by Gail Bowen
“It’s the day before the election,” I said. “And that’s a dramatic photo.”
Zack drained his coffee, wheeled over to the hall closet, and took down his jacket.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“To Mieka’s – to talk to our granddaughters.”
When Mieka answered the door, she seemed harried, but she managed a smile. “Don’t waste your time here,” she said. “You already have my vote. But I think my next-door neighbours are wavering.”
“I’ll work on them after I talk to the girls,” Zack said.
“They’re upstairs getting ready for school,” Mieka said. “What’s up?”
“Have you seen the morning paper?”
Mieka smiled. “Zack, I haven’t subscribed to a newspaper in years. I get all my news online.”
Zack took out his iPad and fiddled with it till he had the front page of the Leader-Post.
“How did that happen?” she said quietly.
“A guy who does not wish me well tipped my wheelchair,” Zack said. “The girls and your mother came running. One of the parents at the game must have decided to immortalize the moment.”
Mieka’s brow was furrowed. “But you’re okay?” she said.
“I’m fine,” Zack said. “I’m just worried that Madeleine and Lena will get hassled at school, so I’m here to apologize.”
“No need,” Mieka said. “The girls understand elections. They’ve had a few dustups at school already.”
I touched her arm. “You never said anything.”
“I didn’t want to worry you. I talked to Mo and he spoke to the kids involved. It’s all good now.”
“What happened when it wasn’t ‘all good’?” Zack said.
“Some kids made some nasty comments about you. Madeleine told them to stop, and things got out of hand.”
Zack continued to press. “How out of hand?” he said.
Mieka’s tone was resigned. “One of the girls shoved Madeleine. Maddy shoved back and they were going at it until the teacher separated them.”
“That doesn’t sound like Madeleine,” Zack said.
“It isn’t like Madeleine,” Mieka said. “But she loves you, Zack. She’s not going to stand by and let another kid say cruel things about you.”
“Were there any repercussions?”
“Madeleine was uninvited to a sleepover. The parents are Ridgeway supporters and friends of the parents of the girl who started the shoving. The mother called me and told me that it would be best if Maddy didn’t come to the party.”
Zack closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’d do anything to keep those girls from being hurt,” he said. “I hope you know that, Mieka.”
“I do,” she said. “And it’s not as if the Kilbourns haven’t been down this road before. Elections were always tough for my brothers and me, but we survived. Madeleine and Lena will too.”
“What can I do to help?” Zack asked.
“Just do what Mum always did with Pete and Angus and me. Tell the girls you love them, you’re proud of them, and that they should hang on to what J.S. Woodsworth said. ‘What we desire for ourselves, we wish for all.’ ”
“You remember,” I said.
For the first time that morning, Mieka’s smile was unforced. “Mum, it’s not as if we didn’t hear it a million times. Plus we had Woodsworth’s ‘Prayer Before Meat’ on all those paper placemats that sweet lady at party office ordered before someone told her that paper placemats were not environmentally friendly.”
I laughed. “But our family used them. Three times a day for God knows how long, and we never even made a dent in the supply.”
“There are still boxes of them in my basement,” Mieka said. “Somehow it didn’t seem environmentally friendly to throw them out.”
“If they’re not mouldy, bring them along to the victory party tomorrow night,” I said. “They’ll be a nice souvenir.”
“More importantly, they’ll finally be out of my house,” Mieka said. My daughter was rarely physically demonstrative with Zack, but she could feel his misery about the girls and bent to embrace him. “The girls will be fine,” she said. “So will I. Everybody will be fine.”
When we left Mieka’s, Zack was quiet and clearly troubled.
I slid into the driver’s seat, but I didn’t put the keys into the ignition. “We knew this wouldn’t be easy,” I said.
“Yeah,” Zack said, “but I assumed the hits would be aimed at me. Knowing that our grandkids and our kids are being hurt by this makes me sick. Ridgeway’s people haven’t laid a hand on me. They’ve been content to go after the people around me. And all I can do is stand by and watch you take the blows.”
