by Gail Bowen
My throat tightened.
“I had it coming,” Howard said thickly. “Still it’s not the farewell you hope for from your wife of forty years. Anyway, the guilt kicked in, and I wasn’t about to unburden myself to some priest, so when Kathryn asked me about myself, I let it rip – told her I was a lousy husband, a lousy father, a lousy friend, a lousy human being. Probably my antennae should have gone up when she started pressing me about Charlie, but hell, out of the multitudes, he was the one I’d failed the most.”
“Kathryn never told you she was writing a book?”
Howard grimaced. “Of course, she did. She’s a pro. She didn’t want a lawsuit. She said her book was about the price politics exacts on families.”
“And you bit,” I said.
“Hook, line, and sinker,” Howard replied. “I thought Kathryn Morrissey was heaven-sent. As far as I was concerned, she was my path to redemption. Isn’t there a line in the Bible about pride closing a man’s eyes?”
“If there isn’t, there should be,” I said.
“Anyway, now that I’ve lost my pride, I can see clearly. Sam Parker did more than make speeches about family values. He protected his family.” Howard slugged back his rye. “If I’d pulled that trigger, maybe I’d be able to look my son in the eye.”
“Do us both a favour,” I said. “Don’t ever repeat what you just said to me.”
His face softened. “So you haven’t written me off.”
“I’ll never write you off,” I said. “Look, why don’t you come out to the lake and have Thanksgiving with us. We have plenty of beds, two huge turkeys, and kids of all ages for you to bark at.”
“Thanks,” Howard said. “Another time. I’m not very good company these days.”
“If you change your mind, give me a call.” I kissed his cheek. “And treat yourself to a shave. That Miami Vice look went out twenty years ago.”
I had parked in Howard’s driveway. When I stepped outside, Kathryn Morrissey was kneeling beside my Volvo. As I watched, she flattened herself on the asphalt and reached under my car. It was a surreal moment in a day that was shaping up as memorable, but when a long-bodied silvery Siamese shot out and flew past me, all was explained. Instinctively, I grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck. Just as instinctively, it scratched me. We both yowled. Ears flattened back, brilliantly blue eyes furious, it tilted its head to look at me. It struggled, but I managed to hold on.
Kathryn pushed herself to her feet. She was wearing a red silk jacket shot through with gold tracings of leaves and splotched with dark blotches of fresh oil from Howard’s Buick. She took the cat from my arms, lowered her face into its fur, and began to croon its name: Minoo. Kathryn’s relief at having Minoo safe in her arms was palpable, but when she spotted the blood on my arm, her focus shifted.
“Are you all right?” she said, and her concern seemed genuine.
“It’s just a scratch,” I said.
“Still, it is an animal scratch. Why don’t you come to my place and we can clean it up?” she said. She laughed softly. “Maybe Minoo has done us a favour. It really is time you and I got to know each other better.”
Kathryn’s tone was beseeching, but the images of Howard’s misery were fresh. “I know everything I need to know about you,” I said, opening my car door.
“You don’t know anything about me,” Kathryn said. “And that’s regrettable, because we have common interests.”
“Such as?”
Her three-pointed smile was feline. “Too late now,” she said. “But when you replay this moment in your mind – and you will – remember that you were the one who was uncharitable. You’re going to regret this, Joanne.”
I was met at the door to my house by my soon to be eleven-year-old daughter and, behind her, close as a shadow, the boy with the pentangle. “Zack’s on the phone,” Taylor said, “but Ethan and I are doing something in the kitchen, so could you please use the phone in the living room.” Suddenly, she remembered her manners. “Sorry. Jo, this is Ethan Thorpe. Ethan, this is my mum.”
I smiled at the boy. “Hello again.”
“Hi,” he said. “Talk to you after, I guess.”
“I guess,” I said. Then I went into the living room and picked up.
“How’s tricks?” Zack said.
“Fine,” I said, I glancing at my arm. “Kathryn Morrissey’s cat scratched me.”
“Want to sue?”
“How much do you think I could get?”
“Depends. With a totally unprincipled lawyer, the sky’s the limit, but my plate’s full at the moment.”
