The Winter Wives

by Linden MacIntyre

  –Well, well. So who’s the guy I’ve been calling Albert Rose?

  –A loser. Ex-cop. Failed lawyer. He doesn’t matter in the larger scheme of things. We’re interested in the real Albert Rose. You with me?

  I studied Allan’s photograph. The expression on his face was one of intimacy. It was Allan maybe two years back. Who was he talking to? There was a faint tremor of recollection. Quiet hotel lounge near the airport.

  –Who was he with, when this was taken?

  –Three guesses.

  * * *

  —

  I sipped my coffee. Stalling, I suppose. Tom gave me time, slowly picked up the photographs, returned them to his folder. Laced his fingers together while he studied me.

  –By the way, what was it with you guys and names? Your name is Angus, right? But everybody calls you Byron.

  –Byron was a high school nickname. Because I limped. The poet, Lord Byron, was lame. Some of the kids started calling me Byron. I wasn’t offended. The name stuck.

  He laughed.

  –You wouldn’t get away with that today, a nickname drawing attention to a handicap or whatever.

  27.

  Ego and greed. Weaknesses that turn good judgment into recklessness. It had been the core of Allan’s corporate philosophy: avoid ego and greed at all costs. In the end, it seems, he was felled by playfulness.

  Tom explained.

  –He was doing good at keeping a low profile. Then he resurrected his real name. Albert Rose. Being playful. Giving us the finger. Started hanging his real name on cut-out characters, people he’d invent for fake transactions.

  The policeman looked me in the eye and in a serrated voice declared,

  –You say you didn’t know a darn thing about any of this.

  I could only shake my head.

  –And it isn’t just your fading memory?

  –I’m flabbergasted. I do not bloody care if you believe me. I’m trying to compute where I stand legally.

  –That’s very wise, he said.

  –So, what got all this started, Tom?

  –Fraud. But it’s part of a much bigger thing now, Byron. International in scope. Drugs and money laundering. You follow?

  I tried to understand whether Tom’s confidence, his poise, was based on knowledge or the instincts of a first-rate poker player.

  I concluded: either way, I’m in another world here.

  –These things start real small sometimes. Some low-life drops a name. It happens all the time. We’re good with names, Byron. A name like Allan Chase got stuck in some cop’s ear years ago. At the time, he was just some low-level dope dealer, not worth the bother of an arrest. But the name became relevant at some point.

  He shrugged.

  –Serendipity. I always say, serendipity and old-fashioned shoe leather. A formula for everything in life.

  –But you’re a bit late now, aren’t you?

  –How so?

  –Allan’s dead, I said.

  –Oh yes, said Tom. He’s definitely dead. But you aren’t, are you. And of course, the Winter ladies. You three are very much alive.

  * * *

  —

  Serendipity or not, it was clear as he laid the story out for me that Tom had done his homework.

  Both Allan Chase and Albert Rose had attended a well-regarded Catholic high school in Toronto. Both were very good at football. It was because of an award for playing football that the police first found out that Allan Chase had died in 1977, a few weeks after graduation.

  But for a long time that was all they had. A few newspaper clippings about high school sports. All his academic records had mysteriously vanished, no one could say precisely when. It was years later, in the course of searching for the missing files on Allan Chase, that investigators learned another student file had also disappeared—the academic records of a kid named Albert Rose.

  Rose had been a model student and, like Chase, a great all-round athlete. But in the spring of 1978 his life went off the rails. Just before his graduation, he was arrested for dealing drugs.

  He wasn’t really selling drugs, just using. But he knew the dealers and he’d sometimes pick up dime bags for his friends. And when he was busted, he was carrying enough to warrant prosecution for trafficking.

  The friends were suddenly invisible. Albert who?

  The school expelled him just weeks before he was to graduate. Even his folks cut him loose. Hard-nosed discipline types, his mom and dad. For all intents and purposes, they disowned him.

  The judge was a bit more sympathetic. He made a good impression in the courtroom. A clean-cut guy and athlete with no previous record who deserved a second chance. He was eighteen. It was adult court. He got off with a suspended sentence. But still, he had a record that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  That was how young Albert saw it, anyway. His life was finished. So, he decided to switch places with the dead guy. At least on paper.

  He dug up Allan Chase and he buried Albert Rose.

  * * *

  —

  –So, let’s say that you were in the dark the same as everybody else. But you must have had suspicions, Tom said.

  –Nothing.

  –Your friend had some fairly hefty associates in the drug business down in the States, and also Mexico. At a certain point the DEA came to us for help in finding him.

  –And Albert Rose?

  –That’s where serendipity comes in.

  An Allan Chase had briefly been a football hero at a university in Nova Scotia. He dropped out, and in the summer of 1980 an Allan Chase, with the same birthdate as the dead guy, qualified for a licence to drive trucks all over North America.

