The Last Woman Page 14

  Serving to his wife, Richard double faults. Facing Reg again, he is sweating profusely, and his suspicion that the afternoon is not going well has deepened. Behind Reg, another cloud of moths sails out of the woods. It blooms behind the backstop, and – and as Richard watches in irritation – makes its spinning way across the court.

  In the end, the moths are so thick they have to call off the match. The air boils with them: they mat on their rackets, tangle in their hair, obscure the view of the baselines. “You!” Marilyn cries in disgust, spitting one out. She is slapping ineffectually at the moths as she hurries with the others toward shelter. “I’m amazed,” Richard tells his guests. “It’s never happened before. It’s never happened before, has it, Ann –” His wife does not respond. Turning, he finds her gazing up like a child entranced by a snowstorm.

  The two couples go off to change for a swim – Reg and Marilyn to the guest cabin, Ann and Richard to their bedroom in the cottage. Stripping off his damp tennis things, Richard flings them in a corner and pulls on his suit. “I know this isn’t exactly your idea of fun,” he says. She has turned her back to put on not the bikini she usually wears, but a one-piece, rather old-fashioned suit he considers unattractive. “I just wonder if you could try a little harder –”

  Wriggling into her straps, she does not reply.

  “Honey?”

  “What.” She turns back to him.

  “Why aren’t you wearing the bikini?”

  “The way that man looks at me, I’d rather wear a bag.”

  “Oh, Reg’s a bit of a rogue. But he’s a good head.”

  On the path behind the cottage he waits for his guests to appear. Over the side-channel, a few moths go sparkling by – stragglers who soar among the branches or rest on the tree trunks like little bows, slowly fanning their tiny wings as if contemplating further outrages. The muggy air is oppressive, and in the cloudy light, Inverness seems to him seedy and depressing. He can hear the Benoits in their cabin – arguing, it seems. Two happy couples, Richard thinks, grabbing at a moth. He is wiping it off on his trunks when Marilyn appears in a minute bikini. She meets him with a smile that seems to say, Yes, I know I’m nice, you can look at me all you like! His spirits reviving, Richard stands talking with her until Reg arrives, looking gym-fit in his flowered trunks, if a bit grim. Richard leads the Benoits down the path, stopping to point out the carved brackets under the eaves of the old boathouse. “Ann’s grandfather built it. He was a real old-country craftsman. We still have some of his tools from Scotland.” Suddenly Richard is ambushed by a wearying sense of taking up a role, for he has spoken these exact words to guests many times. For a moment he is adrift, unable to find the chain of his thoughts while he smiles helplessly at Marilyn, who does her best to help him out with an enthusiastic “Fascinating!” Remembering, finally, he launches into the always popular anecdote of how Peter Scott first arrived on Lake Nigushi.

  When Ann appears, she is still wearing the black swim-suit, but he senses she’s making an effort now: laughing at Reg’s joke about the moths; listening to him with an intentness that verges, Richard worries, on parody. But Reg seems charmed. When Ann swims out into the channel, Reg swims after her and soon their heads are bobbing together, under the far shore.

  Later on the deck, over his gin and tonic, Reg compliments Inverness. He is a man who is used to being listened to, for as he continues, spinning out a tale of his own cottage on Random Lake, he takes his time, clearly enjoying himself. He speaks mainly to Ann, who listens with a kind of skeptical bemusement, not unfriendly, though after a few minutes Richard notices that her attention has strayed. “Rick tells me you paint,” Reg says.

  “Ann!” Richard says, laughing as she blinks from her reverie. “This is what painting does to a woman,” he tells the others. “I give you exhibit A: my perpetually distracted wife. Lost in her work still! Reg was asking about your painting –”

  “Your husband tells me you’re good,” Reg says, clearly not put off in the least. “Are you good?”

  “Yes, well, my husband is my number-one fan,” she says a bit dryly.

  “You must show us your work.”

  She shakes her head slightly but says nothing.

  “I’m a bit of a collector, myself.”

  “Are you –”

  “I’ve got a Robbins – one of his wolf paintings – fantastic. I think you’d like it.”