“There goes my beach house in Tahiti.”
“Mine too,” Zack said. “But I didn’t call to drum up business. We’ve had a little incident at the office, so we’ve all been told to vamoose until the cops finish checking things out.”
My chest tightened. “What kind of incident?”
“A bomb went off.”
“Oh my God. Was anyone hurt?”
“No, it wasn’t much of a bomb, and I was in the can, so no harm done.”
“But you’re all right?”
“More than all right. The members of what we laughingly refer to as Sam’s dream team are holed up in our accountant’s boardroom. We’re their biggest client, so we are well cared for. At the moment, I’m dipping biscotti into my latte.”
“That’s reassuring,” I said. “But I’m still shaking. Reassure me some more.”
“Come on, Jo. Your late husband was in politics. You know that threats are part of the package. Some guy who’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal stubs his toe and goes a little nuts. Then his toe stops hurting and the threats stop.”
“I know, just be careful, okay?”
“Since I met you, I’m always careful. Now I’ve got six lawyers and a client waiting for me, so I’d better get a move on.”
“Any chance you’ll be at the lake in time for dinner?”
“Not a prayer, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.” He lowered his voice. “You know what I’m looking forward to? Going to bed with you at night and waking up with you in the morning.”
“Getting tired of quickies?” I said.
“Never,” he said. “I’m just greedy. This is going to be a great Thanksgiving, Jo,” and then before I could respond, he hung up.
Obeying the rule that parents can save themselves grief if they make a little noise before they walk in on their children, I rapped on the kitchen door before I walked in on Taylor and her guest. But the scene that greeted me was as innocent as a Leave It to Beaver video. Taylor and the boy were sitting at the kitchen table drinking milk and reading comic books.
Taylor’s greeting was sunny. “Come look at this, Jo.”
“She won’t want to see these,” the boy said, but the look he gave me was hopeful.
“Sure I’ll want to see them,” I said.
“Ethan drew them himself,” Taylor said. I took the chair beside her and opened the comic she handed me. As soon as I saw the first frame, I understood why Taylor and the boy were friends. Taylor had inherited her birth mother’s talent as a visual artist. There weren’t many people her age who could understand what Taylor’s art meant to her, but this boy would understand. The drawing, lettering, and shading in the black and white opening panels of his book were skilful, but I knew at once that I was looking at something more than a series of well-executed drawings. Ethan had created a world, the world of a lonely, alienated boy whose unremittingly bleak vision is transformed when he discovers a pentangle in the crypt of a burned church. From the moment he fastens the chain holding the pentangle around his neck, the boy and his life are transformed. The pentangle brings with it a name for those who wear it. The name is Soul-fire, and as Soul-fire, the boy is strong and fearless, an adventurer in a land that is suddenly drenched in colour and filled with loathsome enemies that the hero dispatches with grace. Not surprisingly, Soul-fire bore a striking resemblance to Ethan.
I finished reading and clo
sed the book. “This is terrific,” I said. “Really, Ethan, it’s a privilege to see your work.”
Taylor shot him a glance. “I told you she’d like it.”
“Well, you were right,” I said. I glanced up at the clock. “Look, I hate to change the focus here, but would you two mind if I put on the radio. I want to hear the news. Somebody planted a bomb at Falconer Shreve today.”
Taylor’s eyes widened. “Nobody got hurt, did they?”
“No,” I said, turning on the radio. “Zack seems to think it wasn’t anything to worry about.”
Ethan had been sliding the last of his comics into a protective plastic envelope. He stopped and turned to me. “Zachary Shreve is a friend of yours?” he asked, his voice rising.
“He’s Jo’s boyfriend,” Taylor said.
Ethan looked hard at Taylor. “Is he a good person?”
“Well, he’s nice,” Taylor said. The gaze she levelled at me indicated she needed help steering the conversation.
I winked at her. “Maybe Ethan would like to meet Zack some time,” I said.
“I would,” he said fervently. “All I know is what I’ve heard.”
“Well, keep an open mind,” I said.
