“Maria!” I gasp. “You have absolutely outdone yourself.” I survey the cake she holds before me approvingly. She has reproduced the drawing I gave her perfectly. There is Archibald in his gardening cap and gloves, spade in hand, kneeling amongst the irises and lavender, captured in the glory of butter cream in vivid purple, magenta, and eggshell. Across the top of the cake, it reads, “Happy Birthday, Archibald!” I had polled everyone, but no one knew exactly how old he was. Apparently, he had stopped counting at seventy-two, several years earlier.
We are in the final stages of planning a surprise birthday party for Archibald. He has recently given me a raise and has been in relatively good spirits — his new book seems to be going better than the book of poems he was working on previously — and I figured it was now or never. We have planned a tea — complete with pots of Earl Grey and chai and dozens of finger sandwiches — to be hosted in the apartment building’s recreation room. Carolina insisted on helping, and once Carolina was involved, we could not keep Dan away. He has long been dropping hints about meeting Archibald, which Sam and I have been studiously ignoring. We’re hoping that Archibald will be distracted enough by the party and leave Dan unmolested.
Sam, Dan, and Carolina have done a beautiful job of setting out little tables, pristine in their white linen tablecloths with scalloped edges. The sandwiches are arranged, teapots and kettles ready. Three buckets of ice filled with bottles of champagne repose in the corner (Archibald will tolerate champagne for the sole purpose of toasting). Lavender streamers and balloons descend gracefully from the corners of the room. I survey their work admiringly. A collection of Archie’s cronies, increasing in number by the minute, are waiting upstairs for the cue to come down. Leo has lured Archibald for tea on the pretense of asking him for help with his “lady troubles,” a subject Archibald can never resist. After their counselling session, Leo will deliver Archibald home on the pretext of needing a good game of bridge to take his mind off matters. When arriving, he will buzz Sam’s apartment “accidentally,” signalling Archibald’s impending deliverance.
“I’m going to collect the troops,” I remark to Sam.
“I’ll check the front door for stragglers,” Sam replies. “Are you ready for this?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say like someone about to face an ambush from Mexican bandits.
“Surprise!” the forty plus guests bellow as Archibald makes his entrance. I can tell from the tilt of his head and the placement of his hand over his breast that something in Leo’s performance has tipped him off.
“Dear God! Gracious me! Heavens to Betsy!” he shouts. People cheer and giggle as the tension breaks. “Leo, you delicious old git! And all of you, what an unanticipated surprise!” He fingers the lace tablecloths and surveys the room. “I almost forgot that it’s that time again.” I meet Sam’s eyes and we share an amused smile. Fat chance.
He practically dances around the room, the belle of the ball, greeting and hugging friends and admirers. It’s a good turnout. The Deliahs make tea as people take seats and start sampling sandwiches. Sam introduces Carolina to Archibald.
“Well, aren’t you just a charming porcelain doll!” He takes both her hands in his, like an approving den mother. “Skin smoother than alabaster. Have you ever posed before? Considered being an artist’s model?”
“And this is my good friend, Dan,” Sam continues seamlessly.
“Dan?” Archibald looks him up and down. In jeans and a red shirt, he looks like a college jock, appealing and unthreatening.
“I have heard a lot about you, Mr. Weeks.” Dan smiles calmly. He has been well prepped.
“And I have heard absolutely nothing about you. And I can see that that was a complete faux pas. Call me Archibald, please,” he says flirtatiously. His eyebrows lift as he spies the mountain of gifts in the corner.
“Time for presents,” I announce.
“Would you care to escort me, young man?” he asks Dan, taking his arm.
“My pleasure,” Dan replies congenially.
After Archibald has ripped through the presents, Maria appears as if on cue, with her creation lit like a candelabra.
People cram around the cake and sing as Archibald revels in the attention. There is boisterous applause as he manages to extinguish all the candles, after three tries. He inspects the cake and proclaims it “glorious, simply glorious!”
“A toast!” Archibald proclaims. “Thank you to all of you. You are fabulous. But there are some names I simply have to mention: first, Maria.” I search the room and notice her in the doorway. “There is only one person who could have created this stunning vision, this delectable bounty of calories and style. She has been with me for so long, so many years, and I rarely take the time to thank her publicly. She may have the face of Medusa, but she has the loyalty of Lassie and the heart of Raphael. She is my better half on my bad days, and my favourite pain in the derrière on my best days. To my Athena. My household warrior. To Maria!”
