I called Annie as soon as the plane touched down. She said she was waiting for me in the car just outside the Arrivals door.
–What kind of car am I looking for?
–I’ll stand outside it with the trunk open so you can spot me. It’s black and shiny, like a limo. A Mercedes.
Allan’s only self-indulgence was his car. He wasn’t into Jags or Beemers like the ostentatious near rich, but he had a passion for Mercedes. Annie was hard to miss.
–So, he let you take the S-550, I said when I was settled into the passenger seat.
–Who?
–Allan.
–This is mine, she said.
I could tell that she was watching me for a reaction, but I stared straight ahead. My reaction was anxiety. I don’t know why, or, more accurately, didn’t then. I was also processing her appearance. Hair, makeup, wardrobe. She might have been heading for a film shoot. She wore a heavy, not unpleasant scent that was new to me.
–You seem different, I said.
–You make it sound like not a good thing.
When we were finally in the flow of downtown traffic, I asked her when she got the car.
–When it became apparent that I was going to be here for an indefinite period.
–And when was that?
–Not long after I arrived.
–A gift from Allan.
–More like a bonus. Or a bribe.
–Extortion, huh.
–You’re travelling light, she said.
–I told you, I don’t plan to be here for long.
–We’ll see.
We were at an intersection, not far from Union Station, watching the human throng clotting on the corners, straggling across even when their light was turning red. I could never get accustomed to this morning scene.
–Do you remember that song from the seventies? The Fugs, if I recall.
–What song?
–“River of shit.”
She laughed.
–I can’t imagine you doing this all the time, I said.
She shrugged.
–I thought you were happy on the farm, I said after a fairly long silence.
–I think I was. From time to time. Anyway, happy is just a recurring episode, if we’re lucky. Right? You do know that?
–Yes. Happy is a meaningless concept. I must remind Allan someday.
I watched the people surging into crosswalks.
–Daytime vampires, I said.
She patted my thigh.
–Get used to it, she said.
–So, how is Allan doing?
–Taking care of Allan is a big part of the job now.
–He sounded fine on the phone yesterday.
–He can put it on when he has to.
–You’re depressing me, I said.
–Life is linear.
–Which means what?
–Which means we need to focus on what might happen next, plan for the end point and avoid regrets about what’s past. Done is done.
–Concentrate on going forward, I said.
I felt her staring at me, frowning.
–Man, I hate that phrase, she said. Going forward. As opposed to what? Standing still? Going backwards?
She leaned on the car horn briefly when the light turned green and the car in front of us didn’t move.
–Going forward, as if it just happens. As if…Come on, move, asshole! Put away the fucking phone! Go forward!
How I regretted coming. How I dreaded seeing Allan. He and Peggy lived in an expensive corner of a middle-class neighbourhood, not far from an ethnic strip that Allan liked for the anonymity it provided. The ambience was a mix of old-stock Europeans and Asians of a more recent vintage. Lots of women wearing black, many of them covered head to toe.
–Okay, so why am I here?
–You don’t know?
–Help me out.
–Christ, Byron. Sometimes I wonder about you, you seem so out of it. Estate planning. You’re here for estate planning.
I laughed.
–Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit? Also, sorting out estates isn’t really my specialty, certainly not ones on Allan’s scale. Surely there are outfits here that…
–You’re forgetting the need for some discretion when it comes to Allan’s ventures. It’s about separating his future, such as it is, from his past. Do I really have to explain?
–I thought that you helped him to take care of that years ago. Sealing off the past.
–There’s a whole new set of imperatives.
Peggy held my hand warmly at the door, then led me inside. She looked weary, and Annie was anxious to get away, claiming something pressing at the office.
–He’s been waiting for you, Peggy said.
I asked how she was coping. She mentioned interrupted sleep, hardly ever getting out. Being there for Allan, his many needs, his changing moods.
–He sleeps a lot, but this is his best time. Mid-morning. Don’t be surprised, though, if he begins to fade.
She rapped lightly on a closed door just off the entranceway.
–We turned his office into a downstairs bedroom, she explained. I’ll leave you guys alone, she said, opening the door.
The first thing that struck me was the hospital bed, which occupied one side of Allan’s cavernous office. The whiteness of it. Gleaming stainless steel. The crank. More machine than bed. The protective side rail dropped.
–Better here than in the living room, Peggy said. She didn’t have to explain that Allan was no longer able to get upstairs.
