I knew I should be packing for what might be a long-term absence. But there really wasn’t much to pack. Clothing. A few files. Some books. The Collected Works of Thomas Carlyle, for one. Which reminded me—where did I put Allan’s thumb drive?
Because its existence was supposed to be a secret, I’d taken pains to hide the goddamned thing. And now, in my distraction, I’d forgotten where it was. He had slipped it into an inside jacket pocket. I was sure of that. But what jacket? And then what?
I vaguely remembered having placed it in a drawer. I ransacked the kitchen before concluding logically that I would have put it in my desk. Of course.
But during the brief walk from my kitchen to my office, I found myself standing staring into a closet upstairs without knowing how I got there. There is now a blank space between remembering the desk and realizing I was now standing, confused, upstairs in what had been my mother’s bedroom.
Why was I standing in a trance in my dead mother’s bedroom? Fucking idiot. This, I find, is what happens when systems fail unexpectedly—I lash out, mostly at myself. And then I noticed a stack of photo albums and several shoe boxes on a closet shelf above the hangers.
A more superstitious person might have been inclined to think that she had, somehow, led me there. I dismissed the idea. I shut the closet door, turned to leave. Stopped.
I’d once spent an afternoon snooping in here at a time before the past had any meaning. I recall reading letters written by my mother’s friends. Unrevealing letters to my mother from my father. But now I also remembered an old newspaper clipping among the letters.
I rummaged through the shoe boxes until I found it. There was my father’s name above a larger headline: acquittal in assault.
My father had assaulted someone. This was explicit. But whom? The victim’s name had been omitted from the story because my father’s lawyer had argued it could reveal the identity of an innocent third party. A minor.
I recognized the lawyer’s name—he was long deceased. The judge had heard his arguments in camera and had ultimately directed the jurors to return a verdict of not guilty.
I sat down on the bed, mystified.
Who was the innocent third party?
The minor?
For God’s sake, idiot, just face it.
My cellphone was ringing. I wanted to ignore it, but I pulled it out of my pocket. Allan’s number.
–Allan’s had another stroke, Peggy said when I answered.
It was as if I had been expecting it.
Annie was waiting at the usual place, in the usual Mercedes. She popped the trunk from inside the car. I heaved two heavy suitcases in, closed the lid.
–A two-bag trip. Excellent, she said when I climbed in.
–We’ll see, I said. It’s mostly files and books.
She focused on the surrounding traffic, smoothly executing perilous manoeuvres in the airport chaos. She swore softly.
–Fucking limos.
–They think you’re one of them, I said.
A brief, tight smile. And then we were quiet until we were on the teeming southbound freeway.
–I’ll take you straight to Peggy’s, she said.
–How is he?
–Not good. I think you’ll be staying there for a few days, at least until we can make a more permanent arrangement.
–Permanent?
–I mean longer term. Nothing’s permanent.
–What about the condo?
–I think it’s better all around if you’re at Peggy’s.
I turned my attention to the terrifying traffic, too fast, too close, too reckless. There was something in her tone. Something about where I was staying. Peggy’s doing?
–So how’s Peggy coping?
–Peggy always copes.
–I thought I’d be staying with you…
–We can talk about it later.
A roaring eighteen-wheeler passed us on the inside. After the noise died down, I asked,
–So, how bad was this stroke?
–More like a series of mini-strokes, she said. They call them transient something. TIAs. He’s been online, reading up.
–If he’s doing online research, it can’t be all that bad.
–He says it’s all about old football injuries. He thinks he’s getting better.
–I thought concussion damage was permanent.
–Try telling him that.
Then we were on the side streets in a neighbourhood I recognized. The trees were stripped for winter.
–What about you, Annie? Is everything okay with you?
She laughed and reached for my hand.
–Peachy. I’m peachy.
I held her hand until she took it back.
Annie parked and walked me and my suitcases to the door, where Peggy was waiting. She hugged me and kissed Annie’s cheek. I found that odd for them, the cheek kissing.
