It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead Read online

  No one was watching.

  six bottles of grief

  Jem stared at the hairline cracks in the ceiling and ignored the radio alarm that blared one classic rock tune after another. She slapped the snooze button for the fifth time. The side of her hand clipped the tumbler on the night stand, jostling the inch of merlot left behind. Five-thirty-six.

  Damn it.

  How do you measure grief? Two sleepless nights. Six bottles of wine. Four three-hour-long baths. Two tubs of butterscotch ripple ice cream. Zero phone calls made. Zero visits to the park. Zero sandwiches delivered. Zero trips to the grocery store. One unanswered knock at the door.

  She couldn’t even face Finn. Couldn’t face anyone.

  Gerald’s funeral had to wait. The medical examiner wouldn’t release him yet. Evidence could still be gleaned from the wounds on her fiancé’s dead body, in the folds of his decomposing flesh, from the long strands of his once beautiful hair.

  Was it still long when he died? He wasn’t recognizable enough for anyone to identify his body. Dental records proved it was him. She didn’t have to face him. Didn’t have to remember him dead and mutilated. It was hard enough to shake the imaginary pictures she made up in her head. How could she have ever gotten past the real thing?

  His warm smile, warm body, his patchouli-meets-Old Spice scent, his dedication and drive and intelligence. That was the Gerald she would remember. The way he was in the pictures. Before the crazy came.

  Even if they did release his body, she couldn't plan the funeral. She hadn’t even called his mother. And it wasn't going to happen today. No way could she face that woman yet, even if only on the phone. What was the rush? Gerald wasn’t going anywhere.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet landed on a pile of clothes. She shoved them aside with her toes and sighed, then gathered them up and dropped them into a laundry basket already spilling over with bed sheets. She kicked all the used wet towels out of the bathroom, through the door, and down the stairs to the hardwood entry below.

  The linen closet gave up its last clean towel. She lingered in the shower, letting the hot water tank drain and the water run cold against her skin. After towel-drying her hair, she threw on her morning clothes — denim capris, a black tank over her most comfortable, most ugly, most full-support bra. She slid the bedroom drapes open. The Rocky Mountains jutted from the horizon, the rising sun illuminating their snow-capped peaks. Not a cloud in the western sky. She pulled a light sweater from her closet.

  The aroma of fresh coffee met her halfway down the stairs. Her heart sank. How many mornings would she greet before the expectation that he'd be in the kitchen waiting for her would pass? Gerald had bought that fancy machine. She still made coffee every night before bed and set it to brew for the same time she still set her alarm to wake her. The same time that Gerald had always awoken. Same old, same old. But the daily practice of leaning on the counter across from each other, discussing their plans for each day, his research, her cases, well — that ended weeks before he disappeared.

  Damn, how she hated the others. Had grown so tired of Gerald telling her their thoughts. She didn’t give a rat’s ass if they said banana peels and coconut oil was the new cure for cancer. All that mattered to her was what Gerald thought. But he didn’t know anything by then, didn’t have opinions of his own. He only cared about the others. And what they told him to do.

  The signs were there long before she did something about it. She’d beaten herself up over that for all these years. His devolution from brilliant to quirky to confounding to bat-shit nuts took a mere few months. When he refused to take his medication, a psychotic break wasn’t far behind. Then he was just gone.

  She’d given up any semblance of a personal life since. Her world became cases and clients and coping. Muddling through each day wondering where he was, why he left. If he was ever coming home.

  After a year without him, her legal assistant, Cecilia, tried to fix her up on a blind date. She couldn’t do it. Wouldn't do it. Gerald was only missing. And she still loved him, despite the fact he’d lost his mind. How could she cheat on him? Forget about him? Move on with her life? And how the hell was she going do that now? Now that she had no choice.

  She pulled open the door to the basement and shoveled laundry down the steps with the side of one foot. Towels landed on the concrete and she slid the basket behind them. It caught on one wooden riser midway and toppled down the stairs, strewing underwear and yoga pants and tank tops in its wake.

