Close to Hugh (51 page)

> I’m going to Toronto

I trance Terry

and I struggled with Nevaeh

everything is messed

“She—tranced Terry?”

“She doesn’t mean
trance
. That’s why we use Galician.”

Oh dear. “She fought with Nevaeh? Why would that make her go to Toronto?”

“It’s because of something I told her—I have to go get her.” He sounds about ten years old, suddenly.

There’s only a minute to think. This doesn’t seem seriously bad, but can she take the chance? Orion won’t come inside, shouldn’t—Burton’s still up there. Oh, no more questions.

“I’ll get my keys,” she says.

“I can drive,” he says.

“Yeah, I’ve seen your car—let’s take mine,” Ivy says. But really, hers is not much better. Hugh’s van might be the best bet.

Newell steps out of the doorway, keys in his hand. “Need some wheels?” When he says things like that they sound funny and cool, not old and sad.

Ivy says, “I think we’re okay, we can take the Volvo.”

But there comes Jason with L’s jacket and his own, and Orion’s backpack that he left behind when he jumped. Four, counting Ivy, and then Savaya to bring back—too many.

“I have to go,” Orion says.

“How are you going to find Savaya?” Ivy asks.

“An app—it shows me where her phone is, see?” Orion sticks the phone out, at the end of his long arm, remaining infinitely remote from them. From Newell.

Who says, “I didn’t think she’d be so sensible.”

“She’s not. I installed it while I was taking her Scrabble turn in Social.”

“How does it—” Ivy stops. Doesn’t matter.

Orion explains anyway: “GPS. It’s quite neat to watch, actually. See, she’s in Queen’s Park, in the government buildings.” He says this to Newell, as if it means something, then offers Ivy the screen, looking at it with her. “Look, she’s walking. We have to hurry. I told her a stupid thing, and I’m afraid she might—” He looks at Newell.

Newell looks back at him. “Take the Saab,” he says.

Orion takes the keys from his hand, an odd silent moment. Then the three of them dart off into the darkness. A moment later the car starts, a low-purring, well-heeled engine noise.

“We’d better go too,” Newell tells Ivy. “What can that Volvo of yours do?”

“Well–
110
, anyway.” Ivy feels a bit defensive. She loves that car.

A voice speaks in the darkness. “Take mine,” it says, a ghost in the shadowy garden. It’s Gerald, sitting alone in the dark on the bench on the gallery porch.

Newell turns to him. “Gerry,” he says, in his kindest, milksoft voice. “You okay, sitting out here? Lonely tonight? Go on upstairs—Hugh’s giving a little party for Della and Ken, he’d love to have you drop in.”

“Looking for Jasper,” Gerald says.

“He’s up there too, he’ll be glad to see you. Ivy and I can take you up.”

“That’s okay.” Gerald stands, heavy on his feet, stooping a little under the porch roof. “Here—” He dangles a set of keys. “Out front. Silver Ghost 9-3, basically a Phoenix. Call it a test drive. Except the way things are with Saab, it won’t ever get into general production.” He tosses the keys.

Newell catches them. “Your house key on here too? We might be late.”

“I’m not going out there,” Gerald says. “Jasper lets me stay at his place.”

They look at him, as well as they can see in the darkness. A shambling beast, a bear of sorrows and acquainted with grief. Then headlights glare in from the parking spot behind the gallery, and Gerald puts an arm up to shield his blinded eyes.

“Look!” A woman’s voice. It’s Ann. “People are still going in, see. It’s fine, I told you it would be.”

Three people get out of the car, and walk over. Ann and a tall man and the painter, Mighton. Ivy has decided she doesn’t like Mighton.

Okay, perfect—a little outing will be even better now.

13. HUGH WILL RESCUE ME?

Hugh’s at the head of the stairs when Ivy runs up. Her pansy eyes big and dark, with a wild look. Whatever she’s up to, she doesn’t want Burton to hear—she lets Hugh know this with a slight shake of the head and a directed flick of the feral eyes.

“Listen,” she says, urgently casual. “I’ve got to run in to town, all of a sudden. Sorry to skip out on the cleanup, but leave the dishes for me. I love doing dishes in the morning.”