Mom had refused to allow a hospital bed in the house. She had her reasons, I assume, locked somewhere in her memory. Something ominous about where a bed should never be. Like in a living room. She’d say, Sooner or later, every living room becomes a funeral parlour, which is why the doors are almost always closed.
He wasn’t in the bed, though. He was at his desk, looking like someone who’d been parked there temporarily. Uncomfortable. His smile was just teeth, nothing in the eyes.
–Did she get you anything?
–Like what?
–Coffee?
–I’m good.
He looked me up and down.
–Have you been trying to lose weight?
–I didn’t realize. Speaking of which, you’re looking kind of lean yourself.
–Clean living. So what’s the plan?
–You’re the one who insisted that I come up here right away.
–I think the women more or less have everything under control.
He winked. I wasn’t quite sure what the wink meant.
–We can deal with any loose ends. When you’re here for good, he said.
–And when might that be?
–The sooner the better, Allan said, then lapsed into a long silence, staring toward a window. At last, speaking as if from a great distance, he said he was sure that I’d been giving a lot of thought to the few things left to be decided.
–Actually, I’m not a hundred percent sure what those things are.
–Aha, he said, and shifted in his chair, grimacing. Well. We’re going through another transition phase. It was in the works, which you should know, given what you’ve been doing the last few years. But we have to speed it up now. You’ll be busy.
–I understand. But I’d like to make this stay a short one.
He grinned, then sucked his teeth. Found a toothpick on the desktop, picked briefly, examined something.
–I need you here, he said, still staring at the toothpick.
–But you said the women…
–That’s why I need you here.
He scanned the room, cleared his throat, then stared hard into my face.
–They’re great, aren’t they, our ladies? But with me kind of out of it, they can use your help.
He winked again.
–Come here and help me up.
He was already lifting himself out of the chair, hands braced on the edge of his desk, arms trembling.
I went to him and placed an arm around his waist.
–Where do you want to go?
–Over to the bed. Come around.
He grabbed the lapel of my jacket and I almost lost my balance. And then I felt his hand inside my jacket, fumbling with my inside pocket. And then he seemed to steady himself.
–Just give me your arm, he said.
When we were beside the bed, he turned, placed his arms around my neck.
–Now you’ll have to do a little lifting, he said.
I placed my hands below his armpits, to raise him. He had his hands on my shoulders, face pressed against my ear, and he was whispering.
–They hear everything, he said.
–Hmmm?
–Every word. They’re listening. They’re watching.
I lowered him to the bedside.
–This is great, he declared.
Then, with his head cocked to one side, he again whispered:
–The fucking room is wired.
I stared at him as he settled back against the pillows. Then he instructed me to make mechanical adjustments so he was sitting almost upright. The door opened. Peggy arrived with a tray, on it two mugs of coffee, cookies.
–How are we doing? she asked cheerfully.
–Catching up, I said.
–I’ll leave you to it.
And she did.
Allan lapsed into silence when we were alone again. His hand trembled as he raised his mug. I thought of Mom as he struggled, lips pursed, leaning toward the mug to get a sip. She had bouts of paranoia too, days when she’d convince herself that Shirley was spying on her, or that I was snooping in her purse.
Coffee slopped onto his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice.
–So, this transition, I said.
–Well, we had things pretty well set up before all this.
–Yes, the reorganization. But I’m not sure about the stuff before I came on board.
–The dark ages. Forget about them. That’s history.
–The casino?
–I handed everything over to the Indians. There was a reasonable agreement about money. You can forget about that casino.
–There’s another?
He nibbled on a cookie, stared some more at me.
–I’m a little out of touch, I said.
–That makes two of us, he said, and laughed. Hold this.
He handed me his mug, struggled to sit up straighter.
–That’s better, he said.
I handed it back and he sipped at it for a while.
–How are you, anyway? he said. What’s going on with you? The women don’t tell me anything.
–Nothing much happens on the farm.
–You can see what I’ve been dealing with, he said, gesturing around the room.
–Understandable, I said.
–I suppose the wives have told you all about the big affair.
–Actually, no. I don’t know anything about a big affair.
–No one mentioned Grace?
–You mentioned Grace, I think? At the hotel. Before the…golf.
–Yes.
–I heard she passed away.
–Well, if you heard that…
–That’s all I heard.
–But you didn’t hear how?
–No.
–I see. Well. She took her own life.
