The Last Good Day

CHAPTER
8

After we left the ladies’ room, Taylor went back to the dance floor to rock around the clock with Bill Haley, and I returned to our table on the deck and a fait accompli. Zack was alone, his fingers tapping out the beat on the Formica tabletop and his eyes fixed on the progress of a red canoe moving towards shore.

When I sat down, he gave me a satyr’s smile. “Change in plans,” he said. “Blake caught a ride to Lawyers’ Bay with those people he was talking to before dinner. He’s decided to drive back to the city tonight.”

“So he can look for Lily?” I said.

“I imagine Blake can make an educated guess about his wife’s whereabouts.”

“Can you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Anybody can make a guess, but Lily’s wandering ways are Blake’s concern. I never assume another man’s burdens.”

“Unless he pays you a retainer,” I said.

“Good one,” Zack said, raising his metal milkshake container to me. “But back to the situation at hand. I didn’t see any reason to end the evening. The girls and I are having a good time, and you looked as if you could use a little fun.”

“You’re very perceptive,” I said.

“When it matters to me, I am. And since you matter to me, I’ll do what I can to lighten your spirits. Would you care to dance?”

Taken aback by what sounded suspiciously like a pass, I hesitated a beat too long before answering. Zack picked up on my uncertainty.

“I can dance, you know.”

I stood and extended my hand. “In that case, let’s dance.”

Zack took it. “A woman who leads,” he said. “I like that.”

The spectators around the dance floor were closer to Taylor’s age than to mine, and they were agape. True to his promise, Zack really could dance. He manoeuvred his chair with skill and finesse, and he led me through the Twist, the Stroll, the Jerk, the Monkey, and the Swim before, sweaty and breathless, I raised my hand.

“I have to sit the next one out,” I said. “It’s either that or coronary care.”

Zack was sweaty and breathless too. “Thank God,” he said. “I was afraid you’d never give up.”

“I didn’t know it was a contest,” I said.

“Everything’s a contest, but I also wanted you to have a good time. You seemed preoccupied.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Just parent stuff. In the boat coming over, Taylor said something that bothered me.”

“Fill me in,” Zack said. “I’m a good listener.”

“Is this going to be a billable hour?” I asked.

He grinned. “Nope. This hour’s free. This is where I suck you in. Get you to like me.”

“I already like you,” I said.

“So the pressure’s off. Let’s talk about Taylor.”

“There’s not much to say. On the ride over, Taylor seemed a little down. I offered her a penny for her thoughts and she told me she was wondering what she’d leave behind after she died. That’s why I followed her into the bathroom. But she assured me her concern about a legacy was no big deal – it was just a question she was mulling over.”

In the candlelight, Zack’s eyes were lustrous. “You don’t believe her?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Taylor has a complicated history. She was the daughter of a friend of mine – the artist Sally Love.”

“Wow,” Zack said. “I own a Sally Love. It’s my favourite piece. It’s also the most valuable thing I own.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “The price for Sally’s work hit the stratosphere after she died, and it’s stayed there. Taylor’s a very rich young girl.”

“But tonight she’s a girl who’s wondering whether she’ll leave a mark on the world. A very human concern.”

“Is it a concern of yours?”

“Not any more,” Zack said.

A flotilla of ducks was moving towards shore. Twilight had calmed the winds and quieted the lake. As the ducks swam, each one left behind it a tracing, feather-delicate. Within seconds, the tracing was absorbed by the water.

Zack pointed to the ducks. “That’s what we leave behind,” he said. “Nothing. Once you accept that, everything else is easy.”

“Then why does Chris’s death matter so much to you?”

“Because he was special,” Zack said. “A good man in a bad world.”

“He didn’t think he was good,” I said. “The night he died he told me that he had done something unforgivable.”

As a trial lawyer, Zack had years of experience keeping his public face unreadable, but a tic in his eye betrayed him. “Did our friend elaborate on his unforgivable act?”

I weighed the options: a pleasant evening or a painful discussion. Given the past twenty-four hours, there was no choice. I turned to Zack. “Chris told me a woman he’d been involved with had had an abortion. He couldn’t get over it. More to the point, he didn’t believe he deserved to get over it because there’d been something else – some previous sin. Does any of this ring a bell?”

I could almost hear Zack’s brain click through the calibrations: I had information he needed; he had information that would interest me but that he didn’t want to divulge.

“I didn’t know about the baby,” Zack said carefully. His words had the ring of truth, and I believed him. That said, I hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck. I knew his response had been selective.

