Why Men Lie (24 page)

There was a solitary bicycle weaving along Bloor, a small red light flashing on a backpack. Someone young, she thought, giving him a wide berth, wondering where he could be coming from at that hour. Then she saw that it was a girl, and was briefly anxious. The rain resumed, softly.

Approaching her house on Huron, she could see a small, dim light glowing somewhere inside and felt a faint revival.

He was asleep on the chesterfield, wearing a dark T-shirt and shorts. He was on his back, hands folded on his stomach, one sandaled foot resting on the floor. She stood and watched, keys in hand. Then she walked softly to the kitchen, poured a glass of water. When he placed his arms around her from behind, she was not surprised and leaned her head back into his shoulder.

“I was getting worried,” he said.

They nuzzled briefly. Then, standing there in her kitchen, he slowly undressed her. She shivered. He removed his T-shirt and, after slowly unfastening her bra, slid it off, slipped the T-shirt over her head and arms, then picked her up and carried her upstairs. She woke briefly when he leaned down, pulled back the duvet and placed her gently on the sheets. Then he covered her and sat. She briefly rubbed his back, and then was gone again, into a darkness that was warm and welcoming and soft.

T
he day after Valentine’s JC phoned to say the doctor had given him a clean bill of health. There was nothing in the outcomes of all the scans and tests to cause continuing alarm. Pressure on the low side, prostate enviably flat.

“This is great news,” Effie said.

“He thinks maybe I need a shrink,” JC said.

“A shrink? Why do you think he suggested that?”

“I told him I wasn’t sleeping much.”

“Oh.”

“He thinks I’m depressed.”

“And what do you think?”

“I don’t get depressed.”

“Lucky you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“What did you think about Ray and Cassie?”

“What about them? I’m thrilled for them,” she said.

“Okay.”

“What about you? You don’t sound too thrilled.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Not sure of what?”

“Oh, somebody told me once that marriage is the mother of disappointment.”

She laughed. “What somebody was that?”

“Just somebody.”

“Sounds like somebody depressed.”

“Somebody with a lot of experience, that’s all.”

“You really think you’ll miss the wedding?”

“It’s possible. Sam’s date is the eighth.”

“But why does Sam’s date matter to you? I thought you’d finished with that story.”

There was a long pause. She thought briefly that he was gone, but she could hear him swallow and what sounded like the bump of a mug set down on a table. Or a glass.

“I don’t know. They want me to be there.”

“To be there.”

“He wants me to be a witness. For him. They have media witnesses and witnesses from the victim’s side. And witnesses for the inmate. Sam doesn’t have anybody. Just Sandra. And me.”

“Jesus, JC. I think that’s a really bad idea.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Well, maybe that’s half of your bloody problem.”

“We can talk about it some more,” he conceded.

“I can’t imagine a worse idea,” she said. “By the way,” she added, before he could hang up. “You left something here last night. Your Texas computer disc.”

“Ahhh, Christ,” he said. “I was wondering what I did with it. You hang on to it for now.”

“I will. Think about what I said. Texas is a bad idea.”

“I’ll think about it. Oh,” he said. “You wanted to talk. Some guy.”

“Yes. I’ve been getting harassing phone calls.”

“Do you know who from?”

“I have a name.”

“You have a name?”

“I have his business card.”

JC laughed. “He gave you his card? Can’t be all that sinister, then.”

“Maybe.”

“Just tell him straight … tell him you’re engaged.”

“Am I?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“Yes,” she said. “I guess so.” But it was only after he had hung up that she admitted to herself she no longer really knew what to think.

That day at work, the receptionist on her floor reported that a man had come to see her. He didn’t leave a name. But he was casually handsome and very friendly, had a lovely smile and warm, engaging eyes, wore jeans and leather jacket.

“He said he’d try to get in touch with you at home,” she said. “He called you Faye.” She smiled. “Faye,” she said. “I didn’t realize.”

Effie didn’t know Molly Blue, but JC often mentioned her; they’d been colleagues for decades, working overseas. Molly read the local evening news, so when she called unexpectedly in early March, Effie could imagine a familiar face at the other end of the telephone.