–Man. That’s…
–With my help.
I stared at him, processing the words. Allan had a flair for the dramatic.
–That was the big affair, he said, and laughed again.
He told me that he and Grace had been close, but just as friends. Maybe it was deeper, emotionally, but it never progressed beyond deep conversation. Intimate disclosure.
–Which is, I suppose, a kind of infidelity…but what the hell. If people can’t talk to one another, what’s the point. Peggy had her suspicions, though. She has a nose for anything threatening.
Then Grace got sick with ALS.
–I read up on it. There are cases where it goes really slow. Sometimes it stops. But not for her. It was…galloping. She didn’t want anybody to know. I was the only one. Nobody at work. She had family out on the west coast, a couple of kids from a marriage.
–And she didn’t tell them?
–Nope. I considered going behind her back, then I told her I was going to tell them. It was unfair to them not to know, not to be able to help. But she said, “If they know, they’ll make me want to die.” I didn’t really get it. Not then. But I went along with her. Now I can understand.
–Not sure I do.
–Some people don’t like to be a burden. And the distress of the people who care about you makes you want to get it over with. It’s how she saw it, anyway, and I couldn’t argue with her.
He and Grace spent a lot of time together in her final months. She had always worked from home. When she fell ill, he’d visit every day. And so, it was presumed that they were having an affair. For her, that was easier to live with than the truth. Illness had become a more complicated problem than infidelity. The lie was simpler and Allan went along with it.
–You think it through. If you’re a good person, it’s easier to suffer than to cause suffering. You don’t have to agree with her. But that was her thinking.
–You never told Peggy.
–I’ll tell her. Sooner or later. But I haven’t yet.
He winked at me again, hinting at something. The wired room, perhaps.
–What?
–Nothing. Nothing. Where was I?
–You said you helped her end it.
–Yes. I let her down big time. Like I turned into one of her worst fears.
–I don’t understand.
–It got to me, watching her go downhill, and of course she noticed. That was too much for her, watching me watching her.
His face was grim, eyes wet.
–She expected me to be stronger, and I wasn’t. I became part of what she warned about. What I’ve always been. A fucking disappointment to the women.
–Come on…
–So she asked me to help her get it over with. She wanted a contact. And she asked me to be with her at the end. I couldn’t refuse, could I?
–What kind of contact?
–A doctor I knew from way back. Smoked a lot of weed. The least I could do was step up. Be there for what she needed even if I hated like hell the thing she needed.
–You set it up.
–Yes. And she was right, you know. She basically just fell asleep. It was a relief, actually, after watching her…disintegrating. That was when I understood what she’d been telling me. When somebody gives up on life, it’s because of what his life is doing to the lives of other people. Can you understand that?
He studied his hands. Looked away. Looked back.
–So. If it ever came to that, Byron…
–Fuck you.
–The guy’s card…
–I’m not listening…
–It’s in the top right desk drawer.
I stood.
–Allan, if that’s why you dragged me up here, you’re wasting my time and yours.
–It isn’t the only reason. Just something you should know I’m counting on. I want you to be here.
–I’ll be here when there’s a sensible reason to be here.
–That won’t be up to you.
Outside his office, I felt a moment of confused alarm. Had he lost his mind? For Christ’s sake…the room is wired? Really? Was it paranoia now? Then I remembered he’d put something in my pocket. Something small. I reached inside my jacket and found a USB thumb drive.
Peggy was sitting back in a large recliner, feet on the footstool, ankles crossed. She had a document file open on a small table beside her.
–How did he seem?
–Feeble, physically.
I suddenly felt awkward. There was something in her tone, her expression. I was sure there was nothing I could tell her about Allan that she didn’t know already. She doesn’t want to know what I think. She wants to know where I stand.
–I had to help him getting back to bed.
She smiled.
–You should know he usually manages to get there by himself.
I shrugged.
–But, yes, he’s going downhill.
She closed the file, folded her arms.
–It’s partly because he won’t do anything to help himself. Flatly refuses rehab. Just stays in that office day and night. But maybe he was playing with your head a bit, exaggerating a little?
–I didn’t think so.
–What I notice most is the mental change. He’ll say things, sometimes, that are off the wall. Did you notice that?
–No, but sitting in a room twenty-four seven will do things to anyone’s head. Have you tried to get him out for a walk or something?
–He hasn’t shown any interest. It would be pointless asking.
–I might, anyway.
