“Right. Thanks, Harold.”
The philosopher patted Myron on the shoulder, gave a curt nod to Nadia, and made his exit.
There was a throat-constricting pause that could have been a couple of seconds or an eternity before she bluntly informed him, “I’m in trouble.”
“Oh?”
She fished into her handbag and produced a pack of Du Mauriers. With a shaking hand she lit one and blew the smoke through the side of her mouth. “Let’s go for a ride. My car is parked just outside.”
Myron nodded. “Let me just grab my coat from my office.”
Nadia was a striking woman, not beautiful in the classical sense but attractive, with many ephemeral qualities both in her physical presence and personality. For Myron, one was part and parcel of the other. Dark complexion, raven hair, expressive eyes, full lips — all set comfortably in place. The only genetic blemish was a slightly ennobled nose, “a Mona Lisa with a Barbara Streisand protuberance,” he once remarked in a moment of levity. The rest of her was slim and long-legged, and even in her winter apparel, Myron thought she too had lost some weight.
“So where are you living now?” Myron asked, trying to break the tension as they walked to her vehicle. “You left no forwarding address.”
“At Sally Barlow’s place for the time being,” Nadia answered tightly. “She works at the paper. I think you met her once.”
Myron nodded.
After that, a screaming silence prevailed between them until they got into the car. He’d been in it only a few times since the day they picked it up from the dealership. He tried another innocuous question. “How’s the Rabbit running?”
“Fine. Hard starting for a while. Needed adjustment — something about the fuel injectors.”
She pulled out onto the main road, a rigid river of ice and encrusted snow with patches softened into slush courtesy of the Chinook, and accelerated smoothly through the gears. In the greenish light of the interior, her eyes straight ahead, she appeared preoccupied. Her life was unravelling in an unexpected way.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere — anywhere,” she responded cryptically. “Look…” She bit her lip, determined to say her piece. “I’ve been having an affair.”
Myron knew that he shouldn’t have been caught by surprise. Unhappy women sometimes had affairs, and Nadia had clearly indicated she was unhappy. Still, hearing her say it was a shock, and he reacted to it. If nothing else, it had a therapeutic benefit for the reptilian part of his brain.
“Damn.” He hit the dashboard a little harder than he wanted to. She flinched but kept looking straight ahead. They were now heading northwest toward the airport on the same highway he and Freta had traversed on their expedition to Dworking’s residence.
Myron calmed himself and tried to be objective and reasonable. “How long?” he asked quietly.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters,” he hissed behind what seemed to him clenched teeth. It did matter, actually. How long was he floundering about attempting to understand what was going on in their marriage while was she screwing about?
“Three…four months,” she said softly.
“You met regularly?”
“I didn’t keep count, if that’s what you mean,” she answered with a tinge of defiance.
“Who is he? Do I know him?”
“Look,” she gave him a sideways glance, “I didn’t come to play twenty questions. I had an affair, let’s leave it at that.”
Myron held his tongue for a moment, letting his anger subside as they drove in silence, his thoughts racing. In terms of maintaining his faithfulness, he had taken the higher moral ground — until a couple of days ago. In the end, a moot point maybe. But damn it, she most definitely set up a self-indulgent scenario, one that had much less regard for him than he had for her. Nadia had been calculating and systematic in the way she had gone about her cheating. But even that wasn’t the point; she seemed hardly contrite about it all and in her dramatic appearance not overly forthcoming. Given his state of mind, perhaps he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he should. Something was up; he didn’t know what. Hopefully, she would enlighten him.
“So…why have you decided to tell me now?”
“Because…” she hesitated, “you were bound to find out sooner or later, and I wasn’t sure how you would react.”
“What’d you think I would do…go after him…you? Become unhinged?”
“I–I wasn’t — am not sure.” She pulled into the terminal lot, stopped the car at a parking meter, and turned to him. “What are you going to do?”
Myron honestly didn’t know at that moment. It was as if he was having a surrealistic conversation with a stranger in an alternate universe he once knew intimately. He ignored her question. “You said you were in trouble?”
She sighed. “Things have become a bit messy,” she said vaguely.
“With your…lover?”
She put the idling car into gear and proceeded out of the airport parking lot. “Yeah, with him and this whole town.”
“Care to explain?”
“I’m…I’m not ready to do that — yet.” Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as they headed back to the main highway. “I need some time…to sort a number of things out.”
Myron shifted toward her in his seat and frowned. Those were close to the same words she used when she walked out — the harbinger of a broken record?
She gave him a nervous look and continued, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, you know.”
“What do you want me to do?” Myron asked, suddenly feeling deflated and very tired.
“Be patient. I’ve got an investment in you that…” she searched for the right words, “is hard to let go because of…mistakes.”
“We both made mistakes,” he acknowledged. To be sure, he was far from the perfect marriage partner.
“We…we might have to leave this town. Maybe go back east — start all over,” she said barely above a whisper.
Myron had no response. He couldn’t quite fathom it. Were they to cross the Rubicon together, or was he just being taken for a ride?
Nadia let him off at the main entrance to the college. As he got out, she leaned over with glistening eyes. “Be patient,” she repeated, “I’ll call you.”
