Why Men Lie (14 page)

He had just returned from the Ellis unit, had seen Sam there. On Tuesday afternoon, someone from the prison PR staff had given
him a tour of what he called the Walls facility, which she gathered was a different part of the establishment. There was nothing ambiguous about “death chamber,” “gurney,” “isolation cells.” He said he’d seen the old electric chair, which was on display for tourists.

When he spoke of Sam, there was a quaver in his voice. He said their conversations were surreal. But he didn’t say when he’d be back home, or even when she’d hear from him again.

She called his place on Walden, because she felt compelled to talk to him, even if he wasn’t there. The friendly voice on his answering machine was reassuring. She told him to make a note about February 14. She hoped he’d be available; she could use the help. A valentine was optional.

Then she poured a drink, watched a bit of television, ate a sandwich. Poured another drink and listened, again, to the recorded voice from some unimaginable town in Texas where you could tour facilities for killing people.

She fell asleep curled up in a chair, fourth whisky barely touched.

“Effie, dear,” the teacher said. “Would you come here for a moment?” The tone was ominous with kindness. “A gentleman would like a word with you.”

The gentleman was smiling, just outside the classroom door. First she noticed that his eyes were brown, then she registered the wide brown belt, the holster and the gun—the yellow stripe along the trouser leg
.

“Hey there,” he said. Touched her shoulder. “Do you think you could spare a moment for a little chat? Just you and me?”

She looked back, saw John watching from his desk but knew he couldn’t see the cop. “Yes,” she said
.

They sat in the front seat of his car
.

“Effie,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Effie,” he repeated, sighing. “I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. I want you to think before you answer. Okay?”

He seemed young, radiated kindness. He was handsome in a cowboy kind of way
.

“What questions?”

He frowned through the windshield for what seemed like a long time. “You’re old enough to know that boys and girls
—
or rather, men and women
—
have … relations. Do things, like, together.”

He was studying her face. She was confused. Said nothing
.

“I think you know what I mean.”

She shrugged
.

“Sometimes a guy … a man will try to do things with a girl or woman, and it’s okay. And sometimes it isn’t okay. You know that, right?”

“I think so.”

“It’s okay, for instance, when it’s your mom and dad together.”

“I don’t have a mom.”

“I know. I’m just saying. When you’re older, there will be boyfriends. And it’ll be okay.”

“Okay.”

“But there are certain people that it’s never okay for. Never okay for them to try to do things with you. Ever. And when you’re only thirteen
—
obviously a very grown-up, pretty thirteen … but it’s never okay, for anybody.”

“I know.”

“So, Effie.” He sighed again. “I have to ask you. Did anybody, ever, anytime … try to do anything?”

There was a peculiar movement in her stomach, part nervousness, part nausea. And in her brain there was a silhouette but nothing else that she could see. But she could remember sound and smell. A revolting smell she was unable to identify. And the sounds were frightening and sorrowful
.

“No,” she said
.

“You’re shaking,” the policeman said
.

She stared at her trembling hands as if they belonged to someone else. She looked straight into the policeman’s eyes. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

He seemed perplexed, but he also looked relieved. “Okay, Effie, you can go back in now. Anybody asks what we were talking about, tell them I’m looking for a lost dog. Out your way. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I already talked to your brother.”

“You did?”

“About the dog.”

John phoned on Saturday morning.

“We did it,” he said. “Tied the knot, yesterday afternoon. Went to see the old judge at his house. Short and simple. I recommend it, if you ever do it again yourself.”

She offered heartfelt congratulations.

“Queer time for a wedding, January,” John said. “But it keeps the guest list down.”

“How many did you have?” she asked.

“Just us and the witnesses,” he said. “Best way to go. Short and sweet and simple.”

She felt a sudden wistfulness. She told him that he and Janice would receive an invitation to Cassie’s wedding. Keep April tenth available. He laughed. Janice hated to travel, but he’d try to talk her into it. A little honeymoon, he’d call it and maybe tempt her that
way. Effie remembered an awkward night in a motel room years ago. What year was it? The year Duncan was ordained—1968. He’d married them. John seemed to drive forever afterwards.

“Cassie will be devastated if you don’t show up,” she said. “You know she calls you Uncle John.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Great girl, Cassie,” John said finally. “I have her graduation picture on the mantel. And what about himself, her father? Have you talked to him?”

“Not lately.”

“Saw him in town a week ago,” John said. “His nose is definitely out of joint about something. When I mentioned Cassie getting married, he just snorted and walked away.”

“Take it with a grain of salt.”

“He’s starting to look his age, that fellow is. I felt like telling him.”

“Sextus?”

John laughed. “Yes. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Sextus aging like the rest of us.”

“So how is Janice?”

“Oh, she’s great. Aren’t you, Janice?”

There was a voice in the background.

“I don’t think you told me the due date.”

“Well, that depends, doesn’t it?”

“Depends on what?” Effie asked.

“Depends on who the father is. Right, Janice?”