  “Shit.” She stared at the mess for a few seconds then slammed the door closed with a flick of her wrist.

  While two sugars dissolved in a travel mug of black coffee she plucked empty wine bottles that littered the kitchen off the counter and tucked them in a box under the sink for recycling. She shoved an empty ice cream carton in the garbage, wiped the counter clean with a wet paper towel and yanked open the fridge.

  She pulled lunch meat from the refrigerator, peeled the cellophane from a pack of pastrami, sniffed and recoiled. Damn. She pitched it into the garbage and dug an unopened container from the back of the meat drawer. Still good for another week. Smoked turkey and black forest ham were salvaged, but three other opened packs of green-tinged processed lunch meat were tossed into the bin. Thank goodness for canned tuna. It never went bad.

  She slapped mustard on rye bread to hold the meat in place, mixed tuna with mayonnaise, bits of green onion and diced pickles, and spread it between slices of whole wheat. She wrapped each sandwich in parchment paper. She used to use plastic baggies, but too many of them ended up in the bushes instead of the garbage cans that dotted the park. At least parchment was biodegradable.

  She slid the knives and cutting board into the sink already brimming with dirty dishes. Time to get it together Jemima. Life does go on.

  An hour later, she piled a heavy box of sandwiches and oranges and a flat of juice boxes into her van.

  The sun was low on the horizon but sparkling bright in a cloudless sky. It promised to be another warm April day. A perfect day. Weather-wise. The rest of it could bite her well-rounded ass.

  A cool breeze, ripe with wet grass, dirty snow, and mushy dog shit — the perfume of springtime in the Rockies — swirled around her and blew hair into her face. She brushed it from her eyes and tucked it behind her ears.

  The neighbourhood was still quiet at this hour. Every neighbour was retired and pushing seventy, eighty, or more. She’d grown accustomed to being the young one on the block. Why Gerald thought this was the perfect place to raise kids was beyond her. It triggered one of their pre-psychotic arguments. She lost. She usually did. But in the end, he was right. A young neighbourhood full of screaming brats would have driven her to join him on the crazy train.

  The engine turned over and she let it idle while she sipped strong coffee and fingered the pack of cigarettes she’d tucked into her pocket. She tossed it on the dash, pulled away from the curb and turned towards downtown.

  The drive was easy. The early risers made their way along the city streets, content to get up at the crack of dawn to avoid rush hour traffic and guarantee a daily spot to park. A challenging task after eight.

  The mountains glowed purple and orange in the distance. One of the beauties of living in this city, they could be seen from almost anywhere. The wilderness and craggy terrain not so close that her ears popped just driving a few kilometers, but not so far that families of deer surprised her on the front lawn a few times each year. And the rabbits. So many jackrabbits. She always let them nest in her yard. Over the years they learned to trust her enough to perk up and be ready to bolt, but not race away when she walked past.

  She pulled up along the river drive and parked in her usual spot. She loaded a toonie into the meter, pulled the wagon from the rear of the van, and piled the food and drinks onto the wagon. She pushed her sunglasses onto her head, rubbed sweat from the bridge of her nose, then tapped them back to her face with one finger. The van honked to announce
it was securely locked. She dropped the keys in her sweater pocket and picked up the wagon handle. The rubber wheels against the cracks in the sidewalk announced her approach before she saw any movement.

  “Ruby! Where ya been?” Angus stood and stretched, leaving his favourite summer sleeping spot under the elm at the river’s edge. He nudged his best friend with the toe of his worn boot. “Get up, Frankie. Ruby’s here. We got breakfast.”

  She hadn’t missed two days of deliveries in more than a year, and only then when she was ill with the flu.

  “Morning, Angus.” The smell of him always found her before he got anywhere near. She’d grown accustomed to the stench. Hadn’t flinched at it in more than a year.

  Angus called her Ruby since the first day she showed up in the park two years before. A conversation they had a week after they met ran through her mind.

  “If you call me Jem, maybe I can spot you two juice boxes.”

