The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves

by Ann Birch

  “Hey, Roberta!” they say as she enters the room. “You’re late,” Moose adds. “We thought you’d fucking decided not to come or something.”

  “Nah, I knew you’d show,” Bat says. “Sandwich?” He pushes the plate over to Roberta.

  She sits down. Annie stands behind her. Now they’re all staring at the counsellor. “What the fuck are you here for?” Hester asks her. Today, her face is clean, and she’s actually taken the ring out of her nose. Her dog Scrappy seems to be enjoying a piece of chicken from her sandwich.

  “Roberta wants to tell you something and I’m here to listen,” Annie says.

  “Annie tells me I’m not going to be allowed to teach you today,” Roberta says. “I’m deep in what Moose might call ‘a crock of shit.’” She tells them about Mira, that it’s an update of an old story by a long-ago Roman writer. “I needed some money fast,” she says, “and it seemed like a solution to some huge debts I had to settle.”

  There’s a silence as if they’re trying to process what she’s said. Then Moose speaks up. “This kid has sex with her old man for fun? People are going to believe that? I don’t fucking believe it.”

  “It’s not like he’s forcing her or something?” Big Chris asks.

  “Hey, I think I read about it in Toronto Weekly while I was sitting on the corner,” Bat says. “But it was wrote by someone called Renee Meadows, they said.”

  “Rainy. That’s how you say it. Renee Meadows. Me. It’s a fake name, a stupid joke I once thought might be funny.”

  “But I’m not getting it,” Big Chris says to Annie. He stands up, puts both hands flat on the table, and leans forward. “What’s this dumb book got to do with Roberta not teaching us?” He’s a big guy and his tone is pugnacious.

  Annie steps back. Her voice is shaky as she explains.

  “You’re saying Roberta is, like, a perv?” Big Chris shouts. “You’re saying that?”

  There’s a rumble of voices, a chorus of “what-the-fuck” and other favourite expressions.

  “Look,” Roberta says, “it’s not Annie’s fault. Annie’s like a lot of people. She thinks I’m promoting paedophilia. You know me, and you know I wouldn’t do that. But I wrote the damn book. And now I’ve got to face the consequences of my own stupidity and other people’s stupidity.” She cannot resist adding that last bit. She gets up from the table. “Charlie will send you the food every Wednesday, so be sure to come here and eat it. And Annie’s going to get someone who’ll go on with the poetry. So you’ll be able to have the slam and invite your friends. And I’ll try to come and hear you if I can.”

  “It’s not about the bloody poetry, you know? And it’s not about food or nothing. It’s about this bitch here trying to get us to fucking believe you’re a perv.” As Moose says this, his ears get red.

  “She calls herself a fucking counsellor, but she doesn’t know nothing,” Hester says. She stands up, slams her chair into the edge of the table, and walks over to Annie. Scrappy is beside her, his ears laid back, his hackles up. “If you think Roberta’s a perv, you’d better get yourself a bloody shrink to fucking tell you what’s up.”

  Annie turns and runs towards the staircase.

  “Wait,” Big Chris yells. “There’s one thing that’s gotta be said before you scuttle out of here.” He bangs his fist on the table. Everyone falls silent. Annie pauses on the third step. “Every day I come in here, I see that sign inside the front door. Something about this place being dedicated to the glory of God or some shit like that. And you know what I think? I think it’s run by a gang of two-faced shitters, excuse the expression. And you’re the worst.”

  Now the whole group is banging the table with their fists and chanting, “Two-faced shitters.” Scrappy starts to bark and growl.

  “Wait a minute,” Roberta calls to Annie. “Come back here, please.” She waits until Annie creeps back down the stairs and stands beside her. “Now look here, all of you. I appreciate your support. I do. Your trust in me is the best thing that’s happened in all the time I’ve been coming here. But I need you to support me now when I tell you this: Annie’s probably going upstairs to phone the cops or the security people. Right, Annie?”

  Annie nods. She is pale and the wrinkles around her mouth seem etched into her face.