The news came on. The bombing was the lead item, but the report was short and vague. A bomb had exploded at a downtown office. There were no injuries and the Major Crimes Division of the Regina Police Force was investigating. Falconer Shreve was not identified by name, and there was no reference to the outcome of the police investigations.
I flicked off the radio. “Not much information there,” I said. “I guess we’ll have to wait till Zack comes tonight to find out what happened.”
Ethan’s blue eyes met mine. “You’re going to see Zachary Shreve tonight?” he said.
Taylor scrunched her nose. “How come you’re so interested in Zack?”
Ethan shrugged. “No reason. Just he’s famous. That’s all.”
Taylor twinkled at me. “He’s not just famous. He’s Jo’s big sparkly top banana.”
Ethan stood up so suddenly he knocked his chair over. He righted it. “Sorry,” he said. “I’d better get going.” He started towards the back door, then stopped and came back. I assumed he wanted to talk to Taylor, but he came to me. “Thanks for looking at my book,” he said. His fingers touched the pentangle. “A lot of people wouldn’t have bothered.”
“I’d like to read the others. Could we keep them for a while?”
“Sure,” he said. “I mean, that would be great. Keep them as long as you want. Thanks.” And then he was gone, leaving my daughter and me waiting to see who would make the first move.
“Wow,” I said.
Taylor ran her fingers through the new, very cool haircut that had replaced her braids the week before school started. “Wow, what?” she asked nonchalantly.
“Wow, Ethan,” I said. “I’ve never even heard you mention him.”
“He’s new this year, and he enrolled late. He just started at Lakeview a couple of weeks ago.”
“That’s always tough. Any other kids from his family go to your school?”
“No, there’s just Ethan. He used to live in Ottawa with his father, but his dad got remarried, and Ethan didn’t fit into the new family, so now he’s with his mother.”
“Is that working out?”
Taylor shook her head. “I don’t know. He just told me about his dad and the new wife with the two little kids. It’s kind of sad.”
“At least he has his drawing,” I said. “He really does have talent.”
“I think Ethan would rather have friends,” Taylor said.
“And he doesn’t have any friends except you.”
“I’m not even sure about me,” Taylor said. “Ethan’s kind of different.”
“Different how?”
“He reads all the time.”
“I’m glad you didn’t hold that against him.”
Taylor gave me a bleak smile. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do. So how come you invited him over?”
Taylor bit her lower lip. “After school, everybody was talking about what they were doing on the long weekend and Ethan was just kind of standing there.”
I went to her and kissed the top of her fashionably chopped and moussed hair. “Come on. Give me a hand with packing the food, and I’ll tell you about my career as an artist.”
“You never had a career as an artist.”
“Oh yes I did. My design for a wedding gown was in Katy Keene.”
“What’s Katy Keene?” Taylor asked.
“Bring me down a couple of laundry hampers for the food and I’ll tell you.”
Inspired, Taylor moved quickly. In a flash she was back with the hampers.
“Put the fruit and vegetables in that one,” I said, “and I’ll load up the stuff from the freezer.”
“Okay, but now you have to tell me about Katy Keene.”
“It was a comic book when I was a kid,” I said. “Katy Keene was a model, and readers could send in designs for outfits Katy might wear. If the designs were good, the illustrator used them in the next comic.”
“And they used yours,” Taylor said with unnerving reverence.
“Yes,” I said. “They did.”
“Do you still have the comic?”
“Somewhere, but I’m not going to dig for it right now.”
“At least tell me about the dress.”
“Oh, Taylor, it was awful.”
“How awful?”
“Well it was covered in doves.”
“Real doves!”
“No. Fake doves and they had pink ribbons in their beaks.”
Taylor rolled her eyes. “Holeeee,” she said. “That is bizarre.”
“Thank you for vote of confidence,” I said.
She was giggling. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“No.”
“I really want to see the drawing of that dress,” she said.
“Enough to help me clean out the basement when we get back from the cottage?”
Taylor grinned. “Let me think about it.”
