“He’s my oldest friend.”
“For Charlie’s friends, that’s not necessarily a recommendation.”
I could feel my temper rise. “There are two sides to every story, Mr. Hill.”
Actually, it’s Father Hill,” he said, “and you’re right. I do only know Charlie’s side of the story.”
“Charlie was never very charitable about his father,” I said.
“Perhaps his father hadn’t earned charity.”
“That’s an odd comment coming from you,” I said. “Has your order started charging for caritas, Father Hill?
He winced. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kilbourn. This hasn’t been anyone’s finest hour.”
“Then don’t prolong it,” I said. “Tell me when Charlie will be back, and I’ll be on my way.”
Father Hill’s face gave away nothing, but the pulse in his neck fluttered as he weighed his decision. Finally, the scales tipped in my favour. “Charlie won’t be back for a while. He went to Toronto to see Marnie.”
I was incredulous. “To see Marnie? Is she better?”
“There’s been no change in her condition. Charlie just wanted to be with his mother. Your friend, Howard, went with him.”
Liam Hill’s words were innocent, but something in his tone got under my skin.
“Howard doesn’t need me to defend him,” I said, “but, for the record, you’re wrong about him. He’s a good man, and he made a real difference in the lives of a lot of people here.”
“And his wife and son paid the price,” Liam Hill said quietly.
“You knew Marnie before the accident?”
He shook his head. “No, she was already at Good Shepherd when I met her. But Charlie told me she was brilliant. He said there was nothing she couldn’t have been, if she hadn’t had to sacrifice everything -”
I cut him off. “Marnie Dowhanuik didn’t sacrifice everything.”
Father Hill shifted his gaze. “We all have our own perception of reality,” he said mildly.
“Don’t humour me,” I said. My voice was loud and angry. When I spoke again I tried to take the volume down a notch. “This isn’t a perception. This is the truth. For many years, Marnie and I were as close as sisters. Father Hill, she wasn’t a victim. She was smart and funny and… she was Marnie – driving stubborn voters to the polls, handing out placards at rallies, cooking turkeys for all those potluck suppers. And her cabbage rolls…” I smiled at the memory. “She could make a pan full of sensational cabbage rolls in the time it took me to find the recipe. I remember once we’d been at a constituency dinner in the basement of Little Flower Church. At the end of the evening, when she and I came out to the parking lot, she was carrying this big roasting pan filled with leftovers. Howard was surrounded by men hanging on his every word. Marnie waded through all those fawning guys and handed him the roaster. ‘Howie,’ she said, ‘I made these cabbage rolls, I delivered them to the church hall, I reheated them, I served them, I washed the plates they were eaten off, I paid the party ten bucks for the ones that were left; the least you can do is carry them back to the damn car.’ ”
Father Hill laughed softly. “Nice story,” he said.
“There’s more to it,” I said. “You can imagine how those men were gaping. After all, Howard was the premier, and Marnie was just the missus, but she had this great smile, and she gave those guys the full wattage. Then she delivered the coup de grace. ‘Another thing,’ she said. ‘That speech you’re all creaming your jeans about – I wrote it.’ ”
Liam Hill raised an eyebrow. “She sounds like quite a woman.”
“She was,” I said. “Maybe Charlie never realized that. Kids’ perceptions of their parents’ lives aren’t always accurate. Father Hill, I wouldn’t accept Charlie’s word as gospel on this. He had his own burdens, and they may have distorted his view. But don’t diminish Marnie. The fact that her bike was hit by a car was a tragedy, but her life wasn’t.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. “Now, I did have a purpose in coming here. I’m taking over the class Ariel was teaching, and I’m going to need her textbook. It’s called Political Perspectives . It’s a quality paperback with a blue and red cover. Could you check her desk for it?”
“No problem,” he said, but there was something halfhearted about his agreement, and I wasn’t surprised when he returned empty-handed.
“No problem, but also no luck,” he said.
“Thanks for trying,” I said.
I pulled up the zipper on my jacket, then glanced at the tomato plants on the table. “Ariel babied those plants from seeds,” I said. “I hate to see them dying. Would you mind if I found a place outside to put them so they could get some of this rain?”
“I’ll give you a hand,” he said.
We were silent as we carried the tiny peat pots outside. We found a place on the deck where they could get plenty of rain, but where, if the wind came up, they’d be protected. As we set the last one in place, Fritz, who was still inside, began barking.
“Sounds like you have company,” I said. “There’s no need for me to trail mud through the house. I can leave by the gate at the side.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m glad you came, Mrs. Kilbourn. It’s always useful to have another perspective.” He offered me his hand. “It’s good you thought about the tomato plants.”
When the back door closed behind him, I sprinted to the hibachi. The fire had sputtered out. I grabbed the charred piece of legal paper, folded it once, and dropped it in my purse.
As I let myself through the side gate, I saw why Fritz had been barking. Two police cars had pulled up in front of the adult video shop next door. The cruisers were empty, so the officers had apparently already gone inside. I was gawking as I walked to my car and, before I slid into my seat, I took a final glance. In an uncurtained window at the front of the second storey, an old woman was watching me. When our eyes met, she lifted her arm very slowly and waved at me. I waved back.
As soon as I was in the car, I took the piece of charred paper from my bag. The acrid smell of smoke hit my nostrils. The handwriting was sprawling and fanciful, not Ariel’s small, neat script. Only one sentence was visible, but the words cut to the bone. “Nothing will ever separate us again.” Then there was a single initial: “C.”
CHAPTER
5
As soon as I got home, I went to the family room and took down The Divine Comedy again. I was obeying an impulse I would have had difficulty explaining, but when the book fell open at Dante’s description of the Vestibule of Hell, where the Futile run perpetually after a whirling standard, I didn’t hesitate. I slid the burnt fragment of Charlie’s letter between the pages and replaced the book on the shelf. I might not have been the coldest beer in the fridge, but I recognized symbolism when I saw it.
My son’s room was private territory, and I didn’t enter it without cause. That afternoon, I had cause. I needed to tap into my office mail, and Angus’s computer was the only one in the house with a modem. After I turned on his computer, I glanced up at the bulletin board above his desk. He called it his Zonkboard, and from the time he was ten, it had been a montage bristling with evidence of his deep but shifting passions: skateboarding, the Blue Jays, endangered species, water polo, the Referendum, hiking, Buddy Rich, the women of Lilith Fair. That afternoon, wallet-sized photos of members of the graduating class of Sheldon Williams C.I. were thumbtacked between articles about the perfidy of the New Right and the excellence of John Ralston Saul and Drew Barrymore. The Zonk Factoid of the Day was a newspaper clipping: “The Inuit of Greenland believe that a person possesses six or seven souls that take the form of tiny people scattered throughout the body.” It was, I thought as I turned back to the computer, an oddly comforting possibility.
I typed a message announcing that on the following Tuesday I would begin teaching Ariel Warren’s Political Science 101 and asking anyone who had a copy of the text Political Perspectives to lend it to me until the end of classes. It was only after I hit send that I realized I’d cast my net too wide. Instead of limiting my request to our department, I’d entered the universal address for faculty and staff at the entire university. I discarded the idea of a follow-up message. In spring and summer, there were so many people who never opened e-mail that I would
