Would I Lie to You

by Mary Lou Dickinson

  “That would be fine,” she said, even though her heart was saying no. I can’t. It’s too soon. But when would it not be?

  “I know it’s difficult.”

  “It feels good to be able to do it together,” Sue said because she knew she relied on him for this. “It would please Jerry.”

  “Have you heard from Thomas?”

  “No.”

  “I feel badly about that. For you, of course. But I also hoped to meet him.”

  What could she say? He seemed so reasonable and his disappointment, which mirrored her own, suddenly annoyed her. “He’ll come back,” she said.

  “Oh my goodness,” he said. “Don’t set yourself up.”

  She could not tell Martin a psychic had told her she would see Thomas again or that she felt attracted to another man already. Although Martin had a sense of the absurd, she did not imagine that he would be any more receptive to the intuitive knowing of a psychic than Jerry would have been.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not going to be disappointed.”

  “Okay.” He sounded doubtful, but her feelings about Hans and her belief he would be right again reassured her. She hoped Hans would get in touch with her to suggest another meeting. And when Thomas turned up, there would be some straightforward explanation about where he had been and why he had not contacted her. It could be months before she would hear from him, but one day when she was engrossed in something else, it would happen.

  “I’ll be over around seven,” Martin said.

  When he came, he stood in the kitchen in the spot near the counter where he had engaged in lively conversation with Jerry so often, pouring more beer or coffee. What were Jerry’s thoughts on a particular initiative being taken by the city? he would ask. Or, Martin would be interested in some case of Jerry’s. More often than not, the talk was about sailing. And they often jogged down the back streets south and north of Bloor, returning hot and sweaty, their faces glistening.

  Martin leaned over to look at the painting on the ironing board she had not yet taken upstairs. “I like it.” He paused. “Where do you get your inspiration?”

  “This one’s from a photograph I took.” She showed it to him. There was something about the shape of the flowers and leaves pouring out of the container that had a tropical feel. The flamboyance of orange flowers and greenery she associated with Costa Rica or Jamaica. Her tiny philodendron that grew so well in the house was a miniature next to the huge lush plants in the painting.

  “What about having the memorial in June?” he asked. “By then, the weather should be warmer and the leaves will be out. Flowers will be in bloom, too.”

  She leaned over the counter, trying to hide her tears even though Martin would be the first to put out a hand to reassure her. What she did not want for him to know was that part of hiding her eyes from him was a feeling that they might betray something else.

  “I could see about getting space on the island for a Saturday or Sunday. I remember when you and Jerry were married over there.” He stopped when he heard her sniff. “I’m sorry.” He took out a clean handkerchief and handed it to her.

  She took the hanky, beginning to blubber.

  “Oh, Sue,” Martin said.

  She tried to wipe the tears away, but they went on flowing. When they stopped enough for her to speak, she asked, “What do you want me to do?” surprising even herself with the sudden resentment in her voice. He could not help her deal with the internal furor that had begun to rise in her. Nothing she could tell him would make for comfortable conversation.

  “Could we make a list of people now?” He looked as if he were trying to stay calm, as if he disapproved of her outburst.

  “I can’t.” What was the matter with him? “I don’t even want to,” she said, her voice rising again. “How could he do this to us? Leave you with a boat and me with his son. Sometimes, I wish I could kill him.”

  Martin stepped back as if she had hit him. “Maybe not today then,” he said.

  Although Sue realized she was now verging on the irrational, she wanted to hit him. Why could he not show some emotion? “Was Jerry always Mister Nice Guy?” she asked. “You knew him longer than anybody.”

  “Whoever called him that?”

  “I just did.”

  “He was human,” Martin said, his voice remaining level. “You saw him lose his cool more than once. And before you met him, long before that, he was a bit of a drinker. Not enough to interfere with his work, but more than I wished for a while. And he was a risk-taker.”

  “Ah,” she said, but she did not feel as if this made anything better. How could it? Mixed as it was with something else that she was only beginning to grasp herself.

  “You can call and tell me when you’re ready to talk about the memorial.” He edged toward the door.

  “Surely sometimes you feel angry with Jerry.”

  He lowered his head. “I guess,” he said. “But you sounded so sarcastic, so vindictive just a moment ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “Maybe you and Emily could make a list.”

  “All right. We’ll take a stab at it.” He put his hand on the knob of the front door. “I’ll get in touch with you.”

  When she saw him disappear down the street, Sue fell onto the couch and covered her head with a pillow, sobbing. She felt so alone, as if no one had ever shared her deepest feelings, but as she gradually calmed down she had a glimpse of the possibility of that openness with someone like Hans.

  *

  Books lined the shelves in what used to be Jerry’s office, reflecting his interest in history, political biography, and crime fiction. Peter Newman beside Josephine Tey. The Thirty-Nine Steps. A history of the Boer War. Nothing was organized, the titles having found homes where space existed. Sue’s art materials were now on the desk and on the floor.

