The Winter Wives

by Linden MacIntyre

  And then Peggy blew her nose and declared,

  –I know I’ll be all right. It’s just the shock of everything.

  –You must keep reminding yourself, it’s all a game now. It’s all about the almighty dollar. It’s how much they can terrorize us to get as much as possible.

  –They keep saying we have tens of millions. Billions. Where’s that coming from, Annie?

  –It’s all tactics. We’re telling them the truth and we just have to keep doing that.

  –But Annie, just six million and change? Even I don’t believe that. I know there’s a ton more somewhere.

  –Peggy, listen to me. You do not know there’s a ton more. You suspect there should be tons more, just like they do. But you don’t know anything but what the numbers tell us at this point. Cash on hand. Some equity.

  –Do you know?

  –That’s neither here nor there. I’m doing my best to help them find whatever we can find.

  –I wish I was more like you. You’re just so cool about everything.

  Annie laughed, a mirthless chuckle.

  –Be careful what you wish for.

  –They’re threatening to charge me…

  –Fuck that, don’t even go there. Charge you with what?

  –Fraud. Conspiracy. Money laundering. False this and that.

  –All words. They’re pulling scary words out of their assholes. Don’t fall for it.

  –But our homes. My house. This place.

  –No court will let them put us on the street.

  I stood. They still didn’t notice me.

  –I wouldn’t be so fucking sure of that, I said.

  Now they saw me.

  –How long have you been there? Annie said, sounding edgy, like I’d been spying on them.

  I laughed.

  –I live here at your insistence, I said.

  –How much did you hear?

  –I heard everything, not that anything surprises me.

  –You should have said something.

  –I goddamned near tripped over you walking to this chair. See, here’s the problem. You’ve decided that I’m wacko, and wacko means invisible…

  –Nobody said you were…

  –Shut the fuck up for a change.

  I could feel the words rushing forward, like a tsunami, but then hauling back to a trickle. I knew the phrases would soon come rushing back in waves, but I was no longer sure about what garbage they might carry with them, what meaning, what misunderstanding. I felt tear-pressure building, the paradox of anger, evidence of weakness when passion makes you strongest.

  Without another word, I turned away from them. I went to where I slept. I went to the office, where there was a pullout daybed I’d been sleeping on for weeks. I went to the office, where there was an unopened bottle of whisky in the deep bottom drawer of an antique desk beside the miserable, lumpy goddamned pullout daybed. I locked the door behind me.

  I thought I heard someone try the door sometime later in the night. A doorknob turning once. Twice. Then nothing.

  I slid back down the dream slide to where the man was waiting to help me with the snowsuit zipper.

  Here, I think I’ve got it. Hang on.

  Wallop.

  I ran outside, toward the safety of daylight. And ended up in darkness.

  The pressure on my bladder was desperate. I sat up. To go to the bathroom, I would have to leave this sanctuary. I would have to risk an encounter with one of them. Not now. Ideally, not ever.

  I switched on the desk light.

  The empty whisky bottle…

  I grabbed it. Why the hell not. It’s all the same colour anyway.

  * * *

  —

  I listened as they left the condo early the next morning, off to their meetings with lawyers and policemen.

  I returned to the computer. I was in my underwear, but so what. I stared at the enigmatic second drive, read the biblical passage. Over and over. And I was thinking of another story, one I heard from an old lawyer in Halifax, about a worker at the navy dockyard. Every Friday evening he’d arrive at the main gate to go home for the weekend and he’d have a wheelbarrow loaded with straw. The guards on the gate would stop him every time. Find nothing in the straw. And wave him through, only to discover in an audit that there were several dozen wheelbarrows unaccounted for.

  Now why was that playing in my head?

  A part of my brain that wasn’t working properly was still sending signals just the same, like one of those beacons triggered in an aircraft after it has crashed. It was saying, Look at the big picture. It should be obvious to you.

  Two things I know about computers: When all else fails with the technology, reboot. When in doubt about the data, google.

  I googled. I started typing. For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven with a loud command…

  Google popped up with Saint Paul to the Thessalonians. I typed a few more words and the whole selection jumped into the frame, along with a citation.

  1 Thessalonians 4:16–17.

  After studying it until I almost knew it off by heart, I told myself: There is absolutely nothing in the wheelbarrow.

  It’s just straw.

  And then I thought: Look again.

  I played with the citation for an hour. And when I eventually typed in 1thes41617, I hit the jackpot. Literally. Eighteen million dollars and change, littering fifteen bank accounts in the middle of the Caribbean.

  I just stared.

  You are one piece of work, my friend.

  * * *

  —

  My phone was ringing. I checked to make sure it wasn’t Annie. Certainly not Peggy. It was Tom, returning my call.

  –Hey, Tom.

  –Byron. What’s up?