  “I don’t want her to do that. You’d all get into trouble and that would make me feel even worse than being called a … a … perv. So before I go, you’ve got to promise me one thing. You’ll stay here and finish your lunch, and then you’ll go upstairs and leave quietly.”

  The rumble of voices has quieted. They’re all looking at her.

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Big Chris says. “We promise.” The rest of them nod.

  “Good. And Annie, you’re going to promise here and now in front of me and twelve other witnesses that you’re not going to call the cops or the security people or anybody else. You’ll walk upstairs now with me, and then you’ll go into your office and stay there.”

  Annie bobs her head though Roberta can see her reluctance.

  Roberta looks at the group around the table, taking her time to nod at each of them in turn. “Goodbye. I’ll miss you.”

  She and the counsellor climb the stairs. “Thanks for that,” Annie says. “It looked bad for a moment. I was worried.”

  “Please. Shut up a moment.” Roberta stands at the top of the stairs, listening. “They’re keeping their promise. Now for God’s sake, Annie, you keep yours.” She walks to the front door. As she opens it, she turns back for a minute. “Know what? I think Big Chris summed things up nicely. You and the other so-called Christians in this place are a bunch of two-faced shitters.”

  Out on the street, she tries to take deep breaths, but the north wind smacks her face and she has to turn her head away from its force. She’s crying and her nose is streaming into her scarf. She pulls out a tissue and tries to wipe up the mess, but the sobs come and she can’t control them.

  She sure as hell has learned a lot in a short time. She foresaw the descent from her pedestal at Trinity, yes, but to fall from the paradigm of perfect professor to pervert in the space of a few short days? Well, she couldn’t have foreseen that. She’s hit the bottom of the pit.

  33.

  IT IS SEVERAL WEEKS into Roberta’s suspension from everywhere, and in sheer desperation, she’s taken to walking each morning in High Park, an oasis of four hundred acres of trails and woodland and ponds in the west end of the city. She’s acquired a pedometer and resolved to put at least ten kilometres on it every day.

  The walking regimen was Carl’s idea. In fact, he gave her the pedometer. “Sticks and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you,” he said to her after she told him about Annie’s decision not to let her near the street people. “It’s the dumbest bit of doggerel in this wide world. But please, dear Robbie, try to remember that you’re not circumscribed by her ideas. She’s the perv, not you. Now, I’m going to suggest something. A brisk walk every morning in High Park. You’ll find all kinds of things to take your mind off your problems. I used to go there on days when Claire was in chemo. I’d just walk, walk, walk, and I’d be so tired by the end of it that my mind would be emptied of all the sludge that had accumulated.”

  “In Summerton, it was always food that was the panacea,” Roberta told him. “A banana split cured me of my childish sorrows.”

  “Well, if a banana split would help you, go for it. But I suspect it wouldn’t cure you as quickly now as it did when you were ten. Try the High Park remedy. I’ll join you on the weekends.”

  So Carl is with her on this Saturday morning. They’ve just had a quick cup of coffee in the Grenadier Restaurant, and now they’re striding downhill, past the cherry trees that are starting to flower, to the path along the edge of Grenadier Pond. Carl is wearing hiking pants with a zip pocket on the leg and a sweatshirt tha
t shows off his broad shoulders.

  There’s an Asian man down at the side of the pond, almost hidden by the rushes. He has a fishing pole, and he throws it down when he sees them coming. By the time they’re on the path, he’s got his binoculars up as if he’s there merely to bird watch.

  “Not sure of the rules and regulations for fishing in these parts,” Carl says, “but I suspect that guy’s doing something fishy, pardon the pun.” They march along for a minute or two, then Carl adds, “I used to fish with my dad when I was a kid; we used to go to the creek in Bolton just before midnight so that we could put our lines in at exactly twelve-oh-one on the first Saturday of May, as I recall.”

  “You went fishing with your dad? I did too. He’d come home after office hours, throw his white coat in the washing machine, then pull on his old windbreaker, and we’d be into the Olds and away. Mother never went with us.”

  “Too busy doing the wash, no doubt? I wouldn’t have wanted to be a woman in those days.”

