What's Past Is Prologue, page 12
“Seth did an interview for Eden’s podcast. I haven’t heard it yet, but I have an MP3 of it. If you have time to listen, it might give you and Laurie some answers.”
“I have time,” she said. “Let me check with Taylor and see how she’s doing with the kids and take it from there.”
When she came back, the tension was gone from Margot’s body. “No demerits for your daughter,” she said. “The TV was off, Rosie was sleeping on her dog bed and Taylor, Lexi and Kai were sitting around the kitchen table drawing pictures of turtles. Taylor said to take as long as we needed. So let’s sit over here by the window, watch the world go by and listen to the MP3.”
On the recording, Seth spoke with a pleasant, if hesitant, baritone. His opening sentence was striking. “I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I overheard one of my aunts refer to me as the ‘replacement’ child. I must have been old enough to understand the meaning of the word ‘replacement,’ because I became fixated on learning why the term applied to me. I kept listening and watching and gradually, I learned what it meant to be the replacement child.
“On my mother’s dresser, there was a picture of a blond boy holding a baby. The picture had always been there, and one day I asked my mother who the kids in the picture were, and she said the baby was my sister Laurie, and the boy holding her was my brother Jonathan. And she told me that that was the last picture we had of Jonathan because not very long after the picture was taken, he drowned in a slough. I asked her why my aunt called me the ‘replacement child,’ and my mother said that in the Bible Seth was the boy God sent to replace the brother who died. She told me that no one could replace a child that was lost but she loved me just because I was Seth.
“She said the right words but I didn’t believe her. I knew in my heart or my soul, or wherever we’re supposed to know the truth, that I was supposed to be the replacement for that little blond boy, but that I wasn’t enough. All my brothers who were born after me looked like the blond boy. I was the only one who didn’t. I was the one who didn’t belong.”
The story went on from there. There were six healthy children: Laurie, Margot, Seth and then three more boys. Everyone commented on how stunningly alike Laurie, Margot and the three younger boys were — blond, strongly built, handsome and assured. They all did well at school, knew what they wanted from life and went for it. Laurie and her younger brothers wanted families and life on a farm. Now, they all had families, and the three brothers and Laurie’s husband, Steve, farmed together; Margot wanted law school and a family, and now she was a lawyer with a family. Seth, dark-haired, slight, diffident with pleasant but unremarkable features, scraped through high school, didn’t have the marks to get into university and floated, seemingly purposeless, from apprenticeship to apprenticeship, trade to trade.
His family continued to invite him to family gatherings, but Seth felt he had nothing to contribute and stopped coming. Gradually he drifted away from his family. Seth’s early work was largely in the Cathedral area of Regina, and he quickly developed a reputation as a craftsman who understood what his clients wanted and delivered their dream houses on time and on budget. His work caught Devi Sass’s eye, and she handed Seth the keys to the building on 13th Avenue she’d just purchased, along with a large advance cheque, and told him she trusted him to find the soul of the old house. “That,” Seth said, “was when I began to believe in myself.” Seth’s voice faltered when he said he believed Devi’s faith in him was the moment when the long hand of childhood loosened its grasp on his life. His work was recognized; his small company was booked till well into autumn. And because of Eden Sass, he had gained the confidence to guide his own life. He said Eden told him he had to stop measuring himself against the standards his brothers and sisters had set for themselves and run his own race.
When the interview ended, Margot turned to me. I had never seen her cry, but she was crying now. “Damn it,” she said. “Seth is twenty-three months younger than me. We never connected, but that never mattered to me. I had Laurie, and when the other brothers came along, I had them. How could I not have seen what was happening to Seth?”
“Because you were living a life in a family where farming was the family business — as you know more than I, farming is demanding and your parents had six children to raise. Grief over the loss of their first child must have been a constant in their lives, and you and your sibs were all growing up, dealing with school, friends, sex, love and the usual slings and arrows. From what Laurie said about Seth severing his ties with the family when the umbilical cord was cut, he made the choice to withdraw very early in his life.”
