The Winter Wives Read online

  I found a secluded bay and shut her down. Let her drift. I had a six-pack, and cracked a couple of beers. He rolled a joint. Lit up, waved it in my direction. I declined.

  He puffed, gazing off. Then out of nowhere he asked me why a guy with all of this would bother with university at all. What more could I want when I had everything already?

  I told him what my father always used to say: You can’t eat scenery, out here you need the life support called money.

  –Surely there’s money to be made with a boat like this, more than you could make catching fish.

  –Like how? Taking tourists out for boat rides?

  –There’s smuggling.

  –Smuggling what? Those days are long gone when fishermen were hauling booze around for the rum-runners.

  –There’s always something people need.

  –I guess you should know. What people need mostly gets to them in trucks.

  –Lots of what’s in trucks comes off the water.

  –Not from lobster boats. Unless it’s lobsters.

  –I hear there’s fishermen here on the coast who make lots of money with boats like this. You go out a way and meet a bigger boat. Get a big payday for very little effort.

  –Nothing like that around here.

  –You could always be the first.

  –I wouldn’t have the stomach for it.

  –Chances of getting caught are lower than zero…

  –That’s not what I hear.

  –Look around you. This is the middle of nowhere. A couple of trips and you’d be in clover.

  I laughed. Opened two more beers.

  –You should think about it, he said.

  –I’m thinking about law school, I said.

  –Well, okay. The law and crime go hand in hand.

  We clinked our bottles. A sudden breeze chased ripples across the water, a dimpled swell was gently rocking us. The sky was darkening.

  –We should go in.

  I started up. He came and stood by me at the wheel. He had to almost shout over the noise of the engine.

  –The secret is to only work with people you can trust. The hard part is finding them.

  After we’d tied up, dockside, I cracked the last two beers. He rolled another spliff, still chattering about smuggling. It was a theoretical discussion, I thought. For Allan, consequences were abstractions. For me, they’ve always been too real.

  –What if you get caught? The remote possibility is enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.

  –That’s because you’re a fatalist, Byron.

  –I’ve never seen myself that way.

  –I’d bet that growing up here makes everything that hasn’t happened yet feel threatening, like you could lose some of this.

  –Some of what?

  –Paradise.

  –I could tell you about paradise.

  –Yes, and I’m sure it would be all negative shit, coloured by your fatalism.

  –But what if we got caught?

  –The key is consistency. Truth has a structure, Byron. When people see a consistent structure, they see the truth. A lie has no structure. That’s why a lie will always fall apart.

  –Man. That’s some dope you’re smoking.

  –The secret is to construct a solid structure for your lie.

  –Whoa.

  –You say you’re going to be a lawyer? You’re going to need that insight, my friend. Remember, consistency is the skeleton. The bones of truth and, if you’re smart enough, the bones of a successful lie.

  4.

  I was waiting for Peggy as she emerged from the hotel elevator. She spotted me and waved.

  We pecked each other’s cheeks. She was nearing sixty and had allowed her auburn hair to reveal subtle streaks of grey. She smelled slightly soapy, like she was still a country girl.

  –He was asking where you went, she said.

  –I get fidgety in hospitals. I had to get out of there.

  –He didn’t really expect you to stay.

  We both noticed simultaneously that our fingers were still entwined as we walked toward the dining room. By some mutual, unspoken agreement, we found other things for our hands to do. I checked my jacket pocket to make sure I had my wallet and key card. She dug her phone out of her bag and checked for messages.

  The place was empty but for us and a single waiter. I gestured toward a table. The waiter nodded. Brought us menus.

  –So, you guys must have had quite the night, she said, head cocked to one side, after we were settled.

  –Why do you say that?

  –He muttered something. About how much Scotch he had…

  –Oh, I said, my eyes on the menu. I didn’t think it was that much.

  * * *

  —

  He’d been sitting silent for a while. He could be like that, one minute all piss and vinegar and jokes, the next sunk in gloom. He’d been talking about Peggy when the brooding started.

  He’d just poured another whisky into one of those plastic hotel drinking glasses when his hand involuntarily contracted. The thing cracked and there was whisky running down his forearm, into his sleeve. He licked at his wrist, then drank straight from the bottle. Gasped. Put the bottle down.

  –I never met a woman I couldn’t disappoint, he said.

  –That’s extreme, I said, reaching for the bottle.

  –Peggy used to think I was queer. Sometimes I think she still does.

  –You know her better than I do.

  –Don’t patronize. I’m just saying…

  I fetched two fresh plastic glasses, poured for both of us.

  –I often wish that I was queer.

  I stared at the ceiling. I shrugged.

  –Life without the women. Un-complicated. I’d draw the line at sex, of course.

  –So what would be the point?

  –There you go, Byron. You’re like everybody. It’s all about sex.

