–Where did Peggy go?
–Upstairs.
–I don’t know what’s happening, Annie.
–We need to get you some help, Byron.
–No, I said.
–You need help.
–I know where help leads.
–We’ll take care of you.
–I have to lie down.
–That’s a good idea. You lie down. We’ll talk later.
* * *
—
I sat up suddenly, pulse pounding. When I laid my head on the pillow, I could hear my terrifying heart.
The slender hands were fumbling with the zipper on my snowsuit.
–Hang on. Just a second.
–I can’t hold it…
Then the sickening sound.
Wallop.
Someone rolling, whimpering on the floor.
Someone standing, fists clenched. Warm piss now flooding out of me.
Allan? Someone murdered Allan.
* * *
—
Peggy gently shook my arm. The room was lit by the morning sun.
–I need to pee, I said.
She almost laughed.
–Byron, you know where the bathroom is.
I almost didn’t make it. Squirting everywhere. Struggling for control, of everything. I was still disoriented when I returned to the bedroom to find her waiting.
–There’s someone downstairs who wants to see you. Are you feeling up to it?
–Yes. Of course. Where did Annie go?
–She’s downstairs too. She’s staying here for a few days. To help with…
–Allan.
–Yes. To help with Allan. Come down, now.
* * *
—
He’d put on weight, but I knew him right away.
–Nick, he said.
–Yes. I know.
His eyes were animated, the expression warm. He was seeing into me, but in a friendly way. His hand was large, strong. The hand of an athlete.
–I dropped in just for a minute. To make sure everyone is okay. My condolences on your loss. I know he was your good friend.
I nodded. Of course, he would have known Allan. This man was a bigger part of the business than I could have known, part of the invisible dimension. Even if he was just the limo driver. Eyes and ears are everything in business.
–Annie told me just this morning, he said.
–We’ll be fine.
–Yes. Of course. Annie will have everything in good shape.
–I remember you from—when was it? Two years ago?
–Yes, when you took my picture.
He laughed.
I shrugged.
–I’m a lawyer, I said.
–You would have made good spy.
–You know spies?
–No, no. But I was once in Russian military, where all the time we heard about spies. It was a flattering photograph, actually. I thank you.
He poked my shoulder. He was irresistibly likeable.
–I have to leave now. I’ll leave you to your privacy.
* * *
—
Limo driver my ass. He was one of those people who fill a room, who, after they’ve departed, leave a palpable emptiness.
–So that’s Nick, I said.
The women were waiting for more.
–Allan said he was a limo driver, or owner.
–Yes, but a bit more than that in the larger scheme of things, Peggy said.
–I can imagine.
–You’ve obviously heard the gossip about him and me, Annie said.
–Gossip? I saw the pictures.
–Pictures?
–At the condo. The happy threesome.
She waved a hand.
–I just want to get it out of the way.
–It’s none of my business.
–I’m your wife.
–You’re not my property.
She stepped back, laughed lightly.
–Well, that’s progressive.
–That’s reality.
I hadn’t noticed Peggy’s absence. I was a bit disappointed when I realized she’d tactfully stepped out. I had been performing as much for her benefit as my own.
–We’re just friends. Whether you want to believe it or not, Annie said.
–Like I said…
–There’s another thing to get out of the way. We did not “put Allan down,” as you so elegantly put it.
Peggy returned with mugs of coffee.
–I’ll let that remark pass, though, because you were obviously distraught. Or drunk. Or both.
–Since I’m obviously mentally ill, drunk or sober doesn’t matter.
–Let’s move on, said Annie.
I sipped my coffee carefully. It was hot.
–I’ll let Peggy explain what happened while you were gone.
* * *
—
Allan had put everything in writing. Peggy handed me the document. It was explicit. No resuscitation. No ambulance or hospital. Assisted death. It had been arranged with his doctor contact, only waiting for a signal that it was the right time.
–And when was it supposed to be the right time?
–When he could no longer communicate.
Mind stumbling. How do we communicate when we can no longer communicate?
–But what if he wanted to communicate a change of mind?
–We thought of that. I raised it with him, but, in any case, it became moot.
–Moot.
–He was comatose all day. When I went in to check before I went to bed, I just knew he was gone. I called the doctor. And he came and confirmed it. His heart just blew up. The doctor certified the cause of death. Massive coronary thrombosis. Everything is kosher. Legally. Byron, he wanted it this way. He’s been ready ever since that first stroke, with you.
–And then what?
–Allan’s instructions were that he be taken straight to a crematorium. That’s where he is. His ashes.
Her eyes were now flooding, lower lip trembling. I wanted to be kind. But kindness was no longer in me.
