An Honest Woman Read online

  So, let’s say, soon after the publication of Final Draft, a letter arrives in the mail. From him, the man who inspired my central character Leland. He writes, “I stumbled across a short story collection you published a few years back, while I was visiting Canada this summer. I must say I enjoyed it very much indeed.”

  My cautious reply takes about twenty-five drafts over two nights. His easy response takes a month. But it says, “I have accepted a last minute invitation from the Toronto festival, replacing a far trendier Brit who apparently got a better offer. Now, I realize that the exotic place you live, in the rain shadow of the Rocky Mountains, is not exactly a suburb of Toronto, but it would be lovely to meet you if you happen to be in attendance at the festival.”

  A month after that, I meet him face to face in a bar near the festival venue. He’s charming and pleasant, disarming me with a gossipy yet wide ranging and intelligent overview of the season’s Canadian books. Then he says:

  “Actually, one of the strangest books to come out of your country in a long time is a novel called Final Draft. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes. I believe I have.”

  “Well, it’s odd. A highly eroticized romance between two writers, one a Canadian woman, the other an Englishman, slightly older. The puzzling thing is, quite a few people seem to think that the English chap, the love interest if you will, is me, poorly disguised. Have you heard about this?”

  I struggle not to react to the word poorly. “No. I hadn’t heard that. How strange.”

  The man sits back, sips his whiskey, regards me over the rim of his glass. “Truth be told I rather envy the son of a bitch, this ‘Leland Mackenzie’. He gets a lot more action than I ever do.”

  “I expect that you do pretty well,” I murmur.

  “True enough,” he says. “But the most persistent question, though, is the identity of the author of the book. Have you followed the story at all?”

  “A little.” Don’t blush don’t blush don’t —

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Mair, but you appear to be blushing.”

  “Hot flash.”

  “I see. In any case, a lot of people have suggested, lately, that this, what’s the female character’s name, Jay McNair? — and yes, I got all the Jane Eyre references, by the way, Janet. You teach English, don’t you? At a little college out west? I should say that I found the Bronte stuff rather witty — ”

  “Thank you” is on the tip of my tongue, but I choke it back.

  “You started to say thank you, just now.”

  I clear my throat, shake my head, searching for something, anything, some strategy — “Actually, my little college has a student population of about fourteen thousand.”

  “Really? How interesting. But where was I? Oh yes, the notion that this Jay McNair is a thinly disguised version of yourself.” His arched eyebrow is truly adorable.

  To distract myself, I press on, “I’m curious how it affected you to see yourself as a created character?”

  “It is a kick. Uncomfortable with the press. Occasionally maddening.”

  “Why maddening?”

  “You, I mean she, she gets it so bloody wrong. Energetic writing though.” He’s watching my face, watching me very very closely indeed. I say nothing, fold my arms. Try to stare him down. He likewise folds his arms, mirroring, then plays his best card: “Right, then. The name of the supposed author of Final Draft is your grandmother’s maiden name.”

  “Shit. I mean, what a coincidence.”

  He says, “I’d say it was pretty wet of you, if I hadn’t done the same thing myself.”

  “You published under a pseudonym?”

  “Yes. Early days. Two thrillers. It paid the bills for a few years.”

  “Under what name?” I ask.

  “No comment,” he replies.

  I sip my drink. “So. My dirty little secret. A desire to be known that has to be buried but can’t be denied. How did you find the genealogy on me, anyway?”

  “Oh, a website called — oh no you don’t — ” he says.

  Outside, walking back to the hotel, the two of us laughing and talking together. He says, “Too bad you’re not Jay McNair. I bet she’d take me back to my room and show me a good time.”

  “Well, you can take her home anytime you like. She travels light.” I touch his arm. “Besides, she’s probably way better in the sack than I could ever be. Such things tend to be enviably ecstatic and easy for fictional characters. None of the grunting and sweat and stained sheets of real life. The me who writes is a way better person than the everyday me.”

  “Ah yes, the godlike writer, creating impossible bliss — ”

  “No, not like your little snip, what’s her name, the meek little author in that blockbuster of yours — ”

  “You really hated that novel of mine, didn’t you?”