Molly was hoping they could meet. It was ridiculous, she said, that they hadn’t ever crossed paths. She’d listened to JC go on
about Effie like a schoolboy ever since … when was it? … Easter 1998, wasn’t it?

“And, God, you should have seen him mope around last summer, after he came back from that trip to Cape Breton. I never saw him look so good and seem so low!”

Then Molly sounded serious. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m worried about our guy. This Texas thing. I think we should talk.”

Effie agreed.

She’d passed by his house on two occasions, observed the same dim light inside. The contacts were now entirely on the basis of his initiative. He’d call her, at the office or at home. His tone was so “normal” as to seem unusual; they’d talk of weather, world events. Once he lapsed. “I know I’m being an asshole,” he said. “But please, hang in.”

“You aren’t being—” she began before she realized the line was dead.

Hang in? No longer. She snatched a coat and her car keys, her mind made up. She’d had enough. He would either get control of himself, with or without professional help, or she was gone. There was a fire truck blocking traffic, so, in her impatience, she revised her route and turned down Jarvis. Near Gerrard she saw two women huddled, sharing a cigarette. She realized that one of them was the girl named Tammy. She pulled to the side of the street, then reconsidered and drove on.

His house was dark. She rang the doorbell and listened for sounds of movement, but the internal silence had a quality of abandonment. She returned to the car. Crossing the Don Valley on the Dundas overpass, heading home again, she saw him walking toward her, head down. There was no place to safely stop. On the
west side of the valley, she considered turning back. Something prevented it, fear perhaps. So she carried on.

On Jarvis, she saw the girl again and pulled over.

“Hey,” she shouted, clambering out of her car. “Just a minute.”

The girl was hurrying away from her.

“Hey, Tammy. Wait.” The girl paused and turned. Effie hurried up to her.

“What do you want?”

She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Effie saw immediately that it wasn’t Tammy. The girl was black.

“I’m not Tammy,” she said. “I don’t know no Tammy.”

“You were talking to her before.”

“I wasn’t talking to nobody. And I don’t want to be seen talking to you. Who are you anyway? Are you a cop?”

“No, no,” Effie said. “My brother is Tammy’s friend. My brother. The priest. His name is Duncan. Father Duncan.”

The girl paused. “The priest?”

“Yes.”

“Father Duncan,” she said. “At the shelter. You’re his sister?”

“Yes,” said Effie. And she lied, “I met Tammy there once.”

“Tammy went home,” the girl said.

“Where does she live?”

“She lives with my brother. In St. Jamestown.”

“Where in St. Jamestown?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big place.”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“Robert. Why do you want to know? Everybody interested in Robert all of a sudden.”

“What everybody?”

“I don’t know. That priest, for one.”

“Duncan.”

“I just know he’s a priest. But I gotta go. I can’t be seen talking to you. You look like a fuckin’ cop.”

Effie laughed. “I’m a teacher.”

The girl hurried away.

“When did you last see JC?” she called.

The girl kept going.

She met Molly Blue at Dora’s on the Danforth. The place was almost empty. There was a fireplace and a small table close to it. They sat there. “I’m going to have a Scotch,” Molly announced. Effie ordered a glass of wine. She estimated Molly Blue to be in her late forties. She was shorter than she appeared to be on television. Effie appraised the lean body and guessed that she was a regular in some Pilates class. She had frank grey eyes and a smile that made engagement easy.

They exchanged elemental biographical details. Molly had grown up in Willowdale, in north Toronto, studied journalism in Ottawa, worked for newspapers for a couple of years, then moved to TV. In the early eighties there was a big demand in the U.S. for Canadian talent, especially to work in foreign places, so she went to ABC, and that was how she first met JC Campbell.

Effie asked about the name Blue.

“My grandfather came from somewhere out east,” Molly said. “Cape Breton, actually. I remember someone saying there’s a place named after us.” She laughed. “Hard to imagine.”

“Blue’s Mills,” Effie said. “It isn’t far from where I grew up.”

“No way,” said Molly, and laughed again.

