The Nesting Dolls

CHAPTER 4

Like all people in a deep and passionate relationship, my life was shadowed by five words that Zack and I had uttered on our wedding day without a second thought: “Till death do us part.” When Zack was seven, a drunk driver fumbling for his cigarette lighter had failed to see him crossing the street on his way to baseball practice. The drunk’s momentary distraction meant that three thousand pounds of steel hit Zack’s sinewy young body, ripping it apart and leaving him a paraplegic with a host of physical problems that worsened with age. My husband always said that he had chosen law because it was a sedentary profession, but it could also be a deadly one. Trial law was high stakes, and the hours and pressures were punishing. The average time between a lawyer’s first court appearance and his or her first heart attack was twenty years. This was not a statistic that encouraged me.

During the early months of our marriage our most serious quarrels had centred on Zack’s determination to shut me out when his body betrayed him and my determination not to be shut out. There were some compromises. I convinced him that caring for one another’s bodies could be a sensual pleasure, so we swam together and rubbed one another down and massaged each other until the knots disappeared. Zack also worked at home as much as he could, but despite his promises to cut back, his hours were long, and there were mornings when after his customary five hours of sleep, he awoke grey and drawn.

This morning was one of them, but I had long since learned not to comment. By the time the dogs and I got back from our run, Zack had showered, made the porridge and coffee, poured the juice, and placed the local paper beside my plate. I put my arms around him. “You are a scarily handsome guy,” I said. “Why don’t we have breakfast and go back to bed after Taylor leaves for school?”

“Can’t. Got to get my client ready for court. Besides, I have a feeling the phone will be ringing soon. Check out the paper.”

The picture of Abby Michaels on the front page was the one Zack had taken at the concert Saturday afternoon, but it had been cropped and blown up, so that her broad expanse of forehead and piercing eyes dominated the page. The headline was stark: “MOTHER MISSING.”

Zack sipped his coffee. “See what you think of the story.”

I read it through. “Standard journalism,” I said. “The five W’s and one H with no answers to why and how and a deliberate obfuscation of who. Do you see something sinister there?”

Zack removed his reading glasses. “Nothing sinister. On the contrary, the press are cooperating with the police. Abby Michaels reads the paper. We know that because she showed up at Luther for the concert. You’ll notice that all the references in the story are generic.”

I skimmed the story again. “The baby was handed over to ‘a student’ and is now in the custody of ‘an area family.’ ” I looked at Zack. “So you think this story is calculated to bring Abby Michaels out of hiding.”

“I do.”

“Do you think it will work?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed. “We live in hope,” he said. “If Abby comes forward, she can be hospitalized, and if they can find the right doctor and the right meds, she’ll have a second chance.”

“But you don’t think it’s going to happen.”

Zack shook his head. “After twenty-four hours, the odds aren’t great, and I’ve learned not to play long shots.”

Zack’s BlackBerry rang just as he was ladling out the porridge. I answered. It was Delia. “Can he call you back?” I said. “We’re just about to eat.”

“Nothing important,” she said. “I’ll talk to him later.”

“Everyone make it through the night okay?”

“Jacob almost slept through. Noah wasn’t able to find a baby monitor, so Isobel moved that inflatable mattress the kids use for sleepovers into Jacob’s room. When Noah went in this morning, Jacob was curled up in Isobel’s arms, and they were both sound asleep.”

I glanced at the picture of Abby Michaels on the front page and felt my throat close. Wherever she was, her night must have been an agony.

Delia’s voice was insistent. “Jo, are you there?”

“Sorry, just woolgathering.”

“That’s an odd expression,” she said. “Anyway, would you mind telling Zack I’m going to work at home today?”

“I’ll pass along the message,” I said. “And, Delia, I’m glad things are going well.”

After I rang off, Zack pulled his chair up to the table. “You don’t look glad,” he said.

“It’s hard not to think about what Abby Michaels is going through,” I said.

“Somebody always loses,” Zack said, and his voice was heavy. “Should we call Taylor for breakfast?”

I looked at my watch. “Let her sleep. It’s early, and the buses will be a nightmare. I’ll drive her to school.”

“And you’re not quite ready to put on your game face.”

“That too,” I said. “By the way, Delia’s working at home today.”

“For the first time in living memory,” he said. “Well, good for her.”

“For wanting to be with Jacob?”

“Yes, and for being smart enough to establish that she stayed home with her grandson on his first day in her care.”