–It’s all very convenient, I said.
Annie stood so quickly, her coffee splashed on her lap. She brushed at it.
–I fucking can’t believe you said that.
I wanted to say, I can’t believe it either.
I wanted to say, Please forgive me.
I wanted to say, I have no idea what’s happening to me.
But I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t speak at all. There was a blizzard raging in my head. I stood, put my mug down, made a futile empty-handed gesture and went back upstairs.
* * *
—
I tried to sleep. I got up. I came back downstairs. They were sitting, chatting quietly with drinks, the room in semi-darkness. They fell silent and stared at me. I turned around and went back to my room.
When I came down again, the house felt empty. Abandoned. I poured a drink from their nearly empty bottle.
It felt like poison burning down. What drinking lye would feel like. I poured another. And then another. I went back upstairs.
* * *
—
The goddamned dreams. In all the dreams, I’m trying to go somewhere but keep getting lost. And needing to piss. Constantly. Bladder shot.
To the bathroom then back. Just lying there in bed, remembering the night before the last golf game. We didn’t know it then. We never know when anything will be the last.
I never met a woman I couldn’t disappoint.
Is that what we really had in common? Was it our fate to disappoint anyone who thought she understood us? Thought she knew us? Failed to see our future failures?
* * *
—
It is deep into night. I can feel it, though there is no clock anywhere that I can see. And I am gone again.
Thinking about sex. The weapon loaded.
Allan said it once. The weapon. I laughed. Then.
It sounded funny, then.
* * *
—
Peggy is now behind me in the bed, whispering, I know what you meant. You didn’t really mean “convenient.” I understand. We’re all hurting, Byron dear. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.
I don’t want anybody taking care of me…
I turned and faced her.
–I don’t want your pity anymore. You’re just trying to be nice.
I was dreaming, but I was awake. I touched her shoulder, touched her cheek. Her softness was real. My awful need was real.
Her face. I could see the sun sparkle on rivulets of water, the flash in her eyes. If we were in a movie…
I pressed myself against her. She moved away from me.
–No, she said.
I reached out to draw her to me. She pushed me away. I grabbed her wrist.
–I need you to be closer, I said.
–No.
–I never understood you. You just thought I did. I understand you now. I know what you wanted from me.
–Wait.
–No. I’ve waited too long.
I caught her other wrist, pulled her to me. She was so light. Light as air. I was over her now, holding her wrists firmly. Why was she resisting me?
–Byron, stop, right now.
Her tone was harsh. It isn’t what she really feels, I told myself. For more than forty years she’s been waiting, assuming I’m not like other men. Disappointed.
I was now on top, my good, strong knee forcing hers to separate. She bucked briefly, squirmed under me and tried to roll away. Then, suddenly, she stopped. Lay still.
–I don’t want this, she said.
–It’s all there is, I whispered.
–No.
She turned her face away. Just lay there, staring at the wall. Then she grimaced, gasped.
–Yes, I said.
–It hurts.
She was whispering. Something I couldn’t hear.
The voice inside was screaming at me now: Get it over with. Forty years of disappointment.
In the end, less than a minute.
* * *
—
I felt a careful movement behind me. Was momentarily confused. Heard her leave the room. Heard her gently close the door.
* * *
—
I felt sick. I tried to be asleep. I wanted to be Allan. He said he wanted me to be him. I never was. But now I envied him. His being beyond all of this, all of us, beyond all disappointment. Dead.
Maybe I did sleep.
I stayed in bed until I knew the house was empty.
I called a taxi.
–I want to go to a hotel, I told the driver.
–Any place in particular?
–Somewhere cheap, I said.
–How cheap?
–There’s a place on Jarvis.
–I think I know the one.
* * *
—
Annie phoned at least half a dozen times before I turned my phone off. I stared out the hotel room window. The day was fading fast. I went back to bed but once again couldn’t sleep.
The room had a small balcony with a low railing. I tried the sliding door and it opened. I grasped the railing, looking down. Nothing moving on the street. An expectant silence. I felt my stomach turn to slime. Went back to bed. Got up again. Tried the sliding door again.
It’s always an option, I thought. The possibility brought a tiny flutter of relief.
The magnitude of what my uncle did. I never realized his bravery.
When I turned the phone back on, there was a text.
I don’t know where you are, but please check in. The hospital has been trying to reach you.
The hospital?
The phone rang just as I was staring at it. Annie in the display.
I accepted, but I didn’t speak.
–I know you’re there, she said. I can hear you breathing. What you’re doing isn’t fair.
I listened for anger, condemnation.
