For the first time in her necrological career, Evie dared to picture her own tombstone. If she were to plotz on the sidewalk tomorrow, her parents would probably opt for the hackneyed Beloved Daughter inscription even though Tolerated Daughter was more on the money. When the bereaved were churning out balled-up Kleenexes in the Berson’s showroom, pricing the granite mock-ups for their late lamenteds, they inevitably favoured the platitudes and half-truths. On her weekend jogs through Mount Royal Cemetery, Evie’d never once seen a snarky monument. All sarcasm was checked at the gatehouse where the dogs were leashed and the maps handed out. The worst she’d ever observed was a naked name, a name unadorned by any ornamental hasta la vista, but even that was rare, a potter’s field aberration in the Hallmark forest of forever in our hearts and in loving memories. Suddenly, viewed through the prism of her own mortal remains and her epitaph-challenged marker, she was ashamed of the irreverence of the newspaper’s graveyard shift. And wasn’t she one of the worst offenders? Hadn’t it been her idea to call their softball team the Body Bags?
But the headstone was a red herring. Just what had she accomplished worth memorializing in her life anyway? Her fireball mother, shot through with the fervour of her cause, had struggled to change the world no less, to reclaim the future for the legions of the knocked up. Maybe Evie and her mother had their differences. In fact, it was all they had in common. But Evie always chalked up to Marilyn the chutzpah points she deserved for her cross-country crusade on behalf of abortion rights. She’d just never said it out loud is all. And then there was Jean-Gabriel’s legacy of literature. By Evie’s bookish yardstick, there existed no greater gift to pass along to future generations. Okay, so she was still on the young side. Maybe it was too early to commit to drain on society for her gravestone, but judged against those two go-getters Evie was already a certified goldbrick. Her mother hadn’t even celebrated her twenty-first birthday when she signed on with her gaggle of uterine freedom fighters, and as for Jean-Gabriel, he’d yet to crack thirty when he raked in every award going for his first play. What was she waiting for?
Maybe she could arrange to be cremated. At least that way there would stand no monumental reminder of her washout status, just the cremains in a shoebox. Her parents could dump her out onto the peony beds at the chalet with the night’s load of ashes from the barbecue. Sheesh, cremains, what loser thought up that one? It must have been some stumblebum funeral director who tripped over the burner pedals while he was lecturing his trainee and out it popped; a serendipitous discovery on the order of penicillin or silly putty. But then who was Evie to sneer? Whoever coined it, at least his legacy was clear, a shiny new word left behind for posterity. A word that filled a hole. Even if it did only amount to a clunky conflating, the solder job was blessed by both the lexicographers at the Oxford English and Mr. Will Shortz. Evie, on the other hand, the self-identifying wordoholic, was handing down etymological bupkis.
And her obituary. What could it possibly say? Even with all her prior experience tarting up the specious accomplishments of the dead and gone, Evie was hard pressed to silk purse the sow’s ear grab bag of achievements that defined her own life. She mentally scavenged the dumpsters of her oeuvre for glowing phrases that might apply to herself, but she had to face facts. She wasn’t obit-worthy. A just-the-facts-ma’am death notice is all she merited, fifty-five bucks for seven lines, photo extra.
“Earth to Evie,” Moshe called out to her. “Come in Evie. Over and out.”
At his summons Evie checked back in from the hereafter, but her brief outing left her rattled. The amateur sleuth forgot all about the sidelong surveillance style she’d been pursuing, and she shifted her eyes to pore directly into Jean-Gabriel’s. Her wide-open gaze gave him entrée to slip behind the purdah curtain that hid her private fears. There he stole a glimpse of the one that stood in the foreground, the one that bore his own face. He nodded his head once in confirmation, the slightest bob for her consumption only. The table-talk swirled around the pair of them, the day-to-day blah-blah of the unencumbered soul. To prove that they were indeed paying attention they interjected a word here and there but they’d clocked out of the evening. As the guests departed, Jean-Gabriel offered to stay behind and help with the washing up.