  He takes her hand, squeezes it. “Go on about the fishing.”

  “Daddy and I would stroll along the creek, stop by a deep hole, usually under the bridge, and then he’d put a worm on my hook. I was always too squeamish. Then we’d throw our lines in. I didn’t really want to catch anything. I’d just leave the line dangling and sit reading my book. Daddy used to laugh when I got annoyed if there was a tug on my line.

  “And after we’d caught a few speckled trout, it was time for the picnic. There was always fresh home-baked bread, crisp beans and radishes from our garden, and a delicious pudding called gooseberry roly-poly. It had to be steamed several hours, as I recall.”

  “No wonder your mother didn’t want to go fishing. Probably just wanted a few hours to herself to flake out on the sofa.”

  “Maybe. Because when we got home, Daddy would gut the fish, and then she’d coat it with some buttered crumbs and fry it up for us. I’ve never had fish since that’s been as good. You know, Carl, as I’m telling you all this, I’m realizing just how much I took my mother for granted. Things keep coming back to me. The gooseberry bushes in our backyard, for example. She had to pick the berries in order to make the roly-poly. I sure as hell wouldn’t have wasted all that time on a picnic lunch.”

  Roberta and Carl are halfway around the pond now. They have been walking at top speed, and they’re both huffing and puffing.

  “Let’s take a time out and look at the ducks,” Roberta says. “I don’t know a damn thing about ducks, but it’s an excuse to stop.” By this time, they have both flopped onto the grass by the side of the pond.

  “What was your mother like?” Roberta asks Carl.

  “I don’t remember her at all. She died of meningitis when I was two. So there were just Dad and I. He was in the war, you know, came home, went back to university, became a successful dentist, got married, and expected to live happily ever after. But it didn’t turn out quite that way. Suddenly, he had to be father and mother to me. He did it all, and I think it must have been a tough, lonely life for him. But I didn’t lack for anything, and I’m thankful for his care.” He pulls out a bit of chickweed from the grass. “He drinks too much now, and I think, so what? But I worry about him. He’s in Holland now for the Liberation ceremonies. I phoned a couple of his Legion buddies, and they’re keeping an eye on him. I want him to be safe.” There’s a pause, then he says, his voice soft, “I love him.”

  “You never wanted to have children of your own to love?”

  “I guess not having what you’d call a ‘normal’ life with a father and a mother and siblings, I never felt a yearning to have a family. And Claire was … acquiescent; I suppose that would be the word. Anyway, we had an unspoken agreement not to have children. Perhaps we would have been happier with kids.” He pulls up some more weeds and throws them on the grass. “Water under the bridge,” he says, pulling Roberta to her feet. “But Claire might have been happier as a mother. I never bothered to find out.”

  They finish their walk around the pond, have another cup of coffee, and head north to Bloor Street.

  “Are you okay, Robbie?” Carl says as they part.

  “Yes. In fact, I’ve sorted a few things out this morning.” She stands on tiptoe and kisses his cheek. “Thanks.”

  He blushes but looks pleased. “That was nice. Let’s do it again soon.”

  She is not sure whether he’s referring to the kiss or the walk in the park, but suddenly, it’s all good.

  The house is quiet when she gets home, except for the muted strains of Beethoven’s Ninth coming from Ed’s room. He’s probably working on research for one of the tiresome cases that old Peabody dumps on him. Charlie is at The Fig Leaf, of course, Saturday being one of the busiest days for the restaurant. So her timing is good. She goes to the phone in the kitchen and punches in a familiar number.

  “Mother? Please don’t hang up on me. I’ve just got to tell you that I’m sorry I never thanked you for all you’ve done for me over the years.”

  “What’s brought this on?” The voice is grumpy.

  “Well, a number of things. I’ll mention one. Carl and I were reminiscing this morning, and I told him about all those great lunches you used to pack for Daddy and me when we went fishing.”

  “Why all this ancient history right now?”

  “Oh, Mother, can you forgive me?”

  The line goes dead for a moment. Roberta thinks maybe her mother has hung up. Then she hears Sylvia’s voice, strained but determined. “Before you say one word more, I need you to know that Neville has moved in, lock, stock, and barrel. ‘Stock’ includes Polonius.”