–Be my guest. But he’s pretty well given up. I think people as physical as he was have a harder time with disability. I realize I don’t have to tell you…
I smiled.
–It takes backbone to confront adversity. As you know.
I shrugged.
–Listen to me, she said, and laughed. As if I know frig all about adversity. But, just the same, he’s never really had to struggle, physically.
I said,
–The reality is that there are always people worse off, and better off.
–Which is why I hope you can stay and remind him what it takes.
She stood and stretched, folded her arms, studied the floor briefly, then asked,
–What do you know about vascular dementia?
–Not a thing. Are you saying there’s more than the damage from the stroke going on?
–There are a few things I need you to sign before you go back.
–I can do it now.
–Later, maybe. Do you have plans for lunch, Byron?
–Not yet.
–Let me take you to lunch. There’s a nice little place not far from here. We can walk.
It was a Greek place and she ordered for us both, including a sweaty carafe of white. A litre. It was going to be a long lunch.
I noticed that she hardly touched her salad. She drank her wine, though, and she talked a lot about Florida and southern California, the southwestern United States. A casino in New Mexico. She only mentioned Allan near the end.
We’d finished the carafe. She looked around the restaurant. The place was nearly empty, the lunch crowd long since dispersed.
–Allan is only happy at the edge of things, she said.
–A dangerous place to be sometimes.
–Almost all the time. I feel much safer at the centre, where the people are. Safety in numbers, I say.
–That’s why you’re an accountant?
–I never thought of it like that, but yes.
She smiled, reached across and clasped my hand.
–We’ve always kind of danced around each other, haven’t we?
I allowed my hand to fold around hers. I stared at our two hands, imagining that they belonged to other people.
–But from here on, we’re going to have to be pretty open.
She pulled her hand away.
–I’ll do my best, but I’m just the lawyer, I said.
She laughed.
–So, why did you mention vascular dementia?
–It’s something we should be ready for. Even now…
She looked away, then met my eyes.
–We have to keep in mind that, for all practical purposes, there is no Allan. This isn’t something new. Officially, there never was an Allan in the business. But now it’s important we find out who he really is.
–Who he really is?
–You, of all people, know what I mean. Allan is a fiction, a creative enterprise that he’s been working on for decades.
–Aren’t we all, more or less?
– Do you know Allan, Byron?
–I know the Allan he’s always wanted me to know.
–Is that enough for you?
–Sometimes more than enough.
She wagged her head a bit in disagreement.
–Not anymore, she said.
–You’ve been married to him all these years. What’s left for you to know?
She stared at me. I knew the look, the weary, hesitating expression of one who needs to share her knowledge but is afraid to.
–What are you thinking, Peggy? Spit it out.
–I’m mainly thinking about you, she said.
–Never mind that. We know that he trusts us.
She smiled.
–He trusts you, Byron. Not us.
I wanted to disagree. But I couldn’t, truthfully.
After we left the restaurant, we walked a block or two, until we were on the flank of the lower Don Valley. We crossed on a pedestrian bridge over the whizzing parkway and the muddy Don River. She slipped her arm through mine, then retracted it. And after a while she caught my hand.
–I don’t want to be here, in Toronto, I said.
–It doesn’t have to be forever. Just long enough to navigate the changes we have to deal with.
–Why me?
–Don’t you get it, Byron? You are—for all intents and purposes, and legally—the company.
–I’m the name on a lot of documents, I know that. I guess it would be wise to make a plan in case anything happens to me. Where would you be then?
I laughed. She frowned.
–There’s nothing wrong with you, she said.
I shrugged, kicked a stone. She caught my arm and turned me toward her.
–Right? And if there was, you’d say. Right?
–Yes.
–No secrets from here on, Byron.
We crossed a playing field, then climbed a steep hill. Near the top, I noticed a familiar musk in the air, barn smells, the pungency of old manure.
–There’s a little hobby farm over there, she said, pointing toward a weathered fence, some barns. We can sit there for a while.
We wandered through a gate, into another century. A quaint old farmhouse. There were small groups of people, mostly children, ogling the horses, chickens. We found a sheltered place to sit.
–You know this scene, she said.
–Yes. It takes me back.
–To a good place?
–Not especially.
She put an arm around my shoulder, leaned her head close to mine.
–God forbid that anything should happen to you, she said, squeezed me and let go.
–Is it his competence you’re worried about, Peggy? It seems to me he’s still on top of things.