Our car was full for the drive to the lake. On the seat beside me was a hamper of groceries that there was no room for in the trunk. Our Bouvier, Willie, had a window seat in the back; Taylor was beside him and Isobel Wainberg, the twelve-year-old daughter of one of Zack’s partners, Delia, was beside Taylor. Both of Isobel’s parents had come down with the flu that was making the rounds that fall, so she was spending Thanksgiving with us.
She was a happy addition. Isobel and Taylor were close and I was very fond of her. She was her mother in miniature: small-boned, smart, burdened with worries, but blessed with a quick wit and a smile that was as dazzling as it was rare. That afternoon, as she and Taylor settled into the back seat with Willie, it was clear that Isobel had something on her mind. She waited until we were on the highway to broach the subject.
“We’ve been wondering about Glenda Parker,” she said. “We’ve seen the pictures on TV when Glenda was still a boy. And he was a boy,” she said in a tone that it made it clear that particular point was off the table. “In the pictures where Glenda’s wearing a bathing suit you can see that.”
“Because Glenda had male genitals,” I said.
Taylor was triumphant. “I told you Jo would talk about it,” she said.
“There’s no reason not to,” I said. “What do you want to know?”
“We want to know why Glenda’s a woman now,” Isobel said. “When you’re born, you’re either a girl or a boy, right?”
“Most of the time, yes.” I said. “Sometimes, it’s hard to tell. When my elder son, Peter, was born, the woman I shared a room with gave birth to a little boy too, but there were some physical anomalies. Do you know what that means?”
“I do,” Isobel said. “It means something abnormal, like a dog that can’t bark.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, when the doctors examined my roommate’s baby, they foun
d anomalies. His parents and the doctors had to make a decision about whether the baby should be raised as a girl or a boy.”
“What did they decide?” Taylor asked.
“The doctors did some tests and told the parents the baby could be raised successfully as a boy, so that’s what they did.”
Determined not to miss a word coming from the front seat, Isobel was pushing against her seat belt. “Did it work?” she asked.
“It seemed to,” I said. “Peter played football against the boy when they were in high school. According to Pete, he was a great offensive lineman and a nice guy.”
“So that boy’s parents made the right decision,” Isobel said. “But Glenda Parker’s parents didn’t.”
“It wasn’t their fault,” I said. “I’m sure the Parkers did the best they could with the information they were given.”
Like her mother, Isobel was tenacious. “But they made a mistake,” she said flatly, “and now Glenda has to have operations to change her body.”
“The surgery is just a part of what she needs to do,” I said. “Look, I have a copy of Too Much Hope. Why don’t you two read the interview Glenda gave Kathryn Morrissey? After that, if you have more questions, just ask. Okay?”
“Okay,” Taylor said. For a beat she was silent. “When did Glenda know?” she asked.
“That she was a girl?” I said. “She says she always knew.”
“But she tried to be what her parents wanted her to be,” Taylor said. “She tried and it just didn’t work.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what happened.”
At that point, Willie was stricken with anxiety by the sight of a passing semi and began barking. By the time the girls calmed him, their attention had drifted to other matters. Lulled by their soft whispers and muted laughter, I gave myself over to the pleasures of driving to the cottage at Lawyers’ Bay along a road I had driven a dozen times in the hazy heat of the summer just past.
It had been a pivotal summer for us all. As they had every year since law school, the partners of Falconer, Shreve, Altieri, and Wainberg had gathered at the lake for a Canada Day party. I had rented the cottage of a friend who had once been a Falconer Shreve partner, and my plans were simple: I would dedicate July to reading fat novels in a hammock, eating ice cream, and getting in some serious beach and tennis time with Taylor, and with Angus and his girlfriend, Leah Drache, who had found jobs at the lake. In August, my daughter Mieka and her family would join us and my older son, Peter, who had just bought a vet practice in Regina, would come up on weekends. Idyllic, but as Robbie Burns so famously said, “the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley,” and our plans had been shattered by a tragedy that ripped through the tranquil beauty of Lawyers’ Bay with the primal destructive power of a hurricane. On the Canada Day weekend, Christopher Altieri committed suicide, and his death brought revelations that devastated the partners that had known and loved him since law school.