The Nesting Dolls (2 page)

“Correction. Theo Brokaw’s wife says he’s agreed. I haven’t dealt with the Justice himself. It was Myra Brokaw who wrote volunteering her husband’s services.”

“And I’ll bet Theo was standing over her shoulder telling her exactly what to write. Stepping down from the bench must be tough for a guy who’s accustomed to having people hyperventilate when he enters the room.”

“So you think Theo Brokaw’s looking for some ego-stroking?”

“You bet he is, and you’re offering him exactly what he needs, Ms. Shreve. Explaining how the court works while modestly enumerating his many contributions to Canadian jurisprudence will keep Theo’s opinion of himself robust while he writes his memoirs.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Not a lot,” Zack said. “I realize this sounds hypocritical coming from me, but I find Theo’s passion for public notice unseemly, and he’s never got his hands dirty actually practising law. He’s an academic.”

“I’m an academic.”

“Yes, but you actually went out and worked in political campaigns. You understand that politics is complex, dirty, and occasionally noble. And your career as an academic stalled because of your involvement in party politics. You paid a price for knowing what you know. Theo never paid the price. He thinks people like me are hired guns and that people like him are the conduits through which God dispenses justice to Canada.” Zack made a gesture of disgust. “The hell with it. This is a stupid discussion.”

“Actually, since you’re the only one talking, it’s more of a soliloquy,” I said.

Zack flashed me a vulpine smile. “That’s probably why I scored all the points. Fuck it. Nothing ever changes. It’s Christmas. Let’s go to the party.”

The Wainbergs lived in a neighbourhood of carefully restored early-twentieth-century homes stylistically faithful to the classical rules of proportion, balance, and symmetry. Delia and Noah’s house, designed by an adherent of the Late Modernist school of architecture, was a daringly cantilevered skin-and-bones affair that thumbed its nose at its genteel neighbours.

The house had a history of one-sided passions. According to my friend Ed Mariani, who was an intimate of the man who designed the house, the architect’s dream had been to live in the house with his partner, a chef, until death did them part. Fate intervened. While preparing his signature lobster diablo for the housewarming, the chef gave himself a nasty cut. He cabbed to the nearest clinic, where a young doctor with eyes the colour of jade stitched the wound. The doctor’s touch was gentle. When the wound was wrapped, the doctor’s hand lingered, and in that instant, the chef knew he wanted the doctor’s hand to linger forever.

The next morning the architect put his dream house on the market, where it remained for months before the newly wed Wainbergs bought it for a song, and Noah set about making it their own.

Noah was a talented woodcarver, and there were striking pieces of his work throughout the house and grounds. Among the most intriguing were three life-sized oak bears positioned on the lawn by the path leading to the entranceway. The bears were astonishingly realistic, with foreheads sloping back suddenly from behind their small eyes, broad, prominent muzzles, heavily muscled bodies, and claws that were sharp enough to defend or attack. All three bears were standing on their hind legs: the large male was in front; behind and flanking him were two smaller bears, one an adult female, one a cub. The placement of the bears conveyed a powerful truth about the Wainbergs: Delia was the legal star, with her high six-figure income, but it was Noah who was the family’s protector.

As we arrived at the Wainbergs’, the wind, already fierce, picked up and filled the air with dry, granular snow that swirled as it fell. We were in for a blizzard. “Shit,” said Zack. “Sweet,” said Taylor. On the drive over Taylor had been
pensive, wrapped in her own thoughts, but the prospect of a storm was a catalyst for one of those quicksilver mood changes that mark adolescence. As soon as we stopped, Taylor leapt from the car. Arms outstretched, she ran to the centre of the Wainbergs’ lawn, spun exuberantly, then sprinted to the house, anxious to see her friends.

Zack touched my hand. “A blizzard’s a small price to pay to see her like that again.”

“Taylor’s fine,” I said. “Her hormones are just kicking in.”

“Henry Chan says that as long as Taylor’s keeping the lines of communication open and taking an interest in life, the brooding is nothing to worry about.”

“You talked to our doctor about Taylor?”

“He’s a professional. I thought maybe there was something we should do.”

“Zack, she’s a perfectly normal fourteen-year-old, and we’re doing what the parents of a perfectly normal fourteen-year-old are supposed to do: we’re there, we’re watchful, and we’re letting our daughter figure out who she is.”

Zack’s lips twitched in amusement. “That’s exactly what Henry said.”

“You could have saved yourself a trip to his office.”