For a long moment his eyes held hers, searching the features of the face he loved, his mind flashing memories of what they had together. Then, abruptly, he let them go and nodded. He stood watching, none the wiser than before, as the car sped away, its taillights disappearing in the distance.
***
Albert Einstein believed that pipe-smoking contributed to calm and objective judgment. Ensconced in his apartment, Myron set about to test Einstein’s theory in a deliberate and methodical fashion. He reamed out the bowl of his best Brigham, thoroughly depositing the carbonized curd in the garbage, gave it a quick drag to make sure it wasn’t plugged, and carefully filled and tamped down a couple of layers of tobacco. This was followed by a flick of his Bic and a slow intake and expulsion of contemplative smoke. He felt too mentally drained to call Freta, or anyone else for that matter. And after relighting for a second time, he relaxed, taking solace in his thoughts.
They were a bit askew. Never mind that what he was doing or not doing seemed quite irrelevant to Nadia and to whatever issues beset her. She didn’t ask about him; but then, equally, he was too shocked really to ask about her. It was a conversation in the stratosphere, as fleeting as a jet stream; there was an understanding of sorts and a promise, and he felt better that they had talked. But nothing had changed, and he was still on hold while she made up her mind whether he was worth keeping. Never mind, he realized; even if she made her escape, he would always have feelings for her — tarnished momentarily by outbursts of anger and emotion and, no doubt, diminished with time, but never extinguished. Receding tail lights, he mused bitterly, something like that but not quite — ever increasing distance but not quite beyond the pal
e.
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning he fell asleep and had a dream so intense, it bordered on a spiritual experience. It was as if he was floating, bed and all, toward a white, shimmering light. The light at the end of the tunnel? Then Nadia appeared beside him, stroking his brow. “Everything will be fine now,” the mirage soothed, “just fine…”
Myron woke up with a start, his pulse racing. Did Nadia’s sudden woes have anything to do with Dworking’s demise?
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday
By Tuesday morning, all evidence of the Chinook was gone. The Audi started a little less freely and rode a little more stiffly on the hardened streets. Back to a normal continental climate: crisp with snow flurries in the air. Myron too felt a little more hardened after his encounter with Nadia; the cold light of day expedited the process. On his way to the college, he realized that nothing had really changed between himself and his wife — she was just keeping her options open. The ball was still in her court, and it was up to her to make a play.
The day began well with a couple of morning classes and a departmental meeting where course changes and workloads for the following year were discussed. Myron got his course on the Soviet Union approved for the next academic year; he looked forward to teaching a topic that had been his “minor” field in the doctoral programme. Enrolments seemed to be growing, everyone’s jobs were secure, as far as could be determined, and despite the ever-present threat of funding cutbacks in a time of government restraint, it appeared that more instructors might be needed to accommodate the projected student increases. Wisenburg’s announcement of the scheduled Dworking wake/coronation of the new president received a muted response, but most indicated that they would respectfully attend.
Back in his office, Myron decided to tackle his ominous pile of student papers, get as much work done as he could, and take the night off. He’d planned to pay Freta a visit, see how her investigation had progressed, and possibly nurture their growing relationship. His rapidly warming thoughts about Freta were rudely interrupted, however, when Sidney Sage suddenly showed up at his door.
Sidney had been absent from the departmental meeting, but here he was, dressed in his best Don Cherry costume: a midnight-blue three-piece suit hiding a mostly pink, high-collared Pierre Cardin shirt (monogrammed?) with a flashy tie wedged firmly in place by a conspicuous golden pin. He looked uncomfortable as hell.
He seemed flushed; maybe the collar was cutting off his circulation. “Like to take a few moments of your time, if I may — pass on some information and perhaps have an exchange of views,” he said, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Oh? On what?”
Casting a furtive glance around, Sidney literally tiptoed in, carefully closing the door behind him. Shoes on too tight? Myron wondered. Sidney sat down and gave Myron his infamous eyeball-to-eyeball stare.
“Let me start off by saying I have applied for the presidency. In fact, I had my interview about a half hour ago.”
Myron kept his face an indeterminate neutral, but the little voice inside him let out a loud guffaw. Is this guy for real?
“Now, I know,” Sidney said in a rush of words, “that I’m a dark horse — the unknown — but I am confident that I haven’t over-reached on this — that I can do the job and provide the kind of creative new initiatives this institution needs.”
In other words, you want to lead us all straight up your arsehole until we’re in so much shit, we’d need a year’s worth of laxative to blow us out. Myron, however, kept the thought to himself.
“I believe,” Sidney continued, “that the committee was impressed.”
“I’m sure they’ll give you due consideration,” Myron said with his deadpan face still intact.
“Quite. However, as the faculty representative on the board…” Here it comes, thought Myron. “I would certainly appreciate any supportive input on my behalf that you could provide.”
“Well, Sidney, I too would give you due consideration if the Selection Committee puts your name forward as their candidate of choice.” (God forbid.)
“Yes, yes, but should there be some question or perhaps dispute as to the best choice…ah, board members would then have a contribution to make to the selection process, I should think.”
