

## A MEMBER OF THE AUDIENCE

### Jerry McIlroy

Copyright 2018 Jerry McIlroy

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

Old men all live with a sense of failure.

" _Finally, it all comes to nothing." J.L._

### Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 1

James Last awoke at seven a.m. as he did almost every morning, he awoke from habit, without the aid of an alarm clock and rose quickly from his bed. His wife, Jennifer, in the same bed, didn't stir, yet he gently patted her arm as if to tell her not to get up on his account, something she had not done for many years. He stretched and rubbed his shoulders then went to the bathroom. When he came out he put on a light sweater and pants but no shoes nor socks. He went downstairs to the kitchen.

It was a large kitchen, coloured mainly in blue and white with natural wood finishes, stainless steel and glistening tiles, it had every sort of epicurean gadget or implement, each precisely stored; so unlike the remembered messiness of his childhood kitchen. While he waited for the coffee to brew James drank a glass of orange juice. Coffee made he took a large mug of coffee, black, into the back yard.

Although there was a shaded deck with tables and chairs, and the chairs were quite comfortable, James preferred to sit in a large wooden chair positioned in the center of the yard facing away from the house, It was the mildest of eccentricities, in fact James never considered it eccentric, he simply felt more comfortable there. It did however annoy Jennifer, if only slightly, it was "a little odd", and of course the neighbours might wonder, not that she particularly liked the neighbours but there were, always, appearances to be kept up.

The air still held the evening's chill and the grass, shiny with morning dew, was cold and wet beneath his feet. He closed his eyes and thought of the day before him. He would remember to pick up some flowers for Denise, a nice day for the park, no real plan, just see Denise. He inhaled deeply, the clean, fresh air was spiced with the aroma of coffee and of damp cedar from the bushes along the back of the yard.

The yard included a comparatively new two car garage, (they had replaced the old one five years before), a large leafy elm tree that offered welcome shade in the hot summer months, and flower beds that bordered the yard. When they purchased the house, many years ago, there had been several flower beds in the yard, filled with many types of flowers, but these had quickly been replaced with only a border of low maintenance plants and shrubs. Neither he nor Jennifer cared much for gardening,

It was an early summer Sunday morning and the comfortable suburban neighbourhood was quiet, without the sound of automobiles or power mowers or any human activity. The weather forecast had been for a warm sunny day and the morning sky was cloudless.

Usually, for James, a pleasant morning such as this would lift his spirits but there were times when the same kind of day would make him feel slightly depressed and anxious, the beauty of the day mocking him he thought, although in just what way he wasn't sure, something about mortality perhaps. He had reached that age where he often thought of his own mortality. How could he not? The deaths of acquaintances, of celebrities, was a constant reminder. This day however, did not depress him in the least. He felt relaxed and easy, thinking vague thoughts while he sipped his coffee. He tried to recall a joke he had heard, a clever joke that he would tell Denise, something about religion, but he couldn't remember it

A little later he went into the house, set his empty coffee mug in the sink and turned off the kitchen light. For an instant, as he stood in the shadow filled dimness of the house, it seemed to him that the heavy, still air carried with it a faint feeling of hostility. It was a curious, fleeting, sensation and while it did not exactly make him shutter he did raise his eyebrows and glance quickly about as if startled.

Upstairs Jennifer still slept. The bedroom air was stale and motionless with a hint of perfume. He glanced at her dressing table covered with creams and ointments, make-up and perfumes. He imagined her sitting there, carefully "putting on her face", as she liked to say. He put on shoes and socks and quietly left for his morning walk, another ritual.

He walked quickly, again from habit for he was in no particular hurry. He saw only one other person, an elderly lady, white haired with a cane, who stood motionless beside her front door.

Past the houses, solid and secretive, well kept up, painted and maintained, of different sizes, shapes, and styles, some set forward, some back, but all similar in a way, as if each had been given the same stamp of approval, as if each met some particular set of requirements. The lawns were precise; flowers, trees, and shrubs were neat and well ordered. Glendon Heights was considered a desirable area in which to live and there was rarely a house for sale within its boundaries. Property values increased a little every year.

For a long time Jennifer had been convinced that James was having an affair and once, two years earlier, she had followed him when he went out. It had been one of those times when he had said, "I'm going out for a bit.", he always used the same phrase, "I'm going out for a bit.", and she had followed him to the shopping mall. There he had gone into the movie theatre.

Thinking that he must be meeting someone inside she had waited until the movie finished. While she waited she drank tea and smoked cigarettes, she smoked then, and found herself, on top of other confused feelings, caught up in the excitement of what she was doing. She found it exciting to observe someone without their knowing and she thought that people who spied for a living; private detectives, secret agents and the like, must truly enjoy their work

Almost as much as she was angry she was curious; curious to see whom it was that James would leave the theatre with. Would it be someone she knew or a stranger, someone young and pretty, old and unattractive, or something in between? She was not sure whether or not to confront them as they left the theatre; she relished the idea of seeing him squirm, visualizing his awkwardness, his loss of words, and of course the quiet panic on "her" face, whatever face it might be, but then again it might be better to do it at home where she felt more in control. Neither turned out to be the case for James left the theatre as he had entered it, alone.

When she arrived home he was there, lying on the living room floor with his earphones on listening to his music. She stood in the kitchen and considered, for the thousandth time, whether or not to accuse him, no, not accuse him for she had no proof, calmly ask him. If he said no it would not satisfy her and what if he said yes? He was such a stranger now, so vague and reclusive. Somehow she had let him slip away, but it had happened so slowly, so quietly, like the darkening of dusk, that she had not been aware. She wished he had never taken the early retirement. If he did say yes, he was having an affair, if he admitted it, there would be no pleas for forgiveness, she knew that. He would ask her if she wanted him to move out and then what would she do? It would all be put on her, she would say no, that he just had to promise not to see this other woman again, and what if he said he couldn't do that then what would she do? It would all be put on her, just like everything else. He would not even apologize, he would blink and mumble and discuss it as calmly as if it was the purchase of a new power mower.

She rather assumed it would be someone she knew so she studied her female friends closely, as if they might give something away, especially those who were known to sleep around a little. Then she thought it would be more like James to pick someone who didn't sleep around and that widened the field considerably.

When they went to social functions together, which was not often and usually at the club, she spent a good deal of time watching James; how he interacted with the women and how they interacted with him, looking for that special glance, the discreet signal, the whispered phrase, but there was nothing. It made the social functions much less enjoyable than they once had been. She even went through his pockets from time to time as if she might find a lipstick smudged handkerchief, a love note, something. She was always alert for the scent of an alien perfume, the smell of another woman's body.

It was a strain but for the most part she handled it adequately with no more than a natural amount of bitterness, anger, and resentment. At times she would tell herself that despite how sure she felt, she had no facts, no hard evidence, so it was not an absolute certainty, but that changed nothing. Watching and searching became second nature and her belief in his betrayal was always with her, and that belief in his betrayal brought with it its own special kind of loneliness.

Even the way he listened to his damn music, eyes closed, completely absorbed, had become an irritation. She wished she had never asked him to buy the earphones. She hated his music but the silence when he listened was even worse, it allowed him to step completely outside and be in a world of his own. She had even come to resent the teenagers in the mall with their little gadgets and tiny earphones humming to themselves. Why would a grown man, a man in his fifties for heaven's sake, lie on the carpet to listen to music? Once upon a time, in the early days of their marriage, he had liked to make love to her on the carpet, something at the time she had found rather erotic, but that was a long time ago and not something she remembered as she went to bed. She never confronted him and she never followed him again.

When James returned from his walk he went again, with another mug of coffee, to his chair in the back yard. The sun was higher now and the chill in the air was gone. Jennifer would stay in bed until ten or ten-thirty, then they would have breakfast together. Sunday was golf day, all day. She would have dinner at the club then drinks and gossip afterwords. Thursday night was her bridge night, aerobics were on Tuesday night, then there was the community board she sat on and the volunteer work. An active life, he thought, perhaps that was why she slept so late. He had always been an early riser, someone who enjoyed the morning.

At breakfast Jennifer had toast and tea, James had two soft boiled eggs, toast and coffee. Jennifer chatted. She chatted mostly about the neighbours, the club, and the house. "The grass needs doing." she said.

James expression was immediately quizzical as if for a second he did not know what grass she might be referring to or what should be done to it, but he sipped his coffee and said. "Sure."

Jennifer continued chatting, thinking that probably he would not remember about the grass and if he did he would simply hire one of the local boys to do it and he would not supervise the work nor even check on it afterwords so the grass was never done properly. "I have to pick up Louise, she's in another crisis situation, at least for her its a crisis. That man of hers, you'd think she would have learned by now, but she has these expectations."

"Does she? What sort of expectations?"

Jennifer stopped short as if unaware she had spoken aloud. She had no intention of discussing Louise's marital problems, "Oh, you know Louise.", she said quickly

As a matter of fact, James thought, he hardly knew Louise at all but he chose not to press the point, and instead continued to half listen as Jennifer chatted on about the club members and the day's match. Jennifer knew James had little or no interest in the social goings-on at the club but she preferred talking to silence.

When she had gone James listened to music and read until noon, then he made himself a light lunch and when he had finished eating he washed the breakfast and lunch dishes. Then he shaved, brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, and drove into town.

Chapter 2

James Last was fifty-five years old and had been retired for four years, he had been able to take an early retirement because the company, of which he was the president and co-owner with his wife, had been purchased by a large corporation. The company, founded by his father-in-law was a moderately prosperous one that sold office equipment and supplies. James, as had been expected went to work in the company after marrying Jennifer. When his father turned the business over to him James ran it well if not spectacularly. He always managed to show a decent profit in a field that was very competitive.

By marrying Jennifer, an only child, he had made his life financially easier and secure. He knew this would be the case and it had influenced his decision to marry her. It had been an influence but not the main reason and in fact she had pursued him more aggressively than he her. It would not be fair to call him an opportunist, only that he took the line of least resistance, to always find the easy road. James was aware of this trait; it was a weakness he often thought about, and it made him feel a little ashamed and less, less than what he might have been, or should have been. It had stifled him, kept him within careful borders, he thought. He disliked it, this trait or weakness, but it was a bad habit he was unable to change.

He now stood in the wrought iron and varnished wood gateway to the park and hesitated a moment before entering. A small bouquet of flowers was held awkwardly in front of him. He could see Denise in her tan jacket and navy blue skirt, always early, always seated on the same bench. Not far from where she sat two boys tossed a Frisbee back and forth.

He walked slowly up the path. As he approached she turned her head toward the sound of his footsteps on the gravel. "Hi there." he said.

"James." She kept her head turned toward him, smiling. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the lips. She stood up and embraced him then ran the tips of her fingers over his face. They sat down and he gave her the flowers which she held against her face for a moment. They began to talk and she took his hand, holding it tightly and sometimes pressing it to her thigh.

They had been lovers for eight years Four years earlier she had been in a car accident that left her blind and with metal pins in her legs. She had never completely regained her strength. She tired easily and was often in great pain.

As he usually did he offered a description of what he saw. "A couple of kids playing Frisbee, you must have heard them, twelve or thirteen I guess, both with long hair, skillful of course so they play catch easily and casually, no wasted motion, sort of an awkward grace, but their hearts aren't in it, kind of bored. I think they'll stop soon then sit down on the grass together, goof around, make a few stupid jokes then head off at breakneck speed on their bikes in search of... in search of some more interesting place to put their energy. There's a couple on a bench, late twenties, early thirties, both blonde, maybe related, not lovers, no, I think not, they sit too far apart and not far enough for lovers who have quarrelled, he sprawls, seems pleased with himself, she leans forward a little, kind of huddled within herself, she talks without looking at him and she makes funny little jerky motions with her hands. Quite far away two men are suntanning, on a yellow blanket, to hell with skin cancer we shall be bronzed and golden. And here comes a man walking his dog, he's coming our way, along the walk, dog owner with a conscience, dog on leash and he just dropped a plastic bag containing I presume, dog droppings, into a trash can. I don't know breeds of dogs; medium size, long hair, reddish brown, some sort of retriever maybe, should be out swimming for ducks, but anyway the man looks grim, mad, walking briskly, definitely angry, you know when he passed close by he deliberately looked away in case we said good afternoon or even nodded to him, very grim, not just a bad day, the expression is too set, he wears it ll the time. So if he's unhappy with the dog, walking the dog, why is he doing it?

"It might be his wife's dog."

"It might be and he has to walk it, he feels bullied and put upon, the dog is a symbol, picking up after it."

"Or its his dog and his wife hates it. She hates it and he doesn't even like it but he wont get rid of it because that would be a victory for her and so he continues to walk the dog until the dog or he, or she, die of old age.

"Hmmm. Maybe there is no wife, maybe he is all alone and bought the dog for company, thinking it would... would somehow help, but the dog hasn't lived up to expectations."

"So distressing, such bad scenarios today. Are there no young lovers strolling hand in hand, pledging undying love?"

"No. I see no lovers at all, young or old, maybe the two men suntanning, can't tell. I could invent a couple for you.?

"No, that's all right. We just might be the only lovers in the park today."

After an hour or so they left the park, walking slowly, arm in arm, along the quiet residential streets to her apartment. He carried her jacket for her while she held the flowers in one hand, often touching them to her face while she talked of a friend, an old friend who had visited her the day before.

Suddenly there was a loud fierce barking and a dog in a fenced in yard charged toward them. Barking and snarling it hurled itself against the fence. He felt her start, felt the panic in her body. "Its all right." he said quickly putting his arm around her shoulder. "Its fenced in." He could feel her trembling.

Angrily he turned to the dog and saw there was a man and a woman sitting on the house steps drinking coffee. "Why don't you shut your God-damned dog up?" he yelled.

The couple said nothing but the woman slowly raised one hand with the middle finger extended.

"God-damned people and their God-damned dogs. They let them bark at everyone, they let them shit all over the sidewalks."

"Its all right," she said, calming him, "I was just surprised, I don't usually come this way. I'm okay." She gave his arm a squeeze and continued to talk of the friend, and again put the flowers to her face and smiled.

He forced himself to be calm, talking, even laughing a little with her but the anger did not leave him for a long time, it stayed like a small hard knot in the pit of his stomach. He thought vague thoughts of poisoned meat.

In the kitchen of her small apartment they ate olives, cheese and crackers, pasta salad, and sipped wine. As always she asked after his wife and children and as always he replied briefly and perfunctory. They talked a little of world news, of local news, of books and films. Of this and that. He never remembered the joke he wanted to tell her.

Later they lay together on her bed, he on his back, she on her side curled against him, her head against his shoulder, her arm laying casually upon his chest. He read to her; the first chapter of a book he had enjoyed, then the poetry, mostly her favourites; Yeats and Auden, that she never seemed to tire of.

They began their love making with the practised ease and familiar rhythms of long time lovers. They undressed, he deliberately slowly, as always, so that she was in bed waiting for him.

Afterwords they lay together without talking for a long time, curled together, his face against the back of her neck. He kissed her shoulder and the little bumps of her spine. The taste and smell of her skin and the slow rhythm of her breathing filled him with tenderness.

When she spoke her voice was soft and distant as if only thinking aloud; to him it carried a hint of sadness. "I always liked to be in bed first, so I could see you, see you naked, coming to my bed." She shifted her body, straightening her legs. "But you know that of course, by now you must know everything there is to know about me."

"No, oh no. Never." He pressed himself to her frail back eyes pressed tightly closed. "Never." he said again.

Chapter 3

When James returned to the house it was almost ten o-clock. The house was empty. He walked from room to room, flicking on light switches, turning on all the lights, moving through the quiet, sombre house, drinking a glass of juice, looking half-heartedly for a book to read, not seeing the house but feeling its solid presence; pieces of wood and steel, concrete, solidly embedded in the ground. He wished he was tired enough to sleep,

She tired so easily, and the pain, he could tell as soon as it began, "You should go now, please." "Let me stay." "No. I'll take my pills, just get me a glass of water, please. Please." His love could not ease her pain, nor his will, the silent prayer to give him her pain made no difference, Love conquers all. Not so, it conquers nothing. It only sits and watches, another spectator. Ease would come from a capsule, not from tenderness or caring or love.

Jennifer came home to find him sitting in the living room, reading. He smiled a soft hello to her. Of course he had not done anything about the grass. She went into the kitchen and started to make tea then changed her mind and made herself a drink, a gin and tonic. At least he wasn't listening to his damn music. She asked him if he would like a drink.

"Thank you, yes, that would be nice."

She had had an affair shortly after being convinced that James was having one. It was a way of getting even and the only time she was ever unfaithful. The man was a man from the club, she had known both him and his wife casually for three or four years. He was a handsome man who had made several passes at her in the past. After the initial excitement she had found him boring. He was not interested in her or even in the sex, he was only interested in having an affair. She ended it rather quickly and the man had not been overly disturbed by its ending. They both said the usual lies then went their separate ways. She still saw the man and his wife at the club occasionally, and they chatted but nothing else ever happened. Life went on as if nothing had happened

On the whole it had been a disappointing adventure and to make it worse she felt guilty when she thought about her children and the man's wife and sometimes, illogically about James. There were times she wanted to tell him about it, partly to hurt him, to show him, but partly too, to share the experience, to trivialize it, even thinking that it might somehow bring them closer. "What a silly, pompous bore he was." she wanted to say. "what a terrible lover, what a fool, what a complete fool." But she said nothing.

Silently she handed James his drink then went to sit on the sofa, feeling a deep and unaccustomed sadness. James watched her expectantly waiting for her to speak and when she did not he asked, "How was your day?"

"Oh, the usual, good game, bad gossip." She stared at her drink, moving the glass in small circular motions. "How about you? How was your day?"

"Quiet. Nothing much, read a lot." He sensed her mood and wanted to say something to comfort her or cheer her but could not find the words. He waited, he did not go back to his reading. She looked at him for a few seconds, her gaze distracted, then said, so softly that he hardly heard her that she would watch television.

James went back to his reading and Jennifer watched television. They sipped their drinks. Once when James looked over to her Jennifer was watching an inane situation comedy, leaning forward, staring at the screen with an intense expression, her jaw set and her eyes half squinting.

"Why don't we go to bed?" James asked softly.

Her gaze stayed on the television and for a few seconds he thought she had not heard him but then she said, without looking at him. "No, you go ahead, I'll be up later." She did not want his comfort.

She stayed for a long time, watching television without once changing the channel. She waited to be sure he would be asleep when she went to bed. She did not want him to touch her. It is not my fault, she thought, it is not my fault.

Chapter 4

Because the children, Robert and Jane, were coming for Sunday dinner Jennifer had gone to great trouble to prepare the meal, as she always did when the children came. She had planned thoughtfully, shopped knowingly, and cooked perfectly. These family dinners were a source of pride for her and she relished the compliments that were always given. Robert, the eldest at thirty-one was married, both he and his wife had careers but they planned to start a family in two or three years. Robert's wife, Melanie was unable to be present due to a last minute work deadline. Robert's sister, Jane, was two years younger and also had a career but no husband. Instead she went painfully from one short lived relationship to another.

Dinner got off to a slow and awkward start. As was often the case Jane was in an edgy and irritable mood, anxious, as if waiting for an important phone call, as if there were all sorts of dramatic and important events happening in her life and she could not wait to get back to them. Her mother, however, using her social and motherly skills always managed to change the atmosphere. With talk of childhood friends, a little golf club gossip and clever questions she was generally able to set and maintain the proper tone.

James admired this quality of hers; the ability to facilitate, to find common ground and to keep things going at a smooth and comfortable level. He knew he was poor at talking with his children and that he seemed distant to them. On a one-to-one basis the children found it easier to talk to their mother and so James usually learned of their day to day activities not from them but from his wife.

During the first years of their marriage Jennifer had phoned her mother almost every day, even when one or the other was away on vacation, but as the children grew and she more fully adopted the position of mother the calls became less frequent. She phoned her children regularly whereas James almost never phoned them. James knew that as his children had moved into adulthood a distance between he and them had emerged and grown, that some essential part of what had been before had been lost. He sometimes tried to reach out to them in an attempt to recapture that vague, intimate something, something that no longer existed, and so of course he was never successful.

The dinner assumed a long ago established structure, it began with everyone working toward getting Jane comfortable and settled, like a demanding elderly matron in her favourite chair. Money, sex, or difficulty in personal relationships were never discussed at these times, not even when, on this night, Robert's wife was not present. These subjects could only be raised in one-on-one situations, the gist of these one-on-one conversations always immediately relayed to the other family members.

At dinner, Jennifer, rather like the host of a television talk show, was bright and funny, always slightly exaggerated in her responses and in her expressions of concern and interest. Robert was thoughtful and tactful although sometimes critical of Jane in a fed up big brother way. Jane was erratic and extreme, always animated and dramatic, always a little louder than the rest. James was the least talkative; his role was that of a rather droll commentator, an amused observer. Each re-enforced the other's roles and each played their own with the intention, like an elaborate courtesy, of keeping things familiar and therefore easier. Even Jane rarely stepped over the long ago established boundaries.

The political stance of each was such that the reaction to any piece of political news could be predicted by the others. Robert was middle of the road, compassionate but for the most part disinterested. Jane was right of centre and James left. Jennifer tended to side with Jane, partly from middle class habit but mostly because she always tended to agree with Jane, sure that she was the brightest of the family members and the one most in need of a mother's loyalty. Usually any discussion of politics concerned itself with evaluation of political moves or events, with mild jokes at the other's political stance that carried no more feeling or intensity than the discussion of a book or a movie. On this particular evening however, Jane forced the conversation into a confrontation with her father. She leaned forward, face unsmiling, hands clasped together on the table in front of her. "There are too many people out there draining the system, living off our tax dollars, contributing nothing, they expect the government to give them everything, to take care of them. Those days are gone. We can't do it any more and we shouldn't, its made this country weak. Its a very competitive global economy now.

James argued back, his voice low and thoughtful, an argument that came almost from habit. The tax lawyers and the lobbyists, the relationship between government and industry, the growth of food banks, the homeless, the taxation structure, all of that. His arguments, accompanied by casual shrugs and smiles sounded off hand but underneath there was an edge of anger that the others were aware of. Jane could always do that lately, bring out a small, hard edge of anger in him. He tried never to let it show and it always disappeared quickly.

Jane stared intently at him, unsmiling, her voice low and determined. "Its no joke. The world has changed. We have to come to our senses. If we are going to survive we can't carry any dead weight. All that knee jerk liberalism and sloppy sentimentality you people championed did more harm than good. Freeloaders draining the system, crime, drugs. Why should people get a free ride on my tax dollar? Don't you believe people should work for a living?"

"Most people, I guess, but if the system really believed that it would provide jobs for them."

Jane persisted and James, while he didn't back down tried half halfheartedly to change the subject not wanting to grow angry and more interested in the cause of her anger toward him than in the tired political cliches each presented. As if wound up and unable to stop Jane kept on pushing until finally Robert interjected. "Come on, Jane, lighten up, its only politics and politicians."

Jennifer feeling that somehow Jane was being picked on and despite her aggressiveness was close to tears came to her defence. "James, you are being obstinate and old fashioned. The world has changed and you have to face it."

James looked down at the table his hand slowly turning the crystal wine glass. "Not changing, not changing at all, I'm afraid. Anyway let us change. Let us change the subject, at least. Robert's right, its only politics." he sipped his wine. "Only politics, anyway its all academic to us. We are a nice middle class family. We've never missed a meal, not even a vacation. What do we know about it? We're just a nice middle class family."

Jane had not moved, her body still tense, her voice had the ring of challenge in it. "And are we supposed to feel guilty about that?"

"Maybe, maybe." He laughed suddenly. "Hey, why not?"

Jennifer spoke; her voice was just a shade louder than usual but it carried an unmistakable tone of command. "That's enough politics for one night, more than enough, please. I just discovered that we're out of cream for the coffee. Robert would you be a dear and pick some up for me?"

"Sure." Robert said quickly. "Hey Dad, you want to come for a ride. We'll check out the mall?" The invitation was meant to sound spontaneous but to James, knowing his son, it was anything but. He smiled at his son. Robert is so poor at subterfuge, he thought, and how lovable that is. Even as a child had been so direct and honest that it often surprised and always touched his father.

Robert drove and tunelessly hummed a tune. Then with his usual abruptness he said. "Mother's worried about you. I guess she thinks you're becoming kind of a recluse. Maybe you should, I don't know, find a hobby or a pastime or something. Something to keep you occupied." James felt an immediate flash of irritation. It always upset him when people talked about him behind his back whatever their intentions. He saw himself as some old codger being driven off to the nursing home because his family, who worried about him, thought it best. Robert sighed. "Anyhow Mom asked me to mention it. She worries about you."

"Kind of a father and son talk, eh?"

Robert would not be kidded out of it until he had performed his duty. "We all thought that when you left the company maybe you'd do a little consulting work, maybe volunteer work, or take some university courses. You were such a brilliant student it must have meant a lot to you."

"That's family mythology. I was never a brilliant student, only above average, and only because I bust my ass. Maybe the only time I ever bust my ass at anything. It meant something to me once but no more. Anyway the point is I am fine, just fine. I am just how I want to be. How about you? How is everything going?"

"Me? Oh, good." He smiled, glad his duty was completed. "The job is okay, getting better actually. Mel is enthusiastic about her new promotion, you know the way she is. The last few months we haven't had much time together, like this weekend, but we'll make up for it. We've rented a cottage for the weekend so that will be good, a little R. and R. Things are fine, its busy but we both like it that way." He grinned. "And that is how it is in the big, wide world."

James was not thinking of the big wide world. At that moment he was remembering when Robert was nine, the first summer of basketball when they had spent hours on the community club court shooting baskets and devising elaborate passing plays then walking home together in the dark summer night. "You should have come earlier, we could have gone out and shot some baskets. We haven't done that for a long time."

In fact they had not done that for more than ten years and in fact neither of them even had a basketball any more.

Chapter 5

When they returned from the mall James could see that Jane had been crying. He knew he should offer some kind of apology, he wanted to tell her that it was all so silly, that none of it mattered, that he loved her, that she was dear to him and he cared what happened to her, but he could say none of that and contented himself with a few self mocking remarks.

They ate their dessert and drank their coffee in a subdued mood. Jane, in a rather reflective manner talked of her job, and Robert chipped in with an anecdote about a sports figure. James contributed a long and mostly contrived story about how his old firm once obtained a large contract through a series of errors while Jennifer acted as emcee introducing and prompting each act. Eventually warmth and good humour were restored and there was not a visible ripple of the earlier antagonism.

When the children had gone and as James and Jennifer prepared for bed she said, "You should try to be more considerate, more understanding of Jane, she's going through a bad time."

James climbed into bed. He had a book to read but he set it on the night table and looked over to his wife who was seated at the dressing table, half turned toward him, her hands in her lap. She wore plum coloured lingerie and the lacy, short cut, night dress gave off a soft sheen of light reflected from the lamp on the dressing table. She said, "This man of hers, it doesn't seem to be working out. They don't... he sounds very selfish."

James sighed. "I thought he seemed rather nice. What's it been now, half a year?"

Why are you always so vague, she thought, you probably don't even remember his name. "It has been four months and it is falling if not already fallen apart. The point is she needs our support now. Both our support."

He said nothing, content to let her have her say. He remembered teaching Jane to paddle a canoe, she was ten or eleven, he thought, and they had spent almost the entire day on the lake, just the two of them, stopping only to make a fire and cook a meal. Her red hair was cut very short that summer and she wore cut off jeans and a yellow tee shirt under the red life jacket. He remembered how she had looked at him as they cooked and ate around the campfire. It had been such a happy experience but they had never repeated it and he didn't know why that was. He knew that he had not done enough with her on his own, without Jennifer The strange country of young girls, mysterious and delicate, and so difficult to understand, It had made him hesitant, uncertain, and, he supposed withdrawn. In some way he had failed her. Mothers and sons have an easier time of it than fathers and daughters, he thought.

Jennifer stared at her hands, aware without even looking at him that he was only half listening. "I know they aren't children any more and I know they have their own lives but they do come to us for support and understanding. We are a family and that is what families are all about. The children think you're not interested in them any more."

They never said that, he thought, staring at the ceiling, they would never say that, you only assume that. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, drank a glass of water then stared at his reflection in the mirror. Sometimes he liked what he saw, sometimes he didn't.

He returned and sat on the bed, waiting. There was a subtle change in the atmosphere. Jennifer continued to stare at her hands, clasped together in her lap. After a few seconds she smiled and said, "Oh well, it will all work out." to close the subject. She came over and stood closely to him, cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, "Jamie, Jamie, all night I've been thinking of making love to you." It was an obvious lie but a pleasing one to both of them.

She stood perfectly still, legs spread apart, all her muscles tensed, while his hands moved over her, sometimes softly caressing, sometimes gripping tightly He began to kiss her body through the silky fabric finally licking at her nipples, his mouth against the rough lace until with a little noise from the back of her throat she slipped down the shoulder strap and pushed her breast into his mouth.

When they were first married she had been inhibited to the point of prudishness regarding sex not even wanting him to see her naked. She had changed of course, gradually, and had come to enjoy sex very much. She liked using the words; fuck, suck, cock, cunt, finding the saying of them freeing and erotic, but she never used those words outside the bedroom. Over the past few years as she felt James slipping away her sexual intensity and energy had increased as if she might revive him, bring him back to her through sheer sexual power.

Afterwards they lay quietly together, her head against his chest, her arm across his stomach. Her arm felt uncomfortable but he neither moved it nor asked her to move it. He stroked her hair and asked. "What are you thinking?" It was a question he often asked at this time and to which she always responded with a lie. She murmured something about about how good he made her feel which was not the answer he wanted, or not completely, but he didn't pursue it. He was always curious about what she felt when making love but his questions, although she was used to them by now, always annoyed her.

There were times when she thought about the other woman and said to herself. I'll bet she doesn't do this as well as I do. This night however she was in a more reflective mood and was thinking that if James was to die suddenly or for some reason to stop providing sex she would take a lover, only this time she would find a good one. Even if she had to pay for it. Why not? Men do it all the time. Yes, even if she had to hire some young man to service her; she liked the sound of that, service her, and she had a picture of a brawny young man in tight jeans and tee shirt saying. "I'm here to service you." She liked the idea of being serviced,

Looking at her in the half light James thought that despite everything else these moments of tenderness still existed between the two of them. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and she snuggled against him as her breathing became deeper and more rhythmic.

Chapter 6

Three weeks later Denise died. She died quietly and peacefully in her sleep, James was told, although he would later wonder if that was true. How could they know? How could they know she had not awakened a moment before it happened, perhaps seized with pain, and realized and was filled with...with what? Terror, resignation...with what? Perhaps she had cried out, or she might have spoken calmly, said, "Well, this is it then." Those might have been her last words, alone in her still, dark, room.

The phone call came just before eleven on a Tuesday morning. Jennifer had just gone out. It was Mrs. Bredlove, Denise's friend and neighbour, who told him, and perhaps because James' only response was a soft. "No." she repeated the fact that death had come quietly and without pain. Then she said she would be making the arrangements--Denise had no family--and she would phone him again,

James said. "Thank you." and hung up the phone. He went outside and sat in his chair in the back yard, not moving, eyes squinting as if in intense concentration. He tried to absorb the fact of her death, not able to realize it completely. Her heart had worn out and so stopped beating, she no longer existed, completely gone, all that she had been, all the bits and pieces accumulated into her person, now gone, all that she once was now nothing. The finality of death.

Conscious all at once of the bright sun, the yard, and the neighbourhood noises he felt uneasy and out of place so he went back into the house. His body felt awkward and leaden. He was aware of his slow movements, of the beating of his own heart and the dryness of his throat, but it was all detached from him, as if he was only an observer. He would sit for a few minutes then wander aimlessly about the house, then sit again.

He had been with her three days earlier and later he would try to remember everything they had done, everything she had said.

He wanted to be some other place but did not know where that place might be and knew that no other place would be any better, any different from where he was. The doorbell chimed, chimed again, and then again. He lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, feeling drained, as if all his bones had been hollowed out and might soon dissolve, as if he would never again feel any emotion. He did not cry but knew he was on the verge of it, afraid that he might suddenly break down and weep uncontrollably.

The phone rang and he answered it thinking that it might be Mrs. Bredlove but it was friend of Jennifer's with a message about a meeting. He made a mumbled response and hung up the phone.

It was 12:45 and Jennifer had said she would be back about 2:00. He wanted to leave the house so as to delay having to talk to her but it was difficult for him to get moving, even when he got into his car he sat motionless for a long time as if lacking the energy or will to start the motor.

Downtown he wandered through the busy streets filled with office workers and shoppers; the noise and movement were a change from the stillness of the suburbs but still disconnected from him; the actions of the people not quite registering, even the noise muffled, like a visible but unwatched television program. He sat at a sidewalk cafe and drank three glasses of wine.

When he returned it was after six o'clock. Jennifer was in the kitchen preparing food. He stood in the kitchen doorway watching her hands; she was cutting up a tomato for the salad.

"James, why didn't you leave me a message about the meeting? I hurried to get there. Oh, didn't James tell you?" She sighed and waited for a response but he said nothing, just watched her hands. Finally she said, her voice still carrying an edge of irritation. "Roast beef sandwiches and salad. Do you want coffee?"

"I'm not hungry. I don't feel well. I'm going to bed."

She looked up quickly, he did look pale and a little haggard, or perhaps she just imagined it. Sympathy, because he forgot the message. Then he was gone.

She sighed and put on the kettle for tea. Perhaps she should have cottage cheese instead of roast beef, she drummed her fingers on the counter top then put away the roast beef and took out the cottage cheese. She made her sandwich and her tea, then set everything out on the kitchen table. She went to the living room and found a magazine to look through while she ate. As soon as she sat down she decided to look in on James, puzzled and a little concerned about his behaviour.

The first thing she noticed was that his clothes had been dropped on the floor as if he had just stepped out of them and dropped them, something he never did. He was already asleep, lying on his side, naked and uncovered, slightly curled, no pillow beneath his head. She sat on the bed and gently placed her hand on his forehead, it didn't feel overly warm. His face was hidden in the shadows and his breathing was slow and noiseless. It might be the flu, she thought, there certainly was enough of it going around.

As she pulled a cover up over him she was struck by the thought that he might be losing his mind; not going mad, just losing his mind, brain cells disappearing, bits of memory flushed away, washed away, like sand castles on a beach.

She ate only a little salad and half a sandwich. It was aerobics night and she never liked doing aerobics on a full stomach.

Chapter 7

It was a little after five in the morning when James awoke and it was as if he had never slept, just closed his eyes for a second. He lay in bed unable to return to sleep but not wanting to get up. Beside him Jennifer moved about mumbling something in her sleep, one arm suddenly flailing out and then, just as suddenly, she was completely quiet, without even the sound of her breathing. It reminded James of when the children were babies and the moment of panic that kind of quiet brought, the whim of death always present.

He waited until nearly seven. His clothes were no longer on the floor but were hanging in the closet. He went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and took two aspirin. His eyes were bloodshot.

Sitting in the backyard with his morning coffee he tried to remember every detail of the last time they had been together, he tried to fix in his memory every event and word possible. They had met early, for breakfast, at a small restaurant where she often ate, where the waitresses knew her and called her by name.

What had they talked about? What had been significant about the day? He remembered general pieces of conversation but nothing to fix upon, to hold. A bright, sunny day. A walk to the river where they sat on the grass, on a small, tree enclosed hill shaded from the sun. "there's a canoe, a red one with two people, a man and a woman, wearing life jackets. They're hardly paddling, drifting with the current."