“But you knew something was wrong,” I said. “The night Chris died you tried to make me doubt what he’d told me. You told me that sometimes people confess to big things because they’re burdened with guilt about little things.”

Zack didn’t answer. Seemingly, he was still trying to assimilate what I had just told him. “An abortion,” he muttered as if to himself. “That’s all it was.”

“Chris didn’t see it as a small thing,” I said.

Zack sighed. “No, he wouldn’t. But Jesus, to kill yourself over something like that.”

The glass-shattering falsetto climax of Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely” pierced the air. It seemed to bring Zack back to the moment, and he smiled. “That was the favourite song of a client of mine. He said it was so sad it could make a dog cry.”

“Sensitive client,” I said. “What were the charges?”

“He was alleged to have dropped a barbell on the windpipe of his sleeping grandmother.”

I shuddered. “Guilty?”

“Absolutely,” Zack said. “But he still had a good ear for a ballad of doom.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Ready to call it a night?”

“I am,” I said. Then, like a long-married couple, Zachary Shreve and I collected the girls from the dance floor, rejected their pleas for just one more song, and shepherded them down to the dock for the trip across the lake.

It was a moon-drenched night, so serenely beautiful that it drew the giddiness out of the girls and made them reflective. Except for the purr of the motor and the squawk of the occasional gull, our passage was silent. Continuing in our oddly parental roles, Zack and I walked Gracie and Isobel home. Gracie’s cottage was nearest to the dock, so we dropped her off first. Rose Lavallee met us at the Falconers’ door. Her grey hair was neatly pincurled and she had covered it with a gorgeous scarf patterned with the logo of a famous New York designer and tied at the top of her head to make bunny ears. The house smelled good, of spice and warmth.

“I made those spice cookies you like,” Rose said to Gracie.

Gracie planted a kiss on Rose’s leathery cheek. “You always do that when she goes away.”

“It’s to take the sting out,” Rose said. She gazed at the four of us still waiting outside. “Not a good night for company. But I can bag you up some cookies.”

“We can get some tomorrow,” Taylor said.

“They’re better fresh.” Rose disappeared into the kitchen. In a flash she was back with four brown lunch bags. She handed one to each of us.

“This is a treat,” I said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Rose said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to close this door. The bugs are getting in.”

It was a night for threshold encounters. Delia Wainberg met us at her door. She was wearing orange velour pyjamas that looked roomy and comfortable. Her black hair was a nimbus and, for the first time since I’d met her, she seemed happy and relaxed. On the day Chris’s ashes had been scattered, Lily Falconer had speculated that, with Chris out of the way, Delia and Noah might have a chance. Whether or not this was true, it was clear to me that the Wainbergs had been making love.

The same thought seemed to occur to Zack. After Isobel said her thank yous and goodbyes and the door closed behind her, he turned his wheelchair to go back down the walk. “It would be nice to have someone to come home to,” he said, and his voice was full of yearning.

When Taylor and I got back to the cottage, there was a note on the table from Angus and Leah. They’d gone to a cottage down the shore for a wiener roast and a planning session for the Ultimate Flying Disc Tournament starting the next night, so Taylor and I were on our own. We got into our nighties, but when I went to tuck Taylor in, I didn’t leave after prayers and a hug.

“Can we talk for a while?” I said.

Taylor surprised me by moving over in bed and making room for me the way she had when she was little. I slid in beside her.

“Let’s turn out the lights,” Taylor said. “It’s nicer to talk in the dark.”

I flicked the switch on the lamp on her bedside table and we waited for a few seconds until our eyes grew accustomed to the shadows.

“We haven’t done this for a long time,” I said.

“It still feels the same,” Taylor said.

“You’re right,” I said. “It still feels good.”

“I love it here at the lake,” Taylor said.

“I’m glad,” I said. “You and Isobel and Gracie seem to be having a lot of fun.”

“We are,” Taylor said. “But we talk, too. Gracie says she thinks her parents are going to get a divorce.”

“How does Gracie feel about that?”

“She says it’s for the best. She says her mother’s unhappy – that’s why she keeps running away.” Taylor paused and took a hiccuping breath. “Was that why my mother went away?”

Over the years, Taylor and I had trod lightly around the subject of her mother. We had talked often about her art. Sally had given me one of her paintings as a gift, and friends in Regina had others. Taylor’s hunger to connect with her mother through spending time close to the art Sally made had always moved me. I had once come upon her tracing the lines of one of her mother’s paintings with her small fingers. “My mother touched this,” she had said simply.

