The Winter Wives

by Linden MacIntyre

  –There are worse things than contrition.

  –I didn’t know you were a Catholic.

  –I’m just saying, I’m here for him. I’m here for you. But I can’t stay here indefinitely. Okay?

  She nodded.

  * * *

  —

  In the evening, Peggy and I helped Allan from his office-bedroom to the table. He was cheerful at dinner. He drank some wine. We talked mostly about the early days—safely about people we remembered but really didn’t care about.

  Peggy sat beside me, with Allan across the table, so she could hear him better, she explained. I suppose I should have asked myself why she insisted on a nightcap after he had gone back to his room, but it just felt normal.

  Near the bottom of the drink, she said, It’s wonderful talking to you, Byron. I never get to talk to anyone the way I talk to you.

  And it wasn’t shocking when, very late that night, I felt her slide into the bed behind me, felt the warm fullness of her body pressed against my back.

  Perhaps I thought that I was dreaming, but the gentle hand was real, my face was real, my neck. And the old masculine responses, frequently forgotten now—they were real and overwhelming.

  For the first time in her presence, everything felt right. She was whispering.

  –We’ll soon be old, Byron.

  She draped her hand across my waist, laid it flat on my stomach. I was afraid she’d slide it downward, afraid she wouldn’t. I put my hand on hers.

  And suddenly, her hand was gone and she was propped up on one elbow.

  –Hush. Listen.

  –What?

  –He’s moving. He needs something.

  And then she was gone.

  * * *

  —

  I saw Allan briefly in the morning. He was at his desk and Peggy brought us coffee. He was distracted, mostly silent. I was nervous, wondering what, if anything, he might suspect about the night before.

  At last he asked,

  –You looked at what I gave you?

  He patted his chest, winked. The thumb drive.

  –Not yet, I said.

  –That’s okay. It’s just stuff.

  He was speaking loudly, as though into a microphone.

  –Stuff, I said.

  –Don’t laugh, he said. He frowned, shook his head, a warning of some kind. Then he coughed into a paper towel. His face was flushed.

  –We’re getting old, he said.

  –We can’t help that.

  –Getting old is the best-case scenario, my old man used to say. One thing I want to ask, and you can tell me it’s none of my business. But I’m curious.

  –Fire away.

  –You and Annie.

  –What about us?

  –How does that work?

  –We live in different places. That’s all.

  –Life should be so simple. You lucked out with Annie. I wish I’d known her sooner.

  I laughed.

  –Where are we going with this?

  –Nowhere. But I’ll tell you straight up—if I could rewind the old odometer, you’d get a run for your money.

  –What about Peggy?

  He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.

  –You know more about Peggy than I do, he said.

  –How can you say that?

  –How can you say that, he mocked.

  I stood.

  –Annie’s waiting for me in her new Mercedes. That was a nice gesture.

  He waved a hand.

  –A small investment. You’ll be back soon, he said.

  It was not a question.

  He struggled to his feet, breathing heavily, leaning on the desk. Held out a hand. I reached across and grasped it and he pulled me toward him until his forehead was almost touching mine.

  –Don’t be worried, he said.

  –Okay, I said. I forced a smile.

  –I’m just fuckin with their heads, he whispered.

  * * *

  —

  On the drive to the airport I felt a steady buzzing in my chest. Something in there seemed distressed. Conflict. I felt I shouldn’t leave. I didn’t really want to leave. I really didn’t want to stay. I didn’t know why I’d been summoned. Whose idea was it?

  After a curt hello as I climbed in, Annie stayed silent. Ostensibly, she was focused on the traffic, but I felt that she was tuned in to my confusion.

  What was Peggy thinking? What did Peggy mean when she said we’ll soon be old? What is Peggy thinking now?

  What is Annie thinking?

  But perhaps her silence was nothing more than impatience. She had better things to do than transport me to the airport on what was probably a busy day.

  –I thought we’d get a chance to talk more, I said at last.

  –I thought you’d be staying longer. I got tied up at the office over an issue with a property.

  –Something I should be worrying about?

  –At some point probably.

  –What’s the headline?

  She laughed.

  –The possibility of headlines is the headline. We have an apartment building occupied by relatively rich, old white people. We planned to tear it down. There’s resistance.

  –From rich, old white people.

  –Yes, but mostly from the neighbours, who think we want to put up a high-rise condo building. Block their sunshine.

  –And we do?

  –We did, but Allan waffled. Now he wants to sign the place over to the tenants. For a dollar.

  –They must be overjoyed.

  –They don’t know yet.

  –I’m sure it could be structured so that it would make sense from a tax point of view.

  –That isn’t the point, Byron. This is part of something more serious where Allan is concerned.

  –Peggy hinted at something like this when we talked.