“To Maria!” the room toasts.
Was she blushing? She waves her arms dismissively before scurrying away muttering and scowling. But she is pleased by her tribute. I can tell.
I cut in to help distribute the cake.
“And there is one other person it behooves me to mention,” he continues, still in generous mode. “This event smacks of her design. She is an organizer of the humdrum, the person in the wings, my enabler and, at times, in my wilder moments, my jailer. Her youth and energy add … je ne sais quoi … a distraction that I find refreshing when she isn’t running me ragged, eating me out of house and home, draining my bank accounts, or forgetting to gas up my car. She is the Shirley Temple to my Tequila Sunrise. She is my granddaughter. To Magali. To Maggie!”
Once again, the room raises glasses, and I find myself blushing, falling victim to his sycophancy.
“Now, let’s break this thinktank up and take this scrawny tea party upstairs! Maggie is making martinis!”
Upstairs, as predicted, I am the bartender. More people materialize from the ether. Sam and Dan act as busboys. Dan collects empties and Sam distributes rounds through the apartment on a tray. The house becomes cluttered with people. Sam is called to the piano and Dan is recruited to dance with one of the Deliahs. As he dances, I notice a ten-dollar bill stuffed down the back of his pants. Zoltan is perched on a stool in the kitchen boiling eggs; Vern is massaging Rita’s nylon-encased feet. A collection of poetry students plus Reggie have congregated outside on the balcony smoking weed, adding youthful vigour to the event. I balance a tray of crantinis for the younglings and a scotch for Edward on my hip. As I place them on the dining room table, I notice the office door ajar.
It is neat and quiet inside, as usual, invitingly dusky. Carolina is standing in front of Archibald’s bookshelves, holding a tan-coloured volume in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
“Carolina?” I ask. She peers over her shoulder and drops the book. As she bends to retrieve it, her glass of red wine splashes over the surface of Archibald’s most prized Persian rug, cream with blue peacocks and a floral border. I leap forward and catch the book, which is luckily unscathed.
“Ahhhhhhh!” Carolina gasps.
We stand frozen in horror, red quickly sinking into the cream and blue tableau of the carpet at her feet. I look around frantically, knowing time is of the essence. I pull off my outer sweater and hand it to her, “Here, blot it with this. Fast!”
I scurry from the room to find soda and paper towels, a combination Maria always uses on stains. I bump into Sam on his way to the bathroom.
“Code Red, in the den. We need a diversion — come with me,” I whisper.
Inside the office, Carolina is frantically padding the spot with my sweater. I hand the soda and towels to Sam. “Make it go away.”
“I’m so sorry!” Carolina exclaims.
“Not as sorry as we will be if he finds it. It was a gift from Omar Sharif or something like that.”
Sam is fast at work. “I thought it was the Princess of Jordan.”
“Whatever,” I say.
“Maggie! Magali?” comes a familiar voice from the direction of the dining room. “I am disturbingly cocktail-free! Where is that wallflower of a granddaughter? It is nigh impossible to find good help.”
I grab the book Carolina had been looking at. It is a Wordsworth second edition. Another valued possession.
“Don’t make me find you!” he shouts tipsily. “Where are you? Having a threesome in there?”
“Here I am,” I intercept him in the dining room.
“What were you doing in my office?” He sways as he speaks.
I hand him the volume.
“I was hoping you would give a reading. It would be a great way to rev things up,” I enthuse.
He squints at the book. “You don’t even like Wordsworth.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” I liked his poems fine; he had just come off as a pompous ass in a biography I had read.
Just then, Dan appears, looking exhausted. “He’s one of Dan’s favourites.”
“Well, in that case, Danny boy. I’d be delighted to oblige. You should join my poetry class sometime.”
Dan looks at me dumbly. I nod my head at him, urging him to reply.
“Uh — okay.”
“Come on, hunky-boy.” Archie pulls him to the living room; Dan throws a woeful look at me over Archibald’s shoulder. Sorry, sucker.
“Attention! Attention!” I hear Archibald holler. “I have had a request from this well-buffed young man, who has a yearnin’ for some learnin’.”
Inside the office, Sam and Carolina have managed to reduce the stain to a pink smear. We work on it for several more minutes.
