Act of Evil (11 page)

With a brisk buss on each of their cheeks and a swish of her long dress she was gone. Presently there came the sound of an engine, revving high then fading fast.

“So that was your friend Sylvie.” Hal grinned.

“That was Sylvie. She's—helped me through some hard times.”

“This being one of them?”

Mattie colored. “You noticed.”

“Did you think that talking to me would be so difficult?”

“I didn't really know how it would be. Anyway, that third degree of Sylvie's wasn't exactly planned. It's sort of what she does. I just took advantage, I guess. Do you mind?”

“As long as you now know that it's not necessary. All I wanted was to say hi and chat about old times. The thing I said the other day, being guilty at how we broke up, that was stupid. You've had a whole life since then, and it was pure ego for me to think you'd even remember me well enough to be mad. I'm sorry.”

Mattie grinned. “Apologizing again?”

“So I'm sorry for being sorry, too,” he laughed. “Okay?”

“Okay, peace. Hal, I'm just glad you're here. Let's start again. Do you want some more coffee?”

“No, thanks.” He sat looking at her, Mattie who—he now admitted—had been quietly waiting in some back alcove of his heart. Not that he still loved her, of course. But now it was possible to admit that there was perhaps something unfinished between them. And here they were, at last face to face again, in a house where she'd spent much of her life—and he still knew next to nothing about what that life had been. “What I
really
want,” he said, “is to hear about you!”

“Me?”

“Well, of course. You realize I don't know anything: whether you're married, if you have kids, what it is you do. Mattie, the only clue I have right now is that name on the mailbox. Trail—is that your name now?”

She nodded, smiling. “Yes, and it's my turn to say sorry. I wasn‘t trying to be mysterious. I've always been a bit shy, remember? So, where do I start? All right . . . I'm a widow. My husband died twenty years ago. We had two children, a girl and a boy, who were one and three at the time. This house belongs to my father-in-law, Fitzgerald Trail, whose family has owned the property forever. Fitz is in his seventies and is off somewhere, probably fishing, but you'll maybe meet him later. My daughter, Jennifer, is twenty-three and teaching
ESL
in Toulouse, France. I teach English too, but literature, at Cowichan High, in Duncan, where I also—this will hardly surprise you—do some theater. Now and then I direct plays for the local dramatic club, and sometimes help out with sets and costumes—but never act. That's just about it.”

“Looks like you keep busy. And your son?”

“My son?”

“You said you had a girl
and
a boy, What does he do?”

Mattie didn't immediately reply. She rose and drifted to the window, gazing out at the water. At last she said, “It was really quite maddening.”

“Come again?”

Mattie's head turned slowly from left to right, as if she were searching for something in the distance. Hal had no idea what was happening, but it had something of the feeling of a ritual. He stayed quiet and waited. After a while Mattie said, “I told him not to go.”

“What?”

“He was an accountant, you know. A real quiet guy, nothing like the theater people I was used to. He was sweet, and dependable, and he really did love us all very much. But a stickler, not cheap or mean—but such a stickler: for details, you know, and what he thought was
right!
God . . . Anyway, we'd rented this video. I can't remember what the movie was or if we even liked it, only it was due back and somehow we'd forgotten. Then, at the last minute,
he
remembered. If he got in the car right away, he said, he could just get it in on time. I told him not to bother, I'd take it back tomorrow. But he wouldn't hear of it. So off he went, and he made it. Video back, no fine, everything dandy. The only trouble was that on the way home some drunk ran a light and hit him, broadside, right at the driver's door. The car was nearly cut in half. The only way they could identify him was—through our dentist.”

Shock and horror kept Hal silent a long time. At last he said, “Mattie, I'm so very sorry. How long ago did this happen?”

“As I said, twenty years.”

“Twenty . . . ? Then—we're not talking about your son?”

Mattie shook her head in apparent surprise. “No, My
husband
. I was telling you what happened to Will.”

Hal gave a whistle of relief. “Whew, I thought . . . That's terrible, of course. But I thought you were talking about your boy. What's his name?”

“Brian.”

“Right. So what's he up to?”

Mattie turned back to the window. “He's out there.”

“You mean he's at sea.”

“I mean
in
the sea. Somewhere in the sea. Five years ago he vanished and we never found him.”

Mattie's head was slowly turning again, in that searching way. Stunned, Hal watched her, this once-regular girl who'd come back into his life as what seemed like a genuinely tragic figure. He had a sudden urge to leave her like that, to hurry from the house and bolt off the Island, back to his life of professional make-believe, where hearts, though teased, were seldom long discomforted.

But he swiftly dismissed that first gutless impulse. He knew his real need was to be right here. To discover, at very least, what it was between them that felt unfinished—or if indeed there was anything at all. So he sat quietly and after a while Mattie said, “I
will
tell you about Brian—if you really want to hear—but not right now. Okay?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think you'll be staying for lunch?”

“I'd very much like to.”

“Good.”

She remained at the window, watching the sea. After a while he joined her. Though as yet he had no idea what this was all about, being part of it felt unusually important.

thirteen

When Trent arrived at Stephanie's he found her door locked. It was well before the time when she had to leave for work and her car was in the drive, so that didn't bode well. He knocked tentatively, but there was no response. Then the door opened, but it was not his fiancée. Her twenty-year-old son Gary—known as Gat—appeared, clad in his bike leathers. Instead of holding the door for Trent, he shut it firmly and moved off. Trent tried the door but found it still locked. “Hey, Gat!” he called after the departing figure. “What's up? Why'd you lock the door?”

Gary barely turned his head. “Orders, man.”

“What do you mean ‘orders?'”

“Duh! She doesn't want to see you.”

“Why not?”

“What do you think? She's mad as shit. Some stunt you pulled? Sounds like you really fucked up good.”