–Allan’s napping. Can you stay for coffee, Annie?
She stayed, but left her coat on. But the conversation had hardly passed the chit-chat stage when she abruptly put her cup down, stood and said she had to run.
–What’s with Annie? I asked when she was gone.
Peggy studied me for what felt like a long time.
–You two haven’t talked.
–Not really. Just in the car.
She stood, picked up my cup.
–How about some hot?
–Sure.
After she came back and had handed me my coffee, she sat and tucked her legs underneath herself. She studied her cup for a while, then looked up at me and said,
–Annie’s seeing someone.
I let the information register. It added up, explained the silences and stiffness. The only real question in my mind was why I was feeling so indifferent.
–Anybody I know?
–I have my suspicions.
–You two don’t talk?
–Not about that. It might be nothing more than some new friendship. She’s a very platonic individual. Unlike her sister. But she’s been lonely.
I nodded. Her phone rang.
–Hey. You’re awake. Byron’s here.
Allan was in his hospital bed, still half-asleep. It seemed like he stared at me for maybe fifteen seconds before he recognized me. Then he waved a hand, and struggled up onto an elbow. I caught a distressing whiff of urine—unmistakable—and disinfectant.
–Help me out of here, he said.
–Are you sure?
–Yes, I’m sure.
We stumbled to his desk, where I lowered him into his chair. I sat across from him and we just stared at one another. His face was bonier, unshaven. Frosted whiskers, except on the upper lip, where there was the beginning of a dark moustache.
–You’re looking good, I said.
He nodded. Picked up a pen.
–To what do I owe the honour?
–I hear you had another little episode?
–Who said that?
–You’ve obviously bounced back.
–You’re not believing the horseshit about dementia and whatever. Old football stuff is all it is.
He stared off toward some distant corner of the room. Outside street sounds filled the silence. A passing car. A barking dog.
–I guess I’ll be staying here for a while this time, if that’s okay, I said.
–That’ll be great. We can talk. Maybe we can go out.
–If you’re up to it.
–I’m up for anything.
–I was hoping to stay at Annie’s, but…
I paused, watching his expression.
–I hear she’s got a boyfriend, I said finally.
–No big deal, right? We’re all grown-ups.
He shrugged.
–Peggy doesn’t seem to know much about him, I said.
–Peggy knows.
–Do you?
–It’s a Russian, I think.
–A Russian.
–Someone she encountered at meetings who was working for the partners. But don’t hold me to that. I don’t know for sure.
I fished my cellphone from an inside jacket pocket. Clicked on Gallery, scrolled through photographs. Stopped on one. Passed the phone to Allan.
–Him, maybe?
–Could be. What’s this from?
–Last summer, before your stroke. A meeting. You were there.
He grimaced.
–The memory isn’t great, he said. Fucking football. If I knew then what I know now.
I studied the photograph. A strong face. Eyes full of curiosity. He had a solid hairline, clipped short, with a widow’s peak. He was maybe in his mid-forties. Young compared to us, compared to Annie. But Annie and her sister never looked their age. Never seemed their age.
Allan took the phone again, studied the image a little longer.
–What made you photograph this fella?
–I was curious. He was the one guy who didn’t introduce himself when we went around the table. Made me wonder. Then I heard him speaking Russian. So, when you said a Russian, I just guessed.
–Nick.
–His name is Nick?
–Nick something. I can’t keep their names straight. Annie’s been dealing with him. If you’re worried, just say the word. I can get rid of him.
He tried to snap his fingers, but they just rubbed together.
–I’m not worried about anybody.
–How long are you around for?
–As long as needed.
He held his hand out. It was trembling. I grasped it.
–Someday soon, I’d like to get out of here. Maybe have a pint somewhere. Like the old days. We’re overdue…
–Any time, I said.
The light was on in Peggy’s room. I rapped gently on the door frame, looked in. She was in bed, wearing a high-necked nightgown, reading glasses on her nose. She put her book down. Patted the bed beside the book.
