Why Men Lie

by Linden MacIntyre

  “Effie,” he repeated, sighing. “I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. I want you to think before you answer. Okay?”

  He seemed young, radiated kindness. He was handsome in a cowboy kind of way.

  “What questions?”

  He frowned through the windshield for what seemed like a long time. “You’re old enough to know that boys and girls—or rather, men and women—have … relations. Do things, like, together.”

  He was studying her face. She was confused. Said nothing.

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  She shrugged.

  “Sometimes a guy … a man will try to do things with a girl or woman, and it’s okay. And sometimes it isn’t okay. You know that, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “It’s okay, for instance, when it’s your mom and dad together.”

  “I don’t have a mom.”

  “I know. I’m just saying. When you’re older, there will be boyfriends. And it’ll be okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “But there are certain people that it’s never okay for. Never okay for them to try to do things with you. Ever. And when you’re only thirteen—obviously a very grown-up, pretty thirteen … but it’s never okay, for anybody.”

  “I know.”

  “So, Effie.” He sighed again. “I have to ask you. Did anybody, ever, anytime … try to do anything?”

  There was a peculiar movement in her stomach, part nervousness, part nausea. And in her brain there was a silhouette but nothing else that she could see. But she could remember sound and smell. A revolting smell she was unable to identify. And the sounds were frightening and sorrowful.

  “No,” she said.

  “You’re shaking,” the policeman said.

  She stared at her trembling hands as if they belonged to someone else. She looked straight into the policeman’s eyes. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He seemed perplexed, but he also looked relieved. “Okay, Effie, you can go back in now. Anybody asks what we were talking about, tell them I’m looking for a lost dog. Out your way. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I already talked to your brother.”

  “You did?”

  “About the dog.”

  John phoned on Saturday morning.

  “We did it,” he said. “Tied the knot, yesterday afternoon. Went to see the old judge at his house. Short and simple. I recommend it, if you ever do it again yourself.”

  She offered heartfelt congratulations.

  “Queer time for a wedding, January,” John said. “But it keeps the guest list down.”

  “How many did you have?” she asked.

  “Just us and the witnesses,” he said. “Best way to go. Short and sweet and simple.”

  She felt a sudden wistfulness. She told him that he and Janice would receive an invitation to Cassie’s wedding. Keep April tenth available. He laughed. Janice hated to travel, but he’d try to talk her into it. A little honeymoon, he’d call it and maybe tempt her that way. Effie remembered an awkward night in a motel room years ago. What year was it? The year Duncan was ordained—1968. He’d married them. John seemed to drive forever afterwards.

  “Cassie will be devastated if you don’t show up,” she said. “You know she calls you Uncle John.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

  “Great girl, Cassie,” John said finally. “I have her graduation picture on the mantel. And what about himself, her father? Have you talked to him?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Saw him in town a week ago,” John said. “His nose is definitely out of joint about something. When I mentioned Cassie getting married, he just snorted and walked away.”

  “Take it with a grain of salt.”

  “He’s starting to look his age, that fellow is. I felt like telling him.”

  “Sextus?”

  John laughed. “Yes. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Sextus aging like the rest of us.”

  “So how is Janice?”

  “Oh, she’s great. Aren’t you, Janice?”

  There was a voice in the background.

  “I don’t think you told me the due date.”

  “Well, that depends, doesn’t it?”

  “Depends on what?” Effie asked.

  “Depends on who the father is. Right, Janice?”

  She could hear a woman’s voice raised in the background, then he was laughing too.

  “I’m dying to meet her,” Effie said.

  “I tried to introduce you last summer,” John said. “One morning when she and I were out for our run, we saw you on the road.”

  7

  The summer had remained a regular topic of discussion all through their first spring together. JC’s enthusiasm was infectious. He wanted to explore Cape Breton, a place about which he had very distant, mostly pleasant childhood memories.

  The mother of his child was dead. A car accident in the mid-1970s. After that, his daughter had been raised by her mother’s relatives and JC lost touch, except for the cheques that he continued sending until 1985, when she turned twenty-one. He admitted writing the last batch with a feeling of relief that, when he’d mailed them, turned to loss.

  “So through the seventies,” she said, “you were dealing with that. And nobody knew what you were going through? The mother of your child killed …”

  “Actually, I wasn’t going through much of anything.”

  “But you must have—”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Do you know her name? The daughter?”

  “Her first name. Sylvia. I don’t know what last name she ended up with. You have to remember, once I got on the Amnet treadmill, that was pretty well my life. Till ’96, when I came back.”

  “Amnet?”

  “American networks.”

  “And what was it that brought you back in ’96?”

  “What brought me back?” He seemed to think. “Fatigue, I guess it was. Yes. A certain kind of fatigue.”

  He smiled.

  “But here I am, right? All rested up. Ready for the unknown.”

  On Saturday she wandered to a coffee shop on Bloor. She bought a newspaper, scanning it for even a small reference to Texas, what might be going on there. She found nothing that enlightened her. She sat, sipping at her coffee, trying to imagine JC in that place.