  –Tom, are you up for another coffee? I’ve done a lot of thinking about our last conversation.

  –Me too. Same place?

  –Sounds good.

  * * *

  —

  After I finished talking, Tom said,

  –In principle, I have no problem. But I’m going to have to run it up the pole. I only wish I knew more.

  –You’re better off in the dark, I said.

  –Can I have a hint as to your source of information?

  –Come on, Tom. You know better. Our lives often depend on sources. Trust me a little.

  –Let me understand. You can bring the eighteen million to the table…

  –Correction, someone can…

  –Someone can bring the missing eighteen million dollars to the table, voluntarily, if we agree to…Just run it by me one more time.

  –One: Don’t touch the homes. Annie’s condo and Peggy’s house. My farm. Two: Stop threatening Peggy with prison time. If there’s a criminal case against Peggy, make it go away.

  –What if they just double down, hang you up by the balls until you produce the money? They have ways of doing that, my friend.

  –First, I trust you, Tom. I think you’re a reasonable man. You know in your gut that they will never find that money. They’ll have what they’ve dug up already. Five or six million, I understand. They’ll have a few million from the personal property. They’ll be feeding and housing Peggy in some institution for God knows how long, and probably supporting her one way or another at public expense for the rest of her life because of what jail will do to her.

  –Or?

  –Or they carry off roughly twenty-five million in ill-gotten gains and put it to work for the well-being of the citizenry. Peggy and Annie get on with their lives as two smart, productive, law-abiding citizens with many contributions to make to society in future years.

  –Not bad for a guy with early-onset dementia, Byron.

  –Let me know their response.

  –You’ll get a te
xt from me. Two words in either case. Nothing doing. Or, Green light.

  –I’ll be waiting, Tom.

  –Whatever happens, it’s been interesting, Byron.

  * * *

  —

  Annie was late.

  –Where’s Peggy?

  –I’m not sure.

  –Byron, we have to talk. About last night.

  –What about last night?

  –Surely you remember. Your behaviour was unacceptable. I’m not sure that this is a viable arrangement.

  –Neither am I. I’ve been gathering my stuff. By the way, I found this in a jacket pocket. I don’t know how long it’s been there.

  I held up a thumb drive. I passed it to her. She looked at it with a puzzled expression.

  –What’s this?

  –A USB thingy…

  –I know that. Did you look at it?

  –Yes. It’s just a bunch of numbers. It looks like a list of bank accounts. Could be passwords.

  She grabbed a laptop and headed for her bedroom.

  I checked my phone. There was a single text.

  Green light, it said.

  31.

  I was staring at the lake from my usual lookout in the rocking chair beside the big picture window. The little planes were coming and going, trying not to make a noise. The condo dwellers were always listening, always poised to raise a stink if they should hear airplane sounds coming from an airport.

  It was a windy day in late spring, but there were a few early sailboats out riding waves about a metre high. It was one of those days when Mom would squint into the wind and say we might as well go in. Always, when she saw whitecaps, We might as well go in. The poor critters will still be in the traps tomorrow.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I was on a boat. Strange, I thought. I was really good at driving a boat. And good at getting around on board. Even in the shitty weather, I was like everybody else. As Mom would say, When the water’s rough, everyone is lame.

  I was glad that Allan saw me drive the boat. I think he was impressed that I was good at something.

  Mom would never tell me I was good, but I could tell she too admired the way I handled it. The way I read the wind and worked with the tide when we were in the harbour. The way I let the boat and Mother Nature have their way in the channel, and how I knew when to make the subtle mechanical adjustments that we all could live with, me and Mom and Nature and the boat.

  The fishermen would all tell me: You can’t fight Mother Nature, boy. She’ll kill you if you try.

  It struck me like a fist, sitting in that rocking chair.

  I’m going home.

  * * *

  —

  Annie rubbed my shoulders.

  –How are you today, Byron?

  –Good as gold, I said.

  She laughed.

  –You are indeed.

  –Were you able to make head or tail out of that thing I gave you? That whatchamacallit?

  –The whatchamacallit. Thumb drive.

  –Yes.

  –Yup. We made head or tail of it for sure.

  –Now what?

  –Now nothing.

  She was studying me. She was uncertain, possibly for the first time in our lives. Uncertain what was in my mind. If anything.

  –Good, I said. I’m glad things got sorted out.

  –You don’t remember where you got that?

  –Got what?

  –The thumb drive.

  I shrugged.

  –It was in a pocket.

  She came around and crouched in front of me, clasped my hand. She was really giving me the eye.

  –No clue, eh? It just showed up in a pocket? Like the fairies put it there.

  –Allan must have given it to me. It’s the only explanation. When or where is anybody’s guess. What did you do with it?

  –I made a proposition to the Crown. It was like they were waiting for it. Go figure.

  –Proposition to do what?