–I understand what you’re going through. But this is no time to be alone. We need you. You need us. This isn’t just about you.
She doesn’t know, I thought.
Then Annie said,
–Have you got a pen and paper? There’s a couple of things you should write down.
–Wait, I said.
I fumbled through a drawer. There was hotel stationery. A pen that was dry. I found my jacket. A pen in the pocket.
–Take this down, she instructed, then read out the doctor’s name and number. Also, we have to sit down with the board. Can you be at the office tomorrow morning? Say about eleven?
–Not likely, I said.
–Byron, you must come home.
I laughed.
–Home, I said.
–I mean it. Come to the condo. Are you listening?
–I’m listening.
–I’ll expect you. Get your shit together.
* * *
—
The doctor asked if I could be at his office the next morning for a quick meeting. Say around eleven?
–I’ll be there.
* * *
—
There was a pub downstairs, just off the lobby, I walked past it half a dozen times. It was a little grungy but always looked inviting, obviously a local for some offices nearby. Bustling at noon, into mid-afternoon. Media by the look of some of the clientele. Noisy students in the evenings, babble rising. Then stopping suddenly. Quiet now, I’m sure.
There is no reason not to.
The waiter dropped a menu. I ordered a double. Scotch. Whatever bar Scotch he had going. I checked the menu, felt nauseous.
You should eat.
Maybe, after a drink or two, I’ll feel like it.
* * *
—
Back home, when Annie and I first lived together, mealtime conversations were about our work, about people we vaguely knew and their manageable troubles with the law, the tax authorities. Mom knew most of the clients better than we did, but we didn’t feel a need to be discreet. Mom really wasn’t interested, wasn’t likely to retain enough context to make the gossip interesting to anybody. The only work that Annie wouldn’t talk about was what she did for Allan. She didn’t volunteer. I never asked.
In time, as Mom became more distant, the conversations were mostly about her. Good days, bad days, in-between days, measuring the progress of what could not be reversed, finding too much hope in what seemed like small remissions.
Mom sat through it all like we were talking about someone else, a stranger to her.
I read a lot about Alzheimer’s then. And somewhere I learned that the span of time between diagnosis and death was normally about five years. But nobody knew for sure. Each case was unique.
Annie refused to believe the five-year prognosis.
–Nobody can pin that down for an individual case, she said.
But as the good days became rare, five years began to seem like a terribly long time, even to Annie.
The stalwart, plain-spoken women who came every day saved us from the worst of it. I could eventually ignore the bathroom murmurings, the repeated toilet flushing, the hurried, furtive visits to the laundry room, clothes and bedding bundled carefully. Mom serene, sitting in her chair, studying her fingers.
Do we become immune to humiliation or is it deeply felt, beneath awareness and yet still painful?
Even dogs seem to feel embarrassment and shame.
At some point the waiter came and took away the menu.
–The kitchen is closing, he said.
–That’s okay. Bring me the same.
And how will I react? I knew a man whose treatment for some ailment led to temporary incontinence. After it had passed, he could laugh about it, describe standing on his doorstep fumbling with keys as his bowels exploded.
–A shit-hemorrhage.
He said that it was worse in public. But you gradually become shameless, stuffing your shat-in underwear in public washroom waste cans.
–Imagine the poor bastard who encountered that at closing time.
Since it was temporary, it was educational. Amusing, looking back.
But when it’s permanent? I should hope for less than the five-year sentence. Or hope for the courage of my uncle Angus. From whom I took my name. Perhaps my destiny.
It seems that I stumbled, returning from the washroom.
The barman had a helpful hand on my arm. I stared at the hand, then his face. He was young and muscular and fit.
–Maybe you’ve had enough. How about I ring you up?
–What do you mean?
–You’re staggering, sir.
–I didn’t fucking stagger.
–I’m not going to argue.
–Maybe you should go back to waiter school and learn the difference between a stagger and a limp.
His face flushed.
–Sir, you have to leave.
* * *
—
I lurched around in the darkness of the room. My head felt clear. How can I be drunk if I’m aware of everything? I bent to remove my shoes and lost my balance. Crashed into a dresser. Made it to the bed. The goddam limp.
I lay there fuming. The bastard cut me off for limping. Outrageous. I’ve seen fit young guys knocking over furniture in bars, spilling drinks, ruining the scene for everybody else. Fucking backwards ball caps on indoors. Even eating. I’d outlaw indoor ball caps. I’d outlaw ball caps altogether.
They should spend some time in my shoes. Coping with the shoe with the four-inch sole before the operation that immobilized me for a year. See how long they’d last without whining.
The Winter Wives Page 18