“Sure you don’t need help?” He’s thinking of Jamie, the mad boy-man at her apartment.

Again the warning flick to Burton lounging at the table, the good port anchoring Léon and Ken and Jasper, the air thick with legalese and cigar smoke. Too soft for them to hear, she says, “Newell’s going with me. You can’t leave the guests—” She reaches for her coat. “And I know you’ll want to go to your mother again later.” Diffidence in her voice, as always when she speaks of Mimi.

He wishes she could meet Mimi—did they meet? No, that was a dream. Hugh looks at the people scattered around his living room. “Okay, you head out, and I’ll head over. Meet you back here whenever.” Trying for nonchalance. Not understanding how she can leave him.

Her hand clasps his, warm and brief. “I’ll be back. I have to go, right away. Do me a favour, don’t drive to the hospice. And
please
don’t fall down any more stairs, or climb up any more ladders. Oh, also—Newell’s trying to get Gerald to come up, he’s not in good shape. And sorry, Ann’s here too.”

Hugh’s face stiffens. Ivy reaches up and kisses him, hand lingering on his cheek for a moment. “I’ll text you the whole story,” Ivy whispers, her cheek pressed against his. She pulls back to meet his eyes, with a short beaming grin, and goes.

Okay.

He turns to find Della and Gareth deep in conversation at the bookshelf where her paintings stand. Their bodies form familiar triangles, legs apart, one arm up to point, to remark— Hey, is Gareth stealing Della from him? He laughs, pops three Advil, and heads down the stairs to help poor Gerald.

Still blinded from the upstairs light, Hugh steps out onto the porch, saying, “Come in, come in.” Then steps back, bewildered, as a train of people advance on him. Conrad’s here? And Ann—is this—?

No—Mighton wouldn’t come along to tell him Mimi is dead. It can’t be that.

His heart feeling like it’s been wrung out violently and left spongey, Hugh stands braced in the doorway, looking around for Gerald: there, at the shadowy end of the porch.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Ann says. “Ruth came back and I sat with her a little longer.” She lets out a poignant sigh. “We never know when it’s going to be the last time …”

Hugh growls under his breath.

Conrad says, “No change, no need for alarm.” He puts out a hand, man-style. Hugh still likes Conrad, or at least needs him; he puts his own hand out in response.

“Con was leaving anyway, so he gave me a lift,” Ann says. “Then we saw Mighton on the street and I knew he must be coming to your party too. Where’s Jason?”

A prickle of unease at that—but no, it’s okay, Jason went off with L. Hugh waves Ann and the two men upstairs. Old Mighton. Might have known he’d turn up.

Then he walks along the porch to where Gerald sits stalled against the gallery wall.

“Hey, Gerald,” he says, trying not to use that calm, infantilizing tone the bereaved must get so weary of. “Come on upstairs—we’ve got a quiet shindig going on. There’s cake, if you’re hungry.”

Gerald lifts his large round head. The curly hair that was so buoyantly part of his persona now seems like a wig. “Not hungry much these days.”

No. Hugh tries again. “Jasper’s up there, in case you’re looking for him.”

“Well,” Gerald says. “I was.”

Then there’s a long wait.

“Should I ask him to come down?” Hugh suggests.

Gerald nods. Then stands, abruptly. “No, I’ll come up,” he says. “Be a man.”

The stairs and the landing are full of people, Ann kissing and hugging her way through the throng, her glow intensified by company. She does love a party. Hugh likes her after all, in an antiquated way. She goes to Della, arms out, crying, “Della, Ken! It’s a miracle, you’re still married—what’s your secret. Oh yes! Ken not being an asshole.”

Della turns from where she and Gareth are still talking by the array of boats.

She is not all right, Hugh thinks. Whatever was going on between her and Ken still is, somehow. Whether Ken understands that or not. And what’s got him going now? He’s on his feet, glowering at the end of the long table, hands shoved into his jacket pockets and the hair practically bristling on the back of his neck.

Standing between Della and Ken, Mighton looks from one to the other and laughs, a half-bark that doesn’t quite signal contempt. “Modern life,” he says to the general air. “We run into old flames and their new flames all the time, don’t we?”