  “Well,” Ann says, looking awkward for the first time. Richard knows that his wife does not like Robbins, whom she considers too photographic. No surprises, no imagination, no soul is her withering summary.

  “So when can we have a look?”

  “At?” Ann says.

  “At your work!”

  “I’m really not at that point,” Ann says. She has spoken more quietly and more directly than at any time in the afternoon. “I am working on a piece, but I can’t tell where it’s going. I won’t show it even to Richard. I lose focus when someone else looks too soon.”

  Saying she needs to see how Elaine’s getting on with the dinner, Ann leaves. The minister’s level gaze, emptied of its smile, follows her up the rock.

  With her departure, a certain blankness falls. Richard turns the conversation to politics. They are well into a discussion of the new policy on hospital funding when the drone of a motor sounds from the channel. Richard goes on talking, but as Reg and Marilyn glance at the approaching boat, he looks too.

  Billy. He is sitting in the stern, his arm crooked over the handle of his outboard, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if he were so intent on the channel that he is unaware of them, as if he were going to drive right on by. But no sooner does Richard think this, hope this, than Billy thrusts away the tiller, sending his boat around the point and out of sight, clearly headed for their dock.

  “Don’t I know that guy?”

  “Billy Johnson,” Richard murmurs. He has risen to his feet and turned to follow the din of Billy’s motor.

  “Right, the land claim. Everybody in the area knew who he was. You guys had a pretty hard go with that case.”

  “Yes, well, ancient history now,” Richard says, his face heating. “We haven’t had much to do with each other for quite a while. Guess I better go see what he wants.”

  Richard hurries up the rock. Passing the cottage, he meets Ann, who has emerged onto the back step. “It’s Billy,” he tells her, in a slightly accusatory tone; somehow this ill-timed arrival seems her doing. They both look toward the dock, where Billy, having shut off his engine, is sitting placidly in the stern. “Why don’t you go down and speak to him,” Richard urges. “Try to get him to –” At the clatter of a pot lid in the kitchen, he remembers Elaine Shewaybick and lowers his voice. “Tell him now isn’t a good time. He’ll listen to you.”

  “There’s plenty to eat –”

  “Ann, he can’t stay.”

  She stares at him in apparent incomprehension until, exasperated, he goes down the path himself. The two men meet just as Billy steps from the boathouse and Richard sees for the first time his bruised cheek and swollen eye, the round, livid bump on his forehead, and for a moment he forgets everything else. “My God, man –”

  “Ran into a bit of trouble,” Billy murmurs. There is something drugged about his focus. Drunk, Richard thinks.

  “Look, I’ve got something going on here – it’s important. Now is not a good time.” But Billy’s attention has shifted to the cottage, where Ann is watching from the steps. “Billy, listen to me.” The one good eye swings back to him. “The minister of natural resources is here. Political meeting. Goddammit, Billy, you can’t just arrive here and expect –” The battered face seems to struggle toward clarity. But then, moving with shocking swiftness, Billy pushes past Richard and starts up the path.

  “Billy, what’s happened!” Ann cries as he approaches. Ignoring her, Billy disappears around the corner of the house.

  “Drunk is what’s happened,” Richard seethes. Hurrying after him, they catch sight of hi
s pale shirt flickering among the pines, descending to the deck where Reg, putting aside his drink, has stood to greet him. Billy ignores his outstretched hand.

  “So you’re the minister.”

  “Reg, I’m sorry,” Richard says, arriving out of breath. “He’s –”

  “It’s all right, Rick,” Reg says, not taking his eyes from the other man. Ann is at Richard’s side now – he can hear her breathing – and in her chair, Marilyn is transfixed.

  “You’re in charge of all this.” Billy gestures sharply over the water, the islands.

  “Well, ‘in charge’ is a bit steep,” Reg says.

  “The cuts north of Nigushi there, up toward Charlton Lake. How come you’re taking everything?”

  “Sorry, you’ll have to explain.”

  “Look,” Richard says to Billy. “Really, this isn’t the time.” But Billy, he realizes, is not listening to him; the minister is not listening to him.

  “They’ve taken ninety, ninety-five per cent,” Billy says.

