The Winter Wives

by Linden MacIntyre

  The stares and whispers.

  Mom would say, They’re just making fun of you, Angus, as if that made everything okay.

  And it was the Winter sisters who started with the Byron. I should go back to Angus. He was crazy too, but in the end he had the balls to.

  Jump.

  I looked out over Jarvis Street, then down. Cars moving quickly in the night the way they do when everything else slows down. Hunting slow pedestrians at the crosswalks. How I know it.

  How I stare the bastards down. How I make them hit the brakes.

  And what happened in the barn? My uncle hit the brakes. My father hit my uncle.

  Bravado, the stopper in a bottle filled with fear. Victims of molestation everywhere you look now, wearing their ball caps backwards.

  I refuse to be a fucking victim. Nothing happened in the barn.

  At the last minute, they always hit the brakes. They hit something. Or are hit by something.

  He hesitated.

  He said, You’re all set now. You can pee now.

  He stood. And then my father, roaring.

  I lay down again, hauled the blankets up.

  I felt better.

  Nothing happened in the barn. Nothing happened in the bedroom.

  There is a cause for everything, a crack in everything.

  I wish I’d said that first. I could have, looking back, seeing all the cracks in everything.

  That’s how the light gets in.

  Yes. Fucking right, Leonard. The light gets in. Sooner or later.

  I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed and turned on the light. Enlightened. All clear now.

  So, I have Alzheimer’s and I know where it came from. And I know now why I’ve been the way I’ve been. Never had a chance. From day one. Anybody wants to talk about victimhood. I’m the guy. The snowmobile was destiny.

  Early fucking onset, they said.

  Well, bring it on. The earlier the better.

  The sooner it begins, the sooner it is over.

  25.

  The doctor kept me waiting. At 11:20 my phone rang. It was Annie.

  –So I assume you aren’t coming.

  –I’m at the doctor’s office.

  –You should be here.

  She was almost whispering.

  –Things are happening. We have to make changes. Involving your position.

  –I’m sure you can handle it.

  –Call as soon as you get out of there. We need your input.

  –My input?

  –Did Allan give you any indication, when you talked to him, about banking?

  –Banking?

  –Offshore.

  –I have to go now.

  The doctor stood in his doorway, called me in. He was looking cheerful, and placed a friendly hand on my shoulder as I passed him.

  –So, how are you feeling about everything today?

  –I’m okay.

  He sat behind the desk, looking at me. After a pause, he opened a folder, studied it.

  –Permit me a cliché opening, then. We have good news and we have bad news, from our point of view.

  He smiled, looked down briefly, then up. Removed his glasses.

  –I’m afraid we have to exclude you from the study.

  –I flunked the tests?

  He laughed.

  –Yes. You flunked the tests.

  He picked up some papers from the folder, scanned them briefly.

  –There is no evidence in your DNA of any abnormality. I think you referred to PSEN1 mutation. I guess you did some online research…DNA for Dummies. Correct?

  He paused and smiled, shifted in his chair, put the glasses on again.

  –Simply stated, this PSEN1 mutation reduces learning and memory capacity fairly quickly. Symptoms appear as early as in your forties. You’re, what…?

  He flipped through the pages.

  –Late fifties?

  He looked up, took the glasses off again.

  –There’s nothing here. Your DNA is boring.

  –What about my mother?

  –Maybe an anomaly. These things sometimes jump a generation. Luck of the draw.

  –So, the episodes…

  –I think what you experienced was a fainting spell.

  –Okay. But there have been other things, little blackouts.

  –We’re not saying that everything is great with you. You could be depressed or suffering some delayed post-traumatic stress from that terrible childhood accident you described. A loss of consciousness is always problematical and you had a very serious bump on the head. We know a little more now about something called post-concussion syndrome from working with former athletes.

  He studied his papers again briefly.

  –There is nothing innocuous about concussion and you show some brain lesions that are consistent with what we’re learning about football injuries. It’s impossible to draw conclusions. But for the time being…

  He shrugged and closed the folder.

  –The good news is that we have ruled out any genetic precondition that could cause dementia. Maybe, instead of thinking early-onset Alzheimer’s, you should be worried about late-onset mid-life crisis.

  He smiled. Chewed the end of his Sharpie.

  –You might consider other avenues for investigation…

  –Like what?

  –Psychotherapy might be one place to start.

  –It’s all in my head?

  –Anything in our heads that affects our ability to function is serious. Let me ask you something. Alcohol?

  –What about it?

  –Might it be a factor?

  –I hardly drink at all.

  –Think about it.

  He stood then. Put the glasses and the Sharpie in his pocket. Smiled.