“You’re right, of course.” Margot was pensive. “Jo, if you have a minute, I’d like to show you something.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Margot ran upstairs and returned with a photo album. “I don’t always keep this at hand, but Lexi wanted to see some photos of me when I was a kid, so I hauled it out. The Wright family believed in photographs — not the kind you take on your phone and forget. The kind that you use to capture a moment so you can stick it in an album most of us never look at again.”
“But the photos are still there — ready when you are to recapture the moment,” I said.
Margot was wistful. “That’s true, isn’t it? I wish I had more pictures of Leland and me or of Leland and Declan or just of Leland. Our parents were smarter than we are, Jo.”
“Devi Sass has a photograph of herself and a handsome man, who was obviously her beau, on her nightstand. She has a brooch — a gold key studded with tiny diamonds — and in the photograph, she’s wearing it on a delicate chain as a necklace. That must have been three decades ago, but Devi is still able to keep the memory of that night close because she has the picture.”
“There was a photographer in Wadena, and a lot of the people in town had him take pictures of their families at Easter,” Margot said. “This album is filled with pictures of the Wright kids. I still find the first ones hard to look at.” Margot opened the album to a photograph of a sweet-looking blond blue-eyed boy who appeared to be a year old. He was wearing a white shirt and red overalls, and he was holding a red wooden tractor. “That’s our brother, Jonathan — the one who drowned.”
She turned the page. “There’s Jonathan, holding baby Laurie. Look at that face. He was so loving.” She drew a deep breath. “Anyway, that was Jonathan’s last Easter picture. After that, the kids kept coming. First there was me, and then there was Seth and then the other three brothers.”
I turned the pages slowly. The Wrights were a handsome family. When I came to a photograph of Margot and her sister, Laurie, wearing matching buttercup-yellow gingham dresses and frilly white pinafores, I stopped and looked at the faces of the sisters. Laurie was beaming but Margot’s little face was pinched with fury. I turned to Margot. “What was the problem?”
“Check out the dresses Laurie and I are wearing, Jo. My mother loved the TV series Little House on the Prairie. Laurie was six and I was five the year that photograph was taken, and my mother decided to make pioneer dresses like the dresses the Ingalls sisters wore. She had to send a money order to the States to get the pattern. My mother was an accomplished seamstress so everyone said the dresses were perfect. I’m sure they were, but I hated mine, and I refused to wear it.”
“But you are wearing the dress in the picture.”
“I am, but as soon as the photographer was finished, I ran outside and threw myself into the manure pile!”
“You didn’t.”
“I did, and I learned a lesson that has served me well as a criminal lawyer. There are times when the only way you can get the outcome you want is to throw yourself into a pile of shit.”
Leafing through the album watching the Wright children grow up was a delight, but it was also an eye-opener. The yearly photographs captured an unpalatable truth: every Easter, Laurie, Margot and their three youngest brothers grew taller, blonder and more handsome, and every Easter the contrast between them and their dark-haired, slight and timorous brother became more marked. As his siblings grew into adults, Seth remained somehow unfinished.
Margot closed the album. “We should have seen what was happening,” she said.
“Seth is forty-five years old, Margot. Give it time. Put the past behind you.”
Margot rubbed her temples. “Easier said than done, but hearing what Seth said for the podcast is a starting point. Is it all right if I send it to Laurie?”
“If you think it would help, of course. Seth made the podcast knowing that Eden was hoping it would go public.” I glanced at my watch. “Time for me to get Taylor. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
Margot shuddered. “I am not looking forward to it. The crazies are having a field day with Eden’s confession that she lied under oath. I honestly don’t know what to expect. If we’re lucky, the hostility will just manifest itself in protests and catcalls. If we’re not lucky . . . God, I don’t want to think about that.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “Margot, we all have to get through tomorrow evening, and you have to sparkle. Ed’s gathering beforehand will include people who are on the fence about his decision to invite Libby. His choice has certainly caused the university some grief, and you’ll have to win the doubters over, so they’ll at least listen to what Libby says. After that, you just have to introduce Libby, listen to what will undoubtedly be a powerful speech and monitor the Q and A session.”
