“You never thought of moving out?”
“Of course. I did, eventually,” she said.
“It started when you were what? Twelve or thirteen?”
“That was when I noticed.”
“The knife should have been enough—you were in danger.”
“It was never like he was going to do anything with it. It was just there. I was terrified of the knife, but not of him. Of course, it was later that I understood. It wasn’t about me at all. It was about that girl, in Holland. The one he killed. He had to kill her, you know. Or she’d have killed him.”
“Why do you think she tried to kill them in the first place?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to think about that. You said yourself, about war.”
“Yes.”
“The poor girl. I often think of her.”
And then she realized the girl was standing there, a hundred feet away. Just standing on the corner, smoking. Effie couldn’t see her face but knew it was Tammy. In the glow of the street light, she could see the flimsy jacket made of imitation leather, the knee-high boots.
A car approached, slowed, then stopped. The girl spoke briefly to someone in the car. The car drove off.
Then Effie saw JC.
“Just keep walking,” she pleaded. “Just walk on by. Don’t even notice her.”
And it seemed as if he would. He didn’t appear to be aware of where he was, seemed lost in some distant memory, maybe mentally preparing for a class at Ryerson.
“Keep on going,” she whispered. “Please.”
He slowed. The girl on the corner noticed him. She turned away. For a moment Effie thought she was about to flee, but she turned back to face him. Then they were speaking, separated by a space of about ten feet. Even from where she sat, huddled in the darkness of the car, Effie couldn’t miss the familiarity in how they stood, how they gestured as they spoke.
And then he came closer to her, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. She produced another cigarette. He lit it for her. Then he reached into his jeans and extracted something, handed it to her. She accepted it and shoved it in a pocket. Then she turned. JC looked around. For a moment Effie was certain he’d seen her car, seen her sitting there behind the steering wheel. But then he walked over to the girl and grasped her by the elbow; she yanked her arm away from him. Effie could see that clearly. Then they walked together down Gerrard Street. Effie watched them go until they disappeared into the darkness of the winter night.
13
It surprised her when she realized that what she felt was pity. A younger woman might have felt insulted, even frightened to discover such darkness in one she believed to be the mirror image of herself. But Effie had learned that one must never assume that she knows anybody. The human personality is like a wardrobe, with varied ensembles of expression to produce reactions in another, or a slew of others. Love me, need me, fear me, laugh or cry with me, obey me. We rarely see another human in his moral nakedness. But that, she realized, was what had been revealed on Jarvis Street. She’d seen JC Campbell stripped of all his qualities, and the effect was not what she expected. Not that pity was less distressing than anger would have been, or jealousy. She understood that pity causes distance and distance is the cause of loneliness. She’d already known enough of loneliness.
Only one of the three strangers in her living room stood when Conor introduced her. Faye Ferguson, he called her, which was strange. The “Faye,” she thought, was private. The man who stood was slim, of medium height, with thinning hair. His smile was warm, his accent the same as Conor’s. Mr. Harrison, Conor called him. He was wearing a sports coat. The other two were burly, wearing bulky leather jackets. “And this is Mr. Megahey, and Mr. Cahill.” They nodded but remained seated, their expressions frozen in whatever moment she had interrupted. Old friends from home, Conor explained.
“Conor says you’re becomin’ an expert in Celtic history,” said Harrison, whose interest seemed to be authentic, except that he pronounced the “Celtic” with an s. Seltic history. “And you’re a Canadian, born and raised.”
She nodded.
“You’re a lucky woman,” he said. “Canada is a grand country.”
“Yes,” she said. Then added, “But I’ve never considered nationality to be much of an asset.”
Cahill smiled thinly. “Maybe that’s because your nationality has never been a liability.”
“The boys won’t be stayin’ for dinner,” Conor interrupted. “The four of us are goin’ for a pint, and we’ll probably grab a bite to eat. You’re all right, then?”
“That’s fine,” she said. “I have a lot of work to do.”
They all stood. Harrison shook her hand and nodded. “It was a pleasure, Faye.”
When they were gone, she wondered where and why she’d felt such loneliness before.
Cassie’s marriage was a wonderful distraction—a local anesthetic was how Effie thought of it—and she embraced the project as if it were her own. She’d become extremely fond of Ray. She saw him as a rare example of stable adulthood in a time defined by error and despair.
Screw it, she would say in her mind. Screw it, screw it, in a kind of sing-song mantra. She forced herself to laugh at all her new ironic insights, which were not, upon reflection, really new at all, being as they were about the darkness of male sexuality. Which made them seem that much more laughable.
The phone rang and she picked up, knowing it was probably a mistake. She said nothing, just waited.
“Faye?”
Silence.
“I saw you on the street today, on St. George. I had a class there. You were at the light, waiting. You seemed down. I almost crossed over to talk to you, but I kept my promise. You looked like you could use a friend. I can’t stop thinking about you …”
She gently pressed the hang-up button, realizing that it was sadness she felt.
