Why Men Lie (15 page)

“You’d better come in,” she said at last.

He stumbled almost imperceptibly on the threshold but recovered quickly. “Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s late. I came as soon
as I could, to get the lad. I hope he hasn’t been a problem. With the allergy.”

“The cat is the least of my problems,” she said.

Then he wrapped his arms around her and held her so tightly she could hardly breathe. He said nothing, but rocked gently from side to side. He reeked of smoke and alcohol and sweat. “I need to be with you tonight,” he whispered. “I need to stay here with you.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Let me get you something. I’ll make tea.”

“No,” he said. “No tea.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “You go on up. I’ll shut things down.”

He walked slowly and with what seemed like great deliberation toward the stairway, still wearing his overcoat. He paused briefly at the bottom step, as if measuring the distance he had to climb, then slowly mounted.

She watched him go. Then sat and waited.

The overcoat was tossed aside. He was on the bed, face down, unconscious.

Gently, she removed his shoes. She undressed herself, then retreated to a spare bedroom. The night was endless.

She called Walden at eleven the next morning, not expecting him to answer. But he did. His voice was husky.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said quickly.

“No problem,” he said. “I was just going to call you.”

“You were sound asleep when I left for the office. I thought you needed the rest. But you seem to have got home okay.”

“Yes,” he said. “But I’m afraid I forgot something at your place.”

“Ahh,” she said.

“The cat.”

She laughed. “Well, the shape you were in last night, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I hope I didn’t make too much—”

“Don’t mention it,” she said. “I’ve seen far worse.”

“I’ll come and get him this evening.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll fix some supper for us.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said.

“Well, we have to eat, anyway. I promise I won’t harass you.”

“I’m not worried about that. It’s just that the appetite hasn’t been the best lately.”

“I’ll keep it simple.”

“What time?”

“Whenever you get there.”

She bought two T-bones and a bag of premixed greens on the way home. She made an olive oil and vinegar dressing. She tidied. In her bedroom, she could still see the imprint of his body on the duvet. As she was about to leave the room, she noticed a small red object on the floor beside the bed. She picked it up and examined it. It was a small cutting tool with a retractable blade. Something tradesmen used. A utility knife. Yes, that was what they called it. She slipped the tool into her jacket pocket.

By eight she was convinced JC wasn’t coming and was contemplating an even simpler dinner for herself. Then she heard the doorbell.

He seemed refreshed and almost cheerful. “What’s on the menu?” he asked.

“Steak and a salad. You like yours rare, right?”

“Medium-rare.”

“You’ll excuse a lack of starch,” she said.

“I’ll appreciate a lack of starch,” he replied. And they laughed together for what felt like the first time in ages.

She didn’t offer alcohol, and he didn’t ask for it. She made a pot of mint tea. They spoke about Cassie’s wedding plans. She told him that Ray had researched head injuries and sent some background information, which she’d left at the office. He thanked her, said he’d been briefed by a specialist at the hospital. He wasn’t worried. He was no stranger to concussions. “Not that it’s something to be proud of.”

“Life is full of small concussions,” she replied.

“But you don’t anticipate them at my age,” he said. “This should be when life calms down.”

She remembered the cutting tool, removed it from her pocket.

“I found this on the floor, upstairs.”

He seemed startled. “Oh,” he said, reaching for it.

“What’s it for?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Opening packages. Cutting twine.”

“Someone I once knew told me it could also be a weapon.”

“Really?” He laughed. “What kind of person was that?”

“Just someone I knew. I was considering a course in self-defence at his gym. He said if I was worried I should carry one of those. He said ‘the most effective weapon is the one the other fellow doesn’t know you have.’ ”

“Old flame?” he asked.

“You could call him that. I must have mentioned Conor?”

“Can’t say you have.” He studied her face, waiting.

“We lived together for a while. After Sextus. I’m surprised Sextus never mentioned Conor. Anyway … it didn’t end well.”

“Ah,” he said. “Conor bailed on you.”

“No—Conor died on me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

He put the tool in his pocket. His eyes were troubled.

She asked about Texas. He checked his wristwatch. He said there wasn’t much to tell her about Texas. Sam had a new execution date and, by coincidence, it was right around Cassie’s wedding. They planned to put him down on April eighth.

“Put him down?” She was frowning.

“That’s how he refers to it,” he said. “He’s full of black irony. Said he was going to try to persuade them to do it on Good Friday. They’re kind of religious down there.”

“I can’t imagine any irony in his situation.”

“What else is there?”

“So what do you talk about with someone who’s going to die?”

“We’re all going to die.”

“You know what I mean.”

“We talk about life. Plus, Sam’s a big believer in God and heaven, a literal afterlife. So it’s kind of like talking to someone who’s getting ready for a big trip to some exotic place. A holiday that’s never going to end.” He laughed and looked away. “It helps, looking at it like that.”

“What about you? Do you believe?”

“Not a chance.” He yawned and stretched. “I’m thinking of writing a book,” he said.

“A book?”

“Why not? You wrote one.”

“Mine wasn’t really a book,” she said. “So you’ll write a book about the death penalty?”

“Not exactly.” He raised his eyebrows.

“What, then?”

He studied her intently for what felt like a long time. “Impotence,” he said.

“Impotence?”

“I’m becoming an expert on the subject. We talked a lot about that too. Me and Sam.”

She studied the face, so familiar, but now impenetrable. “You can spend the night,” she said.

“Two in a row. That’s almost cohabitation.”

“Suit yourself.” She stood and started gathering the dishes.