“Easy-peasy,” Margot said. “And you’re right. Libby’s a pro. She’ll handle this.”
“She will. Margot, this will be only one night in our lives, and it’s going to work out. Ed and Barry know how to make people feel welcome. By the time we leave their home for the lecture, we’ll be ready to deal with whatever comes next.”
Chapter Nine
I always felt a frisson of quiet joy when I entered Barry and Ed’s house, and Wednesday evening was no exception. They had designed the house themselves to take advantage of natural light and their spectacular view of the bird sanctuary and the northwest edge of the university campus.
Ed greeted us at the door. He was wearing a sapphire cashmere shirt, and he smelled of the sandalwood shaving cream and Bay Rum aftershave that were staples of the old-fashioned, straight razor, hot towel barber shop he and Zack favoured. I leaned close and inhaled deeply. “I’m already enjoying the party,” I said.
“And there’s more joy to come,” Ed said. “Keep your coats on, and follow me to the deck. A night worthy of van Gogh awaits us.”
Ed hadn’t oversold the perfection of the evening. The air was clear. Stars pulsing with light splattered the blue velvet of the night sky, and there was a waning crescent moon. The scent of wood fires drifted from the homes of Ed and Barry’s neighbours, and a certain stillness enveloped our small group.
Zack moved close and took my hand. “It doesn’t get any better than this,” he said.
“No,” I said. “This is a night to remember.”
* * *
From the day Taylor met Ed, there had been a bond. Once when she was very young, she told Ed that the home he and Barry had made together had a lot of stuff in it that made her happy.
That night, as I walked into the living room I knew Taylor’s assessment had been right on the money. Ed and Barry’s home was filled with stuff that made me happy too: a mahogany cabinet that glowed with a collection of mercury glass; a turn-of-the-century daguerreotype of a mother and child; an oval mirror whose bright ceramic border was a celebration of queens, young, old, gorgeous, ugly, real and mythical. It was, Ed told me once, a reminder to every queen that, no matter how stunning she believes herself to be, there’s always a Snow White waiting in the wings.
We’d just taken off our coats when Margot, Libby and Sawyer arrived. Sawyer hadn’t seen Taylor since she was seventeen. When their eyes met, he couldn’t stop smiling and neither could she.
“Hey, you grew up,” Sawyer said.
“I did, but I haven’t lost the power to give a mean bear hug,” Taylor said. Sawyer was still wearing his ski jacket, but Taylor threw her arms around him, and after delivering on her promise, she stepped away so she could look into Sawyer’s face. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “I was four years old when I came to live with Jo. For a long time I thought you and Angus were both my brothers, and that you just lived in another house some of the time.”
“I felt that way about you and your family too,” Sawyer said. “But I never would have admitted it. It made me sound needy.”
“You were needy,” Taylor said. “We all were. We needed each other.”
Sawyer swallowed hard. “You’re right about that,” he said. He was clearly moved, and when the silence among us grew awkward, Ed stepped in.
“Taylor, Libby is a fan of your work and of your mother’s work, and Barry and I have what we believe is one of Sally’s finest paintings.”
Our daughter turned to face Libby. “The painting is called Two Old Gardeners, and when I was little, Ed and Barry let me spend as long as I wanted just running my fingers along the surface of the painting because touching something Sally had touched made me feel closer to her.”
“Barry and I also own and treasure several of Taylor’s paintings, and Margot, there’s a new one that you haven’t seen. And Sawyer, I don’t believe you’ve seen any of them. Why don’t you all slip out of your coats, so Taylor can take you on the tour?”