“It’s the best I can do,” Sam says grimly, kneeling beside the rug.
“What a catastrophe,” I say in Archibald fashion.
“A clusterfuck,” Sam agrees.
“I could just apologize,” Carolina offers.
Sam and I look at each other knowingly. “It’s better if he doesn’t find out today,” I say.
“He is always looking for a scapegoat at the end of a party,” Sam explains. “And he has had way too much to drink.”
“He’ll be in baby-eating mode soon,” I concur.
“Dan!” Sam and I say at the same time.
Afterwards, we sit downstairs, four trauma victims, momentarily sapped.
“That went well,” I say.
“Not bad, everything considered,” Sam agrees.
Carolina disagrees. “I ruined his rug.”
“Minimal collateral damage,” I say. “For an Archibald Weeks party.”
“So, Dan, what’s the prognosis?” Sam asks. “Should we say, ‘I told you so’?”
Dan exhales audibly, staring at the ceiling. “He insulted my intelligence, my personality, even my heritage, not that I actually am a farm boy. He poked and prodded me and gave me a wedgie. Is there money in my pants?” He pulls out the ten-dollar bill. “One thing is for certain: I am a changed man.”
“Sounds about right,” concurs Sam.
“You survived Archibald.” I smile, squeezing his bicep in Archibald fashion. “Welcome to the club.”
“You must be Maggie,” says the young man who emerges from Archibald’s office.
“Uh-huh,” I say. I am still bleary-eyed from a movie marathon at Juliette’s last night. She’s a fellow art student I set up with Dan. They have a lot in common and both really enjoy action movies, but it seems I have created a bit of a monster. Each time I try to leave, they both urge me to stay, as if they’re desperate not to be alone together.
He approaches me with a wide smile holding out his hand. “I’m Eddie.”
“Hi, Eddie. Are you subbing for Reggie?” I ask doubtfully. He is in slacks and a pressed striped shirt and wears gold-framed glasses. No one from the business sphere usually gains admittance into Archibald’s quarters before 11:30 in the morning and it is only 10.
“Reggie? No, no. I’m the new editor assigned to Mr. Weeks’s — Archibald’s book.”
“Okay.” I shake his hand, unimpressed. He looks a little young to me, but what do I know?
“Anyway, I will be working with Archibald for the next while.”
“I mainly handle his social calendar.”
“Well, we are going to have to wipe that clean for the indefinite future.”
“What?” Had they met? Archibald existed for his social calendar. “Have you told Archibald this?”
“Absolutely, and I have taken the liberty of having the spare room set up as your office until we are finished.” He points me to the spare room.
“I know where the spare room is,” I mutter. “I was just going to get some breakfast.”
“Right. Of course. I forgot you used to live here.” He whacks himself on the forehead as if he has just remembered something of great significance.
I ignore him and help myself to a blueberry muffin from a basket in the kitchen. He follows me, like a terrier.
“I guess the point I am trying to make is that Archibald is going to be very busy over the next few weeks.”
I chew my muffin, spilling crumbs on the table as I do. “So? That’s fine by me.”
“Terrific,” says the terrier. Did he kick Maria out of her own kitchen?
“What happened to … what was his name? The really nice guy who used to do Archie’s books?”
“Bart? Archibald has changed publishers. I thought you knew.”
I yawn.
“Anyway, I specialize in, well, it was decided that I was best suited to Archibald’s needs.”
“Meaning you are gay and a part-time masseuse as well as editor?”
“Ha, ha, ha. Very good. No. On both counts. You are just what I expected,” he continues, laughing a machine-gun barrage “ha-ha-ha-ha” as he leaves the room.
I put my muffin down and examine my midsection for bullet holes. For a second, I think I smell trouble, but maybe it’s just the new guy’s cologne.
“I’ve heard he’s top notch,” Leo says wistfully from a chaise longue. We are sitting in the Deliahs’ living room discussing the taskmaster Eddie. Since Archibald has been locked away in his office on a work kick, none of his group has been around. Today, he emerged and declared it was time for a break. I had been busy, too. I had been asked to contribute three of my paintings to an exhibit at school. I had a storage room to choose from but had been working on something new. “They must think highly of your latest,” Leo continues.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Archibald spits.
“He just means that your latest book could be your best, Dear,” says Dorothy as she refills Archibald’s sherry. I am eating a large slice of bumbleberry pie, amused to think of how much Archibald’s newly enforced work ethic torments him.