  “I don’t think that’s accurate,” Reg says. “We have policies.”

  “We’ve a lot of experience with your policies. I was just up there. There’s nothing left.” Billy stands hunched forward a little, his fists hanging loosely at his sides, his eyes – still with that hint of misfocus – burning at the other man. Richard once saw him look exactly like this years before, when he had been threatened in a bar. Seconds later, avoiding a punch, he had smashed in his adversary’s face.

  “I’ll have my people look into it,” Reg says. “I’ll get back to you. That’s a promise.”

  Billy is grinning now, or rather grimacing, as if in pain. He is in such a state that for some seconds no one can speak or move, as if hypnotized by his intensity.

  “Billy,” Ann says softly, breaking the spell. But Billy seems not to hear.

  “You people,” he says, his voice catching. “A whole forest, gone like that.”

  “Billy, goddammit,” Richard says. He grips Billy’s shoulder, but Billy throws off his arm. Again, everyone stands motionless as Billy looks around, no longer so aware of them, it seems, but taken with some thought of his own. Then at once, he strides off the deck and up the path toward the cottage, with Ann hurrying after him. The others watch as he stumbles, flounders for a moment in the arms of a pine, then disappears.

  Richard turns to his guests. “Reg, Marilyn, I’m so sorry. The man is beside himself and, of course, under the influence. Marilyn, are you okay?”

  Soon they hear the roar of Billy’s engine, then his boat sweeps around the point and into the channel. He sits as before, looking neither to the left or right as he goes by. Even after the boat can no longer be seen, Richard finds himself listening to the receding drone of his motor, the peaceful sloshing of his wake as it breaks up along the shore.

  In the candle-lit cave of the porch, they eat the steamed ginger pickerel Elaine Shewaybick carries in on the good plates Richard brought from their house in Black Falls. At first, after Billy’s departure, everyone had been subdued as they absorbed what had happened. Now over dinner, with the help of the wine, conversation flows again, almost hectically, as the tension is released. To Richard’s dismay, Reg wants to talk about Billy, clearly fascinated by the man and even, it seems, impressed. “I remember him during the land claim. I was still running my outfitting business then and we had a TV in the office. Billy came on one day, on that old political program with – oh what’s her name, the interviewer with the grating voice? The premier used to call her the Piranha.”

  “Iris Kirby,” Richard says, reluctantly helping out.

  “Iris Kirby!” Reg cries, jabbing the air with his fork. “Talk about your dragon lady. She tried to do her usual job on Billy, but he wasn’t having any of it. He handled her so brilliantly – just stayed calm and said what he wanted to – not what she wanted him to say. A natural, really. The guy could go into politics, though, frankly he might not have the necessary knack for compromise.”

  “Indeed,” Richard says, thinking that Reg has not yet brought up the subject of his own prospective candidacy. He’s been waiting for the right moment to mention it himself.

  “Seeing him come down the rock today. I hadn’t felt like that since I saw Hammer Jackson come at me with the football. The man has a definite power –”

  “Somewhat reinforced today,” Richard offers.

  “Didn’t seem drunk to me. Banged up, certainly, but not drunk.”

  “I didn’t think so either,” Ann says. “He’s had an accident.”

  “Or a fight,” Richard says.

  “He’s a brawler then?” the minister says.

  “He’s seen his share,” Richard says. He does not want to be critical of Billy, not in front of Ann, who will almost certainly defend him. He has seen her bring a dinner party to a stop with her passions. “He’s been away since the claim – only just got back. We’ve only seen him once. He was down in the States, just drifting really. Working at odd jobs. It tells after a while, that sort of life.”

  “How does it tell,” Ann says, putting down her fork.

  Richard reaches abruptly for the wine bottle. “Marilyn,” he says, turning to her. “Your glass is entirely too empty.”

  As he refills her glass, Elaine Shewaybick comes in to clear their plates. Everyone falls silent as she moves around the table – a big-hipped, solemn woman whose bare arm, wrist bound in a wide, beaded bracelet, reaches past their shoulders. “That was lovely,” Marilyn murmurs. As Elaine takes up his plate, Richard thanks her warmly.