  Fed up with dark probabilities, she forced herself to contemplate the word she’d been savouring—“autonomy.” The essence of autonomy is independence, something she had struggled to recognize as being paramount among her considerable achievements—the silver lining in the black cloud of abandonment. Conditioning, she thought. I’m in training for another disappointment.

  “Is there anybody sitting here?”

  She shook her head, mustered a weak smile, moved her newspaper so the man had room to put his mug down and resumed her meditation.

  “May I?” he said, nodding toward the front section of the heavy weekend paper.

  “Be my guest.” She looked away, aware she was being inspected. She had the irrational urge to light a cigarette. It’s odd how the old impulse returns, even decades after the last smoke. How many of our urges last so long? Cigarettes had once been perfect social moderators. “Would you care for one?” she’d have asked. And he’d have said, “No, thank you,” or conversely, “Why not?” And probably have lit both cigarettes, a brief engagement that could have dissipated like the smoke or evolved into a genuine encounter.

  The man now reading her newspaper was decent-looking, she thought, maybe early forties. He wore no rings. He had a fashionable whisker shadow, his hair clipped short; no ear stud, no visible tattoos. He was wearing a scuffed leather jacket and a yellow turtleneck with a polo player logo on the breast, which she didn’t like but could overlook because the shirt was faded, obviously old. She opened her purse, checked her cellphone. It was turned off. P
erhaps he’d called. She turned it on, but there were no messages. She placed it on the table anyway, beside her coffee.

  He put the paper down. “Thanks,” he said. “I just wanted to check something. I’ll pick one up.”

  “You can take that one.”

  “I’ll gladly pay for it …”

  “Don’t be foolish,” she said.

  “I love your accent,” he said. “You’re Irish.”

  “No,” she said with a quick laugh. “Far from it.”

  “Newfoundland, then.”

  “No, not quite.” There was a moment of eye contact, and she looked away. Imagined the cigarette, imagined exhaling away from him. Simply having something to do to hide the nervousness in hands and face.

  He reached into a pocket and plucked out a card. “I must be off,” he said. “Thanks for the paper. If I can ever return the favour.” He put the card on the table, then stood up. “You don’t have a card, I suppose.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m Paul,” he said, holding out a hand.

  She hesitated for a moment, then briefly shook his hand.

  He stood silent, but the expression on his face was eloquent. He wanted to know more.

  “I’m Faye,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, then smiled and walked away. She watched his back, the easy, athletic stride. The card said Paul Campion. There was an address that could have been an office or a residence, and there was a telephone number.

  Walking home, she noted that her spirits were improved. She knew it was the brief speculation she’d noticed in a stranger’s face. For a moment she allowed herself to be what she presumed he had observed: a younger, more attractive and interesting package than the one she lived in.

  It was a flight of self-indulgence, she knew that. But it felt good and it was a welcome interruption.

  When the doorbell rang Sunday night, she considered ignoring it. She was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, fresh from a bath, looking forward to bed. She knew it would be JC, and she felt angry and disappointed. So now he’s back from Texas. At least the asshole could have called.

  He was leaning with one hand propped against the doorframe, head hanging. When she opened the door, he looked up and stepped back, swaying dangerously near the top step. Instinctively, she reached for him. She’d rehearsed a short, sharp greeting, but she was speechless. JC spread his arms, palms toward her as if in supplication.

  “You’d better come in,” she said at last.

  He stumbled almost imperceptibly on the threshold but recovered quickly. “Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s late. I came as soon as I could, to get the lad. I hope he hasn’t been a problem. With the allergy.”

  “The cat is the least of my problems,” she said.

  Then he wrapped his arms around her and held her so tightly she could hardly breathe. He said nothing, but rocked gently from side to side. He reeked of smoke and alcohol and sweat. “I need to be with you tonight,” he whispered. “I need to stay here with you.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Let me get you something. I’ll make tea.”

  “No,” he said. “No tea.”

  “Okay,” she said softly. “You go on up. I’ll shut things down.”

  He walked slowly and with what seemed like great deliberation toward the stairway, still wearing his overcoat. He paused briefly at the bottom step, as if measuring the distance he had to climb, then slowly mounted.

  She watched him go. Then sat and waited.

  The overcoat was tossed aside. He was on the bed, face down, unconscious.

  Gently, she removed his shoes. She undressed herself, then retreated to a spare bedroom. The night was endless.

  She called Walden at eleven the next morning, not expecting him to answer. But he did. His voice was husky.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said quickly.

  “No problem,” he said. “I was just going to call you.”

  “You were sound asleep when I left for the office. I thought you needed the rest. But you seem to have got home okay.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But I’m afraid I forgot something at your place.”

  “Ahh,” she said.

  “The cat.”

  She laughed. “Well, the shape you were in last night, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I hope I didn’t make too much—”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said. “I’ve seen far worse.”

  “I’ll come and get him this evening.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll fix some supper for us.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

  “Well, we have to eat, anyway. I promise I won’t harass you.”

  “I’m not worried about that. It’s just that the appetite hasn’t been the best lately.”