  She just stared, a smile spreading.

  –You’re crazy, Byron. Like I am.

  –I wouldn’t know about that. Where did Peggy get to?

  –She didn’t tell you? She’s moving back to her own place.

  –Oh.

  –Yes. We’ll miss her.

  –What’s she going to do?

  –I’m not sure. I’m not sure what any of us will do. What are you going to do, Byron?

  She mussed my hair and laughed the way she hadn’t laughed in years.

  –I’m going home, I said.

  –Sure you are, she said.

  She laughed again, lightly. Her sexy laugh. She walked away. I watched her, thinking of an expression Mom would use. She sauntered.

  * * *

  —

  At security, the guy was holding up my backpack.

  –Whose is this?

  –It’s mine, I said.

  –Do you mind opening it?

  –No problem.

  I unzipped it and held it open.

  –What’s in the box?

  –Human remains, I said.

  –I thought so.

  –Is that a problem?

  –No. It’s just that it has to go through on a different tray. By itself.

  –Sure.

  I lifted Allan out of the backpack and handed him to the security officer, who was wearing elastic gloves. He walked away briefly, then returned with Allan sitting on a tray that looked just like all the other trays. I watched as Allan and his tray disappeared into the X-ray machine.

  –What’s special about that tray?

  –I have no idea, the guy said. It’s just the one we always use.

  –You get a lot of dead people coming through?

  –More than you think.

  –So, it’s kind of like a little hearse, the special tray.

  –You got it. This person someone close to you?

  –Yes. Very.

  * * *

  —

  Before I turned the phone off on the plane, I saw the text: Where are you Byron? We’re worried.

  I texted back: I told you, heading home. Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.

  * * *

  —

  I spent two days in Halifax. I spent an hour, one afternoon, on the bridge. The Angus L., they call it. Interesting, I thought. My uncle, the bridge and I, all called Angus. It’s not such a bad name. I peered over the side. There was a tugboat passing underneath. There was a ferry, bucking whitecaps as it crossed the harbour. The bridge was rattling with passing cars, sounding almost flimsy.

  The water, even from where I was standing, high above it, chilled me. My stomach shrivelled. I could feel pressure in my bowels. Acrophobia. I’ve heard it isn’t so much a fear of heights as it is an irrational fear of the urge to jump. Eternity, right there before my eyes. Answers to so many impossible questions. Tempting.

  I had a sudden urge to piss. Strange how, every time I feel anxiety, that’s my natural reaction. I looked both ways. Nobody in sight. I unzipped and let it flow. I watched the wind unravel the unsteady stream, dispersing droplets in all directions.

  I relaxed.

  I tried to imagine my uncle standing here, but I couldn’t picture him. He couldn’t have been more dead.

  How totally fucked up would you have to be to…

  Man. That poor bastard.

  We’re almost there, sonny. Darned zipper. Hang on. You can do it.

  I zipped up and walked on.

  I bought a truck while I was in Halifax. A Ford. F-150. I’m going to be a country boy again. I felt half the age I really am, just driving off the lot behind the wheel of that pickup truck that smelled just like the showroom where I found it.

  * * *
>
  —

  I stopped in my driveway and I felt the crystals or whatever. Definitely something lurking in the land. Most likely in the rock below the thin topsoil that nourished so many generations for so many years, stingy and impoverished though it was.

  When I got inside, I placed Allan on the guest room windowsill where he could see everything. I could almost hear his voice: Sure hasn’t changed much since I was here last. That would have been for Mom’s funeral.

  And he did come all the way for my college graduation. May 1982, it was. He roared down the lane in a two-tone Mustang, black and yellow. Said he drove straight through from Toronto. Sixteen hours. Stopping only for a coffee and a stretch.

  –You were flying, man.

  –Found a shortcut through the Miramichi, straight to Moncton. Bypassed all the trucks between Edmundston and Fredericton. Saved two hours.

  –I thought you were a fan of trucks.

  –Not when I’m stuck behind one in a hot rod on a sunny day.

  Though it was graduation day, Mom and I still had to haul the traps as usual. It was too nice a day not to go out. The night before, Allan and I had gone to town just to see the action. It was like Mardi Gras, streets teeming with students and their friends and families.

  Allan knew we couldn’t stay out late. Mom and I were determined to be on the water by five. He was okay with that.

  –I might go out with you, in the morning, he said.

  –Neat. I’ll find you something warm to wear. Some of the old man’s coats and sweaters are still around. He was about your size.

  –If I’m not up when you’re leaving, don’t bother waking me.

  Before we’d turned in that night, I said,

  –Just think, if you’d stayed on at the books, we’d both be celebrating now.

  –But we are celebrating, he said.

  –What are you celebrating, Allan?

  –Same as you, Byron. Life. And the time we have and the freedom to make something out of it.