  “There are some I like better, put it that way. But what I said was ‘the me who writes,’ who is engaged in the process. That’s quite different from The Writer, The Author — the public figure. Who is often a real asshole. Ego big as a house. All persona. I heard Carol Shields read once, and in the Q&A, someone asked her whether she enjoyed these book tours, and she said, ‘Towards the end of a tour, sometimes, I hear my own voice, reading and answering questions, and I just think, Oh god, there’s that woman again.’”

  He nods. “Philip Larkin called it ‘going about pretending to be myself.’ He never did readings, ever.” He pauses on the sidewalk, stretches, grins. “So. Janet. How many dates does it take, generally speaking, to get the average Canadian girl, the ‘me who writes,’ in between the sheets?”

  It’s in the boat, though, watching Matt and his friends clamber up the rock face in their silly ensembles that it occurs to me: hey, wait. Mister Sunshine. He’s real.

  The boys line up along the top of the cliff — their harsh laughter, the pumping testosterone. The sun’s gone under and the wind feels cold, not just autumnal but wintry. They line up on the cliff edge —

  If this is a real guy, I think, and he really is trying to —

  Loud laughter. I have been instructed to capture the moment on Trev’s video camera. I can’t seem to get it focused, though, and my hands tremble with cold.

  If I’m reading Mister Sunshine right, then —

  I bring the boys into focus. The cliffs rise thirty feet above the lake. The water below is deep green. But something happens. Suddenly, with a rough yell, one of the boys is falling. My son teeters and swears, Trev grabs his arm and pulls him back, but Craig stumbles then falls over the cliff edge, a tumble of hot pink. Somehow, as he falls, he manages to use a hand then a sneakered foot against the rock, finding momentary purchase enough to push himself away from the cliff-face. He lands awkwardly but safely in deep water, comes up spluttering and yelling curses. Mild ones though. “You bastard, Trev, goddammit. I could kill you, you — ” Even in this extremity, he’s mindful of Eric and me, avoiding the F word, a kind of miracle in itself, really. Maybe he’s not such a bad kid after all. Maybe none of them are such bad kids.

  Naturally, once the adrenalin settles, they all want to know if I caught it on tape. No, I didn’t. So, despite the cold and the scare, they want to perform a few more feats: a back flip, a twist. Then they can’t wait to get back to the cabin, to sit in front of the TV to watch the recording I’ve made of their exploits. That’s what these kids do. They go outside, do something, tape it, then race back inside to watch the movie. I think of that song from Steely Dan, back in the 70s. Was it called “Showbiz Kids”? Yes, something about the heedlessness and selfishness of the young. I never could figure out what the next line meant. I always heard it as either “love’s wages” or maybe “Las Vegas,” neither of which makes much sense.

  But Mister Sunshine. He told me about himself, about his kids. Who live with their mother, elsewhere. There could be many reasons why he has told me these things. Perhaps he’s lazy and just looking for an ex
cuse to stop working for a while. Perhaps he’s sensed or even witnessed part of my day from hell with these teenagers and wants to give me a break. Perhaps he overheard me in the shower, earlier today, saying hello to myself, as I do a lot these days. But if it’s what might be called “interest” then why the hell am I running? And if this is what my fevered dreams tell me I want, then why in god’s name don’t I —

  But Mister S is gone when we return from the cliffs. He’s finished his work for the day. On the picnic table is a note, saying he’ll call to arrange a time for the final phase of the job.

  News Item: The Calgary Herald: Q&A with local author Janet Mair

  CH: Ms. Mair, are you familiar with the runaway bestseller Final Draft?

  JM: I’ve heard about it, but I don’t read romances. Ever.

  CH: Would you care to comment on the suggestion that you, in fact, are the author of Final Draft?

  JM: Me? You must be joking. If you were at all familiar with my work, you’d realize that I could never write something like that. I’ve heard there’s a rape scene in which the woman suddenly decides to ‘lie back and enjoy it,’ as some of our more benighted judges sometimes advise victims of sexual assault. You know, I think this book was probably written by a man. No self-respecting feminist would ever produce that kind of crap.

