The Noon God (12 page)

“
I always knew. I always felt the same. I just couldn’t stand up to…”

“
I know. It was Daddy. He made it impossible for us.”

“
No, Mona. It was you. I could have stood your father. He was what he was. But you – you needed to love me more.”

“
I couldn’t have loved you more.”

“
That was the problem.”

“
No anger, Ben. Don’t take any anger when you leave this time. It hurts too much.”

And so he went away. What did he take with him? I can’t guess. Maybe the last remaining piece of my soul.

And now I was altered. Maybe no one else would notice. Maybe no one would see the emptiness behind those striking blue eyes, my father’s eyes. But I saw it. Too much loss. I had been hollowed out from the inside.

My slacks were binding in the heat. I decided to change my clothes. I pulled a casual cotton dress over my head, touched some powder to my face and drew my hair back in a ponytail.

Was I presentable? Did it matter? Ben loved me. I had no doubt. I also knew how pointless his love was. Mommy had left me empty all those years ago, and every time I looked for meaning, for something to fill my life, it disappeared like quicksilver from my hands. Only Ben had filled the void. I smoothed the dress over my tummy. Things were different now. Daddy was gone. Lucy needed me.

Ben arrived. His compassion was genuine, but its expression was muted by the secret he and I shared. There had been that afternoon two months earlier…

Lucy was overwhelmed to see him. She laid her head on his shoulder and wept openly.

“
Do the police have any leads?” he asked me over her shoulder.

“
No. They think it was a random attack. Maybe a failed robbery.”

“
Guys who do that sort of thing aren’t master criminals. They usually give themselves away at some point. Maybe they say too much to the wrong person. The police will catch them. Don’t give up hope.” He patted Lucy’s head and she nodded.

“The service will be on Thursday with a public memorial on Friday. I’ll let you know the details once I make the arrangements.”

“Would you like me to go with you to the funeral home?”

I almost said no. I should have said no. Uncle Willard could surely go with me, and if it came right down to it, I was capable of going alone. I had reserves of inner strength beyond what most people saw. Yet when it came to Ben, I was putty.

“Yes. I’d appreciate that.”

And that’s how I came to be sitting in Ben’s car, in the seat where Adelle usually sat, my head pressed against the window she looked through and her husband’s black hand resting naturally on my white thigh. He meant it as a comfort, but it burned. I didn’t have the will to push it away. I let it burn me and I let the tears fall like rain down my face.

This moment too would pass.

When Gail died a light went off in some faraway corner of my soul. It never came on again. Gail was a pain in the ass. She was an addict, a troublemaker, an ingrate. She was my sister. I was supposed to take care of her. I failed. Just like I’d failed to take care of my mother.

After Gail’s death I withdrew. Ben couldn’t reach me through my veil of grief. I wore it like an angry silence that stayed with me for over a year. I functioned, did chores, called Lucy weekly, met with Daddy for lunch or dinner. But I felt like I was fatally wounded. I felt like we were burying me as well as Gail.

By the time the cloud lifted from my eyes, it was too late. The laughter was gone from my marriage. Daddy knew my relationship with Ben wouldn’t last. As the rift between Ben and me grew wider, Daddy encouraged it along. He bought me a car. He feigned illness twice and insisted I stay at the house with him. He began needling Ben across the dinner table. He belittled him in public. Finally Ben refused to spend time with Daddy. I was forced to go alone to see him. Every time I went to Daddy’s house, the chasm between my husband and me grew.

Confused and hurt, I started pushing Ben away. Call it pre-emptive strike. I didn’t wait for him to leave me. I cut him loose.

It was the single most stupid thing I have ever done in my life.

Did I expect Ben to keep trying? Did I expect him to call me until I relented? What I did not expect was to see him at a school board function with Adelle on his arm, his head held high and a smile fixed on his handsome face. That crushed me.

Of course I deserved it. Knowing it was my own fault didn’t help.

So there we were, sitting in his car, his touch burning me like the seventh circle of hell, the tears streaming unabashedly down my weary face. The nausea rising in my throat…

“Will you be ok?” he said. We had made the arrangements. There was nothing else to keep him.

