Why Men Lie (27 page)

And then Molly was reporting something else, and Effie’s anger crystallized. She had watched him talking on the television screen as if he were a stranger, extracted from reality by the distancing effect of the technology. But now he was real again, as was the pain and disappointment he had created.

“He looks great on TV,” Cassie said behind her.

She couldn’t think of a reply.

“I wonder if that means he’ll be here Saturday.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Effie said.

“Not sure if you heard the news from here,” the message said. “In any case, I’ll fill you in when I see you. There’s a lot to talk about. I’ll be getting in late Friday, so I guess it’ll be at the church Saturday. Night, hon.”

She listened to the message twice as she sat with her coffee in the morning. Her kitchen looked out over the backyards of her neighbourhood. Artificial ponds and porches, back decks littered with the evidence of normal lives: bicycles, toboggans, skis. In her head she rehearsed what she felt would be their final conversation. She would be calm. She would be resolute. She studied the backyards, imagining the interlocking lives behind brick walls, beneath tight rooftops. Kids grumbling; couples cuddling or laying out quotidian arrangements; dogs and cats yearning for outdoors. She wondered why he’d called her “hon.” It wasn’t a word she’d heard him use before.

She stood, poured more coffee. The sadness thickened, threatening to metastasize to full-blown sorrow. For her own protection she revisited the scene on Jarvis Street. That a man could be so
totally undone was shocking to her. It made Sextus’s serial transgressions seemed profoundly trivial. At least he channelled his infantile fantasies in directions that were, dare she think it, healthy. At least she could identify with them.

She thought of Stella: Who could blame him?

“I think I owe you an apology,” Duncan said when he called.

“Oh?” Effie was confused.

“I never followed up, after your visit to the shelter. We were going to talk.”

“It wasn’t anything important,” she said.

“The Epiphany came and went. Are we any more enlightened now?”

“Not really.”

“Will he be back for the wedding?”

“It’s tomorrow,” she said.

“Aren’t you two celebrating an anniversary yourselves?”

“How so?”

“Wasn’t it last Easter, you and JC—”

“I’d forgotten,” she replied.

Saturday, April tenth, she rose early. The house was silent, and she sat for a moment, relishing the stillness. She wasn’t looking forward to the day. Even though this was her daughter getting married, she was prepared for the discomfort she always felt at weddings, all the rituals of happiness that were, no matter how communal, essentially exclusive. She was always happy
for
the couple, but was never able to rise above the sense of failure she felt when reminded of the false beginnings and unhappy endings in her life. She knew that she’d be spending time with all of them
today: John, Sextus, Conor, JC Campbell. They’d be with her even if she didn’t go.

She dressed carefully. Her appearance, she thought when she made her final survey, was deliciously seductive. She called a cab.

The church was small. St. Martin’s was a place that Ray remembered from his student days. There had been a Mass in Latin and a choir that was exceptional, so he’d go there for the peacefulness he felt revisiting a liturgy he remembered from his boyhood. Ray had a sentimental streak, Effie had realized with some amusement. Duncan consulted with the chancery and was assured that the use of Latin had been authorized, that the church was “kosher,” as the deacon he had spoken with described it.

She was early, but Sextus was waiting in the vestibule. The dark suit made him taller, slimmer, younger. He hugged her, pressed his cheek to hers. “You look edible,” he whispered. She hugged him back, shushing him.

“Are we the only ones here?” she asked.

“Most of them are inside,” he said. “Maybe fifteen people.”

She realized that he had placed an arm casually around her waist. She would normally have moved away, but she felt stabilized by the loose comfort of his strength. She’d long, long ago ceased to think of him as strong.

The church door opened and JC entered. If he was surprised to see them, he managed to suppress it. She instinctively moved closer to Sextus, felt his hip firm against her own.

“Hey,” said JC smiling.

“Well, look who’s here,” she said, and instantly regretted it. “When did you get back?”

“I got in late,” he said. “I left a message, but you’ve probably been busy.”

His smile was weary. He extended a hand, and Sextus grasped it warmly. “You’re looking jet-lagged,” he said.

JC seemed surprised. “Slept like a log.” Then, nodding toward the interior of the church, “I’d better go in. I’ll catch you later.”

Walking past them, he brushed Effie’s hand. The gesture was too casual, she thought, and the anger flared, but the church door opened again and it was Cassie, with Ray and his son, the best man, close behind.

At the climax of the service she realized that Sextus had grasped her hand and was holding it firmly. And when Ray placed the ring on Cassie’s finger, she felt what seemed to be a shudder passing through him.

JC was near the back of the church. She fought an urge to look around.

As the celebration unfolded around her, she resisted a powerful longing to be somewhere else, alone. It was a feeling of irrelevance, she realized, or maybe it was simply isolation. She wanted to just slip away. Wave down a taxi, retreat homeward. Surely anyone who mattered to her would understand her reasons, but she knew she had to stay. Simple courtesy dictated that she be there. She resolved to avoid the alcohol, except for mandatory toasts.

JC made it easy by appointing himself bartender. She couldn’t imagine engaging with him, even for the simple purpose of acquiring a glass of wine. She remembered she had brought a bottle of expensive single malt Scotch for Ray and had stashed it in Cassie’s office upstairs.