Zack’s face was grey and his eyes were deeply shadowed. “We have an hour before we start making the rounds to cheer on the volunteers,” I said. “Let’s take a walk along the levee and see if we can find our old pals the beavers. We both deserve time off.”
“Sold,” Zack said. He took his chair out of the back seat and began assembling it again. When he’d transferred his weight from the car to the chair, we moved towards the levee that the city built on both sides of the creek to protect us from floods during spring runoff.
For a body of water in a residential area ten minutes from downtown, Wascana Creek is large, about twenty-five metres across. As a further flood precaution, the banks have been planted with indigenous bushes. In spring and summer their leaves rustle musically in the wind, but on that late October morning only a few leaves clung to their branches. The morning sunshine was pale, and the creek was silent. As we walked down the levee towards our old house, Zack and I were silent too.
I found the flat rock I used to sit on in early mornings when the dogs and I had finished our run, and Zack moved his chair close to me. “It’s so peaceful here,” he said.
“Taylor says that at this time of year, the creek is like a Japanese etching. Earth, tree, and sky – the lines are simple, but every stroke is right.”
Zack’s voice was low. “Do you miss living close to the creek?”
“I do. For years, the creek was part of my life. When you and I found our house and I realized it was just across the creek from where I’d lived with Ian and the kids, I felt as if I’d been predestined to live here. Kismet.”
“Do you wish we’d moved back into our house after we had it rebuilt?”
I picked up a shiny stone and examined it. “Too late now,” I said. “A nice doctor and her family are living there. I’ll bet the first thing they did was change that Lavendre de Provence paint you and Taylor and I spent so much time choosing.”
Zack didn’t smile. “Jo, do you regret marrying me?”
“God, no. Never. Not for a single second.”
He took my hand. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”
I leaned towards him. “Whatever made you think that I’ve had second thoughts about us?”
Zack gazed across the creek. “Our lives haven’t been exactly sunshine and lollipops lately.”
“But we’ve been together,” I said. “That’s all that matters to me.”
“That’s all that matters to me too,” Zack said. “My greatest fear is losing you.”
“It will never happen,” I said. “The day after Cronus died, I had a dream. I was at a lake and I was on one of those old inner tubes that kids used to inflate so they could lie on them and hang on to a rope attached to a motorboat. The motors were always outboards – with just enough horsepower to give kids a thrill. In my dream, I was being towed by a red speedboat that had real power. I could see people on the shoreline waving and shouting. I was moving so fast I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I knew they were telling me to let go. I ignored them. Then the driver of the red speedboat opened the motor full throttle and headed for the centre of the lake. The water there was black, deep, and weedy. I knew the weeds could catch a swimmer’s legs and pull her under. I was terrified so I let go of the rope.
I watched until the red speedboat disappeared. I was safe, but I was numb with grief. I knew I’d lost something I could never recover.” I took Zack’s hand. “That something was life with you.”
Zack’s voice was rough with emotion. “Do we have time to go home and make love?”
“We’ll make time,” I said.
A former client of Zack’s claimed that “a heavy-duty love sesh” cleansed the body, freed the mind, and increased efficiency. Zack’s and my lovemaking that morning cut into our time to visit poll captains and tweak our E-Day preparations, but later, as I roamed the Noodle House, reviewing lists, bucking up the discouraged, and checking the cartons of “Thank You, Regina” banners we planned to staple to our lawn signs if we won, I felt better than I had in weeks.
Zack came home and had dinner with Taylor and me but left for some last-minute meetings before dessert. Taylor and I were just cleaning up the dishes when the phone rang. It was Luke, letting me know that Jill had moved to Whitman Convalescent and she would welcome company.
“How’s she doing?” I said.
“The stitches are still giving her a lot of pain.”
