A Three Day Event (20 page)

“Oh
marde,
Roch said, “excuse me, Suz–Rut’ie–but please let’s not get into politics. Polo, you’re right that we have to try to get past the personal stuff. Me, I was in the office or giving lessons all day. I ate at the resto, sat around with the usual gang and left at ten. So I guess I have an alibi.”

“Didn’t you go home to shower and change before dinner?” Polo asked. He knew Roch was particular about his grooming and appearance, and never used his profession as an excuse to look like a slob, as so many other horse people did.

“Yeah, I did…
c’est vrai…
I did,” Roch nodded reflectively. “And I was alone then, it’s true. Ghislaine is away looking after her mother–she’s very bad, cancer, a terrible thing–” Ruthie flinched slightly, but Roch’s eyes were fixed and unseeing, reconstructing his evening. “So that’s maybe forty–five minutes…”

“Well, at least you’re off the hook if it happened in Montreal,” Polo said dispassionately. He snapped the notebook shut and stood up abruptly. “Let’s call it a day. Roch, I think you better telephone everyone–that is, Bridget, Guy, Michel, Thea, Fran, and Jocelyne, and Benoit if he’ll come. Call them early in the morning and get them to a breakfast meeting, 9 a.m., say, that’s the most efficient way. After that it’s a question of talking to everyone and comparing notes. It’ll be a long day.”

Ruthie saw Polo out and walked down the steps toward the driveway with him. She took a deep breath of pine–scented air and gazed appreciatively at the thickly starred canopy of night sky above the mountain. She sighed. “Not quite the reunion I had envisaged.”

Polo nodded. He stopped and turned to her. “Ruthie, before I go, there’s something I wanted to ask you… I mean, I did ask you, but you didn’t really answer. That day at St. Lazare, why were you annoyed at Thea Ankstrom for being such a big fan of my riding?”

He sensed her embarrassment. “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Maybe it was the way she talked about you as if–as if you
belonged
to her–to them–the horse people–as if you had no other life…oh, I don’t know, it’s irrational. Of
course
I should have been proud and happy for you. I was. I
was
, really. And–and I apologize retroactively, if that’s any use…”

“Don’t be silly,” Polo said quickly. “I was just curious.”

They were at his truck. He reached for the handle. “Can I ask
you
a question?” Ruthie said quietly.

“Of course,” Polo said promptly, but he knew, and his gut tightened in anticipation.

“What’s with you and Nathalie?” She glanced at his expression and shook her head. “I shouldn’t have asked, I guess.”

“No, no, why shouldn’t you–you’re always honest with me.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Not too famous at the moment.”

“Is it something in particular, Polo? I always thought you were such a good match.” She smiled mischievously. “In spite of your having robbed the cradle to get her.”

She’d meant it as a joke, of course, to lighten the mood, and was expecting a flippant comeback. But Polo flinched as if she’d shied a stone at him, and Ruthie bit her lip in self–censure. It must be serious, then, this ‘not too famous’ thing.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s something in particular. It’s me. Nathalie deserves someone better than me.”

“Give me a break, Polo
.
I mean this is
me
you’re talking to, you can’t use self–pity with
me
,” Ruthie retorted crisply. She would have liked to show some sympathy–he looked tormented–but was afraid to.

“Nathalie wants to have kids. One at least anyway.”

“And she can’t? I always wondered. Well, that’s a shame, but you know these fertility clinics nowadays are fantastic, they–”

“Whoa, Ruthie. She can and she would. It’s me. I’m not letting her. It’s not self–pity. She really does deserve better. And don’t waste your time coming up with some diplomatic answer. I know what you’re thinking.”

“Okay, no diplomacy. You’re right, she
doesn’t
deserve you. How can you be such a shit? More to the point, how can
you
not want to have children?”

Polo shrugged. “I guess it’s something you never even thought twice about.” He leaned against the truck.

Easy for you,
ziess
. Easy for Hy. Easy for Roch. When you’re part of a real family, you know how to make one of your own. You’re not scared stiff. You know automatically how to make it work.