“Yes, but that boy is punishing, brutally punishing. It is a marathon that never ends.”
“Finally, a punishment you don’t like, ja?” Rita chimes in. I almost high-five her. “What is it about? Your latest opus?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t.” Archibald stares into his sherry. “Let’s talk about anything else. Just not that blasted book.”
We all look at him, dumbfounded. Archibald unwilling to discuss himself or his work? Has he undergone a lobotomy I don’t know about? Maybe I would have to reconsider this Eddie character.
“Congratulations!” I say to Carolina as she opens the door. I hand her a bottle of champagne I borrowed from Archibald’s. “I heard the news! You got into medical school!”
“Thanks.” She looks really happy. “Although it means I have to move back to Regina.”
“Back home,” says Sam, taking the bottle, grinning.
“Well, it’s closer than Toronto.”
I lie on the couch, my hair, long again, spread out on the cushion, staring up at the ceiling, twirling an empty glass in my hands. Carolina is curled up on the floor beside Sam’s stereo. Sam has gone out for food.
I hum along to a Fleetwood Mac song, every inch of me relaxed. Carolina and I have eased into a solid friendship. She has proven herself generous and down-to-earth, two qualities that fertilize any relationship.
Carolina drains the rest of the bottle and flips through his CDs. “He has to have more than this. I feel like something fun. Energetic.”
“Energetic?”
“You know … Madonna or the B-52’s? No more Tragically Hip, please.”
I had always thought Sam had a pretty good selection. “He has some more CDs somewhere, I think.”
“You must be right. How about under here?” She pulls out a box from one of his cabinets.
“I don’t think so. That’s where he keeps—”
She opens the box; inside is a stack of neatly catalogued large manila envelopes.
“—his pictures.”
“Whoops,” she says, swaying drunkenly. The contents of one envelope spill out, pictures upon pictures. They make a swooshing sound as they cascade to the floor. She giggles.
“Oh my God,” she gasps.
“What?” I say, sitting up, alert, curiosity piqued. “You should be a detective, not a doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor yet.”
She is clasping one photo and then another. She spreads them out by her knees.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be—”
“Crikey.”
“Not … porn?”
“No. Maggie, have you seen these?”
“No.”
“Look … They’re all of you.”
“Huh?”
And there I am. All over the floor. Me. In black and white and colour, in an array of sizes.
He often brought his camera along. A little camera he slung over his shoulder. I had grown used to the muffled sound of the shutter clicking. I had never really thought about the end results. I scrunch beside her. It’s me. Leaning off the edge of Archibald’s balcony, waving, hair whipping around in the wind. Me. Knees caked in dirt, gardening. Me. In my painting overalls, focused on cleaning paint off my hands. Some are of Dan and me, too. In one I particularly like, I have jumped up, arms and feet wrapped around Dan, head tilted back, neck arched. It must have been on New Year’s Eve at a concert last year. A few are of Carolina and me, even. Heads pressed together, smiling, glasses raised.
“Well, it must be my folder. I’m sure everyone has a folder.”
She peers through the other envelopes, shaking her head, and holds up more. There I was again. Pupils dilated, looking terrified before the mountain bike descent. Another, running in the waves of the ocean last summer on a dare. Dan stands with his pants rolled up in the foreground.
“Maybe everyone has their own box?” I reason, swallowing uneasily.
“I had no idea! Can’t you see it?” she bursts as though she has been struck with a lightning bolt–sized epiphany.
“Well … no.” I glance towards the door nervously.
“You are his muse.”
“Nooooo.” I shake my head fervently. “No friggin’ way.”
She peers into another envelope. “Still you.”
“You are wrong. He loves you. We spend a lot of time together. Like a lot of friends. That’s all,” I stumble. “And if I am anything to him, it’s a clown. I’m always … you know … stepping in it, putting my foot in my mouth, making an ass of myself…”
She places both arms on my shoulders, as if steadying an off-kilter ship. “Maggie. Stop it. Listen to you! Are you really willing to put yourself down to protect Sam? You don’t need to, okay? I’m not an idiot. And I trust you. I don’t know why. But I do. They’re only photos. I know you aren’t fucking.”
“No … no, we aren’t…” I stumble.
“You’re such a prude. You can’t even say the word ‘fucking.’”
