The Silent Wife (20 page)

One thing that meets with his approval is the decision in favour of a church ceremony. She was back and forth on that for
a while, and he made a point of nudging her in the right direction. Not that he's a religious man, but neither is he a nonbeliever. Ritual and tradition have their place, and marriage is one of those places, because marriage is above all an act of faith.

The guest list includes a great many aunts, uncles, and cousins on Natasha's side, whereas Todd's lineup amounts to a handful of buddies—Harry, Cliff, and some of the guys, and of course their wives. The cloud hanging over the proceedings is Dean, who remains steadfast in refusing to attend. He is still not speaking to Todd and has barely exchanged a word with Natasha. The last thing he said to her was that he'd rather die than see her married to the likes of Todd Gilbert. This had Natasha in tears. Dean needs to smarten up. If he had any sense he'd be happy for his daughter. She's going to be well-off, an affluent woman living a life of ease. Would he really prefer that she marry some young punk who can't provide for her? There's a lot he'd like to say to Dean, if only Dean would give him the chance.

He's beginning to wonder when life with Natasha is going to settle down, become more stable and orderly, more like what he had with Jodi. Natasha behaves in such unexpected ways. She certainly isn't glowing and contented, as pregnant women are supposed to be. On the contrary, she's turned into something of a viper, and he can't predict what will set her off or when she's going to strike. Still, he's doing his best to be understanding and accommodating. She's under a lot of stress with the fall term ending and the wedding coming up and the trouble with her father. Maybe the stress is what's causing her to gain weight, even though the baby is not yet showing. It could also be the
cause of the rash she's developed on her forehead. At least she hasn't lost interest in sex, which is what he thought would happen based on what his buddies have told him. Some of them—guys who had
never
cheated—were forced to take refuge in massage parlours and the adults-only section of the classifieds. He counts himself lucky that Natasha wants him as much as ever, but it's funny how the tables have turned. Natasha is now standard fare, whereas sex with Jodi the night he went to dinner had the agreeable tang of adultery. He'd almost forgotten about Jodi's weird stillness, the way her eyes lose focus and drift sideways while he's driving into her. He used to find it irritating, but that night, for some reason, it was kind of a turn-on. Life can throw you some real curveballs.

He could miss Jodi if he let himself. It's the daily patterns that make a marriage, the habits you fall into as a couple. These become a kind of background rhythm for your life. With Natasha, things have yet to settle into a beat that he can march to. But he can't afford to be sentimental. The law says that he owes Jodi nothing, that she is nothing more than an ex-girlfriend whose free ride is now over. She ought to thank him for his generosity during the years they were together. That's what Harry says. Harry wants to serve her with an eviction order, which will give them legal recourse if they need it. What he and Harry are hoping for is that Jodi will see reason and move out without a fuss, but if she decides to get stubborn about it, they'll have the eviction order to fall back on, meaning they can get the sheriff to forcibly remove her. He hopes it doesn't come to that, but it's entirely up to her.

With so much on his mind the last thing he needs is this health scare. Go to the dentist for a routine cleaning and come away thinking you're at death's door. Wherever dental hygienists go to school, they clearly don't learn any tact or diplomacy.

“It's a
lesion
,” she said. “Looks like
thrush
.” She prodded the spot with her gloved finger. “Have you been tested for HIV recently?”

It came out of nowhere, so much so that he laughed out loud, but with her finger in his mouth it came out more like a protest.

“No need for alarm,” she hastened to say. “Could be that it's absolutely nothing to worry about. This kind of thing can develop for any number of reasons. Quite often, though—and I'm obliged to tell you this—it's associated with a suppressed immune system. Best get it checked out and be on the safe side.”

Thrush.
The name of a bird. A harmless word that doesn't trouble him. It's
lesion
that's the kicker. The resonance of the word
lesion
with HIV and AIDS is clear in his mind because sometime during the past year he and Jodi watched a rerun of
Philadelphia,
in which the appearance of a single lesion on the forehead of Andrew Beckett, played by Tom Hanks, leads swiftly to his demise.

The virus has never before presented itself as something to personally concern him. When it first hit the news back in the early 1980s he was a sexually voracious adolescent having volumes of unprotected sex because copulating repeatedly in the back of a vehicle does not lend itself to precautionary measures, which in any case don't make for a fabulous experience. But his
only concern at the time was the risk of pregnancy. HIV was not something you had to think about unless you were gay, or so the story went. And somehow he never moved past that kind of thinking.

A dental hygienist is not a doctor, but a dental hygienist does look inside a lot of mouths, and maybe learning to identify certain abnormal conditions, even those that have nothing to do with teeth, is part of the general training. When he got back to the office he locked himself in the washroom and turned his cheek inside out to see for himself the small patch of white fungus cleaving to the mucous membrane like a dab of spackling paste. And now he can't keep his tongue away from it. Still, in all likelihood this will turn out to be a false alarm. The women he sees who pose the most risk are professionals, who won't come near him unless he's wearing a condom. Condoms sometimes tear, it's true, but that's no reason to obsess. It's just a little fungus, after all, and he finds that he can put it out of his mind for hours at a stretch, especially during the day when he's busy, though sometimes when he wakes in the night all he can think about is death. His own death, of course, but also the death of those around him, the fact that one day in the not-too-distant future every person he knows, every single one, will be dead and gone, along with all the people he doesn't know, to be replaced by a crop of strangers who will take over the structures left behind: the buildings, the professions. His building and his profession. When he gets on this jag the only thing that comforts him is the thought of his unborn child.

17

HER

Dear Ms. Brett,

I am legal counsel to Todd Jeremy Gilbert, who—as you are no doubt aware—is the sole and rightful owner of the premises at 201 North Westshore Drive (“the Premises”), where you are presently residing.