“No, I never did. Life without children–it’s unthinkable for me.” Ruthie glanced affectionately at Polo. She realized she had never seen this expression of naked sadness in his face in all the time she’d known him. Her heart reached out to him. She yearned to comfort him, but how–safely? So she chose instruction, which was what she knew how to give.

She said, “You know, Hy once said to me–well, he’s spent so much time with community leaders, and a lot of them are, you know, quite wealthy, and they have these big businesses, or they’re partners in law firms or whatever.

“Anyway, some of them are getting on in age, and Hy says that when he has lunch with them or they’re
schmoozing
at meetings, these guys, they never want to talk about their businesses or their deals or whatever, they just want to talk about their children, and their grandchildren, what they’re doing, who they’re marrying, all that stuff. It’s the only thing that’s still fresh for them, you see, still exciting and interesting.”

Polo nodded curtly and looked away. End of topic. Ruthie noted the rigid set of his jaw, sighed, moved discretely away a step or two, and was about to say good night, when Polo suddenly took her wrist in a firm clasp and said, “There’s something else, Ruthie. I shouldn’t probably mention…but I don’t understand it. Nathalie said my life is a
mystery
to her. She knows everything about me–and she’s known me since I was a teenager. I never had any secrets from her. What does she mean, do you think?”

Ruthie’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. “But Polo, it’s obviously that she–Polo, don’t
you
think your life is something of a mystery?”

“What do you mean? I expected you to”–Polo passed his hand nervously through his hair. Why was she looking at him like that, as if he’d said something absurd or inappropriate. Everything seemed suddenly unreal, this whole crazy, unending day, the stallion, the office, the call to Nathalie, the surreal discussion about a murder that didn’t yet seem actual, the pictures, the memories, and now Ruthie, calmly telling him that his life was a mystery. How could she, when she was there with him all the time? Why was
his
life a mystery and not hers?

“Are you all right? Polo?” Her eyes were big with concern and contrition. “Polo, forgive me–gee, that’s all I ever seem to say tonight–I didn’t mean to scare you, you suddenly looked so weird…Listen, I only meant that Hy and I, we never really understood how you suddenly came to be such an important part of our lives. You were just suddenly …there with us…another child in the family…and yet not as we were…not in school, no rules, no responsibilities–or at least none that made any sense to us–
and it was never
talked about
. D’you see what I mean? How it was for us? Wasn’t it strange for you?”

“Truthfully? No, it wasn’t strange at all. I always knew something would happen to me, something that would take me away from my home. And–and, you see, it happened. I never questioned it. I was doing what I wanted to do. I was where I wanted to be. I never thought about your feelings, yours or Hy’s–or anyone’s, for that matter. Of course I knew I wasn’t growing up in the usual, conventional way. But I felt normal. Obviously I was completely self–centred, self–absorbed. But my life never seemed mysterious…not to me…”

They both looked down at his hand, still clutching her wrist, and he hastily dropped it. In a low and urgent voice, he asked, “Were you jealous? Were you angry? Didn’t you ever talk to your father about it?”

Suddenly he wanted to know everything she had thought and felt for all these years–not out of concern for her, but because he realized she was both right and wrong at the same time. And Nathalie too. A claw of apprehension nipped at him. How had he never seen it? Yes, yes, there
was
something terribly strange about his sojourn with the Jacobsons–and Ruthie’s memories might give him a clue, might fill in the gaps in his knowledge.

The mystery wasn’t about him, though. It was about Morrie.

“I’ll only answer one and a half of your questions. It’s too late tonight for the rest. There’s too much else going on. Yes, I tried to ask my father about you–not once, but a hundred times. And it was no use. He wouldn’t talk about you. At one point–God, it was a horrible moment–I even asked him if you were his illegitimate child from some romantic adventure. Talk about naïve. He smacked me, the first time ever. The only time.”

Polo visibly startled at this, and she smiled ruefully. “Yes, I know. It was so out of character. I’ll never forget it. Anyway, it seems you are
not
my brother.” Polo knew he was supposed to smile encouragingly at this feeble joke, but he was transfixed. He had wondered the same thing. Once maybe, and buried the thought forever. Because it was just so ridiculous. But apparently not so ridiculous that Ruthie hadn’t wondered too.