  Then, somewhere along the way, Allan Chase became invisible and stayed that way until somehow, just a few years back, his name popped up on the fringes of a deal that was of interest to the US Drug Enforcement Agency.

  –Once we determined that the real Allan Chase was actually dead and that someone had stolen his identity, the obvious villain was the other kid whose high school records had gone missing at the same time. Albert Rose. And then, when we were running out of leads, Albert surfaced in some dodgy real estate transactions.

  Tom sighed. He leaned back in his chair, stared at me with a sad expression that might have passed for sympathy.

  –I want to believe you, Byron, because I’d hate to think of what will happen to you if you’re just stringing me along. But the other thing worth contemplating is that maybe someone has been stringing you along.

  * * *

  —

  Who are you?

  Allan obviously wasn’t going to answer. Allan, now Albert, had been reduced to a kilogram or so of what looked like cat litter, contained in a black plastic box resting on the mantel in Annie’s condo beside a tasteful arrangement of fresh-cut flowers. And, of course, a photograph. Something posed. From when he and Peggy married.

  He’d been on the mantel for a week, since Annie brought him home from the crematorium, the subject of many conversations rooted in the certainty that he was the person that he always said he was.

  –You don’t mind him being here?

  –I don’t mind, but what about Peggy?

  –Peggy’s having difficulty with everything.

  * * *

  —

  Annie arrived home late. When she asked how my day was, I was noncommittal. She wandered around a bit, tidying. Had a coffee.

  –How are you feeling?

  –Okay.

  –I’ve been looking into medication for you. I’m hearing there’s been some progress in Parkinson’s, with miraculous results for some people. There might be something new for dementia. It’s worth a try.

  –I wouldn’t waste a lot of time on it.

  –Maybe you need something for your attitude.


  –Maybe we should talk about the business.

  –Yes. Peggy’s coming by a little later.

  –It’s already late, I said.

  –We can’t put it off any longer. You’re up for it?

  –Do you want to give me a heads-up?

  –I’m going to pour a drink. You?

  –Nothing for me, thanks.

  She sat, legs tucked under her, her drink on a side table, flipping through a document.

  –What is it you have there?

  She ignored me. Flipped another page. Reached for the drink. Contemplated for a moment. Sipped.

  –Oh my, she said.

  –What are you reading? I asked.

  No response.

  And I was remembering when Mom became invisible, and we would talk as if she wasn’t there.

  The difference is that she really wasn’t there. She was in her own space, and we in ours, and the two spaces were bubbles, in a real way exclusive.

  I am present. I am here.

  Or am I?

  Maybe someone has been stringing you along.

  And suddenly Peggy was here too, in the bubble.

  I struggled to stand, but she waved at me to stay put. Annie went into the kitchen to fetch a drink for Peggy. In her absence, I started to say something, I wasn’t sure what. I must have stammered. Peggy waved her hand at me again.

  –No. Don’t say anything.

  Annie returned with Peggy’s drink. When they were sitting, I said,

  –I want to say I’m sorry I haven’t been pulling my weight lately.

  –It’s understandable, Annie said.

  –Before we get started, I want to ask about Albert Rose. When was the last time…

  Peggy interrupted.

  –He’s been out of the picture for quite a while now, as you should know.

  –Since when?

  They exchanged puzzled glances. Annie said,

  –Since we unloaded that Halifax property and those Albert Rose companies you put in place way back when.

  –You know that, said Peggy.

  –I think his name was on a lot of properties, I said.

  –Not anymore. Why the interest? Annie said.

  –Yes, why do we care about Albert Rose? Peggy said.

  –His name came up.

  –How so?

  –I’ve had visits from the police. They asked about Albert Rose.

  –From the police?

  –I told Allan. He didn’t think it was important.

  –So?

  Annie was looking puzzled rather than alarmed.

  –So, nothing. They first showed up at the farm, some years back. But I had another call the other day. Same cop. Asking about Albert Rose again. I indicated he was out of things and had been for some time. I was surprised by some of what he had to say.

  There was a long silence. They stared at me. I stared at them. They stared at each other. There was so much silent communication, it was overwhelming.

  –Byron?

  –Byron!

  It was Peggy.

  –From now on, Byron, I think you should be very careful who you talk to. You should refer any inquiries about any part of our business to us. To me or Annie. Or, if neither one of us is available, to Nick.

  –Nick?

  –Yes, Nick. Annie, I think you should take it from here.

  Annie’s face was flushed, but she was steady. Man, she was as steady as a rock.

  –There has been a decision by the board, Byron. And we’ve endorsed it. For the foreseeable future, you will be relieved of any company responsibilities.

  –It’s for your own good, dear, but it’s for the protection of us all, said Peggy.

  –We’re in a very delicate phase now, the final stages of the transition, all according to Allan’s instructions. Transferring all remaining assets into a trust.

