12 Rose Street (28 page)

Liz Meighen’s funeral was scheduled for 10:30 a.m. on Thursday, October 9, a day before the Thanksgiving long weekend. Zack and I had gone back and forth about the propriety of him attending the funeral of Graham Meighen’s wife, knowing that the whole Ridgeway team would be there. But Zack knew it would be a difficult morning for me, and for him, that was all that mattered.

The service was being held at St. Paul’s Cathedral, our church. After Bev’s death, Liz had apparently become a regular worshiper at St. Paul’s nine o’clock Sunday service and at the Wednesday morning service as well. She was also a regular attendant at the monthly Eucharists in the columbarium beneath the church. Bev Levy’s ashes were there, and Liz’s will stipulated that the urn with her ashes be placed in the same case as her daughter’s.

Zack was meeting me at the Cathedral. Warren Weber had invited Zack to have breakfast at the Scarth Club with Warren and some of his old friends. It was a command performance. Warren and his pals were high rollers and Zack was wearing one of his slick lawyer suits and a Countess
Mara tie that I particularly liked. When I bent to kiss him goodbye, I whispered, “You look good enough to eat.”

He drew me close. “Promises, promises,” he growled.

Zack and I had arranged to meet at the area at the front of the nave that was set aside for people in wheelchairs. The handicapped area had the added advantage of giving us a good view of the family of the deceased, and Zack was interested in watching Graham Meighen’s behaviour during the service.

Zack had already pulled a chair into the place beside him, so I sat, said a brief prayer for Liz, and took Zack’s hand. The organist began to play “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Zack breathed deeply and for a few moments we simply allowed Bach to soothe us. When I glanced at the back of the church, I saw that the family was coming in. I rose and Zack turned his chair towards the centre aisle.

Zack and his law partners always entered together at the funeral of a partner or a partner’s spouse. Graham Meighen and his associates apparently followed the same practice. Margot had told me that the men accompanying Meighen were known in development circles simply as “the Seven Brothers.” The sobriquet was not affectionate. The strategic planners, construction company owners, and commercial real estate dealers to whom the name referred were related by entitlement, not blood. The equation was simple. Lancaster had a pipeline to the city’s plans for development, and as soon as they knew where the city had encouraged the building of a big-box store, the Seven Brothers took over – getting corporate funding, buying land, choosing the sweetest properties for development, building overpriced houses, and then getting the city to advertise the desirability of the housing in the new development. The
equation had worked for years, but if Zack won the election, the Seven Brothers would have to take their place in line with their competitors.

The men had followed Graham down the aisle, but he lingered, so they filed into the front pew. He was carrying the silver urn that contained Liz’s ashes. He paused before he mounted the three steps to the chancel. After he’d placed the urn on a low table near the steps, he allowed his hand to rest on the urn just long enough to suggest pain at parting.

The form of the Anglican Funeral Liturgy is clearly set out. Readings, prayers, psalms – even anthems and hymns – are suggested, but despite the guidelines, the funeral of a suicide is always difficult.

When it came to the eulogy, Dean Mike met the difficulty head on. He talked about Liz’s search for comfort in faith after her daughter’s death, and how she had found solace in two verses from Psalm 139: “All the days for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Mike said that Liz interpreted those lines as meaning that God is present in all our circumstances. He said that until very recently, he and Liz both believed she’d found solid footing, but even the strongest have a breaking point.

As the dean talked about how God had worked through Liz during her lifetime, I looked over at Graham Meighen, the man who had married Liz thirty-eight years ago. He had raised a child with her. They had lost that child and seemingly, somewhere along the way, they had lost each other. I wondered what he was feeling. His expression was unreadable.

After Eucharist, the service moved inexorably towards a close. The dean said that Liz had been fond of the Evensong Prayer, so we read it in unison:

The organist struck the opening notes of the hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy” and the service was over. Across the aisle from us, Graham and his colleagues rose to leave.

I slid out of the pew and stood beside Zack. The two of us watched as Graham and the Seven Brothers moved towards the back of the church.

Zack flexed his shoulders the way athletes do after a strenuous event.

I stepped behind him and rubbed his neck. “If you and I go to the reception at Graham Meighen’s, we’ll be the proverbial skunks at the garden party,” I said. “Why don’t we just head home?”