They talked of the news and of a book he was reading, he had tried to make the book sound more interesting than it actually was. She was quiet, but not unusually quiet, he thought. What had it been? An ordinary conversation like a thousand others. Lunch at a restaurant, a new one; she had ordered a seafood salad, a glass of wine and strawberries and cream for dessert. For him a club sandwich and a bottle of beer. She had eaten only half her salad and almost none of her dessert. She ate so little

At her apartment she had asked him to read to her, something he had done often, even before the accident. Usually it was poetry, familiar lines; sometimes if he came across a short story he liked he would save it to read to her. Poetry that day; Yeats and Auden, Auden's poem on the death of Yeats. She enjoyed being read to, she would close her eyes and gently purse her lips, listening so intently. The second time they had made love he had read to her. Pleased with how much she enjoyed he practised reading aloud to improve his skills. Much later he told her of the practising.

After they made love she ran her fingers gently over his face, his neck and his chest, He said. "You can read me like a book." She gave a little mock groan and patted his shoulder. And what had he done? Launched into some inane chatter about bad jokes and how she should support them because they were the underclass of the humour society. God, what had been the charm of that, the wit or tenderness? At times she must have found him boring. Some days of course, were better than others; that day she had been tired, had not slept well, he had been somewhat distracted.

Had he told her that he loved her? Yes, as he said good-bye and kissed her. Had he said it aloud? Yes, and surely she knew, she had to know that. The details didn't matter, it was something else he sought, something from their last time together, from all their times together, something elusive, invisible as light. He remembered the feel and scent of her skin and beneath that softness the flesh and delicate bones of the untrustworthy mechanism of her body, a feeling of fragility, of her, but of him as well and what they had together.

Later in the day Mrs. Bredlove phoned to say she had make all the arrangements and asked if there was anything of Denise's he would like to keep. She would be home all day. Her voice sounded flat and tired.

When Mrs. Bredlove opened the door there was an awkward second or two, he could find nothing to say. Then she quickly said. "I'll get the key." He walked half a step behind her, down the hall, followed her inside leaving the door slightly ajar.

The narrow galley kitchen—he had sometimes cooked for her-- the small living/dining room with its white table and chairs, the badly worn sofa, the vase of flowers, flowers he had brought the last time, then the bedroom, his breath stopped for a moment; every object now seemed to carry within it some undefined significance.

He sat on a chair by the bed. Mrs. Bredlove stood quietly in the doorway. The bed had been made, the pillows plumped up. He said. "I would just like a photograph or two, a couple of books." His throat was dry and his voice sounded to him like it was coming from another person.

"Come back and have some coffee after." She left and he heard the apartment door close.

Objects. Possessions. The utensils and adornments of one's life; the classical music tapes coded with plastic stand out letters on their cases, the water glass with still a little water in it on the night table, a folded sweater, a pair of shoes, a book with a marker about half way. He felt poised, as if on the edge of a high cliff and that he might. by looking too closely or staying too long, fall, fall so swiftly and find himself overcome, awash in grief.

He took two photographs and a book. One photograph showed the two of them, before the accident, hand in hand, seated on the grass at a picnic, a barbecue, a left wing affair originally to be called the Socialist Barbecue but later after much discussion changed to the People's Barbecue. They were both turned away from the camera, unaware of the photographer, looking at each other, her mouth was slightly open, the beginning of a word or a smile. The other photograph was of Denise at twelve, a black and white portrait, large eyed and smiling at the world. The book was Yeats, his first present to her. He took the photographs out of their frames and slipped them into the book, then he left, gently closing the door behind him.

Mrs. Bredlove served him coffee, his hand trembled slightly and the coffee scalded his tongue. She sat opposite him, at the small table with its embroidered cloth, and slowly stirred her coffee. She was a plain, large boned woman with half brown half grey hair pulled carelessly back. Her name was Olive and she was the widow of a gambling man. That was the phrase Denise had used, "the widow of a gambling man." and he liked it, it had sounded like the title of a book or a country western song. He knew little more than that about her although she had been a close friend and neighbour of Denise for more than ten years. He and Mrs. Bredlove had exchanged only a handful of sentences over the years. The coffee was in small china cups; he took another sip although it was still too hot,

Mrs. Bredlove leaned forward, bending her head as if she might be talking to the table and not to him. "She was such a truly good person."

"She was..." He wanted to say that she was the best person he had ever known but he could not finish the sentence.

There was a long pause then Mrs. Bredlove said. "She thought the world of you." In her tone and in her silence he heard the question. Why didn't you marry her? He heard it as clearly as if she had spoken it. If you loved her you would have married her, you would have left your wife and gone to her. If you really loved her you would have given yourself to her, all of you, not just some of your time.

He stared at his hands, not wanting to go, not wanting to stay, while she, without asking refilled his cup. As she poured the coffee she said. "The service is at two o'clock on Friday, at Bell Brothers Chapel, then Brookside Cemetery. Will you be there?"

"Yes." And then whatever she might think of it, he said. "I'd like to pay for... for all the expenses."

She shook her head. "No need. She made all the arrangements in advance. I suppose..." She didn't finish.

He felt something give way inside him and it seem as if he were going to fall from a great height. "When?"

"Almost a year now."

His shoulders sagged and tears filled his eyes, he had no strength, he blinked and started to speak but said nothing, frowning and blinking at the tears. Mrs. Bredlove picked up the cups and saucers and carried them to the sink then sat down again.

At last he said. "I should go." He straightened up in his chair and wiped his eyes.

She put a hand gently on his shoulder. "Why don't you stay until you're feeling better." It was more comfort than she had ever intended to give.

He was on his feet picking up the book. "I'm sorry, really, thank you." She didn't reply and he left quickly and awkwardly.

On the street he was somewhat dazed, the bright sun was disorienting and he squinted his eyes against it. Despite the heat he rolled up the car windows and sat motionless, both hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes pressed tightly closed.

Chapter 8

The house was empty. Jennifer was at the club, she had told him what time she would be back but he didn't remember. They had not had breakfast together, she was running late and her meal had been only a slice of toast and a hastily gulped cup of tea, taken while standing in the kitchen, chatting, about what he couldn't remember.

He moved slowly through the house carrying the book with him. The familiarity of the house, its shapes and smells, now seemed something of a refuge for him. On the bed he looked at each photograph remembering more and more details of the picnic, and with the other tracing his finger over the image of her face as if he could reach back in time and touch the face of that twelve year old girl.

The inscription in the book said simply, "With my love, James." He had thought about a quotation, " One man loved the pilgrim soul in you." but that poem went on to say how love had fled so he had decided on the simple inscription.

He remembered her in the hospital, after the accident, hours of sitting by her bed, the operations, the therapy, the scars that remained, thin almost invisible, on her brow, on her chin, on her legs. He had traced those scars with his eyes a thousand times and always it had filled him with tenderness and a kind of want, a wanting, just for himself, of some invisible, unnameable part of her.

All the hours that were with her or about her; the times of elation, of worry, of jealousy, she would grow tired of him, drop him, find someone else. But she hadn't, for them love had not fled. He remembered nights of staring at the ceiling and debating with himself on whether or not to leave his wife. Denise did not want to talk about it. The choice was his, his alone. "Don't worry about me." she had said. "I'll do what I have to do to be happy." Had it ever been a real debate within himself or something whose outcome he always knew, just something to ease his conscience. There had been no decision, he had simply gone along with the status quo. Because it was easier. Denise had never pressed, Jennifer had never found out or acknowledged it if she had. Everyone let him off the hook, he let himself off the hook. How weak and cowardly, always the easy road.

He stood up from the bed and a sense of failure, the black cloud always on the edge of his consciousness, filled him completely. After the accident Denise would not consider, would not even talk about, his leaving. But he could have insisted. He could have just done it, left Jennifer and lived by himself if that was how it had to be, he could have done that, He could have shown her, proved his love.

He stared at the picture of the twelve year old girl. Beware the middle class, my dear, they love comfort more than anything else, it is their passion and they will do anything to keep it.

He put the photographs inside the book, thinking to put the book in his suitcase, in the closet, out of sight. He changed his mind and after a moment's hesitation placed it on the night table.

Chapter 9

He had not expected so many people at the funeral, forty or so, he had imagined a handful, nine or ten. The small chapel was almost filled. It was mostly old lefties, a few remembered faces, some came to him with mumbled words and gentle hugs. Four people spoke, their messages brief and emotional. He had declined to speak and now sat stiffly, numb to all about him, wanting it to be done, not wanting to keep any of it as a memory. He dreaded the cemetery, the lowering of the casket, the final ceremonial stamp on a life.

He drove Mrs. Bredlove and another mourner, a woman he didn't know, to the cemetery. There would be no religious ceremony, she would have specified that. At the graveside, after some self conscious shuffling and whispered phrases, Mrs. Bredlove spoke. "Unless someone has something they would like to say I think we should take a few minutes, each of us, to remember her as we each knew her and remember what she gave to each of us."

James tried mentally to remove himself, not to think or remember, he stared intently at the ground, mentally tracing the outline of his shoes on the grass, hearing the faint sound of birds and traffic noises, a cough, a movement, something that might have been a sob.

Mrs. Bredlove said a quiet thank you and as James looked up the workmen began lowering the casket. He wanted to leave or at least look away but only stared blankly as some mourners dropped flowers into the grave. A picture of her came to him, a snapshot from their first days; she was cheerfully taking off on her bicycle, to some picket line or demonstration, happy and smiling, a picture that captured something of her spirit. Always, he had told her, on the side of the angels. Even after the accident she still participated in social causes when she could. He rarely accompanied her, usually it was Mrs. Bredlove. He felt self conscious and something of a fraud at picket lines or demonstrations. He did not have her dedication. He did not have her honesty.

Chapter 10

The change in James' manner was obvious and worrisome to Jennifer, the familiar vagueness replaced by a hardness of tone and manner, the distant coldness of an uncaring stranger. She found this change disconcerting, even a little threatening and so she tried to find some common ground, recalling shared intimacies from the past, family jokes and important events of earlier times. She tried to be more affectionate, more interested in him, but it had no effect. They no longer had sex so she thought it might be impotence, it was a subject that often appeared in the woman's magazines she read. She decided it was something that would pass, life had to go on and she had other immediate issues. First of course was Jane's crumbling relationship, they talked often and at great length on the phone. For the past two months Jane had been seeing a therapist. Although Jennifer was pleased as much as duty bound to participate and to offer advice it often had the draining weariness of an unsolvable puzzle. Then there were the club elections, she was vice-president and up for election again. It was important to her

One morning at breakfast Jennifer said. "Jane is coming for dinner tonight. She's broken up with Kevin and this time its final. She's very distressed."

James noticed that she pursed her lips in an unusual way and wondered if it was something new or if he had just not noticed it before. "When did this happen?"

"Friday." She pursed her lips again. "Its very bad, she stayed in bed for two days completely depressed, but she's trying to work it out with her therapist, get to the root of things, resolve things, things about herself, to begin to heal." She paused and stared intently at James. "I hope you can be understanding. Its about her state of mind and her future, that's what we have to remember. We are her family and we have to stand by her."

"Of course." he said.

She stood up. "I have to do a little electioneering but I won't be long. I'll cook a nice dinner." She squeezed his hand, again with the unusual pursing of the lips and then was gone.

After dinner they went for a walk, James and his daughter, through the quiet streets to the neighbourhood park. It had been Jane's idea, after an unusually quiet dinner, a dinner at which Jane had seemed removed, neither sad nor angry and had scarcely spoken.

They walked in almost total silence and they walked more quickly than would natural for an after dinner stroll. They passed a group of young boys, two of whom did manoeuvres on their skateboards while the others sat on the curb watching, sometimes shouting at the skaters but mostly laughing and talking among themselves.

She wants to talk to me, he thought, about the break up, about her, about Kevin, and what can I say? Not the cliches that first spring to mind. There are no words of advice or consolation that mean anything in a situation like this, all I can do is listen, try to respond, be supportive, let her know that I am on her side, let her know that I care, perhaps that will be some comfort.

The park was a small area of green-space; a half dozen benches, some trees and shrubs and a children's play structure. The only other people in the park were a young woman and child at the play structure. The child was playing in the sandbox.

They sat on a bench, a little further apart than seemed natural and almost immediately Jane began to speak, staring at the ground. "I want to talk to you, father." Father he noted, not dad, and her speech was precise, not matter-of-fact, but not emotional either. "I want to talk to you about..."she stopped then after a few seconds began again. "You know Kevin and I have broken up. Its definite this time. I know that and in the long run its probably the best thing that could have happened. I keep on making the same mistakes over and over again. I become someone else, its a pattern, anyone can see that. Maybe even you could see it."

He half turned to face her directly, and moved closer. As if in response she stood up, not facing him but turned sideways, hands thrust into the pockets of her jacket, feet firmly planted. Standing her ground, he thought, and saw her as he rarely did, as a beautiful young woman, blessed he thought, with beauty, intelligence, and strength. There had never been a shortage of admirers or pursuers.

"When I first got to know Kevin, and you go through all the usual rituals I found he liked some of the same writers you like, the same poets. And that pleased me, it pleased me so much. Why? Why did it please me so much? I don't read those people so it was nothing we had in common. I don't even like poetry though I tried to..." Her eyes were fixed on some distant spot. "And then the pattern. As soon as things get serious, become intimate, then I change. I become frightened, unsure, desperately unsure. I change into this clingy, needy person. That's always a surprise to them. Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you really love me? Men hate that and I don't blame them, I would too. So then I'd hate myself for being the way I was and become angry and argumentative.. Then I'd go back to being this insecure, demanding baby." She sighed. "And so on. Chasing my childhood, that's the pattern." In an ironic manner she added. "A first year textbook case."

She turned to face him, turned her whole body toward him and he, with a feeling of apprehension sat up straighter, rested both arms along the top of the bench and stared into her face.

"Why didn't you let me in? Why couldn't you do that? Why couldn't you have given me one little bit of approval? It didn't matter what I did, how hard I tried nothing made any difference, it was just never there. You were never there. For Robert it was a given, he never had to earn it, he may not have had much from you but he got something." She paused and looked away. "So it was always mother and maybe she wanted it that way, I know, but you never tried, not with me, even if you'd tried and failed. Was that too much to ask of you?"

His immediate reaction was one of defensive anger, She was wrong, so completely wrong. It wasn't like that at all. What the hell did she expect from him, one hundred per cent? Well, nobody gets a hundred per cent. You just need someone to blame, you and your therapist and your pop psychology. But he said nothing, even in his anger he could see that this was all terribly true to her.

She sighed deeply. "I know, you'd tell us you loved us and this isn't... isn't to say you didn't, or don't, but there was always this wall you made, this... I know that I tried and tried and never understood why I was shut out. What had I done? I've been trying ever since."

He wanted to say something, to defend himself, but there was nothing he felt he could say that would make any difference, so he sat, not moving and expressionless, as if calmly waiting, letting the anger subside.

She turned up her collar as if suddenly chilled, still looking off into the distance. When she spoke again she sounded tired. "We could never go to you, not even Robert. Do you think he just drifted easily through adolescence? He went..." She stopped and when she began again her voice had lost its weariness. "Anyway this is about me, someone once told me, you'll never have the father you never had. I can't keep seeing you in other men, I can't be still trying to win your acceptance. That's the pattern I'm stuck in. I have to accept things, that's the way it is. I understand that. Its me that has to change."

She waited for him to speak but he said nothing, the only sentences that formed sounded defensive or even sarcastic and the one thing he knew for sure was that it was now too late, too late for any words. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of despair and a feeling of being betrayed, yet a part of him wanted to cry out to her, to say that he loved her, he had always loved her, always cared for her. He wanted to hold her and have her head against his shoulder, to comfort her just by his physical presence, But he knew his daughter too well, that was not what she wanted, that was not what she was there for.

She said. "This is not some kind of getting even and its not meant to hurt you. Its something I have to do, something necessary so I can... can get on with my life. Do you understand?"

He looked away. The mother and child were gone from the play structure. After a second or two he gave a slight nod of his head but continued to look away. They remained frozen in their positions, like two statues, a couple in the park on an early summer evening. Finally he turned to face her and asked. "That's it then?"

She had intended saying more but she only replied. "That's it."

He nodded again and got up, afraid his legs would be shaky, he would have no strength, might even collapse. He didn't and they walked slowly out of the park. There was, it seemed to him, something unreal and dreamlike about everything; the traffic going by on the street, the noise of birds, even the sidewalk beneath his feet. He had to concentrate to keep from walking too quickly. All he wanted was to be alone, to be alone with his anger and hurt. At one point she hesitatingly began to say something but he stopped her. "Its all right." The words came out sounding angry, abrupt and curt.

When they reached her car she said, "I'm going to go now. Say good-night to mother for me." She hugged him, her lips brushed his cheek, she held him tightly for just a second. Slightly dazed he watched her drive away. There was a trace of her perfume that remained and he could still feel the press of her body against his.

Jennifer, seated on the sofa watching television, looked up when he entered but didn't speak. He went directly to the kitchen and half filled a glass with gin, they were almost out of tonic water but he added what was left. His movements were abrupt and hurried, he didn't bother with ice and spilled a little of the gin on the counter.

Seated in his chair in the back yard he took quick nervous sips of his drink while in his mind he replayed everything she had said, and in his mind responded, sometimes angrily, childishly angry, and sometimes sadly, trying to explain. There was nothing to explain, it was all perception, mistaken perception, not at all the way things had been, Slowly the darkness, like a great silent tide, engulfed him and softened the hard sharp lines of the world around him.

What of the good times, the times of canoeing on the lake, vacation bonfires, reading her to sleep at night, helping her learn her lines for the school play? Where had those times gone? Lost, dismissed from her memory, no longer existing and replaced only with the stereotypical cold and distant father. Some therapist's easy answer.

And Robert. Certainly not Robert. They had always had this thing between them, unspoken, it had never needed language, that is what he had thought, but Jane would not lie, she would never lie to him. Well if he had somehow betrayed his family, they had betrayed him. To hell with it, to hell with all of it.

He was surprised to see how visible the stars had become and how complete the darkness was, the bright yellow squares of the neighbours stood out sharply. Filled with a sullen bitterness and the despair of a persecuted innocent, he went into the house. All the lights were on and the house was quiet. He thought vaguely that Jennifer must have gone to bed. He made another drink, this time with orange juice and gulped most of it down. The biting rawness of it nearly choked him, he coughed and felt his eyes water.

Standing in the living room, the gin warm and churning in his stomach he looked slowly and carefully around him; the living room, the sun room, the den, the hall, the dining room. His head was cocked a little as though he was some cautious burglar not sure if anyone was at home. The house had never meant very much to him, it carried no sense of pride or accomplishment, almost no sentiment, only a place, yet he thought he could feel its presence, smug and solid as it watched him, Then, abruptly, as if reminded of something forgotten he felt tired, so completely tired, tired in every part of him. He went slowly up the stairs to the bedroom,

Jennifer was in bed reading. When he entered she carefully inserted a bookmark, closed the book and placed it on the night table beside her. She had already determined how she would be; she would be comforting and loving, she would be forgiving and understanding, she would hold him close to her and soothe him.

He did not take off his clothes but lay on top of the covers, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. She turned her body toward him and placed a hand gently on his elbow. After a moment she said. "It isn't that she doesn't love you, I know she does,"

He closed his eyes. Love, no, all I ever wanted was that they thought well of me. "You are so incredibly stupid." He said it wearily. The fingers on his elbow tensed briefly but didn't move; then finally in the silence they pulled away.

"I know you're angry," She could smell the liquor on him. "But tomorrow you'll see things differently." Her determination to comfort had completely disappeared. "It was something that had to be said, for Jane's sake. This isn't blaming, just setting things straight. Its a healing." She paused but he made no reply, his eyes still closed. "You never understood, it wasn't just being entertaining or helping them with their homework, they needed more than that from you, and I had to take it all, all the painful and not so nice things. Sometimes, James, I felt all alone."

It was discussed, he thought, first with her therapist, then with her mother, it was discussed, and as he listened he heard in her voice the hint of condescension, the not quite concealed, perhaps purposely not quite concealed, tone of the victor.

"But anyway, James, despite all this... well I hope we can talk about it later. Really the thing is we have been blessed with two wonderful children and while we may not be perfect we're a good solid family."

He stood up quickly energized by his anger; his voice was loud and hard. "Jesus, do you ever listen to yourself? Yes, yes, yes my dear, you did a wonderful job. I hope you win the Nobel prize for parenting, or the golf club mother of the year or some fucking thing."

He went to the guest room, once Robert's bedroom and lay face down on the bed. He would never sleep in the same bed with his wife again.

Chapter 11

James slept well and slept later than usual. When he awoke he took a long shower and thought about the night before. The anger was gone but not the resentment, not the sense of betrayal. Jane and her God-damned mickey mouse therapist. Well, so be it. They were his children and he loved them but he would expect nothing. He would not be misled again. "Yes." he said to his reflection in the mirror. "So be it."

Jennifer, on the other hand had not slept well, had hardly slept at all, which made her tense and irritable. She had a headache, which despite two aspirins continued to throb mercilessly. Still, she was determined. She saw the previous evening as unfinished business and therefore something to be completed as quickly as possible. She prided herself on knowing how to handle people; friends, acquaintances, enemies, children, husband, and the strategies she used in doing this had become such a second nature to her that it seemed they formed naturally, without any planning. It is because I have a clear focus, she thought. The one fault she might admit to was impatience and so sometimes her timing was not all it might have been. So she sat at the kitchen table, impatient but determined, with her headache and her tea. She waited for James.

When James entered the kitchen he gave his wife a quick glance, surprised that she was up so early, mumbled a "Morning," and set about pouring himself a glass of orange juice, then taking a few quick sips.

"How do you feel this morning?" she asked. The question carried no sound of concern but came out rather sounding like a reprimand.

He stared at the coffee maker as if trying to decide whether or not to make some. "Okay. How about you?" His voice too, carried no hint of concern. He decided against the coffee and drank the rest of his orange juice.

"James, we have to talk." She made a slight movement of her hand to indicate the chair opposite. "Come sit a minute."

He scarcely glanced at her. "Not now, maybe later." Then he was gone.

He does that to irritate me, she thought angrily, he is such a child, such a what was the word, petulant child. As she massaged her temples he heard his car drive away. "God damn you." she said softly.

James had breakfast at a small coffee shop decorated with sketches of poets and jazz musicians but the background music was not jazz, just the usual bland background of sound. The almond croissant was good as was the coffee. He had a second cup and for a time watched the waitress; a young woman with a small, quick body and a wild mane of dark brown curls. There was an air of excitement about her, the phrase, "She'd be a real handful." came to mind. He watched her with a slight longing, a longing to be that young again, to be that young so that she was a possibility.

Unable to decide where he wanted to be, he strolled the streets. Loose ends, he thought, I am at loose ends. Where then? Not a restaurant, not a bar, not a park. He settled for a shopping mall. Shopping malls, as familiar and as interchangeable as churches, he thought, but offering no church like comfort, only a confused disappointment to its parishioners. He sat on a varnished wooden bench and for a few minutes watched the people passing by, mostly women, housewives, some with children. A group of teenagers hurried boisterously by, three girls and two boys. They look so lively and confident, he thought; he wanted to shout some kind of warning to them, like some old, blind, prophet. Beware. Beware.

He longed to be with someone, he physically ached to be with someone, not to talk, to be with, to lie with. He wanted to be with Denise, in her bedroom, in her bed, with her body against his, to feel her breathing, to smell her skin.

He got up quickly and began to walk through the mall. He needed to go somewhere, to be somewhere else, and he walked quickly. There was a movie theatre in the mall and he considered it briefly but he knew it would not do. He decided on a bar.

The bar was small with a western motif, clean and relatively quiet. Despite the early hour there were a dozen or so people, most of whom were watching a large screen television set on which a game of baseball was being played out. The television set dominated the room, not just because of its physical size but because of the control it held over the patrons.

He sat at the bar and ordered a drink The bartender, a woman, had short, cropped, black at the roots blonde hair and dark circles under her eyes. Her lipstick was slightly smudged. And what of you, my dear? What victories and defeats have marked your life? Not many I venture, life has so few clear cut victories or defeats, mostly stand offs, armistices, settlings, bits and pieces, almosts, very nearlys.

She moved in a slow deliberate manner, doing things it seemed for the sake of something to do, to pass the time, wiping already wiped stainless steel sinks, tidying, rearranging bottles. After glancing at her watch she came to his end of the bar, sighed and lit a cigarette. She nodded her head in the direction of the television set and asked. "You're not a baseball fan?"

"Baseball, the great metaphor for life, no, I'm not a fan."

"Me either, I think its boring."

"Maybe it is a metaphor for life then."

"Can I get you another one?"

"Finish your smoke first."

"That's all right."

Chapter 12

Weeks passed, two weeks since his confrontation with his daughter, nearly five weeks since Denise's death. He continued to sleep alone and would leave the house first thing in the morning to fill his day. Days filled with wandering about the city. Afternoons often spent in strip clubs where he would sit for two or three hours, drinking his gin and tonic or his beer, not thinking about much in particular, but observing things, the place, the people, the way the people moved, the way they interacted, himself, even his hand as it raised a glass or lay motionless upon the small table.

He liked the afternoons of strip clubs. Strip club evenings were filled with loud, showy, sexual energy, but the afternoons had a heavy stillness about them, the patrons almost solemn, the strippers hurried, more careless, more matter of fact, and the applause was meagre, polite. There was little sense of eroticism, he thought, but there was something else, perhaps just the fact that you could casually look up from your drink, in the middle of your thoughts, and see a naked woman imitate sexual desire and excitement. You could watch or not watch, look at her or go back to your drink and your thoughts, but if you did want to watch she would be there. Naked bodies for your pleasure but what exactly was the pleasure; if not sexual desire what was it? A ritual of sorts? Something, some thing was passed between performer and patron.

He wondered about the strippers; what their lives were like, what sort of places they lived in, what sort of relationships they were involved in. It was a detached kind of curiosity and it was not only strippers, waitresses, bartenders, old men that sold newspapers, people sitting on park benches. How we spin out our lives, they and us. They and us. It was as if only now had he the time to study such things.

Jennifer tried twice more to talk to him about Jane and when these attempts failed she decided she would try no more. She believed he was disinterested so she would try no more, at least for now.

In fact James was more interested in things than he had ever been; he looked for significance and meaning in the most mundane events and conversations. He monitored carefully each sentence before he spoke, he would give nothing away.

Jennifer was sure of the rightness of her position but she was uneasy and often woke up in the middle of the night unaccountably frightened and listening for noises in the still house.

More and more she saw him as a selfish and self-centred man, one that daily became more of a stranger. Sometimes it was all she could do not to stare at him as he sat reading a book, as if he was some outsider plunked suddenly and unaccountably down in her living room. Too, she was reminded of something else, of Robert as a teenager, at least part of his teenage years; distant, surly, with that I have moved beyond you tone. James just hid his surliness, and why did he no longer listen to his music? It had always irritated her to see him stretched out on the carpet, headphones on, eyes closed, listening, but now his no longer doing that made her uneasy.

Little in the way of conversation passed between them. She no longer chatted, talk was little more than a series of announcements; times of arrivals and departures, terse little bits of household information conveyed out of habit. She was determined not to lose her temper, something she prided herself on, her self control, she would not fight with him despite the anger she almost constantly felt.

One day she announced, brief flashing smile, that she had won the election as vice-president of the club. He looked up from his book, paused and said, "That's nice. Congratulations." Then he went back to his book. Before he would have taken his cue, knowing how much it meant to her, and suggested they go out to celebrate, there would have been no pause, no flat toned congratulation, no going back to his book. The next day when she announced that the children were coming for dinner there was that slight pause again and then, "Good, that's fine."

At dinner everyone was overly polite and overly cautious in conversational topics, responses and questions. They are humouring me, James thought, but each other too; let's have no antagonism this time, just blah blah blah like the good old days. Melanie, Robert's wife, scarcely spoke, more of an observer even than usual.

Midway through the meal Jennifer said. "Well, my dears, as you all know, I was elected vice-president of the club again."

"Way to go, Mom." Robert said loudly. He clapped his hands together a few times.

"Thank you. Next Saturday is the big doo when they make the formal announcements and have the banquet, you all remember it from before. I'm hoping you can all come."

Immediately Jane said she would be there. Robert and his wife exchanged brief glances then he said enthusiastically "Of course, Mom, we wouldn't miss it for the world."

For three or four heavy seconds they waited for James to speak. Before it would have been taken for granted, assumed. A seemingly thoughtful pause, then, staring down at his plate. "Oh, I think I'll pass on that this time. You know I find those people at the golf club really boring, boring and pompous." He went back to eating but was aware of the flash of anger on Jane's face and of despair on Robert's.

After a few seconds Melanie spoke, she spoke quickly, sounding a little flustered. "Did Robert tell you, we went to the theatre last week, the Becket festival, Endgame. It was really quite good. Have you seen it?"

"No. No, I haven't. I rarely go anymore."

Robert spoke quickly. "So tell me, Mom, how did you win? Was it a squeaker or a landslide?"

Mom, mom, mom, James thought, didn't it always used to be Mother, at least since you were fifteen.

"Oh, they never tell us what the vote was, anyway that is enough of that for now. Remember to leave room for dessert, its Michael's Black Forest Cake." As she spoke she patted Jane's hand. It had always been Jane's favourite dessert.

The rest of the evening passed with James being largely ignored, as if they had all thrown up their hands and would wait until he came to his senses. All but Melanie who gave him most of her attention

When the children left Jennifer went straight upstairs without speaking to him. He cleared off the table and put all the dishes on the counter beside the sink. He didn't wash them, instead he made a drink and went to sit in the back yard.

After a while Jennifer came down. She saw the dirty dishes and wondered if he was going to wash them. She thought she would wash them, then decided against it, then thought she would, then cursed herself for even thinking bout it and sat down to watch television. About an hour later James came in to get another drink and she called out to him. "James." He appeared at the living room door, eyebrows raised in question. "How long is this going to go on?" she asked.

He shook his head slightly as if he had been asked the most unanswerable of questions then went back outside to his chair and his drink.

Chapter 13

Jennifer arrived home tired and cranky. Traffic had been bad, there had been a half hour wait to see her doctor, she had a headache. The doctor had given her a prescription for sleeping pills and she had stopped off to have it filled. She looked forward to some food, a hot relaxing bath, and a nap.

James was seated at the dining room table. Close by his right hand was a drink and just beyond that a large manila envelope. She stopped when she saw him. He sat very straight in his chair. He said. "I have something to talk to you about." Everything was completely still for a second or two and she would remember later that she was sure she knew what he was going to say. Watching him carefully she sat down opposite him, her hands in her lap.

He had said the words to himself many times in the last few days. "I'm leaving, going away," a slight pause, "to another city." He stared at her, feeling nothing.

She felt as though she had been hit in the stomach. Her head throbbed intensely. "You mean you want a divorce?"

"A divorce, legal separation, whatever you want is okay." He saw her lips press together, her breathing had quickened and she put one hand to her temple massaging it with thumb and forefinger. Then anger, he saw it in the tightening of the jaw, in the corners of her eyes. She didn't look at him, she slowly placed both hands on the table, clasped together.

He pressed on. "I've been to the accountant, that's our financial statement. I'll take my share of the investments, my car, that's it. You keep the house, its free and clear. With the investments you'll be all right financially, and you have your trust fund." Twelve years earlier her father had set up a hundred thousand dollar trust fund for her; it had never been touched.

She did not even look at the envelopes. Her rage was tightly contained, her voice was quiet and flat but with a hardness, a bitterness that made each word separate and distinct. "You have thought of everything have you? How considerate. You son of a bitch."

For the first time he felt sympathy for her, it flowed over him in waves. How does it feel to have someone tell you they no longer want you? How does it feel to be discarded?

"I'm sorry, Jennifer, it isn't... I know how hard you've tried to be a good wife, a good wife and mother, and I guess you have been. Maybe its me, its something I have to do." He knew how hollow and artificial his words sounded and she dismissed them with a turn of her head.

"Its another woman isn't it?"

"No."

She gave a little snort of disbelief.

"There was once but no more. That's not the reason."

Her head was pounding. She wanted to throw up. "Have you thought about the children?" Then regretted having said it; the children were no longer children. It seemed a weak thing to say. "I don't want to talk about this now." She stood up quickly, scraping her chair along the floor. Then the anger came out, her voice loud and breaking. "If you hadn't married me you'd be nothing. You know that don't you? Nothing."

Upstairs she rinsed her face in cold water, took a sleeping pill and lay down on the bed, removing only her shoes. All your adult life, so many many years, the things done to be a wife and a mother, now all swept aside and discarded. All on the stupid whim of a stupid man. A stupid, immature, ungrateful man. She felt betrayed and alone, there was no one to talk to, nothing to say. All the years, the children, the love-making, the sacrifices, all accounted for nothing.

Chapter 14

The next day she asked if they could talk about it. She was calm, her voice soft and reasonable. He thought she looked tired, her face haggard. She would not have slept well. He had not slept well either, drifting off then waking abruptly.

"Of course." he said. He felt sullen and drained of emotion. He would discuss it because it was the right thing to do but nothing would come of discussing it. It was all done.

"Are you still sure... sure you want to go through with this?"

He saw in her then a fragility, something he had not seen since they were young lovers and for a brief inexplicable moment he remembered the first time they had made love. He blinked his eyes rapidly. Well, we are all frail, just the right tap at the right time and we shatter into a million pieces. "Yes. Yes I am."

Her index finger traced circles on the arm of her chair. "Can you tell me why? Can you explain it to me? I think I deserve that."

"Yes. Yes you do. I can try but there isn't much to say." He paused for a long time. It was all so pointless, so impossible to explain, nor did he want to try to explain. That would only be stating problems for which she would have a solution. He didn't want to talk at all. "I have to get away. I'm not happy." He paused again. "I'm unhappy. I have been for a long time. I can't keep going this way." She looked away. He couldn't continue.

"And this woman, its not her?"

"No, that's done."

She turned back to him. "We've spent most of our lives together, we've done all the important things in life together. Maybe we all took you too much for granted, I don't know. Marriages have rocky times but they can be worked out. You must have needed something. We can change you know, I can change. I've neglected you in some way. There is so much at stake here. Can't we try to work it out, to discuss it?" He didn't answer and she looked away again then turning back asked. "Is this because of what Jane said?" He shook his head wearily, dismissing the idea. "Because that was something... that was just therapy, she's trying to fix up her life the best way she can. It could have been me as easily as you. It was the teenage rebellion she never had." He shook his head again, sighing. She paused. "If she thought she was the cause of this she'd be devastated, she'd never get over it."

"No. That isn't it, of course not."

They were both silent for a moment then she said. "Will you at least promise me to think it over, at least sleep on it."

"All right."

He stayed in the house all day, partly he felt it was his duty to do so, but also because he didn't want to go anywhere. He felt listless and tired.

Jennifer left the house once, she walked to the small neighbourhood park and sat on a bench. What more could she say to him? After all the years together, all the raising of a family, yet there was so little she could say. You appealed to his sense of decency, his sense of gratitude, even, she thought to his sense of reason, but it meant nothing. He had become a closed book.

She thought about the other woman in his life; she had always thought of it as a cheap sexual affair but it might have been more than that. Perhaps that woman had given him something more, something he needed. She wondered how long the affair had lasted and why it had ended.

She tried talking to him again but it was just the saying of the same things and he seemed even more sullen and uncommunicative. Then in the silence, looking at him, she suddenly said to herself. "Why am I doing this? Why? Let him go. I don't need him." She got up and left the room.

The next morning he said to her. "I'll tell the children."

She was looking out the living room window, at the lawn, the flowers and shrubs, and the neighbouring houses. "I suppose that's it then."

He met Robert after work, in a bar. He was early but Robert was earlier, seated at a corner table, an untouched drink in front of him. As soon as James sat down and looked into Robert's face he knew that Jennifer had told him.

"Your mother told you?" Robert nodded. "I wanted to be the one. It seemed right." The things he had planned to say were gone. He stared at his son, at the open anguish on his son's face.

"Jesus, Dad, how can you do it? I mean just think about it. You've broken Mother's heart, you've hurt all of us. To just turn and walk away, you can't. I never thought you' d ever do this." James could hear, beneath the pain in his son's voice, an anger and impatience. It was there in his face as well.

