Barrington Street Blues (4 page)

But not fast enough this time. The message was waiting for me when I walked in. Could I call Yvette? She wanted to apologize and she had something to tell me. Well, she could work on her apology for a while in her cell.

†

I had to pick up an obscure legal text at the Sir James Dunn Law Library, so I drove to the law school on University Avenue. I collected my book, then steeled myself for an encounter with one of the professors at the law school.

“What now, Collins?” Maura MacNeil's brow was furrowed in a scowl.

“Did I catch you at a bad time? Again? Should I come back in, say, the year 2000 when you might be on an upswing?”

“Come back when you've taken the trouble to remember my schedule. I have a class in ten minutes. The way I always do this time on Friday. What are you doing here?”

“I was in the library and I was wondering if you'd had lunch.”

“I plan to have lunch after my class. But what's that got to do with you?”

“That's just it. I don't want to have lunch at all. I think I'm eating too much lately and I figured if I stopped by here, two minutes with you would put me off my food. Mission accomplished.”

Maura and I had two children together; we'd been separated for nearly five years and shared the kids week on, week off. She still lived in our old family home downtown on Dresden Row. I felt I had made more of an effort than she had to reconcile our many differences. Now, as I hovered unwelcome at the threshold of her office, I wondered for the thousandth time why I didn't just pack it in.

“You're not eating too much,” she said. “You're drinking too much. I'm the one who's going overboard with eating. I've gained ten pounds.”

Maura was one of those very attractive women somewhat above society's ideal of the perfect size for females. A wide mouth, upturned grey eyes, creamy skin, and shoulder length brown hair. Normally she didn't give a damn about her size so maybe she had gained a few pounds. She looked fine to me. “You look fine to me.”

“Thank you.”

“What do you mean, I'm drinking too much?”

“I don't know how else I can put it so you can understand, Collins, but let me try. Whenever I've seen you lately, you have a glass in your hand, which you raise to your lips and —” she put her right hand up and mimed someone tipping a glass of liquid down his throat “— guzzle. And that glass always seems to contain, or so I suspect, the chemical compound designated variously as ethanol, ethyl alcohol, or just alcohol, chemical formula:
CH
3
CH
2
OH
.”

“You rarely see me, so how would you know?”

“I know. The fact of the matter is your drinking has increased ever since you started hanging around with Brennan Burke.”

“Am I hearing you right? I must be the only man in the world
being castigated by his wife for spending too much time with a priest!”

“I'm just saying you've —”

“Had enough. I'm taking the kids to the Rankins concert. Don't wait up.”

“You got tickets?”

“I got tickets.”

Silence, as she considered the consequences of being obnoxious to me once again. Then: “How many tickets?”

“Three.” She knew I was lying about the number, but I didn't care. I would give the fourth to somebody else.

I retreated from her office but decided that, since I was at the law school, I might as well do a bit of research into the possible liability of the Baird Centre. I went back to the library and gathered some typical medical malpractice cases. Then, with an eye to Graham Scott and the dependency claims of his children, I looked for cases in which people successfully sued institutions for harm done by inmates who were released when they should have been kept inside. I started with a well-known case in which some Borstal boys in England escaped from custody, boarded a yacht, and soon thereafter rammed into another vessel. The question was whether the Home Office and its Borstal officers owed a duty of care to the owners of the damaged boat. Lord Reid considered an American case in which it was held that such a heavy responsibility should not be imposed on the New York State prison system. Distancing himself from the skittish Americans, His Lordship stated that “Her Majesty's servants are made of sterner stuff,” and could bear up very well under the duty of care owed to the plaintiffs. I hoped our local courts would feel the same way about the Baird Treatment Centre. But Corey Leaman had not escaped; he had been released. I would hit the books again another day. Before I left, I checked the indexes to see if there were any reported cases in which the Baird Centre was named as a defendant. There was one: a visitor had sprained her ankle when she tripped in a depression in the front walkway, and was awarded two thousand dollars in damages. I went from the library to the Law Courts building, where I looked in the records for any recent litigation in the works. The only case coming up against the Baird Centre was a claim by a contractor who had not
been paid for repairs to the building's foundation. Nobody had ever sued the centre for anything resembling malpractice.

