The Nesting Dolls (35 page)

“She was planning on a murder-suicide?”

“That’s what the lady claims. But I’m sure the Crown will point out that more than one loaded gun has been used for a purpose other than the one for which the gun was purchased. This is not going to be a slam-dunk for Tyler, but he’s sharp and he has a good ear for what resonates with a jury. He’ll pull out all the stops. Myra was the loyal wife who subsumed herself in her husband’s career. She devoted herself to Theo, enduring his repeated infidelities with grace, and then, when he committed an act of unspeakable horror, risked everything to preserve his reputation.”

“It sounds as if Myra has the right lawyer.”

“She does,” Zack said. “And this case won’t do Tyler any harm. It’s going to be high-profile – plenty of media, plenty of focus on the principal players. By the time the case comes to trial, Theo and Myra will be legends.”

“Yet another example of being careful what you wish for,” I said.

“How so?”

“Myra was afraid people would forget her husband. Now it appears that both she and Theo are going to be remembered for a long time to come.”

That night as I made my final pass through the house, making certain that doors were locked and that everything that should be turned off was turned off, I stopped in front of the pomegranate wreath Myra had crafted. I was already in my pyjamas, but I didn’t hesitate. I found a jacket and boots in the front closet and, dressed for outdoors, came back to the living room, took down the wreath, and walked out on our deck, then across our yard to the gate that opened onto our back alley. After I put the wreath in the dumpster, the lid slammed down with a satisfying finality.

The Brokaws were not so easily disposed of. Despite his bravado, Zack was still recuperating, and another pressure sore had developed. At my urging, Henry Chan ordered Zack to conduct as much business as possible from home at least until the New Year. So from the beginning I had an insider’s view of how Zack was handling Theo Brokaw’s case.

In the late afternoon on the day after Theo and Myra were arrested, Theo’s sisters arrived on our doorstep. The Brokaw women were sturdy, handsome, and sensibly dressed for a Saskatchewan winter. They were also clearly at a loss about how to deal with this situation.

I ushered them into our office where Zack would have the cruel task of explaining how their adored baby brother had come to be arrested for rape and murder. There was one bright spot. That afternoon we had received information that made Zack’s task easier and, though they would never know it, lightened the burden the sisters would carry for the rest of their lives.

The
DNA
test results had come in, and as Abby’s mother
and Jacob’s grandmother, Delia was told the results. Noah delivered the information to us in person. Characteristically, he was direct and matter-of-fact. “Theo is Jacob’s biological father,” he said. “But he didn’t father Abby.”

“Whoa,” Zack said. “So if it wasn’t Theo, who was it?”

Noah’s crooked smile was infinitely sad. “Me,” he said. “And there’s no doubt. When the police took the
DNA
sample from Delia, I asked them to take one from me. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. Delia and I had sex when I took her home with me the day after the fight at the restaurant.”

“Why didn’t she mention this earlier?” Zack said.

“She didn’t remember,” Noah said. “I guess our love-making was of so little consequence to Dee that it just slipped her mind.”

Zack and I exchanged glances and lowered our eyes.

“I’m okay with this,” Noah said softly. “Actually, more than okay. It hurts to know that Abby died before we had a chance to meet. But I’m grateful that Delia and Jacob don’t have to carry that ugliness with them.” He stood. “I thought you should know about the
DNA
before Theo’s sisters arrive. No need to make the situation worse for them than it already is.”

I wasn’t present when Zack talked to Theo’s sisters. When they filed out of the office, they had obviously been crying, but they held their heads high.

The final sister to leave seemed to have been appointed spokesperson. Her words were oddly formal, as if she’d written them out and memorized them. “It wasn’t Theo who did that terrible thing,” she said. “It was the shell of the man he was. Deprived of humanity and faith, we’re all vulnerable to evil.” She raised her dark eyes, so like her brother’s, to meet mine. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I remembered the baptisms of my children and grandchildren. And the old question:
Do you renounce the evil
powers of this world, which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?

“Yes,” I said, “I understand what you’re saying.”

Zack threw himself into Theo Brokaw’s case with the fervour of a first-year law student. The legal arguments were complex and engrossing, but it was the medical aspect of Theo’s case that intrigued Zack. He had never had reason to delve into the science of traumatic brain injury, and he was greedy for knowledge. His desk was heaped with printouts of articles that dealt with the symptoms and consequences of injury to the frontal lobe of the brain, and every morning someone from Falconer Shreve would arrive with new information. Zack devoured it all.

I had my own preoccupation. For over a year, I’d been weighing the possibility of taking early retirement from the university. I liked my work, but I was no longer passionate about it, and there were many other things I wanted to do. The idea of helping Mieka and Lisa Wallace bring their project for inner-city kids to fruition appealed to me, and it appealed to Zack, who had been an inner-city kid himself. When I expressed interest, Mieka was quick to take me on a tour of Markestyn’s, the empty school-supply shop on 4th Avenue. To my untutored eye, it was the perfect site for UpSlideDownToo. Centrally located in a residential neighbourhood whose best days were long past, two blocks from a community school, the new UpslideDown could become a magnet for young children and those who cared for them.