“Hey,” he said. “Look at me.”

She looked.

“I love you,” he said.

She stared, the swift reciprocal response on her tongue. But she closed her mouth around it. Finally she said, “I know that.”

He stood then.

“Please stay,” she said again.

“I can’t.”

Now it was another Saturday and the silence was suffocating. Mid-afternoon she poured a drink and nursed it for an hour. As darkness settled, she refreshed it, then called his number. There was no answer, and she set the receiver down before the machine cut in. During her solitary dinner, in spite of all her better instincts, she uncorked some wine.

Returning from the bathroom, she staggered slightly and reproached herself, then laughed. Reproached herself for what? She could stagger without any social consequences. She was alone. But wasn’t
that the problem, drinking alone? She drew back a drape and peered toward the street, but it was gone, lost in the inevitable night.
Another day has disappeared
, she thought,
another piece of my existence. And I sit here waiting, inflaming apathy with Scotch and wine. The story of my life, waiting for some man to intervene
. And they always do, but always for their own ends. John rescued her from home. Sextus rescued her from John. Conor rescued her from Sextus, but at least he left her with an education and a home. That was progress, of a sort. JC Campbell rescued her from … nothing. Well, perhaps self-loathing.

Then she felt the familiar bolt of anger, the pre-emption of the building sorrow, stood straighter, turned and walked steadily toward her kitchen. On the cupboard she saw the business card.
How did that get there?
It had been in her purse. It was wet now, splashed at some point in the afternoon or evening. She laughed. And for a fleeting moment, giddy recklessness dispelled the sense of isolation. What if? We only live once.

She pressed the buttons on the telephone, and it was only when it started ringing that she felt the panic. But it rang and rang and slowly she relaxed. And when no one answered, she felt enveloping relief.

My God
, she thought.
What on earth is coming over you?
She poured the last of the wine down the sink. Sanity restored, she undressed quickly, donned pyjamas, splashed water on her face, applied a cleansing cream, rinsed it off and brushed her teeth.

When the phone rang in the morning, she was so sure it was him she simply murmured, “Hey, you,” when she picked it up.

There was silence. Then the unfamiliar voice. “Is this Faye?”

She paused, recalibrating. “Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Paul,” he said. “I hope I’m not getting you at a bad time.”

Her head was throbbing, her mouth dry.
Paul. Who is Paul?
Then she remembered.

“I didn’t realize I’d given you this number,” she said.

“My phone rang last night. I was waiting for the machine to pick up … you know the way the phone is. The solicitations. I forgot the machine was turned off. So I did the star-sixty-nine thing … and this is what I got. Serendipity, I guess.”

“Right,” she said. “I did call … umm. I misplaced my cellphone and thought I might have left it at the coffee shop. I’d dialled your number before I realized you left before I did. I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary,” he said. “I believe in serendipity.”

“Anyway, I found the phone, buried in my purse, just after I called your number—”

“Why don’t we meet up for another coffee … later today?”

“Maybe some other time. I’m actually getting ready to leave town.”

“Lucky you,” he said. “Back east, I suppose.”

Now she was fully alert. Just hang up, a small voice urged.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. Look. I must go. I have a lot to do.”

“Of course. But maybe I’ll bug you again about that coffee. A drink, maybe.”

“We’ll see,” she said.

“Right.” He laughed. “Actually, I prefer Effie.”

“Pardon me?”

“You also go by Effie, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve done my homework,” he said. “I hope you’re impressed.”

She was sure she heard him laughing as she put the phone down.

In the darker moments, she could, and always would, return to the summer months of 1998 for comfort. All through May and June she and JC had discussed driving through the United States, through New York and Maine, to get to the east coast. Then they decided that the journey would be simpler through Canada, even when they factored in the chaos of traversing Montreal. He mentioned camping. She thought the notion was absurd. They were going to stay in all the best motels, she said, and she’d pay the tab. Growing up, she’d had enough bugs to last a lifetime. A deal, he said, but only if she’d let him cover the gas. The pleasure of anticipation was exquisite, almost to the point of dread. Somehow she knew that this was real. But weren’t they always real when they were only plans?

They were to leave on Saturday, July 4. He called the night before.

“You aren’t going to believe this,” he said.

And she knew. It was as if she’d known all along.

“You’re going to kill me.”

“What’s the crime?” she asked.

“Actually, a criminal,” he said. “They want me to go to see a criminal.”

“When?”

“Um. As soon as possible, I’m afraid.”

“You can’t get out of it?”

“I tried. They want me to approach this guy we’ve discovered who happens to be in a bit of a pickle down in Texas. He hates the media, has never given an interview. The boss thinks I can talk him into one.”

“Pickle?”

“He’s in a prison, on death row. They’re going to execute him soon.”

“Why you?”

“Who knows? My boss calls me the Reverend. Maybe that’s a clue.” He laughed. “She thinks I can talk him into it.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

“I hope she’s wrong, in which case it’ll be back to Plan A. You and me and the open road. Let’s hope. But I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“Maybe you could come with me. You ever been to Texas?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll call,” he said.

And she said, “Sure,” knowing that he would, but maybe not.

She’d been at the window, near the landing halfway up the stairs, since early morning. They’d told her to be ready to leave by nine. By ten she’d given up, resigned herself
.

The car horn tooted at the gate. It was just past noon. She saw Sextus darting through the gate and up to the front door. She heard Duncan call her name. She sat on the stairs, fighting tears. Duncan started up the stairs
.