–Yes. He’s still aware and engaged. But Allan isn’t nearly as together as he might seem. It’s why you need to stay around long enough to draw your own conclusions.
The lawyer part of me was suddenly alert. Listen carefully, it said. Weigh every word.
–He suspects that people close to him are ganging up on him, spying on him, hiding things. Paranoia, I think, might be the first clue he’s headed nowhere good in terms of his mental state.
I frowned. They hear everything.
–He talked about disappointing people, I said.
–Disappointing Grace, you mean?
She was staring at me, her eyebrows arched. I looked away.
–I know he told you about how he helped her die, she said, and shrugged. He has a point, about disappointing people.
I was beginning to feel a deep anxiety. Perhaps it was the barn smells. The adults speaking to the children in loud, emphatic voices, like weary nurses on a ward, impatiently projecting patience.
–Can we go somewhere else?
–I thought you’d like it here, but sure, let’s walk.
I headed toward the gate, leaving her behind. She caught up just as I stopped to let a crowd of children and their braying supervisor by.
–You okay, Byron?
–I’m great.
We walked back toward the expressway. From the pedestrian bridge, I could see, to the north, heavy traffic on the viaduct that spanned the valley, a long, high bridge that people used to jump from. To deter jumpers, the city installed a barrier, a tight assembly of vertical steel rods. A “veil,” some people call it. The experts say a jumper needs to be deterred only briefly to experience the glimmer that might change his mind. How long did my uncle hesitate, waiting for a glimmer that clearly never came?
–The creepy viaduct, Peggy said, following my gaze.
–Yes.
–I could not imagine…
–You know about my uncle.
–What uncle would that be?
–My mother’s kid brother. She only had the one.
She was frowning now.
–His name was Angus, I said.
–I know.
–You know. And you know they named me after him.
–I never think of you as Angus. What made you think about him?
–Looking up there.
She nodded then.
–You know the story. He jumped from the bridge across the harbour in Halifax. I think it’s about that high.
–That’s fucking morbid, Byron.
I stopped, turned to face her.
–Did you know about my uncle when you rechristened me?
–No, she said.
I turned away, looked back up the valley. Cars now slowing down. Rush-hour traffic clogging the viaduct and the expressway.
–I think about him now and then. What goes through someone’s mind.
–Allan has a theory that suicide is an impulse of misguided mercy, she said.
–You do it for other people.
–Something like that. I think it’s crazy.
–I’m not so sure.
–How could you possibly love someone that much?
–I think Allan could. I always thought that about him, in spite of what he’s always tried to make people think. It’s just a feeling I’ve always had.
–He loves you, she said.
–And he loves you.
–I only wish, she said.
I stopped to watch the traffic below us. You’d really have to be determined to do it from here, from the pedestrian overpass. You’d have to wait until the cars and trucks were really flying and then aim yourself. You’d be making a shit show out of some driver’s life, but you wouldn’t have to worry about things like consequences.
Peggy had kept walking. Now she stopped and called back to me.
–Are you coming, Byron?
–I think Allan has a death wish, I said.
–Allan has had a death wish for as long as I have known him. Restructuring the company is part of it.
–I’m not talking about the business…
–But it’s all the same. You hear about suicides first killing their children…
–No, no…
–First, he wants to kill off everything he’s achieved. Be prepared to hear about the grand plan. Giving back is his new buzz phrase. He’s determined to give something back.
–How is that a death wish?
–Okay, call it phase one of self-destruction.
–We’re talking about his money, not his life.
–It’s money that belongs to all of us.
–And what is it he wants to do with the money?
–Like I said, he wants us to start giving everything away, as his atonement for all his little failures, all the disappointments he’s caused, the harm he thinks he’s done.
–What harm would that be? He always said, “It’s only pot,” like it was manna from heaven.
She looked away.
–There was more than pot, of course. At least at one stage.
–He’s never told me that.
–We were in Mexico for a while.
–I see.
–There were people there. I was scared shitless half the time.
–What kind of people?
–The kind of people down there who have power. The SUVs. The bodyguards. The guns. He was careful to keep me out of it.
–Allan was never into guns.
She wagged her head back and forth, to agree and disagree.
–He isn’t now, she said.
–I’m sorry.
–Don’t be sorry. I was young and having fun when I wasn’t terrified.
–So, you’re saying that he has regrets about that now.
