The Nesting Dolls (11 page)

She laughed. “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Louise Hunter. I’m a pianist and I have a studio here.”

She had no memory of meeting me. I extended my hand. “Joanne Shreve,” I said.

The light faded from Louise’s face. “You’re Zack Shreve’s wife,” she said. “I’ve probably met you a dozen times. I apologize for not remembering.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said. “A.S. Byatt calls it nominal amnesia – it’s common enough at our age.”

Louise’s smile was wry. “Thanks, but I imagine my nominal amnesia was fuelled by Grey Goose vodka.”

When we stepped off the elevator, Louise gestured towards an apartment with an open door. “That’s their place,” she said. “It was nice to meet you, Joanne. Sobriety has its advantages. Who knows? I might even remember who you are next time.”

The door to the Brokaws’ was open wide. I called inside, but there was no response. A chair and a boot rack had been placed against the wall by the door. I took off my boots and stepped over the threshold and called again. The condo had an open-plan living-dining-kitchen area. Three chairs had been drawn around a low table that held everything needed for tea. As in a fairy-tale, all was in readiness but no one was there. I turned to leave but then I heard voices in the hall.

The combination of relief and anger in Myra Brokaw’s voice was familiar. I’d heard it in my own voice when one of my children had wandered off and my mind had been a blur of terrifying possibilities until I’d found them. “Theo, you can’t just leave like that, without telling me,” she said. “If you get lost, and I have to call the police, they’ll take you from me.”

Theo’s tone was querulous. “I just went out to get a … a … a thing I needed. I would have come back.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice lacked its previous assurance. “I do always come back, don’t I?”

“Yes, Theo. You always come back,” Myra said. “Sit down and let me take off your boots. Our guest will be here any minute.”

I was trapped, but anything was better than letting them know I’d heard their conversation. I walked to the window and looked down at the mall. The solitary skater was still making his joyless rounds, but there was plenty of activity: shoppers, their heads bent against the snow, darted into stores. A man, big as a sumo wrestler, had set up a charitable donation box and was loudly ringing a bell.

“You’re here,” Myra said.

“The door was open,” I said. “I thought you wanted me to come inside to wait.”

“Of course,” she said. “Theo and I just had to step out for a minute. Let me take your coat.” She laughed. “Actually, I might have to ask you to help me off with mine.” She held out her arm awkwardly. “Last night, coming back from the party, I slipped and sprained my wrist.”

I helped Myra and Theo off with their jackets, removed my own, and hung the jackets on a clothes tree just inside the door.

“I apologize, Joanne,” she said. “To say the least, this is an unconventional welcome.”

“One of your neighbours let me in downstairs. I shouldn’t have walked in, but I must admit I enjoyed looking out your window. You have a great view.”

“Theo agrees with you,” she said, and I could hear the assurance flowing back into her voice. “When I tell him we have front-row seats for the Human Comedy, he always concurs, don’t you, love?”

His back ramrod-straight, his strong sculpted features still without an ounce of extra flesh, Theo was, as he had apparently always been, a handsome man, but his expression was blank. When Myra raised her arm to touch her husband’s, she winced. At the Wainbergs’ I’d been struck by her vitality and by the translucent glow of her skin. The woman leading Theo into the living room was pale and clearly tired but she did not allow her social mask to drop. “Remember my telling you that Joanne Kilbourn was coming for tea this afternoon?” she said brightly.

Theo’s eyes darted anxiously towards his wife. “Did I invite her?”

“We both invited her,” Myra said. “Now, why don’t you and Joanne chat while I get things ready.”

Theo waited until his wife was in the kitchen area, then he moved purposefully towards the chairs that had been set out for tea, picked up one, moved it in front of the window, and sat down. I picked up another chair and carried it to the place next to Theo’s in front of the window.

For a beat we sat in silence: Theo staring at the street, me, staring at Theo. He was carefully dressed. His suede loafers were brushed, his grey slacks were knife-edged, and his black turtleneck made him seem both distinguished and rakish.

“It can’t be easy coming back to a city you left almost thirty years ago,” I said.

