The Winter Wives

by Linden MacIntyre

  –What about Byron?

  –What does Byron like?

  –Byron doesn’t drink much. What does Peggy like?

  –Peggy also likes a glass of wine.

  –Red or white?

  –White mostly. Nicely chilled.

  –Mom wants red.

  –I go by the price, she said, studying the shelf.

  –Mom wrote down what she wants so I won’t get it wrong.

  –Let me see.

  She took the slip of paper from my hand.

  –Right.

  She reached for a bottle and handed it to me, folded her arms and strolled away. I followed.

  –Man, will I be glad when summer’s over. This place is like a graveyard. I can hardly wait for September. What happened with your friend, the football player? I heard he’s going to skip a year.

  –Not only that—he isn’t coming back, I said.

  She turned, eyes wide.

  –Really.

  –He’s done, I said.

  –Wow. I thought he lived for football.

  –Nope. Done with that. And books.

  –And you?

  –Same old.

  We separated to scan different aisles. Met at an intersection.

  –What have you been doing all summer? she asked.

  –Working around the farm. Fished until the end of June. It was a good season.

  –Right. I forgot. You fish. You have a boat.

  –Yes ma’am.

  –I think I saw your boat once. Down at the harbour. Someone was telling me about this young guy and his mother, fishing. That would have had to be you? Yes?

  –Probably.

  –Like, you go out together on the boat, just you and your mom?

  –Yup.

  –Boy. I’d like to meet that mother of yours.

  –I’m sure you will, someday.

  She raised her eyebrows. I could feel the familiar awkwardness return.

  –I love the look of fishing boats, Peggy said.

  –Really? You like the water?

  –Of course. You could take me out sometime, on your boat. If you were nice.

  –I could.

  * * *

  —

  That first Sunday dawned warm and still and pink. By mid-morning it was hot and there was a breeze stirring, but I knew it would die down. By two o’clock it did.

  I expected her to arrive with at least part of her crowd, but she was at the wharf ahead of me, alone, leaning against the fender of a car, staring out over the water through large sunglasses.

  She was wearing a ball cap, red shorts, sandals, a black halter top with a white sweater draped over her shoulders, the arms of the sweater hanging down her front.

  When she noticed me, she grabbed a bag from the back seat of the car and climbed aboard. I followed her. Started up the engine with a sudden roar, like from a dump truck. I could see that she was laughing, her hands against her cheeks like a child.

  –Can you get the ropes, I shouted.

  And I watched as she scrambled back up to the wharf and released the stern line then untied the bow, coiled the rope and tossed it on, then clambered down again, passing close enough that I could smell her sunblock.

  We left the harbour slowly. She was looking back, watching the wake as it foamed and sparkled, spreading out behind like lace on the flat black sea. I could tell that she was still smiling.

  When we were about two miles offshore, I set the autopilot so we could just idle along. I left the wheel, walked back to where she was standing with her arms folded.

  –You’re okay?

  –Perfect, she said.

  –There’s a little cove I go to, and just drift there.

  She nodded rapidly.

  –Yes?

  * * *

  —

  I cut the engine and the silence settled all around us. A soft breeze now rippled the dark water. The blinding sun. An eagle high on an ancient, balding pine. Half a dozen gulls came flapping by, anticipating food, then flew off, squawking disappointment.

  –Beautiful, she said.

  She was peering over the side, hands on the washboard.

  –You could swim here, she said.

  –I’m not much for swimming.

  –Really?

  She picked up the bag she’d brought and fished out a bottle.

  –Red, she said, and showed me.

  –I thought you were into white.

  –I assumed you shared your mom’s taste in wine.

  –I’ll drink anything, I said.

  –I bet.

  A seal surfaced nearby, his round black head glinting as he stared at us. Then he twitched and vanished with an almost soundless splash.

  –Fishermen hate those things, she said.

  –You know a lot of fishermen?

  –My uncle, she said.

  –Ah.

  –He keeps a rifle on the boat. Blames the seals for eating all the codfish. What do you think?

  –I think people are eating all the codfish.

  –Right on, she said.

  * * *

  —

  We were relaxed in canvas lawn chairs, sipping the wine. She’d brought some cheese and crackers. Some fruit. We chatted about school. That’s when she told me she had switched from arts to commerce.

  –We’re going to both be accountants, me and Annie. Maybe open our own business.

  –Here in town?

  –God no.

  It would be somewhere large and interesting. Somewhere far away. But she’d be back for sure someday, once she and Annie made their fortunes.

  –I can’t imagine living without this for very long, she said.

  –This? I said.

  –Yes, this.

  She leaned forward, gesturing toward the sea, the sky.

  –You know what I mean, she said, and sat back.

  –Yes.

  –Do you think you’ll go away? she asked.

  –I would have to have a pretty good reason.