  Standing back to consider the easel she had finally set up, she picked up a brush. She dipped it into the burnt umber on her palette and started to paint a tiger. Next, she would add vivid stripes and bring to life Rousseau’s jungle. The brightness from the overhead skylight made the colours stand out and a smile crept across her face as she contemplated her work again. Startled by the telephone, she almost knocked over a ceramic mug full of paintbrushes as she jumped back from the canvas.

  “Hello, Sue. It’s Thomas.”

  A deep intake of breath. “I missed you,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye before I left the city.”

  “I must admit I wondered.”

  She had worried that he would not turn up again until Hans had said he would. How ludicrous to plan her life around what she was told by a psychic. But so far, he had been accurate. What had the ad said about him? A “make you feel good psychic.” She might not go that far.

  “I had an interview,” Thomas said.

  Again, Sue waited for him to continue.

  “And then I got a job. Starting something new. I bet you know what that’s like.”

  “Um,” Sue said. “It takes all your time for a while, doesn’t it?

  “Almost, even though it’s only part-time.” He was keeping on with his studies. He seemed to hesitate. “And then, there’s Kate.”

  “And who’s Kate?” She stood further back from the painting. It was only partially finished, just the tiger’s head and shoulders so far fully formed.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “When I see you.”

  “Do you have time for a visit?”

  “What about today?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Sue said, trying not to sound eager, not wanting to be disappointed again. “Today would be fine. Where are you?”

  “Union Station,” he said. “The train just got here. I’ll walk over.”

  Well, that will take some ti
me, she thought. Time to get the paint off her hands and for a quick shower. She hung her splattered smock on a hook. In the bathroom, the water came out hot after running briefly and, sighing, Sue stepped into it.

  Just under an hour later, the bell rang and Thomas’s frame was visible through the glass, as startling as the first time she had seen him — this vision of a younger Jerry.

  “Come in,” she said. Under his open jacket he was wearing a shirt with fine navy-and-white stripes and dark trousers. Then, suddenly, no words came. Turning toward the hall, she managed to hide that she was at a loss for what to say at the sight of seeing Thomas in clothes that might have been Jerry’s so closely did their tastes overlap.

  “I won’t lose touch again,” he said.

  “Um,” she said. “I hope not.” Although why she cared enough already to be hurt that he might not baffled her.

  “I won’t,” he said, leaning on the kitchen counter. A few dishes lay helter-skelter in the sink under the window. “Is that one of yours?” he asked, pointing at a small painting on the wall beside the door to the pantry. It was an island scene with a curving walk and lamppost with branches twirled around it. There was a sailboat in the distance.

  Sue nodded.

  “I like it,” he said.

  “I imagine something will appear at any moment from around that corner.” What might she be waiting for? Who?

  “I like the colours of the leaves.”

  When they went into the living room, Thomas sat on the sofa at the opposite end from Sue.

  “Do you need any clothes?” she asked. Then she stopped abruptly and put her hand to her mouth. She could not bear to look at that closet.

  ”Do you want me to go through stuff with you?” he asked, almost as if he were repeating the lines she had imagined for him. Stuff, she thought. She had known he would call it that and it took the sting out of it slightly.

  “Would you?” She was relieved, surprised at how quickly he had understood her. When she got up and started up the stairs, Thomas followed her to find the clothes that still hung in the closet just as Jerry had left them.

  “Here.” She took out the tweed jacket.

  “Thanks,” Thomas said, holding it for a moment. Then he tried it on.

  As she held out a pair of tan cords, she noticed that the jacket looked as if it were made for him. He tried on another, with a hood, that was almost new. After he nodded at the sight of himself, he took it off in exchange for a dark winter coat that Sue had imagined he would like.

  She took out a scarf and a flannel shirt, which she hugged tightly. “I’ll keep these,” she murmured. “He wore this shirt when he sat in front of the fireplace on winter evenings.”

  Even if he were pondering that it had belonged to his father, she thought he couldn’t possibly feel the emotions this clothing aroused in her.

  “Thanks for all of this,” Thomas said. They spent another half an hour taking out garment after garment, waiting for Thomas to decide what he wanted. When Sue thought they might have gone through most of what was there, she sighed. “I’m tired now,” she said. “Thanks for your help.” He started to tell her about Kate then. “She was behind me in high school,” he said. “Her brother’s a buddy. I ran into her a couple months ago and … I must have been blind. Or she’d grown up since the last time I saw her.”

  As Sue watched his face, a smile creeping across it, she was reminded of seeing Jerry’s face like that on the day they had married. There was an album full of photographs. She visualized Thomas looking through it as they went downstairs again to the kitchen.

  “How old was my father then?” he might ask. “What was he like?”

  He had not asked those kinds of questions yet. In some ways, she had looked forward to this, in others she had dreaded it, fearing that she would not be able to paint a picture of someone who would have been a good father. When Thomas was born, she understood that Jerry might still have been drinking too much or too often. Martin had alluded to that, and, to the stories of his exploits in back country after his first wife was killed, stories of almost being caught in an avalanche or of breaking a leg skiing down a treacherous slope. Stories of adventure, but of unnecessary risk also.

