The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  But as soon as I mentioned Soren Eames there was a pause, and when I asked if he’d had trouble finding information on Eames, he sounded sullen.

  “I didn’t see it as being worth the bother. I asked one of our researchers to look into it, and she came up with a one-page summary of a rather dismal life – nothing we didn’t know. If you insist, I’ll have her look again.”

  “Yeah, I insist,” I said, laughing.

  “So be it,” he said, sharply.

  Whatever ambivalence he felt about Soren Eames the man, Rick’s journalistic instincts weren’t dulled. When I mentioned Eames’s phone call, the line crackled with interest: What had he said? What had I said? What were my impressions? He congratulated me on my decision to put off seeing Soren until after my birthday. “No use wasting your time on a charlatan, Joanne,” he said – a typical Rick line, but he hadn’t read it well. There was uneasiness in his voice, and I thought I knew why.

  Even when I was young I hadn’t been good at boy-girl games. Another woman would have been quick to grab hold of this show of vulnerability. I wasn’t.

  “Rick, listen. The only reason I’m seeing Soren Eames again is because I think he knows something. There’s a connection there.”

  His answer came from far away. “Good night, Joanne. I’ll call you tomorrow night before I go to bed, ten o’clock your time, midnight here. They won’t have done the daylight savings thing by then.” He sounded fretful.

  I laughed. “Rick, it doesn’t matter. Call when you’re near a phone.”

  “Ten o’clock,” he said again. “And, Joanne, I’ll get the research person to send what she comes up with on Eames directly to you. Have a splendid day tomorrow. I wish you that.”

  The first thing I heard on my forty-sixth birthday was the phone ringing, then my daughter’s voice laughing, tuneless, singing a crazy birthday song I’d made up for her when she was little. The kids always screamed and yelled when I started to sing it, but it was as much a part of all their birthdays as the ugly plastic tree loaded with jellybeans that was the invariable birthday centrepiece and the mug with parrots singing “Happy bird day to you” that was always at the birthday kid’s place on the table. So much a part of their birthdays but never – until that morning – of mine. That Mieka would sing it to me signalled a change in our relationship. When she finished, she was laughing, and I was crying.

  “Oh, Mieka, that was beautiful.”

  “Mum, that was awful.”

  “Well, yeah, but beautiful that you phoned me up and sang. Does it sound that bad when I do it?”

  “Worse, Mum, worse.”

  “Mieka, it is so wonderful to hear your voice.” And then we were away on a lovely, aimless conversation about the boys (“Tell them I miss them and gently remind them the present for you is under the sleeping bag in Angus’s cupboard”) and her classes (“The woman who teaches my English class is so much like you – that first day I wanted to follow her home like a puppy”) and my growing conviction that Rick Spenser was interested in me (“Well, why wouldn’t he be? Except for your singing and your worrying, you’re practically a perfect person”). Mother-daughter stuff.

  Finally I forced myself to look at the clock. “Mieka, I hate for us to stop, but this is costing you a fortune and we can get caught up when we go to Winnipeg for Thanksgiving. It’s only a week from today. I can’t believe how quickly the fall is going.”

  There was no response.

  “Mieka?”

  Her voice was gentle but firm. “Mum, I’m not going to Winnipeg for Thanksgiving.” And then, “Greg’s parents have a cottage at Emma Lake, and they’ve invited me to spend the Thanksgiving weekend with them and Gregory. I really want to do this. I’ve told them yes, Mum.”

  No room to negotiate. No need to negotiate. She was grown up. She wanted to spend the weekend with the family of a man she was interested in. Outwardly I was gracious, upbeat, and when I hung up we were both laughing. But inside I was raging. It was, I thought, as I looked at my indisputably forty-six-year-old face in the mirror, one hell of a way to begin a birthday.

