Gail Bowen - The Endless Knot

As if she’d read his mind, Dr. Roses Stewart strode through the doors from Intensive Care. She seemed surprised to see us in the waiting room. “Glenda left twenty minutes ago,” she said. “She only stayed with her father for a few minutes. I apologize. Someone should have told you.”

“It’s a crazy day,” Zack said simply. “But I could use your help. There will be media people downstairs wanting answers. Is there someone who can give them the facts and get them the hell out of here? Mrs. Parker is coming to the hospital straight from the airport. She shouldn’t have to deal with the press.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Dr. Stewart said. The three of us were silent as we took the elevator to the main floor. But as the door opened, Dr. Stewart turned towards us.

“I’d just heard the verdict when they brought Mr. Parker in,” she said. “All the time I was working on him, I kept thinking how relieved he must have been to know he was a free man.”

The press had been shepherded into a boardroom on the main floor. Dr. Stewart’s announcement was brief. She gave the time and cause of death, and said there was no point asking questions because she had no answers. Then she walked out of the room. The press spotted Zack and when they redirected their energies to him, he followed the doctor’s lead and told everyone he had nothing to say, so they might as well go home. There was grumbling, but with no reason to stay, people left. When the boardroom had emptied, Zack rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, Jo. I’m going through the motions, but I really can’t believe any of this.”

I could see the sorrow gathering. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s blow this pop stand. There’s a Robin’s Donuts down the hall. We can have a cup of coffee and be back in the waiting room at Intensive Care by the time Beverly arrives.”

The hospital’s Robin’s was called The Heartbeat Café – a questionable choice for a place that pushed caffeine, sugar, carbs, and grease, but in every other way it was identical to its sister stores in the franchise: metal tables and chairs, perky servers in brown and orange uniforms. Zack peered gloomily at the displays that featured every conceivable permutation and combination of fried dough and glaze, then turned to me. “Why don’t they serve martinis here?”

“No initiative,” I said.

“They’re missing a bet. Life’s lousiest moments call for something more than coffee, and right now you and I are three for three: Sam’s dead, Glenda has vamoosed, and Beverly’s on her way.”

I picked up our coffee and followed Zack to a table.

“Do you want me to stay when Beverly comes?”

Zack sipped his coffee. “No. You’d probably feel compelled to kill her, and I don’t think I can handle any more complexities today.”

“Is she that bad?”

“Worse. She talks about Jesus so much you think he’ll be dropping by for lunch, but Beverly’s Lord wouldn’t be a lot of yucks. He’s pretty heavily into abominations and transgressions.”

“It’s hard to believe someone could change so much,” I said. “Last night when I heard that funny little twang in her voice, I remembered how much she and Sam meant to me. When I listened to them, I really believed we were the generation that could make a better world.”

“Beverly made herself a better world,” Zack said. “Can’t blame her for the fact that the poor and downtrodden didn’t know how to pick their investment counsellors.”

We finished our coffee and said our goodbyes. Zack went to the front door with me and waited till I got a taxi.

When I got home, I went straight to our family room. The crib board and cards were still on the table. Sam had given the cards a double shuffle before he slid them back into their case. “Luck for the next player,” he explained. Despite everything I felt a rush of gratitude. Out of nowhere, an old Dr. Seuss line came into my mind: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” I picked up the jacket of the LP on the turnstile. The album was called Skylarking and the photo on the cover was poignant: Sam and Bev, young, lithe, and exuberant, were frolicking on the rigging of a sloop. The sail of the sloop was billowing and the sky above was cloudless and impossibly blue. Nothing but good times ahead.

Seconds later, the phone rang again. The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Luckily, she identified herself.

“Joanne, it’s Kathryn Morrissey. I wondered if I could come by and talk to you for a few minutes. I need your help.”

I was livid. “You really are a piece of work. Sam’s body is still at the hospital and you’re already lining up interviews.”

There was a silence. “I didn’t know he died,” Kathryn said.

“Well, he did – about an hour ago. He had a massive coronary, and it killed him. Find a radio. You can hear all about it.”

“You sound as if you think that somehow Sam Parker’s death is my fault.”

“Kathryn, do you have any idea of the impact Too Much Hope had on Sam’s life?”

“Sam Parker died of a heart attack, Joanne. You said so yourself. A heart attack is nobody’s fault. It just happens.”

“My God, Kathryn. What kind of human being are you?”

“What kind of human being are you, Joanne? I told you I need help. Can’t we at least talk?”

“No,” I said. “We can’t. Smarter people than me have fallen for your line, but I have the advantage of hindsight. I know what you do to people who trust you. I have nothing to say to you, Kathryn. Not now. Not ever. So, do us both a favour – delete my name from your address book.”

As I always did after I’d lost my temper, I felt better for thirty seconds and then infinitely worse. But as depleted and ashamed as I felt, I wasn’t ready for a rematch with Kathryn. When the phone rang again, I checked call display before I answered. It was Jill Oziowy.

“Quite a day for you, huh?”

“Zack and I were with Glenda when the doctor told her Sam was dead.”

“God, that must have been miserable.”

“It was. And then to add to the misery, I just had a call from Kathryn Morrissey.”

Suddenly Jill was all business. “What did she want?”

“She wanted to talk. She said she needed my help.”

“Perfect. We’re doing a piece on the life and death of Sam Parker on Canadian Morning . Call Kathryn back and ask her to meet you at the studio tonight. I’ll get Rafti to set it up. We can add your interview to the piece.”

“Jill, Sam Parker died today. If you want to talk to Kathryn, call her yourself. I’m not playing any more, and I told her that.”

“Mary, Mother of God, why would you do that?”

“Because, in the words of the sage, ‘There is some shit I will not eat.’ ”

Jill’s tone was cutting. “So while you stay lily pure, Kathryn is already on the phone with another network arranging her first live interview about the Sam Parker case. Christ, Jo, how dumb can you be?”

“Apparently very dumb,” I said. “I thought you shared my opinion of Too Much Hope.”

“That’s personal. This is professional. Your boyfriend would understand.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you might to want to take a look at how Zack Shreve operates. He knows that when you’ve got a job to do, principles get in the way.”

“Okay. Time to shut it down. You’re talking about the man I’m going to marry. No more slams. Got it?”

“Yes, I’ve got it,” she said. “I assume you’ll still do the Canadian Morning spot.”

“Have Rapti call with a time,” I said. “But, Jill, I really liked Sam. Don’t expect me to be impartial.”

“I’m sure Kathryn Morrissey’s interview with the competition will balance things out,” Jill said acidly. Then she slammed down the phone. It seemed our friendship was about to become another casualty of Kathryn Morrissey’s ambition. I wanted to cry. Instead, I went into the kitchen and made a pitcher of martinis. Zack had taught me his recipe – Citadelle Gin, enough Noilly Prat to round out the sharpness of the gin, and ice. I put the pitcher and two glasses in the fridge, arranged cheese and crackers on a plate, filled a bowl with more olives, then made up the hide-a-bed in the family room. When Zack arrived, I handed him a martini at the door.