  For a second, Roberta wonders who the hell Polonius is. Then she remembers. “Better keep the windows open then. Or at least, get the fan running night and day.”

  There’s a giggle. “Come and see us, dear. Soon. We’ll have lunch.”

  34.

  AS THE GO TRAIN PULLS INTO in Summerton, Roberta reflects that she is better prepared for this visit than she was a few months ago. She doesn’t expect to find her mother in bed with Neville this time (she’s phoned in advance as a warning), but she’s geared up for the cohabitation: Neville’s presence in Daddy’s favourite chair, Polonius’s farts. What she’s not sure of is the reaction of the locals to the news that she is Renee Meadows. They’ll know about it. Everybody reads The Gazette.

  It’s a cloudy day, but she puts on her big sunglasses and the green broad-brimmed hat that shades her face. She heads down Victoria Street. As she passes Nora’s Nimble Needle, the door opens and Nora Dorsey hails her. She has a loud voice, so there’s no escape.

  “Hey, Roberta — or is it Renee? You didn’t think that disguise would get past us, did you?”

  “Well, I hoped, but I should have known better.“

  “Speaking of which, you do know now about your mother and Neville? No surprises like last time? I told my daughters that—”

  “Will you join me for a glass of wine at Finnegan’s, Nora? We could talk there.”

  Roberta has become aware of an old woman nearby who has turned her pink permed head in their direction.

  “Lead on, girl. My daughter can look after things for a while.”

  The pub is next door to Nora’s shop. Roberta remembers when it was a non-licensed restaurant owned by the “Chinaman” as everyone called him back then. Only her parents called him Mr. Yu. The place had a long Arborite bar and a number of tall chrome stools on which people perched to eat the sausages and mash the “Chinaman” served them.

  Now the Arborite bar has been replaced with mahogany veneer coated with layers of urethane to make it impervious to spills. There’s a huge mirror opposite, flanked by mahogany shelves filled with pottery steins. Hunting scenes matted in green hang on every wall. Roberta is glad of the recorded music — a quavering Irish tenor singing, inevitably, “Danny Boy” — which will cover their conversation.r />
  They find a leather-padded booth at the back, and a girl in a green apron asks, “Two Guinness for you?”

  “Okay by me,” Nora says. “But this fine lady from the city needs a glass of white wine.”

  The drinks arrive, and Nora takes a swig of her ale. “Expect some nastiness over that novel of yours,” she says. “The owner of The Bookmark told me she’s sold seventy-five copies since your letter came out in the paper. People in town have sure got you pegged as the kid, but they’re having some trouble placing the publisher guy who’s the stepdad. Poor old Herb Philpotts who used to publish the Summerton Economist has come in for some grief. Remember how he always had a picture of you on the front page when you won those writing contests and scholarships? Not that Herb was exactly what you might call a crusader. Not like your father, anyway.”

  “I know you were a fan of my father. You knew him well, didn’t you? Better than most of the other women in the town?” She hears the edge in her voice as she says this.

  Nora drains half her pint in one long swallow. Then she says, “So your mother told you?”

  “Yes. But I want to hear your side of it.”

  Roberta waits while Nora gulps the rest of the Guinness and sets her glass down with a thump. “Your dad, he was kind to me. He was the kindest man I’ve ever known. He helped me out with Janeen once.”

  “I know about that. When I was a child, I overheard him telling my mother about the abortion. But he warned me not to tell anyone about it, and I’ve kept it secret all these years.”

  “I guess I’ve got to thank you for that.”

  “And now you can return the favour and tell me about your affair with him.”

  “To understand it, you have to know about my husband. I was pregnant when we got married. It was called a shotgun wedding in those days. And afterwards, he started to abuse me. He thought he could slap me around, but he didn’t get away with it. I walloped him over the head with a frying pan, and that was the end of that. But his words were brutal. He never stopped reminding me that he’d been forced into marriage. Not that it stopped him from taking his pleasure with me any time of the night or day.