Now she was saying, “He just made it clear that you were there, under his protection, and we could like it or lump it. I don’t know how much my mother knew, but she wouldn’t discuss it either. As for our feelings, I think–well I know–Hy was quite jealous for a while–another boy, you see, and with your looks, the riding and all…but he grew out of it.”

She turned away as if she had nothing more to say, struggled with some conflicted impulse, stopped, and finally, in low, muffled tones, vibrant with emotion, added, “Years later, you know, when all these awful stories about child abuse started to surface in the news–I mean, when I was young, I was so sheltered, I never dreamed such terrible things existed…but as an adult, and hearing about men, the most respectable even, I sometimes thought… but how could I possibly have asked you–how could I think such horrible thoughts about my own …and now hearing you say you don’t want children, I wondered if back then…” her voice wavered, she bit her lip and hugged herself, suddenly, shivering.

“
Morrie?!
Oh God, Ruthie, no, he–oh God,
never, never, never
.” He stepped forward instinctively to grab her, as if to shield her from some gory sight, then checked himself. “Whatever it was, whatever his reasons for wanting me around, it wasn’t–oh shit, I’m so sorry you let yourself suffer, even thinking for a second…”

He could see her trembling and ached to hold her, but jammed his hands into his pants pockets instead.
Damn you, Nathalie.
“It was just the riding between us. He loved the horses. I don’t know why he wanted me around the house. But he was very good to me. Always honest. I’ll never forget that. And after the riding stopped, we hardly even saw each other. I swear,
ziess
.”

“Thank you,
mazzik
,” she whispered softly. “You don’t know how”–she shook her head and wiped surreptitiously at the corner of her eye, and Polo’s heart contracted with pain.

Taking a deep breath, she mustered an attempt at a cheerful, no–nonsense tone. “Well, I–I think I’ve had about as much nostalgia as I can bear for one day. This really is goodnight.”

She turned to leave, hesitated, then reached up for a hug. His arms were already embracing her before his mind gave them permission. He held her more tightly and a second longer than he should have, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Goodnight,
mazzik
”, she murmured, and smiled shyly with the old affection as she slipped away.

* * *

There was another note tucked into the condo door.
Oh fuck no. I can’t take any more shit tonight.
But it wasn’t from Nathalie this time.

It read:
‘I would very much like to discuss an issue of some importance to me regarding my horse, Robin’s Song. I would also appreciate it if you would agree to ride him once or twice over the next few days. I hope this will not be taken by Michel or Roch as an insult, but I am anxious to have a disinterested opinion. I will call on you early tomorrow for your answer. Thank you. Sincerely, Thea Ankstrom.’

Polo sighed. He was exhausted. Another mystery. He went inside and scribbled a short note in return:
I will be happy to discuss your horse with you tomorrow. There is going to be a breakfast meeting for several of us at the restaurant in any case, so we can talk on the way over. Until then, P. Poisson.
He slipped it under her door.

He thought he would have trouble falling asleep, with all that had happened, but he was towed under as if drugged within seconds of his head touching the pillow.

He dreamed he was struggling to cross the parking lot behind the Taschereau
Clar–Mor
where he had sometimes worked as a stock boy in the Christmas season. In slow motion, as if running through water, he strained to reach the other side where he could make out a shapeless bundle wrapped in
Clar–Mor
paper, and from within whose folds he heard the forlorn wail of an abandoned baby. But it’s dead, his dream voice was saying. How can it be crying?

And then he saw both Ruthie and Nathalie were there too, and neither of them could (or would) pick the bundle up. Ruthie stood looking at him reproachfully, sadly shaking her head. But Nathalie was weeping and wringing her hands, calling to him to hurry, or it would be too late, too late, too late. He pushed on, but it was no use. He was plowing through mud. And the baby’s cries grew louder and more anguished…

His own voice crying out and the pain in his hands woke him up. His heart was pounding, his t–shirt was damp with sweat and his palms showed angry red crescents where his clenched fists had driven in his nails. He got up, showered and changed, then dozed in fits and starts until, towards dawn, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.