Why Men Lie (33 page)

“Please stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Please, I don’t think I’ve ever been so alone.”

“You don’t have to stay at this place,” she said. “You could be staying home with
—
”

“There’s just death there.”

“Your father …”

“He’s dying.”

“I can’t
—
”

“I’m in love with you, Effie. I’ve always loved you.”

“I really should go home,” she said. “The place will be—”

“You have to eat sooner or later.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He parked the car. “Let’s go.”

Walking across the parking lot, he said, “It’s a lovely night, for a change … July’s been shitty. You didn’t miss much.”

Over dinner, he asked, “What kept you in Toronto, anyway? You’re usually home earlier than this.”

She put her fork down, pushed the plate away and took a deep breath that almost turned into a silence. “The manuscript,” she said at last. “The manuscript is missing.”

“What manuscript?”

“The one you gave me. It’s missing.”

He just stared. “You read it?”

“No.”

He looked away. She could see a muscle in his cheek clenching and unclenching. “So you have no idea what’s in it?”

She shook her head.

It was embarrassingly late. She had rehearsed the reason: Sextus needed somebody to talk to. She had already cleansed herself of the lingering traces of that comforting. “I love you,” Sextus had said. And it caught her by surprise. The surprise obliterated reason. But reason now returned, embittered. What is betrayal anyway, if mitigated by a higher purpose, like generosity or love? Sextus said he loved her. She wanted to believe it, and so she did
.

“There’s some fairly personal stuff in there,” he said quietly.

“I imagine.”

“You told me everything, you know.”

“Pretty well,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d write it all down.”

He waved toward a lurking waiter. “I need a drink.”

It was late, but there was a light on in the old Gillis place. John was waiting, patient John, who loved her as she once loved him. Her explanation was fluent and reasonable. Grieving Sextus. Dying Uncle Jack. “The time just slipped away.” But everything unravelled quickly. The accusation, the unexpected strength of his hand jammed between her thighs. The shock of her reaction, her fist swung toward his face and the fluid ease of his avoidance; his raised hand, reconsidered. The violence in his
shove. Then the sight of him above her, the grimness in the wrenching of his belt. “John, don’t!” She closed her eyes, surrendered to the transformation of her guilt to grievance, the momentary liberating hatred. And she knew that, when he was asleep, she would rise in vindication, move in utter guiltless silence to the door, close it carefully behind her
.

“Where did you last see it?”

“When you gave it to me, I put it in a drawer.”

“At home or work?”

“Home.”

“My God. It couldn’t just walk away. Do you have a cleaning lady or something?”

She shook her head. She felt his anger as he looked off toward another table. “I suppose you have a lot of visitors …”

“Come on,” she said. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Well … Okay. I’m sorry. But what about JC? You don’t think …?” He raised a hand defensively. “I’m only asking. You have to think of all the logical possibilities.”

“I have an idea where it is.”

“You do? But you’re not sure.”

She shook her head. “I can get someone to check.”

He seemed to relax. “Well, okay. That’ll be a start.”

“I could stay here with you for the night,” Sextus said. The darkened house was almost sinister. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ll chain myself to the couch. I just think you—”

“I’m okay,” she said. “I really am.”

“How will you get around? You don’t have your car.”

“I’ll rent something. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going to stick my nose in any further. But I’m going to ask John to check on you in the morning.”

“It won’t be necessary, really.”

“I’m going to anyway,” he said. “Let me know when you hear.”

She laid a hand on his. “Thanks,” she said.

“I meant to ask,” he said. “What was your reaction to the baby’s name?”

“Baby?”

“John’s baby. I assume he told you.”

“I’d forgotten.”

“Two weeks ago. They called him Jack. He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” she said. “But that’s nice.”

“Jack.” He chuckled. “I can’t remember the last time I said that name out loud.”

“It’s a good name,” she said. “John.”

“Jack,” he said. “Not John. They baptized him Jack.”

She had a sudden thought. “Was it Duncan who baptized him?”

“No. Nobody has seen much of Duncan. The last I heard he was in Creignish. At Stella’s, the dog.”

“Jack,” she said. “I think that’s perfect. Your dad was more like a father to poor John. Not to suggest …”

“It took me years to admit how much I resented how close they were. John and the old man. I guess because it justified what I did to him.”

“What we did to him.”

“I suppose.” He sighed. “I’m glad it’s him keeping the line alive. Whatever goodness there was in any of them—the old man and Uncle Sandy—I think John inherited the most of it. Now maybe this new Jack.”

“You have a daughter,” she said softly.

“Do you really think so?” he said, then looked away. “It’s all in that manuscript, you know. After living with so many lies, I think we’re all ready for a dose of truth.”

Before he left her, he said, “So you think you might know where it is.”

“It’s a complicated situation,” she said.

He laughed. “I can’t imagine any stranger finding that shit interesting.”

“Where the hell are you? I’ve been phoning all evening.”

She listened for anger but heard only curiosity, perhaps amusement.

“I’m home,” she said.

“Home? I’ve been—”

“Cape Breton,” she said. “I had to come home.”

“Cape Breton? Shit, I thought we were going to—”

“Hang on,” she said. “I have to sit down.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Yes,” she said. “The guy I told you about—”

“The stalker who hands out his business card?”

She fell silent.

“Sorry,” he said. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to. Why don’t you start at the beginning, how you met this guy.”

“It started a while back, in the winter. I was having a coffee. The place was crowded. He sat down at my table, made some small talk. He gave me his card. I left. Then he was calling. And I think he’s been following me. And I think he was in my place.”

“In your place? How did he get your number? How did he get your address?”

“I don’t know. You’re the expert at finding people.”

“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you? You weren’t here. You were in Texas or some damned place.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. But there’s something missing. Something personal.”

There was a long silence.

“How personal?”

“It was a manuscript. Something Sextus wrote sometime back. Something he decided not to publish but gave to me, because I’m in it.”

“I suppose you are.”

“I didn’t read it. But I can imagine.”

“Do you still have that business card?”

“Yes. I have it here.”

“Give me his name, and anything else that’s written on it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try to get your life back.”

Through her bedroom window she could see the beginning of a pale sunrise sharpening the outlines of treetops shaped like arrowheads. She felt a deep weariness, craved more sleep, but the silence was distracting, worse than noise. Moments from the days before sluiced through her consciousness. Her uneasiness was full of accusation. Her life was careless. No. On the contrary, it was full of care.
What’s another word for “careless”?
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold. She studied feet that suddenly seemed misshapen, bumps and sinews showing.
What if this is all I have ahead of me?
She stood.

The air outside was heavy, moist and fragrant, the tangle of wild rose and evergreen and the musty, muddy smell of broken ground.
She walked along the road toward the Gillis place. There was a light on in an upstairs window. She remembered when it had been her bedroom, and she tried to imagine the new life there, the absence of anxiety, the lack of memory. Jack, they’d called the baby. And she briefly pitied him for the burden of the things he’d learn eventually.

The rising sun burned off the morning mist. She sat on her doorstep with a cup of tea, fighting the urge to call Toronto. She could picture the little house on Walden vividly, more clearly than her own apartment. She’d have to move.

Duncan had told her to bring a bathing suit, and she was trying to find one in the chaos of a dresser drawer. The drawer reminded her of what she’d fled. “Goddammit,” she said aloud. “I don’t feel like going swimming anyway.” She slammed the drawer shut and just stood there.