“I remember that from the episiotomies I had when the kids were born.”
“At least you ended up with a child,” Luke said.
Remembering the onesies and the baby sweater with the pattern of ducks I’d seen in Jill’s dresser drawer, I was swept with a wave of sadness. “How are her spirits?” I asked.
“Not great,” Luke said. “She’s relieved to be out of the hospital, of course, but the rape and what comes next are weighing heavily on her mind.”
“Do you think I should come by?”
“Yes. So does Jill, but she was afraid to ask. Joanne, Jill told me that she and your first husband had an affair. She thought it was important for me to understand why you might not want to visit her.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said.
After Falconer Shreve outgrew the twin heritage houses in the city centre that had served as their offices, Whitman Convalescent purchased the buildings and renovated them to meet the needs of their clientele.
That October night, I was impressed by how faithfully the owners of Whitman had preserved the houses’ starchy charm. The lawns were raked and the round iron planters filled with jumbo gold and rust chrysanthemums were in place. The discreet brass plates on the front doors that once bore the firm’s name now read simply, South House or North House. Jill was in North House, reserved for patients who were fully ambulatory.
Luke met me at the door. The first thing that struck me about the interior of North House was its simple, uncluttered beauty. The lighting was muted and the place was blessedly silent. I instinctively lowered my voice. “How is she tonight?” I said.
“Looking forward to seeing you,” Luke said. He half turned and gestured towards the hallway. “And here she is.”
Jill’s walk was shuffling. She had always been proud of her body and had favoured outfits that showcased it. That night, for the first time in my memory, she was wearing sweatpants.
She reached out to embrace me, then thought better of it and dropped her arms to her sides. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink – tea or something stronger?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “But I’d like to see your new digs.”
I followed her down the hall to her room. Like the rest of the facility, Jill’s room was plain and welcoming: a double bed covered with a handsome quilt, brass lamps that pooled warm light on the night tables, a chaise longue, and, by the window, a table and two chairs.
I gestured to the chaise longue. “Why don’t you stretch out there?”
“Thanks,” Jill said. “I’m still a little unsteady. She lowered herself carefully onto the chaise longue and sighed. “That’s better,” she said. “How’s the election going?”
“We’ll know tomorrow night,” I said. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
“Subject closed?”
“Subject closed,” I said. “Let’s talk about you. Whitman’s seems like a good place to get your life back on an even keel.”
Jill’s laugh was short and sharp. “I’m not sure that’s possible. You’re right about this being a great haven, but at some point I’m going to have to rejoin the world.”
“Take your time,” I said. “When you’re ready, there are many possibilities awaiting you. The Graham Meighen story is going to be huge, especially because Debbie now has information that will tie Meighen to Cronus’s murder. When that story goes to air, you’ll show that little putz at NationTV what real journalism is. And there are all those questions about 12 Rose Street that are still to be answered. You can have a good life, Jill.”
“But it will be a life without you and your kids. Because of me, they lost their father for the second time. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
“They’ll be all right. They were hurt, but they’re adults. They have lives of their own. Ultimately, I think Ian will just become a distant memory for them.”
“Is that how it will be for you?”
I shrugged. “I’m working on it. For the first few days after Slater broke the news, I felt like the walking dead. I went through the motions, but I was in a daze. Finally, I realized that people counted on me. I had to smarten up, so I threw out the one picture I had kept of Ian and me.”
“Goodbye to all that?” Jill said.
“Yes, and so far, it seems to be working.”
Jill’s face was ineffably sad. “I’ll never be able to say goodbye.”
“You have to,” I said. “Ian never deserved a woman as fine as you.”
“How can you say that after everything I did?”
“I can say it because it’s true.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Don’t get up. I can see myself out. We’ll have more time to talk after the election’s over.”