“You know you stink in the kitchen,” she said.
“It’s not one of my better rooms, that’s true. But I can be the in-flight entertainment.”
“It’s a deal.”
Evie scrubbed the pots in silence while he sat behind her at the kitchen table, swiping at them ineffectually with a dish towel after she passed them over, distributing the water more uniformly around the surfaces.
“I’m okay you know,” he said eventually, addressing her back. “If that’s what you’re worrying about. I am okay.” For all that she was well versed in the lingo of death, Evie was unequipped for this conversation. Luckily Jean-Gabriel expected no reply or comment.
“Better to get hit by a bus, paf, and be done with it. Who needs to know the when? Still, it’s not like I’m being cut off in my prime. For that I should be thankful, non? My father, he hung on till he was ninety-four. Did I ever tell you about him? A stingy bastard. Took his longevity genes with him to the grave rather than share them with his scoundrel son. Right on track with the rest of the family. They gave up on me way back. Ah well, all that is a story for another time. You’ll remind me?”
Evie’s cowardliness shamed her. She wrenched herself away from the sink and sat down to face him. “When you come right down to it,” he said to her, “what have I got to hang around for anyway? Not my work, that’s for sure. I’m running on fumes there. Haven’t had a real success in years as you know. They just keep revamping my golden oldies. At least by kicking the bucket now, I’ll be spared that mortifying spectacle where they wheel out the old codger author for a curtain call with a blanket over his knees and a rolling IV drip. Now that’s something to be thankful for. I’m forgetting something here. What else is a deathbed oration meant to address? I should know, I’ve written one or two in my time. What is it? Ah oui. My Amélie. Think she’ll shed a tear or two out there, wherever she is, for auld lang syne? Who am I kidding? When a shmuck falls in the forest, does he make a sound?” Clearly Jean-Gabriel had a death checklist to rival Evie’s and he came out on the wrong side in every category.
Though Evie normally had a long fuse, there were a few cattle-prod topics that could zap her slow-to-blow tendencies to smithereens, and of these Amélie stood at the front of the queue. As she watched Jean-Gabriel roll over and accept the false persona his ex had thrown over him like a plague blanket, she snapped. “What is wrong with you? I don’t get it. Why did you stand back and let her tarnish your image all these years? Why didn’t you fight back? You’re too much of a gentleman. She more than had it coming. You’re entitled to your true legacy as an artist. Your true legacy as a person.” As someone who’d buffed up her fair share of legacies Evie knew whereof she spoke. “Who decided that it would be Amélie’s twisted, vindictive silence that would poison your memory for the world? It’s so unfair. If only there were some way we could set the record straight.”
Jean-Gabriel reached across the table and clasped the hands of his earnest young friend in his own. “Dayenu, ma chérie.”
Chapter 9
WHAT DID HE THINK, she was Ed McMahon? That she’d insinuate herself into the life of a complete stranger and then show up on the lawn with a cardboard cheque the size of a landing strip? That level of fancy footwork required a script, but for the first time in their acquaintance, the master playwright had failed her.
The doctor’s forecast of six months turned out to overshoot the mark. Jean-Gabriel only hung on for three. His decline was precipitous, a jagged plunge that ravaged his body on the way down, but spared his brain. Throughout his ordeal Evie tended to him with daughterly devotion. At home until the end, Jean-Gabriel wanted for nothing. His upstairs friend made sure of that.
Evie’s shame over her dearth of worldly accomplishments to fill in the crepe-swagged borders of an obituary box showed a lack of self-awareness. The trouble was that she was always so busy comparing her own qualities to the flashier ones of the VIPs she wrote up for the newspaper that she undervalued her life. It was as a friend that Evie shone, a flawless exemplar of the species. But in the grand rope line of virtues jockeying for pride of place, fast friend stood shyly at the tail end while other blingier attributes hogged the front and tipped the bouncer. Just because her headstone might only be incised with that slim pair of words after her name, words that could fit into the cavity of a fortune cookie with room to spare, did not mean that they were any less worthy. This was not one of those cases where size mattered, but go tell Evie.