A waitress came but James waved her away. His voice was low and weary. "I don't expect you to understand... and there is no way I can justify..." The words might just as well never have been spoken. Then he said the only thing he really wanted to say. "You know that I have always loved you, still love you. I love you and your sister more than anything in the world. That isn't going to change."

It is so easy to love a child, right from the beginning; the first steps, water pistols, basketball, so easy to love a child. The the child is gone and there is a man in his place, but the love doesn't die, the echoes of the love for the child remain in the adult and we can never see the man without seeing the child. James said. "Can we walk a bit?"

James felt better outside, walking, as though through that physical action he might recapture some long ago time and feeling; walking, hiking through the woods at the lake, walking home from the park or the community centre after playing catch or shooting baskets, checking out the mall. They talked very little. How little there is to say about the most important things in one's life.

James said. "You have your own life, just try to be happy in it". Robert did have his own life, his own things to do, the hurt and resentment would subside, be placed somewhere on the perimeter and he would get on with his own things. He would talk about it with his wife tonight; she would be comforting and perhaps later, in bed together, they would hold each other especially close.

Robert said, "God, I wish this wasn't happening. Promise me you'll think it over." The first time Robert had ever asked his father to promise him anything. James nodded and they hugged briefly, saying good-bye, each a little hesitant but with nothing more to say. "Good night, Dad."

James went to a bar and stayed until nearly midnight. He had only a couple of drinks, ordered a club sandwich but ate only a little of it. Driving home he realized that Jennifer might have told the children there had been another woman. Surely Robert would have said something, been more angry, but perhaps not, not Robert. Was that what he meant about breaking his mother's heart, such an odd expression for him. It was hard to know.

That night, in bed, he lay awake a long time, unable even to close his eyes. Why had he told her? He hadn't thought about Robert and Jane. How would they see it, it was impossible for them to understand, they would only judge, that was natural. He felt beaten and angry with himself. Not telling them if they knew would make him seem a coward. Why hadn't he thought before he said anything?

What had been the point of telling her anyway... see how honest I am, making a clean breast of everything, respect me for that... stupid...all it had done was hurt people. Should he say something to Jane... and what about Robert, should he talk to him again, just to tell him... and what if Jennifer had not told them.

Jennifer asked, "How was Robert?"

His voice was flat. "Well he already knew. Why couldn't you let me do even that? He was upset but he was all right. He has his own life, he'll adjust."

"Of course I told them, I had to have someone to talk to. You can't have everything your way. I didn't tell them about the woman though, they shouldn't have to deal with that. We can spare them that." There was a touch of pride in her voice and he noted a change in her attitude, she was stronger, more resolved.

He nodded, grateful; it was what he had hoped for but at the same time he felt slightly saddened and disappointed. Spared again. Spared again when he should not have been. "Thank you, that was good of you."

"I've decided I want a divorce. If you think this is some kind of mid-life crisis and you can come back in six months... I won't take you back. Don't come back. It's over."

He expected anger and recriminations from Jane but he got neither. She offered instead a kind of world weary acceptance and quiet sadness that surprised him. At first he thought it was because she had had more time than Robert, more time to absorb it, to put it into some kind of framework but then he realized that she saw the world as a sad place, not a place where sad things happened, but as a sad place. How had that come about? When and how had that formed?

"Things are never the way they should be, the way you want them, they never are." she said.

"Maybe for some people. For most of us, only briefly."

When they said their good-byes and she hugged him she said, as a mother might say to a parting son. "You are not going away for ever are you? You'll come back?"

"Of course. You and Robert are the most important people in my life. I'll come back."

That evening Jennifer found the book, she noticed it because the edge of one of the photographs extended beyond the pages of the book. Yeats. To Denise with my love. She studied the pictures, one taken at some kind of picnic, a rather ordinary looking woman; it must have been taken at least ten years ago, the other, a photograph of a young girl. He had wanted her to find the book and then to confront him because he was too much of a coward to tell her. At least ten years, from the clothes, from his face. She had seen that face almost every day of her adult life. Ten years. She didn't feel angry, not at the woman, not even at him, only tired. She replaced the book in the bookcase. Ten years. She felt alone and small in the large, quiet house.

Chapter 15

"Hello, Mother."

"Well, James, its always such a pleasure to see you." She presented a cheek for a quick brushing of his lips. "Come in, sit down, sit down. I'll make some tea. Are you hungry?"

They always had tea, every visit. "I just ate, no tea thanks. Do you have anything cold to drink?"

"Diet cola."

"That'll be fine."

She went into the small kitchen. "You sounded quite low on the phone." There was the sound of the fridge opening and closing, then she stepped out of the kitchen and said. "You never noticed my hair."

"It looks very nice."

"Hmm. I haven't made up my mind about it yet."

"I think its very becoming." he obliged.

She carried a tray with a pitcher of cola, two glasses, and some paper serviettes. She carefully set everything out on the table. James filled both glasses while she sat down, patting her hair then carefully folding a serviette in half.

I have something to tell you, Mother. I'm going away, leaving the city." Then he added, a little hesitantly, "for a while, at least. Jennifer and I have split up. There'll be a divorce." He waited but she said nothing. "I'm going to the coast... a change... you know."

She assumed the position. So familiar. Erect, head held back, slightly tilted, and the expression one of careful study but with a trace, just a hint, of disappointment. Does she still feel that, he thought, or is it just a habit after so many years? There was the pause, then the tiniest of sighs, the slightest raising of the eyebrows. "Well that certainly is news." Another pause. "You haven't touched your drink." He took a sip automatically. "I don't have anything to say, James. I don't suppose there is anything I could say. You're certainly not a child any more. I shall miss you, of course."

It was like handing her a report card or an essay before he turned it in at school. He turned away, half smiling in resignation. What had he expected? He took another sip of his drink. Will it ever catch up with you? Will it ever? The way you were with father, with me, the way you still are, will you ever regret, ever feel guilt? I think not. You will die content, forever the injured party, forever the martyr, and be happy in that. He felt no anger, that was long past, it was all so familiar as to be almost boring. An unexamined life. Perhaps not, perhaps she had examined her life more deeply than he had his, and she would not have found herself wanting, she would be more than content with what she saw. With that overriding self centred trait and lack of imagination, could she ever have loved anyone? Her husband? Her only child? Yet once upon a time I was in your belly and once upon a time I suckled at your breast and once upon a... and so what and so what and so what.

"Is that new?" He indicated a painting on the wall.

"It was here the last time you came, you just didn't notice it. Do you like it?"

He neither liked nor disliked it. "Its fine."

The phone rang and she picked it up quickly. She stood, holding the phone in one hand and gesturing with the other while she talked in an animated and exaggerated manner. It looks so much like a pose, he thought, like something out of a fifties movie, if you had a cigarette to puff on you might be Bette Davis. Do you pose when you are alone?

He stood up and moved idly about the room, glancing at her from time to time. An elderly lady, tastefully dressed, with dyed hair and painted nails, giving very definite instructions to someone on the other end of the telephone. "Sharp as a tack." they said about her here, "seventy-eight years old and sharp as a tack, forever organizing things, always on the go, and so well read, so cultured, you must be proud." Sharp as a tack, she was that, sharper than a serpent's tooth.

At last she was off the phone. "I'm sorry about that. I should have called her back. We're organizing a poetry reading for next month, unknowns of course, but it could be interesting. Most writers prefer a younger audience. Yes, I'm quite fond of that painting now. Its such a lovely day why don't we sit on the balcony? I'll make some tea and I have some strawberry tarts from Benets, your favourite dessert, remember?"

He went out on to the balcony and sat down. He was weary and the weariness made him sluggish. He would have to stay at least an hour. The day was cloudy but warm with a pleasant green smell in the air. Below a white haired lady with a cane walked slowly toward the entrance.

His mother sat down opposite him. "Tea will be just a minute. You look tired. It must be an ordeal."

"Its something, I guess ordeal describes it."

"These things happen." she said with a sigh. "You've been a good husband and father, you've done your duty, no one can say you haven't." She had never liked Jennifer, had pointedly ignored her as much as possible.

"My duty, that's an odd way of putting it, but maybe its true."

"I'll see to the tea."

He closed his eyes and waited until she came back and was setting out the tea things. "Anyway." he said finally, forcing a smile. "I thought we might go out for dinner."

"That would be so nice, James, we haven't done that in a long time. It will give us a good chance to talk a bout everything. When would you like?"

"Tomorrow? Is tomorrow all right?"

"Tomorrow night?" She hesitated just a beat or two. "Yes, that will be fine, tomorrow night." She reached across the table and patted his hand. "This could be very good for you. You must look at it in a positive way; completely free, a new place, new people. It will open you up, give you a chance to re-evaluate yourself, discover things. Its never too late you know."

Below a car had stopped in front of the entrance. How wrong you are, mother, it seems its always too late for most things, most recognition come too late, most opportunities are missed. A young couple and an elderly lady got out of the car. Taking grandma for a ride, so few men here, I wonder what the ratio is.

"Truly, it really is an opportunity and I hope you grasp it. You were meant to do more than sell office equipment."

"People aren't meant to do anything. They do things or they don't, they aren't meant to do anything."

"There is a creative side to you, I know that, you just have to let yourself be open to it."

Why did they always repeat the same conversations? Why did he bother responding? "Mother, I don't write, I don't paint, nor do I compose. Can't even play an instrument."

"You were blessed with both intelligence and imagination. All you had to do was apply yourself to some field of the arts. You were encouraged at home."

He shrugged and smiled wearily. "It just isn't something I want to do. I'm quite content to be a member of the audience."

The slight shake of her head and the laugh to make a joke of it. "Oh well, you certainly are your father's son." The mother's curse or the mothers benediction; almost always the former, certainly so here. He looked away abruptly, out over the prim green lawns, the flower beds and clipped hedges. As he did a brief memory of his father came to him; probably five or six years old, on his father's lap, the smell of tobacco, a scratchy beard, his father's arm around him, his voice telling him a story, about a polar bear he thought. His father, dead at forty-one when, on a late October night, his car went off the highway and crashed into a bridge abutment. James was seven.

To end the silence he asked what she had done lately. She had been to the symphony and the theatre, she too had seen Endgame but hadn't liked it, "It seems very dated," and she was in the middle of reading a best seller, a literary best seller of course, and highly recommended it.

He was able to stretch the visit into a satisfactory hour and a half and there were one or two more references to his pending divorce. He managed to eat one of the strawberry tarts.

"You must promise to write often and let me know how you are getting on. We'll talk more about it tomorrow."

"I'm more likely to phone, but yes, I will."

She presented her cheek for a farewell brush of his lips.

Chapter 16

The three days of driving went by quickly and uneventfully; smooth easy miles disappearing beneath the wheels of the car. Driving and listening to familiar music from the c.d. Player. Coffee and sandwiches at nondescript, plasticy diners, dinner and a beer or two then television while lying in bed.

Through the flatlands to the mountains, climbing, turning, descending, to the city by the sea. A new city, anything can happen, even now. Go anywhere, in any direction, stay or move on. Everything he owned was in the car; clothing, a couple of dozen books, c.d.s, some photos and letters from years ago.

It took two weeks to find an apartment, a sublet in a fairly new high rise. When he moved in he furnished it with a minimum amount of furnishings, not even pictures for the blank white walls.

He joined the library and the Y.M.C.A., took long walks along the sea wall, sat upon the beach, visited, rather dutifully, the museums and the art galleries, drank in some tough bars and in some genteel ones, and looked longingly at the sailboats along the quay. Wouldn't that be something, a small boat he could take out on his own. It was something to look into.

He had moved in, had settled in the city by the sea, and now he sat back in his new black leather chair and sipped a late evening drink. A light rain dotted the glass doors to the balcony.

He had slid effortlessly into a new life; no great wrenching away, no remorse. There was some guilt, some sadness, when thought about the children. He had phoned each of them on his arrival and twice a week since but the conversations were awkward and unsatisfying. His attempts at intimacies and reverences to inside family jokes seemed hollow and strained, and the responses reserved, so that the conversations became quite formal, only the exchange of a few facts. He wondered if they would ever forgive him, if they would ever phone him. Still, it pleased him to hear their voices and he would continue to phone twice weekly. He always asked after their mother.

He moved out onto the balcony, still holding his drink. The cool, damp air made him shiver and s few drops of rain fell on his head and shoulders. He would buy a chair for the balcony, and a little table, so he could have his morning coffee there, and an evening drink. The music from the stereo followed him, the pure, sad notes moving past him into the night. It was there in the music, in the sad, sweet notes, it was always there, beneath the artifices and diversions with which we fill our lives, the melancholy reminder of the one sure fact of life. He often thought about death; the enormity of it, the completeness, an eternity of nothingness, so absolute.

He finished his drink and leaned on the balcony railing. The light sprinkle of rain had stopped but the air had turned colder. He shivered but did not go inside.

He had vowed to think of Denise every day but there was no need of a vow. When she died there was suddenly a part of his life where nothing existed and it seemed as if he was constantly reaching out for something no longer there. Sometimes, reading something, he would say to himself I must tell this to Denise, then the instant realization would fill him with a restless despair, he would close the book or magazine, unable to continue reading. His weakness had not just caused him to fail her but to betray her, he had somehow cheated her.

Other times his sorrow would completely engulf him, coming out of nowhere, flooding through him and filling his whole body. He would physically feel it; it moved like a sluggish wave through him, through his chest, his legs, to the tips of his fingers and he would be immobilized, scarcely able to continue.

He came back inside, closing the balcony door, the music was over, the room quiet. If she were with him now they would walk together and he would describe the sailboats and the people that strolled the sea wall, they would sit upon the beach with the sounds and the smell of the sea. He would hold her hand and kiss her cheek.

He thought of his mother and supposed he should phone her again. She had inquired about "the cultural life" of the city and had told him to take his time, he had to find himself. Sharp as a whip in her retirement home. Still remarkably chipper, with her private wars and conquests, so filled with subtle cunning. For what purpose? To what end? His father. Him. To what end? Maybe he would not phone again, this would be the time, just let it go, let it all drift away.

He began to doze so he roused himself and went to the bathroom. He studied the face that looked back at him from the mirror. It should be a twenty-five year old face, it should be the face of a young man on the verge of an adventure. He took his vitamins and went to bed.

Chapter 17

Hookers worked Dunne Street between 18th and 21st Avenues, they worked during the day as well as at night. It was the hotel district, a block away from the Convention Centre, so there were business men from out of town with a few spare hours and a need for an adventure of sorts to take home with them.

James watched the women, girls some of them, he watched from the window of a cafe where he sipped his coffee and ate his croissant. He was attracted to them, the fact that they were prostitutes was erotic to him. High heels and mini skirts, sticking their asses in the air while they looked in car windows and negotiated prices. How much for this, how much for that. Some had an air of defiance about them, a bit of a fuck you attitude, while others seemed numb and weary. He could see it in the way they moved, the way they walked about and looked about while they waited.

He had paid for sex only once in his life; that had been as a young man travelling Europe. He had been seated on a bench in a small park in London, a woman had sat beside him and asked if he was lonely. At first he had not realized she was a prostitute. She looked to be about eighteen or nineteen and dressed like a flower child. Embarrassed and ill-at-ease he had gone with her to her small two room flat. It had been an empty and unsatisfying half hour and he worried for weeks afterwards that he might have contracted a disease. It was one of the few memories of the trip that remained with him; the chilly flat, her blonde hair in a braid, the Matisse poster on the wall, now seeming somehow rather poignant. One of the women on the street he found particularly attractive. She looked Latino; shiny black, curly hair, olive skin, slender with long legs and small breasts. She rarely stood still, pacing up and down with an almost drag queen exaggerated sexual strut, smoking a cigarette with quick, wrist-bent gestures. He watched for about ten minutes. Business was slow. Even when she stood still, in her hand on the hip stance, he could imagine her eyes, never still, moving up the street; the cars, the pedestrians, the other women.

He did not want to walk up to her on the street in daylight, he would feel self-conscious on the street in daylight, it was all too public. His apartment was close by, he would use his car.

She put her head in the car window, smiling, eyes moving quickly about, cigarette between her fingers, bright red nail polish. A hundred dollars and he had to use a condom. He said that was fine and she got into the car, skirt riding up as she wriggled into the seat, flicking cigarette ash out the window. He said. "My place is just a couple of blocks from here."

She patted his arm. "Not too far I hope, honey."

"Just a couple of blocks."

When they entered the apartment he gave her the money and offered her a drink which she refused saying maybe later. They went directly to the bedroom where she mumbled a nice place you have and slipped out of her clothes in what seemed one easy motion, it was done so quickly. He pulled the covers off the bed and said. "Why don't you lie down." Naked against the white sheet she looked smaller and younger than she had on the street.

He sat on the bed, turned away from her, and slowly began to undress; shoes, socks, shirt, but he felt no sexual desire. He closed his eyes for a few seconds then took off the rest of his clothes and lay beside her.

He lay on his side facing her, not touching her, and she turned to face him. She was completely still, watching him, waiting. Her stillness pleased and slightly surprised him. He did not look at her face but his eyes moved slowly down the length of her body as if he was taking into memory every nuance of shape and colour. The nipples of her breasts were large and dark brown. He had no erection, felt no desire for sex. For several minutes the middle aged man and the young woman lay there, motionless, then she said softly. "Maybe you'd like this."

She moved her head down and began to run her lips over his stomach, gently kissing and moving her tongue against his skin. Her hand moved to his inner thigh. He could feel her soft breath as she moved her head lower. All he could see of her was the mass of black curly hair and the curve of her back. It was not what he wanted.

He put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "Its all right, please, just lie beside me." He stared into her face. Her eyes were dark brown and large, the whites extraordinarily clear, there was a small, almost invisible scar on her neck. He ran his fingers slowly down her shoulder to her breasts, caressing them gently, touching each nipple with his forefinger. He moved his hand over her hip and thigh then between her legs, through the small patch of pubic hair onto her stomach. Her stomach was almost flat with only a little roundness to it. He closed his eyes for a few seconds then repeated the process, his expression was serious, his brow slightly knitted, his eyes followed his hand as it moved over her body.

He let his hand rest between them on the sheet, no longer touching her and once again they were both motionless. Then she said, in almost a whisper. "You really are a good looking guy. I'll bet you never had any trouble getting your pick of the ladies."

He would rather have remained silent but felt he should say something. He spoke slowly. "Its odd... it is odd that this should be enough, to just look at you and touch you, that this should be enough." He looked into her face but it was expressionless, only watching and waiting. As if it might explain something he said formally. "I have recently had a great sadness in my life." There was no response.

It was over. It was all done. He smiled quickly and falsely, suddenly self-conscious, and in a louder voice asked. "What's your name?"

Released from that part of what was expected of her she smiled quickly in return, her eyes darted about the room then returned to him. "Angel."

"All right, Angel, will you have a drink with me before you go?"He could see that her first impulse was to say no, time is money, but then she said. "Okay, but just a little one, all right."

He walked, naked, to the kitchen, the tile was cool on his feet. "I have gin, scotch, wine and beer."

"Beer."

When he returned she was dressed, sitting on the bed smoking a cigarette. He sat beside her, they clicked glasses and drank. She said. "You should come to see me again. I could make you happy, you know." Her knee was touching his. How old would she be, no more than twenty one or two.

"Maybe I will."

She drank about half her beer then stood up, animated once again, cigarette going, tall in spike heels, impatient. He had not moved. "Honey, if you're not going to drive me back I'll need cab fare."

He forced a smile and silently gave her a ten dollar bill from his wallet.

When she had gone he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

Chapter 18

James decided it was time to look for employment,, something he had not wanted to do since his retirement. He went to an agency where he paid to have a resume made up and printed. It was a good resume but he was a hard sell, not specialized enough and most importantly, too old. The only possibility they offered was a job selling office supplies on straight commission, not something he wanted to do.

They did find him one interview, with a fledgling weekly entertainment paper, a giveaway tabloid that was looking for an advertising salesman. It was a pointedly casual meeting. The three young people that he met, two men and a woman, seemed more intent on talking about the paper than in interviewing him. The paper was community oriented they said, not just entertainment they said, and they intended to do some investigative reporting at the city hall level they said.

Early in the interview they all knew no job would be offered and even if one had it would not have been accepted. This made everything more relaxed and casual. He wondered why they had bothered interviewing him in the first place then decided that they did not want to be accused, even by themselves of ageism, not nearly as bad as racism or sexism but an ism non the less.

He spent a pleasant half hour with them and afterwards he made a point of reading their paper whenever he could find it. The paper was devoted almost entirely to music and movie reviews. After a while it seemed to disappear.

He gave up on the agency but continued to answer ads, to send out resumes and to fill out applications. One of his applications was for a job at the public art gallery and he was pleasantly surprised when he was granted an interview. He thought the art gallery would be a pleasant, even interesting, place to work.

Ms Bloughton, an administrative assistant, interviewed him and explained the position, that of attendant/guard. The duties were simple enough; you moved about, always watchful for vandalism, even theft, although that had never been a problem, mostly you directed people, you assisted them, you were polite, you were helpful, you took tickets. The gallery supplied a navy blue blazer and a maroon tie.

"It seems you might be overqualified for this position."

"That might be the case but the thing is I know I can do a good job for you, I'm sure of it."

"You might find it boring."

"I really don't think so. Believe me its just what I want."

Ms Bloughton didn't believe him but thought she would probably hire him anyway. He was the best of a bad lot. She thought vaguely that he might have some sort of problem, drugs or alcohol, but after talking with him further decided he was probably just bored and wanted something to do, and of course there were not that many options for someone his age. He was personable, fairly intelligent, and certainly presentable enough. She hoped he would last more than two or three months. With the often odd hours and the always low pay it was not easy to keep staff. She never asked if he had any interest in the visual arts.

A week later she phoned him and told him he had the job. He was so pleased he felt he should celebrate. The more he thought about the job the more he realized it was just what he wanted. It would be easy, very little was expected of him, he would meet some interesting people, and he liked the gallery. He liked the large rooms with their high ceilings and soft carpets, the quietness, the unhurried movements of the people as they moved from painting to painting. Rather church like he thought, although he had never liked churches. He might even learn to appreciate art. Of course there were paintings he liked and paintings he didn't like, those he might hang on his wall, or those he wouldn't. But to him paintings were decoration. He would do some studying.

He celebrated by going to a Thai restaurant, highly recommended by a newspaper columnist, where he had an excellent meal.

Chapter 19

The gallery turned out to be very much what James had expected, and what he had wanted, He strolled through the exhibits, he took tickets, he answered inquiries, (most of which related to the location of the washrooms), he advised patrons that parcels and backpacks must be checked at the reception desk. he smiled gently and spoke softly.

Another time he would have found the job boring, perhaps even too boring to endure, but now he welcomed work that placed so few demands on him. The monotonous routine was calming, it gave him time to think, to find out what he wanted to do.

He began, in his own way, to study painting, taking out books from the library, reading about the subject every day. It was how he had been in university, he had always studied and learned more on the subject than he would ever need for any test or essay. He saw art as a subject to be studied like physics or biology, or rather more like philosophy or literature; the schools, the movements, the influences, the interpretations. Along comes Joyce, along comes Picasso, and everything changes.

He read everything he could on the paintings that hung in the gallery, and on their painters. He wanted to be able to discuss, or at least know something about, every painting in his place of work.

It was all for his own benefit. No one was going to ask him if the large Kurt Burmann, the one that hung directly at the top of the stairs to the second floor, was a part of, or influenced by, the New York school.

At the same time he knew he had no real appreciation for painting, he might begin to intellectually understand it but finally it communicated nothing to him emotionally, not the way language or music could. There was no Yeats nor Shakespeare in painting.

Most days he ate his lunch at the gallery restaurant, located on the gallery rooftop. It was a pleasant although rather expensive place to eat, there one could eat inside, or if one chose, sit outside, sit beneath a very large yellow umbrella at a pale blue table, amid the shrubs and flowers, the statues and urns, and the pleasing smell of greenery. He usually ate outside and he always had his books with him which he would look through while he ate. Most often he had a salad and a glass of white wine or a sandwich and a bottle of beer.

One afternoon, he had been at the gallery three weeks, he was having his lunch, seafood salad and a glass of white wine, with his books; one on Picasso, one on the Impressionists, when he became aware of someone standing by his table. He looked up. It was Ms Boughton.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not, please do."

She sat down, smiling at him. He wondered if she might comment on the glass of wine, he was sure there must be some rule about drinking on the job, but she didn't.

"Its so pleasant out here." she said.

"Yes, yes it is, there always seems to be a bit of a breeze."

She looked about, trying to catch the eye of a waiter. "I always like to talk to new staff members after a couple of weeks, see how they're doing, any problems, anything I can help them with."

"No, no problems, not that I know of, everything is fine so far."

A waiter was there and she ordered the combination salad and a diet

Coke. "I was afraid you might find it boring."

"No, no I'm not bored. I can understand that though, at another time I might have been, no, its fine.

"Well I've heard nothing but good things about you." She indicated the books. "I see you're interested in art."

He half smiled. "I wasn't until I started here, I thought I should know at least a little something."

There was something disconcerting about him she thought, perhaps it was his utter calmness, he seemed so detached, it was in his manner, the way he looked at her, his tone of voice, even the way he ate and sipped his wine. She felt that if she told him he was fired nothing in his manner or tone of voice would change, and he would calmly continue to eat his meal. She noticed there was always a hesitation, just a beat or two, before he replied to anything. For a second or two she was curious about him, who he was, what his life had been like. She cleared her throat. "And are you getting settled in?" She wanted to return the conversation to its proper supervisor/staff member setting. "And how do you like our city so far?"

"I like it, its fine. Yes, I'm getting settled in, I found an apartment on Denham, in the west end, just two blocks from the water. I like it. I like being near the water."

"I have friends that live near there, its very rare that anything becomes available in that area. You were very lucky."

"Yeah I know." he said. I have been lucky all my life." He said it as a flat statement of fact, with no expression, not with humour, not with modesty, not even with irony.

They were quiet for a while, both eating then he looked skyward and said. "Its beginning to cloud up."

She looked up as well. "Yes, its supposed to rain tonight."

She finished her meal, she had eaten quickly. She was pressed for time. "Oh, yes," she said ".We're having an opening, Tuesday night, wine and cheese thing. Would you be available that evening?"

"Sure, I can do that."

"It starts at eight and runs till about midnight some time, you won't have to serve drinks or food, just more or less be there."

"That's fine." He took a sip of wine.

"Good." She wrote something in her notebook. "Good. Well then.." She stood up. "I'm glad things are working out." She gave a brief smile and nod of goodbye. Before she turned the corner she looked back. He was reading his book.

Sometimes James would eat in the staff room, picking up a sandwich and a bottle of juice from the deli. The staff room was rather bleak, windowless, with washed out blue walls, functional Formica topped, tables and uncomfortable metal folding chairs. There was a badly worn sofa along one wall and a soft drink dispenser that gave the room its only splash of colour. James ate there on occasion, with the idea of meeting his co-workers, an act, as he saw it, of being sociable, part of the job. There was another staff room on the third floor, much better furnished, for the more senior staff members.

"Mind if I join you?"

James had been reading a newspaper, he folded it and placed it beside him on the table. "Of course not, " He gestured to an empty chair.

The man who seated himself opposite James was only a few years his senior but looked much older, thin and stoop shouldered with a slightly protruding stomach he carried himself with a kind of uncertainty, like a very old man. He stuck out a large bony hand, there was a gold signet ring on his little finger. "Carl Brown."

"James Last." He shook the man's hand. Carl unwrapped his lunch; a container of yogurt, a container of milk, a banana and two cookies.

"That looks like a healthy lunch."

Carl grunted. "Bad stomach." He removed his gold rimmed eyeglasses and set them carefully on the table then massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes had a washed out look, the whites tinged with yellow, the pupils a faded blue. There were large, dark, pouches under his eyes. "So>" he said, not looking up from his lunch. "How do you like the job?"

James gave a little shrug. "Its okay I guess."

"Yeah, okay, that's the best you can say, its sure no roaring hell." He started to eat his banana. "What did you do before this?"

"Office equipment and supplies."

"Sales?"

"Some."

"God, that's a tough one, tried it for a while. Been in sales almost all my life, well up until this." He looked contemptuously around the room. "Since I was nineteen, mostly big ticket, furniture and appliances. I was with Sears for eleven years."

"Oh yeah, good company, aren't they?"

"Damn good, good pension plan too, if I'd stayed there I wouldn't be here now, probably retired on some beach in Florida." He began to eat his yogurt, very slowly, with a small plastic spoon. "Yeah, that was my mistake, didn't know a good thing when I had it. Three of us, me and two other hotshot salesmen, we started our own store, furniture and appliances, it went so good that in two years we opened a second store. That was our big mistake, it just sucked all the money out of the first store but we never closed it up, kept thinking it would turn around. I guess we weren't such shit hot businessmen. Then the competition got tough, a big chain, you can't fight those guys, they got the buying power and the big advertising budgets. We lasted seven years before we went belly up. Smart guys they go bankrupt they have a little nest egg stashed away, not us, we even owed personal money, you know, friends and family and that." He had finished his yogurt but didn't eat his cookies, instead he re wrapped them and put them in his jacket pocket. "Worked a few places after that, couldn't find a good one, then all of a sudden you're fifty, you get that grey in your hair and nobody wants you." He glared angrily across at James. "Guys like us, they just throw us on the garbage heap. Too old. It doesn't matter what we know, our experience, they want somebody young. Most of these young guys they don't know their ass from a hole in the ground." He looked expectantly at James, as if awaiting confirmation.

James paused. "I guess I haven't been so unlucky."

Carl gave him a look as if to say, Yeah, and what are you doing here then? But he asked. "You married?"

"Separated. Two children, both grown up."

"We never had any kids, the wife died six years ago, breast cancer, they never found it until too late."

Why are you telling me all this, James wondered, you don't even know me. He was always amazed when things like this happened, it was something he would never do, he couldn't understand the need and felt it was a kind of intrusion upon him and felt slightly resentful.

They were both quiet for a minute or two then Carl said. "They tell me you're from out of town. "You like it so far?" His hands were clasped together on the table in front of him. He looked as though he might be interviewing a job applicant.

James looked away. "So far."

"Yeah, most people like it, its a pretty good place. "Born here, lived here all my life. Seen a lot of changes, this place has doubled in size in the last twenty years." He sighed and nodded his head. "If you'd have bought property back then you'd be a rich man today. I guess everybody says that." He rubbed his eyes and said softly. "Houses you could have bought for a song then, now they're going for four hundred thousand."

James attention was elsewhere. "Its always hard to know at the time."

Carl looked at him with a mixture of contempt and disappointment, then asked. "Mind if I read your paper?"

"Keep it, I'm done." He pushed the paper forward on the table.

Carl took the paper and opened it to the sports section.

James attention had been taken by a couple that had entered the staff room. The man had gone to the drink machine, returning with two drinks to the table at the far end of the room where the young woman sat. James had never met them but he knew who they were, a young co-worker had told him. "That's Barry. He's gay, you'd never know it to look at him but he is, let's you know it too. He does all the photography, for the catalogues and stuff, mounts most of the exhibits. That's his assistant, Sheila, pretty nice, eh? What a waste, a gay guy and he gets to work with that all day."

The man, Barry, looked to be in his early thirties, he had a hard look about him, his facial features, his body, hard and lean. His hair was black, trimmed down to about an eighth of an inch. The woman, Sheila, was blonde and pretty in a pert cheerleader sort of way. James thought they looked like interesting people, people he might like to know. When the man looked his way James gave a little half smile and nod as if to say hello. The man returned the nod, the woman did not look up from their conversation, she seemed completely absorbed in what the man was saying.

When the couple had gone James stood up, Carl was still reading the paper, James said. "I think I'll get a bit of fresh air." and left the staff room.

Carl would later describe James as, "a stuck up son of a bitch, a little on the slow side, but he thinks he's something special."

James did go outside for some fresh air, as he did almost every lunch or coffee break. He sat on the steps at the back of the gallery, by the delivery door, and smoked a cigarette. He had started smoking again, after four years of abstinence; smoking or not smoking had no importance to him any more.

Chapter 20

James became more interested in buying a sailboat, he spent much of his spare time around the quay, looking at boats, talking, whenever he could, to the men and women who sailed them. There were three boats for sale in the marina; two of them he considered too large and the third had a shabby look as if never cared for. He was surprised at how expensive even a small boat was, and the upkeep too was costly. At first that was discouraging but then he had to check himself, it was ridiculous, of course he could afford it, what was it then, some kind of misplaced guilt over spending so much on an indulgence, something like that he thought, from his childhood. If he wanted one he would buy one, it was as simple as that. He did not want to be wandering around the docks in three or four years still trying to decide. But he would not be a fool about it either, he would take sailing lessons, go out on boats, make sure he really liked sailing, not just the romantic idea of it.

When he pictured himself in the boat it was usually alone but sometimes there would be other people... if only Denice... She would have loved it; the breeze from the water, the sun, the movement of the boat, the only sound the sound of the gulls. She would have loved it, she had liked the river, had liked canoeing once. And it all could have been, it all could have been, years ago. He could have made it happen, decided to do it and just done it, but he hadn't, he had failed, he had betrayed not just her but both of them. It always came back to the same thing.

He was always, in his day to day life, aware of being alone; eating his meals alone, going to the movies alone, waking up alone, but there were times when, and it would come suddenly, a feeling of intense loneliness would grip him and he would yearn, physically ache, for a touch, a shared laugh or joke, a connection with someone. It was a feeling he had rarely known since childhood. He had always thought of himself as rather introverted, a more-or-less solitary person but he had not needed any more than he had; his children, Jennifer, and then Denise, that had been enough. Now only his children, and they by the thinnest of lines.

Chapter 21

He still phoned his children every week, he looked forward to the calls, anxious to hear their voices, to hear that things were still all right. He hoarded the bits of information they gave him about their jobs, their lives, information that in the past had just drifted lazily through his consciousness now seemed important and he remembered every item.

Two nights earlier he had phoned Robert. Robert had sounded even more distant than usual, more perfunctory, almost dutiful. After a few awkward moments Robert had put Melanie on the phone. "Melanie wants to say Hi." She had sounded warmer, more interested than Robert had. Or was that just his imagination? Robert was not a telephone person, perhaps he had other things on his mind, or was just having a bad day. Perhaps he and Melanie had quarrelled. It was a mistake to read too much into these kind of things, one never knew the other person's circumstances or their mood when they picked up the phone.

He had phoned Jane immediately after but it was only the machine that answered; a brief, terse message, the same message for parents, co-workers, friends or lovers, the same tone of voice. He was surprised when she returned his call the next night. "Hi, Dad, sorry I missed you." It was the first time either of his children had called him since the separation. They talked easily for fifteen or twenty minutes. He described in more detail his neighbourhood and his job and had a movie to recommend. She was no longer seeing her therapist, "Sometimes I think she just made things more confusing." She was taking things easier she said; the job, relationships, life in general. And she sounded it, sounded more matter-of-fact, more casual, less intense than he could remember. "Sort of wait and see what happens. What is it you old hippies used to say; don't push the river."

"Yeah, go with the flow. Be careful, next thing I'll hear you're living on a commune somewhere weaving your own clothes and growing organic vegetables."

She had asked again how he was getting on. "Oh, pretty well I guess. Its a little lonely, I haven't met anyone yet, just co-workers, but all in all its okay." He didn't tell her of his plans to buy a boat, he didn't want to sound too happy or that he was starting a whole new life. At the end of their conversation he asked, as he always did, how Jennifer was.