JC called and left a message, wondering if there was anything wrong. She almost called him back: “Anything wrong? What fucking planet are you living on, you idiot?” It was almost funny enough to have authorized a reengagement. But no. There were worse conditions than isolation. Loneliness doesn’t have to be the end of the world.
On April seventh there was an urgent message from Molly Blue. Effie returned the call immediately.
“You know about Texas?” Molly said.
“What about it?”
“That character has lost what seems to be his last appeal. It’ll be on the news tonight. A circuit court in New Orleans has turned him down. And our hero is packing his bag.”
Effie sighed.
“You heard what I said?”
“Yes. I heard.”
“I know you two are kind of estranged …”
“He told you that?”
“Not in so many words. But he asked me to look after the frigging cat for a few days. Effie, you have to intervene. This is serious. This could be the end of him.”
“What makes you think I can influence him?”
“You’re the only one who can.”
“I’m busy with my daughter’s wedding. I don’t have the time, and I don’t have the energy for a lost cause.”
“A wedding …”
“Look,” said Effie. “He isn’t the only one who’s had miserable experiences.”
Molly’s voice was shaky. “Forget yourself for a moment. Think of him as sick. He’s sick. I don’t know if it’s from the knock on the head or from a whole life of hard knocks. But he’s not normal. I know the man better than you do. Trust me. This is not JC. This is a composite of the wickedness he’s witnessed. And now he seems to think that he can make sense of it all by watching one specific wicked moment up close, actually knowing the victim for once, really understanding the nature of what he’s witnessing by allowing himself to be a part of it.”
Effie, exhausted, said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t have to understand,” Molly said. “Just let your feeling for
the man you think he is take over. Because that’s who he really is. And you were one lucky broad the day you connected with that man. Don’t blow it now.”
Effie couldn’t trust herself to survive another sentence. “I’ll try,” she said.
“You have to.”
His phone rang and rang. And then she realized he’d disconnected his answering machine.
When Sextus called her at the office, he offered her two options: lunch or dinner. “I tried you at home a bunch of times, but nobody answers.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Simple,” he replied. “Lunch or dinner. Say dinner and I’ll consider it a date and arrive with all kinds of expectations. Lunch? No strings attached.”
For a moment she actually considered dinner. “Lunch,” she said.
“I’m having lunch with your father tomorrow,” she told Cassie.
“Lovely,” said Cassie. “When did he arrive?”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t been in touch.”
“He hasn’t been in touch for ages. I wasn’t even sure if he was going to turn up for the tenth.”
“He wouldn’t miss your wedding.”
“He’s probably just here to get his oil changed with that silly Susan.”
“Cassie, for God’s sake …”
“In any case, when you see him, tell him I want you both to walk me down the aisle, if you think you’re up to that.”
“Of course I’m up to that. We’re actually on quite good terms.”
Sextus winced when she mentioned Stella even before the waiter came to take their order. She’d planned it that way. There would be no pussy-footing, no wasting time. Just get it out in the open and get it over with.
“I thought we were here to discuss Cassie’s wedding.”
“Indulge me,” she said. “What was that about, anyway?”
“I have no idea what that was about,” he said. “That’s as much as I can tell you.”
He was staring around the restaurant, his face a study in unhappiness. “Stella is one of two or three women I’ve met in my lifetime who actually impressed me.”
“Impressed?”
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
“How did she impress you?”
He stared at her for about half a minute. “She reminded me of you.”
“Oh, come on,” Effie laughed. “Spare me.”
“It’s true,” he said. “Your personalities are similar. I was attracted to her. Met her in town. Had coffee. Talked. Decided to meet again. Anyway, it was never going to be any kind of a relationship.”
“So what prevented a relationship?”
“I didn’t impress Stella as much as she impressed me.”
“And what does it take to impress Stella?”
“I wish I knew.”
They stared at each other for a while as Effie tried to maintain a rational perspective.
“So what about this young Susan?”
“Jesus.”
“Come on. Lighten up.” She summoned up her warmest smile. “Was she impressed?”
He hesitated. “Yes. As a matter of fact, she was quite impressed.”
“I suppose she’ll be coming to the wedding.”
“No.”
“Oh?”
“I haven’t talked to her since I went back.”
“Well, well.”
“I realized when I looked at Cassie and what’s his name—Ray whatever—how … what it must have looked like, me and Susan. Kind of indecent, I thought at the time.”
“Indecent?”
“I don’t think that anymore—not about them. I wish them well. But for myself … I know what I want in my life, and it isn’t someone who still has Barbie dolls.”
Effie laughed, and this time it wasn’t the managed mirth that she’d been deploying to control the conversation but a spontaneous explosion of glee.
He shook his head. “This guy Ray, does he know what he’s getting into?”
“Cassie, in case you haven’t noticed, is way beyond the Barbie dolls. She’s nearly thirty years old.”
“Still. How old is Ray?”
“Late fifties, early sixties.”