–Life got complicated for a while and things happened that you and I will never know about. And yes, now he has regrets and he thinks he can buy his way out of them. And, to cap it all, there’s Grace.
–There are worse things than contrition.
–I didn’t know you were a Catholic.
–I’m just saying, I’m here for him. I’m here for you. But I can’t stay here indefinitely. Okay?
She nodded.
In the evening, Peggy and I helped Allan from his office-bedroom to the table. He was cheerful at dinner. He drank some wine. We talked mostly about the early days—safely about people we remembered but really didn’t care about.
Peggy sat beside me, with Allan across the table, so she could hear him better, she explained. I suppose I should have asked myself why she insisted on a nightcap after he had gone back to his room, but it just felt normal.
Near the bottom of the drink, she said, It’s wonderful talking to you, Byron. I never get to talk to anyone the way I talk to you.
And it wasn’t shocking when, very late that night, I felt her slide into the bed behind me, felt the warm fullness of her body pressed against my back.
Perhaps I thought that I was dreaming, but the gentle hand was real, my face was real, my neck. And the old masculine responses, frequently forgotten now—they were real and overwhelming.
For the first time in her presence, everything felt right. She was whispering.
–We’ll soon be old, Byron.
She draped her hand across my waist, laid it flat on my stomach. I was afraid she’d slide it downward, afraid she wouldn’t. I put my hand on hers.
And suddenly, her hand was gone and she was propped up on one elbow.
–Hush. Listen.
–What?
–He’s moving. He needs something.
And then she was gone.
I saw Allan briefly in the morning. He was at his desk and Peggy brought us coffee. He was distracted, mostly silent. I was nervous, wondering what, if anything, he might suspect about the night before.
At last he asked,
–You looked at what I gave you?
He patted his chest, winked. The thumb drive.
–Not yet, I said.
–That’s okay. It’s just stuff.
He was speaking loudly, as though into a microphone.
–Stuff, I said.
–Don’t laugh, he said. He frowned, shook his head, a warning of some kind. Then he coughed into a paper towel. His face was flushed.
–We’re getting old, he said.
–We can’t help that.
–Getting old is the best-case scenario, my old man used to say. One thing I want to ask, and you can tell me it’s none of my business. But I’m curious.
–Fire away.
–You and Annie.
–What about us?
–How does that work?
–We live in different places. That’s all.
–Life should be so simple. You lucked out with Annie. I wish I’d known her sooner.
I laughed.
–Where are we going with this?
–Nowhere. But I’ll tell you straight up—if I could rewind the old odometer, you’d get a run for your money.
–What about Peggy?
He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.
–You know more about Peggy than I do, he said.
–How can you say that?
–How can you say that, he mocked.
I stood.
–Annie’s waiting for me in her new Mercedes. That was a nice gesture.
He waved a hand.
–A small investment. You’ll be back soon, he said.
It was not a question.
He struggled to his feet, breathing heavily, leaning on the desk. Held out a hand. I reached across and grasped it and he pulled me toward him until his forehead was almost touching mine.
–Don’t be worried, he said.
–Okay, I said. I forced a smile.
–I’m just fuckin with their heads, he whispered.
On the drive to the airport I felt a steady buzzing in my chest. Something in there seemed distressed. Conflict. I felt I shouldn’t leave. I didn’t really want to leave. I really didn’t want to stay. I didn’t know why I’d been summoned. Whose idea was it?
After a curt hello as I climbed in, Annie stayed silent. Ostensibly, she was focused on the traffic, but I felt that she was tuned in to my confusion.
What was Peggy thinking? What did Peggy mean when she said we’ll soon be old? What is Peggy thinking now?
What is Annie thinking?
But perhaps her silence was nothing more than impatience. She had better things to do than transport me to the airport on what was probably a busy day.
–I thought we’d get a chance to talk more, I said at last.
–I thought you’d be staying longer. I got tied up at the office over an issue with a property.
–Something I should be worrying about?
–At some point probably.
–What’s the headline?
She laughed.
–The possibility of headlines is the headline. We have an apartment building occupied by relatively rich, old white people. We planned to tear it down. There’s resistance.
–From rich, old white people.
–Yes, but mostly from the neighbours, who think we want to put up a high-rise condo building. Block their sunshine.
–And we do?
–We did, but Allan waffled. Now he wants to sign the place over to the tenants. For a dollar.
–They must be overjoyed.
–They don’t know yet.