“I wouldn’t mind going on that tour again myself,” Zack said. “Mind if I tag along?”
Taylor squeezed Zack’s shoulder. “You may, but if you start bragging about me, you’re off the bus.”
“My lips are sealed,” Zack said.
Ed watched fondly as the five of them set off. “We’re off to a good start,” he said. “And by ten o’clock, this evening will be over.”
When the doorbell rang, Ed opened the door to familiar faces. Mieka, Charlie, Madeleine and Lena had arrived. “More allies,” Ed said, and then he frowned. “Kam Chau couldn’t make it?”
“Something came up at MediaNation,” Charlie said. “Kam will meet us at the Riddell Centre in time for Libby’s speech.”
“As long as he’ll be there for Libby, I’m fine,” Ed said. “Now, come in out of the cold. Without Barry, I’m a terrible host. His plane was grounded in Toronto because of that storm they’re having.”
“So he’ll miss the party,” Lena said.
“Yes, and the party will miss him.” Ed’s face was made for smiling, but as Barry once said, when Ed wasn’t happy, he looked like a lugubrious basset hound.
Lena and Madeleine caught the basset hound sag and exchanged a quick glance. “We can help,” Madeleine said. “Just tell us what to do.”
When Mieka and Charlie were married in a quiet family ceremony, Ed had supplied all the flowers, and Barry had made his justifiably famous paella.
Mieka shrugged off her coat. “As the owner-manager of UpSlideDown for over a decade, I have hosted well over a thousand parties,” she said. “We’re family, Ed, and we’ve got this. Relax, enjoy your guests. All will be well.”
And it was. Ed’s party was smallish — fewer than forty people, but there were coats to be taken, appetizers to offer, drinks to be mixed and served and most importantly, guests to be made comfortable.
Mieka’s organizational skills were well honed, and when the guests started pouring in, Ed was free to join Libby and Margot in greeting them. Angus was waiting to take coats. Either Charlie or Taylor was ready to shepherd guests into the party, ask about their beverage of choice and pass along their drink orders to Sawyer and Zack. Madeleine, Lena and later Taylor took on the task of passing the appetizers, and Zack watched with pride as his daughter and granddaughters moved gracefully through the crowd with platters filled with small plates of finger food, introducing themselves and making certain everyone felt at ease.
I knew most of the guests either personally or through my connection with the university, so I was making the rounds with Libby, introducing her and ensuring that the conversation was friendly and that no one monopolized her.
That night Libby was a striking figure. Her strawberry-blond classic shag provided a gentle frame for her angular features, and she was wearing a vintage bouclé suit in a warm shade of ivory that was flattering to her colouring and her curvaceous figure.
“That’s a great look for you,” I said. “The tailoring on your suit is incredible. You didn’t pick that up at Value Village.”
“You’re right about the tailoring, Joanne. This is a Chanel, and the craftsmanship is exquisite. You’re also right about me not picking up the suit at Value Village.” The smile she gave me was impish. “I bought the suit on eBay for eighty-five bucks.”
“You know, I’ve never even used eBay,” I said.
“You should give it a whirl,” Libby said. “And the story that comes with my Chanel might inspire you. The seller lives in Dallas. She bought the suit to wear to the speech at the Trade Mart in Dallas that President John F. Kennedy was scheduled to deliver on November 22nd, 1963.”
A memory of that day flashed through my mind. I had just started grade one, and when the grade two teacher came around and whispered to Miss Thompson, Miss Thompson started to cry and then both teachers were crying. Teachers at Bishop Lambeth didn’t cry, so we grade ones knew something catastrophic had happened.
Much later, I learned the details. Even after almost six decades they were horrific. “President Kennedy was assassinated on his way to deliver that speech,” I said.
Libby nodded. “The woman who sold me the suit told me she was already at the Trade Mart. When she heard the president had been shot, she drove home, sent the dress to be dry cleaned and then hung it in a closet, where it remained, unworn, for fifty-nine years.”