She could hear a woman’s voice raised in the background, then he was laughing too.

“I’m dying to meet her,” Effie said.

“I tried to introduce you last summer,” John said. “One morning when she and I were out for our run, we saw you on the road.”

T
he summer had remained a regular topic of discussion all through their first spring together. JC’s enthusiasm was infectious. He wanted to explore Cape Breton, a place about which he had very distant, mostly pleasant childhood memories.

The mother of his child was dead. A car accident in the mid-1970s. After that, his daughter had been raised by her mother’s relatives and JC lost touch, except for the cheques that he continued sending until 1985, when she turned twenty-one. He admitted writing the last batch with a feeling of relief that, when he’d mailed them, turned to loss.

“So through the seventies,” she said, “you were dealing with that. And nobody knew what you were going through? The mother of your child killed …”

“Actually, I wasn’t going through much of anything.”

“But you must have—”

“No. Not really.”

“Do you know her name? The daughter?”

“Her first name. Sylvia. I don’t know what last name she ended up with. You have to remember, once I got on the Amnet treadmill, that was pretty well my life. Till ’96, when I came back.”

“Amnet?”

“American networks.”

“And what was it that brought you back in ’96?”

“What brought me back?” He seemed to think. “Fatigue, I guess it was. Yes. A certain kind of fatigue.”

He smiled.

“But here I am, right? All rested up. Ready for the unknown.”

On Saturday she wandered to a coffee shop on Bloor. She bought a newspaper, scanning it for even a small reference to Texas, what might be going on there. She found nothing that enlightened her. She sat, sipping at her coffee, trying to imagine JC in that place.

Fed up with dark probabilities, she forced herself to contemplate the word she’d been savouring—“autonomy.” The essence of autonomy is independence, something she had struggled to recognize as being paramount among her considerable achievements—the silver lining in the black cloud of abandonment.
Conditioning
, she thought.
I’m in training for another disappointment
.

“Is there anybody sitting here?”

She shook her head, mustered a weak smile, moved her newspaper so the man had room to put his mug down and resumed her meditation.

“May I?” he said, nodding toward the front section of the heavy weekend paper.

“Be my guest.” She looked away, aware she was being inspected. She had the irrational urge to light a cigarette. It’s odd how the old impulse returns, even decades after the last smoke. How many of our urges last so long? Cigarettes had once been perfect social moderators. “Would you care for one?” she’d have asked. And he’d
have said, “No, thank you,” or conversely, “Why not?” And probably have lit both cigarettes, a brief engagement that could have dissipated like the smoke or evolved into a genuine encounter.

The man now reading her newspaper was decent-looking, she thought, maybe early forties. He wore no rings. He had a fashionable whisker shadow, his hair clipped short; no ear stud, no visible tattoos. He was wearing a scuffed leather jacket and a yellow turtleneck with a polo player logo on the breast, which she didn’t like but could overlook because the shirt was faded, obviously old. She opened her purse, checked her cellphone. It was turned off. Perhaps he’d called. She turned it on, but there were no messages. She placed it on the table anyway, beside her coffee.

He put the paper down. “Thanks,” he said. “I just wanted to check something. I’ll pick one up.”

“You can take that one.”

“I’ll gladly pay for it …”

“Don’t be foolish,” she said.

“I love your accent,” he said. “You’re Irish.”

“No,” she said with a quick laugh. “Far from it.”

“Newfoundland, then.”

“No, not quite.” There was a moment of eye contact, and she looked away. Imagined the cigarette, imagined exhaling away from him. Simply having something to do to hide the nervousness in hands and face.

He reached into a pocket and plucked out a card. “I must be off,” he said. “Thanks for the paper. If I can ever return the favour.” He put the card on the table, then stood up. “You don’t have a card, I suppose.”

She shook her head.

“I’m Paul,” he said, holding out a hand.

She hesitated for a moment, then briefly shook his hand.

He stood silent, but the expression on his face was eloquent. He wanted to know more.

“I’m Faye,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, then smiled and walked away. She watched his back, the easy, athletic stride. The card said Paul Campion. There was an address that could have been an office or a residence, and there was a telephone number.

Walking home, she noted that her spirits were improved. She knew it was the brief speculation she’d noticed in a stranger’s face. For a moment she allowed herself to be what she presumed he had observed: a younger, more attractive and interesting package than the one she lived in.

It was a flight of self-indulgence, she knew that. But it felt good and it was a welcome interruption.

When the doorbell rang Sunday night, she considered ignoring it. She was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, fresh from a bath, looking forward to bed. She knew it would be JC, and she felt angry and disappointed.
So now he’s back from Texas. At least the asshole could have called
.

He was leaning with one hand propped against the doorframe, head hanging. When she opened the door, he looked up and stepped back, swaying dangerously near the top step. Instinctively, she reached for him. She’d rehearsed a short, sharp greeting, but she was speechless. JC spread his arms, palms toward her as if in supplication.