“Not me,” Ken says. “I only have one old flame.”

The room is suddenly full of maleness, swelled to fill all the corners. It’s dicey; Hugh is worried. But now Della is at Ken’s side, somehow reaching him without passing through Mighton’s tight little sphere at all.

“I’m your permanent, everlasting, waterproof lighter,” she tells Ken, laughing. Treating him as if he is the way he ought to be: easy, confident, loving, stable. “You’re stuck with me, poor guy.”

Baulked of an emotional scene, Mighton locates Gareth Pindar by the fireplace and lifts an arrogant arm. “Gare!” he calls. “Hey, you’ve got to come downstairs and see my big piece,
Dark Gates
. Hugh hung it yesterday.”

From the end of the table, where he sits keeping Burton in check, Léon lifts his lazy lean-jawed head to say, “No working tonight, Mr. Mighton.”

That makes Gareth laugh. “A purely social occasion, no opinions offered. Send me a jpeg, I’ll peek at it while I’m in the loo.” He winks at Della and vanishes down the hall.

“At least come to the wine and cheese tomorrow,” Mighton calls after him.

The wine and cheese. Hugh’s done nothing about it, not the first thing. Not a single block of cheese. He looks at Della, soundlessly begging her
to tell him that she sent the invitations to their usual email list, but she’s busy rewrapping her mother-of-pearl box. What happened to Gerald? Okay, there at the abandoned table; Jasper’s pouring him a tot of port from the almost empty bottle. Nothing like your thirty-year-old port for disappearing.

Léon stretches and stands, matador slim. Burton rouses himself from the plural pleasures of port and art, and lets Léon go, loosening the vise of his attention with a sated look, as if he’s prised out everything about Gareth, the gallery, and their whole world, and looks around for Newell. Who did not let him know he was leaving.

That will mean a scene. Mighton might enjoy it, but can Hugh handle another scene?

Stepping back to the kitchen, Hugh almost trips over Conrad’s feet.

“Here, give me a look at these eyes of yours,” Conrad says.

The light is dim, at least.

“I’m fine,” Hugh says. “I didn’t drink. I’m being careful.”

“You nearly fell just then.”

Hugh gives up his face and stares into Conrad’s eyes. Clean, cool blue, bright whites, locking on one eye, then the other, back again. “Head hurt?”

The pounding is so bad. Hugh makes his eyes blink slowly; tilts his head as if he’s checking for ghostly pain, rather than speaking through hammers. “Not to speak of, nothing much. I’m being careful.” Say it often enough and Conrad will believe him.

Gareth comes back down the hall. Hugh puts out a hand. “You’ll stay, you and Léon, won’t you? The guestroom is ready for you,” he says.

Gareth looks over his glasses at Hugh. “Will you still have us if I woo your artist away?”

“Yes,” Hugh says, happy for the first time in a long—wait, okay, since that liquifying lunch with Ivy, five hours ago. He laughs. “Towels in the bathroom cabinet. But listen, this is Conrad Frey, Mimi’s doctor. I’m afraid I’ve got to go back over to her now.”

Noises of sympathy from Gareth, and from Léon, who weaves his arm into Hugh’s.

“It’s been a very long time coming,” Hugh says. “Conrad can tell you. Make yourselves at home. I’ll be back to give you breakfast in the morning.” In the morning—when the moving truck Ruth arranged will be arriving at Mimi’s, when the apartment must be cleared out.

Okay. But Ivy will be back to help. To do the dishes, she said so.

“Listen, I’ll drive you over,” Conrad says, already on the stairs.

Back beyond the other guests, Burton has discovered Newell’s absence. His pug-pouting face uplifted, he’s scouring the deck through the long windows. In a moment he will turn and explode. Fine.

Hugh clasps Gareth’s hand, thanks Conrad, and goes.

The soul’s like all matter:

why would it stay intact
,

stay faithful to its one form
,

when it could be free?

Louise Glück

1. HUGHTHANASIA

The hospice is entirely still. Long stairs, long corridor. Night light: scallops of creamy light along the baseboards. In the distance the deserted nursing station is lit by one shaded lamp. Not deserted, he doesn’t mean that. The nurse is somewhere, seeing to someone.