–I’m sure it could be structured so that it would make sense from a tax point of view.
–That isn’t the point, Byron. This is part of something more serious where Allan is concerned.
–Peggy hinted at something like this when we talked.
–Allan wants to move all our assets into something like a charitable trust. I think his mind is going.
–When did a charitable impulse become evidence of mental illness?
She sighed.
–Come on, Byron. Don’t play cute. His doctors have told Peggy that the early signs of vascular dementia are there. The mood swings are hard to live with—despair, rage, weird manic ecstasy. One day he has too much energy, the next he can’t hold his head up. And then there’s the paranoia. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, even on a short visit.
–That’s why you and Peggy wanted me to come? To see this?
–You need to get more involved, Byron. He needs to be watched.
–What about the board?
–Allan owns the board. You know that.
She looked across at me, expecting a response. I looked away. I’m fuckin with their heads.
–He’s becoming quite hostile to us, Byron. To Peggy and me. If she wasn’t married to him and if she wasn’t my sister, I’d just pack it in and leave.
–Strange. He practically told me that he’s in love with you.
–You’re joking.
–No. He seemed quite rational.
–That’s what I’m talking about. Tomorrow he might rip my face off. He’s losing it, Byron.
–Do you think we could live together again?
She laughed.
–There’s a non sequitur if I ever heard one.
–Not really. If I’m here for a longer stretch, I’ll have to live somewhere.
We were near the airport. I could see the airplanes floating down, rising lazily through haze. She reached across, caught my hand.
–I can’t think of any reason why we couldn’t.
–That would be a plus.
–So, you’ll be coming. Soon, I hope.
She got out of the car and came to me as I dragged my suit-bag from the back. We embraced.
–It might be like starting fresh, she said.
–But coping with dementia again.
–We’re good at that.
–Maybe I’m talking about myself.
She stepped back, frowned.
–Stop it, she said.
–Maybe I’m the one you should be concerned about. I have the family history.
–I’m talking about Allan, darling. I’m talking about reality. Let’s keep our eyes on what’s in front of us. We have to keep him true to himself by keeping him out of the picture altogether. It’s what our Allan, the real Allan, would want.
I picked up my bag, turned away. Then I turned back.
–Annie?
She was at the car door, looking across the rooftop, the question in her eyes.
–I think I’m going to get my DNA tested, I said.
–Your what?
–My DNA. When I get home.
–For what?
–Guess.
She laughed.
–Safe travels, Byron. Check in when you can.
She laughed again and made a gesture my mother used to make, twiddling her forefinger in little circles by her temple.
Checking pockets at security—loose change, keys, the USB drive. For a moment I was baffled. USB drive?
Damn. How could I have forgotten to review this while I was there? Just stuff, he said. Allan was never in his life about “just stuff.”
On the plane, I briefly considered opening my laptop and scrolling through the thing. But I grew mildly nervous about the well-groomed stranger sitting next to me. Better to leave it for when I was home.
Annie once explained her theory that memory is a parallel reality. Basically, an extended falsehood, a lifelong lie. At best, a kind of literature.
But for me, memory is embedded in sensations, not narrative. Sound and smell. Touch. Music. Aroma. Colour. Revulsion from the smell of blood. Muddy lanes and sodden fields in spring. Fresh-cut hay in summer. The tang of apples in the fall. I associate particular events with certain seasonal conditions. The sharp heat of August feels unlike the warmth of a mellow morning in September or October; autumn has its own unique sensual pungency.
And so I can, with relative certainty, “remember” that the series of events I am going to try to reconstruct happened mostly in the autumn and the winter of an extraordinary year.
Ironically, I clearly remember the moment when I was told that there was a very real possibility that I could lose important aspects of my individuality. Memory, for one. Ultimately, my independence. Specifically, I recall the particular chill of a winter rainfall.
But I also remember thinking, as I was told, I am not a victim. I have some control. The early detection of this unexpected menace meant that I might be able to deter the process of decay and mitigate the outcome, for example by doing crossword puzzles. The daily New York Times was recommended, for reasons I forget.
I could exercise my brain by watching game shows on TV, and bolster my memory by writing little memos to myself.
And yes, I also remember that on this wet and chilly day the last leaves on a forlorn city maple tree were drooping under the weight of the relentless drizzle.
But this is surely too much information, and much too soon. Dementia is a catastrophe that usually happens silently and in slow motion.