me crazy these days.”
“What’s the matter?”
Zack extended his hands, palms up in a gesture of exasperation. “Beats me. Delia never – and I mean
“Did she have an explanation?”
“Nope. She told me to back off and said that it wouldn’t happen again.”
I examined the jumbo box of Christmas-tree balls Zack had bought that morning to replace the ones Pantera had eaten the year before. They were all red – Zack’s favourite colour. “Do you think Delia and Noah could be having problems?” I said.
Zack raised an eyebrow. “Apart from the fact that Noah worships Delia, and she treats him like a piece of furniture? It’s been that way for twenty-seven years, and they’re still together.”
“Maybe Delia’s met a man who’s more than a piece of furniture to her.”
Zack’s snort was derisive. “Nah – Delia’s not built that way.”
“We’re all built that way,” I said.
“Not Delia. The only thing that makes her heart pound is a real red-meat case. What would make you think she’s having an affair?”
“I didn’t use the word ‘affair,’ but something’s disturbing her. A couple of days ago when we were waiting for the girls to get out of rehearsal, Delia got a phone call. I was sitting beside her so I couldn’t avoid hearing her end of the conversation.”
“What did she say?”
“Not much – just ‘Can’t I at least see you? I’ve done everything you asked.’ The person she was speaking to must have broken the connection. Delia tried to blow it off – told me she’d been talking to a dissatisfied client who was moving to another lawyer. I guess that’s possible.”
The furrows that bracketed Zack’s mouth like parentheses deepened – a sure sign that he was troubled. “Delia’s clients never leave her,” he said. “They may be dunderheads but they’re smart enough to realize they’ll never get a better lawyer than Dee.”
“She’s that good?” I said.
“She’s better than me,” Zack said, “and that’s saying a lot.”
“Time to get ready for the party, my self-effacing love,” I said. “It starts at 2:00. It’s come and go, but we should be there early because we have to get the girls to Luther by 3:45, and I need time to make a good impression on the guest of honour.”
“You’ve already made a good impression,” Zack said, “Justice Theo Brokaw has agreed to appear on the show you’re doing for NationTV and explain the workings of the Supreme Court to eager Canadians from coast to coast.”
“Correction. Theo Brokaw’s wife says he’s agreed. I haven’t dealt with the Justice himself. It was Myra Brokaw who wrote volunteering her husband’s services.”
“And I’ll bet Theo was standing over her shoulder telling her exactly what to write. Stepping down from the bench must be tough for a guy who’s accustomed to having people hyperventilate when he enters the room.”
“So you think Theo Brokaw’s looking for some ego-stroking?”
“You bet he is, and you’re offering him exactly what he needs, Ms. Shreve. Explaining how the court works while modestly enumerating his many contributions to Canadian jurisprudence will keep Theo’s opinion of himself robust while he writes his memoirs.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Not a lot,” Zack said. “I realize this sounds hypocritical coming from me, but I find Theo’s passion for public notice unseemly, and he’s never got his hands dirty actually practising law. He’s an academic.”
“I’m an academic.”
“Yes, but you actually went out and worked in political campaigns. You understand that politics is complex, dirty, and occasionally noble. And your career as an academic stalled because of your involvement in party politics. You paid a price for knowing what you know. Theo never paid the price. He thinks people like me are hired guns and that people like him are the conduits through which God dispenses justice to Canada.” Zack made a gesture of disgust. “The hell with it. This is a stupid discussion.”
“Actually, since you’re the only one talking, it’s more of a soliloquy,” I said.
Zack flashed me a vulpine smile. “That’s probably why I scored all the points. Fuck it. Nothing ever changes. It’s Christmas. Let’s go to the party.”
The Wainbergs lived in a neighbourhood of carefully restored early-twentieth-century homes stylistically faithful to the classical rules of proportion, balance, and symmetry. Delia and Noah’s house, designed by an adherent of the Late Modernist school of architecture, was a daringly cantilevered skin-and-bones affair that thumbed its nose at its genteel neighbours.
The house had a history of one-sided passions. According to my friend Ed Mariani, who was an intimate of the man who designed the house, the architect’s dream had been to live in the house with his partner, a chef, until death did them part. Fate intervened. While preparing his signature lobster diablo for the housewarming, the chef gave himself a nasty cut. He cabbed to the nearest clinic, where a young doctor with eyes the colour of jade stitched the wound. The doctor’s touch was gentle. When the wound was wrapped, the doctor’s hand lingered, and in that instant, the chef knew he wanted the doctor’s hand to linger forever.
The next morning the architect put his dream house on the market, where it remained for months before the newly wed Wainbergs bought it for a song, and Noah set about making it their own.
Noah was a talented woodcarver, and there were striking pieces of his work throughout the house and grounds. Among the most intriguing were three life-sized oak bears positioned on the lawn by the path leading to the entranceway. The bears were astonishingly realistic, with foreheads sloping back suddenly from behind their small eyes, broad, prominent muzzles, heavily muscled bodies, and claws that were sharp enough to defend or attack. All three bears were standing on their hind legs: the large male was in front; behind and flanking him were two smaller bears, one an adult female, one a cub. The placement of the bears conveyed a powerful truth about the Wainbergs: Delia was the legal star, with her high six-figure income, but it was Noah who was the family’s protector.
As we arrived at the Wainbergs’, the wind, already fierce, picked up and filled the air with dry, granular snow that swirled as it fell. We were in for a blizzard. “Shit,” said Zack. “Sweet,” said Taylor. On the drive over Taylor had been pensive, wrapped in her own thoughts, but the prospect of a storm was a catalyst for one of those quicksilver mood changes that mark adolescence. As soon as we stopped, Taylor leapt from the car. Arms outstretched, she ran to the centre of the Wainbergs’ lawn, spun exuberantly, then sprinted to the house, anxious to see her friends.
Zack touched my hand. “A blizzard’s a small price to pay to see her like that again.”
“Taylor’s fine,” I said. “Her hormones are just kicking in.”
“Henry Chan says that as long as Taylor’s keeping the lines of communication open and taking an interest in life, the brooding is nothing to worry about.”
“You talked to our doctor about Taylor?”
“He’s a professional. I thought maybe there was something we should do.”
“Zack, she’s a perfectly normal fourteen-year-old, and we’re doing what the parents of a perfectly normal fourteen-year-old are supposed to do: we’re there, we’re watchful, and we’re letting our daughter figure out who she is.”
Zack’s lips twitched in amusement. “That’s exactly what Henry said.”
“You could have saved yourself a trip to his office.”
“Actually, the consultation occurred just as I’d drawn to an inside straight. I figured I’d get his advice before I cleaned his clock.”
“Ever the family man.”
“Don’t be dismissive. I won $400 from Henry that night. Now, if I’m going to get up to the house under my own steam, we’d better boogie.”
In the course of an average week, Zack unfolded his wheelchair and transferred his weight from the driver’s