When we’d finished eating, Zack turned down a second cup of coffee. “I have to get a move on,” he said. “Why don’t you keep me company while I get dressed?”

As always, Zack had laid out his clothes the night before. He picked up a pair of silk briefs. “So what’s on your agenda?”

“I’m going up to the university,” I said. “I told my first-year students I’d be in my office this morning in case they had any questions about the exam. I don’t imagine I’ll have many customers, but I’ll be able to get some marking out of the way. And this afternoon I’m having tea with the Brokaws.”

Zack grimaced. “Better you than me,” he said. “Although I’m not going to be having much fun either. The sentencing decision in the road-racing case is at hand, so this morning my client and I will be in court listening to victims’ impact statements.”

I shuddered. “I can’t imagine losing someone I loved and then standing up in court and telling everybody how much that person meant to me.”

“You’re not alone. Everyone sitting in that courtroom will be wishing they were somewhere else.”

“Do the statements do any good?”

Zack shrugged. “Well, there are two schools of thought. Proponents say the statements give judges information they wouldn’t normally have and keep victims from feeling they’ve been left out of the process. Theoretically, the statements also make offenders appreciate the pain they’ve caused.”

“But you don’t believe that?”

“No. I think the statements just cause everybody grief and raise false expectations for the victims. And defence lawyers share a dirty little secret. We know that 99 per cent of offenders just don’t give a shit. They leave tire tracks on the backs of everyone who’s ever been unlucky enough to care about them, and they never look back. The other 1 per cent, and I would include my client in this small group, are already filled with guilt about what they’ve done. They don’t need to sit in court and have coals heaped upon their head. So my job this morning is to desensitize Jeremy to what he’s going to hear in court.”

“How do you do that?”

“By sitting him down and making him listen while one of our students or admin assistants reads the victim impact statements until Jeremy learns to react appropriately.”

“With contrition and remorse.”

“And without disintegrating.”

“Granted everything I know about the case comes from the media,” I said, “but the consensus seems to be that Jeremy Sawchuk is responsible for the death of another eighteen-year-old boy. Maybe a little suffering is in order.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “Lucky for me you’re not the judge. You’re the gentlest person I know – if you think Jeremy should get the thumbscrews for what he did, I’m in more trouble than I realized. All I have is the fact that the boy Jeremy killed was his best friend and that he’s suffering.”

“I guess the counter-argument would be that at least Jeremy is alive to suffer,” I said.

“And I’ve got nothing to throw at that one,” Zack said. “All I can do is hope that the judge handing down the sentence sees the whole picture. Jeremy has had a rough life but he’s done his best to stay afloat. He attends school regularly, maintains a B-minus average – which for a kid like Jeremy is the equivalent of being in Phi Beta Kappa. He’s worked his entire life to keep himself fed and clothed because his parents’ interests run more to drugs than child care. Before the night of the accident, Jeremy had never been involved in anything that could be construed as risky behaviour. He made a mistake. My job is to see that one mistake doesn’t ruin the rest of his life.”

“Are you going to use that line from your speech at the wheelchair athletes’ barbecue last fall?”

Zack moved his chair in front of the mirror and began knotting his tie. “There were a lot of lines in that speech – too many if I remember correctly. I cut it short when I noticed my audience’s attention had drifted from me to the unopened cases of Molson’s.”

“The line I’m thinking of came before the attention drifted. It was something about all of us having to live larger than the pain that’s been done to us or the pain that we’ve caused others.”

Zack tightened the knot on his tie and caught my eye in the mirror. “Do you think that would work?”

“I think it’s worth a shot,” I said. “I also think it’s true.”

Usually, Taylor, Gracie, and Isobel met at the bus stop and travelled to school together, but when I called Blake Falconer and the Wainbergs, we agreed that this might not be the morning to rely on public transit. Taylor and I set out in the car, grateful that the wind had finally stopped howling. Shrouded in fresh snow, the city had the silence that comes after a winter storm. Our house was close to Albert Street, one of the city’s main arteries, but the Falconers lived several blocks in, and Gracie, with the athlete’s passion for challenge, had volunteered to hike down to Albert Street to meet us. While we waited, Taylor filled me in on the salient events of her life that morning. Declan had texted twice and phoned once. He’d had a great time last night and he’d invited Taylor to a party New Year’s Eve. She’d also had a call from the Animal Friends Group she belonged to, asking if Taylor could feed the colonies of feral cats in the warehouse district and behind Scarth Street Mall, because the flu had knocked out the scheduled volunteers.