  It didn’t get any better in the next hour. The boys were at each other from the moment they got up. They fought like a pair of six-year-olds over who got to hand me my birthday present, and the truce at breakfast was a fragile one. Peter couldn’t find his Latin book, and Angus, for the first time since kindergarten, decided he didn’t want to go to school. As I stood on our front porch, shivering in the chill, watching Angus snake up the road toward grade eight, I was not exactly brimming with radiance and peace. When a black Porsche pulled up in front of my house and I saw a slender man in black get out of the driver’s seat, I felt like giving up on being forty-six altogether. The man was Soren Eames.

  I was still in my robe. I had brushed my teeth, but I hadn’t showered. I was in no mood for being on either side of a therapy session. If Soren hadn’t already spotted me, I think I would have made it simple and not answered the door, but it was too late. He was coming up the front walk toward me, trying to smile but looking tense. He was carrying a blue box from Birks – the kind you get when you buy a really pricy piece of china or crystal.

  He stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs and handed the box to me.

  “Many happy returns, Joanne.”

  I just stood there.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  I started to give the box back.

  “No,” he said. “Let’s go inside. Please. Once you open the box, I think you’ll understand some things.”

  He followed me into the house. I went through to the kitchen, poured us both some coffee and joined him in the living room.

  The blue box was on the coffee table between us. Soren leaned over and pushed it toward me.

  “Please, Joanne.”

  I think I knew as soon as I pulled back the tissue paper and saw the little ceramic figure inside. I had seen it before. In fact, one blistering Canada Day weekend I had bought it at a craft fair in the southwest corner of the province. It was the work of a local artist, and it was a lovely, witty piece – a cabbage, perfect in every detail, unfolding its top leaves like a flower. Rising from the heart of the cabbage is a woman with the broad hips and heavy breasts of the Ukraine. She is wearing a brown peasant’s dress, and a bright kerchief covers her hair. Her face, with its sweep of Slavic cheekbones and bright blue eyes, is uncannily like Roma Boychuk’s. The woman’s arms are raised toward heaven, and in her hands, solemn and handsome, is a baby boy. The piece is called “Ukrainian Genesis,” and as soon as Andy Boychuk saw it that July day he had to have it.

  I did the purchasing. Andy paid me later. When you’re in politics and you go to a show where all the work is by local artists, it’s prudent not to single one artist out and stiff the rest. Andy had loved that piece. I would have sworn it hadn’t left his desk since the day he bought it. Except “Ukrainian Genesis” had left his desk. Somewhere along the line he had given it to Soren Eames; and now Soren Eames was giving it to me.

  “How?” I asked.

  “It was a gift, a gift to commemorate a special time for me. It was a wonderful gesture.”

  I could feel my safe world shifting, and I didn’t want it to. I grabbed a handhold. “Andy was full of wonderful gestures. He was a generous man. He gave things to a lot of people.”

  Soren Eames leaned across the table and looked into my face. His voice was soft, almost diffident, but his gaze was steady. “I loved him, Joanne.”

  I felt oppressed, as if something were pressing me down. I didn’t want to hear this. I didn’t want to know.

  “A lot of people loved Andy,” I said and I turned and looked out the window.

  Soren Eames half stood and leaned toward me. His hand touched my cheek and turned my face. “Look at me, Joanne. You’re not a simple woman. You know what I’m talking about here. I didn’t love Andy like a lot of people. It was more for us – a great deal more. He was my lover, and I was his.”

  Free
fall. The old, safe world gave way. I heard my voice, pleading, stupid. “Who knew? Were you careful?” The political questions. Andy was dead. This man was destroyed by grief, but the political instinct was always alive and kicking. There are a hundred jokes about the referential mania of political people: the husband of a woman running for the House of Commons is killed in a car accident and her opponent bitterly dismisses the new widow’s loss as “a great break for her”; a campaign manager tells his workers to make sure all their supporters in the senior citizens’ homes vote in the advance poll so that, no matter what, the party won’t have lost a vote. And me, right in there with the best or worst of them, treating this fragile man as a political problem, not a suffering human being.

