Why Men Lie

by Linden MacIntyre

  “I’ll only be a day or two, and then we’ll go. We’ll drive, like we planned to do last year. Give me two days.”

  “Two days … what about the police?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “I was talking to Molly.”

  There was silence.

  “You asked her to look after Sorley.”

  He sighed.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you I was going,” he said finally.

  “Molly also told me about your meeting.”

  “Molly has a big yap.”

  “Please.”

  “They’re going to execute Sam tomorrow.”

  “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “You don’t get it.”

  She heard a sigh, then silence.

  The clock said nine. She’d overslept. She showered, let the water pour almost cold, and it was refreshing. But moments afterwards she felt the clamminess again, the sticky forehead. Her hair refused to dry. She decided to go out, find a morning paper. Take control, she thought. The paper would have something about Texas. Sam was a Canadian, after all.

  The street was loud, the urban sounds amplified somehow by the heat. Turning away from her door, she had the feeling that there was someone out there, waiting. But there was no one she recognized. A man was walking about a hundred feet away. There was something familiar in the set of the shoulders. Or maybe she imagined it. Perhaps JC was right. Maybe she should have called the police. But the thought of facing yet another cop only made her more uneasy. Then she thought, What am I fretting about? Today is Sam’s last day on earth. Sam who? She’d seen it once, his name, on television but had forgotten.

  The paper told her. “The hours are ticking by for Sam Williams, the Canadian who is scheduled to die this evening in Huntsville, Texas, for a brutal murder twenty years ago.”

  There was a photograph. The face was kind, eyes weary. He had white hair framing features that might once have been striking in their primitive masculinity, especially the chin. The photo was, according to a credit, from the television network JC worked for. She remembered how JC had persuaded Sam to show himself to the public. “You must, because the system doesn’t want you to,” he’d said. “The system doesn’t want the world to see what you’ve become.” The system didn’t want the world to see this face, the face of an old, tired man, the violent passions in him long since extirpated.

  This is what they would destroy, this shell. “Thanks for the poems,” he had written in the Christmas card.

  She bought a coffee, extra-large. She was pouring milk when, again, she experienced the sensation of being studied. She looked quickly to her left and almost saw … someone. She left her coffee, hurried to the door of the coffee shop, but there was no one she recognized nearby.

  She spent an hour at the office, attempting to review some academic studies she was considering for use in her curriculum. But she couldn’t get Sam Williams off her mind. His face—the face of resignation or acceptance. Is there a difference? She looked up “lethal injection.” There was a detailed description of the process, something about a sedative and a muscle relaxant before the fatal shot, administered by some anonymous physician. She stopped reading there, dizzy with the details of what JC had let himself become a part of. She sat for a very long time with her face in her hands. We are all complicit in this, she thought. She decided to go home.

  On her doorstep, searching for the key, she saw the man’s face for one fraction of a fraction of a second before it vanished, wiped out of her sightline by a passing truck. But she was certain. There was no doubt.

  And there was no doubt when the phone rang shortly after six o’clock. Instinct told her not to answer it, but reason intervened. “Fuck you,” she said, reaching for the phone. And then said nothing.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Paul. Effie?”

  The long pause was broken by a chuckle. “Look, I’m sorry if you think … I mean, you don’t have to run away from me.”

  “Please—”

  “If you got to know me—”

  “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me again.”

  “I see.”

  She put the phone down and breathed deeply.

  Moments later it rang again. She snatched it up. “Jesus Christ, what did I just say?”

  “What?” said JC. “What’s wrong?”

  She started sobbing.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all over. He’s gone. Were you watching the TV?”

  “No,” she said. “I wasn’t. I was on the phone.”

  “I was wondering,” he said. “They interviewed me. Someone from the CBC … Anna Maria. She was here, from the news. I wondered what, if anything they used.”

  “I didn’t see it … I can’t imagine.” She fought for breath. “I can’t imagine. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Quite pissed, but otherwise fine. Sandra is in rough shape. I’m with her.”

  “Yes, but you. How did you …?”

  There was a long pause. “Sandra was there. I wasn’t. I was on the outside, with the media circus. You should have seen it. It was embarrassing.”

  “You weren’t there when they …?”

  “They wouldn’t let me in.”

  “They what?”

  “They wouldn’t let me in, because I’m media.” He laughed. He sounded slightly drunk. “I hadn’t gone through channels to get on the media list, and they struck me from Sam’s personal list because I’m media. Texas. Go figure.”

  “Oh, God … I’m so relieved … When will you be home?”

  “I don’t know, but soon. I have to book something.”

  “What about the cat?” she said, groping for engagement.

  “Right. I told Molly not to bother, you’d look in on him. Okay? Now I have to go. Good night.”

  She sat staring at the silent phone. She was slow to realize that the message light was blinking.