“Everything changes,” he said; then he leaned so close to the window that his forehead almost pressed the glass.
A young woman and two little girls in snowsuits the colour of lime popsicles had joined the solitary skater. “I’m hoping to get skates for Christmas,” Theo said. He lowered his voice. “Maybe you could tell the woman,” he said, jerking his head in Myra’s direction. After that, he and I retreated to our private thoughts. There didn’t seem to be much left to say.

When Myra asked if I could come and help with the tea tray, I was relieved. Bringing in the tray, moving my chair back to the table, and exclaiming over the little feast Myra produced gave me something to do. The tray was festive with damask napkins, and pale green cups, saucers, and plates so thin I could see through them. The tea itself was excellent: Darjeeling and very strong. Myra had made bite-sized lemon tarts with pastry that I envied. There was fruit bread thinly sliced and lavishly buttered and a fine winter surprise – a bowl of strawberries. Theo popped a tart into his mouth; then, like the schoolboy he had apparently become again, loaded his plate. Myra laughingly shook a chastising finger at him, but wholly absorbed in contemplating his food, he ignored her. She shook her head fondly, and she and I exchanged smiles.

“We saw your husband in action this morning,” she said. “We get gloomy staying in the apartment, so we put on our boots and tromped through the snow to the courthouse. Mr. Shreve puts on quite a show.”

Theo was just about to pop another lemon tart in his mouth, but our conversation had captured his interest.

“The one in the chair?” he asked me.

“He’s my husband,” I said.

Theo’s brown eyes were suddenly bright and shrewd – as if the veil had been lifted. “His argument was smart but not sound,” he said.

“Lots of snap and dazzle, but no substance?” I said.

Theo stared at me without comprehension. The veil had dropped again.

“I disagree,” Myra said, knitting the ragged pieces of our discussion into a coherent whole. “Not with Joanne’s answer, but with your assessment, Theo. In my opinion, Mr. Shreve is right. No otherwise blameless person should have to pay for a moment of indiscretion with a lifetime of penance.”

“So say you,” Theo said, and he went back to his plate.

We moved to safer subjects: the changes that had taken place in the city in the past three decades; the effect sudden prosperity was having on the province; some interesting small galleries Myra and Theo might enjoy. Myra was a quick and intelligent conversationalist, but her slip on the ice had taken its toll, and she was flagging.

When Theo yawned, Myra stood quickly. The party was over, but she was gracious. “Joanne, I haven’t given you a tour of the apartment.” She had already begun to move, and I followed. The small kitchen was separated from the living room by a counter on which there were two martini glasses: the first held red jelly beans; the second, green. “That’s a nice festive touch,” I said.

“There were three,” Theo volunteered, “but she broke one.”

“Joanne doesn’t need to hear about our domestic mishaps, Theo,” Myra said sharply. “We’ll get another.” She turned to me. “My husband has a sweet tooth,” she said.

I smiled. “So does mine, but he’d regard using his martini glasses for anything other than gin as sacrilege.”

“I’ll remember that when we entertain you,” Myra said. “Now here’s the master bedroom – sleek, no? I’m still getting accustomed to the new look of our lives. I decided it would be better to look forward, not back. Except for our clothing and Theo’s papers, we didn’t bring a thing with us from Ottawa. A fresh start was best. All my collections were … dispersed.”

“It must have been difficult leaving all that behind,” I said.

“It was a small death,” she said flatly. “Now here’s the bathroom – also sleek and soul-less. And,” she said, moving down the hall, “here’s my little warren.” She gestured to a study with a cranberry-coloured reading chair, stacks of novels with glossy dust jackets, and six framed black-and-white photos arranged in rows of three on the wall. The photographs in the top row were of a woman’s foot, its toes gnarled by arthritis, a graceful, liver-spotted hand, and a drooping breast. The photographs in the row beneath were of an eye with its lid slightly pouched, a mouth with thinning lips, and a buttock no longer firm. The pictures were oddly mesmerizing. As I turned to Myra, she read the question in my eyes. “My work,” she said. “A portrait of me as I am now: fragmented and aging.”

“Myra! Myra!” Theo’s voice, youthful and excited, rang out from the other room. Myra sighed softly. “And there is Theo as he is now.”