  –Allan wants to move all our assets into something like a charitable trust. I think his mind is going.

  –When did a charitable impulse become evidence of mental illness?

  She sighed.

  –Come on, Byron. Don’t play cute. His doctors have told Peggy that the early signs of vascular dementia are there. The mood swings are hard to live with—despair, rage, weird manic ecstasy. One day he has too much energy, the next he can’t hold his head up. And then there’s the paranoia. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, even on a short visit.

  –That’s why you and Peggy wanted me to come? To see this?

  –You need to get more involved, Byron. He needs to be watched.

  –What about the board?

  –Allan owns the board. You know that.

  She looked across at me, expecting a response. I looked away. I’m fuckin with their heads.

  –He’s becoming quite hostile to us, Byron. To Peggy and me. If she wasn’t married to him and if she wasn’t my sister, I’d just pack it in and leave.

  –Strange. He practically told me that he’s in love with you.

  –You’re joking.

  –No. He seemed quite rational.

  –That’s what I’m talking about. Tomorrow he might rip my face off. He’s losing it, Byron.

  –Do you think we could live together again?

  She laughed.

  –There’s a non sequitur if I ever heard one.

  –Not really. If I’m here for a longer stretch, I’ll have to live somewhere.

  We were near the airport. I could see the airplanes floating down, rising lazily through haze. She reached across, caught my hand.

  –I can’t think of any reason why we couldn’t.

  –That would be a plus.

  –So, you’ll be coming. Soon, I hope.

  She got out of the car an
d came to me as I dragged my suit-bag from the back. We embraced.

  –It might be like starting fresh, she said.

  –But coping with dementia again.

  –We’re good at that.

  –Maybe I’m talking about myself.

  She stepped back, frowned.

  –Stop it, she said.

  –Maybe I’m the one you should be concerned about. I have the family history.

  –I’m talking about Allan, darling. I’m talking about reality. Let’s keep our eyes on what’s in front of us. We have to keep him true to himself by keeping him out of the picture altogether. It’s what our Allan, the real Allan, would want.

  I picked up my bag, turned away. Then I turned back.

  –Annie?

  She was at the car door, looking across the rooftop, the question in her eyes.

  –I think I’m going to get my DNA tested, I said.

  –Your what?

  –My DNA. When I get home.

  –For what?

  –Guess.

  She laughed.

  –Safe travels, Byron. Check in when you can.

  She laughed again and made a gesture my mother used to make, twiddling her forefinger in little circles by her temple.

  * * *

  —

  Checking pockets at security—loose change, keys, the USB drive. For a moment I was baffled. USB drive?

  Damn. How could I have forgotten to review this while I was there? Just stuff, he said. Allan was never in his life about “just stuff.”

  On the plane, I briefly considered opening my laptop and scrolling through the thing. But I grew mildly nervous about the well-groomed stranger sitting next to me. Better to leave it for when I was home.

  * * *

  —

  Annie once explained her theory that memory is a parallel reality. Basically, an extended falsehood, a lifelong lie. At best, a kind of literature.

  But for me, memory is embedded in sensations, not narrative. Sound and smell. Touch. Music. Aroma. Colour. Revulsion from the smell of blood. Muddy lanes and sodden fields in spring. Fresh-cut hay in summer. The tang of apples in the fall. I associate particular events with certain seasonal conditions. The sharp heat of August feels unlike the warmth of a mellow morning in September or October; autumn has its own unique sensual pungency.

  And so I can, with relative certainty, “remember” that the series of events I am going to try to reconstruct happened mostly in the autumn and the winter of an extraordinary year.

  Ironically, I clearly remember the moment when I was told that there was a very real possibility that I could lose important aspects of my individuality. Memory, for one. Ultimately, my independence. Specifically, I recall the particular chill of a winter rainfall.

  But I also remember thinking, as I was told, I am not a victim. I have some control. The early detection of this unexpected menace meant that I might be able to deter the process of decay and mitigate the outcome, for example by doing crossword puzzles. The daily New York Times was recommended, for reasons I forget.

  I could exercise my brain by watching game shows on TV, and bolster my memory by writing little memos to myself.

  And yes, I also remember that on this wet and chilly day the last leaves on a forlorn city maple tree were drooping under the weight of the relentless drizzle.

  But this is surely too much information, and much too soon. Dementia is a catastrophe that usually happens silently and in slow motion.

  PART FOUR

  DECLUTTERING

  19.

  It might have occurred to me that as Allan’s role in running his affairs became more compromised by illness, life for his three partners—Peggy, Annie and myself—would become more perilous. My quiet life on the farm had been, in many ways, a kind of insulation against feelings of vulnerability in what was, realistically, a risky line of work.

  But, in hindsight, I can see that our downfall began at least three years before his stroke.