"Oh, Mother's okay, she's doing fine." She had said it, he thought, almost dismissively. She hung up with a quick. "Bye now, love you." She had not ended the conversation with a "love you" before and her manner had seemed warmer, friendlier than other conversations. James thought he could detect a slight shift of alliance in their conversation and he welcomed it. Whether I deserve it or not. And who is to say I don't deserve it. Part of the structure of families is rivalry, subtle or blatant, conscious or not; children competing for the love of their parents, parents for their children's love, in whatever way they can with whatever weapons they have. It was always there, submerged, but nudging against so many of the words and deeds of everyday life. His family knew it and accepted it. It was glossed over or treated with humour; Jane as a teenager rolling her eyes and saying. "Oh, God, its suck up to Robert time again. When is it my turn?" Or James saying. "Okay I'll give you the money this time but don't tell your mother." A million and one little conspiracies. The most natural thing in the world. Jennifer had just been better at it, had been more clever, more determined.

Chapter 22

"Oh, Mr. Last, just the one I'm looking for."

James thought Ms Bloughton looked, as it seemed she often did, frazzled, as though continually running several minutes behind schedule. She was, he noted, given to frequent furrowing of the brow and vague fluttering of the hands.

"Good morning."

"And how is everything going? With the job? Any problems or anything?"

He smiled politely. "No, no problems at all. Fine, just fine."

"Good, that's good. I was hoping I could call on your services once again. It seems we have a minor emergency." She fluttered out her right hand indicating, James supposed, the whole gallery, as she did so the black leather bag, crammed with books and papers began to slip from her shoulder. James reached out to help her but she quickly righted it herself. "Loaded down as usual I'm on my way to a meeting." James nodded sympathetically. "Anyway we have a folk art exhibit coming in and we were supposed to receive the exhibit at least three weeks ago and its only just arriving today. So of course we're far behind schedule. We have to photograph all the items for the catalogue, and for our own records. I don't know if you know our photographer, Barry Nevlin? Anyway because of the rush he could use a little extra help, probably only for a day or two starting tomorrow. Would you be available?

"Sure."

"Good. There would be no heavy lifting or anything, just moving lights about. Oh, you might have to work late. Is that a problem?"

"No, no problem. Glad to help." Once again he smiled politely.

"Good. If you can be here at nine tomorrow morning then and," she gave a little flutter of her right hand again but this time the left hand was firmly gripped on the shoulder strap of her black leather bag, "you can just wear, you know, casual clothes."

"Nine o'clock, I'll be there."

"Good. Well then, I'm off to my meeting." She gave a brisk smile and a nod of good-bye.

James didn't watch her as she walked quickly away, instead he turned again to look at the painting that hung on the wall between exhibit rooms. Richard Deerborne, local painter, still active, mostly landscapes. This landscape, as the other two that hung in the gallery, seemed to James, to be flat and dull. The kind of painting that the eye skims quickly across as the viewer moves on, scarcely pausing. James wondered if Richard Deerborne ever came to the gallery, to sit and watch the people as looked at his paintings, or as they walked quickly by.

James arrived at the gallery at ten to nine. He was dressed in a white tee shirt, baggy green sweater, tan slacks and loafers. Barry, the photographer, and his assistant, Sheila, were already in the exhibit room. Also there was an assistant curator and two members of the caretaking staff who were unpacking the last two exhibits.

Introductions were made, "James? Is that what you like to be called?" Barry asked.

"That's what everyone calls me. I always hated Jim." He gave a little shrug. "Sounds like the beginning of a joke.

The assistant curator, whose name was Eldridge, was tall and thin, slightly stooped, about thirty, with black curly hair and very pale skin. He mumbled a, "glad you were available to help." Sheila smiled and said, "Hi." No one shook hands.

Sheila wore an oversize black turtleneck sweater with the sleeves half rolled up, jeans and runners. Barry had black jeans, black runners, and black tee shirt.. He had what looked to be a week's growth of beard and a gold earring in his left ear, the earring was a plain gold band.

The assistant curator gave an exaggerated deep sigh and a half smile. "Always a rush. How soon do you think you might be done?" He had a slight English accent.

"Forty-three pieces, tomorrow night should do it." We'll get the equipment now."

"Thanks. You're a wonder. I'm just about done here." The assistant curator had a clipboard with several pieces of paper clipped to it. He frequently made check marks and notations on these papers. "Later on, when you have some time, we'll get together and exchange ideas on how to mount this."

As soon as they were out of the exhibit room, Sheila, walking between James and Barry said. "Exchange ideas, as if he ever had one. He just wants to pick your brain."

As they exchanged glances Barry gave her a small grin. "Oh, he's not so bad. Its okay, really." James was aware of something, something between the two of them, of their relationship. How this was conveyed to him he could never say; it was not in the words but something in the tone of voice, the look, the grin, the body language. He was aware of what it was. It was an intense loyalty, one to the other. It made them interesting to James and also was a warning. He would be very careful about what he said, he would tread lightly. He felt attracted to the pair and hoped he might get to know them, even in a slight way.

In the small equipment room they loaded up a large four wheeled cart with lighting equipment, camera tripods and cloth screens. James and Sheila pushed while Barry pulled and guided. He had his camera and lenses in a large black case. The first piece he chose to photograph was a carved wooden statue, about four feet tall, a man, perhaps a hunter, primitive looking, flat faced, squat, looking into the distance. "I think we'll do this guy first, I kind of like him. I think when we mount this I'll put him right in the entrance, in the middle, so people walk around him. I think maybe something bright behind him, maybe that faded orange."

The work went easily. James found, a little to his surprise, that he was quite adept at handling the equipment, and Barry, despite his look and air of intensity, was patient and unhurried, Sheila often seemed to know what he wanted before he asked for it. Barry hummed softly as he worked. When he wanted something done it always came out as a request not an order, usually prefaced with the word "Maybe." "Maybe we can move the screen back a foot or so. James, maybe move that fill light back about three feet and put a scrim on it. Right."

Although he tried not to appear to be doing so, James studied the pair carefully. They were a contrast physically; Barry; thin, dark, sharp featured, with his intense gaze, Sheila; full figured, fair, with her California cheer leader prettiness. But Barry was not what he appeared to be. He was not intense, not even temperamental, instead he was easy going in his manner and careful and meticulous in his work. Sheila was... James couldn't guess what she was, what there was about her...something he couldn't quite put his finger on; it was in her eyes, their sudden changes, little flashes of panic, or sadness, he couldn't be sure.

Three quilts were part of the exhibit and Barry was having a hard time in finding how best to photograph them. He would study them, try an arrangement or an idea, then discard it, all the while humming softly to himself. James recognized the tune; it was an old Irish folk song.

Then Barry said abruptly. "I think it's coffee time. I'll go down the street and get some good coffee for a change. Anyway I need some fresh air. You guys want anything else?"

When Barry left there was a moment of uneasy silence, James started to say something about the need for coffee, but before he could say it Sheila spoke. "How long have you been at the gallery?"

"Not long, just a couple of months." He paused, expecting her to offer a polite comment or question, when she didn't he continued. "Its not bad, sort of what I want right now." He hurried on. "But this, this part, is pretty good, I mean its kind of interesting anyway. I've never been involved in anything like this before, so you know, its a nice change." He felt he was helping her out of an awkward situation.

"Hmmm." She gave an almost imperceptible nod while her eyes drifted around the room as if taking it all in for the first time. Then abruptly, almost as if startled, she stood up. She gave James a quick smile then said. "I think I'll take a little break, stretch my legs." She picked up her canvas shoulder bag and as she left, said, without turning round. "I'll be back in five minutes."

James was a little taken aback by the abruptness of her leaving but then decided that he too would stretch his legs. He went to the washroom where he splashed cold water on his face, he was feeling unaccountably drowsy. Then he went to the back steps of the gallery to smoke a cigarette. The sky was dark grey and the air damp, it had sprinkled rain earlier. It was on days like this, with a slight rain or mist, that James liked to walk along the quay, looking at the boats, imagining himself sailing one. He would get serious about buying a boat; it was something he was definitely going to do. Definitely. He would look into it on his next day off, look into it with the real intent of buying. He had read about it and talked about long enough. He would buy one. It would be the next big step in his new life.

When he returned Sheila was there, she was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up against her chest. She murmured a soft. "Hi."

"Hi." He sat on the floor, putting about three feet of space between them. "I sneaked out for a smoke, I was dying for a cigarette." he knew she smoked, he had noticed the cigarette package in her bag.

Her face lit up. "You did? That's where I went. Where did you go?"

"I always sit on the back steps."

"I went out the front. Another smoker. Yea!" She raised her fist in mock salute. "Not many of us in here. God, you can't even smoke in the coffee room in this place."

He laughed, surprised at how pleased she seemed to be, as if some bond had formed. "Yeah, I know, the cigarette police are everywhere."

"I used to go into the can for a smoke, then old whats-her-face caught me. God, she gave me shit for a full five minutes. Jesus. You'd think I'd... I don't know. Big deal." Her eyes flashed with anger. She looked quickly about the room, then gave a little shrug of resignation, the anger gone. "Oh, well." it was said softly, almost a sigh. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, so still and peaceful she might have been sleeping. After a minute she spoke again her words soft and drowsy. "Come on Barry, hurry up with that fucking coffee."

He could see her as the staff member had seen her, had described her, like a Playboy centrefold come to life. It was all there; the perfect features, the shapely body, but without the airbrush, without the glossy blankness.

James stared at the floor, and for something to do, retied the laces of his runners, although they had not come loose. Barry returned with the coffee. James took his and returned to his place on the floor, his back against the wall. After a few seconds Sheila joined him, this time she sat quite close to him, scarcely a foot between them. Barry stayed at the far end of the room, he had chosen this time to finally look at the slides that accompanied the exhibit. He held each one up to the light and examined it carefully.

James took a tentative sip of his coffee. He was aware of her closeness, not excited by it, not intimidated by it, only aware of it, and not sure how to interpret it. She held her coffee in both hands, her arms resting on her drawn up knees, but she didn't drink it, only stared at the brown cardboard cup, lost in thought or daydreams. As far as he could tell she wore no make-up at all, her hair, almost shoulder length, was pulled carelessly back and tied in a pony tail, one strand constantly being pushed back behind her ear.

"Shit, shit, shit." The words came out like small, sharp, explosions. "God damn it." She sat the coffee down on the floor so quickly that some coffee sloshed over, onto the floor and her hand.

Startled, he asked, "What is it? What's wrong? You okay?"

She was shaking her head from side to side, slowly, as if lost or distressed. "Oh, I just...just remembered, remembered something...something I forgot to do. Damn it." She turned to look at him, her expression filled with a mixture of panic and despair. "Why do I always forget everything? Why am I so God-damn stupid?"

The intensity of her look and voice flustered James, as if she had just told him some dark personal secret. He fumbled awkwardly for something to say. "I'm like that too; I'm always forgetting things."

She didn't appear to hear him. She rested her head on her knees, her face turned away from him, the hand that the coffee had spilled on was against her mouth. He took a handful of serviettes. "Here, let me do this. If you stain the gallery floor they'll probably take it out of your pay." He began to wipe up the spilled coffee, moving slowly as if afraid to startle her, careful to not accidentally touch her. When he had done the floor he took a fresh serviette and wiped off the coffee cup. Then he handed it to her. "How's the hand?"

"Oh, its okay. Thank you." She took a sip of her coffee. "I'm sorry, I..."

"No, no, no problem." He shrugged it off with a quick smile and a forget-about-it expression.

They drank their coffee in silence until finally Barry ambled over. Although he must have seen or heard what had happened he gave no indication. "So what do you think, gang? Will we or will we not we finish this project before the deadline?" It was said with a smile. Sheila rose quickly to her feet returning the smile. Barry placed a hand on her shoulder where it stayed for a few seconds then said. "I think I've decided how I want to do the quilts."

The work went on as it had before, slowly and methodically, with very little in the way of conversation. James thought that had he not been there the atmosphere would have been different, they were obviously close friends, there would have been personal references and inside jokes. That there was almost none of that seemed to James to be an act of politeness, an effort to make him feel less of an outsider.

They took an early supper, Barry saying they would put in a couple more hours then call it as night. The restaurant was ten or twelve blocks away and they drove in Barry's car, James sitting in the back. Somewhat to James surprise the restaurant was one of a large chain, slightly more upscale than most but large, bright, and noisy. It was the kind of restaurant he always avoided.

The mood of all three was brighter, smiles and comments quicker and easier, as though all three had been suddenly released from some long and solemn ritual, like the funeral of someone you didn't know very well. Barry ordered a hamburger with a side order of chicken wings, James a club sandwich. Sheila sitting between the two men waited for them to look expectantly at her, then said with an exaggerated determination, "I am going to have the plain salad. Because I...am...going...to...lose...five...pounds." As she spoke she turned her head from man to man, like someone watching a tennis match.

"You don't need to lose five pounds." Barry said softly.

She ate her salad, all the while helping herself to Barry's fries and a couple of his chicken wings. At one point James said to her, indicating the fries on his plate. "Help yourself, really, I usually don't eat them anyway." She did taking a fry from one plate then the other. Watching her James thought, she can make the act of taking a piece of potato from my plate seem like a gesture of intimacy.

They worked for another two hours then Barry said. "Okay, that's it, let's call it a day." then facing Sheila directly he said. "I'm going to stay another hour or so, see how it looks so far."

"That's okay I can grab a bus."

James said. "My car is here I can give you a lift if you like."

"Oh, I don't mind.."

"Really, its no problem."

"If you're sure..."

"Of course, no problem, come on. You might have to give me directions though, I don't know the city all that well."

It was a ten minute drive. Sheila gave him directions and smoked a cigarette. "I really appreciate the ride, sometimes the bus is a long wait. Turn right at the next street." She flipped her finished cigarette out the window. "Was that true, what you said? That you always forget things?"

"I'm afraid so, not so much at work, but at home, I'd be supposed to go somewhere or do something and it would slip my mind, I'd be reading or listening to music, yeah, dumb things."

"You read a lot"

"Yeah, I think I read too much."

She lived in a small, square block of an apartment building, one of a row of five, all similar, ll that looked to have been built by the same builder.

"Well, thanks. See you tomorrow

"Right, take it easy."

An elderly man was seated in the lobby of James apartment building. James had seen the man before, always seated in the lobby, always dressed the same way, navy suit, white shirt, and red and white striped tie. He was small, frail looking, with a great shock of white hair, and light blue, watery, eyes. There was a cane leaning against his chair. James nodded to him, smiling, and said. "Beautiful night tonight."

The man smiled warmly in return, and said. "Yes, yes."

For a second or two James thought of joining the man, sitting with him, sharing a little conversation, giving him some company. But he didn't, he felt impatient to be in his apartment. There was nothing in his mailbox, only three pieces of junk mail. He surveyed his apartment and thought he should do something about it. It was too bare, too temporary looking. It was after all, his home. He would get some paintings, some pottery, some vases, Chinese vases. Not all at once of course, only when he found things he really liked. Keep it simple, just a few really good things. He poured himself a large gin and tonic and put on some music. Miles Davis. He had discovered jazz rather late in life and there were only a few performers he listened to. For the most part it was classical music, the music he had grown up with, the music he shared with Denise. They had often listened to classical music together, in bed, after making love.

He felt restless and slightly depressed. He contemplated phoning his children, it had been almost a week, but the thought of Robert's ever accusatory voice and fed up manner dismayed him. And Jane, Jane would be overly chipper and warm, trying too hard, or lost in her own private agonies. He took his drink out onto the balcony where he stood, looking down on the busy, noisy street, sipping his drink. The night air was pleasant with a slight breeze, fresh and slightly damp.

He sipped his drink and spoke softly, almost a whisper, as if to someone standing close to him. "The street seems extra busy tonight, mostly couples, mostly young, but then everyone seems young these days. I've been told, told a couple of times, how lucky I was to find a place in this area, but that's me, been lucky all my life." The last said almost bitterly. Then, after a pause. "There is going to be a street festival next Sunday, closing off the street, people selling their art or handicrafts, you know, it should be nice. And I really am serious about a boat, going to do it. I think of how much you would have loved it, anyhow, yes and I'm going to name it Denise." He was quiet for a long while. The music had stopped. "Work is much the same, although I did something a little different and did meet a nice young couple. A break from the usual." He had wanted them to like him, to accept him, more than he normally would have done. They were a couple of sorts and he was aware of that all day so he had been careful not to push himself, not to overstep boundaries, to be casual. He had even adjusted his language slightly to be more in tune with theirs, swearing more than he usually did. He would do the same tomorrow. "Yeah, an interesting couple, I think, but young, you know, but its just that I want, I need, to connect to someone. I am just so, so very lonely, so God damn lonely and I, I miss you so much." He finished his drink in a quick gulp and left the balcony

Later, in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror, he thought, I am no longer important to anyone. I exist only on the outer edges of peoples lives, a minor figure, an afterthought. He had been passed by, nudged aside. He thought of the elderly ladies in his mother's senior residence and of the old man in the lobby downstairs. He frowned then brushed his teeth, took his vitamins and went to bed.

Chapter 23

The second day went along much as the first had, slowly and methodically, only now with a change of atmosphere that James was immediately aware of. There was a little more joking, some gentle teasing, and a hinted acknowledgement that Barry was indeed stretching things out. There was something else, something that was communicated in looks, in tones of voice, in attitude, that made James feel that he had, in some way, been accepted, let in, and they now felt freer to act more naturally, as they might if he were not there.

"Do you like any of this stuff?" She gave a small sweep of her hand, indicating the exhibits in the room. They were standing together, waiting while Barry pondered the next set up.

James said. "No, not much, That first one that Barry did, that sort of wooden statue, that wasn't bad, but no, it doesn't do much for me."

"Me either, I wouldn't mind one of those quilts though." She put head against his shoulder and feigned sleep. "Come on Barry, get your finger out, we're falling asleep here."

Sheila was in a good mood throughout the day, only once did he see her slip into that look of intense despair he had seen the day before. They were sitting on the back steps of the gallery taking a smoke break. She was sitting very close to him, almost touching him, as he lit her cigarette their arms brushed and she put her hand on his to steady the flame. It was something she always did, this being close, even when standing beside him, her arm against his, sometimes resting her head on his shoulder. She did this with Barry too, it was nothing sexual he knew that, it was something else. Then suddenly, it was there again, the slight frown, the pursed mouth, the eyes darting quickly then fixed on some distant object, even her breathing quickened. He could sense it as much as see it. He fumbled for something to say, to draw her back. "So, do you think we'll get it all finished tonight?" She didn't seem to hear him. He shifted his body so he lightly jostled her arm. "Hey there, do you think we'll finish it tonight?"

She turned to face him and for a second it was as if she didn't recognize him, then she smiled. "Don't look so worried, I'm all right, just lost in thought for a second." She stretched out her legs and leaned back against the steps, as she did so her sweater pulled up showing a thin ribbon of exposed flesh between the sweater and her jeans, the top half of her navel was visible. She asked. "Have you done much travelling?"

"No, not much. I went to Europe when I was young but I think I was too dumb to appreciate it."

"I want to travel someday. See the world."

"Don't wait too long. The years fly by, they really do."

She nodded absently, her eyes closed, dragging on her cigarette. The old giving advice to the young, he thought, because the young think they have all the time in the world and how wrong they are.

They had supper at the same restaurant as the night before, it might even have been the same table, and as far as James could recall they had each ordered the same thing, only this time the meal was more leisurely. James and Barry each had two beers. About half way through the meal Barry said. "James, you doing anything Saturday night?"

He shook his head. No."

"You want to come over. We're going to sit around, watch a game or a movie, send out for some food, drink some beer. You're more than welcome."

"You mean like a party?"

"Not a party, just the three of us, no big deal."

He had the feeling Barry wanted him to accept. "Sure, that would be fine. Thanks, I'd like to."

When the work was done, the project completed (with mock cheers) Barry said he would stay to do some paper work and asked them to put away the equipment. As they left Sheila gave him a little kiss on the cheek. He said. "Don't forget to lock the door."

She rolled her eyes, "And don't you forget to turn out the light before you develop your pictures.' She put her arm around James waist. "Come on, lets get out while the getting's good."

Once again, over her mild, polite, protestations, he drove her home. There was a slight rain falling. The lack of traffic, the monotonous sweep of the windshield wipers, and the glistening reflection of lights on the black road gave the ride a dreamlike quality. They were silent for the most part. When they were almost to her home she turned quickly in her seat, facing him. She never used the seat belt. She was staring intently at him as if alarmed, her hand rested on his arm. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What do you think of Jean?" When he looked puzzled, she added. "Jean Bloughton."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I don't know. Nothing. I mean I really don't know her."

"She doesn't like me. I mean she really dislikes me, sometimes I think she hates me. I think she tried to have me fired once. I don't know why, I've never done anything to her. She just hates me I know it, but I don't know why."

"I wouldn't worry about it, she is who she is, who knows what her problem is. You probably wouldn't want her for a friend anyway."

Her voice was still filled with concern. "I always try to be nice to her, always polite and everything. I go out of my way to be nice to her. I don't know why she's like that."

They had arrived at her apartment building. He said. "Sometimes when people don't like you it has more to do with them than it does with you. You know, who she is, what her thing is." She still stared him, green puzzled eyes. He took her hand in both of his and spoke softly but emphatically. "Listen to me, really, you can't let it bother you. She isn't worth it. She isn't. To hell with her."

Two beats then a sudden smile. "Its just... No, you're right. Screw her."

"I really doubt that I will but that's the right attitude."

She touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Well thanks for the ride, again. We'll see you on Saturday if not before."

"Sure, take it easy." He watched as she walked to the apartment building door where she turned and waved. He waved back.

The old man was not in the lobby. James felt a slight tinge of disappointment, he had meant to talk to him. He phoned Robert.

"Oh, hi Dad. You just caught me, just getting ready to go to bed."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that, I guess I forgot about the time difference. So how are things going? Everything okay?"

Robert didn't have a lot to say and each sentence seemed grudgingly given. The job was okay, Melanie was okay, he hadn't talked to his sister for a while but he thought everything "was about the same." James felt he was prompting him. Finally Robert asked. "So how are things out there in Lotus Land?"

"Not so bad, I'm adjusting to it. I haven't made any real friends yet, but I'm adjusting." God, he sounded like he was in prison. "Its a beautiful city." He paused. "How is your mother?"

"About the same."

"Okay I'll let you get to bed. Sorry about calling so late. Say hello to Mel for me and you take care of yourself, okay?"

"Sure, you too, Dad."

Dead air. He hung up the phone. Robert, Robert, Robert, give me a break. I never betrayed you for Christ's sake! That was Robert, never one to hide his feelings, and stubborn, he'd always been stubborn. And Jennifer, she would keep feeding it to him, the perfect mom, the martyr, forever betrayed. But he would come around. Robert would come around. He had to. They'd had too many good times, times that meant something. They had been too close. Robert would come around. If he could spend some time with him, have a real talk with him, do some things together. All the years. It had to mean something, it couldn't be just nothing. Feeling angry and frustrated he left the apartment.

He drove along Davie Street. The light, cool, rain was still falling, falling gently and many of the hookers had umbrellas, bright red, or yellow, or blue, that shone wetly with reflected light. Others stood under shelters, ambling over to the curb whenever a car cruised slowly by. He parked the car and walked up the street. Most of the women gave him a quick glance then looked away, but some asked quietly, "Looking for a date tonight, mister?" A tall, leggy blonde who looked like she might be wearing a wig smiled at him, a squat, black at the roots redhead looking old and tired mumbled something in his direction. Well there was no meaning here, that was its point; no past, no future, no entanglements, you were the hundred dollars you had in your wallet, they were various body parts. A young black girl, she looked no more than fifteen or sixteen stood motionless by the curb. Dead eyes, chewing gum. In another life she'd be doing homework and having crushes. She started to say something but he shook his head.

He went into a bar and had only one drink, a beer. He felt impatient. He started to walk back, hands thrust deeply into his jacket pockets, back and shoulder muscles tense, still carrying the anger and frustration. Two women were standing in a doorway, one said. "Just out sightseeing, eh sport?" He walked more slowly now, looking carefully at the women, staring at each one. He wanted to take one of them, hire her, take her home, fuck her. But it was not from any kind of sexual desire. He drove home.

Chapter 24

There was a message in his employee mail box, a note requesting him to see M. Bloughton. It was scrawled on a little piece of paper on the bottom of which were scrawled the letter A.S.A.P. The first time he went to her office she wasn't there. Nor the second. The third time she was seated at her desk, head bent over an open file on her desk. He knocked softly on her door. "James, come in, sit down. "I'll just be a minute

He waited, much longer than a minute, while she read the file, made some notations, and from time to time punched in some numbers on a small calculator and pointedly established her position and his. Finally she closed the file and moved it to the far side of her desk. She took a thin file from a desk drawer and from the file she removed three sheets of paper, forms of some kind. She lined them up in a row on her desk. "you have some overtime coming from the opening the other week." She tapped one of the forms with her pen. "I'm sure you were wondering about that." She paused but he didn't say anything. He found her manner irritating. She tapped each of the other forms. "And we have your overtime from last night and the night before." She put down her pen and clasped her hands together on the desk. He gallery has a policy; you can either take the extra hours in wages, or you can book them, use them for time off. At a suitable time of course. I'm sure you're familiar with the process. We find that most employees prefer to book the time."

James looked down at the floor, he wondered if she was being deliberately patronizing, proving some point, putting him in his place. He looked up, smiled, and gave a little shrug. "Sure, book them then."

She carefully ticked off a box on each of the forms. "You can check the hours and the totals, make sure everything is correct, then sign in the lower right corner." He quickly scrawled his name on each page purposefully not reading them. She placed the forms in a basket on her desk and reached for the file she had been working on. "I hope you got on all right, working with Barry, I know he can be fussy, very exacting."

"I think he should be, its his job. His name goes on the finished product."

"Of course, I understand that." she said dismissively. She began to read the file. "That's all then." She said curtly.

He sat on the back steps and smoked a cigarette. He had to get back on track, he was letting things get the better of him. Things get magnified. Robert was Robert, he would always be loyal to his mother. He could almost admire that, he had always placed a high value on loyalty, had preached it to them. Things get magnified. And Jane, Jane was still a sad mystery to him. But this, this now, this was what he had wanted, a new place, new friends, a new start, and as much as it was possible, a new life. It was all up to him, that was why he was here, to remake himself.

On Saturdays the gallery closed at five o'clock. On his way home James picked up some beer. The invitation had been a surprise, he had presumed that both Sheila and Barry would have active social lives, not that they would spend Saturday nights together drinking beer and watching movies. He was pleased they had invited him, even if it turned out to be a one time thing at least it was a start, however small, to some kind of social life. And we must always be grateful for small mercies. Denise would say that, joking, with he soft smile. "We must always be grateful for small mercies."

Barry answered the door. "Come in, come in, you can put your beer in the fridge if you like." He gestured in the direction of the kitchen. Sheila was already there. She smiled at him. "Hi." She was wearing white shorts and a baggy green tee shirt. The kitchen was clean and orderly, some photographs and a large calendar with the paintings of Hopper. There was not much in the way of food in the fridge, mostly beer. Sheila called out. "Hey James, would you bring me a beer please, a light."

The apartment was warm, it had been a hot humid day, and the early evening showed no sign of cooling. He handed her the beer. She was sitting in the middle of the sofa, Barry at one end, his legs stretched out in front of him. James sat on the far end of the sofa and sipped his beer. He felt a little awkward. Sheila said. "Barry doesn't believe in air conditioning."

Barry was pouring some chips into a bowl. "Okay." he said. "Decision time; we can either watch the game or pick up a movie, and we can order either Chinese or Thai." He looked inquiringly at James.

"I don't know, the game I guess." he didn't want to go through the procedure of leaving the apartment, going to the video store, and selecting a movie.

"and Thai food."

All agreed, they ordered food from the take out menu, more than they would ever eat. The game was between Dallas and Green Bay, James opted to cheer for Green Bay, for no particular reason, in fact he hadn't watched a football games in years, not since Robert was a young teen ager. Barry was a Green Bay fan so of course Sheila opted to cheer for Dallas. "Oh, sure I'm outnumbered by the guy club, but that's okay because Dallas is going to severely kick your ass, I mean severely."

They drank beer, munched on chips and beer nuts, and watched the game. But they didn't watch attentively, they would turn their attention from time to time to talk, small bits of conversation, something that had happened at work, a movie Sheila wanted to see, the postal workers strike, Barry saying he would like to rent a cabin by a lake for the weekend. The game served a useful purpose, you could exhaust the little pieces of conversation then go back to watching the game. No awkward pauses or attempts at making conversation.

The food came and they ate sitting on the floor, as though it was a picnic, almost completely ignoring the game turning to look only when the crowd noise indicated a touchdown or spectacular play. Sheila ate with great enthusiasm, laughing and talking while she ate. There was a glistening of perspiration on her brow.

James asked Barry. "You play sports?"

Sheila was getting up, she put her hand on James shoulder. "He sure did, he was a big hockey star."

Barry gave a quiet little laugh. "It was my game, some people thought I was pretty good. It was my game. I quit when I was fifteen. How about you?"

"Played a little hockey as a kid, wasn't much good, not much good at any sport. " My mother..." he paused then went on, "My mother hated sports, thought they were ridiculous, ridiculous and barbaric."

The game was winding down, Dallas was winning. James felt drowsy from the food and the beer and the heat. He stood up. "Mind if I look around?" Barry replied with a wave of his hand. A large rack of c.d.s, filled mostly with bands James had never heard of. All the pictures on the wall save one were photographs; some women washing clothes in a stream, two people arguing in a restaurant, a street scene with an elderly lady laughing, a woman, her face and body ravaged, probably from drugs, on skinny hand wiped at her mouth while her eyes looked directly into the camera with an expression of sad bewilderment It was the last picture that held his attention the longest. It had been taken a long time ago, children playing on a street in some foreign city. Something about it; their facial expressions, the frozen body movement, a kind of purity of the moment, something about time. It was taken years ago, the children would be old now or dead but this moment of their lives frozen forever. "I really like this." he said, still looking at the picture.

"Cartier Bresson. Yeah, you take a thousand shots and hope to get one like that."

"Do you think I could get a copy of it somewhere?"

"Probably, its pretty well known. I'll try to find out for you."

James sat down awkwardly, a little drunk. "If you would, I'd appreciate it. Something about it, I don't know what. You know I don't have one picture on my walls yet."

He drove Sheila home, drove slowly and carefully, still a little drunk. He watched as she walked quickly to her front door then turned and waved. He returned the wave then drove home.

He put on some music, made himself a drink, and surveyed his apartment. Yes, he would get a painting, a large abstract with lots of colour, and some photographs. That one, that Cartier Bresson, appealed to him. There would be others. He would get some books from the library. He went out onto the balcony to sip his drink, surprised to find that he was a little unsteady on his feet. He had intended to buy a small table and chairs for the balcony but as yet had not done it. He was so poor at that, at getting things done. He would make a list. He took one of his kitchen chairs and set it on the balcony, then took his drink, a piece of notepaper and pen, and sat down to make his list. The first item was BOAT, then PAINTING, then PHOTOGRAPHS, then TABLE AND CHAIRS. A short and innocuous list list for someone starting a whole new life. He spoke softly. " No, my dear, no one ever starts a whole new life but maybe i can adjust the old one. Sorry, I'm a little drunk but it was a pleasant evening, a nice couple, attractive, something about Sheila, I don't know, something frail, not frail exactly but there is something..." Twice during the evening he had seen her slip into one of her moods, just for a few seconds, whatever it was, sadness, panic, dismay, some combination.

He looked at his list again. The boat for sure, that was the main thing, he would get on that right away. You had to get after things. He was always too hesitant, too unsure. "Don't sit there like a bump on a log." For all her reading and literary pretensions his mother used outdated cliches. But it was up to him, no one else. It was too easy to let things slip away, slip slowly away until there was only an echo of what once was important.

Chapter 25

He sat on a bench on the quay, thinking that this might just be his favourite place in the city. The smells; fresh and pungent, the sea, decay, a hint of gasoline, and the sounds; the slap of the water, the gentle bumping and creaking of the boats, the screeching of the gulls. Far out he could see three sails motionless on the flat water. Two boats were getting ready to pull out, a couple on one, a man alone on the other. They exchanged a few sentences, something about the weather, then a wave. The couple pulled out first, using their motor to manoeuvre away from the dock and out of the lagoon.

In the marina the owner was working on re-assembling a pump, his hands careful and precise, like a watchmaker. He nodded a hello and said. "Just give me a minute or so here." He didn't look like a mariner James thought, short and pudgy, bald with a fringe of grey black hair and a heavy moustache, but his hands were the hands of a working man. He carefully set a gasket in place, then the cover, and tightened the screws. "You serious about buying a boat?" They had talked before.

"Oh yeah, I'm serious, definitely now."

"Well I've got one, or I will have shortly, a real beauty." He took a cloth from his back pocket and wiped his hands, slowly and thoroughly. "The owner has to move. Inland. He hates to part with it and I believe him. Its a good one and i should know, I've done the maintenance on her for the last five years. I know that sounds like a spiel but it isn't. Thing is it'll be a couple of months, the guy is going to keep her almost until the day he moves." He smiled and shrugged. "Then I'll take it in, go over everything, make sure its all a-one." He paused then thrust out his hand. "Mike Conroy."

"James Last."

"Well, James, you want to take a look at her?"

"Oh yeah, for sure."

They walked along the dock. Mike said. "You know if you get the bug, the sailing bug, you'll never lose it, it'll be in your blood, you'll never lose it."

James knew the boat, had looked at it many times as he had most of the boats along the dock. He tried to remember if he had ever seen the owner. They clambered aboard, the boat rocking gently beneath them Mike led the way, running his hand along the polished wooden railing. "Some nice touches, take a look around."

James ran his hands over the smooth wood, everything was fitted so precisely, the hours of exacting labour, a work of pride, maybe love. Mike was talking but James only half listened. "...eighteen footer... three hundred and fifty square feet of sail...made in New England." James sat in the stern; this is where he would be, taking her out, and he knew it, knew it for sure. This was his boat. Mike his back to him was still talking. "I have all the specs and history in my office, I can give you a copy. I checked her all out the other day, not much for me to do, well cared for. The man was a good owner." He was quiet for a few seconds then turned to face James. "So?"

"I love it," grinning with excitement. "I absolutely love it." He tried to stop grinning, he must look like an idiot. "And you think I can handle her by myself?"

"Sure, he did. Like I said, she handles well, nothing tricky about her."

James, a little cautious now, said quietly. "I think this might be the one for me."

Mike looked away for a moment then came and hunkered down close to James. "You know," he said, "every boat is different, two boats that look identical, they won't be. Each one has its own characteristics, I guess, strengths, weaknesses, traits, whatever. And you get to know them, you feel them. Not at first, at first its all concentration, then suddenly," he laced his fingers together, "Everything clicks in, it just becomes natural, like riding a bicycle."

They were silent for a minute, James intensely aware of everything around him; the sounds, the smells, the shadows on the deck that moved with the gentle rocking of the boat. He wondered if each boat had its own distinctive smell and sound. Mike stood up. "I should be getting back to the shop. Seen enough?"

In the marina Mike went behind the counter, searching for something among a stack of papers. James drummed his fingers on the counter then asked awkwardly, "So then... well, how much is it?"

"Twelve thousand."

James felt flustered and hesitant. His enthusiasm on the boat, his 'I love it.", had that cost him another thousand? Should he haggle, shop around, get some comparisons? He should take some time to think about it, it was, after all, a business deal not something to be done on impulse. He did not want to be overcharged, made a fool of.

"Well, I admit I'm at a loss here... you know, I mean I don't know prices and values and I..." He stopped, feeling suddenly uneasy and depressed, irritated with himself, the joy of the moment gone.

Mike spoke slowly and calmly, his hands laced together on the counter in front of him, not looking at James. "Its a fair price." he paused."I've been in business here for twenty-two years. I'd recommend this to my best friend, but no, that's okay, I understand. Maybe what you should do is get someone that knows a lot about boats, get them to check it over, check the price. You'd probably feel better, no matter what you do."

All at once, as if a great weight had been lifted from him the joy of the moment returned. James smiled broadly. "No, no need. You say its a fair price and a good boat." He thrust out his hand. "Let's do a deal."

