Why Men Lie (5 page)

“You’ll turn into an old maid soon enough yourself if you’re not careful,” she told her only child the last time they spoke about it.

“Use him or lose him,” Cassie answered. “One of these days I just might grab the yummy Mr. Campbell for myself.”

“Feel free,” her mother said. “But don’t you think he’s a little old for you?”

Cassie blushed.

Just a few days later, Cassie declared that they should have a chat. Mom and daughter, heart to heart. Not right away, but soon. Her face was solemn.

“Oh my,” said Effie.

“Just keep an open mind,” said Cassie.

At Dora’s JC was relaxed, a pleasant change, she thought. For weeks he’d been on edge whenever the subject of work came up, obviously troubled by the story he’d been working on since early summer, the case of a condemned man awaiting execution in a Texas prison.

“When will it be on?”

“Last week,” he said.

“Sorry. I haven’t been following the news,” Effie said.

“You aren’t missing much,” he said.

“Remind me. I know he got in the way of our summer and that he’s been haunting you all fall.”

“He writes to me, quite an intelligent guy. Sam Williams. From Alberta, originally. Was in on a gruesome murder in east Texas, years back.”

“But you don’t think he did it.”

He shrugged.

“It’s coming back to me,” she said. “But he writes to you?”

“We stay in touch.”

“Is that advisable?” she asked.

“He doesn’t have anybody,” he said. “He’s needy, but he’s hardly any burden where he is. Plus, I’m quite convinced that he got shafted by the system.”

“Aren’t you setting yourself up for grief?”

He laughed. “Me? Grief?”

“He’s going to die. We’re talking about Texas.”

“It isn’t quite that simple,” JC said. “But let’s not worry about Sam.”

She studied her drink. “What is it about him, then?” she asked at last. “Why would you stay in touch?”

He shrugged. “It’s nothing, really.” He smiled at her. “What about tomorrow?”

“Ah yes,” she said, returning to the safety of her glass. “Tomorrow. Christmas Day.”

They left Dora’s just after seven and decided to walk to his place on Walden Avenue. The night was cold, with a penetrating dampness. Across the Don Valley to the west, the city loomed, glittering and silent as if abandoned for the holiday. They walked hand in hand, shoulders touching. The sky was dull with amber streaks.

“Christmas should be in the country,” she said. “I miss stars and snow.”

“Maybe someday.”

She was looking at him, waiting for elaboration, but he kept walking, staring at the ground. So they didn’t see the young man approaching, didn’t notice the aggressive, shambling gait. The blow caught her by surprise, the shoulder slamming into her shoulder as the stranger hurried by. She knew it was deliberate, or at least an act of boorish carelessness.

“Asshole!” she called out.

It was only when the stranger stopped and turned to face them, fury blazing from his hoodie, that she felt afraid. JC moved between them.

“Sorry, brother,” he said softly. And there was something in his tone, the way he’d turned and placed himself, both hands now raised, palms turned outward. “Let’s all just keep on having a nice Christmas.”

The young man wavered. “Fuck you, man,” he said, but he turned quickly and strutted away, shoulders lurching in his haste.

“Well done,” she said.

JC shrugged. “Who knows what’s going on in that poor bugger’s life.”

Just inside the door, the floor was littered with envelopes, mostly Christmas cards. He scooped them up and dropped them in a large bowl, which was already full of keys and change. Their cat trotted down the stairs, meowing urgently.

“You aren’t going to open them?” she asked.

“Another time,” he said. “They make me feel guilty. I never sent any.”

He squatted to receive his greeting from the cat.

“Who do you get them from?” she asked, poking through the envelopes. “Here’s one from the States.”

“That’ll be from Sam,” he said, and stood.

Then he was kissing her. And she nestled into the embrace and kissed him back, with a sudden yearning that dispelled all of her anxieties.

“I think I’ll stay awhile,” she said, shrugging off her coat.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Something just came over me.”

“What’ll you have?” he asked.

“I’ve had enough to drink for now. I’ll make some tea.”

“Make it a one-bagger,” he said. “I’m going to indulge myself some more.”

They were settled at the kitchen table, she sipping an herbal tea, he savouring a small puddle of old whisky, when the phone rang.