“Yes.”

He held me one last time, and I forced myself to climb out of his car. I didn’t look back, but I could feel him watching me as I walked toward Daddy’s house, climbed the step, turned the key.

The next few days passed in an unreal haze of activity. People came. The phone rang off the wall. The media camped on the street outside our house. Uncle Willard came and went, bringing food, advice and care.

One of the local stations did a two-hour biography on Daddy. I watched, hoping to see interviews with some of the writers Daddy had admired. Instead the host dedicated much of the two hours to interviews with critics from The Star and The Globe and Mail.

One critic told an anecdote about Daddy that was typical, something about him taking issue with a review of Under the Moon. Daddy had come across the critic at a local restaurant the day after he had run a poor review of the book. He had called it “over-reaching”, a laughable adjective to apply to my father’s work.

Never one to suffer amateurish criticism, Daddy immediately set out to prove the critic wrong. He gathered all of the other diners around him and asked each of them in turn to comment on Under the Moon. The critic was shocked to learn every single diner had not only read Daddy’s work, but had also formed a connection to the author through his words.

The critic was so impressed, the following day he ran another review, completely reversing his first one.

That was Daddy. The Pied Piper of the Page.

Lucy did her best to muddle through the rush of well-meaning friends, but she was beginning to show signs of wear. I tried to get her to relax, but she fussed like a mother hen over guests, bringing food and drinks. She kept saying Daddy would have wanted her to be strong.

I wondered.

On Wednesday Helen came to the house. She brought a turkey casserole and some pastries. Lucy didn’t remember her. My little sister fidgeted until I asked her to go to the kitchen to heat up the casserole. She disappeared gratefully, leaving me to reminisce with Daddy’s ex-lover.

“I was sorry to hear about Gail,” Helen said.

“Did Daddy stay in touch with you?”

“
Yes. We were always in contact. I didn’t hear about Gail, though, till six months after she died. Otherwise I would have come to the service.”

“
It would have been good to see you. It’s good to see you now.”

“
Yes. I’ve missed you. Caesar always said you had done well for yourself. I can see he was right. He was very proud of you.”

“
He wanted me to do more with my life.”

“
Every parent wants that.”

“
He didn’t understand.”

“
They never do. He told me earlier this year you were the one person he could count on to take your own path. He knew you would stand up to your own decisions.”

“I’m sure he over-estimated me. I’m lost most of the time, just like everyone else.”

“What he was proud of was the way you take responsibility. Even if you are lost, you don’t blame the people you ask for directions.”

“He wasn’t always very nice to…the women in his life.”

“You’re right. He could be a real asshole. But he was what he was. I never stopped loving him. I just stopped being available to him on his terms. I had to hold myself up to a higher standard. I always believed after I left him our relationship improved. He respected me more.”

“I wish I’d known. I would have liked to know how things were going with you.”

“I couldn’t replace your mother.”

“No.” That’s what it had come down to. Helen had refused to replace Mommy, not only as our mother, but also as Daddy’s wife. She had refused the dubious honour of being Mrs. J. Caesar Fortune, keeper of the home and stoker of the fires of genius. Even her love for Daddy had not been great enough to cast her in that secondary role.

Mommy had lived in the shadow of greatness and it had killed her. Helen was still alive. I couldn’t help thinking she had made the right decision.

“But didn’t it bother you,” I said, “about the other women?” I only had to think about Adelle, acknowledge her existence, and I died a little inside.

“It bothered me a lot. For years it ate at me. Then I realised it wasn’t going to change. That made it easier. Besides, they didn’t mean anything to him. There was only one, ever, he cared about.”

I turned away. I knew she was talking about me.

Still I wondered. How much had it continued to bother Helen over the years, sharing Daddy with other women physically and intellectually? Never really possessing that part of him that might be worth having? His love, his affection? Would a woman’s self-worth be able to survive that kind of neglect? Would it drive her to murder?