  * * *

  —

  The light outside was blinding and the street noise deafening. People surging at me from all directions on the sidewalk. A cyclist nearly took me out when I hesitated in a bike lane.

  The city, in the past hour, had come alive again. Or maybe I had simply become conscious once again of the world around me, released from where I had been for at least a week, maybe months, maybe longer. I fled into a coffee shop. The place was just as noisy as the outside. Loud chatter, manic laughter. Espresso maker sounding like a steam engine from another century.

  Life. Blaring.

  Life restored.

  But what I felt was anything but restoration.

  I ordered a large something. Found a tiny table in a corner. What now? I am denuded of a label.

  In the early days after Mom’s diagnosis, she no longer had to perform whoever people thought she was. No more artifice. She didn’t need excuses anymore since she had an explanation that would cover everything. Before her life went dark, she felt a lightness.

  I no longer have a condition to explain the unavoidable humiliations of an ordinary life, to justify what I am becoming, what I will become. What I will do. What I have done.

  I dialed Peggy’s number.

  She answered.

  –I’m busy, she said, and disconnected.

  Yes. She’s at the meeting I should be at and would be at if it wasn’t for.

  Peggy.

  I stared at the dead telephone and asked myself what I intended to say to her.

  Hey Peggy, I have great news. There’s nothing wrong with me!

  Oh, wonderful. That’s fantastic, Byron. So that was really you who raped me? What a relief!

  Almost too late, I remembered one of Allan’s iron rules: Never Explain Yourself. To Anybody.

  My DNA is boring. I am normal. That will be my secret. Let them think I’m crazy. Let that explain me.

  * * *

  —
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  They were waiting in the hotel lobby. I saw them before they saw me. Annie and Peggy. They were standing near the front desk with their coats on. I had an overwhelming impulse to run, but Annie spotted me and started walking quickly in my direction. Peggy stayed behind.

  I turned away, but Annie shouted.

  –Wait.

  I stopped. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want to see Peggy.

  –Byron! Look at me.

  She turned me until I was facing her. I looked past her. I expected to see rage in Peggy’s face, but I saw only sorrow mixed with fear.

  There is no Byron. I must remember that.

  –Byron? What the fuck is going on? You can’t just…You look like shit, Annie said.

  I could see the glint of tears on Peggy’s cheeks.

  Annie had my arm, but she spoke to Peggy.

  –Wait here. We’ll be right back.

  She steered me toward the elevator.

  –We’re going to your room. Where’s your key?

  I fumbled in my pocket, staring at the floor. No speech possible. No resistance.

  –We’re going to get your things, Byron. And you’re coming home with me. Do you understand?

  –How did you find me?

  –Nick tracked you down.

  Nick. I might have laughed, but there was a terrible ache in my bad leg. The leg resisted movement, and when it did move, I sagged on that side. Annie came around.

  –Lean on me, she said.

  In my room, she just said,

  –Holy shit.

  * * *

  —

  When we stopped in front of the condo building, I stared up at it. I had no memory of being there before, of being carried out of there.

  Then Annie came around and opened the car door, caught my hand.

  –Come on, you’re home now.

  There was kindness in her tone. Or pity.

  26.

  I watch the vast lake just outside my window. Soon enough it would be blustery with sails again, sparkling with pleasure. Maybe then, time will have dulled the edge of memory. But I have only half the memory. What about the other half?

  Where is she now? What is Peggy thinking? I closed my eyes. The only refuge now.

  * * *

  —

  I woke to the ringing of my phone.

  I didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway. I didn’t recognize the voice. A man’s voice. The doctor again. Another change in the diagnosis. Then he said my name, bureaucratically, and the word “Police.”

  –Tom. Yes, I remember. You were at the farm with another fellow.

  –Yes. Getting on to four years ago…

  –Was it only four?

  He laughed.

  –I’d like to pick up where we left off…

  –I’m not at the farm just now, and I’m not sure when…

  –There’s a little diner just down the street from where you’re at. Okay? Harbourfront. I could meet you there. When might you be available?

  –You’ve been doing your homework.

  –It’s what they pay me for.

  –Maybe you can give me a hint at what you’re interested in this time.

  –Well. You know telephones. Why don’t we just arrange a mutually convenient time?

  * * *

  —

  I spotted him before he saw me. He was at a corner table for four. Room for two of us plus documents. He seemed to be working on a crossword puzzle.

  –You do the crossword? I said.

  He didn’t look up.

  –Usually cryptic, but it’s hard to find a good one. They’re mostly all British. Full of cricket and the like. You?

  –I started, for the mental exercise. But I couldn’t quite get into it.

  He looked at me and smiled. Folded the paper. Stood and offered his hand. I grasped it, and sat across from him.