I open my mouth and shut it again. I swallow. “No, we aren’t fucking.”
She continues, “But you inspire him. And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. But … they were hidden. So what does that mean?” I ask her as my friend, realizing that she is also the girlfriend of my friend.
“It means he didn’t want me to find them,” she finishes. “And he won’t know that I have, that we have, understand?”
I nod my acquiescence. It is the safest recourse.
A noise in the hallway startles us. We begin shoving photos madly back into the envelopes.
“Hope you guys are hungry,” Sam says, carrying two big bags. “What am I saying? Of course you guys are hungry.” Carolina and I share trucker-sized appetites.
He sets the bags down and tosses his motorcycle helmet on the side table. We are sitting on either side of the couch, trying to look normal, the memory of my photos wedged like the slippery sharp spine of an X-ACTO knife between us.
“Everything okay?” He picks up on the tension.
“Just fine,” Carolina says, looking at me eyebrows raised, urging my co-operation.
“Sure. Sure,” I agree, and then a beat passes. “I should go.”
“But all the food! Why?” Sam exclaims.
“Maggie, stay,” Carolina urges with an edge.
I look uncertainly from one to the other, from Sam to Carolina. Carolina wills me to be quiet with her eyes. I nod my collusion, but I find myself wishing, impossibly, that I could warp time and return to before we discovered the photos.
“Is that really me?” Dan stares at the painting of him, one of three that had been chosen for the exhibit. It’s a painting I began shortly after the Halloween night when he had scared Michael off. In it he is dressed in drag, a bulky, brawny man in a skirt and blouse. I had painted from memory and emphasized characteristics that stood out to me. His arms were bulging superhero muscles, his face tight and drawn in an angry grimace. A bulky thigh poked through a slit in his skirt and his bright fuchsia lips were pursed. It was titled “Superhero.”
“I do look like a superhero.” He grins.
He peers around at the rest of my paintings. The committee has chosen one of Archibald with an afghan coiled around his knees and Mi Tie staring menacingly. In it, he is reading a novel and looks like a sweet old man, until you look closer and notice that the title of the novel is S&M Tactics, and it’s by the Marquis de Sade. I had painted his and Mi Tie’s eyes the same electric blue and called it Soul Mates. The exhibit had purposely “slipped my mind” in Archibald’s presence. Besides, he was so caught up in his latest book that he barely seemed to notice anything I said or did.
The final painting was of Sam holding hands with Carolina, except it was a disembodied hand, tiny, feminine, with just a bit of a forearm. He was staring lovingly in profile at the empty space above her arm. It was titled Long Distance. I was glad Carolina was out of town. I believed she had been true to her word and never mentioned the photos, and we had fumbled on almost the same.
Sam, however, was staring at it, program rolled in his hand. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
I swallow, but he smiles.
“It isn’t meant to be literal,” I say.
“Of course not. Besides, a hand is better than nothing at all.” He puts a supportive arm around my shoulder. “They are really great. All of them.”
The foyer is filled with students’ paintings, pottery, and media displays. Dan is looking at a sculpture of a scrotum set amongst a bowl of fruit.
“Let’s get out of here. I have had this intense craving for nachos all day,” I say to them.
“Hey, that guy looks really familiar.” Sam points to a man with dark, neatly clipped hair wearing a button-down shirt. He is peering at my painting of Archibald.
“Oh, crap,” I say under my breath as he turns my direction. “Eddie. What a surprise.”
“Maggie.” He smiles broadly, gesturing at the portrait. “I love it. It is perfect. Very ironic.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope you don’t mind. I just had to check out your work for myself.” He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and he looked much better away from the apartment. More relaxed somehow.
“How did you find out about the show?”
He looks at me. “I noticed it in the paper. I remembered you mentioning you were a student here. Two and two.”
“Well, thanks for coming.” I turn to leave.
“Would you like to get a drink or a coffee? If you aren’t busy.”
So this was his motive, I think.
“I have plans tonight.” I gesture to Sam and Dan, who are just out of earshot.
“No, problem. No problem at all.” He looks over at Sam and Dan with great interest. Was he looking for a couple of friends too? “Some other time.”
I herd Sam and Dan out of there as best I can. In the foyer, they look at me perplexed.
“That man gives me the creeps.”
Sam peers back through the doors. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s Archibald’s spy.”
Dan puffs himself up. “Is he bothering you? Because I could always put a skirt on.”