Helen didn’t look like someone who was capable of murder. But really, aren’t we all capable of it? If the circumstances are right and the stars are aligned, if passions are at a pitch or if our backs are against a wall? If grief, loneliness, anger or hatred have eaten too large a hole in the middle of our souls? Aren’t we all, really?

Maybe not Helen. Maybe she had already let forgiveness heal her wounds. If so, I could learn a lesson from her.

Andy Rivard arrived at the house the day before the service. He had booked into a downtown hotel, but Lucy insisted he stay in Daddy’s room. He probably would have been more comfortable at the Sheridan, using the pool or the sauna, but he didn’t have the heart to refuse her. She managed to put a terrific dinner on the table for us, though I couldn’t tell you what it was. I was barely conscious of eating and breathing and speaking. Lucy turned in early, and I stayed up to discuss Millennium Girl with Andy.

I handed him the manuscript without a word. He started reading at page one. By page five he knew what he had. It was Daddy’s best work. It would put him forever in the same league as Hemingway, Hardy and Faulkner, any of the ‘greats’. He would be taught in Lit classes around the world for at least a hundred years. Andy shook his head.

I saw the tears in his eyes before he could brush them away.

“
He left us this,” he said, lifting the pages. “It’s his legacy.”

“
I know.”

“
I wish he could have seen it go to press. He would have loved the reviews.”

“
How long?”

“
No time at all. By spring for the hardcover. We’ll follow it with the softcover. I’m betting Michael Douglas for the movie.”

I laughed. Daddy would have loved that. Douglas was a perfect cast for him, with his chiselled, intelligent face, thick hair and compassionate demeanour.

“
Who’ll play me?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“
I don’t know.” Andy allowed himself a grin. “Jessica Lang is too old. How does the story end?”

“
Sorry, Andy, you’ve got to read this one. No synopsis. Just let it carry you away.”

He nodded. I left him there, reading glasses on his nose, Daddy’s precious pages on his lap. I knew he’d stay up till he finished.

Andy drove us to the service. We picked up Uncle Willard on the way. The two men had never met. I was shocked by the differences between them. They were close in age, but Andy shared Daddy’s robust energy. He walked with a youthful step. His eyes behind his glasses were clear and inquisitive.

Uncle Willard, on the other hand, was stooped and small by comparison. His head was fringed with a thinning white ridge of hair. His eyes were soft with cataracts and his hands were covered with liver spots. I hoped he felt better than he looked.

I took his arm and let him guide me into the Church. Lucy followed with Andy. I tried not to notice the press across the street. Instead I focused my attention on the throng of close friends who pressed their hands onto mine in a steady rush. I couldn’t hope to count the faces, remember the words of kindness. I tried not to listen to the Minister as he spoke about God’s unending mercy, but at one point his words caught me off guard and the tears spilled again from my eyes.

After the service, I followed Uncle Willard to the coffee area. I suggested he should take Lucy home, but she insisted on staying with me during the reception. She was a brave girl.

As I turned with my cup away from the coffee urn, I was shocked to come face to face with Detectives Rice and Manor. I nearly spilled my drink.

“
Miss Fortune,” Phoebe Manor said, “our condolences.”

“
Thank you, Detective,” I said, taking her hand in my free one.

“
We should have warned you we’d be here. We didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“
I should have expected you.”

“
We always have someone present at the service when the death is violent. Sometimes the perpetrator shows up out of guilt or curiosity.”

“Please just ignore us,” Detective Rice said. “We’ll have someone at tomorrow’s public service as well.”

“Thank you. Please do whatever you have to do. I’ll explain to Lucy why you’re here.”

I nodded a brief farewell to the Detectives and was led away by two Professors and an author who had been close to Daddy. They pumped me for information on his latest work as they heaped sympathy on my head. It was a strange profession Daddy had chosen. The most celebrated writers were those who could bare their souls on the page and empty themselves of everything true for their readers. And yet the authors I’d met had been a sadly pretentious and insincere lot. They were often driven by vanity and envy, even as their public credited them with humility and generosity.