“Let it ring,” she said.

“I’d better get it.” He reached for the receiver, said “Hello,” listened for a moment. “When did you blow in?”

She knew immediately from his tone who was on the line. She waved a hand to get his attention, mouthed, “Don’t tell him I’m here.”

“We’re having Christmas dinner here tomorrow,” he said. “Why don’t you come? It’ll just be me, Effie and Duncan.” He winked at her. “Noooo. Don’t be foolish. They’ll be thrilled to see you. That’s all water under the bridge.”

He laughed. “I can guarantee it,” he said. “You’ll be perfectly safe here.”

Then, after a long pause, “Well, bring her with you. I have a massive turkey. Is it anyone we know?”

Another pause. “I see. You’re a hard man to get ahead of.”

He looked at Effie. “Well, actually this isn’t a good time. I’m going to have a nap, then go to midnight Mass. Maybe we could meet up there.”

Another wink at Effie. “Understood. We’ll see you tomorrow. Call when you’re ready to come over. I’ll give you the directions then.”

He put the phone down, drained the last of his drink, then stood and poured another. “He’s got a new girlfriend,” he said. “A student.”

“A mature student, I assume.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much.”

Early Christmas morning Effie went home to change, wrap the gifts and prepare mentally for a long and complex day. The city seemed empty. There was a bitter chill. She flagged a solitary cab on Broadview, and the silent driver made her nervous with furtive eye contact in the rear-view mirror. She thought about how much simpler life might be if she and JC just lived together. But she quickly felt the stirring of anxiety that always came when she contemplated any loss of independence. She’d lived with three men, had grown with each of them but had also paid a psychic price that made cohabitation something she wasn’t eager to repeat.

At home she sorted through her mail. A clutch of flyers promising unprecedented bargains on Boxing Day, a Christmas card from her life insurance company and another with her name and address written in a hand she recognized immediately—John Gillis’s.

She sat slowly, with her coat still on, and opened it. It was a simple, rustic scene: a small, snowbound house by an untracked country lane, wisps of smoke rising from a chimney, a festive wreath hanging on the door. Inside the card, the simplest of messages: “Seasons Greetings.” And below it, handwritten: “Sincerely, J.G.”

She felt a flash of grief, and in its wake, confusion. In the twenty-eight years since she’d abandoned him he’d never written. Not once. No letter of recrimination. No questions. All the practical inquiries involved in ending their marriage came from lawyers. There had been no acknowledgement of birthdays. When her father died, there was no sympathy, but that was understandable, given what he knew about their history. For a long time she found comfort in John’s resolute indifference. It seemed to be a silent confirmation of what she wanted to believe: he never really cared for her; she had been a temporary refuge in a storm of personal disintegration, grasped the way a drowning man would grab at flotsam. His father had killed himself and he had needed her, but only for a while. But isn’t that the way with all relationships? They’re really only for a while. The story of her life.

This seasonal greeting was exceptional. She slipped the card back in its envelope and stood. Enough.

The afternoon of Christmas Day they worked together in JC’s tiny kitchen, both wearing aprons. There was music playing. Candles flickered. By three o’clock the bird was stuffed and in the oven.

Sitting with a drink, she was surprised when, after what seemed like a long silence, JC proclaimed, “My problem is that I was always basically
in favour
of the death penalty.”

“Did you say death penalty?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about poor Sam. Where he is on Christmas Day, that it could be his last Christmas.”

The phone rang and he stood.

“That’ll be himself, looking for directions.”

The doorbell startled her even though she’d been bracing for the gong. She stole a glance at her reflection in the window of the microwave. She smoothed her skirt but then rebuked herself for caring what the bastard thought, remembered all the treachery and settled down to what she believed was a level of calm objectivity.

Sextus looked, for lack of a better adjective, happy. She’d seen him briefly in Cape Breton in the summer looking haggard and needy, probably from guilt. She’d kept her distance. Now she told him he looked fit, that he’d obviously been taking care of himself for a change. He revealed that he’d taken up jogging.

She suppressed a bitter comment, turning to the young woman who was with him.

“I’m Effie.”