In truth, Taylor had probably spent more time gazing at her mother’s art than Sally had ever spent gazing at her daughter. Sally Love had walked out of her daughter’s life not long after Taylor was born. In the years before she decided to claim her now four-year-old child, Sally made some spectacular art and slept with enough men and women to populate a small town. Taylor had never asked me why her mother left, an omission for which I was grateful because I didn’t have an answer. That night it seemed my luck had run out.

“Why did she go away?” Taylor asked softly.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Did she and my father love each other?”

“Truth?”

“Truth,” Taylor said.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think they did.”

“Then why did they get married?”

“I think your mother hoped she could have a different kind of life. She wanted a child, and your father did too.”

“If my mother wanted a child, why did she leave me?”

“Your mother was always searching for something.”

“Is that why she made art?”

“No. She made art for the same reason you do.”

“Because she had to,” Taylor said.

“She loved that about you. When she came back and saw that you were an artist, like her, she knew that you were what she’d been searching for all along.”

“And then she died.”

“Yes,” I said. “And then she died.”

Beside me, Taylor stared up at the ceiling, her arms pressed against her sides, rigid as a soldier’s. When I drew her into my arms, she began to cry. She was not a girl who cried often and the intensity of her grief frightened me. Her body convulsed with sobs, and for a while it seemed as if the tears would never stop, but her grief had been gathering force for a long time. She had never cried for her mother and father. I buried my face in the lake-water smell of her hair and held her tight until the sobbing ceased and her breathing quieted. Finally, she seemed to fall asleep. But when I inched towards the edge of the mattress to leave, she reached out to me.

“Do you want me to stay?” I asked.

“No. I’m okay.”

I got out of bed. “You know where I am if you need me.”

“And if I call you, you’ll be there.”

I kissed her forehead. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

I stood outside Taylor’s room for a few seconds, listening, making certain that her reassurance wasn’t just bravado, but all was silent. I walked down to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk. Our brown bags of spice cookies were on the counter. I picked mine up and carried it with me to the porch. I was sorely in need of something to take the sting out. Willie, ever faithful, lumbered after me. I’d just settled into the rocking chair and taken my first bite of cookie when my cellphone bleated from somewhere in the house. I almost let it ring, then I thought of Taylor sleeping, and I leaped up to answer and stop the noise.

My caller announced her name straightaway. “This is Maggie Niewinski,” she said. I didn’t make the connection immediately. Luckily, Ms. Niewinski helped me out. “I’m Clare Mackey’s friend in Prince Albert.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“That it has,” she said. “Nonetheless, I thought I should call and give you an update.”

“Has Clare been in touch with you?”

“No,” she said. “That’s the update. I’ve called everyone I could think of. All the women in the Moot Team have. Clare hasn’t been in touch with anyone we know.”

Despite the warmth of the evening, I felt a chill. “I guess there’s still the possibility that she just decided to cut her ties here.”

“Why would she do that?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m just hanging on to the hope that there’s a logical explanation.”

“There isn’t,” Maggie said sharply. Clearly she respected unvarnished truth. “Clare wasn’t an easy person to get close to. She was friendly with people, but she didn’t seem to have a need for friendship. That’s probably why it was so easy for her to simply vanish without anyone asking a lot of questions. But you asked questions. What’s your connection with Clare?”

“It’s tangential,” I said. “Clare was the running buddy of a woman who’d once been my teaching assistant. Her name is Anne Millar. Anyway, when Clare stopped showing up for their morning run in November, Anne went to the police and she went to Falconer Shreve. Everybody gave her the brush-off. Anne and I spotted one another at Chris Altieri’s funeral, and she unloaded. I just agreed to do what I could to help.”

Maggie’s tone was withering. “So a stranger and a casual acquaintance took the time to do what none of us who were with Clare every day for three years at law school bothered to do.”

“You had busy lives,” I said.

“Nobody should be that busy. But we’ll make up for it. You say the police gave Anne Millar the brush-off. Do you happen to know who she talked to?”

I hesitated, but I knew it was pointless to delay the inevitable. “Anne spoke to Inspector Alex Kequahtooway.”

“Kequahtooway,” Maggie repeated. “Okay, I’ve got it. He’s obviously the place to start. We’ll have to find out who’s issuing the inspector’s orders or who is paying him off.” For the first time, Maggie Niewinski faltered. “November to July. Eight months. It may already be too late.”

“You don’t think Clare’s alive?” I said.