“You read my mind,” Zack said, wheeling towards the door. “As far as I’m concerned, the sooner we start the weekend, the better.”

When we got off the elevator in our building, I saw that Declan and Taylor had been busy. Twenty of us would be sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, and laundry hampers filled with food, wine, fresh fruit, juice, and soft drinks lined the hall. The kids came out of Margot’s, each carrying a hamper of produce. “The turkeys are still in the refrigerator,” Declan said, “but everything else is out here. We’re ready to load up.”

“Great,” I said. “Have you guys had lunch?”

“Taylor made sandwiches. She made some for you and Zack too,” Declan said, and the look he gave our daughter would have melted a harder heart than mine.

“Good,” I said. “As soon as we’ve eaten, we can take off. In the meantime, would you two start putting the hampers in the cars? The dogs will be in the station wagon, so no food there. Pantera eats anything that’s not nailed down.”

“Last night, he ate a bag of Granny Smith apples,” Taylor said. She grinned at Declan. “That was pretty much a disaster.”

“I don’t need that image in my head,” Declan said. “Let’s load up.”

Some of the happiest times of my life were spent at Lawyers’ Bay. The horseshoe-shaped piece of land surrounding the bay had been owned by the family of Zack’s partner Kevin Hynd, and when the firm of Falconer, Shreve, Altieri, Wainberg, and Hynd began to show a profit, the young partners built cottages on the land. Years later, after Chris Altieri died and Zack and I were together, Zack bought Chris’s cottage to use when our family joined us at the lake. For me, it was the best of family arrangements – we were together but we were separate.

Our grown children and their guests were responsible for getting their own breakfast and lunch, but every night we all sat down for dinner together in the sunroom overlooking the lake. Zack had given his decorator carte blanche to furnish the house, and the decorator had found a cheap treasure at a country auction: a partners’ table from a long-defunct law firm. Twenty-four chairs had come with the table, and Zack was never happier than when every place at the table was filled. That Thanksgiving we were going to come close.

The rain started as soon as we got to Lawyers’ Bay and continued pretty much unabated throughout the weekend,
but we were unstoppable. We had raingear, and Zack had his all-terrain wheelchair, so we carried on with our usual activities: walks around the bay; touch football in the mud; movie marathons, board games and card games with the kids. Candyland had lost its charm for Madeleine and Lena, but Zack had taught them blackjack as a preparation for a Grade One curriculum that called for mastering “the skills necessary for numerical literacy.” Both girls were quick studies when it came to Monopoly, a game Howard Dowhanuik never tired of. He had played endless games with his son, Charlie, and Mieka, Peter, and Angus when they were children, and the years had not dimmed his enthusiasm. Once they settled around the board and Madeleine got the bank in order, she, Howard, and Lena were incommunicado for at least two hours.

Our usual plan when we were at the lake was to make Saturday “Cook’s Night Out” and eat at Magoos, a hamburger joint that, in addition to its signature loaded burgers, made transcendent onion rings, savoury coleslaw, perfectly seasoned shoestring fries, and milkshakes so thick that patrons had to use spoons to get every last drop of shake from the old-fashioned metal containers.

Magoos was across the lake from us, and part of the fun of the adventure was getting there by boat. As the time for dinner approached and the rain continued, we were all eyeing the sky anxiously. The clouds hovered, but just as we’d agreed the prudent course was to drive, the skies cleared. It was the last Saturday Magoos would be open until the May long weekend, so we decided to take a chance.

Getting twenty people into boats when four of the twenty are children is complex, but we managed. Zack, Noah Wainberg, and Brock each drove a boat, and the rest of us found a place, shrugged into our life jackets, helped the kids into their life jackets, and waited for the fun to begin.

It was always a joy bringing new people to Magoos. Two years earlier on a sultry summer evening, Zack and I had introduced Margot and her fiancé, Leland Hunter, to the restaurant. In addition to the great food, Magoos boasted a solid dance floor and a vintage Wurlitzer jukebox that played nothing that had been written after 1970. That July night, after we had passed the midpoint of the lake, we had heard Buddy Holly singing “Oh Boy.” Margot joined in immediately. She hadn’t missed a single “Dum dee dum dum,” and as Leland watched his fiancée, his love for her was palpable. Not long after that, he was dead.