They shook hands. "Fine. There's a few details, change of registration, you'll probably want insurance, but there's lots of time for that. Like I said, its going to be a couple of months." James nodded. "I'll give it a new coat of paint. You want to change anything?"

"No, just the way it is."

"Okay, I imagine you'll want to change the name though."

"Oh yes, for sure. Denise, D.E.N.I.S.E.

"Right, now there's different styles, you can get fancy with curlicues and stuff, shaded, I've got some samples I can show you."

"No. Plain lettering, just plain."

He wrote out a check for far more than was required for a deposit. On the dock he stopped to look at her. My boat. Denise. Look how she rides on the water, she's a beauty. The tiny triangles of sail against the far horizon, that would be him. Denise. Taking him beyond the narrowness of his ordinary life. I was right. I was so right. It was meant to be. I could have hesitated, shopped around, and she would have been gone. I would have lost her.

He could not remember when any purchase had ever given him such joy, was sure that none had. An exuberant joy, like the joy of a child or of a first falling in love. He wanted to celebrate but he didn't know how to, what to do.

At home he put on some music, the ninth of course, the one that makes everyone want to be a conductor. He had to tell someone, Robert and Jane of course but it was too early to call them. Barry and Sheila, no, he thought not, it didn't seem right, he didn't know them well enough, what meaning would it have, maybe later. Robert, Robert would understand. Who knows he might even come out for as holiday some time, they'd go sailing together. Just like when they'd shot baskets together, or camped, or hiked through the woods. And Jane, Jane would take to it, he'd make up for whatever he had not done. Who knows? Like they say, anything can happen.

The street was active, as it always seemed to be, even now in the late afternoon. People in coffee bars and sidewalk cafes, couples holding hands, small groups talking together, singles reading books in sidewalk cafes. Almost all casually dressed, from plain shorts and sandals to casually elegant silks and linens, with sock less feet encased in expensive, soft leather footwear. There was scarcely a business suit to be seen.

He bought a toasted bagel and a coffee and went to the beach, found an unoccupied bench sat and waited for his coffee to cool. Almost directly in front of him a group of children played in the water, they had a small plastic raft and one would clamber aboard only to be rolled off amid great laughter and shrieking by the others. Two girls and three boys, how old... eight or nine, girls distinguished from boys only by their bathing suits, for they all shouted and splashed, laughed and yelled in mock terror, pushed and jostled with a joyful abandon. And we the adult watchers on the shore, try as we may, can never completely recapture in memory, those kind of moments. They are too ephemeral, fading too quickly, like the sound of the children's laughter, absorbed by the sea and the sky and by time. Memory like so many snapshots can only give us knowledge and structure, not the moment.

James drank his coffee. If Denise were here they would talk about that, would share it. He was right to call the boat Denise. How could he have done anything else? He knew what the self-help books and the counsellors would say; that he should put all that away and get on with his life. Well he was getting on with his life but he didn't want to put all that behind him. He welcomed the sudden intense sorrow and regret that would come upon him, suddenly, out of nowhere. If he lost that, if it become only a vaguely sad memory, recalled by anniversaries or snapshots, he would have lost a part of himself, and that part that was powerful and real, would become only a vague, meaningless sadness, and it would be, in a way, an act of unfaithfulness, another failure.

In his apartment he made himself a sandwich, with that, a glass of wine, and a book, he went to sit on his balcony to read until it was time to phone Robert. Robert, you'll never guess what I did today. I bought a boat. A sailboat, eighteen footer. Its absolutely beautiful. You'll have to come out here. You must. I'll take you sailing. When he called Robert was not home. Melanie answered the phone and she sounded distracted and slightly irritated. So unlike her, they must be quarrelling, he thought. Everyone was fine, everything pretty much the same. She was almost abrupt.

"Well, I have some news. I bought a boat today."

"A boat, what kind of boat?"

"A sailboat, eighteen footer, a real beauty."

"That's great, James, sounds like fun. I didn't know you sailed. That's great."

"I've been taking lessons. I'm really pleased." There was a pause, James hesitated, then. "Did I call at a bad time, Mel? You sound a little...a little not like you. Is everything all right?"

"Oh, its nothing, I've just got a really bad headache, that's all. Everything is fine."

"Okay, well say hello to Robert for me, and you take care of yourself."

He phoned Jane but got only her answering machine. He left a brief message and didn't mention the boat.

Chapter 26

He sat on the back steps of the gallery and lit a cigarette. A minute later Sheila came out, and sat, as she always did, very close to him. He lit her cigarette, she was usually without either matches or a lighter. "Another beautiful day," she said. "and here we are stuck inside." She inhaled deeply. "God, I wish I never had to work again. I guess lottery tickets are my only hope." They sat in identical positions; backs bent, legs drawn up, arms resting on knees. With their closeness they looked as if they might be sharing some secret or plotting some conspiracy.

"I reckon." He was thinking that Robert and Melanie would never come here for their holidays, never ride in his boat, nor would Jane. They had their own lives, their own priorities. His time had passed. The only constant in his world was Denise; his love for her, his memories, his sorrow, these would be constant and unchanging until the day he died.

Sheila was staring at him, her cheek resting on her arm, her expression calm. "How is life?" she asked.

It was not a glib question, he thought, nor would he respond in a glib way, although that had been his first impulse. But he could not find the proper words. His tone was serious, his words soft and slowly spoken. "Ordinary I suppose, sometimes happy sometimes sad, a little lost, I know that sounds... but yes, I guess more than a little, lost."

"You were frowning. I thought you looked worried, or sad. You still do."

He couldn't take his eyes from her. Her tone of voice, the face with its calm expression and those deep green eyes, so very close, somehow carried with it an intense feeling of... not sympathy, no... but concern, pure and deep concern. Perhaps that was why he felt so profoundly touched, that was why he felt on the verge of tears. He blinked several times but didn't look away. "I suppose I am, a little worried and a little sad, worried about something I can do nothing about and sad about something I can do nothing about."

She gently placed her hand on his forearm and only then did he look away, staring at the ground in front of him. After a few minutes she removed her hand and they both sat in silence, staring out into the cloudless summer day. After a while He stood up. "I should be getting back to work."

Inside the gallery, as they parted she gave him a quick half hug and said softly, "We'll see you later."

As he made his rounds, walking slowly through the carpeted rooms, he tried to understand, to define his feelings. He was not in love nor falling in love with her. He felt sure of that. He didn't want to go to bed with her, that would be some kind of perversion. She was a fascinating woman and a likeable one. He wanted to know her, perhaps it was as simple as that. And what of her? Her feelings? She was not in love with him, he had no illusions about fifty something men and twenty something women, nor was it any sort of substitute father substitute daughter thing. It might be that what he felt, and possibly she, was as simple as real caring, some area between friendship and love.

And yet... and yet. When she had looked at him he had wanted to gently brush her hair from her brow, to gently touch her cheek with his fingertips, always the prelude to a kiss. He wanted to know everything about her; her childhood, her family, her jobs, her likes and dislikes. How like a new lover that was.

A thin, haggard looking woman with two young girls, presumably her daughters, asked about an exhibit that had closed a month ago. "Well they certainly didn't keep it very long, did they?" She glared at James as if he were somehow responsible. One girl rolled her eyes and looked skyward, the other chewed her gum and studied her shoes. The woman then asked directions to the washroom. James continued his rounds.

Chapter 27

"So what do you think? Are you up for another wild Saturday night?" Barry in his black clothing and tight little smile.

"Sure. That would be fine, I'd like that. Same time same place?"

"Same time same place. If you like why don't you pick up a movie? We'll make it a movie night instead of a sports night."

"Sure, but I don't know what you guys have seen, or, you know..."

"That's okay we can always go to the video store."

"I guess so. How's the folk art exhibit coming?"

"All done, opens Monday, Not too bad, I guess."

There was a short, slightly awkward silence, neither knowing how to continue the conversation but not wanting to end it. Barry said.

"I'm just going down the street. I don't suppose you can get away for a coffee?"

"No, I can't, not really. I've still two hours to go and I've already had my break." He gave a little laugh. "Its only fifteen minutes anyway."

Barry smiled and gave a little whatcanyoudo shrug. "See you later then."

"Take it easy."

At the video store James at first tried to find a movie that might appeal to both Barry and Sheila, but after a few minutes of looking at titles and reading the blurbs on the back of the cases he decided o take a movie that he liked. He selected The Hundred Blows.

"There he is, the third musketeer. Come in. You brought a movie, Good." Barry, no longer dressed in black and with a welcoming smile.

James handed the movie to Barry then went to the kitchen to put his beer in the fridge. He came back with two beers and handed one to Barry who was reading the back of the dvd case.

"Have you seen it?"

"Yeah, but a long time ago. I'd like to watch it again."

"Sheila's not here yet? I offered to give her a lift but she said she wanted to walk."

"She's a great walker is our Sheila, especially in the rain. So, how's the job? Any good gossip I haven't heard?

"None that I know of. The job is dull and boring of course, nothing changes, but that seems to be what I want right now so I guess its okay."

"I'll say one thing, you're the only guy with a jacket that fits right, the rest of the crew all look like they're wearing one size fits all jobs."

"That's just vanity on my part. I took the jacket in to a tailor and had it altered."

"Did you?" He laughed. "That's good, I like that. Hey, a little vanity is not a bad thing. Vanity of vanities or whatever. Let's have a beer."

"Right, all for that. Feeling slightly offended, a quick flash of resentment. Vanity of vanities; what of you in your black garb and your aloof I am an artist manner. What is that? And then almost immediately; God, I take offence at everything, I'm becoming a cranky old man. He gave a little laugh. Barry looked at him inquisitively. "Oh, nothing, I just remembered something."

Then Sheila, knocking first then walking in, she carried an umbrella and wore a light rain jacket. "Hi, glad you didn't start without me." She leaned her umbrella against the wall, slipped out of her sandals then draped her jacket over a chair. Her bare feet were wet, drops of water glistening on them.

Once again they ordered Thai food and once again they ate as if it was a picnic, sprawled on the floor. She smelled of rain and damp cloth and beneath that a heavy, fleshy kind of female smell.

Barry was in a lighter, more open mood than he had been in the time before, it was only a slight change: a bit more relaxed, a little more involved in the conversation and amused by it.

When the movie was over Sheila said. "God, that was sad, but I liked it. It was beautiful." She reached over and gently rubbed the back of James neck.

Later, on his balcony with his gin and tonic looking down at the street, he spoke softly. "Lots of people tonight, Saturday night, lots people, strolling, laughing, talking, spinning out their lives. From here, from here it seems a happy scene. From here. But all of them, we all get to know tragedy, we all do, loss of parent or child or friend or lover we all get to know it" He went to the kitchen and made himself another drink, returned to the balcony and more or less collapsed into a chair. He lit a cigarette. "Bit woozy, all that beer and now this, these" He lifted his glass in a kind of toast. "Yes, these. I tell myself almost every day, you know, I am drinking too much, I'm smoking again, I rarely exercise. And all I can say is so what." He shook his head. "That's about all I can say to anything, so what. You know, after you... after you died I knew, I know that I would never really commit to anything, I don't mean another relationship, no, no, that goes without saying, I mean to anything. Tonight with Sheila and Barry that was okay, I kind of welcomed it, I mean its a diversion, they're young, it will come to nothing. I don't know, and so why keep going? Not for my children, and the boat, the boat and you, what the fuck is that? Some kind of gesture.. my betrayal, my weakness. The problem, the tragedy was not that I loved you but that you loved me and I wasn't up to it. I wasn't up to it. You backed the wrong horse as they say." He closed his eyes and was motionless for four or five minutes then slowly got up and went to bed.

Chapter 28

A free day, a day off work, and it stretched before him, as all the others had, without much of a concrete plan. He would go to the gym, have a workout and a swim, then maybe just go for a walk, maybe down to the dock to look at his boat. He felt restless, impatient, slightly irritable, and something else; lust, there was no other word for it and it filled his whole body with a heavy, dull, ache. He wanted the softness of a woman's body and to be spent in it, to bury himself in it. He wanted the scent of her body and the smell of sex. It had been a long time since he had felt this way and it made him restless and impatient, even a little angry.

He ate a quick breakfast and packed his gym bag. Once he had enjoyed working out, pushing himself, working up a sweat, the challenge, the energy it gave him but not any more, now he really didn't know why he kept it up, partly a habit, partly not wanting to let everything go, it had become something of a chore, something to get done. He no longer pushed himself, never worked up a sweat.

In the pool he did four laps then sat on a bench that ran along the pool. He dried his face and draped the towel over his shoulders. The woman who had been swimming in the lane beside him climbed out and sat on the bench a few feet from James. She picked up a towel, took off her bathing cap and began to dry her hair and face.

"Hi," he said. "I've seen you here before. You're a very good swimmer." She was oriental, probably Japanese, early mid forties, he thought. She stopped her towelling and turned to face him, she smiled, a very open and friendly smile. "Thank you, yes, I come here almost every day." Every day, what did that mean? She works nights, she doesn't work, has a significant other that supports her. Nice smile.

"How many laps do you do?" She seemed amused or at least entertained by the conversation attempt.

"I do my thirty laps, thirty laps every day." She gave a little laugh and shrug.

Friendly enough, and no wedding ring but what did that mean? Probably good sense of humour, more attractive than he thought at first, nice figure, smallish breasts nice legs. "Thirty laps, that's very good, I can't seem to get past six, that seems to be my limit."

She gave a little mock frown. "You will just have to practice more."

He wanted to keep the conversation going but couldn't seem to find a way to do it without sounding like an idiot. She stood up and did that thing women do, thumb and forefinger along the bottom of the suit, tucking in the buttocks. "It was nice talking to you." She gave a small, delicate wave of her hand. "See you."

"Yes, see you too." He should have got her name, introduced himself at least, tried something. Perhaps he would run into her in the lobby. He waited in the lobby, half hidden behind some large plants, watching the door from the women's locker room. Pretend to be just leaving, bump in to her, ask her out for coffee. Five minutes, he felt foolish, this was so childish, he would plainly wait for her, let her know he had. He sat in a chair in the middle of the lobby. Ten minutes. She must be getting a massage or sauna. He felt foolish, angry at himself, acting like a dumb kid. He got up and left. Later, in his car, he thought, I should have given her another five minutes.

The dock was almost deserted; a young couple on a bench, a man, deeply tanned, wearing only shorts, sitting in the stern of his boat, reading a newspaper. There was a slight breeze coming in off the water and it carried on it the the rank odour of seaweed and the sharp tang of the sea. The sun, bouncing off the water, dazzled his eyes.

His boat was not at the dock and looking out over the flat, green-blue water, he could see only a thin line of whitecaps in the distance, nothing that would indicate a boat, until, very far off, a small white dot that might have been a sail.

He sat on a bench and smoked a cigarette. The sun was very hot and he could feel the perspiration forming on his body. It made him think of the tropics; his one holiday there, the heat like a force, pressing down on him, muffling sound, stifling movement, slowing everything down. A woman, soft and yielding, cupping her breasts in his hands, draining him, holding him tightly, reluctant to release him. He thought of the women at the club, their games and contests, their flirtations, some subtle, some blatant. He liked to believe he knew which ones he could take to bed if he tried. The particular glance, the preening, always conscious of their bodies, the special smile, the hand that lingers just that extra second upon your shoulder. Once, dancing, the woman had said, sighing, her head against his chest. "This song always makes me feel so damned horny."

Bored people, he'd thought, men and women, wanting sexual reassurance, seeing it as some kind of contest, a carry over from the politics of their own particular bedrooms. Spouses watching spouses on the dance floor while pretending not to. He had been aloof from that, unresponsive, forever the observer. He'd had no need, no desire, there was Denise.

He sat in the hot sun smoking cigarettes. He didn't want a prostitute, he knew that, the emptiness of that, a mockery, it would only depress him. There had to be something real, from her, if only for a moment, some real need or desire, whatever she wanted or wanted to give. He thought of the Japanese woman at the pool, her body; small breasted, slender, delicate.

He did not want a prostitute yet he drove to Davie Street, the street that prostitutes worked in the daytime, the street where he had seen the young Latino woman and had taken her to his apartment.

The sudden coldness of the air conditioning in the coffee shop was chilling, it made him feel more awake, less lethargic. He bought an iced tea and sat on a stool by the window. The glass was damp in his hand and left circles of wet on the shiny counter. He watched the prostitutes as they worked. Only mad dogs, Englishmen, and hookers go out in the noonday sun, he thought. He couldn't see the Latino woman and he soon lost interest and drove home.

At home he put on some music, lay on his bed and began to read a novel, almost immediately he fell asleep.

When he awoke it was seven thirty and he was hungry. He didn't want to go to a restaurant, to eat alone, nor did he want to cook a meal. There was some potato salad in the fridge so he had that with a scrambled egg sandwich and a bottle of beer.

When he was done he showered and dressed, casually but carefully, out of habit. He felt restless, and wanting. He would check out a bar or two, you never know, something could happen.

He went to three bars, nothing happened and he found himself walking down East Hastings, the nighttime street of hookers; mini skirts and high heels, tight tops and darting eyes, tits and ass, tits and ass, slowly crawling cars and bargains made, the opening and closing of car doors. He didn't know why he was there.

At home, standing in his living room, another drink hastily gulped down, he said aloud, almost shouting. "What the fuck am I doing? I don't know, I don't fucking know."

Chapter 29

"Oh, hi Dad. How you doing? How are things in La La land?" Robert, always sounding as if he had just talked to you five minutes earlier, as if you lived just around the corner.

"Not bad, much the same. Lots of sunshine, matter of fact we're in the middle of a heat wave. But how are you? How's the job? How is Mel?"

"Mel is fine, everything much the same, oh, something good did happen at work." Robert then related, with a touch of pride in his voice, how he had been given a whole new area of responsibility. James managed to ask a few intelligent questions then said. "Good for you, Robert, that's really good. I always knew you could do anything you put your mind to. How is your mother?"

"All right, I guess. She's really been on our case lately, you know, when are we going to give her a grandchild. It seems really important to her, and of course she thinks it would be great for us."

"Of course it would be. It would be terrific. I've always wanted that, from the day you got married. I just never wanted to bug you about it, you know, in your own good time and all that. It would be great. Of course it would." In fact James had never thought much about grandchildren, never given the idea much consideration, and saying those words to Robert made him feel somewhat ashamed, as if he had cheated or somehow neglected his son.

"Well, you know, Mel is twenty-eight, and we plan on two... so I guess we have to start getting serious about it."

"Time scurries on, the years go by like rabbits. By all means, go for it. It really is one of life's great experiences. You don't want to miss it."

There was a hesitation and when Robert spoke again James could hear the reluctance, almost dread in his voice. "There is something else. I'm really worried about Jane." He paused but James said nothing. She's changed, really changed, Sunday dinners she's... and we had lunch with her the other day, Mel and I, she's so negative, so cynical, its as if she's given up on everything. She's always been so opinionated, had so much drive, now its like there's nothing there. I'm really worried about her."

"Your sister always manages to bounce back. Is it another relationship thing?"

"No, I don't think so, it could be I guess but I don't think so." He paused, then the words came out as if just the saying of the words caused him pain. "She's drinking a lot, really drinking a lot. I have a friend who knows her through work and its bad, she could lose her job. She just doesn't care."

"Oh Jesus. Have you talked to your mother?"

"Sort of, I tried. She didn't... I didn't mention the drinking but mother has to have seen it, anyone could see it."

"Yes, okay Robert, I'll talk to her, I'll try. Don't worry I'll be diplomatic. I'll try my best." He paused. "Okay, say hello to Mel for me and give her my premature congratulations, tell her I'll keep my fingers crossed. And Robert, will you phone me, please, the minute you know anything, you know, on both counts. Or just whatever you think, about Jane, I mean, or just to talk. Will you do that?"

"Sure, of course I will."

"Thanks. You're a good son, Robert. I'm proud of you. Take it easy."

"You too, Dad."

He made himself a drink and went to stand on his balcony, drinking quickly, gulping it down and saying to himself once again that he was drinking too much and he should cut down. He felt weighted down, helpless. He would phone her. And say what? He spoke aloud, softly. "It never ends does it? On my deathbed... but I love her, so of course I'll... I'll do what? Phone her, even go to see her, and say what? Do what? Some lunches together, a few evenings, some talk. What is there to say? She'd know why I was there and would resent it. As if I love you was some magic cure all phrase, Jesus."

He went inside, sat in his chair, put on some music, and lit a cigarette. It was her own personal hell that he knew nothing about, her own battle and no one had been much help so far. Maybe she had finally just given up. Robert was never one to exaggerate . And where was her mother in all this? Always going on about family solidarity and caring. Where the hell was she? What was he supposed to say? He picked up the phone.

"Father, that's amazing. I was just reaching for the phone to call you. It must be ESP or something. How is everything out there in decadent lotus land? I hear you're having a heat wave."

"Indeed we are, hotter than hell, but at least my place is air conditioned. Things are okay, same same. How about you? Have you won the lottery or joined the Young Communist League, anything like that?" He listened closely, trying to discern whether or not she had been drinking, he thought so but couldn't be sure.

"No, nothing like that I'm sorry to say. I am fine, moving right along, getting on, not often though, sorry, old joke. I'm fine, we're all fine."

"How's the job?"

"Actually." There was a long pause, he was certain she had been drinking, was drinking as she talked to him. "Excuse me, actually I was thinking of changing jobs. This one has become so damned boring."

"That might be a good idea, a change, something more challenging." He paused but she didn't say anything. "How is your mother?"

"Oh for Chrissake, Father. Oops, sorry, Dad. Mother is steaming right along. I think she cut two strokes from her handicap."

"About your job, you know what I think? I think you should think about moving out here. Really. Its a great climate. You've got the mountains and the ocean, you always liked the water. I can look out my window and see the mountains. I'm a five minute walk to the beach. You'd love it. And this is a booming town, lots of opportunities, you'd knock em dead. And I miss you, I miss you a lot. It would be great to have you around. I'll even take you for a ride in my boat whenever I get the damned thing. I'm serious. I want you to think about it."

She was quiet for a few seconds then spoke very softly. "I did think about it once, moving there, even kind of planned on it, as soon as I left university. I didn't though. I don't know why. I must have been in love at the time." She laughed, a small, quiet laugh.

"Just promise me you'll consider it. It would be great to have you here, it would make my life so... so much better...I just... Anyway promise me that you'll think about it."

"I promise, Father" She quickly, and rather awkwardly, changed the subject and went on to talk of other things; a little politics, a book she was reading, some neighbourhood news, their next door neighbour, Mr. Carter had died, died rather suddenly. James had never particularly liked the man but the news of his death saddened him.

They said their good byes; "Take care of yourself, and think about what I said."

"I will, take care, Dad."

He didn't think she would do it, move to the coast, he didn't think so, but it was a pleasant thought; the two of them, lunches together, some smart place, what a handsome father and daughter couple they would make, talking like old friends, exchanging jokes and confidences, Sundays on the boat, beer and picnic lunches, observations about the strange silly world around them as if they were not a part of it. Like God's spies. He knew that would never happen. Maybe it is what she has to do, do alone, hit some kind of bottom, ride through the valley and come up the other side, her devils laid to rest. Maybe.

On the balcony the heat of the day had not lessened, heavy and humid it closed down upon him. He sat in his chair and lit a cigarette, then all at once, a memory of Denise, a particular memory, once, lying in bed with her, reading to her, she had fallen asleep, one of the few times she had done that. He had stared at her a long time, her soft brown hair dark against the pillow, her face at rest, her body, small boned and delicate, breathing gently, one hand held in front of her, palm up, fingers curled. He could see the small beat of a pulse in her throat and he gently touched it with his finger. He remembered thinking that he would never love anything or anyone as much as he loved her at that moment.

He stood, leaning on the balcony railing, looking down onto the street. After a moment he spoke softly. "The street is busy tonight, its always busy but tonight even more than usual. Lots of light on this street, so many places open for business, restaurants, coffee bars, bookstores. Most of the people in shorts, shorts and sandals. I think I can usually tell the tourists from the regulars, the tourist walk a bit faster than the regulars, and they swivel their heads more. Lots of people walk along eating things; a slice of pizza, a falafel, a hot dog. Lots of suntans, especially among the young. A couple sitting on a bench holding hands, look to be teenagers. People walking down to the beach, to sit on the sand and hope for a cool breeze off the water. More cars than usual tonight; a red convertible packed with giggling young girls one of whom..."

He stopped abruptly, closing his eyes and frowning as if in pain. "I love you so much. I love you so very much." He went inside.

Chapter 30

Thursday night they went to the movies; James, Sheila, and Barry. The invitation had come from Barry in his usual easy manner, and they met at the theatre. James was the first to arrive, Sheila the last, only a minute or two before the movie started. Both Sheila and Barry bought popcorn and soft drinks. James never ate at the movies.

The blurb on the poster outside the theatre quoted a critic who described the movie as. "a bright and touching romantic comedy." It turned out to be none of these, or so James thought, only flat and predictable and he wondered why his friends had chosen that movie. It was not a movie he would have gone to see on his own. Neither Barry nor Sheila claimed to like the movie, but neither did they dislike it especially. It had been something to watch for two hours and then forget. James, on the other hand, took movies seriously, as he did books; there were good books and there were trashy books, and like good authors there were good film makers, artists like Welles, Bergman, Kurosawa, Fellini.

They went to a bar afterwards, a small quiet bar where they were almost the only customers. They stayed a little over an hour, James less talkative than usual, the worry over Jane always somewhere in the back of his mind. Still he had enjoyed the evening, sitting in the bar, the casual conversation. It reminded him of Friday nights when he had his business, how he and whatever staff wanted would go to the local bar to have a couple of drinks before heading home, going their separate ways to the other than work world part of their lives. They would talk of sports, of tv shows, of home repairs. He remembered those times fondly, thinking, with a smile, they were some of the few enjoyable times in his business career.

When he returned home the little red light on his answering machine was blinking. He went quickly to it, thinking it might be Robert with news of Jane, or Jane herself, but whoever it was had hung up without leaving a message.

Robert would have left a message. Jane, well, it all depended. It was too late to call her now, he would do it tomorrow. It was probably just a wrong number. Maybe it wasn't as bad as Robert made out. No, not Robert, he was never given to exaggeration. But how had it happened so quickly? No slow slide, just a quick and sudden drop, it didn't seem possible. But there it was. Jane. She had always been so strong willed, so determined, he'd always admired that about her; she knew exactly where she was going and what she wanted. Except for men, Yes, except for men. And where the hell was her mother when she was needed? Out on her damned golf course. He had just wanted his children to have happy normal lives, perhaps almost as much for his sake as for theirs. He did not want to have to worry about them any more. He wanted to be free of that.

He made himself a drink, sat in his chair and put on some music. He had not been a bad father, he could have done better but then who the hell couldn't? Parents could always have done better. He had loved them, spent time with them, but in some way he hadn't paid enough attention to them. Let them alone, they'll work it out, its all part of growing up, they'll work it out, we all do. But no, we don't. Jane hadn't. He remembered the day in the park, him seated on the bench, she standing in front of him but looking away, her talking of the wall he had built between them, of his never letting her in, never acknowledging her. How much it had hurt him. He had replayed her talk a thousand times; sometimes with a feeling of sadness, sometimes anger, but always with pain. It was too late now, whatever he had done or not done, however she had interpreted it, it was all too late now. Love, he knew, was never enough.

He spent an almost sleepless night. Why did he assume it must be his fault, why not her mother's, her relationship with her mother, or the fault of neither of them, Robert seemed to have done all right, maybe it was just Jane, just who she was. He got up twice during the night, to pace about and smoke, to sip a glass of wine, to hope for sleep to come.

Chapter 31

Most evenings, after dinner, James would go for a walk, most often through his own neighbourhood, but at times he would drive to other areas; Chinatown, Commercial drive, Coal Harbour, and stroll slowly through these streets. On this particular night he began to walk aimlessly at first, away from his neighbourhood, then decided to walk to the marina. It was a long walk, the better part of an hour. He no longer walked quickly, that habit had changed, he now walked slowly as he did at the gallery, taking in all his surroundings; sights, noises, smells, all the life around him.

His walk took him mainly through quiet residential streets. The heat wave had broken and a strong breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and carried with it the sharp, cool scent of the sea.

The marina was empty of people, only the boats, side by side in the moonlight, gently moving to the rhythm of the waves. His boat was there and he sat on a bench where he could see it. The boats, all coloured shades of black and grey by the moonlight, creaked and bumped softly against the dock, a flag fluttered limply in the breeze, and beneath it all there was the constant slap of the waves against the boats, against the docks, and against the shore; peaceful and timeless.

He felt an odd sense of yearning, but a yearning for what he didn't know, only that it had to do with a feeling of something missing, some part, some corner, of his life was empty.

Chapter 32

Saturday night and the plan was to go to an opening, a young painter was giving an exhibit, his first, held at a gallery only a ten minute walk from Barry's apartment. They would eat, (take out of course), have a few drinks and check it out. "It might be fun," Barry had said. "and at least we'll get some free wine and cheese."

As they walked to the gallery James and Sheila more or less ambled along, Sheila often stopping to look in store windows, more often than natural, James thought. Barry in more of a hurry often had to wait for them, but never impatiently, always giving them an indulgent smile. James had expected Barry to wear his black, out in the world, uniform, but he hadn't . He wore jeans and a navy shirt.

In the gallery Barry went almost immediately to talk to someone he knew, Sheila and James stood by the wine and cheese table sipping bad white wine and taking in their surroundings. It was quite crowded, fifty or sixty people, more young men than old, more older women than young, many of the women dressed in a rather dramatic fashion; bright colours and large clunky jewellery. Little groups had formed, groups filled with earnest conversations and solemn nodding of heads, but with eyes that constantly strayed about the room.

"Well," James said. "I suppose we should take a look."

There were eighteen paintings, hung in the gallery's two rooms. The first painting they looked at was a cityscape; tall, looming buildings, grotesque and sinister, lots of figures, some alive, some dead, all emaciated, a legless man kissed the toe of an empty boot, an eyeless man urinated on a woman whose body was a pincushion for dozens of hypodermic needles. Rats nibbled at flesh and spilled entrails, and white dogs, or perhaps they were wolves, with green eyes and slavering mouths were all about. All the paintings said more or less the same thing, and almost all had the sinister white dogs.

After the third painting Sheila said. "I've seen enough. Yuck. I'm going to hit the wine bar again." But James, rather dutifully, looked at each painting. The last painting was a portrait, head and shoulders, of a beautiful woman holding a rose. Beautiful, except that half her face was being eaten away by maggots. You forgot to put a worm in the rose, James thought.

'What do you think?"

James took in the man at a glance; fortyish, a little pudgy, greying curly hair, expensive business suit, hand tailored James thought, hundred dollar tie and custom made shirt. Without looking he guessed the shoes would be custom made as well, probably in London.

"I think they are all boring."

"Really?" The man looked back to the painting. "Are you a painter?"

"No."

"A sculptor?"

"No, I'm just a viewer."

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry, just that you look familiar."

James smiled at the man. "Nice suit." he said.

They left the gallery in high spirits, Sheila especially, as if released from some solemn and oppressive ritual and could once again smile and joke. Walking in the middle as always she took the men's arms and held them tightly to her sides, and that way, arms intertwined they walked to Barry's. Like something out of an old movie, James thought, an old musical; Two Sailors and a Gal in Brooklyn, and at any moment they might break into song or into a dance number. The Saturday night musketeers go to an art show. But he was always conscious of the movement of her waist against his arm.

James had changed to gin and tonic from beer, feeling that beer only made him sleepy and slightly dopey. Sprawled on chairs and sofa they drank their drinks. "All right" Barry said. "Time for the critics review. Thumbs up or thumbs down. Sheila?"

"I thought it was... I didn't like it. I thought it was awful. And all those dogs, what was that?"

"Yeah, well, its a dog eat dog world out there, that's his message. James?"

"I thought it was boring and presumptuous. I mean does this guy think that by splashing some paint on a canvas he can shock people. Jesus, we all watch the eleven o'clock news; genocide, slaughter of innocent women and children, famine, ethnic cleansing, all of it, a fucking litany of how bloody horrible we are. We can't be shocked any more, we're the children of the Holocaust, we're numb, we can only pretend to be shocked. He... Oh God I hope he isn't a friend of yours."

"Nope, don't even know him. So, I guess we can put you down for a no. Well he is a good draughtsman, very good really, but I guess I have to agree, it was a little like a kid swearing to shock his parents."

Sheila, going to the kitchen for another beer put her hand on Barry's shoulder. "Is that what you used to do, Bar?"

"No, I found a better way to shock mine."

Later they played a slightly drunken, make up new rules, game of scrabble in which no one could remember to keep score. At one point in the evening James thought; how pleasurable this is, how free and easy. The three of us wanting nothing from the others but companionship. At the same time he knew, as he supposed the others did, that this was a temporary thing; one of them, probably Barry or Sheila would fall in love, or lust, or into a relationship, and this would be over. But the thought did not sadden him, if anything it intensified the feelings of closeness and pleasure.

Chapter 33

The insistent ring of the telephone woke James from a heavy, dreamless sleep. He muttered a hello, looking at his watch and trying to clear his head, he was immediately apprehensive; the middle of the night phone call.

"Father, dear Father, hope I'm not interrupting anything, just felt the need for a little chat. How are you?"

He turned on the light. Two thirty, four thirty her time. "I'm all right, not bad anyway. How about you, kiddo? How are you?"

"I am right... right in the middle of things, the middle, so to speak. I suppose I am..." There was a long pause. He realized she was quite drunk, but beneath the slightly slurred words, he heard a sadness in her voice. "Remember how you used to tell me that every now and then... now and then we should take stock of our lives, you know, what we want, who we are... an unexamined life, all that. Remember?"

"I remember that, of course." He was siting up in bed now, the receiver pressed tightly against his ear, it was sometimes difficult to hear her.

"So I was sitting here having a glass of wine or two, maybe even three, doing my inventory, just like business, right Dad, my inventory. And I thought, I thought..." Another pause. "I thought how much I would like to talk to you, talk to my father." She paused again. "Do you remember the school play, in grade eight? You remember you helped me with my lines, all those nights, and I had them down pat, never flubbed once. Not once. I was pretty good wasn't I? Do you remember that? I was really pretty good."

"Of course I remember. You were terrific, you've always been terrific, in everything you've done." He thought his voice might break that he might sob aloud. "I have always, always, been so proud of you, always kiddo."

"Robert was over tonight, we had a nice long talk... a nice talk, kid stuff, you know, school, crushes, all that, memory lane. Remember Janice Hall, my best friend when I was fourteen?"

"Vaguely." But he remembered her very well, remembered her brazenly but awkwardly flirting with him, posturing, posing her body for him, trying to catch his eye, the little half smile. She had terrified him. Once, standing beside him she had slowly rubbed her breast against his bare arm. She was not wearing a bra and he could feel her nipple, rigid, against his skin. He had avoided her as much as possible and was relieved when her friendship with Jane ended. But these years later he could still remember the feeling of her breast against his arm.

"Did you know she had the most terrific crush on you? I mean really. God, can you imagine? My best friend has a crush on my father. My father... that was..."

"Jane, have you thought any more about coming out here, for a holiday, a couple of weeks. I'd love to see you, I'd show you the town, it would be great. I miss you very much."

"Maybe, after a while, maybe." It was a whisper, weary and resigned.

"Well, you know, I'm starting to feel a little homesick, and I was thinking..."

She yawned loudly. "Sorry, Dad, all of a sudden can't keep my eyes open, dozing off. God, look at the time it is. I must have woke you up. I'm sorry, I didn't... and you have to get up for work in the morning. Jesus, I'm sorry, just wanted to have a chat."

"That's okay, phone anytime, I always like to talk to you. Come visit and we'll talk for hours. I want you to think about that."

"Gotta go, Dad, Night."

"Good night. Love...'

The next evening he phoned Robert. After the preliminaries; how was Melanie, how was Mother, how was work, he asked about Jane.