  It’s the last night for Matt and his friends — they all have summer jobs to return to. I make a farewell dinner of barbecued chicken and garden veggies. And for a change, the boys attempt conversation at the meal. My polite questions about school, about plans for the future, are met with elaborate shrugs, however, and they offer instead amusing anecdotes about urban-legendary gang fights, reckless behaviour, and feats of underachievement. Lord, I think, how tiresome the young are.

  My young surprise me, though, by actually offering to do the dishes tonight, so I beckon the dog for another walk, scooping up the garbage bag on my way out, and carrying it out to the bear-proof bin at the side of the house. Beside, not inside, the garbage can, I notice an object. It appears to be the water bottle I’d seen this morning in the sauna. Looking more closely, I see that it is not a water bottle at all but an improvised pipe. The hole cut in the side, the rolled-up paper spout, stinking of strong tobacco and cannabis. Of course. This is the “shirt” Trev wanted to retrieve. How terribly well he has concealed the evidence. When Trev assures me that his parents know that he does drugs, I suspect that for once, he has actually told me the truth.

  I walk the dog and then park myself in my favourite deck chair, with a mug of tea in my hand, to watch the dusk fall. The wind has dropped, as it usually does in the evenings here, subsiding to a breeze that shifts direction minute to minute. The air is soft and warm now. Though I’m aware of the boys huddled around the VCR inside the cabin, it’s peaceful out here on the deck. I can hear the mother loon calling her young one to safety — summer’s end, or nearly. A breeze rustles through the long needles of the ponderosa pine. Swallows stutter-fly above the smooth water. I have decided to forget Mister Sunshine — a silly idea in the first place. I’m sure I’m just imagining things.

  So we’re walking back to the hotel, the Englishman and me, laughing and talking together like old friends. He says, “Tell you what. Why don’t we give them something to talk about? You know that you’re not the author of Final Draft, and I certainly believe your sincere denials of that scurrilous accusation. But what about this? What if you and I were to feed the rumour mill? Parade around the festival together? Indulging in a few well-placed gestures? Holding hands, like this, say? And imagine the press if I did something like this?”

  “Aah.” My knees tremble, I’m going to fall down.

  “It could cause quite a sensation, don’t you think?”

  “Just a sec.” Can’t breathe. “I have a question.”

  He chuckles, adorably.

  I’m swimming against an irresistible current, but I fight my way back. “Why should we? The only person who’ll benefit is the anonymous sappy romantic with an excessively rich fantasy life who actually wrote the damn thing. I’m convinced it’s a guy, aren’t you? They’re the real saps for romance. And that bondage scene? That could only have been written by a guy.”

  He grins. “You told me you hadn’t read it. But never mind. We’ll do it because any press is good press. My latest has sold slowly, despite respectful reviews and an excerpt in The New Yorker. And your book of short stories deserves more attention, I think — ”

  Dusk deepens, darkens, and the swallows give way to the flutter of bats, hunting mosquitoes, bless ’em. The silence deepens too, and I have the strangest feeling of, I don’t know, emptiness? Maybe just relaxation. Surprising after this bumpy ride of a day.

  I shift in my chair, swing my feet up onto the bench, let my legs relax, knees out. And something begins to happen. I let go, feel the muscles stretch and become . . . receptive, somehow. And perfectly still. I notice how tightly my hand clutches the mug, and will it to loosen. It does. My head drops back. I listen, listen. The lap of water on the shoreline. Birds call, the horses amble down to the bay for an evening drink. Soon, the owls.

  The sensation begins in my thighs — an opening, a tingling — cells dance, lively and awake, yet oddly still too. I throw my head back farther, let my knees drop, let it come. Night air moves on my skin, the light touch like a tongue. Sensation washes over me, nipples harden, mouth softens and opens. This lovely place offers itself to me unreservedly and I receive it — body and soul, gasping with pleasure.