The phone call from Jean-Gabriel’s notary came through a few months after the funeral, inviting Evie to set up an appointment on the matter of the bequest. The term puzzled her, and she was one who demanded precision in her definitions. In Evie’s mind, as cluttered with old novels as a quay-side bookstall, bequests were the purview of the ultra rich; lump sums bestowed on Cook and Nanny, allowing them to scrape by with dignity post great house, noblesse oblige. How could her Jean-Gabriel be following in the footsteps of those BritLit bequestors? Not that she was privy to his bank books, but surely if he had enough cash to dish out posthumously he wouldn’t have felt obliged to scrimp on himself prethumously, or whatever the proper antonym was.
On the other hand, a bequest didn’t absolutely have to be monetary. She’d read here and there of exceptions, ancestral portraits, brooches, a ship in a bottle. Maybe Jean-Gabriel was just leaving her a keepsake from his apartment, though there wasn’t much in his cellblock abode in the way of bric-à-brac. A signed copy of one of his books perhaps? Yes, that had to be it. As she walked down the leafy NDG street that housed the notarial office, Evie felt more settled. Surely she’d be heading home with a simple memento, a sentimental token of their friendship. A sentimento. Did that word exist, she wondered? Well, Evie decided, if it didn’t, it should.
Maître Miljour sat her down with a cup of tea and eulogized his late client while she sipped, easing them into the official business at hand with duly notarized decorum. He reached into his desk drawer and drew out a sealed envelope that he handed to her.
“M. Médéry charged me to give you this. It explains itself. I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to read over the contents. If you want anything I’ll be just outside.”
Evie tore open the envelope and pulled out a brief note.
“Ma chère Ève, As you see, I have managed to accumulate a little nest egg.”
Evie shook out the envelope and a cheque fluttered onto her lap, made out in her name. She took in the row of zeros crammed into the rectangle headed with the dollar sign. If this was a nest egg, it must have been laid by a brontosaurus. Her attention bounced back to the letter.
Now I find that I will not have the time to dispose of it as I planned. I entrust you, my dearest friend, to carry out my intentions.
Ève, the money is destined to Amélie. I know what you think of her, but I hope you can get beyond your rancour to do as I ask of you. I want her to inherit everything I have so that she may live out the rest of her life with ease.
This task, Ève, I leave to you. I hope you will not find it too onerous or distasteful, especially as there is one crucial element that I must insist upon that will place an extra load of complication on your fragile shoulders. Amélie cannot know that this money comes from me. If she sees my fingerprints staining the bequest, she will refuse it. She would starve first. Of this I am sure. I beg you to arrange it so that the money seems to come to her naturally, using whatever means you see fit.
I am sorry to have to burden you of all people with this, but you are the only one I can depend on. If you need to make use of any of the money in order to set your plan afoot, feel free to help yourself.
I can count on you, Ève. Of that I am absolutely certain.
Forgive me for leaving you alone in all this. I wish I could have been there long enough to give you the same kind of support you always gave to me, but my body is keeping me to a very stingy timetable. Use your own writerly instincts to plot this through to the end, my authoress amie. I have confidence that you can do it.
With my love, my thanks, and my apologies,
Jean-Gabriel
The notary tapped gently on the door and cracked it open just enough to poke his head in. “Do you need some more time Madame?” Evie declined the proffered extension. She’d reread the missive enough times in his absence that she already had it committed to memory. With her permission the rest of Maître Miljour’s body followed his head into the office. “Do you have any questions?” he asked as he took up the seat opposite Evie. The deceased’s hand-picked operative was roiling with questions, but somehow she couldn’t manage to articulate a single one of them, and in the absence thereof the meeting was at its end. The notary declared himself at her service, handed her his card, and released her into the fresh air with Jean-Gabriel’s apartment key fob weighing down her pocket.