This was a very different night, chilly and damp. Margot and I were sitting next to each other behind Zack. Lexi was on Margot’s knee, delighting in everything. When we heard the late, great Ritchie Valens singing “La Bamba,” Margot drew Lexi close. “I wish your dad was here,” she whispered. I squeezed Margot’s arm.

Herb McFaull, who owned Magoos, welcomed us at the door. Because we had small children in tow, we’d arrived early, but except for us the place was deserted. Herb’s smile was welcoming. “I was afraid I was going to have to dance with myself tonight,” he said.

“There are twenty of us – all ages and stages,” Zack said. “And all enthusiastic dancers. You will not dance alone, Herb.”

Husky servers pulled three long tables together in front of the windows that looked out on the lake. We took our places and began to check out the menus. The evening was about to begin.

It was a happy meal. The Wainbergs were raising Jacob with all organic, healthful foods, but he was two and half and when he spied a plate with French fries and a burger it was love at first sight. Inspired and emboldened, Lexi shoved aside her Dora the Explorer plate of spinach, rice, and
slivered chicken breast and grabbed a fistful of fries from Margot’s plate.

As he always did, Zack unloaded his onions onto Taylor’s burger because she loved onions, and she never remembered to order extra. When Declan gave Taylor his onions too, Margot whispered, “I told you it was serious.” We took turns feeding loonies to the Wurlitzer. For a magical couple of hours, all the greats were alive again: Bill Haley and the Comets, Buddy Holly, Chubby Checker, Elvis, Little Richard, The Four Lads, Jerry Lee Lewis, and the Big Bopper.

Everyone danced, and because there was no one but us in the restaurant, we were uninhibited. Delia Wainberg, the most disciplined person I’d ever known, did a down-and-dirty twist with her husband, Noah. Mieka and Maisie taught Madeleine and Lena a wild Watusi. We all took a turn on the dance floor with Jacob and Lexi. Zack made some deadly moves with his chair as Buddy Holly sang “That’ll Be the Day.”

Taylor, Isobel Wainberg, and Gracie Falconer had been besties since the first summer my family spent at Lawyers’ Bay. I had watched with my heart in my mouth as the three of them learned to dive off the high board, and that night it was fun to hear the three of them urging Declan to join them in putting a little hip-hop into the sock hop. Margot seemed contented to stay on the sidelines. Despite offers from Noah, Blake Falconer, Zack, and Declan, she didn’t venture onto the dance floor.

After Lexi and I had finished bopping to Paul Anka, we went back to Margot’s table. She was looking meditative and fingering a loonie. “All night I’ve been trying to decide whether I’m brave enough to play C-5,” she said.

I didn’t need an explanation. The night Zack and I brought Margot and Leland to Magoos, Margot had played C-5 – Slim Whitman’s “I Remember You.” For both Margot and Leland, the road to a deep and loving partnership had been rocky,
but as they danced to Slim Whitman, it was clear that the journey was over, and the future was bright. They had chosen “I Remember You” as the bride-and-groom dance for their old-fashioned small-town Saskatchewan wedding. The reception had been on the greens of the town golf course. Everyone in Wadena was there, and as Leland and Margot moved gracefully across the grass, there was a hush. It seemed that nothing could ever part them.

Lexi was in my arms, drifting towards sleep. I smiled at Margot. “Memories,” I whispered.

“But they were good ones,” Margot said. She stood, walked over to the Wurlitzer, and suddenly the room was filled with Slim Whitman’s soaring falsetto. When Margot started back to our table, Brock held out his arms. “May I have this dance?” he said. Margot frowned and said, “I don’t think …” and then wordlessly, she moved into his embrace.

Zack was wheeling towards me, but he didn’t miss the action on the dance floor. “What’s going on there?” he said.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But whatever it is, it’s a good thing. Margot and Brock’s new baby and Lexi will have two very fine parents in their lives.” Margot and Brock consulted over the next two jukebox selections – both tunes they chose were slow and they danced easily and well together. When they ceded the jukebox to the younger generation, Margot and Brock walked off the dance floor hand in hand.