  After Elaine goes back to the kitchen, Ann turns to Reg: “Will you really have your people look into the clear-cuts?”

  “Certainly I will.”

  “Because I flew over them once. Billy’s right. There’s whole areas where there’s hardly anything left.”

  “Well, the cuts aren’t pretty,” the minister allows.

  “It’s a lot worse than that. It’s completely wrong. I knew here it was wrong,” Ann says, tapping herself on the chest. “All anybody has to do is see them to know.” Richard listens closely, ready to jump in if she goes too far. Yet Reg seems to be enjoying himself. He and Ann spar back and forth, the minister unflaggingly genial while Ann persists with unsmiling earnestness. Eventually Richard joins the fray on Reg’s side, explaining to his wife that, as minister, Reg is involved in a complicated balancing act as he tries not only to protect the resource but to make sure the timber companies get what they need. Resource extraction. The economic needs of the community. Needs of hunters and sports fishermen. The ready-made phrases come easily. He breaks off, suddenly recalling that, years ago, he and Billy used to mock such officialese as the worst form of hypocrisy.

  Reg, too, talks mainly to Ann; she has become the stubborn centre of the room, the person the men need to convince. “You know, I’m sympathetic to the man’s position. That’s their hunting and trapping grounds up there. But very few of them are trapping any more, it’s a way of life that’s passing. A lot of them work for the forestry companies now. Where you see a disaster, they see jobs.”

  “Trees do get replanted,” Richard says, chiming in again. “And even if they didn’t replant, the forest would soon grow back.” He describes a piece of abandoned highway near the Falls. “After one year, there were weeds coming through it. After two, saplings. It’s a small forest now. The trees are going to win in the long run!”

  Dessert is lemon tart and coffee, which Ann helps Elaine carry in. Ann’s silence – she has retreated entirely – seems to affect the others, and the conversation fails as their forks click on their plates. A few minutes later, while Reg is describing their February holiday in Saint Martin, she gets up abruptly. Richard watches as her shoulders under their thin straps disappear in the dimness of the hall.

  The first time Richard saw Billy Johnson, he and Ann had been married all of six months and were on their way home to Black Falls in Richard’s Volvo when they saw a young man in jeans and a red nylon shell, hitchhiki
ng. He had put out his arm with an air of lazy indifference, almost contempt, as if he could care less whether they stopped. There was a pathos about the figure, Richard thought. The sight of Billy Johnson had moved him even before he knew who he was.

  “Oh, my God,” Ann said, looking through the back window, for they had already flown past. “Remember that Indian boy I told you about?”

  “You want me to stop?”

  “No! Yes! Richard, stop!”

  He pulled onto the shoulder. In the rear-view, the young man was hurrying toward their car.

  “Oh, my God,” Ann said again, clutching at Richard’s hand. He was half-laughing at her now, but he could not read her at all. She seemed to be reassuring him. Perhaps she was trying to reassure herself.

  They had met a year earlier. Richard was twenty-nine, Ann twenty-six. She was living the artist’s life in downtown Toronto. He was working with two other newly minted lawyers out of a storefront in the east end of the city. They were introduced by a mutual friend at a gallery where she was part of a group show. Talking to her that night, he had judged her out of his league. Her full, wide mouth suggested a sensuousness that lay beyond his own experience. Her casually confident manner and the understated tastefulness of her clothes marked her as a girl from a different social stratum; and this was quite apart from the fact she was beautiful. Secretly, beauty terrified him. Beauty promised peace and delivered war. Stooping over her in the corner by the cheese table, at the edge of the crowd’s din, he kept expecting her to move on; but she stayed talking for half an hour, laughing at his story of his first appearance in court, telling him of her own adventures with unpaid traffic tickets, touching him frequently on the arm. Much later she would confess, “I knew right away you were solid. That I could depend on you.” He did not like to think of solidity as his primary attraction, but when he objected, she added, “Do you have any idea what the men are like out there, most of them? Ask me. I’m the expert.” He bought her most expensive painting: of a narrowing V of mirror-like water held between dark banks, with the tiny silhouette of a heron poised over its own reflection.