  “I’ll keep it simple.”

  “What time?”

  “Whenever you get there.”

  She bought two T-bones and a bag of premixed greens on the way home. She made an olive oil and vinegar dressing. She tidied. In her bedroom, she could still see the imprint of his body on the duvet. As she was about to leave the room, she noticed a small red object on the floor beside the bed. She picked it up and examined it. It was a small cutting tool with a retractable blade. Something tradesmen used. A utility knife. Yes, that was what they called it. She slipped the tool into her jacket pocket.

  By eight she was convinced JC wasn’t coming and was contemplating an even simpler dinner for herself. Then she heard the doorbell.

  He seemed refreshed and almost cheerful. “What’s on the menu?” he asked.

  “Steak and a salad. You like yours rare, right?”

  “Medium-rare.”

  “You’ll excuse a lack of starch,” she said.

  “I’ll appreciate a lack of starch,” he replied. And they laughed together for what felt like the first time in ages.

  She didn’t offer alcohol, and he didn’t ask for it. She made a pot of mint tea. They spoke about Cassie’s wedding plans. She told him that Ray had researched head injuries and sent some background information, which she’d left at the office. He thanked her, said he’d been briefed by a specialist at the hospital. He wasn’t worried. He was no stranger to concussions. “Not that it’s something to be proud of.”

  “Life is full of small concussions,” she replied.

  “But you don’t anticipate them at my age,” he said. “This should be when life calms down.”

  She remembered the cutting tool, removed it from her pocket.

  “I found this on the floor, upstairs.”

  He seemed startled. “Oh,” he said, reaching for it.

  “What’s it for?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Opening packages. Cutting twine.”

  “Someone I once knew told me it could also be a weapon.”

  “Really?” He laughed. “What kind of person was that?”

  “Just someone I knew. I was considering a course in self-defence at his gym. He said if I was worried I should carry one of those. He said ‘the most effective weapon is the one the other fellow doesn’t know you have.’ ”

  “Old flame?” he asked.

  “You could call him that. I must have mentioned Conor?”

  “Can’t say you have.” He studied her face, waiting.

  “We lived together for a while. After Sextus. I’m surprised Sextus never mentioned Conor. Anyway … it didn’t end well.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Conor bailed on you.”

  “No—Conor died on me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

  He put the tool in his pocket. His eyes were troubled.

  She asked about Texas. He checked his wristwatch. He said there wasn’t much to tell her about Texas. Sam had a new execution date and, by coincidence, it was right around Cassie’s wedding. They planned to put him down on April eighth.

  “Put him down?” She
was frowning.

  “That’s how he refers to it,” he said. “He’s full of black irony. Said he was going to try to persuade them to do it on Good Friday. They’re kind of religious down there.”

  “I can’t imagine any irony in his situation.”

  “What else is there?”

  “So what do you talk about with someone who’s going to die?”

  “We’re all going to die.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “We talk about life. Plus, Sam’s a big believer in God and heaven, a literal afterlife. So it’s kind of like talking to someone who’s getting ready for a big trip to some exotic place. A holiday that’s never going to end.” He laughed and looked away. “It helps, looking at it like that.”

  “What about you? Do you believe?”

  “Not a chance.” He yawned and stretched. “I’m thinking of writing a book,” he said.

  “A book?”

  “Why not? You wrote one.”

  “Mine wasn’t really a book,” she said. “So you’ll write a book about the death penalty?”

  “Not exactly.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “What, then?”

  He studied her intently for what felt like a long time. “Impotence,” he said.

  “Impotence?”

  “I’m becoming an expert on the subject. We talked a lot about that too. Me and Sam.”

  She studied the face, so familiar, but now impenetrable. “You can spend the night,” she said.

  “Two in a row. That’s almost cohabitation.”

  “Suit yourself.” She stood and started gathering the dishes.

  “Hey,” he said. “Look at me.”

  She looked.

  “I love you,” he said.

  She stared, the swift reciprocal response on her tongue. But she closed her mouth around it. Finally she said, “I know that.”

  He stood then.

  “Please stay,” she said again.

  “I can’t.”

  Now it was another Saturday and the silence was suffocating. Mid-afternoon she poured a drink and nursed it for an hour. As darkness settled, she refreshed it, then called his number. There was no answer, and she set the receiver down before the machine cut in. During her solitary dinner, in spite of all her better instincts, she uncorked some wine.

  Returning from the bathroom, she staggered slightly and reproached herself, then laughed. Reproached herself for what? She could stagger without any social consequences. She was alone. But wasn’t that the problem, drinking alone? She drew back a drape and peered toward the street, but it was gone, lost in the inevitable night. Another day has disappeared, she thought, another piece of my existence. And I sit here waiting, inflaming apathy with Scotch and wine. The story of my life, waiting for some man to intervene. And they always do, but always for their own ends. John rescued her from home. Sextus rescued her from John. Conor rescued her from Sextus, but at least he left her with an education and a home. That was progress, of a sort. JC Campbell rescued her from … nothing. Well, perhaps self-loathing.