Bishop's Man by Linden Macintyre Read Free Book Online Page A

detached from our history, and yet consumed by it. To distract her I asked, “Do you remember anything about our mother?”

    “She’s always been a ghost.”

    “And our father?”

    She laughed. “I remember the day we moved here. I must have been, what? Four or five?”

    In memory I hear the sudden rattle of the train all around us. The air is acrid from the locomotive smoking outside and the men smoking inside. Our father is leaning toward the window, looking out, his body fluid, moving gently with the swaying car. There’s a sleepy rhythm to the click and clank of iron rolling over steel. From time to time I hear an urgent howl from somewhere ahead of us. The train screaming danger at the empty countryside, the sullen trees. And I am aware again of the expanding distance from the heap of earth we left behind in the field of tall white stones, and that we four, now, are only three.

    A truck rattled by outside. I glanced toward the window. It was John Gillis.

    “Was that who I think it was?” she asked.

    “Will you go to see him while you’re home?”

    “I don’t think so.” She studied my face, looking for judgment or reassurance. “I can feel Daddy in the room,” she said at last. “You were never afraid of him, were you?”

    “The old man? No. I disliked him. I judged him. Then over time I got past it … But you don’t hate him anymore, do you?”

    She smiled.

     
    This time it was John who told me she’d arrived. He called on a Wednesday morning. “There was a light on in the old place last night. I was wondering.”

    “Effie must be home,” I said. “She told me she was coming.”

    “Ah. And how is old Effie? Or didn’t she change it to Faye after she went away?”

    “She’s back to being Effie.”

    “That’s good. The Faye was kind of fake. I thought, anyway.”

    “You should drop in. Say hello.”

    “I might.”

     
    Mid-morning on my birthday, which fell that Friday, the phone rang. I was standing at the picture window, studying the vast, flat bay, interpreting the ripples on its dark blue surface, trying to anticipate the weather.

    “Happy birthday,” Effie said. “I’ll be expecting you at seven.”

    “Expecting me where?”

    “Out home. Where did you think?”

    “Where are you calling from?”

    “I’m at John’s. I dropped by to invite them. John and Sextus. I thought I should remind you.”

    “I think I’ll pass,” I said.

    “Remember. Seven sharp.”

    The phone went dead.

     
    Maybe to get it over with, I went early. The old house reeked of cleaning fluids, gentrified by burning wax. Candles flickered and the blinds were drawn to exclude the setting sun, or perhaps to prevent disclosure of what she was doing to the house.

    “You’ll have a glass of wine, or maybe something stronger.”

    “Something stronger,” I replied.

    She poured a stiff Scotch. “A little toast to us. Before the others come.”

    “Right. The others.”

    “Don’t worry about it,” she said, and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

    John arrived first. He’s younger than I am and his body has an adolescent slimness, but I noted that his hair has gone almost white. Apparently he jogs a lot for fitness and for sanity. He caught Effie’s hand, bent his head toward hers. Their cheeks touched. Her eyes were tightly closed.

    Then Sextus barged into the room, singing a flat “Happy Birthday,” and knocked me off balance with a bear hug. This is becoming a habit, I thought, this hugging. He had a bottle of wine in each hand and I heard them clank dangerously behind me. He released me, then placed them on the cupboard with a flourish. He shook Effie’s hand with mock formality, bowing slightly. She dipped, face faintly pink. Then he took her in his arms, started a slow waltz around the kitchen, singing loudly: “Can I have this … dunce … for the rest of my life …”

    John stared, eyebrows raised, mouth-corners twitching, struggling to seem amused.

    “I see