  His face was so close to me that I could see the faint blue-black of the beard growing beneath his skin, and I could smell his aftershave, light, woodsy – familiar.

  Surprised, I said, “You smell like Andy. Did you always use that cologne? Or …”

  “I changed after,” he said. “Stupid – as if it could change anything.” He flinched, and the pain on his face was as sharp as if he had been stabbed.

  It all changed for me in that moment. Not Paul on the road to Damascus, exactly, but the shock of recognition was there.

  “I did that, too,” I said, “after my husband died. At night, before I went to bed, I’d rub his aftershave into my body so that when I woke up in the night …”

  “You could pretend that he was still there,” he finished for me.

  “Something like that.”

  We sat in silence, wrapped in our separate memories. Finally, I wanted to talk.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know, just … Soren, come into the kitchen and let me get some fresh coffee and we’ll start again.”

  He stood up and smiled. “Is being invited into the kitchen a mark of friendship?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “Then I accept with pleasure. I need a friend.”

  We sat at the kitchen table. The sky was threatening. The yard was heavy with leaves from the cottonwood tree, sodden and disintegrating. It was a thoroughly dismal day. Soren Eames was oblivious to the weather. For a long time his eyes didn’t shift from the window, but I think he was seeing a different landscape.

  He had brought the little baba figure into the kitchen, and as we sat, his fingers traced her lines, like a man playing with worry beads.

  Finally, he began to speak. His voice was warm and intimate.

  “Joanne, I wish we could stop the movie right here. It’s a good frame – the respectable matron and the closet gay reach out to one another over their friend’s death. But it’s more complex than that. Not long after we met, Andy told me you were one of the few people in his life he trusted. That’s going to have to be good enough for me because” – he swallowed hard – “I have to trust somebody.”

  He was wearing a bomber jacket of buttery, smooth cowhide. As he spoke, he reached into an inside pocket and pulled out an envelope. It was of good quality paper, dove grey. On the front, in elegant and familiar calligraphy, was the name Soren Eames. There was no address. My hands began to shake.

  “Hand delivered?” I asked in a bright, artificial voice.

  He nodded. “Apparently. It was in my mail slot at the college. It’s a fairly public place. Open it.”

  I turned the envelope to open it. On the back flap were the letters A and E intertwined the way they are on a wedding invitation, the way they were on the copy of “The Sick Rose” someone had placed in Andy’s portfolio the day he was killed. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely pull the enclosure from the envelope.

  I recognized it immediately. It was a pre-election brochure of Andy’s. I had written the copy. General stuff: a careful biography, a few platitudes and a couple of soaring, meaningless slogans. No one ever reads the words, anyway. But the pictures were extraordinary. They’d been taken by a young man who had wandered into the Caucus Office early in the summer. His name was Colin Grant, and that day he was wearing cheap runners, cutoffs and a Georgia O’Keeffe sweatshirt. He had a Leica slung around his neck.

  “What you want,” he had said as he struck a match on Dave Micklejohn’s no-smoking sign, “is subtext not substance.”

  We hired him that day, and he hadn’t disappointed. His pictures were extraordinary. He could do magic things with light, and the photo on the front of the brochure Soren was holding was one of his best – in part, because it violated all the conventional wisdom about how you show your candidate.

  Andy’s back was to the camera. Coatless, hands outstretched, he was plunging into the crowd at a rally in Victoria Park. We saw the people from his angle: hands reaching out to him, touching him, faces raised to his.

  It was a scene all of us who’d been involved in politics had seen a hundred times. But Colin Grant had played with the light to show what seemed to happen when Andy walked through a crowd. The sun was behind Andy, so that while his shape was dark, the faces in the crowd were illuminated by a light that seemed to come from him. In truth, he could do that to a crowd. It was, I thought, a great photo. But in the brochure Soren Eames handed me, someone had scrawled a word in dark lipstick over Andy’s back and head. The word was “Faggot.”