  Thomas pulled up a chair and grinned as he pulled out a wallet from his back pocket. Inside a plastic sleeve was a photo of a young woman holding a tennis racquet. She had long fair hair, and wore a white sleeveless top, short skirt, tiny hoop earrings, and a striped terry-cloth band around her wrist.

  “Ah,” Sue said. “A ten?”

  “You bet,” Thomas said. “The love of my life.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “She’s going to study law, too,” he chuckled.

  “It’s too bad you won’t have a chance to talk about law with Jerry,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “I’m glad you’re telling me,” she added.

  He smiled slightly and raised the mug she had just given to him. Steam still rose from dark liquid and the smell of cinnamon was in the air.

  “There’s going to be a memorial for Jerry,” she said. “I’m planning it with a friend of his. Martin would like to meet you.”

  “Martin?” Thomas said, pursing his lips. “Well…” he fidgeted with his keys, pulling them out of his pocket and then putting them back again.

  She waited for some comment, but he was quiet, his eyes cast down toward the floor. Sue had considered he might not be comfortable about the memorial, but for him to become suddenly evasive surprised her. What was it about? She looked beyond him to a black-and-white photograph Jerry had picked up in Paris. It was of a stall on the Seine.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “I can’t say.” He turned away again.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just too much,” he said. “Maybe some day.”

  “Some day what?”

  He shrugged and put his mug on the counter. “I’ll give you my phone number.” He took out a pen and wrote the number down on the edge of a newspaper lying there. “You can call any time.”

  “You just got here,” she said. “And I think you need to get in touch with me when you figure out what you want to do.”

  Thomas had suddenly changed when she had mentioned Martin. Would he know what this was all about? Maybe Jerry’s childhood friend had his secrets also, but she had always felt that you knew where you stood with Martin. If he knew anything, he would have told her, especially if she had asked him. That was the way he was. Even in her recent anger at Jerry, it had been clear that Martin was upset with her. Thomas leaned over to pick up his jacket where it had fallen into a crumpled pile on the floor.

  “What if I call him?” he asked cautiously. “I could do that.”

  Now it was her turn to write numbers down on a piece of newspaper. He put the fragment she handed him in his pocket. “I may,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  “All right,” she sighed. “Of course, it’s up to you.” As she turned around, a photograph on the refrigerator of Jerry at the tiller of Prime Time caught her passing glance. The day she had taken that photo, they had swum from a beach on an island and were just preparing to sail back to the marina where Jerry kept the boat. How odd to think that on that day, they had both had secrets. She could not comprehend the happiness she had experienced then knowing what she now did about this secret of Jerry’s, so tangibly revealed, standing before her. Why, Jerry? And why had she kept the secret of her baby from him? Why had they kept such huge secrets from each other?

  Sue followed Thomas to the front hall, clutching her palms. There was so much she could say, but she was afraid if she showed how much she wanted contact with him he might never come back. And she began to wonder if she were using this same kind of thinking to avoid looking for her own child.


  “There are lots of things of Jerry’s you haven’t seen yet,” she said.

  He reached for the doorknob. “Not now,” he said.

  “Would you mind if I took your photograph?” She had a desire to record things more often recently, as if that would keep her from losing them. Although all the photographs she had taken of Jerry over the years had not kept him from dying.

  He shrugged, “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

  Sue went to the shelf under the front window where her camera was lying in an open case. Thomas stood, jacket already on, looking at his watch.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She took a profile shot of him standing in the hall, and another of him opening the door, and yet another of him standing on the porch before he turned to go down the stairs. If he never returned, she would have these images.

  “Bye,” he said.

  His stride was fast and determined and he did not look back to smile or wave before he disappeared around the corner. When she went out to the kitchen and picked up the half full mug he had left on the counter, it was still warm in her hands. She sat down, holding the cup. She thought of how she had felt at sixteen when the baby had kicked inside her. Sometimes, when her belly had moved, she had been sure she could actually see the shape of a foot. Sitting and holding her hand on her large abdomen, she had wondered what the baby would look like. Would it be a boy or a girl? Conceived in a moment of awkward, even painful, adolescent passion and confusion, she had wanted to keep it. But even as she had not wanted to give it up, she had not known what else to do.

  When she fell asleep, she dreamed of a foetus floating in clear liquid in a bottle. Sue knew it was the baby she had carried in her uterus. She herself was floating on the surface of the water in a pond, frogs chirped nearby and plants grew underneath and became caught in her legs. Grabbing great mounds of slimy green strands, she threw them out onto the rocks at the side of the pond. There were always more entwining her. When she swam on the surface, the frogs stayed on the rocks, but tiny tadpoles darted at her shoulders. Finally, she pulled herself up onto the rocks, exhausted.