We’d just agreed that I’d buy some bags of cat food and pick her up after school when Gracie arrived, pink-cheeked and breathless. She jumped in, I pulled back into traffic, and my BlackBerry rang. Taylor answered. “It’s Isobel’s mum. She’d like to talk to you. She says it’s important.”

“Tell her I’m driving, but I’ll run in when we stop by her house to pick up Isobel.”

Taylor relayed the message and Isobel was waiting when we arrived. She and I waved at one another as we passed on the front walk. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I just have to talk to your mum for a minute.”

Delia had been watching from the window, and she met me at the door and motioned me inside. She was on edge, but Delia was always on edge.

“I know you haven’t got much time, but you and Zack need to know the latest. The police have traced the licence plate of the car Abby Michaels was driving. The licence was issued to Hugh Fraser Michaels of Port Hope, Ontario. Mr. Michaels is deceased. The police have also discovered that Abby has been staying in a suite she rented at the Chelton Inn. She checked in last Tuesday. She and the baby seemed to have a routine. She took him out in the stroller in the morning and then, in mid-afternoon, she took him out in the baby carrier.”

“And stayed at UpSlideDown till closing time,” I said.

Delia nodded. “Abby and the baby always returned around six, but Saturday night they didn’t come back.”

“And there’s no indication where Abby is?”

Delia half-turned from me. “None. According to Inspector Haczkewicz, the bed in the suite hadn’t been slept in, and the bathroom was pristine.”

“So, Abby left town?”

Delia slumped. “If she did, she travelled light. Her toiletry bag was in the bathroom, and her clothes were in the closet.”

My stomach clenched. “What about the baby’s things?”

“There was nothing to indicate that a baby had ever been in the room.”

Noah came downstairs carrying Jacob wrapped in a thick white bath towel. “Dee, there’s a phone call for you. It’s a client, and he says it’s important.”

Delia was already moving down the hall. “I’ll talk to you later, Joanne. Thanks for coming in.”

I smiled at Noah and the baby. “The kids are waiting in the car,” I said. “But I have to say hi to Jacob. Can you bring him over here? My boots are wet.”

Noah came close enough for me to smell the sweet smell of a baby just out of the bath. He pushed the towel back, so I could see Jacob’s face. The little boy’s hair curled wetly – the way Isobel’s did after she’d been swimming at the lake. As he took my measure, Jacob’s dark eyes were solemn. “Do you ever smile?” I whispered, and he rewarded me with a gummy grin. “Now that was worth tromping through the snow for,” I said.

Noah capped the baby’s head with his palm as if to protect him. “I guess Dee told you about the room at the Chelton.”

“She did.”

“Do you think Abby Michaels is dead?”

“I hope not,” I said.

Noah’s face was troubled. “You want to hear something lousy?” he asked. “I don’t know what I hope.”

When I opened the car door, the girls were laughing and whispering, deeply engaged in exchanging the secrets of girl-land. I snapped on my seat belt. “With luck, we’ll make it, just before the bell,” I said. My announcement was greeted with a trio of groans.

“Look at that,” Isobel said.

I did a shoulder check. “I don’t see anything,” I said.

Isobel leaned forward, tapped my shoulder, and pointed. “Not on the road. At my house,” she said. I glanced towards the Wainbergs. Delia had joined her husband. She was holding Jacob, and Noah’s powerful arm encircled them, drawing them close. Framed in the rectangle of light from the living room, they were a Norman Rockwell image of family.

After the last day of lectures, a university is a silent place. The students who come to campus are there to write exams or study for them. Most faculty members take advantage of their open calendars to work at home. Corridors and classrooms and coffee shops are virtually empty. It’s my favourite time in the semester.

I walked into the political science office at the university and found Sheila Acoose-Gould, our administrative assistant, at her desk reading an old issue of Maclean’s. Twinkling silently behind her was a musical Christmas tree that had played twelve seasonal tunes until, by one of our few unanimous decisions, our department voted to rip out its musical heart.

“Anything happening around here?” I said.

Sheila leaned back in her chair and sighed contentedly. “Not a thing. All is calm. All is bright.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” I said.