Effie loved the laugh, spontaneous and careless. She found it hard to believe that a woman whose livelihood depended to such a large extent on looks could be so unselfconscious.

“And you’ve never been?”

“No,” said Molly. “Grandpa married someone from the west. Actually lived in Winnipeg. That was the place I always identified with. Mom and Dad were both from there. But I remember talk. Blue’s Mills, just think. A thriving metropolis, I imagine.”

“Not exactly.”

“Are there still Blues there?”

“I don’t know,” said Effie.

Molly went to the bar to order another round. When she returned, she said, “JC goes on about Cape Breton—you’d think he grew up there. He used to talk about some little place. I forget the name. Borneo or something.”

“Bornish,” Effie said. “We tried to find it last summer. It seems to mean something special to him. But there’s nothing there.”

“I thought he and his mom lived there once,” said Molly.

“In a lumber camp,” said Effie. “His mom was the cook. But there’s no village or anything.”

“Well, well,” said Molly. And seemed to drift. Then she said brightly, “And here we are, talking about him like two high-school girls. Here’s to his health.”

They touched glasses, but Effie was suddenly uneasy. “So how well do you know JC?”

“There was a time when I wanted to know him a lot better, I’ll admit. I have to say, first time we were introduced, I felt the buzz. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, I think it was the summer of ’82. The Israelis invaded Lebanon. We were in the London bureau. He went out with Jennings. Then, when things calmed down a bit, they sent me. We covered quite a bit of ground together after that.”

She felt the heat in her face, but couldn’t resist asking. “And what happened to the buzz?”

“Ah, the buzz. You work together a lot. You fight. You learn too much about each other, and at the same time, not enough. You each construct a practical persona and that’s what you exchange. Superficialities. For the most part, you leave out the emotional stuff that might have turned the buzz into something more … melodic.” She seemed to be aware of the sadness that had crept into their midst. She drained her glass quickly and set it down. “I’m going to tell you, girl to girl … exactly when the buzz disappeared.”

She looked around, then brought her head close to Effie’s. “We were in the middle of nowhere and I was feeling like shit. Ugh. I could hardly hold my head up. He noticed, kept asking if there was anything he could do. Said he could arrange to have me escorted back. So I finally told him. Just to get him to back off. I told him I was having a really bad period, which was the truth. Cramps, fever, the whole damn thing. Figuring he’d run a mile. But not our JC.”

She waved to a young waiter. “Daniel, bring us another round.” Then she resumed. “He asked me if I was
clotting
. I nearly fainted. He was dead serious. He really wanted to know, seemed to know what he was talking about.”

“Charming,” Effie said.

Molly nodded. “That was when I realized that we’d gone from buzz to intimacy without passing through the romance that makes intimacy tolerable. Not that we ever could have had a future. We’re too much alike.”

She moved her glass around in front of her, smearing a puddle that had formed from condensation. “He got in touch three years
ago, and I could tell that he was kind of burned out. He’d just covered Chechnya, and before that it was Bosnia. Rwanda. El Salvador. You name the misery, and JC was in the middle of it. We were talking on the phone, and I could tell he was a mess. I asked him, if I could line up something for him here, would he come home? And he broke down.” Her eyes were suddenly wet. “Ahhh, shit,” she said, wiping. “The poor guy.” She sniffed and sighed. “But he bounced back. He was the old JC again. Seemed happy. Met you, told me all about you. Then …”

“Then what?” Effie asked.

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

Effie shrugged, grew cautious. “He had a fall,” she said. “Early New Year’s Day. Some little confrontation in the street turned into a pushing match, as I understand it, and he fell and hit his head. My son-in … my daughter’s boyfriend, or fiancé, is a doctor, and he says even a mild concussion can lead to changes in behaviour for a while.”

“That could be. But frankly, I’m worried about this Texas business. I wasn’t happy about him getting into it in the first place. The intensity—it’s too close to what he had to leave, what burned him out before.”

“I’m afraid I can’t be much help,” Effie said. “We haven’t had much contact lately. I’ve tried to tell him that Texas is a bad idea. This witness thing …”

“What witness thing?”

“Witnessing the execution. That Sam guy has asked him to—”