An odd scene greeted us. Theo was holding the matryoshka I’d purchased at Brokaw’s. My purse lay open on the table in front of him, and he was beaming. “She brought the doll, Myra. Every year at Christmas, we get a new one, and here it is. I spied it in her purse when she opened it to get her glasses, but I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“I’m so sorry, Joanne,” Myra whispered. She looked at her husband with concern. “I don’t think I can take it away from him.”

“Keep it,” I said. “Please. Let it be my gift.”

“Thank you,” Myra said.

“Come and look,” Theo crowed. “This one is a real beauty.” The wooden matryoshka with her brightly painted headscarf, her shiny black hair, rosebud lips, and rounded flower-painted body was traditional, and Theo was clearly delighted. He held the doll between his thumb and forefinger. “I have a secret,” he said in a soft imitation of a feminine voice. He transferred
the doll to the palm of his other hand, opened it, and removed a second doll. “I have a secret,” he said in a voice that was slightly higher in pitch. He repeated the action and the phrase “I have a secret” until five identical dolls, each smaller than her predecessor, were lined up on the coffee table. When he opened the sixth and found the final doll – no larger than a child’s fingernail but identical in every way to the others – he spoke the climactic line in a voice that was very small and very high. “And I am the secret,” he said. Then his eyes darted between his wife and me, seeking our approval.

Myra smiled at him fondly. “That was splendid, Theo. Thank you.” She put her fingers firmly under my elbow. “Joanne’s leaving us now,” she said.

Theo stood and bowed. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Not many do.”

Myra led the way to the door and then came with me as I stepped outside. She pulled the door closed behind us. Because the door had been open when I arrived, I hadn’t seen the wreath. It was fresh and eye-catching: a perfect circle of bay leaves, eucalyptus, and pomegranates dusted with gold mica powder.

“That’s exquisite,” I said.

“I made it,” Myra said. “I suddenly find myself with ample time for the womanly arts.” Her eyes met mine. “We’re going to have to take a different approach to our television project, aren’t we?” She began speaking quickly, cutting off the possibility of objection. “Perhaps we could arrange for an actor, someone really fine like Donald Sutherland, to read from Theo’s judgments. The
TV
people could intersperse the readings with videos of Theo talking about the law – before – when he was himself. I have a box of home movies: Theo hiking, picnicking – the human side of the man – and excellent videos of him discussing the philosophy of law with his students. Joanne, there are endless ways this could be done.”

“Is it Alzheimer’s?” I asked.

Myra slumped. She hadn’t convinced me, and she knew it. “No, but the effect is the same. He was shingling the roof of our cottage Labour Day weekend. We could have paid to have it done, but you know Theo.” Her laugh was short. “But, of course, you don’t know Theo. Not Theo as he was – as I believe he still is somewhere inside that shell you saw. The man I was married to for over four decades was the most capable human being I’ve ever known. He was also clever and charming and fascinating. And it was all over in a second.”

“What happened?”

“He fell. One minute we were leading the lives we’d always led. I was in my garden picking beans for lunch, and Theo was on the roof shingling. He lost his footing, fell to the ground, and suffered what is characterized as a ‘traumatic frontal lobe brain injury’ – it was devastating. Parts of his long-term memory are intact, but he has no short-term memory to put daily life into context. He’s confused; he’s agitated; he’s unpredictable. Drugs don’t help, but I’m not giving up. I believe I still see flashes of the man he was.”

“There was a spark when he described Zack’s performance in court,” I said.

“There was.” She was ardent. “I live for those glimpses of the man he was. They’re proof that the real Theo is still in there. My husband has always set himself goals and not only met but exceeded them. He’s already made progress. At first, he didn’t know where he was or whether it was night or day. Now, he’s putting the pieces together.” Myra’s eyes glittered. “Theo needs a reason to get up in the morning. So do I. Don’t take that away from us, Joanne.”

It took Taylor and me an hour to feed the colonies of cats in the warehouse district and in the abandoned building across the alley from the condos on Scarth Street Mall. When we’d
emptied our last bag of food on the snow, I looked across the alley and saw Louise Hunter getting into a Mercedes parked behind her building. She seemed to be in a hurry. She backed out, hit a garbage can, jerked forward, then backed out again and sped off. Angus, who had owned a series of clunkers but loved cars, would have said it was a shitty way to treat 200,000 dollars’ worth of sweet driving machine, and he would have been right.