On our next visit to the building, Mieka and I had company. Zack and his partner Blake Falconer, whose specialty was real estate, came along. They were both impressed. Blake said he’d get a structural engineer to check out the building, but it was a nice piece of real estate. “A good investment for your old age,” he said.

When he heard Blake’s words, a shadow crossed Zack’s face.

I met his eyes. “Zack and I pretty much focus on the here and now,” I said.

“Fair enough,” Blake said, and that was the end of the discussion. But for me, that shadow was the tipping point. The deadline for requesting early retirement was December 31. Our wedding anniversary was January 1. I went home and wrote my letter.

I wasn’t the only one with plans to change her work life. Delia was honouring her promise to practise law part-time. The adjustment wasn’t easy for her, but she had committed herself to caring for Jacob, and she was doing a fine job.

Noah finished the woodcarving of the small bear that represented Jacob, and on the longest night of the year, the Wainbergs had an informal ceremony on their lawn to put the new carving in place. Nadine stayed in town for the event, and at her suggestion, Noah ordered wood for a final bear – a female who would represent Abby.

Kym continued to come over for a couple of hours every day until the morning of Christmas Eve. He and Zack had hit it off, and so when Kym left me his contact information, I filed it carefully, even though I hoped it would be years – or at least months – until I had to use it.

Christmas was the usual blur, but there were some fine moments. Zack managed to score two extra tickets to the Pats’ game, so he and I had our first of what we assumed would be many double dates with Declan and Taylor. Angus and Leah, both beaming, and with their cheeks burnished from hours on the ski slopes, arrived back from Whistler on Christmas Eve. I didn’t need to hear the announcement to know that they were once again a couple. I had always believed that Leah Drache was the right woman for Angus and knowing that she was in our lives again was the first gift of our holiday.

There were other memorable gifts. Taylor finished her self-portrait in time to give it to Zack on Christmas morning. Zack was not an easy man to thrill with a gift, but he was so touched by the painting that he called a halt to the present opening until he could see how the self-portrait looked in our family room. My gift from Taylor was a pair of fuzzy socks and two rectangular canvases. On one canvas, she had copied out Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to a Sock” in English; on the other, she had written out the poem in Spanish. The margins of both canvases were decorated with fanciful drawings of socks.

When I’d given her Neruda’s
Odes to Common Things
for her birthday, she’d been polite, but she hadn’t been exactly bowled over. “I didn’t know you even opened that book,” I said.

“That day Isobel came over, she read some of the poems out loud while I painted,” Taylor said. “You and I had had that talk about the kind of life experiences I needed to make art, so when Isobel was reading, I really listened. Then I read the poems myself, and I started to think about what Pablo Neruda was saying. You’ve read the poems, haven’t you?”

“Many times,” I said.

“Then you know what they’re about,” Taylor said. “They’re about how amazing ordinary things are: tables, chairs, yellow flowers, oranges, French fries … ”

“Cats,” I said.

Taylor grinned. “And dogs. And socks.” She frowned. “Is that what you were trying to tell me by giving me the book?”

“No,” I said. “I just wanted my socks back.”

We drove up to the lake on Boxing Day. I hadn’t yet seen the skating rink that was my Christmas gift from Zack, but the minute our children and grandchildren spied the smooth
expanse of ice, we knew it was a hit. The kids skated, with occasional ski and toboggan breaks, all day, and after dinner, they turned on the fairy lights strung across the branches of the trees circling the rink, and went back at it.

Zack and I stayed indoors watching, our hands touching. We were at peace and grateful for it. When Lena and Maddy spotted us watching them from the window and turned to wave, Zack and I exchanged glances. “Who has more fun than us?” he said.

“Nobody,” I said. “Nobody has more fun than us.” The shadow I’d seen on Zack’s face the day Blake Falconer talked about our old age appeared again. This time I was ready for it. I stood. “Do you remember promising that when you were better, we’d have a Kevin Costner kiss – one of those long, slow, deep, soft kisses that last three days?” I said.

Zack nodded. “I remember,” he said.

“It happens that I’m free for the next three days,” I said.

Zack pointed his chair towards the hall that led to our bedroom. “That’s lucky,” he said. “Because so am I.”

As long, slow, deep, soft kisses frequently do, Zack’s and mine developed into something more stirring than a kiss. It had been a while since we made love, and for both of us the joining of our bodies was a homecoming. Finally, sated and grateful, we lay hand in hand, listening to the kids playing on the ice, convinced that we might be immortal after all.

Thanks to Janette Seibel for suggesting the possibilities of the articling year; to Rick Mitchell, retired Staff Sergeant in charge of Major Crimes Section, Regina Police Service; to my editor, Dinah Forbes, for her intelligent and sensitive editing and her friendship; to Lynn Schellenberg, for bringing a fresh and perceptive eye to the manuscript; to Ashley Dunn, who is as determined as she is lovely, and – as always – to Ted, who makes everything possible.