continued. “She’s nice and fertile?” He intended this to
be black and funny. Like his taste in women, Murray’s taste in retort had long since been established and there was no reason to expect any deviation.

Murray looked up to watch if and how Patrick’s face would respond when his brain cells registered the word he was about to hear. “Daphne,” he said.