“Keep your pants on, Daniel. Is he following me?” I glance around.
“Maggie. You are paranoid, maybe he just wanted to—” But there he is coming through the doors.
“Hi again.” There is no ignoring him. He stares at Sam expectantly.
“This is Sam.”
“Sam,” he says enthusiastically, pumping his hand. “Of course.”
Sam looks confused.
“I have heard your name before,” he explains. He is a spy.
“And another friend, Dan,” I say. Dan shakes his hand with a bit of squeeze.
“We really have to go now,” I say, pushing the front doors open.
“Absolutely. Great meeting you both.”
“He might just be friendly, Pedal,” Dan says in his jeep.
“A little too friendly if you ask me. He hasn’t been friendly before.”
Dan shrugs. “People change.”
“No, they don’t. Not really,” I say, glancing in the side mirror to make sure we aren’t being tailed.
“Maybe he likes you,” Sam says with a grin from the back seat.
“That would be even worse,” I say with a chill. Something really bothered me. It was how he looked at me. Like he knew me.
After polishing off a heaping plate of nachos, a thought occurs to me. “Hey, where was Juliette tonight?” I say to Dan. She had always been a big supporter of my art.
“She had to cancel at the last minute. Something came up,” Dan says, fishing an olive off my plate and chewing it. The dim diner fluorescents blink overhead.
“Maybe I should give her a call, see if she’s around.” I get up to find a pay phone. “We could rent a video.”
“Not such a good idea, Maggie,” Sam says, sipping his Coke.
There is an uneasy silence.
“We broke up,” Dan says like a weight has been lifted off his chest.
“Oh,” I exhale my shock. “Why?!” I sit down heavily. “When?”
They had seemed so happy together.
“The day before yesterday.”
“I saw her this morning. She didn’t mention anything.”
“Maybe she didn’t feel like talking about it,” Sam suggests. He doesn’t seem very surprised.
“Did you know?” I say to him.
“Yep.”
I turn to Dan. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I didn’t want to upset you. It was a big night for you … with everything. I didn’t want you to be distracted.”
“How horrendous!” I throw my arms around him and accidentally fall into his lap. He pats my back reassuringly. I pull back and stare at him. “I had no idea you were having problems.” They had looked so good together. The attractive Scandinavian couple. I had pictured myself at their wedding, the maid of honour. Sam would be the best man.
“We weren’t exactly having problems. We got along great.”
“So?” I ask. “Oh my God. She dumped you! That bitch. Oh, Dan, I don’t believe it!” Sweet, loyal Dan tossed to the curb!
“Hold on. She did not dump me. Maggie, we just—”
“You dumped her? Seriously?!”
“No. It was mutual, Maggie. Okay?” Dan follows this with a large sigh. “We just didn’t see taking it to the next level.” I sit back down in my chair, stunned, and take a big gulp of air. Why was I so upset?
Sam and Dan look at each other like a volcano is about to explode.
“I am okay. I will be okay. I just need some air.” I get up and stumble to the door.
I change into my polka dot pyjamas, the most reassuring pyjamas I could find. I am debating which romantic movie to watch: When Harry Met Sally or Top Gun. I opt for Top Gun in honour of Dan, who loves fighter jet sequences.
There is a knock on my door. I peer through the peephole. Sam.
“So, did you pull the short toothpick?” I ask, opening the door.
“Dan is worried about you, and he’s the one who just went through a break up.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I overreacted. I just felt a little possessive, like it was my relationship.” After all, I had set them up. Juliette was a friend of mine from art school.
He looks amused. “I like the polka dots.”
“I called Juliette.” I shut the door behind him. “Do you want to know what she said?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
I futz around with the kettle, making tea. He follows me into the kitchen.
“She asked him if he could see a future together, and he told her, flat out. He told her that it would never happen for him. Shit!” I burn my finger as my cup topples over and hot tea spills out. I turn the tap on and rinse my finger under the cold water.
“Then he was honest with her. That sounds like Dan.” He mops up the spilled tea with a nearby paper towel. “Would you prefer he lied to her? That he pretended he cared more than he did?”
“No. I don’t know. Yes!” I turn away from him, a thought occurring to me. “Why not? Maybe pretending would make it true.”
“Pretending would not make it true.” He takes my hand, which is numb from the cold water, and looks at my red throbbing finger.