  She slept badly until nearly daybreak, when at last she drifted off. There was a thin halo of daylight around the bedroom window drapes when she awoke again. She sprang out of bed, pulled on jeans, buttoned up a blouse. She brushed her teeth, tried to tame her hair, then finally bound it in a ponytail, found a ball cap. She peered through the front door window from behind the curtain, looking left and right. The street was empty. It was seven thirty.

  Hurrying along Bloor, she was alert, alternately nervous and embarrassed by her paranoia. Once she thought she saw him, but realized she was imagining his face on people who were strangers.

  The story from Texas was front-page news in all the papers. Sam went quietly, it seemed, no last meal, no final words of protest or remorse. There had been speculation that, at the end, he’d acknowledge his responsibility for what had been a terrible crime. But when asked if he had anything to say, he just smiled and turned his head away. “May God have mercy on his soul,” a prison spokesman said.

  There was a brief quote from a Canadian television producer, JC Campbell, who had befriended the condemned man and had spent part of the day of execution with him. Campbell said that Williams was “serene” and “noncommittal” in their final conversation, just hours before he died.

  “Whatever he did was in the heat of passion,” Campbell said. “What we just did to him was in cold blood.”

  There was a sudden movement in her peripheral vision. She stared toward the door, where she thought someone had stopped quickly, turned and was now hurrying away. She paid her bill but sat staring at the newspaper, her mind in turmoil. She was afraid—illogically, she knew—of going home just then. She remembered the cat.

  His indignation was apparent; she’d never heard him yowl so shrilly. When she tried to pick him up, he hissed. And when she started toward the kitchen for the cat food, he dashed ahead of her, tail straight up. For a moment she was smiling, JC, Texas, Sam, dead people from her past and present, all gone. JC’s living room was dark, drapes closed against the summer sun. After she’d fed
and watered Sorley, who promptly disappeared, she sat in the coolness, feeling safe for what felt like the first time in a long time. And before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

  She went home near noon, refreshed. She let herself in, welcomed the familiarity of her own place. She imagined a renewed sense of security as she closed the door behind her, heard the reassuring click of the deadbolt. In her bedroom she stripped, stood briefly in the utter comfort of her nakedness. In the shower, water sensual on skin, she felt a moment of arousal, thinking of JC, and that he’d soon be home. How long since they had showered together? Time is slipping by, she thought, emerging.

  This she would remember clearly—the flimsy fabric on the floor, beside the dresser, the top drawer opened slightly. Had she opened it before she’d gone out that morning? Or before she’d showered? A dreadful awareness wrapped itself around her. She drew the top dresser drawer toward her carefully until it was fully open, peered inside, felt a momentary reassurance when she saw that everything was there, the pantyhose, the underwear, the socks; a long outdated package of condoms; a tube of lubricating jelly. But it all seemed to have been shoved aside, crushed into one disorganized mass on one side of the drawer. A full minute seemed to pass before she recognized what is most difficult to see: what isn’t there.

  The manuscript that Sextus gave her was gone.

  She sat for a long time on the edge of the bed in a kind of paralysis. She dared not look around her; the closet door was ominously ajar. Now she was cold. She stood and approached the closet. She hesitated at the door, then jerked it open. Dresses, blouses, skirts hung silent, undisturbed. She grabbed a robe, clutched it close. Then sat in limbo.

  Time restored some clarity. The intruder had waited until she wasn’t there to make his entry. This seemed to tell her that the visit hadn’t been to do her harm. But, like all intrusion, it was to take something. He’d come and gone, clutching his newfound treasure. Knowledge, she told herself. He has stolen knowledge about me, something worth much more than property.

  She considered calling the police, but she could easily imagine the response. Burglary? How do you know? What’s missing? What’s it worth? How many people have keys to your place?

  She packed a single bag and called an airport limousine. Then she called Sextus and asked if he could meet her at the airport in Halifax. She’d call again when she had precise flight information. Going home was a spur of the moment decision, she said. She was trying to sound cheerful.

  “Of course,” he said. And then, “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll explain everything later,” she said, even then realizing she had no idea what or how.

  18

  Sextus had always possessed an uncanny ability to read her moods, and he kept the conversation light between the airport and the causeway. There was a brief inquiry about Cassie, some questions about her work, nothing at all about JC. Just before they crossed the strait, he said, “How about some dinner, on me?”

  She turned from staring at the ugliness of the gravel quarry at the foot of Cape Porcupine and met his steady gaze, then turned away again. “Watch the road,” she said.

  “I’m only talking dinner.” There was a slight edge of anger in the voice.

  She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “How about it?”

  She shrugged, but quickly blurted, “Not here,” when he slowed as they approached the Skye Motel. “I couldn’t.”

  It was where he’d first confessed his feelings to her, years before, where she’d first yielded to his needs and, as she later realized, her own. “There’s a place farther on,” he said. “It’s actually better.”

  “You shouldn’t have to work here, anyway,” Sextus said. “The Skye Motel, for God’s sake. I thought you were working on a degree.”

  “Someone has to pay the tuition.”

  “What’s wrong with John? I hear the wages at the mill are pretty good.”

  “I don’t want him to.”