  –Interesting, she said.

  –How so?

  –For me there would have to be a reason not to go away. Nothing ever happens here.

  –Nothing happening isn’t necessarily a bad thing, I said.

  –Maybe when we’re old.

  The wine was nearly gone. She closed her eyes and I thought soon that she was dozing. But then she sat up, alert again, and peered down into the water.

  –I feel like swimming. Do you mind?

  –Not a bit.

  –I didn’t bring anything to wear.

  I shrugged.

  She climbed up on the washboard and wriggled out of her shorts. Dropped them, turned to look at me. She was wearing tiny underwear.

  –Don’t mind me, she said, and struggled out of her top. She was wearing nothing under it. She jumped into the water, screaming.

  I stood and went to look. Just to be sure that she was okay.

  She was floating on her back, her white flesh shimmering. Her breasts bobbed, buoyant in the water, small brown nipples staring back at me.

  –How can you resist? she shouted.

  –Someone has to stay with the boat.

  –You don’t know what you’re missing.

  And then she flopped over and quickly duck-dived, and I was transfixed as her legs and feet slipped out of sight. For what seemed like minutes, she was gone. Then she surfaced far off, swimming backwards, hair swept back, face luminous in sunshine.

  She was alone in her afternoon, free there in the vastness of the elements, as natural to her as if she were a seal.

  I returned to my glass of wine, still only half-finished, sat in the lawn chair and wondered about the peculiar clash of hopele
ssness and longing I was feeling.

  Stop this, I instructed. The sun was hovering near the western horizon. Expanding shadows cooled the air.

  There was a homemade ladder on board, designed for climbing in and out when the boat was high and dry at home. I got up and set it in place. I scanned the surface of the little cove, but she was nowhere to be seen. I felt a flutter of anxiety, but then I spotted her sitting on the shore, knees drawn up, chin resting on a kneecap, one hand shielding her eyes. I followed her sightline and there was another boat in the distance. We both watched it growing smaller.

  I looked away, sat. Stood again. Restless suddenly. Moved my chair out of a shadow, back into sunshine. I felt sad and wondered why. Was it her comfortable solitude—as if I wasn’t there at all?

  There was a little breeze. I could hear water gently slapping at the boat. Then I heard her calling.

  –Hey, are you still there?

  She was somewhere near the boat.

  –There’s a beach towel in my bag. Can you get it for me?

  I retrieved it, and there she was at the foot of the ladder, looking up at me.

  –Hold up the towel till I can’t see your face.

  I lifted the towel.

  –Higher. No peeking.

  I raised the towel, and then I could hear the ladder bumping as she clambered back on board, feel her cold hands on mine as she grabbed the towel.

  –Okay. You can look now.

  I looked. She was swaddled in the towel, water streaming from her hair. It was a face like I had never seen before, a completely naked face.

  –Man, you missed out. Can we do this again someday?

  –Next Sunday?

  –Could we really?

  –Weather permitting, I said.

  6.

  Allan was in the hospital for four days. They moved a cot into his room for Peggy on day two.

  –I’m going to stay with him, she said at breakfast.

  –They allow that for adults?

  –They prefer that, she said. Makes it easier for the nurses, having someone in the room full-time.

  –If you can think of any reason why I should be there, just let me know, I said.

  –Don’t worry about it, she said. And, by the way, Annie’s coming down to spend the day. Aren’t you glad that we behaved ourselves last night?

  She patted my cheek and walked away, laughing.

  * * *

  —

  I saw Annie before she noticed me. I was on my way back to my room after taking a morning walk. She was at the front desk, talking to the receptionist. I watched her until she turned and saw me.

  –If you’re checking in, you don’t really need your own room, I said.

  She cocked her head to one side and raised an eyebrow.

  –I’m only here for the day, dear. I was just checking messages for Peggy.

  We sat down for coffee. I find small talk awkward with Annie, whose every word and every gesture has a purpose behind it.

  –Peggy is handling it well, I said.

  –I’m not worried about Peggy. I’m more worried about you.

  –Me?

  –Yes, you. The way Allan has structured everything, this could get messy. If this is as bad as it could be, you’re going to be busy.

  –I don’t think it’s that bad, I said.

  She sipped her coffee, stared into space for a while. Sighed.

  –Ever since your call, I’ve been thinking we don’t really know very much about Allan, do we.

  –I’ve known him almost all my life, I said.

  –Well, we’ve all known one another almost all our lives. But how much do we really know? How well does anyone know anybody?

  –You know his finances. That should be enough for now.

  She put her cup down and stood.

  –Take care of yourself, Byron, we can’t afford to lose you both.

  * * *

  —

  Two days later, I went to pick Peggy and Allan up at the hospital, as promised. They were outside when I got there, both of them obviously impatient, waiting at a distance from a little knot of patients who were leaning on IV poles in their dressing gowns, sweats and johnny shirts, chattering and smoking cigarettes.