I picked up my mail and headed for my office. The message light on my phone was blinking. I pressed the message retrieval button and heard Myra Brokaw’s voice. “Good morning, Joanne. Just a gentle reminder that Theo and I are expecting you for tea today at two-thirty. There are no names on the security panel of our building, so I wanted to make sure you had our code. It’s 201. We’re very much looking forward to seeing you.” I deleted the message, uttered Zack’s second-favourite expletive, wrote down the Brokaws’ apartment security code, and moved a stack of essays from the side of my desk to the middle. It was going to be a long day.

By eleven o’clock I’d made a large enough dent in the essay pile that I felt I could take a break and get something to eat. I went downstairs to the cafeteria, filled my mug with tea, and selected a Granny Smith apple. When I got back to my office, I stared at my essays and decided I needed a change of pace. I opened my laptop and found a file I’d started when I was considering Theo Brokaw as the audience’s guide to the workings of the Supreme Court. There had been plenty of sources to mine for nuggets about Theo’s philosophy of law, but very little biographical material, and most of what I’d found was without value. However, when I’d been seated at a dinner party with Nicholas Zaba, a man who’d grown up with Theo, I hit the mother lode. The two men had remained close, and my dinner companion had drunk just enough to make him an indiscreet and utterly charming raconteur.

The next morning when I’d written up Nick’s memories of Mr. Justice Brokaw, I began as Nick had begun. “Theo owes everything he has to women,” he’d said, refilling my glass with a very fine Shiraz. “His genius is that he makes the women in his life feel as if they owe everything to him.”

In Nick’s telling, Theo led a charmed life. He was the only son of hard-working, proud, first-generation Canadians who lived over the bakery they owned in Regina in the solid working-class area of Broders Annex. The Brokaws’ dreams for their four daughters were modest: they wanted the girls to grow into industrious and pious women who would marry good men and give them grandchildren. The girls were clever, but they were also dutiful, and so after they graduated high school, they worked in Brokaw’s Bakery, expanded to include delivery service, and in the butcher’s shop that the family had purchased, renovated, and transformed into Brokaw’s Market, a business with a generic name and an impressive ability to ferret out and supply the needs of the neighbourhood’s Eastern European population. The shops prospered, but the family’s most extravagant dreams were vested in their only son.

Theo not only complied with their expectations; he excelled. After graduating from the College of Law, he articled for a respected Saskatoon law firm, decided that his real passion was not practising law but research and teaching, completed an L.L.M., discovered a talent for critical legal theory and analytical jurisprudence, taught law at the University of Saskatchewan, married the daughter of a distinguished jurist, was appointed to the province’s Court of Appeals, and found himself, at forty-five, appointed to the highest court in the land.

His rise had been meteoric, fuelled by his powerful father-in-law and by his wife who knew how the game was played. As Nick Zaba wryly noted, the equation was simple: Myra’s father loved Myra, Myra loved Theo, and Theo loved Theo. The marriage was a happy one. Until they retired from the family business, Theo’s sisters regularly wrapped and shipped his favourites from the bakery: the poppy seed cake; the thick black bread that his father credited with giving him the brains to become a judge; the special Christmas baking that Theo’s sisters knew, without asking, Myra would never think to make him. But Myra was, they hastened to add, the perfect wife for a professional man.

When I finished reading I packed up the unmarked essays, put on my coat and boots, told Sheila that if any students wanted to get in touch with me, they had my e-mail address, and drove to Broders Annex. It wasn’t hard to justify my visit to Brokaw’s. Loaves of the elaborately twisted and braided Ukrainian Christmas bread were always on the table at our family’s Christmas Day open house and it was time to place my order. Besides, anything beat reading another paper on Canada’s involvement in Afghanistan.

On a day in which all colour and warmth seemed to have been leached from the world, the bakery, bright, warm, and redolent of fresh baking, was a welcome destination. Except for Christmas and Easter and an occasional impulse buy if I was in the neighbourhood, I wasn’t a regular customer, and so it was a surprise but not a shock when a young couple who introduced themselves as Tony and Rose Nguyen said they were the bakery’s new owners.

I looked at the metal shelves of bread – whole wheat, multigrain, dense dark pumpernickel, sour rye, hearth loaves, and egg bread – and at the glass case of turnovers, doughnuts, strudel, poppy seed rolls, honey cake, sweet buns, and tarts. “Everything looks the same as it was,” I said.

“Everything is the same,” Tony Nguyen said. He spoke with the care of someone for whom English is a second language. “We bought the bakery lock, stock, and barrel and that included the recipes. We follow them to the letter.”