  “Please stay.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please, I don’t think I’ve ever been so alone.”

  “You don’t have to stay at this place,” she said. “You could be staying home with—”

  “There’s just death there.”

  “Your father …”

  “He’s dying.”

  “I can’t—”

  “I’m in love with you, Effie. I’ve always loved you.”

  “I really should go home,” she said. “The place will be—”

  “You have to eat sooner or later.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He parked the car. “Let’s go.”

  Walking across the parking lot, he said, “It’s a lovely night, for a change … July’s been shitty. You didn’t miss much.”

  Over dinner, he asked, “What kept you in Toronto, anyway? You’re usually home earlier than this.”

  She put her fork down, pushed the plate away and took a deep breath that almost turned into a silence. “The manuscript,” she said at last. “The manuscript is missing.”

  “What manuscript?”

  “The one you gave me. It’s missing.”

  He just stared. “You read it?”

  “No.”

  He looked away. She could see a muscle in his cheek clenching and unclenching. “So you have no idea what’s in it?”

  She shook her head.

  It was embarrassingly late. She had rehearsed the reason: Sextus needed somebody to talk to. She had already cleansed herself of the lingering traces of that comforting. “I love you,” Sextus had said. And it caught her by surprise. The surprise obliterated reason. But reason now returned, embittered. What is betrayal anyway, if mitigated by a higher purpose, like generosity or love? Sextus said he loved her. She wanted to believe it, and so she did.

  “There’s some fairly personal stuff in there,” he said quietly.

  “I imagine.”

  “You told me everything, you know.”

  “Pretty well,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d write it all down.”

  He waved toward a lurking waiter. “I need a drink.”

  It was late, but there was a light on in the old Gillis place. John was waiting, patient John, who loved her as she once loved him. Her explanation was fluent and reasonable. Grieving Sextus. Dying Uncle Jack. “The time just slipped away.” But everything unravelled quickly. The accusation, the unexpected strength of his hand jammed between her thighs. The shock of her reaction, her fist swung toward his face and the fluid ease of his avoidance; his raised hand, reconsidered. The violence in his shove. Then the sight of him above her, the grimness in the wrenching of his belt. “John, don’t!” She closed her eyes, surrendered to the transformation of her guilt to grievance, the momentary liberating hatred. And she knew that, when he was asleep, she would rise in vindication, move in utter guiltless silence to the door, close it carefully behind her.

  “Where did you last see it?”

  “When you gave it to me, I put it in a drawer.”

  “At home or work?”

  “Home.”

  “My God. It couldn’t just walk away. Do you have a cleaning lady or something?”

  She shook her head. She felt his anger as he looked off toward another table. “I suppose you have a lot of visitors …”

  “Come on,” she said. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Well … Okay. I’m sorry. But what about JC? You don’t think …?” He raised a hand defensively. “I’m only asking. You have to think of all the logical possibilities.”

  “I have an idea where it is.”

  “You do? But you’re not sure.”

  She shook her head. “I can get someone to check.”

  He seemed to relax. “Well, okay. That’ll be a start.”

  “I could stay here with you for the night,” Sextus said. The darkened house was almost sinister. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ll chain myself to the couch. I just think you—”

  “I’m okay,” she
said. “I really am.”

  “How will you get around? You don’t have your car.”

  “I’ll rent something. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not going to stick my nose in any further. But I’m going to ask John to check on you in the morning.”

  “It won’t be necessary, really.”

  “I’m going to anyway,” he said. “Let me know when you hear.”

  She laid a hand on his. “Thanks,” she said.

  “I meant to ask,” he said. “What was your reaction to the baby’s name?”

  “Baby?”

  “John’s baby. I assume he told you.”

  “I’d forgotten.”

  “Two weeks ago. They called him Jack. He didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” she said. “But that’s nice.”

  “Jack.” He chuckled. “I can’t remember the last time I said that name out loud.”

  “It’s a good name,” she said. “John.”

  “Jack,” he said. “Not John. They baptized him Jack.”

  She had a sudden thought. “Was it Duncan who baptized him?”

  “No. Nobody has seen much of Duncan. The last I heard he was in Creignish. At Stella’s, the dog.”

  “Jack,” she said. “I think that’s perfect. Your dad was more like a father to poor John. Not to suggest …”

  “It took me years to admit how much I resented how close they were. John and the old man. I guess because it justified what I did to him.”

  “What we did to him.”

  “I suppose.” He sighed. “I’m glad it’s him keeping the line alive. Whatever goodness there was in any of them—the old man and Uncle Sandy—I think John inherited the most of it. Now maybe this new Jack.”

  “You have a daughter,” she said softly.

  “Do you really think so?” he said, then looked away. “It’s all in that manuscript, you know. After living with so many lies, I think we’re all ready for a dose of truth.”

  Before he left her, he said, “So you think you might know where it is.”

  “It’s a complicated situation,” she said.

  He laughed. “I can’t imagine any stranger finding that shit interesting.”