“Sorry,” Sextus said. “I’m slow with the introductions. Susan Fougere. This is the famous Dr. MacAskill-Gillis I’ve been telling you about.”

A jolt of anger. Smile. Extend the hand. Susan seemed to be no more than twenty-two years old. Pretty face, nice figure, cleavage likely all the way up to just below her creamy throat.

“Welcome,” Effie said. “We’re thrilled that you could come.” Savoured the “we.”

Susan smiled as Sextus turned to struggle out of his coat. When he turned back, Effie asked, “And how is our John?”

Sextus frowned. “To tell the truth, I haven’t seen him lately. Saw him at the mall about three weeks ago. He was in the distance, but I didn’t think he looked well. Skinnier than usual. Face kind of sunken. He’s fanatic about the running, John.”

“You didn’t talk to him?”

“I lost sight of him. I called later, but there was no answer. I tried to get in touch before I left to come here, but again … no answer. You know the way he is.”

“I had a Christmas card,” she said.

He twitched with surprise. “No shit?”

Susan’s eyes flicked back and forth between them in perplexed curiosity.

“I’m sure you’ve met his cousin John,” Effie said to her. “My other ex-husband.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Susan said. “But I’ve heard about him.”

Effie couldn’t discern from her tone just how much she might have heard. The wily Sextus had likely been creative with the details of their peculiar history and all the intermingling that might have been off-putting to one of tender years and limited experience.

Then JC was asking for instructions regarding drinks.

Duncan arrived during the second round, accepted a Scotch and insisted that he wasn’t hungry. He’d spent the day working at a homeless shelter, had handed out 479 plates of turkey and felt like he had sampled some from every plate.

Effie put Sextus beside Susan, Duncan directly across. She and JC, at either end of the table, kept busy with the carving and the serving, he liberally pouring wine. Duncan accepted a small
plate of vegetables so as not to seem unsociable but insisted that he couldn’t stomach another bite of turkey. He managed to extract from Susan that she was a journalism student at Ryerson; Sextus volunteered that he’d met her at a weekly paper in Cape Breton. He was an occasional contributor. He encouraged her to raise her sights, consider journalism school. She had a gift. She was clearly flattered.

“I became a kind of mentor,” Sextus said.

There’s another word for that, Effie thought as she exchanged a discreet smile with JC.

Susan had grown up near the causeway and was looking forward to moving back home. She found the city edgy in a good way, but she missed her friends. Effie, now up and standing by the stove, saw Sextus squeeze her thigh.

“By the way,” he said to Duncan, “Stella says hello.”

Duncan reddened instantly and stared down at his plate. “Does she now.”

“You should give her a call,” Sextus said. “Check in.”

“Maybe I will,” said Duncan.

Then Sextus asked JC if he was working on any interesting stories.

“The odd one,” said JC.

Duncan wondered out loud if he’d had any news from Texas.

“We’ve been corresponding,” JC said.

Effie was surprised. “You know about this Texas stuff?”

Duncan and JC exchanged what seemed like nervous glances.

“I filled him in on some of the basics,” JC said. “Old Sam is pretty religious. I thought maybe Duncan could drop a line sometime.”

“Who are we talking about?” Sextus asked.

“Nobody you’d know,” said Duncan, coldly. He turned to JC. “This petition you were mentioning. It’s quite likely that the Vatican
will take a position. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve spoken to the office of the nuncio.”

JC was nodding.

“Is this about that Canadian guy on death row in the States?” Susan asked. “The guy they’re going to execute?”

“JC’s in the media,” Duncan said. “He’s done stories on that case. I did a little research on canon law, about the death penalty.”

“I’ve been following it,” said Susan. “But what’s your involvement with canon law?”

“Duncan here is a sky pilot,” Sextus said, smiling.

“A what?”

“A priest,” Sextus said. “From back home, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh,” said Susan.

Duncan suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “So where are you from, exactly?” he asked.

“Havre Boucher,” Susan replied.

JC inquired about the drinks. Did anybody want a refill?

“So you’d have been in Father Allan’s parish,” Duncan said.

“Well,” said Susan. “We actually left the church. Because of him. I don’t know the whole story, though. I think there was something about my younger brother.” She blushed. “They say that Father Allan was … different.”