“Actually, the consultation occurred just as I’d drawn to an inside straight. I figured I’d get his advice before I cleaned his clock.”

“Ever the family man.”

“Don’t be dismissive. I won $400 from Henry that night. Now, if I’m going to get up to the house under my own steam, we’d better boogie.”

In the course of an average week, Zack unfolded his wheelchair and transferred his weight from the driver’s seat to the chair dozens of times. Most times the manoeuvre was smoothly executed, but the snow complicated everything. I knew enough not to offer help, but the visibility
was poor, so I was quick to move to Zack’s side of the car, and when he started up the pathway, I stayed close behind. My husband’s upper body was powerful, so despite the snow his progress was steady. But as we reached the oak bears, the snow caught his wheels. Zack uttered his favourite expletive and I stepped in front of his chair to kick his wheels free. That’s when I realized that we weren’t alone.

A woman carrying a baby car seat was coming up behind us. I stepped onto the lawn.

“Play through,” Zack said, but the woman didn’t move.

“Is this the Margolis-Wainberg residence?” she asked.

“It is,” I said. The lower half of the woman’s face was covered by her scarf and the hood of her jacket was pulled up. I glanced down at the baby seat. The cover was zipped against the weather. “Is there actually a baby in there?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Better get him or her inside,” I said. “It’ll be fun to have a baby at the party.”

“There’s a party?” she said. She repeated the word ‘party’ as if it were a noun from a language she’d forgotten, then turned abruptly and started back down the path. I watched until she and her child disappeared into the swirling snow.

“What do you suppose that was about?” I said.

My husband didn’t answer. His focus was elsewhere. The Wainbergs’ home, like the homes of all of Zack’s partners, was fully accessible, but snow had drifted onto the ramp leading up to the front door. “Look at that,” Zack said. “Sorry, Ms. Shreve, but you’re going to have to push me up.”

I’d just pulled the chair back, so I could take a run at the incline, when Noah Wainberg appeared at the front door. “Since Taylor arrived, I’ve been watching for you,” he said. He zipped his parka, picked up the shovel leaning against the house, and cleared the ramp. We were inside and warm
within minutes. Zack removed his toque and glanced up at Noah. “I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t. You gave me a chance to get out of the house.” Noah nodded in the direction of the party. “I hate these things, but Delia wanted a party … ”

“And what Delia wants, Delia gets,” Zack said.

Noah didn’t smile. “If it’s within my power – yes.” He removed his coat, revealing an impeccably tailored two-button pinstripe and a claret Windsor-knotted tie. He was dressed for the part and he would handle his duties as host without complaint, just as he unquestioningly handled everything that came his way.

Few people realized that Noah was a lawyer who had been in the same year at the University of Saskatchewan College of Law as the members of the Winners’ Circle. He had been an indifferent student, and after graduation he had spent a year articling with a lacklustre firm, waiting for Delia to come back from Ottawa where she was clerking for another outstanding graduate of the College of Law, Mr. Justice Theo Brokaw.

The partners of Falconer Shreve Altieri Wainberg and Hynd marked the day they opened their first office as the beginning of their real lives. Noah was not the Wainberg of the firm’s name, but as someone who knew the law and could be trusted to be discreet, he played an invaluable role in managing sensitive information and sheltering clients who didn’t want to advertise their need for legal advice.

His services to Falconer Shreve went beyond the professional. All the partners owned cottages on a horseshoe of lakefront property that was less than an hour’s drive from Regina. The community on Lawyers’ Bay was gated because the cottages were often used for meetings and, occasionally, as a safe haven for clients who needed time away from prying eyes. Noah made certain the properties were kept in
running order. Quietly and efficiently, within the office and outside it, Noah took care of what needed to be taken care of and that included the Wainbergs’ only child, Isobel.

Delia and I weren’t close, but because of our girls’ friendship, Noah and I were often together. He was quiet and easygoing, and I always welcomed his company. That night, after a young woman in a crisp white blouse, black mid-calf skirt, and sensible shoes appeared and took our coats upstairs, Noah gestured in the direction of the party. “Shall we join the others?”

“Not so fast,” Zack said. “Joanne and I want to hear about the guest of honour. Stripped of his ceremonial red robes and ermine, is he as much of a preening turd as he was on the bench?”

Noah shrugged. “Beats me. He’s not here.”