  –Okay. What are we really talking about here?

  He was sitting on the side of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, rocking slightly.

  –Peggy, I suppose. And how I turned out to be such a disappointment to her. You know what, Byron?

  –What?

  –A woman’s disappointment is where her power comes from. You gotta keep an eye on them. All the time.

  –Women?

  –Peggy in particular.

  * * *

  —

  Peggy was frowning into her wineglass. It was late now, and she seemed weary, wearing down.

  –Did you have any forewarning at all? she asked.

  Our conversation had gone on and on, avoiding the realities of here and now. Reminiscing about school, the early days, feeling light and optimistic for as long as possible. Avoiding business, mortality. Avoiding Allan. Her question caught me by surprise.

  –The doctor was asking, she said.

  –What kind of forewarning?

  –I’m thinking about the silences and moods over the last couple of years. Maybe it was some condition coming on. Did you have any idea?

  –I haven’t seen him much in person the last while. We’ve been doing things by phone and Skype.

  –He had an affair, you know.

  –What am I supposed to say?

  –It was a while ago, with Grace. I don’t think you met her, but you might have heard the name.

  –The bookkeeper.

  –Yes. She worked from home. He’d go over there. We thought it was for work. I’d be amazed if he hadn’t told you.

  –God no. When was it?

  –It doesn’t matter. When I found out, he broke it off. She left the company. Then she fucking died.

  –She died?

  –Yes. The rumour was that she took her ow
n life. Not over Allan, you can be sure. There had to be more to it than that. I knew it wasn’t serious as far as Allan was concerned. It was just a fling. He’s had more than one, as you probably know.

  –I had no idea.

  –Boys and flings. Boys and their stiff little peckers. Pathetic girls.

  We both laughed.

  * * *

  —

  –I don’t believe you ever disappointed anyone, I told Allan the night before.

  –Hah. I’ve never been up to the mark.

  He took another swallow.

  –My old man had a mistress on the side for years.

  –Really?

  –He did. Even when he couldn’t get it up anymore. That was when I realized there’s more to it than…you know.

  –The physical, you mean.

  –Yes. The fuckin physical. Exactly what I mean. But that’s where they communicate the disappointment. The physical.

  He handed me the bottle. I poured. I pretended to sip.

  –That’s where Grace was different.

  –Grace? Who’s Grace?

  He ignored me.

  –And when they think you think they’re disappointed in you? That’s when they’ve got you by the balls.

  I laughed.

  –It isn’t fuckin funny, man. They become your fuckin mother. I’m disappointed in you. How could you let me down? I don’t believe you never heard the schtick.

  –I think I’ll go to bed now.

  –No, wait. Did you ever think about the way people use the word “impotent”?

  –Not specifically. No.

  –I mean power, always associated with the weapon. It makes sense. Theoretically.

  –Who calls it a weapon?

  –You never heard that?

  –I’m trying to think.

  –You’ve led a sheltered life, my friend.

  –True enough. I think I’m going to turn in now.

  –No. Hang on for a fuckin minute. We don’t get to do this very often. So, guess what happens.

  –I have no idea.

  –Ha. Lucky you. Well, I’ll tell you. Guy gets insecure. Guy fucks around. Right? Needs reassurance. You recover a little bit of self-confidence. Then, boom.

  I yawned. Could have suppressed it if I’d wanted to. Slapped his knee.

  –Wait, he said. And then…that’s when they really got you where they want you. And you know how?

  –Too much information, buddy.

  –Guilt, my friend. That’s the last phase of the campaign.

  –Campaign?

  –For control. But remember. There is another kind of power. And it lasts longer than your dick.

  –And that would be?

  –Money, he said.

  I stood.

  –That’s the one important thing I learned from my old man. When all is said and done, money is the only power that matters.

  I stretched. Yawned again, this time loudly. I walked into the bathroom, studied myself in the mirror, wishing I had blown some money on my own hotel room.

  His stuff was everywhere. He was everywhere. He tried to be invisible. But he was unavoidable, all shoulders and elbows, knee-sprawl. Loud, fantastic proclamations about the world. He was still sitting there when I came out, looking grim. Waiting for me. I mussed his hair.

  –Let’s pick up where we left off in the morning. The golf course always restores clarity. Real perspective.

  –It’s morning now. Fuck it.

  –Well, I’m off to bed.

  –You fuckin think about what I said.

  He grabbed the bottle.

  –And I’ll say something else since we’re talking man to man.

  I braced myself.

  –You’re half the problem, my friend.

  –Am I now? Which half?

  –You know what I’m fuckin talking about.

  –I’m afraid I do not.

  –She compares me to you, and I don’t cut it.

  –She doesn’t fucking know me.

  –Bullshit. She knows you better than I do.

  I laughed, grabbed his shoulders, tried to topple him so he’d maybe go to sleep. But he popped back up again.