“Good,” I said. “I’ll have a loaf of the dark pumpernickel, an apple strudel, and three gingerbread girls. And I’d like to place my Christmas order: four dozen cinnamon rolls, half without raisins, and three loaves of Ukrainian Christmas bread.”

“Kolach,” Tony Nguyen said, and he wrote my order in a small ringed notebook. “And your name?”

“Joanne Shreve,” I said. I gave him my address and phone number and said I’d pick up the baking on December 24. “Are the Brokaws still in Regina?”

“They moved to Victoria,” Tony Nguyen said. “They sought more pleasant winters.”

His wife boxed the strudel. “They worked hard all their lives,” she said softly. “Now this is our dream.”

“I’m sure you’ll have great success,” I said. “You seem to be doing all the right things.” I paid my bill; Rose Nguyen handed me my purchases, and I dropped them in my shopping bag.

“My brother, Phuoc Huu, bought the grocery store,” Tony said. “His borscht is very good with pumpernickel.”

I glanced outside. The grey was oppressive. “It looks like a perfect day for borscht,” I said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

Like the Brokaw’s Bakery, the Brokaw’s Market was unchanged: the refrigerated display cases were filled with fresh and deli meats and an impressive variety of sausages. The freezers held cabbage rolls, perogies of every permutation or combination, and borscht – vegetarian and meat. Even the aisle that displayed Ukrainian gifts and cards was the same. I considered a pretty embroidered cloth, then, remembering that I had thirty-five years’ worth of tablecloths at home, put it back. There was a glass shelf of Russian nesting dolls. They had fascinated my own children when they were little. Their dolls had long since gone the way of all toys with moveable parts, but looking at twin Natasha dolls, one with black painted hair, one blonde, I knew they’d be a hit in Madeleine’s and Lena’s stockings and I placed them in my basket. There was a larger matryoshka nesting doll, dark-haired, pink-cheeked, and very pretty. I wouldn’t have minded finding her in my own stocking, but the price tag was $37.50, so I left her behind and went off in search of borscht and sausage.

Phuoc Huu Nguyen rang up my purchases. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

“And to you,” I said. I started for the door, but the lure of the pink-cheeked bright-eyed matryoshka doll was powerful. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and I went to the gift area, found my doll, and handed her and enough additional cash to Phuoc Huu Nguyen.

“Impulse buy,” I said.

“Works for me,” Phuoc Huu said, and he slipped the money into the register and handed me my purchase.

The Brokaws’ condo was downtown over a vintage record shop in a pedestrian mall of upscale shops and bistros. Whatever the season, Scarth Street Mall was a good place to be. Twice a week from the May 24 long weekend till Thanksgiving, it was the site of an open-air farmers’ market; in winter, the space became a skating rink. That afternoon the rink was all but deserted. The ice had been cleared, but there was only one skater, and he moved with a mechanical joylessness that seemed in tune with the grey and lowering sky.

The entrance to the condos was unprepossessing – just an ordinary door opening into a small vestibule with a panel of buzzers. I touched 201 and waited. There was no response. I tried again – and again. Finally, I gave up. As I turned to open the door to the street, I walked into Louise Hunter.

She was wearing a hot pink knitted cap with earflaps, a black leather jacket with matching pants, and knee-high black leather boots with knitted tops of hot pink – very chic and very youthful. She looked two decades younger than the world-weary, self-loathing woman I’d met at the Wainbergs’ party, but it wasn’t a question of clothes making the woman. That afternoon, Louise was sober, and that fact alone made all the difference.

“I just got here,” she said. “But I think I understand your problem.” Her voice was full of life. “You’re trying to get through to the older couple who just moved in down the hall from me.” She opened the inner door and we walked together to the elevator. “They haven’t quite mastered the buzzer-door relationship,” she said as we stepped into a lift the size of an old-fashioned phone booth. “They really do need to learn how to let guests in. I know of at least one potential visitor who simply left in frustration. God knows if she ever summoned up the fortitude to try again.”

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.

By the time we all got home, Zack and Taylor and I were hungry and tired, so we ate early. The borscht and thick slices of dark pumpernickel from the Brokaw family bakery made for a deeply satisfying meal. When he’d finished his second bowl of soup, Zack pushed his chair back and sighed with contentment. “You know, even the lousiest day has its moments,” he said.

“And the evening has just begun,” I said.

Right on cue, Zack’s cell rang. As he listened, his face grew sombre. When the call ended, he turned to us. “That was Delia,” he said. “The police just found Abby Michaels.”