  “I think we should begin at the beginning,” I said, my voice shaking. And he did – with the night he and Andy became lovers. He told his story with such restraint, but every so often his voice would be soft with joy at the simple pleasure of saying his lover’s name or remembering a moment of intimacy. His voice was full of wonder when he described the night he and Andy walked at dusk to the prayer centre. “I wasn’t his first lover, but he was mine … Oh, Joanne, that first time he touched me, I thought, ‘This is what it feels like to bloom’ – as if I were unfolding under his hands until the dark centre of what I was came into the light. I haven’t had a particularly happy life, but that night everything changed for me – for us both. It wasn’t a casual intimacy for either of us, Jo. I want you to know that. Andy would want you to know that. There hadn’t been anyone before for me, and there had just been one other for him – just one, but he ended that when we fell in love.

  “Andy was a person of such honour. That first night we wanted each other so much, but he didn’t begin with me until he’d broken off with the other man.” He picked up the brochure. “Joanne, this obscenity doesn’t make sense because no one knew. We were so careful. For both of us, there were so many other people involved. You, for example – Andy knew how much you’d given to his leadership campaign, and if this had come out … Well, you can imagine. Professionally, it would have been the end for me, of course. The good people at Wolf River think my Porsche is kind of flamboyant and daring, but a gay pastor?” He shrugged and smiled sadly. “However, it was Eve we felt we had to protect the most. There hadn’t been anything between them for years, but I think Andy would have endured anything rather than cause her to suffer. He said she had suffered enough. She didn’t know about us – about me. I’m certain of that. But I always had the sense that she knew the truth about Andy, and I think she knew about the first one.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Andy was a man of honour, you know that, Jo. I never knew the first man’s name. I do know they were together for a long time – for years. Andy was terribly shaken about severing their relationship.”

  Soren looked close to breaking. But I had to press him. “Could it have been him, Soren? Could it have been that first man who killed Andy?”

  He didn’t answer. He was watching the cold rain falling on the leaves. Finally, he turned to me.

  “Jo, what am I going to do about all this?” He tapped the brochure.

  “About all this? I don’t think you have much choice. I think you have to go to the police. Soren, everything’s connected.” I pointed to the initials on the envelope. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen that design. It was on a poem someone put in Andy’
s speech folder the day he was killed.”

  He looked dazed. I knew how he felt. There had, I thought, been too many shocks.

  “Soren, are you all right?”

  He held the ceramic cabbage up to the light and turned it gently. “Jo, it’s not the first time I’ve seen those letters, either. I’ve been trying to remember exactly where I saw them before. I know it was at Andy’s house in the city. We were looking through some of his old English texts one day, and I saw those initials drawn together that way a couple of times.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “I always hated to bring up the subject of Eve.”

  “So you assumed the E and A were Eve and Andy?”

  “It seemed logical. Who else would it be? And that’s one reason I don’t want to go to the police. It was always so important to Andy that Eve be protected – I want to do that for him. And, Jo, I don’t want people to know about Andy. I don’t want anything to hurt him.”

  His eyes were full of tears. I reached over and touched his hand. “Soren, he wouldn’t want anything to hurt you.”

  He looked up and started to say something. Just then the phone rang. It was Ali Sutherland, breathless, between patients, calling to wish me a happy birthday.

  “We are counting the days till Thanksgiving,” she said. “Guess what I bought? China with turkeys on it – ten place settings. It’s your birthday present but we get to use it first. You’ll love it, Jo – a little border of fruits and vegetables and everything – god-awful but right up your alley. There goes my other phone – one of us will meet you at the train – happy birthday!”

  When I hung up, Soren was zipping his bomber jacket. “I’ve taken up too much of your time today. I’ll call you in a few days and let you know what I decide about the police.” He touched my cheek with his fingertips. “Thanks for listening. It was good just to say his name.” He smiled. “And, Joanne, many, many happy returns.”