“You mark my words. He’s going to turn you into a grandmother. You can tell by the gleam in his eye,” Sextus said. “He’s a baby-making machine. I’ve known old rams like that.”
“She wants both of us to walk her down the aisle.”
“So there’s going to be an aisle?”
“Yes. Duncan will officiate. We give her away?”
“Sure,” he said.
A waiter took their orders. He decided to have a whisky, double. She had a glass of wine. He had made her laugh, and it reminded her of what she’d missed in the long aftermath of their breakup, years ago. Humourless Conor. A series of brainy, insightful, tender, sentimental, macho, stupid—you name it—flings, relationships, one-night stands, not one of whom could make her laugh the way Sextus Gillis could. It was the laughter that came out of … Oh my God, she thought. Compatibility? It was a terrible thought, but it was true.
Then he ordered a second double.
Near the end of lunch he produced a briefcase and extracted from it a large package. He placed it between them on the table.
“I want you to take this with you,” he said. “Keep it. If you ever get around to reading it, feel free to burn it afterwards.”
“What is it?”
“I told you about it. It was going to be a memoir.”
“A memoir.”
“It started after a weekend I spent with John in ’83. We talked through our difficulties, explored a lot of places that had always been off limits. It became a serial thing. We’d talk from time to time. Pooled a lot of understanding and came up with what I thought was a new appreciation of what made us the way we were. Are. All of us. You included. Duncan. Our whole confused generation, in a way. The mutant spawn of a rotten century.”
“Those had to be some conversations.”
“Whatever. I did a lot of research. Phoned people, wrote to people. Old war veterans, etcetera. A few years back I started putting together quite a yarn about this interesting character, namely me.”
“I’m not sure I want to read it.”
“Seriously,” he said.
“If it’s about you, why were you interested in the war? Your father wasn’t in the war.”
“But yours was, and Uncle Sandy was. And it affected you and Duncan. It affected John big time. And I assume it will have affected your daughter.”
Effie shrugged. “None of this should come as a surprise. We don’t come out of nothing when we’re born.”
“Right.” He stared at her for what seemed like a long time. “I’m tempted to order another drink,” he said.
She put her hand on his. “Bad idea. And I have a meeting this afternoon.”
“I want to give you a heads-up,” he said suddenly. “If you read this thing.”
She stiffened. His face was flushed and he was sitting poker straight. He looked away from her.
“You get particular about small details when you write something autobiographical. So I started getting particular about us, when we did what, where, etcetera. If you follow me.”
She frowned. “Why on earth does that matter for a goddamn book?”
“It doesn’t really,” he said. “I just started obsessing about Cassie. Was there a chance that—”
“Jesus,” she said. “I can’t believe—”
“So I went to a doctor.”
“You did what?”
“I had a test, and do you know what?”
She looked at her watch, suddenly desperate to leave.
“I was borderline,” he said, almost angrily. “I was just above the threshold of sterility.”
“So why bring this up now?” She was half angry, half full of pity for him. “This was what? Nearly thirty years ago. So even if you weren’t class-A breeding stock, obviously I am. The outcome was okay,
wouldn’t you agree?”
He nodded.
“How come you never mentioned this when we got back together a couple of years ago?”
“Because I persuaded myself that my weak, watery sperm had been enough to do the job. The evidence was there. She’s the picture of a Gillis. There was an old photograph of my Gillis grandmother at home, when Grandma was a little girl. They’re identical. So I put it out of my head.”
“Okay. So?”
“She was also John’s grandmother.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know John got married.”
“Yes.”
“You probably don’t know that his wife is knocked up.”
“So what?”
“She was up the stump before the wedding. The word is that’s why they got married at all. Makes it kind of hard for me to continue my delusion.”
“Sextus,” she said. “What the hell difference does it make?”
“Well, you tell me. Who is Cassie’s real father?”
She stared at him for a long time, weighing possible answers. And there were many. But then there was a voice: It’s only what we know that matters …
“You are,” she said quietly.
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
“That’s up to you.”
“I didn’t mean to let this get away from me like that. I’m sorry. I spoiled your lunch.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “You made me laugh. I haven’t laughed for ages.”
“Oh?” he said. “Don’t tell me that you and Jesus are having problems.”
“Jesus?”
“That’s what we used to call JC years ago. Because of the JC thing. But also because he’d be the last of us to get in trouble. But when he did, he had a miraculous way of getting out of it.”
And she laughed again. They’d called him Jesus. And she laughed some more as she walked up University to her meeting.
14
She stared at the manila envelope for a long time before she opened it and extracted the first few pages. Why Men Lie, he’d called it. She smiled, wanted to ask, “Where’s the punctuation mark?” Or was it a statement, something he was now prepared to disclose to someone he had lied to. She doubted that. She stuffed the pages back inside the envelope, then placed it back in her briefcase. This belongs at home, she thought. It wasn’t something for a nosy student or colleague or janitor to find. She surveyed the tiny office, books and manuscripts piled everywhere, promising the truth of one thing or another; truthful revelations about human history.
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