“Is there someone else, do you think?”
He releases my hand. “Doubtful, although he plays his cards pretty close to his chest.”
I shift my nightgown, noticing it has fallen off my shoulder.
“Maggie,” Sam says. “Do you think maybe it’s time for you to get out there?”
“Get out there?” I suck my injured finger stubbornly.
“Date again?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it struck me. Could you be so upset about Dan because … because…” he fumbles. “You don’t have a real relationship of your own? Since Michael.”
I stare at him balefully.
“It’s not like you haven’t had opportunities.”
“Opportunities?”
“That guy tonight? Eddie? He wasn’t so bad. Why not … get back on the metaphorical bicycle?”
“I am done with bikes and your big brother pep talks.”
I take a bite of spinach salad. My eyes slip down to my watch. The time is inching by, gooey as molasses. He takes a sip of his white wine. He has opened the collar of his shirt, but otherwise his persona is the same. Under duress, I had agreed to lunch with Eddie, motivated by a wager with Sam. He bet that Eddie likes me and asks me out again. I bet that he is pursuing me because he wants something from me.
“So, is it good to get a break from Archibald?” I ask, well aware that a break from Archibald could feel like a heavenly ascension.
“We’re mostly finished. But you know, it is. It’s good to … get out period. I am a bit of a workaholic. Then, I guess you probably noticed that.”
“Yeah. I don’t really get that. The whole living for work thing.”
“You work to live?” he asks, toying with his bocconcini salad.
“Pretty much,” I say.
“Well, you are a really good artist. Your paintings were solid.”
“Solid?” I raise an eyebrow.
“In fact, there is something I wanted to run by you…”
I was right. He wants something.
“I have an idea … Would you be willing to contribute your artwork to Archibald’s book launch party? Nothing too edgy, of course. Some paintings of … Archibald and his friends, your interpretation of them. It would be like an exposé of sorts. We will have to run it by his publicist, of course. But you could have your own exhibition at the same time. Archibald could give a reading … it might work out well. What do you think?”
“Oh.” I am surprised and flattered. “Well. I don’t know. Maybe … I do have a fair bit of work I could use already.” He must have really liked my paintings. But tying my fate so publicly to Archibald’s was a reason to deliberate.
“Anyway, no pressure. It’s just something to consider.”
“Well, I will.”
He took another sip of wine. “I know you haven’t read Archibald’s latest novel. I could give you the finished draft when it’s ready. You really should. You could get some ideas for your paintings. Some of his themes are very … contemporary. Very close to home.” He stares at his neatly manicured hands.
“I don’t know if I’ll get to it anytime soon, but for sure if I can.” I was being polite. I just didn’t want to go there. “I’ll think about it anyway.”
The loud ringing seems to come from everywhere, almost like it is inside my head. I fumble for the phone in the darkness of the room and in the process smack my funny bone against the bedside table.
“Ouch,” I say angrily as I pick up the phone.
“I need you over here now.” His voice is flat and serious.
“Archibald, is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me. Who else were you expecting?” he says.
“What’s the…?”
“Never you mind the what and the who,” he says. “It’s urgent. Bloody urgent. Come as fast as you can.” The phone clicks, and I am alone.
I dress quickly. He had sounded strangely sober, convincingly grave. Still, I wonder if this is a trick. It’s been months since his latest practical joke. When I arrive, Archibald is standing outside the building.
“What took you so long?” He leans against his cane, fully dressed.
“What is this all about?” I say, still panting.
“I need your help with an errand. He’s in trouble. We have to pick him up.”
“He who?” I ask.
“Marcell, of course, who else?” he insists, irritated.
“Marcell?” I hadn’t seen him in a couple of months, maybe longer.
We get in the car and he directs me to the freeway. I drive the old Cadillac across the slick, deserted streets. Archibald shifts, uneasy in his seat.
“What happened?” I say.
“I’m not sure,” he replies with an impatient sigh. “Drive faster.”
“Well, where are we going? Where is he?” I ask.
“He’s been committed. That’s all I know. That’s all I could find out.” The more I press, the more resistant he becomes.
I drive far out into the suburbs until we reach a great park-like expanse. He directs me through a large arching driveway, to a set of plain, industrial buildings. He knows his way around as if he has been here before.
“Wait here,” he says.
I notice a sign, old and faded: Riverway Psychiatric Institute.