Gary's motorbike was parked besides his mother's old
VW
. He got on, donned his helmet, and started up. With a wave, as sardonic as if he'd lifted the middle finger, he was gone.

Trent winced, sighed, then knocked on the door again. “Steph,” he called. Then louder, trying not to sound melodramatic. “Stephanie,
please!
”

After a minute a voice drifted from the direction of the kitchen. “Go away!”

Trent felt sick to his stomach. Gary's description of his position, though crude, had been all too accurate. “Fucked up good” was exactly what he'd done. What in heaven had he been thinking? Yet at the time the charade had seemed—God help him—like a neat idea. He stood on his toes and peered in the kitchen window. Yes, there she was, sitting at the table with a cup of tea and the newspaper. She didn't look up when he tapped on the pane, but just seeing her there gave him a sliver of hope. If she really didn't want to see him, she'd be in her bedroom. This silent treatment was maybe just a statement, a sign that he was being punished, but also part of a possible dialogue. His job now was to move the communication to the next stage.

He tapped again, not expecting her to look, but just hoping to get her attention. He put his face near the window, close enough that he could speak in a normal voice and still be heard through the glass. “Look, Steph,” he said carefully, “I'm truly sorry I frightened you last night. If you'd stayed around, instead of rushing off, I could have explained. What I did was stupid, I can see that now, but—you've got to believe me—I'd no idea you were taking my act so seriously. I thought you were just playing along. I was only trying to have a little fun. And—okay, I'll admit it—the reason I wanted to show that I could do my brother's job is because I've recently made such a fuck-up of my own. But it was an asinine idea and scared the hell out of you, which was unforgivable. But listen, darling, I love you. And though I may be a moron, I'd never hurt you on
purpose
. You must believe that.”

He stopped, waiting, hoping. After a pause that seemed interminable, Stephanie rose and, without looking in his direction, left the kitchen. His heart sank, but presently there came the sound of the back door unlocking.

Trent felt relieved, at least face to face he'd have some chance of getting back into her good graces. When he got inside, however, he wasn't so sure. Her expression told him that he'd underestimated the depths of her outrage. Stony faced, she gestured toward the kitchen. “Trent, go in and sit down, please.”

He extended a placating hand. “But, darling . . .”

“Don't fucking ‘darling' me, you callous asshole. Either do as I say, or get out now and don't come back.”

Alarmed, he backed off. This was bad. He shut his mouth, and hurried into the kitchen, sitting opposite where she'd been at the table.

This room, like the rest of the fifties-style bungalow, was small and compact, saved from dreariness by the yellow walls and bright ceramic floor tiles which Trent himself had laid. (And damn skilfully, if he did say so himself.) On the table were a brown-Betty teapot, Stephanie's cup, and the Sunday
Times Colonist
, open to the Arts section. Prominent was a review of a local theater production, and Trent considered discussing this as a diversion. But before he could begin, Stephanie said curtly, “Trent,
look
at me!”

Since she'd not looked at
him
directly since he'd arrived, he considered this somewhat unfair, but he did as he was bid. To his surprise, her expression was no longer angry but sorrowful and very calm. Quietly, she said, “You
do
know I love you, right?”

He hadn't been prepared for that opening, but rallied. “Of course, darling, And I love . . .”

“
Shut up!
” she snapped, with an intensity that was scary. “Trent, this is not a discussion or a silly little making-up drama that's going to end in sex. This is serious—and could be the last talk we ever have. So just can it, okay?”

Purse-lipped, he nodded.

“All right, now listen carefully. I've been awake all night working this out, and I'm only going to say it once. That fake hanging scene last night—just like everything you do when you put your mind to it—was brilliant. So good you succeeded in making me more terrified than I've ever been in my life. And why? Because you're embarrassed at what you see as your failure. Which was also the reason for that rich-guy charade with your brother. But what you did last night wasn't just a charade. It was horror. Trent, that sick little scene you staged was plain crazy.”

Trent opened his mouth to dispute this, then thought better and closed it again. She continued, “Look, I know the troubles you've had: the bad luck, disappointment, and lost fortune. I also know that, despite everything, you can be wonderful, brilliant, and more fun than anyone I've known. You also can be a flake with the attention span of a flea. But that's okay, I guess it's part of your charm. Whether or not you make it back to being a success, I've never much cared. Still, I
had
thought that being with me was helping you to grow up a little. But last night has opened my eyes. I finally get it: the only thing you
really
care about is your own selfish ego.”

He finally broke in. “Steph, that's not
true
.”

“Well, I believe it is,” she continued relentlessly. “Trent, don't you see? It doesn't matter that you don't own that house by the lake, or that you've fallen on hard times. Your real trouble is that deep down you don't give a damn about anyone. And here's the thing: I really can't see myself spending the rest of my life with someone like that.”

Stephanie turned her face away and stared at the table, as if she'd already withdrawn to some achingly unreachable place. Fortunately, Trent was smart, which stopped him sinking himself entirely. Instead of arguing, he said quietly, “Does this mean you're breaking up with me?”

She sighed, staying behind the wall she'd built. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

“Christ, Steph—just like that?”

“Did you hear—
understand
—anything I said?”

“Yes, And I agree. Really! I was stupid and selfish and—everything. You're right, I am an asshole. But I can change!”

“Oh, Trent!” she cried in exasperation. “People don't change, You know that.”

Love can make them change
, was the cliché that came to mind, but he dismissed it before it could spew out and do him in. Instead he said, “I guess not. But I
do
love you. And I promise never to do anything stupid like that again.”

“It's not just that . . .”

“But I can't just walk away. Not until you've given me a chance to show you that—even if I can't change—at least I can
grow
. Can't you think of a single thing I could do to show you that? Please, I'm begging you.”