Robert sighed. "About the same I guess, hasn't done anything about a job, still drinking, I don't know. I was over there last night. We had a long talk, mostly family stuff, growing up, all that. She didn't seem that bad, but sad you know, really sad."

"I know she phoned me last night. She was... she'd been drinking." He waited but Robert didn't say anything. "What does your mother think of all this? She and Jane were always very close."

"That's not really true, Dad, not really. Jane always had this sort of... resentment towards Mum, even when she was young, who knows why. I think Mother is just tired of the whole thing, she says Jane always exaggerates everything, because she wants attention. I know, I know, but there is a little bit of truth to that."

"Do you think I should come out there. Do you think it would do any good?"

"I don't know, Jane would know why you came and probably resent it, you know her and her independence, has to do everything on her own, always has. I mean its up to you and hey I'd like to see you but as far as Jane is concerned I don't think it would do any good." He sounded weary and there was a trace of irritation in his voice.

"Right, well I'll think about it. Now on to more cheery things, do you have a preference, boy or girl?"

"No, I really don't. We plan on two so it might be nice to have a boy but it really doesn't matter."

"I remember the night you were born, quite an experience, all the cliches are true." As he said it he did remember; Robert with a red wrinkled face and such tiny, tiny hands, with a flat cap of jet black hair, being held by his mother in her hospital bed.

They talked a few minutes more then he talked with Melanie who always seemed to enjoy talking to him. They talked of books and movies, and a little politics. When he hung up the phone James tried not to admit the small sense of relief he felt. Robert didn't think he should go and Robert was probably right. But of course, he said to himself, if it would do any good of course I would go.

Chapter 34

The gallery was closed on Mondays, a free day, usually a day James enjoyed, but not on this morning. He felt weary and listless, he had not slept well. Out of habit he made breakfast, a feta cheese omelette, only to discover after a few bites that he had no appetite. He had intended starting the morning with a workout and a swim, something that always energized him but now knew he wouldn't do that. The day before him seemed only a meaningless piece of time, something to get through.

He lit a cigarette and took the two framed photos down from the bookcase. He sat in his and gazed for a long time at the photos, looking first at the photo of the picnic, more than ten years ago, unaware of the photographer, completely absorbed in one another. She was about to speak, he thought and wondered what it was she was about to say, that tiny split second more than ten years ago. One small moment of all their time together. A lock of hair had fallen across her forehead and he longed, as he always did, to somehow reach into the photograph and brush it back. It was something he had done countless times when they were together; in a park, a restaurant, in bed. She might be talking, in a very animated way, completely absorbed in what she was saying, but with that gesture she would stop, and for just a second, with his fingers gently against her forehead, a connection was made, a reminder of how they loved one another.

He spoke softly. "But you were a better lover than I was. You were better at everything; love, honesty, courage, better at everything."

The other picture, Denise as a young girl, looking out at a world that must have seemed bright and new and filled with hope. And how had the world responded? With blindness, pain, and early death. With a lover who was afraid. "But," he said. "I must have made you happy, despite what I was, what I lacked, I must have made you happy. It just should have been so much more, so very much more. That's the thing, isn't it?"

He felt completely drained, of energy and of resolve. Well then, it would be that kind of day, he would read, listen to music, and perhaps after a while he might walk down to the beach. He was scheduled for a sailing lesson that afternoon. It was something he always looked forward to but he phoned and cancelled his lesson, saying he would pay for it anyway.

Almost an hour later the phone rang. "Hi, its Sheila. What are you up to? I'm not interrupting anything am I?"

"No, nothing at all, just sitting around listening to music."

"I was wondering if you wanted to go for a walk, you know, walk down to the beach, have a hot dog, watch the people. I mean if you don't have anything planned."

"I don't have anything planned. Sure, I'd like to, be nice. Um, what's a good time for you?"

"Anytime. Whenever."Okay, I'll wash my face and come over, be there in a bit,"

He showered, turning the water from warm to to icy cold, hoping the sudden freezing impact might somehow energize him, rid him of his lethargy. He studied himself in the mirror; trim, but not trim enough, still soft around the edges. He looks good for his age they might say. For his age. He shaved then for a minute studied the face that looked out at him from the mirror. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. Denice had once told him he had beautiful eyes, someone else had told him that as well, once upon a time, a long, long, time ago. He gave a little shrug. "I look my age."

Sheila answered the door still drying her hair with a large blue bath towel. "Hi, come in, I'm just out of the shower. Have a seat, sorry about the mess. I went out and got some beer, I thought you might want one, its in the fridge, help yourself, I won't be long."

"Don't worry. Its okay." The room was sparsely furnished, the only pictures two posters of rock stars. It was messy; clothes strewn about, a couple of magazines, a newspaper, mostly clothes.. Not that bad, he thought, it could be tidied up in a few minutes. He didn't want a beer but took one to please her. The kitchen too, coffee grounds spilled on the counter, some dirty dishes, a jam jar without a lid, a couple of egg shells, some empty take out cartons.

He sat down and drank some beer but it did not sit well on his stomach. By her stereo seven or eight c.d.s, not in their cases, were laying about, some piled on top of one another. James was always careful with his c.d.s, replacing them in their containers immediately knowing how easily they could be scratched. Kneeling in front of her stereo, he put all the c.d.s in their proper containers.

He took another sip of his beer but it made his stomach churn even more. He poured the rest of his beer down the kitchen sink. "Can I use your bathroom?"

She was in the bedroom, the door was closed. "Sure."

There was a blue terrycloth robe crumpled on the bathroom floor. He picked it up and held it for a few seconds, it felt damp and still warm . He splashed some cold water on his face. He felt a little better. Without thinking he put the cap on her toothpaste tube and her toothbrush into its glass. Again he splashed cold water on his face. He didn't touch anything else, only her towel to dry his face.

When he came out she was standing there. "All ready." She was dressed in white; polo shirt, shorts, sneakers, even her baseball cap.

He smiled. "Very nice, you look like a tennis star. Look, I missed breakfast this morning. I think I really need some food.""There's a nice restaurant a block from here. We'll go there."

Outside on the street she took his arm, holding it tightly, the top of her head came to just above his shoulder. They stopped to look in the window of a poster shop. He saw their reflection, indistinct and murky, as if on water, a couple, arms entwined, standing close together. "I'm always going to buy some nice posters for my place but I never do." she said.

In the restaurant he ordered scrambled eggs and sausages, she a croissant and coffee. She sipped her coffee and watched him eat. "You're only the second person I've ever seen do that. My brother, Ron, does it too."

"What's that?"

"You put jam on your sausages."

"Oh yeah, ever since I was a little kid. Its good sausage. Try some?" He speared a piece of sausage on his fork and offered it to her. She didn't take the fork, instead leaned forward and let him feed her. He noticed she was wearing lipstick, just a little and not bright, more pink than red. He imagined there was a taste of it on his fork.

"Do you have any pictures of your children?"

Surprised he said, "Sure, typical parent." He took two photos from his wallet. "Robert and Jane, the one of Robert is five or six years old, the one of Jane is more recent. I have some better ones at home."

She studied the pictures carefully, an index finger lightly tracing the faces. "She's really beautiful, so is he. They look like you. They have your eyes." She didn't look up when she said it, the way people usually do, as if to compare your face to the picture. "It must be..." He sensed that she had gone away, gone to that place, wherever and whatever it was, her brow furrowed, her eyes moving quickly from picture to picture, frightened or sad he couldn't tell. ".....to have this... little human being, that's part of you." She spoke so softly he could hardly hear her, to herself he thought, not to me. "...and it grows up, you must feel..." She looked up smiling quickly, the mood gone. "I sound so goofy. Did you do all that stuff, change diapers and everything?"

"Yes, I did all that stuff. Are you about ready?"

"Sure, let's go." She took the uneaten croissant and wrapped it in a paper napkin. "I'll save this for later. We'll share it on the beach." She put it in her canvas shoulder bag. Once again they walked arm in arm, walked slowly, with little bits of casual conversation; about the shops they passed, or the houses, sometimes the people, they made small, not very funny jokes that they both laughed at. Once, about her job, she said, "The money's really terrible, I never would have stayed if it hadn't been for Barry, and now you of course.." She squeezed his arm. "But I never want to go back to working in a bar again. Never."

The food made him feel much better, he was happy, and there was a feeling, something like pride, though he didn't want to admit it, just to be seen with her, this sexy looking blonde beauty. He wondered what the people who saw them thought. Loving father and daughter? Did fathers and daughters walk this way, arms entwined, with their daughters? He supposed some did but he could never recall doing it with Jane. Perhaps they thought he was some rich old business tycoon and she the beautiful young mistress he kept in some lavish penthouse in the west end. That thought amused and pleased him.

Later, on the beach, sitting closely together, legs drawn up, as they often did on the back steps of the gallery, she talked of her childhood, almost without preamble, as if that was why they had come there. "Just Ron, he's four years older than me, actually I had a baby sister but she died, she was only three months old. She was born with a heart defect. She never even sat up... just..." She lit a cigarette. "The funny thing is that Ron was the real wild one, man, he did everything; drugs, stole cars, everything. But he never got caught, never. Me, everything I did or tried, I got caught, I always did. Smoking, skipping school, drinking, boys. I drove my parents crazy. You know small towns, everybody knows everybody's business, everybody gossips, everybody exaggerates. I was pretty and I ... developed early, so the guys, well, you know, Jesus, what a bunch of assholes, all they ever saw was tits and ass." She ground out her cigarette into the sand and glared out onto the water shaking her head. After a few seconds she sighed and continued. "Poor Mom and Dad, all they ever did was worry about me, that was just about their whole life, worrying about me." She turned to face him. "I love my parents, I really do, they're good people, they're nice people, but they're very conservative, regular churchgoers, And I've made them so unhappy, even when I talk to them on the phone I can hear it in their voices, still worried about me, like they think I might have become a heroin addict or a ten dollar hooker. I bet they still pray for me. I bet they still pray for me every night."

"Listen, Sheila." he felt she had left him and he put his forefinger on her arm to try to bring her back. "You're a good person, you really are, if you weren't I wouldn't be your friend, nor would Barry, the three musketeers, eh." He expected a smile but there was no response, her eyes remained fixed on some distant spot. "You can't blame yourself because your parents are unhappy, that doesn't do anyone any good."

"She spoke softly, almost a whisper. "I don't know."

"Parents worry, its what they do, I know. You worry more than you ever thought possible, its just part of being a parent" He tried to find the right words, the right thing to say, but was unable to and felt he had somehow failed her. "I'm sure your parents love you, I'm sure they do." But that wasn't the question was it? "This is something you have to work through, that's all, we all have stuff we have to deal with, but you can do it."

There was no response. She still sat motionless, staring intently out at the water as if somewhere out there, on that glimmering blue surface, there might be an answer. Then her shoulders trembled and she brought her head down, resting her forehead against her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs, as if she might begin to rock to and fro. "My life is such a mess, such a fucking mess... my whole life." Her hand brushed against her eyes. "I can't do anything... I don't... I can't even keep my place neat. I forget things. I'm always borrowing money off Barry, I don't even know what I owe him. And you know I've done some bad things to people, I don't know why. I don't know what it is... what's wrong with me... sometimes you know, I just seem to fall into this, this..." She shook her head from side to side as if bewildered. "This thing, kind of darkness or something and I... I just lie there I can't do anything. Christ, sometimes I think there's something wrong with me, you know, in my head, that maybe I should see a shrink or something. But I couldn't do that, I won't I know. I'm afraid. I'm afraid of everything. I am."

He put his hand gently on her shoulder. "I know this is a bad time for you, I know, really. It all seems impossible now but it can be worked out. I know it can. We're your friends and..."

She turned abruptly to face him. Her face was flushed, she looked as if she might be pleading with him.. "I mean, I look at you... and you've done all those things. I mean marriage, raising children, raising children from babies to adults and... not just you, almost everybody, even Ron, he's married and settled down now. He has a little girl. But I know I can't do it, I'll never be able to do it. I know it." He said nothing, only gently squeezed her shoulder. She looked away then softly, sounding like a little girl he thought, she asked, "Do you think people have a dark side, most people?"

"I suppose, some people more than others, its just being human, all of us, every one, have things inside; feelings, things we've done or not done that we're not too proud of. None of us are what we appear to be. All those people out there on the beach, every one of them, there's something in each of them they wish wasn't there."

"I just have these..." Her fists clenched against her head, "these things that I can't seem to get over, these... I don't know, everything just seems to fall apart, I just go along with things, Jesus I don't know what to do. I'm..." He could hear the sobs beginning, he could hear her efforts to stop them. "I don't know what happens, its me, I can't change. I don't know what's wrong with me." Then the sobbing took control, her body shook and she pressed her hands against her face, she cried out something but James couldn't understand what it was.

He moved quickly, kneeling on the sand in front of her, his hands on her shoulders. "Sheila, Sheila, its going to be okay, it will be okay, we'll work this thing out. You and..." Then all at once she was pressed against him, her head buried into his shoulder and neck, her hair against his cheek, her arms tightly around him, crying, no longer trying to talk. Crying, he thought, as a young child sometimes cries, with a mixture of hurt and bewilderment. And he, like a parent, gently patted her back and said, over and over again. "We'll work it out, its going to be okay, I promise. Because there was nothing wise to say, nothing that would help. She cried for a long time, longer than James would have expected, as if she might be able to empty herself of tears.

He was aware of several things at once; the tightness of her arms around him, the pain in his knees from the hard sand, the dampness of her face on his skin, the smell of her hair and of her body, the strain on his shoulder, slightly twisted, pulling on a muscle, the feel of his hand on her back, her flesh moving, trembling beneath his hand. All these were on the periphery of his consciousness, only just registering. He was in incredibly moved, that was how he would think of it later, that it filled him completely. They stayed, barely moving, without thinking he had moved his cheek to rest it against her head and that he was, very gently, stroking her hair, carefully tucking back the loose strands, or that his eyes were closed.

When she suddenly moved away from him it was with a quick, abrupt movement. James opened his eyes, momentarily startled, as if awakened from sleep. Her face was flushed, she was fumbling in her shoulder bag, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. "God, I'm sorry, James, I don't know what happened... shit, where's that..." She found a couple of crumpled pieces of Kleenex and wiped her nose, blinking, looking away, never looking at him. "Jesus, I ask you out for a walk and then I do this." She attempted a smile. "I sure know how to show a fella a good time. I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't be sorry, its okay, really it is. I'm your friend, you know." But she wouldn't look at him, moving her head from side to side, wiping her nose. Her baseball cap was on the sand beside her and she crammed it into her bag, looking everywhere but at him. "Sheila, Sheila, look at me." She stopped, suddenly still, then faced him, sniffling, like a little girl about to be scolded. "I want you to remember this. I'm your friend and I will help you through all this, whatever it takes. That's what friends do." He smiled. "Hey come on we're the three musketeers, the Saturday night musketeers, one for all and all for one."

She smiled weakly and stretched out her hand as of to touch his cheek, but then pulled it back. "I guess I should be getting back."

"You okay"

She nodded.

They walked back to her apartment, slowly, talking only a little, once again her arm entwined with his. At one point she said. "You know, you and Bar are the only ones I can talk to, I don't have any girl friends, not any more."

At he door of her apartment building he said. "I want you to promise me something. Anytime you want to talk or, you know, you're feeling low, or just need company, you'll phone me, anytime, it doesn't matter, middle of the night. Will you promise me?"

She nodded and said a soft "Yes' then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "I'll see you at work then."

"Yes, take it easy."

"In his apartment he made himself a drink and stood on his balcony playing and replaying the conversation on the beach. He supposed he had said all the right things, whatever that meant, used the right words, the right, meaningless words. You say them, and you do mean them, but life is not like a movie where a final reel five minute cliche filled speech changes a person's life. "I love you." Swell the music. Happy ending.

He spoke softly. "We know that, don't we, darling. We know that. There are no magic words. I love you now you will have a happy life. I love you now your pain will be gone. I love you now you will see again."

He would help her, some how, in some way, some concrete way. Therapy? He would gladly pay for it if he thought it would do some good but he had no faith in it, or them, the therapists and their pat little textbook answers to everything. He did not want to hand her over to some professional listener who saw her as a hundred dollar an hour appointment.

When he spoke again his voice was animated, almost loud. "I will help her. I'll find a way. She is a good person, a good person, and I will find a way to help her. I will.

Chapter 35

This Saturday night was different, different from the other Saturday nights. There was a feeling of tenseness, of conversations being forced, Barry was irritable, Sheila distant, at times sullen. James thought they might have quarrelled. Sheila was there when he arrived and was already on her second beer. They must have quarrelled and it was not something they wanted to discuss in front of him, that would be the only explanation, Well, that was okay, that was understandable, those things happened between friends. He didn't try to change the mood with attempts at false gaiety but was mostly quiet. It would just be one of those nights when things, for whatever reason don't work out the way they should, or had. It was not the beginning of the end of anything. It would soon be forgotten, forgotten or made right. They were too close for anything else.

They ordered and ate their food quietly and perfunctorily, more polite than usual, less eye contact than usual. No one had brought a movie and there was no game on t.v. Barry flipped impatiently from channel to channel until finally they watched the last three quarters of an English mystery. When the mystery was done Sheila stood up quickly. "Sorry guys, I'm going to call it a night, I'm really tired." It was said in a low flat voice with no attempt at a smile.

James stood up. "Yeah, me too, I'm pretty bushed. I'll give you a lift."

She shook her head. "No, no, that's all right. You and Bar, you..."

"Its no trouble. I insist. Come on, let's go."

She answered with a slight shrug. At the doorway she met Barry's steady gaze for just a second before looking away. There was a mumbled. "See you at work, then." Barry's only reply was a slight nod.

On the way to the car he offered a brief, awkward comment about the weather. She didn't reply but walked quickly, head down, never looking at him, hands thrust into her jacket pockets.

Neither spoke on the drive to her apartment building, she kept her face turned away from him, staring out the side window. When they arrived he started to speak. "Sheila, remember what I said, that if you ever need..."

"I don't want to talk, okay, I'm too tired." She was out of the car. "See you at work." She hurried up the sidewalk to her building and entered without looking back.

Chapter 36

Robert phoned. He sounded quietly happy. No, Mel wasn't pregnant yet, but, "We spent a great weekend together, just her and I, went to the lake, just hung around together and talked, boy did we talk. Anyway we both feel happier about deciding to have children now, more determined. Not that we weren't before just more so now. I guess sometimes its good to just get away from the workplace, right away from it to put things into perspective. Mel has always been a little hesitant, you know, she had a pretty rough childhood and its her that is really giving something up, careerwise I mean."

"That's great, I'm glad you guys did that. But you know just because you come from a traditional family, Daddy goes to the office Mommy raises the kids, it doesn't have to be like that, not now. There are lots of options, you work a while, she works a while, work out of the home, lots of things, so you don't get stuck in a rut."

"Don't worry, we'll work all that out, that's some of what we talked about. I won't become one of those workaholic fathers. Hey, you were a good role model, you never brought your work home with you, and I don't remember you working late at the office that often."

"That was only because I'm a natural slacker. I like taking things easy. How's Jane doing? I've called her a few times but I only get her machine."

"Well she's home right now, I just talked to her. I don't know, its something she'll just have to work out. I think she seemed better, not so sarcastic, liked the idea of being an aunt, I think that cheered her up. I think she'll work it out. Its all about men, I guess."

They talked a little while longer, longer than Robert's usual, perfunctory calls. After Robert had hung up James called Jane's number. Once again he got the answering machine and once again he left the same message.

Well, at least she seemed to be coming out of her slump, Robert would know, they were close and Robert was no fool. Whatever it was it was working itself out. It was something most people went through, thinking people, go through from time to time. It could be all for the best, give her a more relaxed view of life.

He felt restless, felt the need to go out, to do something, but at the same time did not want to walk down the same streets with the same restaurants and shops, to sit in a bar, or a restaurant, or on a bench on the beach by himself, just for the sake of doing something and going somewhere. He was lonely, he needed some human contact, to connect with someone. He made himself a large gin and tonic and went to stand on his balcony.

He spoke aloud, but softly. "Well, my love, the street looks much like it usually does, bright and bustling, lots of people doing all the things that people do. From here it seems a happy place. But only from here I suppose." He was silent, looking down at he street hearing vaguely some music, a pop song from some time ago that he couldn't quite place. He was surprised to find his glass was empty. "Excuse me, I think I need a refill." He went to the kitchen and returned with another large drink. "I know, I know, I'm drinking much more than I ever used to." He smiled. "What can I say?" He was quiet for a long moment then, staring out into the night. When he spoke again he directed his words to the small chair by the table on his balcony, as if Denise might be sitting there. "Jane, Jane, Jane, I don't know, God, does it ever end? But I think she'll pull through, she's always been strong, and she's not alone, she has Robert, and her mother. What the hell can I do? She won't even return my God-damn calls."

He went back into the living room sitting in his chair and putting on some music, he still spoke aloud. "Bit hungry, which is the more depressing; eating in or eating out? One of the great philosophical questions of our time." He paused, "Sheila, you know I worry about her, she is so... so frail, as if she might just shatter into a thousand pieces. She's so alone, her parents don't seem to be in the picture, just Barry, and me I guess. I'd like to help her, I worry about her, what's to become of her." He had dreamed of her the night before, an unsettling dream., one that troubled him. "But I don't know how. Maybe I just want to be the knight on his white horse, charging in to rescue her, to save her, from her own despair or whatever, to make her happy. I know that's stupid, I know that's not something I can do. I did vow to help her and I want to, I just don't know how." He was quiet again, frowning in concentration. "I don't quite know how I feel... about me. about everything, as if it is all beyond my control, but of course it isn't. Jesus I sound crazy. Maybe I'm just drunk. Hey another less than entertaining time for you, not the first, that's for sure, and you always put up with them. God knows why."

He raised his glass in a salute. "Good-night my love."

Chapter 37

Thursday afternoon, James was working at the information desk. He answered a few queries as to exhibits and passed out a few brochures, but for the most part he took in and gave out the various parcels, backpacks, and shopping bags that visitors to the gallery were required to check before entering the gallery proper.

He had seen Sheila only once since Saturday night, a brief passing, a quick smile and "hi". They had not met for a cigarette break on the back steps of the gallery, not once. That was unusual. And he missed it, missed not seeing her. He wondered if everything was drifting apart; Barry, Sheila, him. But that need not be, he could still be her friend, someone she could turn to. He would keep up their friendship, she needed someone like him and he would help her. It might just be something between her and Barry and that needn't affect his friendship with her.

Just about five o'clock Barry came to the desk, on his way home. He leaned casually on the desk. "Listen, James, about Saturday night, Sheila has a date so she won't be there. Did you still want to get together?"

"Sure, of course, Why not? I mean unless you have something else or you'd rather not. I mean that's okay."

"No, fine then, we'll see you Saturday." As he walked away he turned back to say. "You can pick up a movie if you want."

Saturday afternoon James went to the video store and picked up a movie., he didn't give it much thought, just picked a recent release he seemed to recall had received good reviews. He had left another message on Jane's machine and wondered again why she didn't call him. Well, don't press it, let her work it out, he thought. But work what out for Christ sake? He felt angry, as though scorned, as though he had offered something and it had .been rejected

On his lunch hour he went to a small restaurant, ordered a sandwich and a beer then discovered he had no appetite. He ate half the sandwich. The waitress looked Hispanic and he thought of the hooker he had taken to his apartment. His memory of her was as clear as a photograph; her face, her body, the colour of her nipples, the large whiteness of her eyes, even the slightly spicy smell of her body.

He wondered about Sheila's date, if it would turn out to be something serious, if that had been the cause of the tense feelings between her and Barry last Saturday. Would it be one of those "Get all dressed up" kind of date; put on make up, maybe get her hair done, the simple black dress they always talk about, that would look good on her, dinner with candles, dancing with some guy in a nice place. Not likely, they will probably both be in jeans drinking beer in some sports bar.

At Barry's there was a feeling of awkwardness between the two men. James thought Barry seemed tense, worried about something. "Okay if we order some food now?" Barry asked. "I skipped lunch. Chinese okay?" He had made no comment on the movie James had selected, giving it only a cursory glance.

James walked about the room, looking at the photographs on the wall. "I haven't got my picture from New York yet."

"I know, they're incredibly slow. I don't know what they do down there."

When the food came they ate in almost silence, then Barry said. "You know, I had planned on taking some time off, I have it coming, going away for a while, visit my parents. Things are slow at the gallery." He frowned. "What the hell, maybe I will anyway." Perhaps he has met someone, James thought, that's why he doesn't want to go away, and that is why he seems worried or anxious. Barry did make an effort to change the mood with a long and, what at another time, might have been funny, story about his time in Paris James dutifully added a memory of his time in Paris.

After the meal they sat quietly sipping their drinks. Neither mentioned the movie. James felt there was something in the air, something that needed to be said. He wondered if it might be something to do with Sheila, "So Sheila has a big date tonight. You think its anything serious?"

"Oh yeah, its fucking serious all right."

"What do you mean?" James asked, apprehensive'

"He's an asshole, worse than that he's a bloody psychopath. He took a long drink of his beer then stared intently at James. "He beats her up." James said nothing, only stared, aware that his heart was beating rapidly and his mouth had become dry. "He beats her up." Barry repeated, as if to make sure James understood. "He punches her in the face, on the body... he.. oh shit, it is what he does, he beats up women."

"Jesus Christ. Why... How do you know?"

"She went out with him before, about six months or so ago. She phoned in sick and was off for four days, when she came back you could still see the bruises on her face. She said she'd tripped and had fallen down the stairs. Later she told me what really happened, I had guessed it anyway. But she did stop seeing him, wouldn't answer her phone. So we started hanging out together, I had just come through a bad... a bad time, so I guess we kind of needed each other. Someone to hold onto, or just be there, anyway that's how the Saturday night thing started, we'd get together during the week too, go to a movie, have dinner. But Saturday night, it was important to get through Saturday night." He stopped for a moment then leaned back and stared at the ceiling, his voice little more than a whisper. "She was in a bad way then, all over the place; crying, drinking, frightened. Not frightened of him so much, but of herself, for still wanting to be with him, at least that's what I thought. Anyway I thought she was pretty much over him but now here he is again and I know the same thing is going to happen all over again."

James felt that everything was falling apart, it wasn't possible, it couldn't be true. At the same time he knew it was true, that it was something she would do, a situation she would place herself in. He stood up. "Jesus, why would she... she could have any man she wanted. I know, I know, that doesn't mean... What is it then? Self destructiveness? What?" He was angry now, filled with an unreasonable rage, a rage he couldn't understand. He walked across the room to look out the window. He stood silently for a moment or two, looking out on the quiet street, waiting for his rage to subside. "Isn't there something we can do?"

"I don't know what, I tried talking to her." He gave a little shrug. "You can try if you want but I don't think it'll do any good. You can't tell her anything she doesn't already know. Its who she is. You understand? This thing inside her. It is who she is. She says she loves him." He went to the kitchen and returned with two beers, he handed one to James.

"You know this guy?" James asked.

"I never met him, but I did find out a few things about him. I asked around. His name is Leonard, Len, Malynk, his father own a small construction company and Len works for him. He's a real party boy, hangs out around the clubs a lot, has a bad reputation. He got into trouble a couple of years ago, for beating up a woman, but I don't know what happened, the charges were dropped or something, anyway he never went to jail. He's a real sweetheart this boy." He paused and took a long drink. "There\s not a hell of a lot you can do, its just... its just who she is. She needs... I don't know, just keep in contact with her, let her know you're still her friend, that you care. Maybe that's the best we can do.|

"That's not much is it?" Barry answered with a shrug. "Is that why you didn't want to go away?"

"I guess, not that it would make any difference just that I'd feel I was deserting her at a bad time. Maybe after this she'll finally be rid of him, maybe its something she has to do."

"Right, that's what people always say, its something I have to do. Who knows, maybe it is." They were silent a long time then James, with a feeling of hopeless sadness said. "It is just so... so stupidly unreasonable though, isn't it? Just so fucking awful."

"Yes, that is what it is, fucking awful."

At home James slouched in his chair, sipping a drink, not hearing the music he had put on, his mind a jumble of hopeless ideas and fantasies. At times he mumbled a phrase aloud. How do you save someone? Get her to see a therapist, she wouldn't do it, he knew that, and he had no faith in therapists. Buy him off, offer him a couple of thousand dollars not to see her again. It wouldn't work, the man would laugh at him. Hire some thugs, tough guys, to put him in the hospital, break his legs, warn him not to see her again. Saying aloud "Oh, Christ, what's wrong with me?" knowing he would never do that. There was nothing, of course there was nothing, he would only do what he always knew he would do. He would wait. He would stand on the sidelines and hope things worked out. Maybe Barry was right, maybe that was all they could do.

When he went to fill his glass for the third time, staggering a little, he realized he was a little drunk. The red light on his answering machine blinked, he hadn't noticed it before, a message from his son, short and perfunctory, but at least he had phoned. It was too late to return the call.

He fell asleep in his chair, the half full glass slipping from his fingers, leaving a large, dark stain on his new rug.

Chapter 38

At work, on Monday, he saw Sheila only briefly, she was walking quickly, carrying a light stand. He was on the other side of the gallery, just starting up the stairs to the mezzanine, when she looked his way he waved and mimed smoking a cigarette. She smiled in return,

On his break he sat on the back steps and smoked two cigarettes. It was beginning to drizzle rain, dark grey, rolling clouds filled the sky, the air was damp with a definite chill to it. He waited twenty-five minutes but she didn't come. That doesn't mean anything, he thought, they didn't always meet, sometimes she couldn't arrange her break at the same time as his. He would see her later.

It was Wednesday before he had a chance to talk to her. They had coffee together in the staff room. Looking at her as she slowly stirred her coffee he realized that, with what he now knew, he would never see her quite the same way again, not more of something or less of something, only differently. He wanted to reach out to her, to show his friendship, his caring, but uncertain what to say. She avoided eye contact, staring into her coffee cup and when she spoke it was almost whisper.

After a few minutes he asked. "I wonder if we could get together for an hour or two, maybe dinner after work, or a couple of beers. There is... there's something I'd like to talk to you about."

He could see her tense up. She muttered. "Oh, I don't know, this week..."

"Its about my daughter, the way she's been acting, really strangely, I'm worried. I don't know there's something I don't understand and it has to do with me, at least partly, with our relationship. She's going through a bad time and I just needed someone to talk to about it try to figure it out." he gave a little shrug and sipped his coffee, looking away. "Anyway I guess it will work itself out, time, and all that."

"Oh, James," She put her hand over his. "What about Saturday, Saturday morning. Do you work Saturday?"

"No." A lie but he would phone in sick.

"Saturday morning then, we can go for a walk. It'll be nice."

"I don't mean to intrude on..."

"No, I want to, I'd like to." Her hand was still on his. "Why don't you pick me up at ten." She smiled. "I have to go now." She kissed his cheek a quick brush of her lips, cool and soft.

He sat motionless, feeling somewhat sad, feeling he had manipulated her. But it was true, he did want to talk to her about Jane, share his worries. And about Denise, yes Denise. He wanted to tell her all about himself, he wanted her to know him.

He ate his super in a small Italian restaurant, one he had discovered on his ramblings. The service was prompt and friendly and the food better than average. He ate there quite often and felt more at ease there, eating alone, than he did in other restaurants.

A woman was seated at the table next to him, she was alone and she read a book while she waited for her order. There was something severe, almost prim, about her look, the conservative clothing, the hairdo pulled straight back into a bun, brown hair with touches of grey. When her order came she smiled at the waiter and put away her book. Her mouth, full lipped and a little wide didn't seem to jibe with the rest of her face with its delicate cheekbones and small precise feature, as if it might have been transplanted from another person. James found this attractive; the sensual mouth set in the prim, sensitive face, as if it might hint at something.

He wondered what book it was she had been reading. She wore no rings. Her hands, as she drank from her wine glass and as she ate her meal moved, James thought, with a graceful precision. He imagined her in her living room, reading, listening to ...Schubert, Bach. She would be well read, intelligent, but with a special interest; expressionist painting, French poetry, Elizabethan theatre, something like that.

He looked her way several times, studying her. She never looked his way, only ate her meal in a leisurely fashion then, and this surprised him, smoked a cigarette. Had he seen the title of the book she was reading he might have started a conversation. "Oh, I see you're reading..." They would discuss authors, then perhaps poetry or music. But of course he knew this would never happen, it was not something he could do. He watched her as she left and felt suddenly restless.

He drove aimlessly about for a while, not wanting to go home, then stopped in at a bar, one he had never been to before. It was loud, most of the people were young, casually dressed, laughing and relaxed. University students, he thought, and he watched them as he drank his gin and tonic. How casual and easy going they seemed to him, casual with their bodies; touching, leaning against, hugging, and with their voices and gestures, conversations suddenly erupting into laughter. Had his life ever been like that? He supposed it had, somewhat, in university, but not enough of it, not enough.

He left the bar and drove to the quay where he walked its length a couple of times, looked at his boat as it rode easily on the gently moving water, then sat on a bench. The quiet darkness and the sound and smell of the water relaxed him. He felt at peace by the water and thought he must be meant to be a sailor, a water person.

At home there was no mail, no messages on his answering machine. He phoned Robert and they had a brief conversation; he didn't ask about the hoped for pregnancy nor did he mention Jane. Although, as with many of their conversations, nothing much was really said, he felt pleased, just from the contact. He phoned Jane and once again heard the familiar message from her machine. She couldn't be out that often, he thought, she must be monitoring her calls. But why wouldn't she want to talk to him?

Worried now and restless he made himself a drink. He should phone his mother, it had been a while. But no, why should he if he really didn't want to talk to her. Fuck duty. For a moment or two he couldn't decide and this irritated him. When he dialed her number he heard the answering machine with its bright, perky message. Out somewhere; a poetry reading or a concert, or the ballet, out somewhere attaining culture.

He recalled something from his childhood, when he was about twelve or thirteen. He had been a quiet child, shy, ordinary and forgettable as far as his classmates were concerned, neither idolized nor tormented. He had become friends with a boy named Rick, a boy only slightly older in age but much more grown up than his other friends. He knew his mother did not approve of Rick; he had an arrogant, rebellious attitude, and he swore too much. To James he was something of a hero, more daring, wiser, than the other boys, more knowledgeable about gown up things. Sometimes he and Rick would get this girl, Lena, a thin, unattractive girl, and they would go down to the river bank, to a small clearing in the bush. They would lie together and kiss and she would let them feel the small swellings of her breasts, then put their hands under her skirt to touch between her legs.

One evening, when he was in bed reading his mother came in to say good-night. She sat on his bed and talked to him, she told him how important it was to pick the right friends, that picking the wrong friends could ruin your life, destroy your chances of getting ahead in the world. He was young of course, and needed guidance, saying finally that she did not want him seeing Rick any more. He thought that somehow his mother had found out about Lena and the riverbank and he felt embarrassed and guilty. He saw Rick only once after that and never told him what his mother had said.

He had imagined that Rick would go on to lead some great adventurous, or at least unusual life but he hadn't. He had married young, had stayed in a minor civil service job. He was the father of two children and married to a nagging and belligerent woman, an alcoholic, someone had told him.

He stood on his balcony, looking down at the street. It was a warm night with not a bit of a breeze. After a while he spoke aloud, his voice low, almost a whisper."The street is much the same as always, perhaps not quite so lively as it usually is, but still lively. There was an accident there this morning, just below us, two cars, at the intersection. I don't think anyone was hurt. Tonight I went to look at my boat, it looked beautiful in the night, and it made me feel good, calmed me down." He coughed and lit a cigarette, spoke a little louder. "Saturday, with Sheila, I won't ask her anything about what's going on, I won't ask her anything. I'll talk about myself, the kids, and you. I want her to know me. You know I just... I want to protect her, be her friend, she's so vulnerable. The funny thing is I feel that somehow you are a part of this, there's some connection somehow. Maybe its just that you'll always be a a part of my life. I want to do something, I just don't know what." He gave a little laugh. "Anyhow, anyhow, anyhow, that is it for tonight. Good-night, my love, and so to bed."