“I hope she is,” Maggie said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. If anything’s happened to her, Inspector Alex Kequahtooway is dead meat.”

My mind was racing when I clicked off my cell. There was no way I could dismiss Maggie Niewinski. A telephone call was not an infallible indicator of character, but Maggie had not struck me as a fanciful woman, nor did she strike me as a woman who made idle threats. Obeying the adage that one picture is worth a thousand words, I walked back to my bedroom and picked up the yearbook from Clare Mackey’s graduating year at the University of Saskatchewan law school and returned to the comforts of the rocker on the porch and my bag of spice cookies.

I turned to the photo of the Moot Team. Maggie was at the centre of the picture, a fine-boned blonde with an air of fragility that, given her determination to leave no stone unturned in her search for Clare, was deceptive. I leafed through the book, looking for Maggie in other pictures. She was there many times, and always with the other members of the Moot Team. Clearly, they were women of parts: members of the staff of the Law Review; revellers toasting their tablemates at the Malpractice Mixer; exultant hockey players wearing skates and oversized sweaters with the U. of S. logo. According to the text on the page, their graduating year had been a good one for the women’s hockey team. They had triumphed at the championships in Montreal. There was a picture of the team, beaming, arms draped around one another’s shoulders. Beneath the photo the caption read, “Raising hell and kicking butt.”

Seemingly, they were about to continue the tradition. I put on my glasses and brought the photo of the hockey team closer to my face. Together, the women had the relaxed stance and easy body language of team players. They did not look like people who would relish destroying another human being, but that was exactly what they were about to do, and in my heart I knew that if I’d been in their position, I would have been leading the pack.

The scent of nicotiana wafted through the screened windows. Unbidden, memories of other nicotiana-scented nights washed over me. Alex wasn’t a faceless enemy to me. He was a man whose hands had caressed me and whose body I had loved. Our relationship had never been an easy one. There had been unasked questions and stupid arguments. We had quarrelled over small things because we both knew the big issue between us was beyond solution. But as problem-ridden as our personal relationship had been, I had never doubted that Alex was a good cop and an incorruptible one. Now it seemed that that assessment was being called into question.

The memory that drove me to pick up the phone and dial Alex’s number was not one I cherished. It was of a time when the door to Alex’s private world had opened and my cowardice had slammed it shut – perhaps forever. We had eaten dinner at my house and decided that, rather than driving, we would walk downtown to police headquarters. The night was unseasonably warm, and I hadn’t worn a jacket. When we started home, I’d been chilly, and Alex had put his arm around my shoulders. As we’d crossed the intersection near my house, a man in a pickup truck yelled an ugly racial slur, not at Alex but at me. His words had branded us both. “When you’re through fucking the chief,” the man had said, “why don’t you try it with a white guy?”

In the months afterwards, I replayed the scene a hundred times in my mind. Always in my revision, I behaved heroically. I raised my head and walked across the street with the man I loved. The truth was I had not been brave. Obeying an impulse as atavistic as it was unforgivable, I had shaken off Alex’s arm and run to the safety of the sidewalk. The men in the half-ton had applauded the fact that I had allied myself with them. My apology to Alex had been heartfelt, and he had been understanding, but there was no denying the truth: that split second at the Albert Street Bridge had opened a chasm between us that we had never again been able to close.

I had failed him, and we both knew it. Tonight I had a chance to make amends. I picked up my cell and tried his number. Remembering what we had once been to one another, I wanted to warn him, but at another level I knew that I needed an explanation myself. The Alex I knew had been principled, a man of integrity who believed that every human being had an obligation to do what he could to make a difference. He had been one of the best things in my life. I needed to know that I hadn’t been wrong to love him. I needed to know that, no matter what had happened on that icy November day, Alex was worth loving.

As the phone rang, images of the apartment I knew so well flashed through my mind. It was in a small old building downtown, not posh, but comfortable, with high ceilings and a bedroom with a small balcony where, after love-making, we would take our chairs and sit and look out across the street at the blank face of the church. The memories absorbed me. I didn’t notice how many times the phone rang. When, finally, the phone was picked up, the voice on the other end was not Alex’s. It was a woman’s voice. “Hello,” she said. “Hello,” and then in a voice in which anger and fear were mixed, “Hello. Who’s there? Hello.”

I hung up. Those few words weren’t enough to reveal whether the woman in Alex’s apartment was Lily Falconer, but one thing was certain: the man I’d loved for three years had found someone else to come home to.