  “Ruby. Gem. Same thing, no?” His laughter, like his throat was full of gravel, filled the quiet street.

  “Different kind of Jem, mister.”

  He never did quit calling her Ruby. And now it was her favourite nickname.

  Frank came up behind Angus and tossed an arm over his buddy’s shoulder. “We missed you, angel. Why’d you forsake us the past two days, huh? Find some more handsome guys to hang around with?” He threw her an exaggerated wink and the two friends slapped each other on the back and laughed until they coughed.

  “No more handsome dudes than you, I’m afraid.” She handed them each a sandwich, an orange, and a juice box. “It’s pretty quiet this morning. Where is everybody?”

  Angus scratched his head and glanced around the park. “Shelter had stew last night. Maybe they stayed.”

  “And there’s the new guy scaring everybody away. He’s a damn freak.” Frank poked his thumb across the park. “But like hell am I giving up my spot for that stinking shelter. Not to some skinny-ass Johnny-come-lately.”

  Fifty yards away, a bundle of brown canvas jacket and torn blue jeans sat at attention. His body was tucked halfway into the branches of a tall shrub. His khaki cap was pulled down, shading most of his face. His stare pierced right through her.

  “When did he show up?”

  “Day before yesterday, hey Frankie? He wandered around the corner, sat there and hasn’t moved since. I don’t even think he’s taken a whiz.”

  “Well, I’ve got lots of sandwiches. You boys want a couple more? I’ll see if your new friend wants some, then drop the rest at the shelter.”

  “You’re a sweetheart, Ruby, love of my life.” Angus took two ham sandwiches and shoved them in the inside pocket of his trench coat. “Speaking of which, any word on your missing man?”

  She turned away and gazed towards the river. “Yeah. They found him.”

  “That’s wonderful news, love.”

  “No, Frank. It’s not. He’s dead.”

  Angus and Frank stared at her in silence. Frank reached up and patted her shoulder three robotic times. “I. I’m sorry, Jem.”

  “Yeah, me too Ruby.”

  “Thanks. It shouldn’t be such a shock, really. He’s been gone so long. I’d often thought that he might be dead. But I always hoped he’d come home.” She took hold of the wagon handle before grief overtook her. She shined a bright, fake smile on them. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me see if I can break in the new guy for you.”

  She made her way around the park and chatted with the regular residents. Each encounter brought her nearer to the new guy. When the last resident was fed, she glanced towards the shrub.

  His eyes glinted hate and anger from under the brim of his cap. Matted ash-blonde hair hung past his shoulders. He stared at her as she neared, his gaze intense, his posture stiff.

  Her heart hammered and a bead of sweat broke out on her upper lip. She’d never been nervous in the park before. She considered passing him by. But his sunken cheeks and bony fingers broke her heart.

  “Hello. I’m Jem. Would you like something to eat?”

  He stared, didn’t move a hair, didn’t blink. She bent over the wagon and chose pastrami — the fat would do him good. When she straightened up, his eyes darted from the food to her face.

  So he wasn’t a statue.

  “Here you are. I have ham if you’d prefer.”

  Nothing. Not one twitch. Just uncomfortable scrutiny from blazing grey eyes. His skin was tanned and weathered from exposure, but he was young. Not much older than Jem. He had a watchful intelligence about him. He looked sober, not strung out. He didn’t even look nuts. And she knew from nuts.

  “How about I leave it for you? If you don’t want it, someone else will take it.” She took two hesitant steps forward and placed the sandwich on the dirt in front of him.

  His gaze moved to the food and then back to her face. No movement of the head, only the shifting of his eyes. Maybe he couldn’t attack her if he wanted to. But he couldn’t be paralyzed, he got himself there. He sat straight as an arrow, like a military man. Or a cop.

  “What’s your name?”

  Nothing.

  “I come by every morning. If you like turkey or tuna better, let me know. I can make anything you want.”

  Nothing.