–Sit.
I sat. She rubbed my back.
–You’re okay?
–Women ask that a lot. I often wonder if they really want to know.
–Look at me.
I swivelled so that I was facing her. She removed the glasses, placed them on a bedside table. She squirmed away, toward the far side of the bed, making room.
–Lie down, she instructed. And I did.
–Do you really think he has dementia?
–There isn’t any doubt. He has very clear moments, then his concentration goes and it’s like he isn’t there at all.
–What would happen if we both came down with it?
–You and me?
–Him and me.
–What are the odds of that?
She laughed.
–It’s in my genes, I said.
–Sure. Like cancer. We all have it in the genes. We have all kinds of garbage in our genes. We keep our fingers crossed. It’s all we can do.
She kissed me lightly on the lips.
–Now go to bed. You know where your room is. I’m glad you’re here.
I kissed her back, emphatically.
–He says he’d like to go out.
–Good luck with that.
–Is he able?
–Physically, yes. We have a van, you know. But he’s refused to even look at it.
–How much did you know about the Russian?
She did a rather theatrical double take, but the expression on her face was cagey. She could have been a lawyer.
–What Russian?
–Never mind.
Allan was shaved, groomed, dressed for the world, sitting at his desk. He was cheerful. He banged his cane on the floor.
–Let’s rock and roll.
He struggled to his feet.
–There’s a nice little place not far away called Allen’s. Named after a joint I used to go to in New York. How about that? I was a regular back when I was mobile.
We took the van.
He insisted on a booth and it was a struggle to get him settled. A waiter brought us menus then resumed his conversation with the bartender. It was mid-afternoon and the place was almost deserted.
–They don’t remember me, Allan said.
–When were you last in here?
–Just before that golf game, last summer. I was ten feet tall then. They’d jump to attention when I came through the door. How far did we get with that game?
–Tee on the tenth hole, I said.
–Right. I remember now. For a long time I convinced myself that we’d be going back to finish it someday. That isn’t going to happen.
I picked up a menu. Opened it.
–Let’s have a pint and a talk before we order. We can talk here, he said.
–We can’t at the house?
–The wives are all over me. Especially Peggy. You’ve seen it. Maybe they’re just looking after me. Or. Well. They’re clever women. Who the fuck knows?
The waiter came back. We ordered pints of beer.
–How much have they told you about my plans?
–Just that you want to start giving stuff away.
–That’s one way of looking at it. I’m actually creating a big fund. You guys will manage it. It will offer possibilities for worthy folks who otherwise won’t get to do stuff the way we did. It’s all about money now. The world is different.
–That’s admirable.
–Don’t mock.
–I’m not. But do you really want the attention this will draw?
–You know and I know I won’t be around by then.
–Still, it will be a story. A mystery story. Questions about the mystery man and his mystery money.
–You guys are smart enough to figure it out.
–For example, the apartment building.
–The old people.
–That’s in the works now, I gather. You’ll still be around when you give that piece of real estate to the tenants.
–So what?
–How long do you think it will be before a reporter starts asking questions about the knight in shining armour? I gather these tenants are well-off and well-connected, the kind of people who get listened to.
–So, we just tell the reporter to fuck off.
–Not that simple.
–Baloney.
He frowned and sipped his beer.
–I’ll leave it up to you, he said.
–I’ll try to make it happen, but discreetly. So, the next phase is what?
–Downsizing.
–Decluttering.
He laughed.
–Clutter. Good word. Look, we had to take some chances to accommodate a significant infusion of cash. So we found people who had a similar requirement and formed a temporary partnership.
–The requirement being?
–Don’t play dumb, Byron. In the real world there are many sensible reasons for churning money. The cleanest way is through property. You know that.
–Wash, spin, rinse. Repeat.
He rolled his eyes, shook his head and looked away.
–Sometimes I wonder about you, Byron.
–So you’re saying we’ve completed that phase. When did that happen?