Chapter 39

In the small entrance way of her apartment building he hesitated a moment before pressing the button on her intercom. He had been feeling nervous all morning. He could not explain this anxiety, could not account for it to himself, nor for the tenseness and irritability he felt. Her voice answered almost immediately. "Hello."

"Hi, it's me, James."

"I'll be right down."

In less than a minute she was there, dressed in khaki shorts, sandals, a white tee shirt and black baseball cap. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

"You look very nice." He said.

"You too, and we have a very nice day for a walk."

As they walked and began to talk he was aware, as he was sure she was, that there was a tenseness, unwanted though it might be, and their conversation, casual enough; about the weather, their workplace, things in shop windows, was filled with awkward pauses and forced comments and questions. He felt she was becoming withdrawn, perhaps wishing she had not decided to do this.

He stopped suddenly. "I have an idea. I'd like to show you something. Its... well it will be a surprise. We can drive there in ten minutes. Would you like that? Would you like to do that?"

She hesitated, blinking, as if suddenly aroused from some deep thought. "Okay. Sure." In the car she asked. "A surprise?"

"Yes, well I think you'll be surprised. Its something I'm very... its something I want to show you, and tell you about. But its a surprise so that's all I'm going to tell you." He was smiling, his voice eager with a hint of excitement.

He was relieved to see his boat was there, tied up at its usual place. He led her to it and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "What do you think of her? Isn't she beautiful? I bought her, she's mine, well she will be, officially, in a month or so. I've been taking sailing lessons and I'm pretty good, been out a couple of times on my own, by myself. Its great, just great. You know I'd been sailing a couple of times, with people, and I liked it but I didn't know how good it could be, when you learn how to handle a boat, when you... its amazing, just amazing. I love it." He turned to her, smiling, but she didn't say anything, just stared at him rather solemnly. He touched her arm and pointed out toward the horizon. "See that, that little white dot out there, that boat, that is where it is really beautiful. Out there. All there is is you and the boat, the water and the wind. All this, all this here, is nothing but a few purple bumps on the horizon. Its another world, I know that sounds corny but that is what it is, another world. You learn how to use the wind to go where you want to go, well of course that is the tricky part, that's the skill part. You know when I come in I feel... I feel as if I'd done something unique or special, or been to some strange country or something, something timeless." He turned to look at her again and said, apologetically, "Sorry for talking so much. Anyhow that's how I feel. What do you think of her?"

She wasn't looking at him she was staring out to the horizon, to the little white dot, her eyes squinting, as if she was trying to locate it. "I've never been on a sailboat." she said.

"I'll take you out. I mean if you'd like to. You and Barry, we could pack a lunch and i could show off all my seamanship skills. I know you'd like it."

They sat on a bench and he continued to talk; something of the history of the boat and how he had come to buy it, something of what he had learned of sailing, and all the while she was silent, offering only the occasional soft smile. "So in two weeks she's mine, then Mike, the guy that runs the marina, is going to take it in, check it all over, slap on some paint, then I'm all set."

"What are you going to name her?"

"Denise." He paused, staring down at the weathered boards of the dock beneath his feet. "Denise. She was a woman I was in love with, very much in love with." Aware that this was the first time he had ever spoken those words to anyone. "I met her about thirteen years ago, and I fell in love with her, just like that, I fell in love. I was a married man with two children. But you know, really, I had never felt anything like this before, not so deep... so complete. I married young, my wife and I, we cared for each other, at least at first, but it wasn't like this, nothing like this. She never asked me to leave my wife and I, I went along. I went along. Maybe I thought I'd lose my children, they wouldn't respect me. Or maybe I just lacked the courage." He looked out toward the horizon. White clouds were forming and moving in toward the land, carried on the breeze. His voice was low, he might have been talking to himself. "She was an idealist, political, she believed in things. She was a very honest person, the most honest, honest and good person I have ever known. She lived her life that way. She was in an accident, a terrible car accident. She nearly died. It left her blind and with pins and plates in her legs and shoulders. In the hospital, all the operations, then the therapy, all the pain. It never really left her, the pain, it was always there, even years later."

He took out his cigarettes, he offered one to Sheila but she shook her head in refusal. He lit his cigarette, cupping the flame with his hands, sheltering it from the breeze coming in off the water. "She liked me to read to her, even before the accident. And I liked to. Poetry mostly, sometimes a short story or an article I thought she might like, but mostly poetry. I would describe things to her, wherever we went; a park, a restaurant, even a fair once. I would describe the place and the people, try to make them interesting or funny, even walking down a street, the houses, kids playing. It got to be second nature to me so that... I sometimes find myself still doing it." He frowned, took off his sunglasses and wiped his eyes. "After the accident she wouldn't hear of me leaving my wife, wouldn't talk about it. So I didn't, i just went along with things. That was my big mistake, my great regret." He flipped his cigarette into the water and rubbed his eyes, as if tired. "I was a coward. She died, her heart just finally gave up. So i moved out here. I know what people say, time heals all wounds, you'll get over it, but i don't want to get over it. I still love her, death doesn't change that. I don't want her to just ...disappear"

They were both silent, then he gave a little shake of his head, as if rousing himself. "I've never talked about this to anyone else."

She only nodded slightly than asked "Should we walk now?"

"Sure. There's a little beach a couple of blocks over, would you like to go there?"

They walked the four blocks to the beach slowly and without conversation. About half way there she took his arm in hers.

The beach was small, a little sheltered cove, and almost deserted; two other, couples, an older man suntanning, and a young woman with two little girls. The girls, about six and eight he guessed, would run into the water, splash one another then run back out. The noise of their laughter and little shrieks of pleasure seemed to hang in the air, bright and sparkling, against the dull, monotonous sound of the waves.

"We always seem to wind up at a beach." She said.

"Well, its the city for it, the water and the mountains."

"And the rain."

"And the rain."

They were sitting as they usually did, quite close together, knees drawn up. She had taken off her sandals and slowly trickled sand down onto her toes. He knew this was a picture of her he would keep, another snapshot for his mental photograph album, along with so many others; Denice, his children. He closed his eyes.

After a moment she said. "You wanted to talk about your daughter."

"Yes, yes i did." He did not want to talk about Jane, not now, but he had no choice. "I don't know if you can help, I'm just... puzzled, and upset." As he told her about Jane he started out over the water with its brightly reflected sunlight and far far away what looked to be whitecaps, appearing then disappearing. "Even as a little girl she was always striving, striving to be the best, get the best marks, the lead in the school play, all that, the same in university." His voice was low, matter- of -fact. "Good at everything except relationships." He told her of the evening in the park when she had confronted him, what she had said, how much it had hurt him, how wrong she was, but he could not find the proper words that might make her understand. He thought he sounded weak and apologetic. As he continued to talk he felt disconnected from it all, as if he was recounting the plot of a movie or a novel he had just read. When he finished he lay back on the sand, eyes closed against the sun. "So that's it. Now she won't even return my calls." He sounded angry.

She was quiet, watching her hand, still trickling sand onto her toes. There was a thin film of dust on her foot. She said. "I don't know, it might be... maybe she has a hard time breaking away."

Her response irritated him, it was what his wife had said.. "Jesus, she's a grown woman, she's not fifteen. I taught her to be independent." He realized how angry he sounded. "I'm sorry, I'm just upset I guess, maybe you're right, partly right anyway. I don't know what to do."

"It sounds like she's working something out, there's not much you can do, just give her time, just be there for her, make sure she knows that. She'll come around, all the stuff you guys had together, that can't just disappear."

"I hope so. Anyway thanks for listening. I appreciate it." He felt depressed and slightly embarrassed, as if he had revealed some terrible fault. Would she see him as weak, ineffectual, a bad father? The day had changed. All at once he was conscious of the heat, that he was sweating, that his mouth was dry. They had not brought anything with them to drink. He looked at her hoping she would say something, something reassuring, but she was quiet, staring down at the sand trickling down on her toes. She might have been deep in thought, or perhaps just in that strange place she sometimes went to. He said. "I'm really warm. Maybe we should go."

She slowly turned to him her face expressionless, whispered an okay and began to put on her sandals.

Walking to the car he tried to think of something to say, knowing there was no way he could salvage the day but hating the silence. "I didn't think it was supposed to be this hot today, weather forecasters wrong again." She made a muttered response that he couldn't quite hear but he didn't ask her to repeat it.

They drove to her apartment building in silence. He didn't try to make conversation, it was too much of an effort, and there did not seem to be much to say. He was aware though, that she often turned to look at him as he drove.

When they stopped in front of her apartment building she put her hand on his arm and asked. "Would you like to come up for a beer?"

"I... well don't you have plans?"

"Not till four o'clock, its only one-thirty."

He felt somewhat sheepish, following her as they went to her apartment, as if he was being given a treat he didn't deserve. She opened the door and said. "Come in, have a seat." then a few steps in, she added, with a little shrug and a smile. |My place... you know."

It was just as messy as it had been the other time he had been there. "That's okay, I like it, more interesting than mine." On the coffee table in front of him, on top of some newspapers, was an unwashed dinner plate, a knife and fork, and an empty pop can, to one side was a lipstick and a comb. She picked up the plate, the cutlery and the pop can and took them into the kitchen, saying. "I'll get you a beer."

He sat on the sofa, beside him was one of her dresses, half crumpled. It looked like something she might wear for an evening out on the town, silky, brief, and shiny. He gently straightened then folded it and placed it on the arm of the sofa. He picked up the lipstick, the top had not been put on, and turned it slowly in his hand. It was pale pink in colour. From the kitchen she said. "Oh shit, I forgot to put the beer in the fridge, its warm."

"That's okay." He looked around him; c,d,s out of their cases on the floor, newspapers and magazines, an empty pop can on the window sill beside a dead potted plant, articles of clothing. On the floor beside the large easy chair opposite him; a pair of socks and an umbrella. He liked the messiness of it all, it made things seem more personal, almost intimate. It gave him an odd feeling, a kind of longing.

She brought him a beer and a glass, a bottle of water for herself. She sat opposite him leaning forward slightly, her back straight. He took a sip of his beer and smiled. She said. "I'm sure everything will work out, you guys had so much going for you."

He nodded without looking at her. "I hope so. I might be making too much of it." He didn't want to talk about it. The furniture was all well worn, she must have bought it second hand. He nodded toward the stereo system. "What kind of music do you like?" Thinking as he said it that he must have asked her that before.

"Oh, a little bit of everything, mostly... mostly the new bands."

He made other tries at conversation; the posters on the wall, the neighbourhood, work, but she made only small, polite responses. He felt she was studying him and he began to feel slightly uncomfortable. He sipped his warm beer, disliking it but smiling as if enjoying it.

The intercom buzzed and she got up quickly, startled, and almost ran to the door. There was the sound of a muffled masculine voice then the buzzer as she opened the outside door. James looked over at her raising his eyebrows in a question. She stayed by the door holding it open a few inches. "Its Len." She licked her lips nervously and seemed a little confused as if caught out in something. "He said he wasn't coming till four." When Len came in he didn't kiss Sheila, just put his arm around her waist, his hand sliding down over her hip.

"You're early."

"Yeah, Mike didn't show up, fucking wimp. So we'll go early." He scarcely looked at Sheila, staring at James.

"Len, this is James. James works with me. We were out for a walk, we just got back." She sounded apologetic.

Len gave a brief nod in James' direction and walked quickly into the room, then sat, sprawled out in the chair where Sheila had been sitting. She followed hesitantly and stood by the chair, as if awaiting directions. Scarcely looking at her he reached out and patted her backside. "Get me a beer will you babe."

Sheila went to the kitchen and Len looked quickly around, gave a little shake of his head and said. "Miss good fucking housekeeping." He picked up a magazine, glanced at it then threw it down with a sigh. He looked directly at James, his expression one of faint amusement. He seemed about to say something when from the kitchen Sheila said. "Oh, the beer's warm. I just put it in the fridge."

Len muttered a "Jesus.", then said loudly. "That's okay."

Sheila handed him the beer, just a bottle, no glass, and he took a quick drink. She said, rather nervously. "Well, I guess I should get ready then."

"Don't be too long, okay." Once again he reached out and patted her backside. When she had gone he yawned and rubbed his stomach. Once again he regarded James with that same expression, something, James thought, between amusement and contempt.

James leaned forward, he could feel the tenseness in his back and shoulders, the hard knot of anger in his stomach. He felt uncomfortably warm. He took another sip of his beer and tried to find something to say but nothing came. Finally Len asked. "So, you work with whats-his-name, Barry?"

James stared down at the table, at his hands that held his glass, a glass that he now realized was empty. "No, I just helped them out a couple of times." He poured the remainder of the bottle into his glass. He urgently wanted to go, to be out of this place, but somehow felt he could not go until he finished his beer. Almost half a glass. Len raised his bottle as if making a toast, then took a drink. James responded with a similar gesture and managed to force down the rest of his beer. He stood up awkwardly, his face flushed. "Well, i should be going let you guys.. get ready." He was aware of the silence of the room, the noise of the bathroom shower, a noise he scarcely noticed before, had stopped. He walked halfway to the door then called out. "Thanks for the beer, Sheila. See you at work." His voice sounded strained. He gave a quick glance back to Len and muttered a "See you." Len smiled and raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

James was out of the apartment, out of the building and into his car, driving, almost unaware of what he was doing, not knowing where he was going. He pulled the car over and parked. He had to get control of himself. He lit a cigarette, dragged deeply and felt the anger roll through him. That smirking son-of-a-bitch, showing off, letting me know that he owns her, he owns her, he can have her any time he wants, do anything he wants. And her, what the hell is wrong with her for Christ sake, like a God-damn puppy dog. Big macho man, big tough guy. Suddenly aware that his heart was pounding and he had spoken the last sentence aloud. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before driving away.

The sudden chill of his air conditioned apartment made him shiver. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. He took off his clothes intending to shower but instead put on his bathrobe and made himself a drink. Unable to sit he paced about the room, not tasting his drink, scarcely aware he was drinking it. His stomach was churning and he thought vaguely that he should eat something but instead poured himself another drink. How could she do it? How could she be with that pig, that smirking sadistic pig? He sat in his chair and lit a cigarette. In his mind he could see them together, in bed, her holding him, opening up to him, whatever he wanted, whatever pleased him, his penis in her mouth.

He stood up quickly, intending to put on some music, but was suddenly dizzy and knew he was going to throw up. Kneeling in front of the toilet bowl he gagged and retched a few times but all that came up was a few drops of colourless liquid. Still, he felt somewhat better so he took off his bathrobe and stood under the shower. He stayed in the shower for ten or fifteen minutes, motionless, head bowed. He felt humiliated, as if some weakness or abnormality had been exposed.

He dressed slowly deciding to walk down to the beach. No messages on his machine, maybe he would phone the kids when he came back.

The street was crowded, he moved slowly, people hurried past him. He had forgotten his sunglasses and he squinted against the bright sun. The anger was still there, a tight ball in the pit of his stomach, but more than anything else he felt tired. He bought a sandwich and a lemonade to take with him, telling the girl to keep the change, tipping her a dollar.

The beach was crowded and noisy, all the benches occupied. He sat on the sand and slowly, without tasting, ate his sandwich and drank his lemonade. It was all over, all done with, they could both go to hell. He was through, finished. She made her bed let her lie in it. Oh God, that was an expression his mother would often use. You have made your and now you have to lie in it. Well, that was it though, there was nothing he could do, nothing he wanted to do. He sat on the beach, smoking cigarettes, until he felt almost nothing, then he slowly walked home.

Chapter 40

James walked his appointed rounds, the gallery was fairly busy, three tours and more than the usual amount of visitors. The Folk Art Exhibit was popular, as James walked past he saw that one of the tours was there, young girls from some private school with their plaid skirts and white blouses. A young woman, blonde and attractive, with brown horn rimmed glasses was talking to them. At the front of the group a few keen types asked questions and were interested, or at least pretended to be, but most of them half listened, looking vaguely or restlessly about. One, a tall red headed girl, suppressed a giggle and nudged her companion.

James stood for a moment to watch them; young girls, thirteen or fourteen, even in their awkwardness, the carelessness of their bodies, feminine, aware of the mystery they possessed, the mystery they acknowledged with soft secret smiles.

He felt edgy and bored, had not slept well, had hardly slept at all. It had been like that for the last three nights and now his whole body felt tired. His eyes ached, he felt tired and restless at the same time. He had drunk too much and smoked too much and now time was dragging by, each minute slower than the last. He wished he had phoned in sick. He wanted to see Sheila and dreaded seeing her, talking to her, but at his break he went to sit on the back steps of the gallery, to smoke two cigarettes, stretching his break out to thirty-five minutes, as if she might appear, to bum a light, smile, and make a joke.

At lunchtime in the dreary staff room, even more dreary than usual it seemed to him now he found he had no appetite for his sandwich and coffee, nor could he find any interest in the newspaper, the lines of print; words, meanings, scarcely registered with him. Carl Brown with his usual lunch of banana, yogurt, and cookies, sat opposite him.

Carl, as he so often did, started in on a bitter diatribe about something he had heard on the evening news the night before. James pretended interest in the paper thinking, why am I listening to this miserable, boring son-of-a-bitch? Because no one else will. Because I was brought up to be polite and considerate. He stood up quickly, bumping the table slightly. "I have an errand, have to run. Keep the paper." He walked quickly the two blocks to the bar where he had two hurried gin and tonics.

He saw Sheila only once, a glimpse of her as she left for the day, walking quickly, head down, out the front door.

The next day he had lunch with Barry, they ate at a small fast food place that was close to the gallery. Barry had seemed reluctant about lunch but had agreed. As they walked to the restaurant, with almost no conversation, Barry seemed troubled, edgy. Worried about Sheila, James thought. After the waitress brought the food James asked. "So how's Sheila? I haven't had a chance to talk to her."

Barry took a bite of his hamburger before answering, his voice matter-of-fact, staring down at his place. "She phoned in sick today. She looks like shit, not getting any sleep I guess, or something. She can't do anything right, keeps screwing up and then apologizing. I don't know, depressed or something, really out of it. The other day she had this great fucking bruise on her arm that she tried to cover up." He sighed. "I didn't ask, she'd just give me some fucking fairy tale anyway." He shrugged. "We don't talk much anymore."

There was a kind of antagonism between them James felt, as if they had just argued. They ate in silence then James said. "I met him, Len, Sheila's guy. Last Saturday. We went for a walk and... and I got to meet him."

Barry looked up from his food. "Oh yeah, so what's he like?" It was asked casually, as if it was nothing more than a polite inquiry, as if they were discussing a movie.

"About what you would expect; smug, Mr. Macho, arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He says jump, she says how high. I don't understand..." Barry didn't say anything, just went back to eating his hamburger. James was beginning to feel angry, he said. "I guess there's nothing we can do, just wait and hope for the best." There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Barry said nothing and after a while James asked, rather awkwardly. "Are you still thinking of taking some holidays, getting away from it all?"

Barry gave him a long look, a look that James could not quite interpret, other than there seemed to be some kind of resentment in it. For a second James thought Barry was going to tell him to fuck off, but he didn't, he only sighed, went back to his food then said. "Not for a month or so anyway, some stuff has come up at work."

James had lost what little appetite he'd had, after a few more perfunctory bites he pushed his plate away and stood up. "I should be getting back. You coming?" Barry only gestured at his uneaten food. James said. "Right. Okay then, we'll see you later." He left quickly.

On the street, walking quickly back to the gallery he thought angrily; What the hell was that, he doesn't give a shit, he doesn't even care, well I give a shit, I care, friends stand by one another, to hell with him. But at the same time he didn't know what to do, what he could do. He had no plan, no course of action, he could only wait and see.

He saw Sheila only once during the week and then they exchanged only a few brief sentences. She looked tired, her eyes were bloodshot, she looks ill he thought, and there was a kind of brooding silence about her. She rarely met his eyes when they spoke. Before they parted he blurted out, knowing he sounded anxious. "We should get together some time. Soon, okay?"

"We will, don't worry, we'll keep in touch." Then a quick half smile and a flutter of her fingers in an abbreviated wave of good-bye.

Chapter 41

After work James stopped in at a bar, it was close to his apartment and he would sometimes have a drink or two there after work. He had gone there once in the late evening, and at that time of night it was a lively place, filled with couples and groups, a mixture of ages, that filled the room with the pleasant sounds of conversation and laughter. Now it was almost deserted, just a few customers.

James studied the customers, something he often did, always curious about people; two young women talking quietly, a couple, an older man and a young, fairly attractive woman. Two weary business men in good suits and loosened ties hunched over their drinks. James studied the couple; the older man and the young fairly attractive woman. The man is bored James thought but trying not to show it. Because she is young and fairly attractive and so something of a prize. And so he endures his boredom, it is the price he pays. Somewhere there might be a wife or an ex-wife who is wittier and wiser and a much better companion but who does not have the smooth skin and firm breasts of the young, fairly attractive woman. So the man smiles and pretends to listen attentively because he knows there will be moments, after a few drinks when he can delude himself. And for the man who makes a point of never looking at the mirrored reflection of the two of them together and who carefully, and ruefully, inspects his face each morning perhaps that is enough.

The two business men are seated at the bar, three stools apart. They are quiet and rarely look up from their drinks. They did not come here in the hope of conversation or companionship, only to have a few moments of quiet, a short rest between their two worlds.

Although not alike in physical appearance there is a similarity about them that James recognizes; it is in the slump of their shoulders, the inclination of their heads as they seem to study, quietly and thoughtfully, a hand that holds a drink or that moves a pack of cigarettes in small precise patterns on the polished wooden bar. Then, when they happen to look up from their drinks to glance about the room, he sees it in their eyes and in the sudden openness of their faces. It is an expression that carries a hint of something between bewilderment and concern as if they might be saying to themselves; how did i come to be here? In this place, this life, this life with the things and people around me that I have become a part of. How did I come to be here. It is an expression, James knows, that they will cover with the masks of assurance and resolution as they move between their two worlds.

He ordered another drink and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Sheila, Sheila, Sheila, what will I do, is that all there is, wait and hope, be there, all the crap people say, this thing with her, this thing, she is such a good person. Everything is so screwed up, Sheila, Jane, Jane too, what happens, what the hell happens and what the hell do I do? I stand and watch. Jesus.

Chapter 42

He was dreaming when the phone rang, and later he would try to recall the dream as if it might have some significance. He fumbled the phone as he picked it up, confused, wakened from his dream filled sleep, unsure for a moment where he was, but suddenly fearful.

Barry said. "James."

James grunted, switched on the bedside lamp. "Yes."

"James, its Barry." He spoke very slowly. "There's been an accident. Sheila's dead. The police just phoned me. She fell from a balcony."

"What? Oh, God. How did.. Oh my God."

"I wanted to tell you. That's all I know. Christ. She had my name in her wallet. I don't... I'll talk to you later, okay."

Nothing more, only the flat monotonous hum of the dial tone. He sat up in bed the telephone still in his hand. She was dead. He slowly replaced the telephone thinking that he should phone Barry back. What had happened? Fallen from a balcony.

He went to the bathroom and washed his face, splashing it with cold water again and again, trying to clear his head. It felt as if everything had slowed down, as if he was moving through some heavy liquid that slowed even his mental processes. He looked at his watch, five-fifteen.

In the kitchen he began to make coffee, measuring the coffee and the water carefully as he always did. Then he stood watching the machine, hearing it s hum and gurgle as the dark brown liquid dripped into the glass container. He thought again of phoning Barry but Barry had probably told all he knew, all there had been was a simple call from the police. Fallen from a balcony, Sheila's apartment had no balcony, she had been out somewhere. Where? At a party or by herself. How do you fall off a balcony?

The coffee was ready and he poured himself a cup and sipped it without thinking, burning his lips and tongue. Would she have jumped? He tried to push the thought away but he kept remembering those times, even from the first day they met, when she would withdraw into herself, into some private world. And now she had chosen to enter into a denigrating and destructive relationship. The last few brief times he had seen her, there had been something about her, a distant sadness or resignation. It had worried and frightened him.

So then one day you find yourself standing on the balcony or the window ledge or the bridge, thinking this would just be so much easier, this would end the pain, and in one split second you either take the step forward or you turn and walk away, Sometimes it is the inner demons that win.

He had vowed to help her, had wanted to help her, but he did not know how, could not formulate any plan, so had done nothing. He had done nothing. Wearily he went to the bedroom carrying his cup of coffee, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. The day he met her, working with her and Barry and Barry had been explaining something, something about lighting or background, when she caught his eye and winked. That wink, the smallest of gestures, the flicker of an eyelid, had completely charmed him, had made him want to know her. The three of them, Saturday nights, walking arm in arm from the art exhibit, the Saturday night musketeers. She had always seemed happy with them.

No, no, she would not have jumped. She was going through a bad time, had made bad decisions but she would have worked it out. She was too funny, too filled with life. She knew she had Barry and she had me, that we loved and cared for her. She was not alone, We would have done anything for her. She would not have jumped.

He lost all sense of time, stretched out on his bed, smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring at the ceiling. Only once did tears come, softly, almost unnoticed. Twice he went to the kitchen to mechanically refill his cup with coffee. How many times had he pictured her on his boat, a picnic lunch, a bottle of wine, out on the calm, peaceful water, just the slightest push of a breeze, talking, just talking. It was as clear as any memory could be and now it seemed as if it was a memory, not a fantasy but something that had really happened. His grief was not just for her or for himself, but for the tragic stupidity of the world, random, meaningless, like some huge beast lurching about, oblivious to what it stepped on or destroyed.

The phone rang and when he looked at his watch he saw it was twelve twenty. How could that be? He picked it up on the fifth ring. "Yes."

"James., its Ms Boughton." She paused but he said nothing. She cleared her throat. "We've heard what happened and we're all very sorry. It is such a ... regrettable thing... so very young. I understand you were a friend so I can understand your not coming in today." She cleared her throat again. "But, ah, I have to know if you will be coming in tomorrow."

"What?"

"Will you be coming in tomorrow?"

"No, I will not be coming in fucking tomorrow. I will not be coming in again, ever again."

"Oh, well... I see, that is... all right then, we will have your cheque ready for you Friday afternoon, if that is your decision." She paused but he said nothing. "And James you'll remember to bring in the jacket and tie."

"What?"

"The jacket and tie, they are gallery property."

His voice was a low, flat monotone, almost a whisper. "Your fucking jacket and your fucking tie are hanging in your fucking staff room, and as for my cheque take it and buy... buy." He could think of nothing more to say so he hung up the phone.

He went to the bathroom with the half formed idea of taking a shower but only stood over the basin staring at his reflection. He splashed water on his face. There was a bad taste in his mouth. He brushed his teeth, unable to remember if he had brushed them earlier. The face in the mirror looked slightly different than it should, in just what way he couldn't tell, only that it did.

He moved slowly under the weight of his grief, carefully, aware that he might break down, be overcome, fall apart. He made coffee, standing patiently, waiting. When it was done he poured half a cup then added some scotch.

Sitting in his chair, in the quiet room, sipping his coffee and scotch, he had an odd feeling of uneasiness, as if he might be in another person's apartment, all the familiar furnishings; lamps, tables, chairs, somehow different. He closed his eyes and hoped for sleep but it would not come.

When they would sit together on the back steps of the gallery how she had the habit of sitting very close to him, scarcely an inch or two away, and she would lean her head on his shoulder or casually drape an arm around him, laughing, nudge him in the ribs with her elbow. She was so casual with her body, like a sister might be with a brother, and how that had surprised him. Right from the very first day.

The phone rang. It was Barry, he sounded tired. "How you managing?"

James cleared his throat, he had trouble speaking as if his voice was rusty from disuse. "Not very well, I guess. Its pretty rough."

"I know, I just sit here, I can't seem to do anything." There was a long pause, neither even trying to find the right words. "Anyway I just talked to the police, they're coming round to interview me, procedure I guess, and they wanted to know about any other friends and I gave them your name. I hope that's okay."

"Sure, that's okay."

There was another long pause. "It happened at his place, at Len's apartment. There was just the two of them."

It was like a jolt of electricity going through him. He killed her. He felt it in every part of his body, not a thought, not an idea, but a certainty. That psychopathic son-of-a-bitch killed her, killed her and threw her off his fucking balcony. He stood up, blinking rapidly as if just coming awake, his heart was racing. Barry was saying something. "...coming around to see you, probably today. Anyhow... we'll get together soon, okay." James managed to grunt out a yes as he hung up the phone.

Filled with sudden energy and an overwhelming rage he paced quickly about the room, his head turning from side to side as if looking for someone. His voice was a hoarse rasp. "Of course he killed her. Why did I assume she was alone? Bloody psychopath. Well he'll pay for it, he'll pay, I'll see to that." When he stopped to light a cigarette his hands were shaking. "The police are on it, that's good, they'll get him, they'll make the son-of-a-bitch pay."

He went to the kitchen and poured a drink but with the first swallow he knew he was going to be sick. Kneeling on the bathroom floor, his head above the white porcelain bowl he retched several times. All that came up was some dark brown liquid. He coughed violently, his whole body shuttered, then nothing more. He rested his head on his arms, finally relaxed, his mouth tasted of bile and he was sweating.

God, he thought, I can't be like this when the police come, I can't look like a crazy man. Or a drunk, nothing more to drink. No, that would never do. He brushed his teeth, gargled, took a long shower, then dressed.

When the police came he would present his case. He was a well educated man, a hard nosed business man, not someone given to irrational flights of fancy. If you don't mind my saying, officer, I hope you look into this boyfriend, he is a very violent man, he's beaten up women in the past and he has beaten Sheila. She once told me she was frightened of him, afraid of his violence, afraid that he might seriously hurt her. The last part was not true but what did that matter. He would present his case and they would take it from there. He sat down to wait.

Chapter 43

I'm detective Kotelus, I phoned earlier.

"Yes, come in please."

"We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Last. I realize this is a bad time for you so I'll try to be as brief as I can."

"That's all right. I want to help." James gestured towards the chair while he sat on the sofa. He leaned forward hands clasped tightly together, unaccountably tense and nervous. "Can I get you something? Coffee, soft drink?" His throat was dry, he coughed then cleared his throat.

"No, thanks, I'm fine." The detective took a notebook and a ball point pen from his inside jacket pocket. For the first time James really looked at the man; tall and thin, early forties probably, large brown eyes, heavy greying moustache, Mediterranean looking, Greek probably. James had forgotten the name the detective had given him but he thought it had been Greek sounding.

"Had you known Miss Bennett long? The detective's voice was soft and deliberate.

"Not really, a couple of months, but we were good friends, we worked together at the gallery, Saturday nights we'd get together, Sheila and Barry and I, we'd watch movies or sports, sometimes during the week we would go to an art exhibit or a movie or something, have dinner together." He paused, his voice was raspy, his throat dry, he wanted a glass of water. "Sometimes Sheila and I we would go for long walks together, you know, just talk. I think she liked to confide in me."

"I see." The detective studied James briefly then looked down at his notepad. "Had Miss Bennett seemed depressed lately, anxious, worried about things? Maybe she mentioned something?"

James knew where the cop was going with that one. "No, not at all. She wasn't the... depressive kind. She was too filled with life, too..." Then he could see her, as clearly as if she was in the room with him, on the beach, knees drawn up, face turned toward him. He blinked rapidly, his eyes filled with tears. "She was a wonderful person." He stood up quickly. "Glass of water." He went to the kitchen and ran the water tap, splashed his face, cupping the cold water and holding it to his eyes. He dried his face with a tea towel than filled a water glass and returned. "I... ah,..I'm..."

"That's all right, Mr. Last, take your time. Just a couple more things."

James took a long drink of water. "Okay." He could feel his legs trembling.

"Did Miss Bennett use drugs, in your presence, or that you know about?"

"What? No, not at all. Oh, I don't know, smoked the odd joint probably, she drank a little but nothing serious, just socially." This was absurd, what was this cop going on about? Why didn't he get to the point? "Why don't you check out the damned boy friend?"

"I was just coming..."

James leaned forward, his voice filled with anger and frustration. "He's a psychopath you know. Did you know that? Did you? A Goddamned psychopath, he beats up women, that is what he does. He beat Sheila up. He killed her, that's what happened. Can't you see it?" He leaned back and closed his eyes, all at once exhausted, no longer trembling, the tenseness gone.

The detective's tone of voice never changed, still low and soft. "Did you witness this assault? Did she tell you about it?"

Now the words came without thought or effort, as if someone else was speaking and he was only listening. "No, no, it was before I knew her. Barry knows about it." He rubbed his eyes, he was tired. "But she said... she told me, she was frightened of him , he would hurt her. She said that. He's a violent man." It sounded weak, it sounded like a lie.

The detective was standing up. "That's it then. Once again thank you for your cooperation." He handed James a business card. "If you think of anything else please phone me." At the door he turned to say. "I'm sorry for your loss."

James stood staring at the closed door for a moment. There had been something else he wanted to say, or a question he wanted to ask, but he could not recall it.

He went to the kitchen and made himself a drink then walked slowly through his apartment, sipping at his drink from time to time, stopping to look at the pictures on his dresser; Denise and his children, then at his c.d. collection as if he might play some music. Instead he took his drink out onto the balcony. The outside air was hot and humid, it was like stepping into something almost solid, the hot air pressed down on him like an invisible blanket. In an odd way he welcomed the heat, it was more real than the air conditioned interior, it jolted him as if he had moved from dream to waking. Not a hint of a breeze moved the still air, even the street noises far below seemed muffled by the heat.

He sipped his drink, lit a cigarette, and spoke aloud. "I kind of made a fool of myself with that cop, it didn't come off the way I wanted it to. Oh, what difference does it make?" He looked down at the street. "Pretty quiet today, too hot I guess. I know, I know, I promised you I'd look after her, that I would help her. Well I didn't. I didn't ride to her rescue. I am no fucking hero, no hero at all" He returned to the coolness of the apartment to sit in his chair, his eyes closed. "And now... and now she is dead. End of story." He lit a cigarette then closed his eyes again. "I am drinking too much, way too much, I know but.. hell... It feels like I'm losing my footing, that I have nothing to hold onto and I'm being whittled away bit by bit, parts of me." He opened his eyes, his voice soft and curious, like a child asking why the sky is blue. "Who am I? Who the hell am I? And who is it that says who I am? Me, is it me, or is it the world? Who judges? Is it my ex-wife? You? My children? Who can tell me who I am, what I am? My children, I suppose I love my children, yes, I do love my children, but they are content, maybe even wish, that I would just gently fade away, as if I was some kind of burden, just fade..."

He picked up his glass to take another drink but realized it was empty, he set it down loudly on the table. "With Sheila, well you know, I cared for her, I really cared for her, and I wanted to help her. But there was something else too, some kind of atonement that I wanted, that I needed." He paused. "But that doesn't matter now, does it? My daughter once said that nothing ever turns out the way it should. I don't know what..." His voice grew louder. "What? Just keep pushing the fucking rock up the fucking mountain, is that it? But now Sheila's dead and he's still alive, he's still alive doing whatever he wants. That son-of-a-bitch" His voice almost a shout. "That Goddamned cop better do something, take the son-of-a-bitch into the back room and beat a confession out of him."

He stood up quickly, his body tense, lips pressed together in anger. It had been like that since Barry's phone call, anger then grief then anger and grief again, but with neither the anger nor the grief ever completely leaving him.

He went out onto the balcony, into the hot still air, and stayed for more than hour, smoking cigarettes, staring down at the street.

Chapter 44

When he awoke his first feeling was one of hunger, an empty stomach demanding to be fed. It was a little after ten o'clock, he must have slept a long time, how long he couldn't be sure, could hardly remember going to bed, but it could not have been too late. He welcomed the hunger, the demand of his body, something he would have to do.