  “Okay then. Here’s some juice and an orange.” She placed them beside the sandwich. His eyes tracked her movements. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She pulled the wagon down the sidewalk, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. At the corner she pushed the button to cross. When the walk light lit, she glanced back. Angus and Frank sat at the far end of the short park, chewing with their mouths open and patting each other on the shoulder. She grinned and shook her head. They spent time reliving their glory day tales, one-upping each other’s stories but never losing their camaraderie. It passed the time. That, and searching for food, begging for cash and booze, and bumming cigarettes off anyone that wandered by.

  How many times had they told her about high stakes business deals gone wrong? How they’d met at the peak of their careers, and tumbled from the top of the mergers-and-acquisitions ladder to land in a heap of shit at the bottom. They claim to be happier now. No stress. No boss. No problem. It was hard to believe any of it was true.

  She snuck one last peek at the new guy. The food sat untouched at his feet.

  hip hop sex

  “Hi, Mother Wolfe.” Jem twisted a lock of hair around her index finger until it throbbed and turned purple. “I’ve got news.”

  Silence in Vancouver. Then the rasping breath of Gerald’s dying mother. “So? Out with it already. He’s not come home or you would have said so right off.”

  “No, he’s not home. He won’t ever be coming home.”

  “I see.”

  Four years of assuming the worst prepares you for just that. Jem knew that first hand.

  A wheezy sigh crackled across the line. “When is the funeral?”

  “I don’t know. They’re holding his body for evidence.”

  “Evidence? Of what? Wasn’t it suicide?”

  “Suicide? Of course not. Althea, he was murdered.”

  “B-but why? Who? Oh my God, no.” Althea’s voice cracked and gave way to soft sobs followed by hacking phlegmy coughs.

  Jem winced and pulled the phone from her ear until the coughing stopped. “That’s why they’re keeping him. They don’t know the answers yet.” She pushed her palm against a spasm growing in her abdomen. “Did he know anyone in Montreal?”

  “I don’t think so. Is that where he’s been?”

  “Yes. For the last several months anyway. I’m trying to help the detective fill in some blanks, but I’m afraid I don’t know as much as I thought.”

  “Well, clearly I don’t either. You make sure they don’t give up on him, you hear me?”

  “I will.”

  “And you tell me what’s going on. Don’t just ignore me like you’ve been doing.”

  Jem grit her teeth. “I wasn’t ignoring you, Al
thea.” She was simply avoiding the bitch. “I just had nothing to tell you until now. I’ll let you know what I find out, if I find anything out.” She took a deep breath. No fighting with this woman, not today. “When it’s time, do you want me to send him home to you? We can have the funeral there.”

  A quiet pause deadened the air between them. “Thank you. Yes. I would appreciate that.”

  Gerald was convinced his research would cure his mother. She’d developed small tumors on her ovaries when he was ten. The treatments of the day robbed her of her hair and her dignity. She was stripped of estrogen, forced into early menopause, eliminating the possibility of siblings for Gerald. Not that her age hadn’t already taken that possibility off the table, but she loved to regale anyone who would listen with her sad tale of being forced to have only one child.

  Althea never fully recovered. Each new diagnosis, each tiny slow tendril of disease that sucked vitality from her pushed him toward his career in cancer research. The fact that she continued to breathe all these years later was a medical miracle. And she gave him full credit for that, even though it was the tireless attention of the oncologists and a medical team of experts that kept her alive.

  No wonder she didn’t trust Jem with his heart. Or anyone else for that matter.

  Althea’s health was the topic of countless discussions between Jem and Gerald, dozens of disagreements, and more than one near-brawl. There wasn’t a hope in hell Mrs. Wolfe would live long enough for his research to pan out, let alone outlive her son. His research needed to be more focused, more specialized. Ovarian cancer, where it all began. Or breast or cervical. Hell, even pancreatic or testicular. It was too late to save his mother, Jem had argued, but if he put his brilliance toward something more specific, maybe he could save a million others. He never agreed, never listened. He kept on the path of studying all cancer, trying for the global magic cure pill that would put his mother right. Maybe he would have done it. What the hell did she know about it anyway? She was a lawyer, not a scientist.