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,