  Allan was parked in a wheelchair, while Peggy alternately paced and stopped to fuss with his clothes.

  I saw him brush her hand away as I came out of the parking lot.

  –For fuck sake, he said. And then, to me as I got close enough, Help me up.

  He tried to stand with me on one side and Peggy on the other, but the wheelchair kept getting in the way.

  –Why don’t you just stay sitting until Byron brings the car around, Peggy said.

  He didn’t answer, just hauled on us until he was standing and gave the wheelchair an angry shove.

  –Look at that asshole, with the oxygen and the ci-cigarette, he said, staring at the patients and shaking his head.

  His right hand was folded limply by his side and the right side of his face had the expression of someone who wasn’t quite awake yet. He was unshaven and his hair was tousled. His speech was clearer, though halting.

  –You have my…clubs?

  –Yes, I have your clubs.

  He grunted and began moving toward my car, leaning heavily, his right foot dragging not unlike the way my own once did.

  We settled him in the front seat of the car and did up his seatbelt as he struggled to find a comfortable position.

  –You’re looking good, I said. He didn’t answer.

  Peggy got into the back seat and I put the car in gear.

  –All set?

  –Just drive, he said.

  –Airport, here we come.

  –I can hardly wait.

  As we passed the golf course forty minutes later, he remained silent, staring straight ahead. But I knew what he was thinking. The one true passion in his life now finished.

  –There’s a place just ahead where we could get some coffee, I suggested.

  Peggy spoke up sleepily from the back seat.

  –We should try to avoid the coffee. It’s a diuretic. Not so good just now.

  Of course. The inconvenient bathroom, a looming factor in his future life. Needing help with toilets, dignity diminishing with every call from nature.

  * * *

  —

  The airport was frantic, people arriving, people departing, drivers attempting to steal a few illegal minutes in the drop-off zone, traffic cops busy hustling them away. I pulled into a space reserved for the handicapped, and in a flash there was a woman in a yellow vest at the window on Allan’s side.

  He rolled the window down.

  –Buzz off, he said before she had a chance to speak.

  I clambered out as quickly as I could.

  –We need a wheelchair, I said across the roof of the car.

  Peggy was now out, heading for the terminal entrance.

  The traffic enforcer had a walkie-talkie in her hand, and looked me up and down as I approached.

  –You need a wheelchair?

  –It’s for him, I said, nodding toward Allan, who was red-faced, struggling with the car door.

  –You got five minutes, she said, and walked away.

  Allan had lifted his right foot out but was having trouble with the other one.

  –Where the fuck is Peggy?

  –She went inside to get a wheelchair. Take it easy.

  –I don’t need a wheelchair.

  –Probably not. But let’s just play along with this for Peggy’s sake. Okay?

  –This is fucking. Weird. Man.

  I saw Peggy then, pushing the wheelchair through the crowd.

  * * *

  —

  Driving home, I replayed the scene of their
departure. Allan in his wheelchair, Peggy hovering, solicitous, a slight edge of resentment in every movement.

  Peggy had hugged me hard before they headed toward security.

  –I wish you were coming with us.

  –You’ll be fine. I’ll be up to check on things before you know it. We have a lot of business to deal with.

  She released me, then stepped back, chewing the inside of her lip.

  –Yes. Business.

  –I had a brief chat with Annie. I told her we’ll have to make some changes.

  –There will be a lot of changes.

  –Yes. Change can be good.

  She raised her eyebrows. Smiled. Then she turned and started wheeling Allan toward an elevator.

  All the way home I replayed her words, the tone of her voice. There will be a lot of changes. I have always been like this with Peggy, trying to read the meaning in her words. To me, reading Peggy Winter has always been like reading poetry.

  7.

  On the second summer Sunday, there was more sunshine and another cloudless sky, but a slight cooling breeze. And another bottle of wine.

  –Have you ever had a girlfriend? she asked.

  –No.

  She smiled and gazed off into the distance.

  –I figured.

  I could feel the heat in my face.

  –Oh? It’s so obvious?

  –You’re very serious about everything, Byron.

  –Girlfriends can be serious, I said.

  –When we’re older.

  We were sitting side by side on the back of the boat, sipping the wine from plastic glasses.

  –I plan to get serious when I’m thirty, she said.

  –Why bother then?

  –It’s important to be serious when you’re old.

  –So maybe I’ll get a girlfriend when I’m thirty.

  –What’s wrong with now?

  –I wouldn’t know what to do with a girlfriend.

  –Well, that’s good, she said, and grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

  –If you ask me, too many boys think they know what to do with a girlfriend when they haven’t got a clue.

  –I guess you’ve had a few. Boyfriends.

  –Don’t get me started.