  As he’d told me, my job had mostly been to represent Allan—be Allan, I suppose is more accurate—in relatively minor transactions, buying properties and flipping them, creating the corporate personas that seemed to be important to him. Sometimes I had to drive to Halifax or fly to Toronto, invariably on short notice, to meet people I somehow knew I’d never see again.

  Then I would come home again, to the peace and quiet of my farm, where I was relatively comfortable, in mind and body.

  And then one afternoon two well-dressed men appeared at my front door, unannounced. They were friendly. One asked if I was Angus. I was briefly confused but quickly realized that these were people who knew me only through official documents. As if reading my mind, each produced a business card and handed it to me. They were policemen.

  –Can you spare a minute?

  –Of course. Come in.

  They weren’t that big, physically, but they seemed to fill the room. Their attitude would have been overwhelming if not for my understanding that, notwithstanding all the power and peril they consciously projected, in this instance they were supplicants.

  –What can I do for you gentlemen? I asked when we were sitting in my office. Coffee maybe?

  –No thanks. You have a nice set-up here, said the older one, presumably the designated talker.

  –It suits me. How can I help you?

  He produced a notebook, flipped it open.

  –We’re hoping you can help us locate a former client. Albert Rose. Does that name ring a bell? You set up a company for him.

  I stood. Walked to a window, stared out for a while. Which reminds me that it was winter. The trees were skeletal, fields rippled with fresh snowbanks.

  –Rose. He’s from Toronto, I believe.

  –You do a fair bit of work out of Toronto?

  I shrugged and turned to face them.

  –I get the odd referral. People who want to incorporate in Nova Scotia. I think I remember Rose. It was some real estate venture, wasn’t it?

  –I notice you don’t have a shingle out.

  –I try to keep things manageable. I don’t get around as easily as I’d like. Travel is a problem. I don’t have many clients.

  They both nodded sympathetically. Even though almost nobody stares anymore, or dares to condescend, people always notice disability and they adjust.

  –You seem to do quite well just the same. You go to Toronto often?

  –Only when I have to.

  –When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Rose?

  –I’d have to look back at my records. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?

  The younger one was thumbing through his notebook, and spoke for the first time.

  –This incorporation that we’re interested in was two years ago.

  –That long? I wouldn’t have had anything more to do with it once the paperwork was done.

  –You’re still down as chairman, he said.

  –Is that a fact? Remind me of the name of the company.

  –Water Street Lofts, Inc.

  –I’ll check that out. I should have been replaced by now. Obviously, someone is being careless with the paperwork. You understand, I was there just for the incorporation. I wasn’t the only lawyer.

  –So when did you last have contact with Mr. Rose?

  –It would have been back then.

  –You have billing information? Address? Phone? E-mail?

  –I want to be helpful, but we’re wandering into, you know, lawyer–client territory.

  The older officer raised a hand.

  –Yes, with all due respect, we could go the legal route. Search warrant and all that nasty stuff. But we just thought this would be…simpler.

  –Yes. Thank you for that. Perhaps if I knew a bit more about the issue, as it pertains to Mr. Rose. Your nam
e is, again?

  –You can call me Tom.

  He was nearly my age, I guessed, though it was difficult to tell because his head was shaved to a shiny glint. There was a shadow of a hairline just above his ears, but it was difficult to discern whether the stubble was grey or sandy.

  –Well, Tom, I’m just trying to imagine the grounds for searching my humble office, I said.

  –At this point, it’s confidential…

  I threw my arms wide, as if crucified on a cross of principle.

  –There you go. We’re both kind of hamstrung by professional constraints.

  –We could go off the record, on the understanding…

  –Of course, but what good would that do, other than to satisfy my morbid curiosity?

  –I gather this was your first business with Mr. Rose.

  –First and only.

  –You know he has some commercial properties in the Toronto area?

  –I don’t remember the particulars, but I think that’s correct. I actually never dealt with him face to face. It was all by phone and fax.

  –Seems that’s how he does business. Never face to face. Do you find that unusual?

  –Different, I suppose. But that’s the way it is now, with all the technology. Increasingly impersonal.

  –You can say that again, Tom said.

  They stood then. Closed the notebooks.

  –If you think of anything you’d like to share, Tom said, then he thanked me, hinting that they’d probably be back.

  The quiet one stopped in the doorway, staring out across the place.

  –This reminds me of where I grew up, he said.

  –Somewhere near here?

  He laughed.

  –No. Northern Manitoba. It’s bleak like this.

  Even after they left, I wasn’t thinking about peril. I poured a cup of coffee. Sat in the gathering darkness for a while, recalled Allan’s story about taking Valium before a border crossing.

  So far, I’ve never needed Valium.

  When I’d finished my coffee, I sent a cryptic text to Allan. I think I should come up for a meeting. I’ve had visitors.