†

Before I could go to hear the Rankins, I had to put in an appearance at a house-warming party at Ross Trevelyan's. He had recently moved from a duplex on Lawrence Street to a much grander abode on Beaufort Avenue in the city's south end. The story was that his wife, Elspeth, had put an offer on the place when Ross was out of town, confident that Ross would fall in love with it the way she had. In my experience, men did not fall in love with houses with the same passion women did, especially when those dwellings cost four times as much as the past digs. But Ross must have been impressed by the place, because here they were.

It was big, multi-gabled and vaguely Swiss in style. A nice residence anywhere, a very expensive one on this street. Mrs. Trevelyan greeted me at the door. “I don't believe we've met. I'm Elspeth.”

“Monty Collins.”

Elspeth was tall and slim with a shoulder-length blonde pageboy. She peered behind me. “Are you alone?”

I followed her gaze then turned back. “Quite alone. We're safe now.”

“Ha ha. You're the one who does criminal law, do I have that right?”

“I'm the one.”

“No offence, but I'm glad Ross doesn't do that kind of work anymore. He did criminal cases when he articled. That was back before I knew him, but every once in a while we'll be downtown and some really tough character will say hi to him. We go to St. George's Anglican — you know, the round church — and there are a couple of prostitutes who hang around that area. If we go to a function at night, we hear: ‘Hey, Ross!' It's embarrassing, let me tell you. Did the firm ever think of phasing out the criminal practice?”

“They're just phasing it in, actually. Or they have been since I arrived a few years ago.”

“I see.”

“Are you going to phase me out or let me in?”

“Oh! I'm sorry. Come in, come in.”

I stepped into the foyer and then the living room, where I spied Ross, red-faced and sweating, working at some sort of gadget by the large stone fireplace.

“What are you doing there, Ross?”

“Oh, hi, Monty. I'm trying to get this fireplace insert to work but I'm not having much luck.”

“Just as well. It's too warm for a fire anyway.”

“I know, but she wants it. Looks homey. You know how it is.” He shrugged and went back to his labours.

“Ross, honey, Daddy said there's an easier way to do that. Don't you remember?”

“No, I don't.”

She turned to me. “My father says Ross finds the hardest way to do everything. So, what would you like first, Monty?”

“A beer would be good.”

“Oh, right, of course. But I meant would you like a tour of the upstairs, or the main floor? Everyone else is up in the master bedroom.”

“Perhaps we shouldn't interrupt.”

“No, no, I meant they're just having a look around. Oh, good. Renée. This is Monty Collins. He's one of Ross's partners at Stratton Sommers. This is my sister, Renée. Why don't you take Monty upstairs and show him around?”

Renée seized me by the elbow and led me towards the stairs. We met Rowan Stratton coming down. Stratton was no stranger to fine houses. “The woman whisked me upstairs before I even had a chance to greet young Trevelyan,” he said. “And I haven't caught so much as a whiff of Scotch.”

Rowan's wife, Sylvia, descended the stairs behind him, looking pained. She whispered in my ear: “I've never seen such an elaborate nursery. One is always astonished at the array of products available for babies these days. Do they have triplets?”

“No kids. One rumoured to be on the way.”

The sister was waiting for me on the stairs, so I followed. She took me gently by the hand and drew me towards the sound of other voices. Surely it was only my imagination, but I thought for a
moment she made a quick check of my ring finger, which had been bare ever since Maura and I had separated.

By the time a beer found its way into my hand I downed it with what must have looked like unseemly haste, and made my excuses to the host and hostess.