The first thing I did on E-Day after peeing, splashing my face, brushing my teeth, and kissing my husband was to go out on our terrace and check the weather. After that I rummaged through my closet till I found my favourite running pants and the T-shirt I was wearing the day I met Zack. When I was dressed, I read Zack’s, Brock’s, and my horoscopes. If the entrails of a sacrificed animal had been handy, I would have attempted to divine the state of its liver.
Brock was already waiting when the dogs and I reached the stoop of our building. I stepped out into a perfect October day – still, sunny, blue-skied, and crisp but not cold. Brock took both dogs’ leashes so I could stretch to get the tightness out of my calves and Achilles tendons. After I’d bounced on my toes a few times, Brock handed me Willie’s leash. That’s when I noticed Brock was wearing a black braided leather necklace.
“I like the leather,” I said.
“I’ve had it since high school. It’s always brought me luck when I wrote exams.”
I unzipped my jacket and pointed to my T-shirt. “I was wearing this the first time I met Zack. I’d say that was lucky.”
“So would I.” Brock laughed. “Here we are, two rational human beings with our talismans.”
“It’s E-Day. Everybody’s superstitious,” I said. “Let’s go.”
No black cats crossed our path and no ladders blocked our way. It was a good run. My cell was vibrating when we got back at the condo. There was a text from Zack: Ask Brock to come up with you.
I handed Brock my cell so he could read the message. “What’s up?” he said.
“Beats me,” I said. “Let’s hope Zack didn’t break a mirror.”
When we came into the condo, Zack was sitting at the butcher-block table; the dogs’ water dishes were filled, and there was a pitcher of water from the refrigerator on the counter for Brock and me. I poured us each a glass, then Brock and I joined Zack. “So what’s the big news,” I said.
“Graham Meighen is dead,” Zack said.
“Suicide?” Brock asked.
“Apparently natural causes,” Zack said. “Debb
ie called about ten minutes ago. According to Debbie, Meighen had a heart attack last night. The police were nearing the end of another round of interrogation when it happened. They were pressing Meighen hard on the Cronus case. They’d caught him in some inconsistencies, and Meighen was in the process of reaming them out when he collapsed. The cops rushed him to the hospital. The medical people did what they could, but Meighen died about an hour ago.”
Brock drained his water glass. “It’s hard to know how to react.”
I thought of what Meighen had to done to Jill’s body. “It’s not hard for me,” I said. “Zack, did Debbie tell you when the police will be releasing the news about Meighen’s death to the media?”
“No, but it’ll be soon. Are you concerned about Jill?”
“Yes. She shouldn’t get this from the media,” I said. “I’ll call Luke and tell him I’m on my way.”
Jill was waiting in the living room for me. She was on the couch talking with a man who looked to be in his early eighties. A copy of Colm Tóibín’s The Master was on the end table beside him. He and Jill were having coffee and talking about Tóibín and Henry James. Jill introduced us. His name was Russell Exton. Jill promised him she’d be back to discuss the novel later, and then the two of us walked down the hall to her room.
She closed the door but stood with her back against it, facing me. “Something’s happened,” she said.
“Graham Meighen died this morning,” I said. “It was a heart attack.”
Her skin paled. “You’d better sit down,” I said. I helped her to the chaise longue.
“I’m all right. It’s just a shock.” Her voice was flat. “I’ve had a few of those lately.”
“Take some deep breaths,” I said.
Before long, the colour began to return to Jill’s cheeks. “Did he suffer?” she asked finally.
“I don’t know,” I said.
For a moment we were both silent and then I asked the question that had been dogging me. “Jill, you knew the kind of man Graham Meighen was. Why did you get involved with him?”
Her tone was sardonic. “Why did I get involved with any of the men I’ve been with? When my one and only marriage ended, I went to a shrink. I wanted to know why, when I finally decided to marry, I chose a man whom I knew was incapable of love. She told me I was punishing myself for my affair with Ian. And, Jo, she told me something else. She told me that the reason I was so obsessed with having Bryn as my daughter was because of my guilt about the abortion.”