I’ll crack the bottle and have one
, she thought.
I can replace the bottle later. No harm in one
. Then she hesitated, remembering her father.

He never stops with one
.

A familiar wave of anxiety increased her need for a stiff drink and at the same time made her feel vulnerable and weak. She went upstairs with a water glass from the kitchen cupboard.

The little office was peaceful. She savoured the privacy and the sharp, smoky sting of whisky on her tongue. She felt removed from, but at the same time part of, the happy chatter she could hear spooling out below her, the strands of celebration like ribbons. She smiled at the ripples and, sometimes, small explosions of laughter. This quiet moment couldn’t last. There would have to be a reckoning. She drained the glass and walked downstairs.

JC was drinking cola. She watched him pour, squeeze a wedge of lemon, sip distractedly. He was smiling, easily engaging with the guests, pouring liquor liberally, frowning at the upraised hands of moderation. She could almost hear him:
Let your hair down … this is Cassie’s special day
.

The longing almost choked her. How she wished she could reverse their lives, rewind to the summer and the autumn of ’98, the spontaneity, emotional transparency, the feeling of security and confidence. All gone now.

Then Sextus was beside her. He leaned close, face flushed, drink in hand. “I plan to scoop tonight,” he whispered.

“Scoop?” she laughed. “I haven’t heard that in thirty years.”

“What about it?” he said. “Come home with me.”

“Home! What home?”

“I have a hotel room for the night. Then I’ll be staying here, after they leave for their little holiday or honeymoon … whatever they call it these days.”

“Thanks anyway,” she said. And walked toward the bar.

“I guess we should talk,” she said, forcing a smile.

Then they were sitting facing each other in Cassie’s office. She had turned away from his embrace, only a simple gesture of familiarity on his part, she felt. A hug exchanged by friends who haven’t seen each other for a while. Her reaction had set the mood.

“So,” he said. “I suppose you heard what happened in Huntsville.”

“You know what I think about Huntsville.”

“Yes.” He was studying his hands, twirling his thumbs around each other. “It was quite a moment. I went to see him yesterday morning.”

He nodded toward the whisky bottle. “Do you think she’d mind?”

“Go ahead,” said Effie.

He poured into the water glass she had used. “What about you?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Here’s to us,” he said, with a questioning expression.

“Yes,” she said. “We should talk about us.”

“Where do you want to start?”

She wanted to reply, “Let’s start a year ago, at Easter. Let’s relive every day and maybe find the moment when this awkwardness began.” But instead she said, “Let’s start on Jarvis Street.”

He seemed confused. He looked away. “Jarvis Street?”

She waited, then repeated, “Jarvis Street.”

He sipped his drink. “Okay. What do you want to know about Jarvis Street?”

“We could start with Tammy.”

“Ah,” he said. “Tammy.”

“I just don’t understand you,” she said. “Exposing yourself and, I suppose, us to the likes of that Tammy and her pimp—”

“What pimp?” he interrupted.

“Robert or whatever his name is … in St. Jamestown.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

He was standing, drink forgotten. “You’d better explain,” he said.

“Me explain?” she said, outrage rising.

“I want to know where you got that name.”

She’d never seen this look, this colour in his face. She looked away, suddenly afraid and sad. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Believe me,” he said, “it matters. Where did you get the name Robert? And St. Jamestown?”

“His sister told me,” she said wearily.

“Whose sister?”

“That Robert.”

“His sister?” Now he laughed, and sat down. “You’re good,” he said. “I’ve been trying to track that motherfucker down for months. And now you tell me what his name is and where he lives. You know his sister!” He laughed again. “His sister! Jesus Christ, I can’t believe it.” He drained the glass. “I’ve gotta go,” he said. And he stood again.

“Wait.”

But he was gone. She heard his footfall on the stairs, then heard the front door closing.

The door slammed behind her, but Conor quickly yanked it open
.

“And where do you think you’re goin’ now?” he asked softly. Once she’d considered it charming, how he pronounced “now.” “Where you’re goin’ nye?” But the charm was gone
.

“I need to be alone,” she said. “I need to think.”

The conversation had veered out of control quite unexpectedly. He’d been examining the business card with what she thought was amusement. “And what do ye think the RCMP security lads would want to talk to me about?”

“You tell me,” she said. “He wasn’t here long enough to tell me anything.”

“He didn’t mention any names at all?”

“Mr. Cahill,” she said, hoping that the ironic use of “mister” registered
.

“Ah. Cahill. That poor fella has been a cop magnet all his life.” He sighed. “And did they say anythin’ else?”

“He called me Faye.”

“The Mountie did?”

“Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“You’re the only one who calls me Faye.”

“Well, now.” An odd expression crossed his face, almost fear, and it empowered her
.

“I don’t want you bringing whatever it is you’re up to into my house,” she said, more loudly than she’d intended
.

He smiled, fear now past. ‘ “My house,’ is it now?” His eyes were dark, with an unfamiliar glint. “Let’s not get too carried away with the technicalities of legal ownership.”

And perhaps it was the tone that made her feel the stirring of something she hadn’t known for years, the dark presence of danger
.

She stood and walked resolutely out the door
.