  –And I could never get the hang of the cryptic clues, I said.

  –There’s a particular technique you have to know. You have to have a certain kind of memory, too, what I call a sticky brain.

  –Sticky, I said.

  He was looking at me, hard, calculating.

  –How have you been?

  –Good. So, you’re still at it. I’m trying to remember a name. I remember the project. The condo building, Halifax.

  –Water Street Lofts.

  –I’ve been having memory problems. My brain isn’t that sticky anymore.

  He smiled. He picked up a small leather case from the empty chair beside him, zipped it open, removed a file folder. He extracted a photograph and slid it toward me.

  –You might remember him.

  Albert Rose.

  –I acted for him in that condo transaction. Albert something?

  –Rose.

  I studied the photograph. Tom was studying my face.

  –As I said the last time, it was fairly straightforward. I did the paperwork for incorporation and we went our separate ways.

  –You haven’t seen him since?

  –Well. I believe there was a meeting here when he was selling the property to someone. I’d have to check as to whether I was here for it.

  –Just the one property.

  –In Halifax. There could have been others. I could check.

  He pulled another photo from his folder. I could only see the back of it.

  –This guy would have been at the meeting with this Albert Rose?

  He dropped it in front of me.

  –You know this guy, right?

  Allan.

  –I’ve known him since back in university. In Nova Scotia. Allan.

  –Allan what?

  –Chase.

  He nodded. He looked around the room, rubbed his chin.

  –I’m going to heat up my coffee. Will you have one?

  –I’m okay. How long do you think this is going to take?

  –That depends.

  He walked away slowly. I studied Allan’s photograph, trying to identify where he was when it was taken. It was definitely not posed, something shot by someone on the sly. He was talking to someone off camera. He was smiling, relaxed. The surroundings were out of focus.

  The policeman was back. I was still studying the photo.

  –Where was this taken? I asked.

  –I don’t know where. It was a while ago.

  –It must have been, because Allan has been pretty well laid up for the last year or so. You probably know he recently passed away.

  –So I understand. He had a stroke, right?

  –Yes. It was a heart attack that took him.

  –Started on a golf course. You were with him?

  –Yes. You’re up on things.

  I laughed, but felt the warning tingle.

  –You knew him for a very long time?

  –Since we were in university. But why is he of interest?

  –He dropped out of university after a year or two, I understand.

  –Yes.

  –He was a football player.

  –Yes.

  –Did you ever meet his folks?

  –Actually, no. I came here to Toronto to visit him once, but he was living on his own by then. Had his own place. In Kensington Market, I think. I didn’t know the city then.

  –So you never met parents, siblings or any relative of his.

  –No. I gathered he was from a well-off family. He never mentioned brothers or sisters. But why all the interest in Allan?

  –So, he went east to study and to play football.

  –Yes. He said he was recruited from high school.

  –Actually, no. He was a walk-on. He just showed up during training camp. It happens occasionally. Somebody asks for a tryout. Seems he m
ade the right impression. He was good. I heard he was even scouted.

  –I really didn’t follow sports. Still don’t.

  –So, you wouldn’t know much about before. What high school he went to. What his dad did for a living.

  –Allan told me that his dad was in trucking.

  –So we understand. But you never met the dad?

  –I’m sure I’d remember if I had. Honestly, Allan never talked much about family, or growing up.

  –That doesn’t surprise me.

  He was studying my face intensely.

  –Here’s the thing, Byron. When I tried to find out anything about your friend, before you met him in university, I quickly ran out of runway. You see, Allan Chase died of a drug overdose in 1977, two years before you say you bumped into him.

  –Some other Allan Chase.

  –There was only one.

  I stared at him in silence, then looked down at the photo. With my forefinger, I moved it closer, then picked it up. For the first time in nearly forty years, I saw a stranger.

  I put the photo down.

  –I should tell you something, I said.

  He was nodding.

  –Maybe you should.

  –I’ve been tested for dementia. Early-onset Alzheimer’s.

  –I understand.

  –You do?

  –The thing you have to understand, Byron, is that since the last time we spoke, we’ve made a lot of progress. We know a lot now that we didn’t know then. So, it’s extremely important that you’re straight with me. I know about your issues. And I know that time might be a factor here.

  –Pointless question, probably, but how do you know so much?

  –I don’t mind telling you, he said.

  He placed his forefinger on the photograph of Albert Rose.

  –This guy has decided to be co-operative.

  –Albert Rose.

  –No. He’s not Albert Rose. This is Albert Rose.

  And he reached across the table and put his finger on the photograph of Allan.

  I froze. I felt a mental and emotional paralysis that could have passed for calmness. Then remembered: I’m a lawyer. I sat back in my chair, cleared my throat.