In the shower he thought about the day ahead, the time ahead, the hours to be filled. After breakfast he would go for a swim, something physical, swim until he was exhausted. After that he did not know,

As he packed his gym bag it occurred to him that he didn't know whether or not Sheila had liked the water, whether or not she swam. Odd that he didn't know that. One of his mental pictures had been the two of them on his boat, after a swim, her blonde hair darker and plastered against her head, body glistening with water drops, eyes opened wide from the chill, invigorated, shivering a little, wrapping a towel around her shoulders, sitting in the sun to dry, laughing with pleasure. Odd then that he had never asked her, odd that he did not know that about her. Slowly he zipped up his gym bag. It seemed important that he should know. He would have to ask Barry.

He ate breakfast at a small neighbourhood restaurant. He ordered a large breakfast and ate it slowly and methodically, as if trying to spend as much time as possible on the meal. So many hours ahead, a swim would help, and after that what? So much free time. He could phone Barry, Barry had said they should get together. No, he did not want to do that. What would they do, what would they say? What would be the point? Everything was changed now.

"Sir, sir, you forgot your bag."

"Oh, right, right. Thank you."

He walked slowly, the gym bag in his left hand swinging slightly, his eyes squinting into the sun. He fumbled in his pockets for his sunglasses but they weren't there, he tried each pocket two or three times, cursing softly under his breath. His throat was dry so he purchased a bottle of water at a small variety store. He asked about sunglasses but the store did not carry them.

After several minutes he stopped to sit on a bench. He took off his jacket, folded it and set it on the bench beside him. Why had he not taken the car? Why had he not worn shorts and sandals. He couldn't remember getting dressed. People passed by, the street was busy but its tempo slower than usual, the people grimmer, a little more irritated. It was the heat, the fourth day of it and people when they met said things like; "no relief in sight" or "what we need is a good rain," some, mostly men made attempts to joke about it,; "hotter than a ... so hot you could..." as if to say I don't let the heat get the better of me, I can stand it.

People passed by; a couple arguing quietly, the man overweight with an oddly delicate walk. His shirt was open and black hairs glistened in little swirls on the roundness of his stomach, fish white in contrast to his tanned arms and face. The woman was tall and angular and she kept her arms folded across her chest as they walked and argued. A young woman wearing bright orange shorts pushed a baby carriage, dark shadows under her eyes and a slash of bright red lipstick. Two teenage boys with backpacks walked quickly and talked loudly, oblivious of the heat it seemed.

James looked up at the sky; flat light blue with only one cloud in sight, a small puff of white in the distance. No relief in sight. He lit a cigarette, undecided on whether or not to continue his walk, the idea of a swim had lost its appeal. He took a sip of water. Three young women passed by each of them eating an ice cream cone, tongues sliding around the melting edges of the ice cream, talking and laughing as they walked, as they ate their ice cream. Carefree, he thought, free of care, with their smiles and nudges, their gestures, their private jokes.

Then it occurred to him, occurred with such a suddenness that he blinked and said aloud the word. "Yes." He had to see where it had happened, the last few seconds of her life. He had to go there, to Len's place. It was a duty, an obligation, something owed to her memory, something that should be done. He stood up quickly.

Walking back to his apartment he tried to remember Len's last name. Something Slavic, he thought, something beginning with M. Would Barry know where Len lived? Probably not. The police would know but he couldn't ask them.

The abrupt coolness of his apartment made him slightly dizzy and he quickly sat down, perched on the edge of the chair as if he might suddenly take off. His shirt was soaked through and he slowly took it off and dropped it on the floor. He lit a cigarette and let his body adapt to the coolness of the apartment. After a minute or two he picked up the telephone book, the yellow pages, and looked up construction companies. It would be the first thing he would try. And there it was. Malnyk and Sons Construction Company, Builders, Renovators, Foundations, Commercial and Residential. All work guaranteed.

He dialed the number, ready to break the connection.

"Good afternoon, Malnyk and Sons."

"Good afternoon, is Len there?"

"I'm sorry, Len is out right now. He should be back in about half an hour. Can I have him call you?"

"No, that's all right, I'll catch him later. Thank you."

He was listed in the white pages; Malynk, Len, 703 447 West 54th St. James leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, a little surprised at how easy it had been, how lucky he was. He showered and made himself a sandwich.

447 West 54th St., was a large, fairly modern apartment building with balconies on both the front and rear of the building. It looked well maintained, a low precisely trimmed hedge along the front, rows of blue and white flowers and two matching trees with red blossoms bordering the walk to the front door.

He circled the block and parked toward the rear of the building. There was a wide alleyway with six dumpsters placed along the back wall, across the alleyway was a large parking lot with numbered stalls, presumably for the tenants. James got out of his car and began to walk toward the front of the building, he had no plan, no idea of how he might gain entrance but at the front door a man was just leaving. The man had two dogs on leashes; the dogs were small and noisy with white curly fur and black eyes. The man held the door slightly open while he tried to manoeuvre the dogs through it. James stepped up quickly and held the door open for him. "Thanks." the man said, he had a heavily flushed face and a shock of pure white hair that accentuated the redness of his face. "Another hot one."

"It doesn't let up." James said.

The lobby was small, cool, and pleasantly furnished; a sofa, three easy chairs, coffee tables with magazines strewn on them, and at one end a television set. He did not see another person and the hushed stillness of the lobby, the noiseless elevator ride and the quiet hallway made it all seem dreamlike, as if he was there but not there. 703. He stared at the door for a second or two, apartment 703. It was on the back side of the building.

In his car he looked straight ahead and lit a cigarette. If the company name had not been the family name, if the man with the dogs had not opened the door for him... but he did not believe things happened for a reason, that was his mother's belief. No, things just happened. Still... still, things just seemed to fall into place for him so often. My great good luck, he shook his head, my downfall, my curse.

Finally he looked over to the building and counted up, slowly and carefully, the seven floors. There it was and all at once there was a picture; something seen in countless movies, a body falling through space arms windmilling, thirty-two feet per second, the speed of a body falling through space Down, down, and then... he gasped aloud, concrete, no soft earth and green grass to cushion her, only hard, dirty concrete, concrete that would smash... He turned away quickly, breathing rapidly, hands trembling. He knew that picture, a picture of something he had never actually seen, would stay with him for ever.

In Mexico he had seen small memorials at the side of the road marking the place where someone had died, little chapels with flowers and often photographs, but here there was nothing, no flowers or photographs, only dumpsters, garbage, and dirty concrete.

He had to look again; the balcony, the fall, the hard unforgiving concrete. He turned away and started to turn the ignition key then stopped. What if he was wrong, if he had the name wrong, if it was some kind of coincidence, another Len. He had to be sure, positively certain. He would wait.

It was not quite four o-clock. He turned on the car radio but he listen didn't really hear it. The heat was stifling, perspiration stung his eyes, the back of his shirt was soaked, sticking to the car seat. He waited patiently, staring straight ahead, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Every few minutes, as if drawn by some force he turned to look at the building, the balcony, the falling figure, not a figure though, Sheila, Sheila falling.

After a while cars began arriving at the parking lot, tenants coming home from work. Although there was a rear entrance most tenants walked to the front entrance. His eyes fixed on the parking lot James wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. A red sports car, driving a little too quickly, swerved into the parking lot entrance.

Len wore a black baseball cap and sunglasses. He walked as if he had an audience watching him, looking straight ahead, shoulders back, just the hint of a swagger. He walked past the alley without a turn of his head, never acknowledging what had happened there. James watched the figure until it entered the building. He didn't even look, James thought, not a glance. He imagined Len entering the lobby, checking his mail, riding the elevator, opening his door. What then? Put on some music, open a beer, or maybe take a shower first, relax, put his feet up, eat out or cook a meal. And tonight, maybe go out with the boys, have a few brews, shoot some pool, pick up some broads. Living your life as if nothing had happened, just going on as if nothing had happened.

Maybe God will strike you dead. Or maybe God will stand idly by while you throw some other woman off your balcony. James wiped his eyes and turned the key in the ignition.

Chapter 45

After a listless morning; a slowly drawn out regimen of habits; shower, shave, the brushing of teeth, dressing, the making of breakfast, even the mental note to buy orange juice, all carried out in an abstracted, uninterested way, as unconscious as breathing, he sat on his balcony, holding a grown cold cup of coffee, thinking of the emptiness of the day ahead of him and how he might try to fill it. He could go to the marina and check on his boat, it would soon be ready. He could go for a swim or to the library. But always the same picture came back; the balcony, the falling figure, the pavement, Len walking past, never turning his head. On impulse he picked up the phone and phoned Barry. "Its James."

"Yes, how are you keeping?"

"You haven't gone back to work yet?"

"Actually I am going to go in, for a couple of hours anyway. I thought of taking some time off but things... anyhow its probably better to..."

"I went there, where it happened."

"What?"

"Len's place, the balcony, where he threw her off, seven floors up. She landed on the pavement, in a fucking dirty alleyway. You know that?"

Barry sighed, he sounded tired. "I don't think that was a wise thing to do. James, you have..."

"And I saw Len, I had to make sure it was the right place, and he walked right by where it happened without even looking. Can you believe that? What the hell kind of way is that to die? In a dirty alley where people throw their fucking garbage?" He paused but there was no response. "Have you heard from the police?"

"No, and I don't expect I will. Listen James, I know... I loved her too you know, but she had this... anyhow, thing is you have to try..."

"No. You listen!" Jame spit out the words, loud, hard, and abrupt. "Don't give me that crap about moving on or getting over things. Just don't give me that crap."

There was a long pause then "All right." and the line went dead.

Irritated he went back to the kitchen and began to pour himself a drink, I am drinking too much, he thought, but he poured the drink anyway. He sat on his balcony, sipping his drink, oblivious of the heat that slowly increased as morning became noon. At four o'clock he drove again to 447 West 54th st., and once again, as if watching the replay of a scene from a movie, he saw the red sports car, then the figure walking to the front of the building, always looking straight ahead.

What am I doing here? He thought. Why? What is the point of this? If he knew I was here, if he could see me, he would think it was absurd, that I was absurd, jerk, he would sneer, asshole. He stared at the building for a long time before turning the ignition key.

His mother phoned him that evening, just as he finished eating. His dinner had been taken from the freezer, complete in one package, like an airline meal, and he had eaten it rather dutifully, not really hungry but eating only because he felt he should. He knew that he should drink less but that was difficult, in a short time the glass in his hand had become as habitual and comforting as the cigarette between his fingers. He drank straight scotch now, in small regular sips, because he could feel its warmth moving through his body, and because it was more numbing.

He was surprised to hear his mother's voice, she rarely phoned. There had been letters; chatty and bright, filled with what he thought his mother would consider as witticisms, her attempts at sophistication. He had read them quickly then thrown them away.

"Mother, this is a surprise."

"Oh, well it shouldn't be. I do believe I am better at keeping in touch than my vagabond son. I started out to write you a letter then decided... well, perhaps I will finish the letter too. How are you, James? How are getting on?"

He would tell her nothing, he would not be able to bear her trite responses, her lack of understanding, he would share nothing with her. "Pretty much the same, Mother, I haven't won the lottery or written a symphony." He paused. "I get my boat soon so I'm looking forward to that." He tried to put some enthusiasm into his voice but failed and wondered why he tried.

"That will be exciting won't it? I hope it gives you great pleasure and I'm sure it will."

There was something different about her, he was so attuned to her voice, every nuance and accent, the choice of phrase the quickness or slowness of her words, like a long time friend or lover, always hearing the message beneath the words. He didn't know what this was, something unfamiliar, it might hint at sadness or even regret.

"You sound a little low, Mother."

"Do I? I suppose. I was at a funeral this afternoon and that sometimes makes me... tends to make me a little depressed."

"I am sorry to hear that. Was it a friend?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that, Agnes Crawford, a neighbour here in the building. Only a few people there, all from the building I think. She was quite sweet, a trifle... but really quite sweet. She never married. You met her once although I'm sure you don't remember, but you made quite an impression. She thought you were very handsome and well mannered, thoughtful, which of course you are. She always asked about you."

"That was very nice of her."

"She had no children, never married."

"I see."

"You know, James, sometimes it takes..." There was a pause. "it takes..." then silence.

He listened to the quiet, thinking he could hear a clock ticking in the background. He wondered what she wanted to say, knowing that was why she had phoned him and if she could bring herself to say it. Finally he said softly. "Yes."

"Well, I am glad to hear that you're fine, perhaps I'll finish the letter now." She spoke quickly, then added slowly and, James thought, a little sadly. "I miss you , James, you seem so far away now."

He almost wanted to say. "I miss you too." The automatic, the called for response, I love you, I love you too, even when its a lie. He said. "I'll write or phone soon."

"Yes, perhaps I'll finish this letter. Good night, James."

"Good night, Mother." What had she wanted to say and what difference did it make now? Too late, Mother, too late. All those years. He felt no anger, only a weary sadness.

He wanted to go out, to a bar, to be in the presence of people. He didn't go to his neighbourhood bar, instead drove to East Hastings, the street of whores and pimps, of dealers and addicts and panhandlers. He walked slowly along the street, the night air was cool, a brief respite from the seemingly endless heat wave. Most of the hookers ignored him, sensing that he was not a potential customer. He gave two dollars to a panhandler and brushed past the rest, not even hearing the beginnings of their sad stories.

He stopped to light a cigarette and a woman said. "Hey sport, can you spare me one of those?" She was tall and slim with close cropped blonde hair, standing at the curb only a few yards away.

'Sure." He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.

"Thanks." She took a long deep drag then gave her head a little shake and rolled her eyes in a mock expression of boredom.

He said. "Slow night, huh?"

"Slow doesn't half say it. Its the Goddamn heat wave, its always bad for business." She turned to more directly face the oncoming traffic , her legs slightly apart , puffing on her cigarette. She gave James a quick hard look so he quickly stepped back a few paces, away from her. As he started to walk away he said. "I will pray for rain for you." She didn't reply, just gave him a slight wave of her hand, her eyes never leaving the street, watching the oncoming traffic, waiting for the slow moving car that would stop beside her.

The bar he chose was called the Clinton; small, dim, and a rather rundown looking place, a place that looked like nothing in it, not furniture nor fixture had been replaced in the last twenty years . It had an air of loneliness about it, like an Edward Hopper painting.

He sipped his second scotch and watched the rerun of a cop show that had been around for years, one that he might even have seen before. The large television set behind the bar was the only new looking item in the bar.

James was not one of those people who found streets like East Hastings and its inhabitants oddly glamorous, he saw it and them, in quite the opposite way, as a place as devoid of glamour as any place could possibly be. For the people of East Hastings life held no mysteries nor illusions, it simply was. Yet for some reason which he did not understand nor try to understand, it was the place where James most often felt at home.

The cop show was over and the evening news came on. A suicide bombing; dead bodies and blood, shattered glass, women screaming, ambulances, a dead child, hurrying medical workers. Then the reprisal, air strike, dead bodies and blood, dust and broken concrete, a woman wailing in sorrow. Then speeches from politicians in white shirts and ties and immaculate suits.

The bartender, a small, wiry, Mexican looking man, shook his head and said. "Those people."

James whispered, "In his office the politician signs a paper and in the street children die. That's how it is." Then aloud, to the bartender. "If you want to study mankind just watch the evening news, what we do, who we are, what we really fucking are."

The bartender, looking away, said. "Yeah, I guess."

Chapter 46

Two mornings later James phoned the police station. He was tired and irritable, it had been a bad night, what little sleep there had been had brought with it bad dreams. Only one that he could remember, a familiar one. He was being pursued, trying to run, but his feet were mired in heavy mud or tar and that made his progress slow and frustrating. He was in a city that had been bombed out or had suffered an earthquake, scattered bricks, concrete blocks, coils of wire, and in the distance black smoke. He never knew who was pursuing him or why, or where he was trying to get to.

When he phoned he was finally put through to a detective O'Brien. "I'm inquiring about... about the death of Sheila Bennett, a few days ago. It was being investigated by detective Kotellus. He told me to phone him he'd tell me how the investigation was coming."

"He told you that?" The detective sounded dubious.

"Yes." It wasn't a lie, he was sure it was something Kotellus had said

"Well, I think they closed that one."

"What do you mean closed? How can you do that?"

"Just hold on a second." After a minute he came back on the line. "Well, I'm not sure, what you should do is phone detective Kotellus, its his case." He paused. "He should be in about two. Okay, sir?" He managed to sound bored and impatient at the same time.

"Okay."

The conversation made him uneasy, surely they could not have closed the case this soon, the detective must have been mistaken. And if they had what did that mean? He didn't want to speculate, didn't even want to think about it, he was too tired. He would find out at two o'clock.

He went to the kitchen and made himself a drink, slightly puzzled as if he might have forgotten something. Phone his children, that was something to be done, something to be done that night. He wrote a note, 'phone children' and scotch taped it to the fridge door. There was already a note there, 'buy orange juice'. He looked at the two notes side by side, buy orange juice and phone your kids.

The drink soothed him, taking some of the edge off his irritability, relaxing the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders. He turned on the television, only half watching it, just wanting some sound and movement in the room. He wanted his life to be the way it once had been, before Denice died.

The phone rang and for an instant he thought it might be his mother, it wasn't, it was a chirpy voice doing a survey and he quickly hung up the phone, angry at himself. Why had he thought it might be her? Is that what he wanted? Jesus, no. No, its too late now, whatever you wanted to say, whatever you think or feel, its too late. You denied me all my Goddamned life. Go to hell.

He paced angrily about the room then stopped in front of the dresser at Denice's picture. Suddenly calmer he slowly shook his head and said aloud. "Things never end do they? They just go on and on." He paused. "Right now things are... what, confused. I am drinking too much, I know. I can't seem to get my feelings in order. I forget things." He gave a little laugh. "That sounds really stupid, doesn't it?" It was almost like when she was alive and he would go to her with his angry rants and confusions, and she, just listening to him, in some magical way was able to let him step outside of himself, to see and understand what he was doing, and most times enable him to laugh at it. "I drink too much because I hurt. I hurt so incredibly much and I don't understand it. Its not just sadness, there is something else to it, I don't know what. I only know I hurt all the time and alcohol is the only thing that numbs the pain."

He took a few steps backward and lit a cigarette, took a few slow puffs looking away from the pictures, staring at the wall as if deep in thought. He turned back to the picture, his face even closer to it this time. "You were the best thing that happened in my life. You know that. You almost made a man of me. I wish I could say I would have done anything for you but that would be a lie. Because I didn't. I didn't. I had only the easiest, the most enfeebled dragon to slay and I couldn't do it. Instead I pulled the covers over my head and hoped everything would work out. My life, always the easy road, the coward's way. I have paid for it though, and I guess that's the way it should be. But you never gave up on me, I don't know why, what you hoped for, what you expected. You're either a saint or a fool, no, no,... I'm just..." He turned and walked over to the coffee table to put out his cigarette, then stood for a moment staring out through the glass doors of his balcony before turning back to the picture. "I have discovered how painful it is to be given a love, such a beautiful, pure love that you don't deserve."

Chapter 47

At one forty five James sat, on a hard uncomfortable wooden bench and waited for detective Kotellus to arrive. When he arrived, at two-twenty, he stopped momentarily when he saw James then walked quickly over to him. "Mr. Last, I was going to phone you. Come inside where we can talk." He lead James into the main office and then into a small unoccupied room. There was only a desk and three chairs and the detective chose not to sit at the desk. He stretched his legs out in front of him and started to say something when James asked abruptly "Have you closed the case?"

"We have completed the investigation, so unless there is some new evidence of some kind... I have just come from the Crown Attorney's office, and yes, the case is pretty much closed. Look, I know what you think happened but there is absolutely no evidence to substantiate that." He sighed. "What we do, Mr. Last, we conduct an investigation, that is we gather all the facts possible and we present them to the Crown, the rest is their decision."

"An investigation in what, three, four days?"

The detective straightened up in his chair, his voice took on a hard edge, "We conducted a complete and thorough investigation. If you have any concerns about that you can take it up with my superiors." there was a few moments of silence between them. When the detective spoke again his voice was softer, with a reasoning tone. "Look Mr. Last, there were no witnesses, the boy friend was half asleep half passed out when it happened." He held up his hand as if James might interrupt, "And we found no evidence that was not the case. Also, despite what you said several people that knew her said she was frequently depressed. Also the autopsy showed no signs of struggle, no skin under the fingernails, nothing. What it did show was traces of cocaine and a high level of alcohol in her blood. This could indicate.. look what it is, jumped or fell, we can never know, better for everyone if it is an accident."

"So that's it then? Over, finished?" There was no anger in his voice, only weariness. He turned away from the detective to stare at the blank wall beside him. "I know he killed her, maybe he hit her too hard this time and had to hide it, or maybe he just... I don't know, but I know he killed her. And you know it too, I can tell."

"No, I don't know that and neither do you. This is a tragedy, I know that, a young woman most of her life ahead of her. And as a ... close friend you want to blame someone. I can understand that, but that does no one any good, especially you. Its a tragedy, a terrible thing that has happened, but mourn her and remember her, put all this other aside. Its the best thing you can do, just mourn her and try to get on with your life."

James took a deep breath, the air seemed thick and heavy so that he could not fill his lungs properly. He felt such weariness that he thought he would not be able to get up out of his chair. He moved his head slowly up and down, nodding almost imperceptibly then moving slowly, lifted himself out of the chair. Without another word or backward look he left the room.

He sat in his car and smoked a cigarette. The police had failed and Barry, Barry would be no help, he was content to mourn and get on with his life. Help in what? He had no plan, there was nothing he could see to do. The police had been his only hope.

He drove to 447 West 54th street and waited for the familiar red sports car. He less weary but there was something else, a feeling of apprehension, nervousness, as if he was doing something illegal or dangerous. He watched Len walk to the entrance, always the same, that walk, almost a swagger, shoulders rolling slightly, head held high, always looking straight ahead. As James watched the familiar figure he became aware that his wild, futile rage of before had been replaced by something else, it was something beyond rage or anger, something hard and cold, like a piece of ice in the pit of his stomach.

That evening In the Clinton James sipped his second scotch and looked around the room. This was the place, the neighbourhood, death was a common occurrence here; junkies found dead in alleyways, hookers that disappeared, their bodies sometimes found in dumpsters or buried beside some country road. Death and violence raised no eyebrows here, they were just part of the day to day business. And why should they? Everything is for sale; you can buy a holiday in Spain or a twelve year old hooker, you can have a face lift or have someone kill your wife. It is all for sale, you just have to have the money and know who to ask.

"I would like someone killed and I am wiling to pay well." Walking these streets he had probably passed men that did that, had done it before and would do it again, men that for a certain fee would perform that task. He wondered, in a rather abstract way, what the fee might be. In the great halls of power nothing was cheaper than human life, but this, here, would be considerably different. He supposed that like any other business deal it would be based on many factors; amount of risk involved, amount of time, expenses, and of course, the victim, obviously a hooker would cost much less than a politician or a movie star.

"I would like someone killed and I am willing to pay well." The sentence kept running through his mind. He imagined himself calling the Mexican looking bartender aside. "Listen," he would say, low voiced but not whispering. "There is something I want done, can you put me in touch with..."

He sighed, knowing even as the thought came that he would never do it. This was not his world, he would be seen as a fool, laughed at or cheated. It would be an absurd farce over which he would have no control. There was something else too, something he could not put his finger on, only that he knew this was not what had to be done, this was not the solution. He finished his drink and nodded good-night to the Mexican looking bartender.

Chapter 48

As James sipped his morning orange juice and waited for his coffee to be done he tried to recall the dream of the night before. Both his mother and father had been there and it seemed he was standing in front of a blackboard. He remembered clearly seeing the piece of chalk in his hand, but nothing else came to him.

He took his coffee into the living room, put on some music; the beautifully intricate, delicate, Variations by Glen Gould, then stood at the glass doors of his balcony, looking out at the cloudless sky and the tops of other buildings. A lone bird, black against the pale blue sky, wheeled, hovered, then swooped down, knifing through the air in a graceful arc, then disappeared among the grey and brown buildings made brighter by the morning sun.

When he was a child he had dreamed of being a jet pilot, had pretended to be one, sitting on his bed at night, working the imaginary controls. Memories of his childhood, memories with a life of their own, not summoned, not even wanted, came to him, not just of childhood but of his adolescence, his adulthood, jumbled together; Jennifer, his mother and father, his children, Denise. They came in no chronological order, jumping about in time like some crazily edited movie, or like some complex puzzle to be solved, and though he tried to turn his attention away he was unable to shut off the projector.

He had been a quiet child, shy and withdrawn, a child who lived much of his life in fantasies, a fearful child, an always fearful child it seemed to him, always afraid of his mother's disapproval, afraid of disappointing her.

As a little boy he had often fantasized about his mother; rushing into a burning house to rescue her, saving her from vicious kidnappers. He remembered once, sitting on a beach watching his mother swim, quite far out so that only the white dot of her bathing cap was visible. She would suddenly start to drown, a cramp, arms flailing, head going under, and he would dive into the water, and he would rescue her, grab her just as she was going under for the third time, just when she had abandoned all hope.

He supposed most children had fantasies, often about their parents, some similar to his. He had carried a kind of fantasy into his adult life. He had constructed a persona of who he wanted to be, and how he wanted to be seen and tried to fit himself into it. It was not really a deception, but, he thought, it was not honest. Perhaps he had always known it, others too, must have seen it; his wife, his children, Denise, surely Denise. We all get found out in the end.

He did not want to think about it but could find nothing to distract him, nothing to stop the memories and accusations. Filled with an unwanted and unsettling energy he paced nervously about the room, frowning and occasionally muttering to himself. He would go for a walk, he would go to the marina, talk to the man about his boat.

He left the apartment walking quickly as if on some urgent business but when he reached the marina he didn't go inside, instead he sat on a bench staring down at the water. He felt completely alone in the world and realized that he had always felt that way, not as intensely as now, but it had always been there, through his whole life. It was a failing, a weakness. He had failed to connect completely with anything or anyone; his wife, his children, even Denise. It had to be some kind of failing; dishonesty perhaps, wanting the easy road, And now of course, too late.

Later that afternoon he sat in his car outside the apartment building at 447 West 54th Street and waited for the red sports car. Only this time it did not appear. He supposed Len was working late or had stayed to have a few beers with his buddies. At six thirty he started the car and began to drive home. As he left he thought, it doesn't matter anyway, I don't need this any more.

The next day he bought the gun. It was surprisingly easy, not a handgun of course, that was impossible, but a hunting rifle. It took just two pieces of identification, a computer check, a permit, and he would walk out of the store with a gun. He explained to the clerk that he had never fired a gun but was going hunting with a group of friends and that he wanted to take up the sport. It would be for deer, or maybe moose.

The clerk was helpful, giving James a brief lecture on the care and maintenance of a rifle, loading and unloading, the safety catch, and finally gun safety. He gave James several brochures and recommended a rifle range where James could go to practice. "Thank you." James said. "I'll go there today."

At the range, after James had explained his situation, the instructor repeated much of what the clerk had said only in greater detail. "You must always treat your rifle with respect. Be aware of what it can do, what it is capable of. Treat it with respect." The instructor spoke with a solemn forcefulness, as if he might be initiating James into some mystical secret society.

The first few shots were awkward, the rifle wavered, moved when he squeezed the trigger, the recoil surprised him. The first shots missed the target completely. After a while his nervousness disappeared, the rifle felt more natural, more balanced. He could hold the gun firmly, steady, even as he squeezed the trigger, and with the butt tucked comfortably into his shoulder he no longer noticed the recoil.

After he felt comfortable James began to practice what he would call the drill. Rifle at his side, click off the safety, raise the rifle, aim and squeeze the trigger. He wanted to be quick and accurate. The instructor told him. "When you raise the rifle you make sure it is firm and you aim quickly but carefully. It is the second or split second that you spend making sure of those two things that usually decides between a hit or a miss."

James practised the drill over and over again. Safety off, raise, firm, aim, squeeze. Safety off, raise, firm, aim, squeeze. He wanted it to be completely automatic, unthinking, like shifting gears in a car. He used up all the ammunition he had purchased with the rifle and had to buy more from the instructor. As he was paying his bill before leaving the instructor said. "You were at it a long time, quite an enthusiastic pupil."

James nodded. "I'll be back tomorrow."

He felt self conscious carrying the rifle in its canvas case from the car to his apartment, any one could tell it was a rifle, but no one seemed to notice.

In the apartment he took the rifle out of its canvas case and set it gently on the sofa, then he went to the bathroom and took a shower. His clothes and body smelled of sweat and cordite. When he came out of the shower he made himself a large scotch, then sat on the sofa, laying the rifle across his knees. A very well made machine, he thought, made with precision, probably machined to a hundredth of an inch. Its parts fitted together with a solid exactness, no slack, no looseness, at the same time the simplest of machines, exploding gases force a piece of metal out a barrel with amazing force. Action at a distance.

He picked up the rifle and aimed it several times, squeezing the trigger on an empty chamber. There was a sense of something different in him when he held the rifle, when he aimed, when he fired it, more than just power although that was probably part of it, something that felt almost mystical, aim and squeeze, death at a distance, even magical. He wondered if hunters and soldiers felt that, if Lee Harvey Oswald, sitting by the window of the Texas Book Depository, changing the history of the world felt it.

That evening, between making a sandwich and watching the evening news, he practised his drill. Safety off, raise, firm, aim, squeeze. Over and over again.

Shortly after returning from the range the next day a parcel was delivered to him. It was the framed photograph he had ordered from New York, the one he had seen on Barry's wall. Children playing on a sunny street, a moment of time from more than sixty years ago. He put the photograph on the dresser beside the pictures of Denise and his children, he had no picture of Sheila but this would do.

That evening, as he had the previous ones, he ate super, watched the news, sipped scotch, and practised his drill.

Chapter 49

The next afternoon, at four-twenty, he waited in his car, parked in its usual place, across from 447 West 54th Street. The rifle, its safety on, leaned against the seat beside him. He was aware that he was breathing a little more rapidly than usual, that his mouth was constantly dry despite the sips of water he continually took, but that was all right, he had expected that. He knew there was a cold, hard centre in him that would take control. He had prepared himself; the water bottle, a towel to wipe the sweat from his hands and his brow, he did not want the sweat to blind him or make his hands slippery. The towel wasn't needed, the heat wave had broken and the day was cool with a breeze rustling the leaves of the trees overhead.

He tried not to look at his watch as the minutes inched slowly along, He was breathing more rapidly and was conscious of the pounding of his heart as he stared at the parking lot, frowning as he waited for the red sports car to appear.

He had just looked at his watch, five twenty-five, when the red sports car turned into the parking lot. Now. Now. Now. He could not move, his body was paralyzed, his hands gripped the steering wheel as if they had a life of their own. Go. Go now. But his body refused, he was breathing so hard he was gasping for air. He could feel his back and shoulders begin to tremble. He watched the familiar figure walk along the sidewalk and disappear into the building entrance.

He heard a low wounded sound, something between a moan and a whimper, as if it came from some one else. Tears ran down his cheeks. His stomach was churning and he thought he was going to throw up. Then after a minute or two his breathing became more regular and he slowly took his hands from the steering wheel, picked up the towel and wiped his face. His movements were deliberate and a little awkward, as if just recovering the use of his body.

He stared at the apartment building, not wanting to think, not wanting to acknowledge what had happened. Then the rage and frustration began to build, it seemed to come from some place in his stomach, growing to fill his whole body. He did not know what to do.

Then from the entrance of the building Len appeared, walking along the sidewalk, walking back to the parking lot. Without thinking James picked up the rifle, opened the car door and quickly crossed the street. When he reached the sidewalk Len was only about fifteen yards away. The drill worked perfectly; safety off, raise, firm, aim, squeeze. He aimed for the middle of the body and saw the figure jerk backward then fall heavily. Somewhere, it seemed far away, there was the sound of a woman screaming and a man yelling something.

He carefully set the rifle down, moved away a few yards then sat on the sidewalk, legs drawn up, head on his knees, his eyes closed.

He was aware of the sounds; footsteps approaching then retreating, the murmur of voices, the sound of sirens coming closer. Then the sound of a car stopping quickly. Two pair of hands grabbed him roughly and turned him over on his stomach. His cheek bounced off the pavement, bruising and scraping the skin. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, hands moved quickly up and down his body, searching him, he was rolled over onto his back and the process repeated. They picked him up and hurried him into the back of a car. James was only half cognizant of the flashing red lights of the ambulance, voices yelling, cars arriving. He never looked back at the scene, at all the activity, nor at the two cops in the front seat, instead he looked calmly out the window in the opposite direction as if none of the was his concern.

After a while a plainclothes detective got into the car and they drove to the station, they rode in almost complete silence, with only a few remarks, none of them directed to James. At the station he was taken to the second floor, asked a series of questions; name, age address, etc. He answered these in a rather absent minded fashion, as if he had little interest. He was searched again, everything taken from his pockets, fingerprinted and photographed. He went through the procedure calmly.

He was placed in a small, sparsely furnished room; a table and thee chairs, no pictures on the walls, only a large clock over the door. With his hands behind his back the wooden chair was hard and uncomfortable but he didn't seem to notice. He sat calmly, not moving, staring at the clock above the door.

Two detectives entered the room, one of them placed a tape recorder on the table then introduced himself and his partner. James gave them a quick sideways glance then returned his gaze to the clock above the door. One detective sat in the chair opposite James while the other leaned against the wall. The one seated in the chair spoke. "Whew, what a day its been. Oh, well at least the heat wave has broken." His voice was soft, easy going and friendly, he might have been talking over the back fence to a neighbour. "Okay, Mr. Last, Jim, is it okay if I call you Jim? Now the thing is, Jim, we pretty much know what happened but what I would really like to know is why. What I would... Damn it, would you look at that, he's still cuffed." the detective stood up quickly, came around behind James and removed the handcuffs. "What the hell is wrong with the people up here. There, that feel better?" He patted James on the shoulder. "You don't seem like a desperate character to me." He sat down and continued to speak, his manner still slow and easy going. "What I would like you to do, Jim, is just tell us your side of the story, that's all. Just tell us what you did and how you came to do it, simple as that." There was a long pause, James continued to stare at the clock, he heard each word distinctly, understood what was being said but none of it interested him. It might have been the most boring lecture on something he cared nothing about.

The detective continued to talk and James continued to stare at the clock, detached from all of it; the room, the detectives, the words, the little game they played. He realized that the clock, which showed ten-fifteen, was stopped. He had not noticed that before.

After a while the two detectives left, taking their tape recorder with them and James was alone. He closed his eyes for a few seconds; people appeared to him; his children, Barry, his wife, his mother. They appeared but he did not think about them, what they might say or do, how they would react. Denice and Sheila, they simply appeared then disappeared, like actors with no lines to say.

After a while, it might have been fifteen minutes it might have been an hour, James could not even guess, someone else entered the room. It was detective Kotellus and James watched him sit in the chair, run his fingers through his hair, then lean forward. James turned back to the stopped clock above the door.

The detective spoke, there was a hint of anger in his voice. "I just talked to the hospital, they say he will probably live. They also say he will probably never walk again." there was a pause. "Spinal damage."

The news meant nothing, had no meaning, only words, pieces of sound floating away, disappearing into the air.

After a long silence the detective said, his voice softer now. "I guess you really loved her. Was that it?"

Slowly James turned to face the detective, his face and voice expressionless, he asked softly. "Do you have a cigarette?"

"I don't smoke."

James gave a small nod and turned away again.

After a long silence the detective said. "Okay, Mr. Last, I'll get you one."

When he had gone James sighed and stared down at his hands, motionless on the scarred wooden table, fingers entwined, a small smear of ink on his thumb from the fingerprinting. For the first time n his life he felt absolutely nothing.

Detective Kotellus returned with a cigarette, a lighter, and an ashtray. He handed James the cigarette, lit it for him, and placed the ashtray on the table. James nodded a thank you, took a couple of puffs and looked away. After a minute he said softly, no more than a whisper. "Finally, finally, you know, it all comes to nothing, to nothing."

"What's that? What did you say?"

James met the detective's gaze. "Nothing." he said with a slight shake of his head. "Nothing."

THE END