There was no way to avoid Jean-Gabriel’s door, which fronted onto the main lobby, short of entering the complex through the cellar, a bit of childish subterfuge to which Evie availed herself for a spell after her session with the notary. She hadn’t yet mustered the strength to face the outline of her friend’s doorway, let alone pass over the threshold of his now uninhabited apartment. She took to looping around the building to get in through the back alley entrance, a time-sucking detour as the condo’s cadastral footprint was of biblical proportions, covering an outsized city block that matched the full hectare of the property’s original vocation. Evie seldom ran into any of her neighbours en route to that secondary entryway. Even if the distance wasn’t enough to dissuade them, her fellow residents tended to snub the gunmetal back door since it served as the passageway of choice for the garbage cans and the recycling bins. The spillover from those containers littered the alley, turning it into a popular brunch spot for the neighbourhood vermin. For now, though, despite its drawbacks logistical and pestilential, the rear door suited Evie just fine.
The stairs inside the back door led directly to the basement. The condo’s underbelly had been only minimally renovated. The space wasn’t deep enough to convert into a parking garage so the builders slapped in a bank of storage lockers, brought the necessaries up to code, just, and then skedaddled back upstairs to expend all their efforts on the building’s showier bits. They left untouched the flagstone floors and the arched recesses that had served the religious community as root cellars. Nor did they overextend themselves on basement ventilation paraphernalia. Two lethargic ceiling fans effectively recirculated the same cryptish air that dated from the nineteenth century. As for lighting, the cut-rate fixtures the electricians installed expressed fewer lumens than a votive candle. The ancient cobwebs, massive affairs, suffered no ill-effects in the cellar’s slipshod renovation. No worker ever thought to lift a broom to them. Spun back in the day when the sisters ruled the roost, their grizzled resident spiders still sported a tonsure out of respect for their former landlords.
Evie cut through the basement to get over to the fire-stairs that allowed her to bypass the lobby. Even though her new route meant that what used to be a quick zip out to the dépanneur for a litre of milk was now a major reconnaissance operation, a good half-hour just to whiten her coffee, she was determined to stick with it for however long it took her to get her memories safely caged up in solitary.
It was several weeks into Evie’s subterranean routine, after she’d pulled the door to behind her and taken a few steps forward into the basement, that her nerves shot her a warning that she wasn’t alone. She stopped in her tracks, all her senses on high alert, but when a full minute ticked by and they detected neither noise nor movement she let out her breath. Evie figured out easily enough wh
at had overcome her in the stillness of the convent cellar. Lately, her brain had voided itself of every subject save Jean-Gabriel’s request, so her imagination had lots of extra room to kick around in. To test how far it could push its new limits it engineered a mini-hallucination to goose her one. Evie was a good sport and sloughed it off. Her joints unfroze and she continued to make her way forward, humming her way out of the quiet. But halfway to her destination the impression of another presence nearby seized hold of her yet again. No, not the impression, the surety. Acting against all her instincts that bade her flee, she whirled around to confront the lurker. A wimpled shadow flitted across the cellar in front of her. In the dim moted light Evie could just make out against its grey serge habit the profile of a scooped up apron loaded with carrots to carry up to the refectory soup kettles. So ended Evie’s spelunking expeditions. She reverted to the direct route, but continued to ignore Jean-Gabriel’s apartment until his keys on her kitchen counter guilted her into action and she used them as they were intended.
Someone had been in the flat ahead of her, most probably Mme. Côté nosing about, straightening up in the wake of the Urgences-Santé technicians. The medicine bottles were cleared away and the bed stripped down. Evie was relieved those jobs hadn’t fallen to her. If she’d known that they’d been lifted from her plate, she might have come in sooner. The apartment had taken on its pre-sickbed aspect, hardly any different from when she used to visit with Jean-Gabriel in the early days. She checked around, assessing what needed to be done, but he’d made it easy for her. The closets, the only part of the apartment with any critical mass, had already been Salvation-Armied. All that remained of his possessions were his few sprigs of furniture, the books, and the contents of his kitchen cupboards. A morning’s worth of phone calls and she’d be done. With that part of things anyway.
Evie, the Baby and the Wife Page 10