Myron frowned. “True, but as I understand it, the Selection Committee is mandated to bring forth one candidate for the board as a whole to vote on. Have you been led to believe otherwise?”
“No, I’m only thinking of possible contingencies.”
“Well, never hurts to look at all the angles.”
“Precisely,” Sidney exclaimed. “All I ask is a good word on my behalf should a suitable occasion arise in the deliberations of the board.”
“Now…” Myron cleared his throat, “now that I’m aware that you are running, ah…I shall endeavour to be judicious in that regard if, as you say, the opportunity presents itself.”
Myron was engaging in diplomatic double-talk, but it sounded good, and for all his smarts Sidney was incredibly dense when it came to what people really thought of him. He had to be, or he wouldn’t have run, Myron reasoned.
Sidney was obviously seeking an ally on the board, but not this time; he had burned Myron once, but not twice. Rather than spurn him outright, which was not Myron’s style — character flaw or strong suit, depending on one’s point of view — Myron would play Sidney’s game in the knowledge that he didn’t stand a pup’s chance with the Selection Committee — he hoped!
“If you would, that would be much appreciated,” Sidney said earnestly. He wet his lips again. “On another matter…I normally don’t prattle…”
I bet!
“And I hope that I’m not being too personal or out of line here, but some news has come to my attention — totally unsolicited,” he emphasized, “that I presumed you’d like to know about.”
“Oh?”
“It, ah…concerns your wife.”
“Yes?” Now what the hell is this about? wondered Myron, suddenly perking up.
“I of course don’t know what your situation is, but my neighbour works at the Great Plains Daily Reporter, and he related to me a rather distressing story yesterday that I would not have given much thought to except that names were mentioned. Your wife,” Sidney’s voice took on a hushed tone, “had a fight with a fellow employee, and some heated words were exchanged.”
Myron didn’t say anything but waited for him to continue.
After a lingering pause, Sidney plunged ahead as if now that he was in for a penny, it might as well be a pound. “George, my neighbour, thought it a lover’s spat but…” He gestured upward with his hands and shrugged as if to say who knows…
“When did this…spat occur?” Myron asked calmly.
“Late last week — I’m not sure. George was working after hours when he overheard them yelling at each other. They ceased abruptly when they realized they weren’t alone. She stomped out shortly thereafter, very agitated.”
“Did George say what it was about?”
“Not exactly, only that it was a dilly with a lot of name-calling. He had the impression that they had been, ah, involved for some time before this row. I hope this is not too unseemly of me telling you this, but as a colleague, I thought you should know for what it’s worth.”
Myron nodded. “A heads-up is what you are saying.”
“Precisely.”
One good turn deserves another, Myron reading between the lines. Quid pro quo. You put in a good word for me in my quest for the presidency, and I’ll tell you about your naughty wife and her escapades.
“Did George mention the name of this individual?”
“The guy writes a weekly column — Streuve, I think he said.”
Myron nodded. Conrad Streuve indeed had a column on local events and personalities.
“Well, Sidney, thank you for sharing.”
***
After Sidney vacated his office, Myron leaned back on his swivel s
eat, put his feet on the desk, and started to laugh. He laughed so hard, he almost fell over backward. It was one of those bittersweet laughs one has about the ironies of life. It dawned on him that Streuve’s melancholy behaviour at the Co-op Mall was the result of his falling out with Nadia. He was her mysterious lover, and she dumped him! And he, in an enigmatic way, was telling Myron about it. Myron had suddenly become a kindred spirit of sorts for Streuve. It was so funny, it hurt.
“Enough of this,” he muttered, glancing ruefully at his stack of essays yet to read. “Better get on with it!”
But before he did, he gave Freta a call at the RCMP Detachment Office. They were to get together that night after a couple days off to catch up on the case and “other” things but hadn’t arranged a time.
“I’ll be running a little late tonight,” she informed him, “but I do want you to come over — say about nine. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“A surprise? What kind of surprise? I’ve had a couple already today.”
“Oh, you’ll like this one. I can’t tell you, can I? Won’t be a surprise then.”
“Okay, rendezvous at nine.” Myron hung up, pondering his “surprise.”
Myron’s contemplation was abruptly interrupted by a knock on his door. It was Ted.
“These walls aren’t that thick — thought you’d gone mad. Listened to Sage too long or something. You didn’t open your door.”
“Ted! When did you come in? Didn’t see you earlier or yesterday. Took the day off?”
“Of sorts — attended a state of Alberta and the world economic conference with some of my students at the Great Plains Inn. Quite enlightening — a couple of interesting speakers.” Ted plopped himself into Myron’s extra chair.
“And what did you find out?” Myron asked, dismissing the essays as a lost cause for the rest of the afternoon.
“That Alberta’s economic slowdown will continue with the falling of energy prices; that we have about an $11 billion deficit; and that Don Getty is a better quarterback than premier. Globally, the Russians are getting a shit-kicking in Afghanistan and are ready to withdraw — not that it counts for anything, financially speaking — and that Perestroika and Glasnost aren’t going to solve the Soviets’ productivity problem. Too much central planning and drinking on the job.”
A Death Most Cold Page 14