Zack glanced at his watch. “Two-thirty. The party started at two, so the guest of honour is half an hour late. One of the perks of being on the Supreme Court is making everybody hang around awaiting your dramatic entrance. I guess Theo still savours the moment.”

Noah made a fist and slapped it into his palm. “This isn’t the Supreme Court,” he said tightly. “It’s Delia’s party, and Theo Brokaw should have the decency to show up on time.”

“Agreed. But by definition, egoists set all clocks to their own time.” Zack patted Noah’s arm. “Now if I remember correctly, you make a fine martini. I wouldn’t mind testing my memory.”

“Follow me,” Noah said.

The Wainberg house was designed for entertaining, with expanses of glass that offered guests a panorama of the ever-changing prairie sky, and a large open-plan reception area where deep couches beckoned and servers with trays of food and drink could move with ease. The party had moved
quickly to a rolling boil – voices were vibrant, laughter exploded percussively against the cool riffs of a jazz pianist, and the air was heady with the blend of perfume, cologne, and body heat.

Most of the guests were people Zack and I would see many times before the old year ended. By then, we would be able to finish one another’s stories, but the Wainbergs’ party was an early one. The season had not yet lost its shine, and there was still real pleasure in seeing old friends and hearing news. When the servers brought out Noah’s signature mesquite-smoked turkeys, there was a round of spontaneous applause. It was a good party. Everyone was having fun except Delia.

Striking in black dress pants and a sleeveless white sequined shirt that showcased her admirably toned upper arms, Delia roamed, tense and distracted, seeking the guest of honour who was yet to arrive. Noah’s eyes seldom left his wife. Finally, he came over to the fireplace where Zack and I were trapped by a Falconer Shreve client named Roddy Dewar, who was rich, litigious, crazier than a bag of hammers, and hence much prized by the firm.

As always, Noah was quick to read the situation, and he knew that Zack and I had wearied of Roddy’s fulminations. Noah gave the man a conspiratorial wink. “They just brought in the smoked turkeys. Better move fast. Those birds have a way of vanishing.”

Roddy’s food lust was legendary. “A word to the wise is sufficient,” he said. Then he snatched the last cheese blintz from a passing tray, popped it in his mouth, and bolted for the birds.

Zack watched his progress, then raised an eyebrow at Noah. “Did you know that the soul leaves the body four minutes and seventeen seconds after death? Roddy was just about to provide Joanne and me with scientific proof. Once again, we are in your debt.”

Noah’s smile was rueful. “And payback time is here already. The Brokaws still haven’t shown up and Dee’s making herself crazy. Could you talk to her, Zack? She’ll listen to you.”

“Sure.” Zack’s eyes scanned the room. “Where is she?”

“Outside on the deck, freezing and smoking and trying to track down the guest of honour on her cell.”

Zack was clearly exasperated. “What’s with her lately? People forget parties all the time, and the Brokaws aren’t young. Theo didn’t wait for mandatory retirement, but he’s got to be past seventy.”

“Seventy-two,” Noah said.

“So it slipped his mind. Big deal. Now that he’s moved back to Regina, he and Delia can sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ any time they want.”

Noah’s expression was weary. “Tell Dee that, and remind her that she doesn’t have to sneak outside because she wants a cigarette. This is her house and people are damn lucky to be in the same room with her.”

Zack patted Noah’s arm and headed for the deck. It wasn’t long before he and Delia rejoined the party. I wasn’t surprised. Communication was never a problem between them. Noah appeared with a plate of smoked turkey and a glass of wine for his wife, and when she rewarded him with her three-cornered, cat-like smile, his relief was palpable.

Fuelled by alcohol, the party followed the inevitable trajectory from good cheer to raucousness to the loss of inhibition that teeters on danger. The discreet appearance of servers with pots of coffee and trays of honey cake, cheese, and fruit saved us from our baser selves. Soon, restored to civility by caffeine and one last bite, people began brushing one another’s cheeks with their lips and moving along. It was time for us to leave too. Gracie’s father, Blake Falconer, and Noah and Delia would be attending the afternoon concert on Sunday, so this afternoon Zack and I were responsible for shepherding the
three girls. The choirs were to be robed and ready fifteen minutes before the concert started. But I was currently mired in conversation with a sad-eyed wispy woman, expensively dressed in a leather blazer and slacks the exact shade of her stiffly lacquered platinum ponytail and her platinum cuff bracelet. She was weaving slightly, and her eyes seemed to be focused somewhere past my right ear. She was complaining about her only child who apparently brought her neither comfort nor joy.