  –Me and Peggy, hah. Good night, Allan.

  –Good night, buddy. Don’t take any of that the wrong way. We both love you, man. Maybe more than one another.

  I turned the light out, but he was still sitting there, hunched over the bottle and his knees, when I drifted off.

  * * *

  —

  Peggy was fidgeting while we were waiting for the elevator. She suddenly seemed uncomfortable with me.

  –You believe me, I hope. I knew nothing about this…fling.

  –I don’t know why I brought that up, about poor Grace.

  We both stared off into space. The elevator seemed to be stuck on the fourth floor.

  I squeezed her elbow. She sighed.

  –I’m afraid I made it sound more important than it was. By then, there really wasn’t much between us anyway, me and Allan. I shouldn’t have begrudged him a little bit of. I dunno. Something on the side. Warmth. Pleasure. Then again, I’m human.

  –To be truthful…

  –The problem, Byron, is when I heard there might be someone else, I couldn’t help thinking about me. About it being some kind of judgment about me and my, what. My adequacy.

  She laughed, then said, If it ever mattered, it sure as hell doesn’t matter now.

  The elevator dinged and the door slid open. Inside, she leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, thoughts adrift. I poked the button for my floor.

  –You?

  –Same floor. There will be talk.

  I tried to smile. After what felt like an interminable journey, the elevator stopped. We both stepped out, looking off in opposite directions.

  –I often think of our Sunday afternoons, she said then.

  –Were there so many?

  –On your boat, remember. I think there was a whole summer of Sunday afternoons out on that boat. Sunny Sundays. Warm air and cold water. Nobody else in the world but you and me. What was it called?

  –The Immaculata.

  –The summer of 1980.

  –That sounds right.

  –Tell me you remember those Sundays.

  She had turned to me, eyes boring into my brain, intent on verifying the memory.

  I nodded.

  –We don’t see half enough of each other, you know, she said quietly, then leaned in and kissed me. Softly. On the lips.

  –Good night, Peggy, I said, and turned away.

  I knew she was watching me walk away and I was terribly conscious of my limp. It isn’t such a terrible limp anymore, since the surgeries and rehab. Mostly I forget about it now. But at that moment, on that long hallway trek, her eyes on my limp defined me once again.

  My mother never would call me Byron.

  –They’re only making fun of you, she’d say.

  Of course, I knew even then that it was Peggy she disapproved of. Peggy embodied a world she didn’t want to think about, perhaps a future she didn’t want to face alone.

  Before entering my room, I stole a furtive glance back the way I’d come. Peggy was standing at her door, key card in hand. She caught me looking, raised a hand, waved, then busied herself with fitting the electronic card into the furtive slot and turning the reluctant doorknob.

  I shoved hard against the heavy door, which felt like the entry to a dungeon. I eased it shut behind me, leaned back against it, exhaled.

  * * *

  —

  I lay on the bed with my clothes on, the room in darkness. I tried to remember the last time I had been with anyone the way I really needed to be with someone at that moment. I realized I had no
clear memory of the last time.

  I struggled out of bed. Allan’s nearly empty Scotch bottle was on the bedside table. I found a coffee mug. Emptied the bottle into it. I’ve never been much of a drinker. Wine for social lubrication mostly. Hard liquor for despair. A ticket out of an unwelcome moment or a perilous emotion.

  It was entirely possible that Peggy was sitting there in the darkness just like I was, sipping an unsatisfying cocktail, craving something normal. I could venture down that hallway with some certainty.

  But certainty of what? Of disappointment?

  Yes, of course. The inevitable disappointment.

  Something I would say to Allan now if he was here: The answer isn’t only money. Sometimes it’s just common sense, an instinct that kicks in to save us before the disappointments happen.

  Sometimes it’s the probability of disappointment that saves us from ourselves.

  5.

  That summer, the summer of all the Sundays on the boat, there were, I think, only two Sundays.

  It was an odd summer for my part of the Atlantic coast—in memory a kind of golden wall of unusual weather, an endless warmth. A long, long sunny day, unbroken. The spring before that summer, Allan had gone home to Toronto with no intention, I’d discover, of coming back to university. He was sick of books and classrooms. He was even sick of football. He decided it was time to get his education elsewhere, out in the real world.

  Annie Winter, Peggy’s sister, had gone to Boston, where an aunt had offered her a summer job in her high-end accounting practice—an experience that would turn into a career.

  Since Peggy took her cues from Annie, who was practical, especially with money, she inevitably became an accountant too, a specialist in the arcane world of taxes—managing the financial interests of mostly honest people before she went to work for Allan.

  It was a Saturday afternoon, in late July, I think, or early August, when I ran into her in a liquor store. She saw me first.

  –What are you getting?

  –Wine for Mom.

  –What about Byron?