†

When I pulled up at my old house on Dresden Row I could see my daughter, Normie, staring out at me from the living room window. Her real name is Norma, after the heroine of the opera by that name, but don't ever call her that; she answers only to Normie. My son, Tommy Douglas, is more than content with his name. My wife decided to call our son after the leader of the first socialist government elected in North America. I was a fan of Douglas too. He was a great wit and, because of him and his introduction of medicare, I didn't have to pay whopping medical bills for the birth of my children. Tom joined my daughter at the window, and I waved. The grey wooden house had two storeys and an attic with Scottish dormers. Every time I saw the place I felt a pang of regret that I no longer lived there. The kids came out, with their mother at their heels. All three piled into the car for the Rankins concert. I raised a questioning eyebrow, and my wife just smiled. When we arrived at the Metro Centre I handed the kids their tickets, and they bolted ahead.

“And how is it that you are at my side this evening?” I asked her.

“Easy.”

Right. She knew that any excursion with our son and daughter would not be shared with another woman, if there was another woman in my life, which my wife always believed there was. So I would have offered the fourth ticket, if there was a fourth ticket, to a friend. First guess would be Brennan Burke.

“Burke just rolled over for you and gave up his ticket?”

“I know every line of every song the Rankins ever did. Brennan Burke doesn't. I promised him another evening of entertainment in return.”

“Oh? And what kind of entertainment would that be?”

“There's no need for such an insinuating tone of voice. My usual
brand of entertainment, involving me prancing around simpering and naked in a pair of shag-me shoes, is just not on for him, is it? Given that he's a celibate priest.”

“How come that brand of entertainment was never on for me?”

“I guess that's because you're not one of the sailors in port with the
NATO
fleet. So, as I was saying, I'll just have to think up something else for Father Burke. Like dinner at home with the kids. Or lunch at home with the kids. Or a movie and popcorn at home with the —”

“All right, I get it.”

The opening band was warmly received, the Rankins were great, and Maura was directing the occasional comment into my ear as if we had never been apart. At intermission I asked what everybody wanted, and I headed out to the canteen to stand in line.

Old Monty wasn't doing too badly at all. Maura couldn't possibly know how I treasured these rare nights when we went out as a family. Well, maybe it was time I laid it on the line. Gave it another try. If we made an effort to get over the mistakes we had both made, the recriminations and resentment we had each generated in the other, and if we were both willing to start all over . . . I would make the first move. Apologizing for things I had done, forgiving her for things she had done. Maybe as early as tonight.

“Monty! How are you doing, babe?” No! Not this, not now. I turned to the voice and found myself grabbed by the belt and pulled towards —

“Bev. Hi.”

Bev drew me closer and said: “I've missed you, Monty. In more ways than I can say here in a public place. But I'm willing to ditch the lump I'm with if you'd like to spend intermission out back with your pants around your knees. And that's just for —”

“I hate to be the one to break this to you. Whoever you are.” My wife had appeared with appalling timing. She went on: “But the last time Collins stood outside with his pants down, it was thirty below zero, he was too drunk to know the difference and, well, he's just not the man he used to be. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll escort the poor thing back to his seat.”

Bev was a woman I had spent a few raucous nights with, usually following a night of blues with my band, Functus. Due to my stupidity,
Maura had walked in on us one day in my living room. That day, I thought things couldn't get any worse.

Bev released her grip on my belt and melted back into the crowd, leaving me to fall into the abyss and keep falling for all eternity. I had simply ceased to exist, as far as my wife was concerned. She did not speak to me or look in my direction for the rest of the night. Tom and Normie were intent on the show and didn't seem to notice. They gabbed all the way home, covering the frigid silence in the front seat. They got out in a noisy cacophony of “thanks” and “see you soon.” MacNeil slipped away without a sound.

†

I was still brooding over my latest marital fiasco when I pulled up outside the Halifax County Correctional Centre on Saturday morning. Yvette had a coy smile on her face when I sat down to speak to her in one of the lawyer–client meeting rooms. “I'll do something for you if you do something for me, Monty.”