  I’m going crazy, right off the deep end — that must be it. All this love, this terrible wonderful love: an image swims up, a tall dark-haired thin Englishman, standing on the porch of the farmhouse he rents in France every summer, cup of morning tea in his fine white hands, something strange crossing his mind — a dark place in the mountains, sky black, strange whispering sounds, and some small shy creature, a woman —

  The first golden sliver of full moon glows over the top of the mountain. Above it, a puff of black cloud.

  I call to the boys, “Moon’s coming up. Check it out!” And they make their way, grudgingly, out on to the deck. We stand and watch the rising of the moon, but the older boys can give the glimmering sky only a few minutes of their attention. Eric really gets it, though: “Wow, that cloud looks just like an eagle standing on the mountain — ”

  “Yes,” I say, “and the moon like a spotlight behind it!”

  “Cool!”

  But the day has been too chilly to tempt anyone into a moonlight swim, so the boys head back indoors, and —

  — and after a while my body and soul open once again to the wind, I become prayerful and again I picture him, or am I just writing, I don’t know anymore — dreaming, living, fantasizing, writing, it all bleeds together — what is wish, what is prayer, what is just writing, just making things up. But I think his soul hears mine. A shriek in the trees, a bat. The wind. The caress of the wind and the rise of the moon with a cloud in front of it shaped like an eagle taking flight and my prayer my prayer my prayer —

  When the boys call out to me to come inside and play a board game, I’m pulled up from a soft and drowsy place, unwillingly. But I’m dutiful. If they’re going to make an effort, I must match it. Balderdash. Best liar wins. The game begins cheerfully, but all too soon descends into crudity and raucousness, and I shut it down. Eric toddles off to his bunk, the older boys reassemble before the TV and I drift off to my room. Lie in bed, listening to Eric cough in his bunk down the hall. Poor little guy, sits around ignored, dreaming his glorious battles. And coughing. Forest fires weren’t bad this year; maybe it’s the dampness. Rain, wind, more rain. This whole week, one storm passed and the next just rolled over the mountain, right behind. I’m drowsy, but can’t fall asleep, not for a long time.

  Two mornings later, Eric and I pack up. Those stupid boys left early yesterday without a word of thanks, without a goodbye. How deeply scary it was to think of them in a vehicle, Craig’s mom’s Toyota, on a highwa
y, on their way to do dangerous things, helmetless, on large slabs of concrete at the skateboard park in Banff. In a car driven by Craig, a newly minted driver who turned 16 just last month. They didn’t strip their beds or pick up their towels, either, so Eric and I work away, me egging him on with the promise of pancakes at the truck stop near the Flats on our way home.

  Is the end of every summer like this, I wonder, or have I just forgotten? The initial euphoria of demand-free days giving way to a cranky ennui, impatience with the slightest domestic chore. That first sensual rush of spending whole days near naked, skin and hair exposed to air and sun and wind, sleeping under a thin sheet, windows open to the night breeze; now this same skin coarsened with sunburn, pocked with insect bites and heat rash, heels calloused from going barefoot. Tired, pissed at bad weather, pissed at my kids and hating the merest thought of going back to the city. Jesus. And all day yesterday the lower back tug of an impending bleed, but I pay no attention to these signs anymore, they mean absolutely nothing, they’re a con. Sensations and moods that used to reliably predict what my body would do no longer signify. The signs mislead.

  And this first draft of my novel tugs at me. I’ve tried but I can’t leave them, Jay and Leland, there at Kensington Suites. There are scenes I can’t bear to part with. My Jay. Yes, like Jane Eyre she’s little, poor and plain, like Jane she’s hungry. At the literary dinner party, there’ll be no talk of governesses, though, and Jay won’t slink off, “a little depressed.” Oh no.

  And then Leland comes west like some Columbus or something.

  And then she goes over there for her Orange Prize — well, why not?

  Hey, but how did she end up in London for a reading that first time? The up-against-the-door “there you go” time? That would never happen. Nobody in England would give a rat’s ass about a sensitive little prairie novel like Richdale. Not unless Leland made a few calls —

  The phone snaps me out of it. “Hi, it’s Ray. From Mister Sunshine.”