“Archibald, is this a mental hospital?” I ask.
“It’s not the country club,” he replies tersely.
“Yeah, but do you think it’s a good idea … I mean … maybe he needs to be here.”
He looks at me then. A furious, needle-sharp rage surges across his features. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible, “Nobody needs to be here.” Then he is out of the car. He limps slightly, but it is a grim walk, a walk of determination. He stands outside the front door and rings a buzzer until he is finally admitted. He does not look back.
I wait for a long time. I watch the greyish building and feel deeply uneasy. Perhaps it’s just nerves, but from far away inside, I swear I hear a faint, slivery scream. I shudder. Is this what it had been like for her, my grandmother? Had she been here?
And then the doors push open and Archibald appears with a tiny person leaning heavily against him. Archibald, in turn, leans on his cane, swaying slightly. I sit for a moment, mouth agape. And then I open the door and rush out to meet them.
His eyes are open but unfocused. He is deeply drugged, and he grips me as though I am a lifeboat. His head is down, drooping on his flimsy neck. He is light as a pigeon and smells of sickness. Like he has been in a small room, away from air and light. His lemony cologne has been completely blotted out. He leans against me, shaking like a leaf, while Archibald opens the back door.
“That’s right, Marcell. That’s it. We’ll be away from this place in no time,” Archibald says encouragingly. “I don’t care what they say about your brain chemistry. They are hacks and halfwits. Do you hear me?”
If he hears, Marcell does not reply. He looks so old. He is skin and bones. I help him with his seatbelt and climb into the front seat. Archibald sits grimly beside me. I start the car and drive us home.
“Are you sure about this?” I say to Archibald quietly as I drive. “Taking him to your place?”
“Drive,” Archibald says.
“We could see if he has any family.”
“He doesn’t have any family,” he says wearily. He, too, looks exhausted. “They don’t understand people like Marcell in there.”
“People like Marcell…”
He looks at me as though I am very ignorant. I don’t ask how he managed to extricate Marcell from that place. And he doesn’t tell me. I later learn that he had been found, unresponsive, holed up in a little room in the Downtown Eastside. He had been taken in custody and then remanded for psychiatric treatment. His captors were well intentioned, but Marcell, like a wild animal, did not respond well to captivity in any form.
Archibald sets him up in my old room, where he lies with his eyes shut tight, unmoving. Archibald stays with him, and I fall asleep on the couch. The next morning, I awake with a familiar pain in my back. It is Maria’s day off, so I find some chicken soup and reheat it. Archibald insists on feeding it to Marcell, who looks about him but says nothing. He can barely manage a few spoonfuls.
I go home to wash and change, and when I return, Marcell is propped up in the bed. Archibald has fallen asleep on the chair beside him, head tucked against his chest, bird-like. I enter the room quietly. Marcell seems far away, unaware of me. I wait for a few seconds and then turn to leave.
“I remember this room,” he says in a small, scratchy voice. “It was the first time I met you. I was drunk, very drunk as usual, and I came in here to pee, and when I came out, you were standing there, looking like an angel, in a white dressing gown, glaring at me. At first I thought … I thought you were Sara … and for a second, it was like going back in time.”
I stare at him for a while, wondering about Sara. Archibald has opened his eyes, but also remains quiet, as if he too were remembering.
That night, I make sandwiches, tomato and cheddar, with Maria’s day-old potato bread. Archibald has banished everyone else, Eddie included, from the premises. We sit across from each other at the kitchen table as the room grows dim, strangely formal. Archibald seems reflective or just very tired. And I know better than to ask, than to pry into another person’s tragedy. Perhaps that’s why he tells me.
“He lost them in a car accident, his wife and daughter, in France. He never got over it,” Archibald says as the sun fades in the window behind him.
I am silent for a moment. “And that’s why — the drinking?” I ask.
“That’s why a lot of things. He was a great writer, a magnificent man, and everyone knew it. But he wasn’t as resilient as he needed to be.”
“Do you think he’ll recover?” I ask.
“No,” Archibald says. “He may improve, resume his life, but he will never recover. But that does not mean he should be abandoned.”
I regard him as he picks up his sandwich and begins to chew. I hope that I never come to understand what he really means. But I know enough to know that he had been rescuing more than Marcell from that institution. And I saw that he, too, was haunted, like Marcell. That is what they share.