  –A charitable trust, I said.

  –A trust.

  –The plan was…

  –The plan has changed.

  –What about the old people?

  –We’re working something out with the old people. They aren’t exactly welfare cases.

  –And Allan’s money…

  –It’s everybody’s money, dear. We have a law firm looking for it, Bay Street people Nick knows.

  –Nick again.

  –Byron, I can feel you getting worked up. That’s not helpful.

  –We always counted on the fact that Allan was in charge, I said.

  – It isn’t your concern now, Peggy said.

  – So, who’s in charge now? Don’t say fucking Nick.

  –Basically, the board.

  –And who is the name on the letterhead? The top dog? On paper anyway, where my name used to be?

  –Mrs. Peggy Winter.

  –Congratulations, Mrs. Winter.

  –I’m sorry if this is all coming at you…

  – So, who is really calling the shots?

  –The board, with our participation.

  –Our participation?

  –Me and Annie.

  –You don’t know fuck all about the board.

  –We know enough. Allan picked them. They’re reputable.

  I laughed. I stood up.

  –I think I’ll go now.

  –Go where? said Annie.

  –Home.

  –You are home, honey.

  She glanced at Peggy, her eyebrows raised. I looked around the room. I could imagine Allan laughing on the mantel. Telling me,

  It’s about context, Byron. Meaning comes from context. Context can lend humour. Context can lend drama. Your context is now dementia. Which lends nothing but humiliation. Each small mistake is more confirmation of what they’re already thinking.

  As far as they’re concerned, you’re gaga, man. But that could be a good thing.

  Explain nothing.

  * * *

  —

  I think it was when Peggy called me “dear” that I decided to leave them in the dark. It wasn’t so much the innocuous word, but the way she said it. I’d been called dear many times, just like that. In hospitals. By kind but ultimately mercenary strangers.

  They could learn the truth themselves, the way I did.

  And if I had any doubt about my true position in this three-way relationship, it disappeared when Annie called me “honey” for the first time in her life.

  * * *

  —

  I was in the condo living room when the truth came home to roost. It was much sooner than I’d expected. Annie had gone to work early. My phone rang. I could hear a commotion around her, could hardly hear what she was telling me.

  –What’s going on? I asked.

  –The place is crawling with policemen. They have search warrants. They’re tearing everything apart.

  –I’ll come.

  –No, stay there. They’re also at Peggy’s house. I think they’re on the way to the condo place too. I’ve already called our lawyers.

  There was pounding on the door as I disconnected. Someone shouted to open up. Shouted “Police” as if I didn’t know already.

  I stumbled to the door.

  There was a policeman in uniform, holding up a paper, asking if I was who I was, advising me that they had a warrant and were about to search the place for evidence of fraud and money laundering and other things that, because of the confusion, I forget. There were half a dozen other cops behind him. I stepped aside and they walked in. Straggling behind, there was a plainclothes officer with a laminated ID tag hanging from his neck and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

  –Hello, Byron, he said.

  –Nick, I said. I think you know your way around.

  28.

  They i
gnored me as they ransacked the place. Eventually, Nick took me gently by the arm and led me to the rocking chair near the window overlooking Lake Ontario. There were foaming whitecaps. Planes from the island drifted down, lifted upwards. I became a non-being in the busy room, more or less like Allan on the mantel.

  I looked toward his black plastic box and suddenly felt lighter. Remembered his confidence, how he respected the law, even when he broke it, and the truth, even when he lied.

  Don’t sweat this, I imagined him saying.

  I’m not sweating it.

  I could hear his chuckle and feel his utter confidence in me.

  Bugger off, I told him.

  After what seemed like quite a long time, Nick placed a comradely hand on my shoulder.

  –Let’s go somewhere quiet, he said.

  He led me toward the small office beside the main bedroom. He really did know his way around, but he didn’t seem to realize that this is where I slept. He pointed to a chair. I sat. He sat at the desk. In command.

  –I’m sure I don’t have to explain. You’re an attorney.

  –You needn’t explain, I said.

  –I need your phone, he said.

  –My phone?

  –Yes, please.

  The questions would have been instinctive in other circumstances: Is it in the search warrant? Am I under arrest?

  I decided on the spot to ask neither. I took the phone from my pocket and handed it to him. He had trouble trying to suppress the surprised look on his face.

  –Password?

  Oh, fuck you, I didn’t say.

  –It’s malignant2. Small m, I said.

  He chuckled. Poked the password in. Started scrolling. I assumed he was reviewing my phone log. He obviously didn’t see anything of interest. He handed the phone back.

  –We might want to take another look at some point.

  –Whatever is appropriate. But can I call my wife?

  –Soon.

  I realized my hands were trembling and was surprised. Nerves? Normally, I’d have been disturbed by that. But in these circumstances, reacting like a normal person was probably a good thing.