My client directs me to inform you that your residency of the Premises is hereby terminated. He orders you to quit the Premises no later than 30 days from the date of this letter. By that date, you must vacate and surrender possession of the Premises free of all occupants and personal belongings.

Your compliance in this matter will prevent any further eviction action against you. Should you fail to comply, my client will not hesitate to exercise all available remedies under the law.

Very truly yours,

Harold C. LeGroot

LeGroot and Gibbons

Barristers and Solicitors

In years to come she will think of this letter as marking a radical shift in her disposition, as quietly killing off the girl she was and ushering in an updated, disenchanted version of herself. Looking back she will see the transformation as being practically instantaneous, akin to falling into a dream or waking up from one, but she'll be wrong about this. The truth is that the change happens gradually, over the days and weeks that follow. There are stages to it, the first being denial. This is involuntary, not hers to manipulate or control but merely reflexive, a spontaneous form of defence that cushions her from catastrophic loss. It happens in the way that birds, like encroaching thoughts, can circle but not alight, or as a message picked up by your microreceiver might be compromised by static, or the way you can be shot and continue to walk in the direction you were going.

It was the man with the ponytail who handed it to her. He approached her in the lobby when she came in with the dog. The doorman must have tipped him off. It was a rainy Saturday
morning. She closed her umbrella and gave it a shake, waited for him to speak.

“Ms. Jodi Brett?”

“Yes.”

She took the envelope he foisted on her, heard him say the words.

“Consider yourself served.”

Riding up in the elevator she read it twice. Once inside she left it with the mail in the foyer and carried on to the kitchen, where she got the coffeemaker going. Now, waiting for the coffee to drip, she eats a shortbread cookie out of a package and gives one to the dog. Moving into her office she puts some files away and checks her voice mail. A woman has called about her overweight daughter. She returns the call, explains that she doesn't treat eating disorders, and rhymes offsome referral numbers from a list that she keeps in her desk drawer. Forgetting her coffee she moves from room to room straightening furniture and picking lint off the carpets. She finds a cloth and some Lemon Pledge and sets about dusting and polishing. The moment arrives when her thoughts return to the letter, and she registers a response of sorts, a level of annoyance that prompts her to drop the cloth she is holding and pick up the phone.

“So,” she says. “What's with the letter from Harry?”

“Jodi,” he says. “I've been meaning to call you.”

“You
should
have called me. How could you let this happen?”

“Harry sent you a letter?”

“Some guy handed it to me in the lobby.”

“What does it say?”

“For crying out loud, Todd. It says I have to move.”

“Jesus,” he says. “That's a mistake. That wasn't supposed to happen.”

“Of course it's a mistake. A very upsetting mistake.”

“Jodi, listen. As far as I knew, Harry was going to wait till I talked to you.”

“Talked to me about what?”

“I wish I didn't have to do this, I really do. But surely you can see that I have no choice. I can't
afford
to keep the condo. And it doesn't
look
right. Please try to understand.”

“You can't be serious.”

“But to spring it on you in a letter. That was not my intention.”

“What is going on here, Todd? What kind of game are you playing?”

“Listen to me, Jodi. I want you to know that I'm not going to haggle about the furniture. Whatever you want is yours. Take it all if you like. I want you to have it.”

“Todd, what's got into you? You need to come to your senses. I'm not
moving.
And you don't
want
me to move. Think about it. Think about our life together.”

“Jodi, try to be reasonable. Things have changed.”

She hits the off button, puts the phone down, and walks away from it. What does he mean he has no choice? It's just like Todd to dramatize his circumstances, relinquish responsibility, pretend that it's not him running his life but a force beyond his
control—a way he has of excusing his bad behaviour. She knows of course that he wants to buy another office building; he's talked about it for years. It's going to be his next big project, possibly his last, the one that will set him up for life. This will be no four-storey makeover with a warren of suites rented out to mini-startups and struggling entrepreneurs. He has something bigger and grander in mind—a building that's on the map—and he thinks he can make it happen by selling the condo out from under her. Their waterfront condo with its unobstructed view of the lake and its bamboo floors and spacious rooms, with its walk-in wardrobe in the master bedroom, and in the kitchen the terrazzo countertops and stainless-steel appliances and built-in effing coffeemaker. Pay no attention to the middle-aged Caucasian female and youngish golden retriever who happen to be living here. They will be gone in no time.

When Dean phones later in the day she's feeling just reckless enough to take the call.

“Dean,” she says. “Sorry I haven't returned your calls. I'm sure you know how it is.”

“I do know how it is,” he says. “I know very well how it is.”

“I get that this is tough on you, Dean. You've been on my mind.”

“Well, and you've been on
my
mind. I keep on saying to myself that I'm not the only one who's been hit by this, that Jodi has been sucker punched, too. Well, you know what I mean. It can't be very pleasant for you either.”

“No. It hasn't been pleasant.”

“I know. I know. That's what I've been thinking, and I wanted to reach out, let you know that I feel for you, that you're not alone. You and I, we're in this together.”

“That's kind of you, Dean. To think of me when you have so much to deal with yourself.”

“No, no,” he says. “I really wanted us to connect. You're just the person I need to talk to. Well, you know. Try talking to my daughter. I'm just glad her mother isn't here to see her throw her life away.”

“I'm sure her mother would be very upset by this,” says Jodi.

“Natasha has always been a good girl, and the thing is, she doesn't have to do this. I don't think she understands that she can just walk away. What she really needs is someone who can talk sense to her. A woman, you know. She won't listen to me. Someone who knew her mother. Someone like you. I think you could really have an influence on her.”

“You flatter me, Dean.”

“Did you hear that she's moved the wedding date up? Second Saturday in December. Bloody hell. She wants me to give her away. Can you believe it? I'd rather see her boiled in oil.”