–Recently. I kept you out of it for your own good. Now that it doesn’t matter, I was able to do the talking for myself. Let’s just say there’s a lot of money that has been refreshed.
–That’s a change, I said.
–What is?
–You front and centre. It’s been quite a long time since you’ve been you. How did that feel?
He smiled, wistfully, I thought.
–They’ll never catch me now. The Great Chase. Remember that?
I nodded, and said, I thought you hated that name?
–The Great Chase? Yeah. I did. But it’s kind of funny now. Who ever thought that kicking the bucket might be fun?
–Fuck off, Allan. Cut the morbid shit.
–Face facts, Byron. That’s your job.
–Okay. Now what?
–Most of the money in the States has been liberated from that swamp.
I took the USB drive from my pocket and held it up. He nodded.
–Good. I was afraid you’d lost it.
Then he was digging impatiently through his own pockets.
–What you’re trying to find is always in the last place you look.
–That makes sense, I said, teasing. But I noticed a quick flash of anger in his eyes.
–You people think I’m…aha, there it is.
He held up another thumb drive.
–I might be slow, but I’m not stupid. Okay?
–Okay, I said. What’s on that one?
–This will help when the time comes.
He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Picked up the glass of beer.
–If anything happens, it will be easy enough for you to find in my desk. You’ll need it before you can do anything with the one you have.
–Which is what?
–You know as well as I do.
–Bank accounts.
–Correct. The thing I have here in my pocket will tell you what bank they’re in. It might take a trip to another part of the world. But it’ll be a nice trip. Plan to make it in the winter. It’ll be somewhere warm.
–How much have you told our wives?
–I’ve told them nothing.
–They think you don’t trust them.
–They have that right.
–You mean they’re correct in their assumption, or you don’t care what they think?
–Both.
The waiter was hovering. Allan waved him away.
–Listen. They will try to keep the business going. They’ll have control of what’s still out there. But I want everything wound up. Liquidated. And I want some good to come from all the money. As simple as that. They have different ideas.
–What is still out there?
–A few million here and there. Equity in some stuff I haven’t managed to get rid of.
–The rest?
–It’s in your pocket.
–How much is in my pocket?
He smiled. Patted his own pocket.
–You’ll know when you need to know.
He took another sip of his beer, then leaned back. I noticed that he hadn’t lost the habit of regularly scanning a room, who comes in, who goes out. Who’s talking, who’s listening.
–Money is a queer thing, Byron. I’ve always figured the hardest word in the English language is “enough.” It’s a word that makes people crazy when it comes to money. What’s enough, eh?
He sighed, drank deeply from the glass, picked up his menu.
–We should eat something.
–So, how much do you know about Nick, this Russian?
–The limo driver.
–The what?
–I didn’t tell you that? He’s nobody. Speaks the language is all, so they take him with them everywhere they go. He runs a high-class livery service for the wealthy. Works out of the casino.
–In Toronto.
–East of Toronto.
–A casino.
–I love casinos. One of the most important financial institutions in the system, Byron. Think of a stock exchange that lets ordinary people on the floor.
–So, this Nick is the guy who is seeing Annie.
–I didn’t say that. But you just say the word and I’ll have the nuts cut right off of him.
He wasn’t smiling when he said it.
He picked up the tab. He paid cash, carefully counting out nearly two hundred dollars. Dropped a forty-dollar tip. He scanned the bill, folded it and put it in a bulging wallet. Then he just stared at me.
–We might not be doing this again, he said.
–Don’t be so sure.
–I need to know something.
–Sure.
He looked away from me, scanned the room again. Sighed deeply.
–Peggy. You’ll take care of her, right?
–I’m not sure Peggy needs…
–Listen to me.
He reached across the table, caught my wrist.
–Nothing bad can happen to her, right? No matter what went down in the past, and what I think now, she always stuck by me. You look out for her.
He held my wrist. He held my eyes. And I suddenly knew what it was like to be threatened by my dearest friend.