Eleven
If Wes had to give a lecture on the differences between the rich and the poor, at least one of his slides would feature transportation. When you were rich, it didn’t matter where you lived because you could drive wherever you wanted. No car? Pay other people to drive you around. You had the luxury of not caring about good transit to your house because you never needed it. And if you didn’t need it, why would anyone else?
He was thinking these deep thoughts as he stared out the dirt-streaked bus window at a woman walking multiple Chihuahuas and a single Great Dane, their leashes tied around her waist like a maypole. He was late to meet Nadine after his car gave a pathetic little shudder and died when he turned the key, forcing him to run for the first of three buses.
When he arrived at Dot’s gate, hot and sweaty from jogging the six blocks from the final stop, it was to find Nadine waiting for him. She looked as cool as always, with her dark hair falling straight to her shoulders, streaked red in the sun, and a white linen blouse with a black linen skirt. Her outfit was flowing and unstructured, but the sunlight highlighted the outline of her body through the fabric. His throat suddenly went dry. Must be from dehydration.
“I was about to text you.” She looked him over. “Did you run here?”
“Yeah, I’m becoming an ultramarathoner, and this is part of my new training regime.” He passed a hand over his face and tried to breathe without panting. He hated feeling disheveled. That only worked for guys like Tyler, who turned coffee stains and rumpled shirts into badges of honor that demonstrated how hard they were working. Wes, on the other hand, felt the eyes of judgment linger over every shirt wrinkle.
“In those clothes?” She motioned to his pants, which had lost their creases.
“They’ve got a new category for people who hate spandex.”
“I knew a guy who did one,” Nadine said thoughtfully. “He trained for a year straight and broke his ankle on the last kilometer. He crawled the rest of the way so he could finish.”
Wes adjusted his bag. “Dedicated.”
“His knees were bloody.” Nadine looked at his knees as if wondering if they were strong enough to crawl through a thousand meters of forest or desert or whatever.
“Sounds interesting,” Wes finally offered. “Should we go see Dot?”
“Right. Get in.” Nadine pointed to the car.
He didn’t protest, although the drive from the gate to the door was only about fifteen seconds. She trained the air-con on his side, then handed him a pack of tissues, all without saying a word. He patted his face and let the cold air blow directly on his sweaty skin. It felt a bit clammy but good.
“You waited for me,” he said as she pulled under the portico. The why was implied.
Nadine put the car in park. “Wasn’t sure Dot would let me in without you.”
He checked her expression, but it was unreadable. Was she teasing him, or did she mean it? He supposed it didn’t matter. They were only there to get the story.
This time, Maria greeted them, saying Dot was in the library. Wes looked over to see his own eagerness reflected on Nadine’s face. They hadn’t been in any other rooms beyond the salon, the kitchen, and the powder room, which was a violent shade of mauve and painted with lilacs. The toilet seat was oak and the bowl lavender porcelain. He hadn’t known they came in colors besides white. He wished he could have talked about it with Nadine but ran into difficulties figuring out how to open a conversation on water closets.
Nadine gave Sir Latimer a little wave, which somehow came off as naturally cute rather than painfully twee, and they passed through the main room. At the far side, Maria pushed open the double doors like she was about to present this year’s debutantes to the queen and left.
Wes didn’t blame Nadine for stumbling because the room was a dream. Unlike the color wars battling it out in the other parts of the house, this was all brown and olive and tan, soothing nature tones complemented by wood and leather furniture. The muted glow of polished brass gleamed on the cabinets. The space was two stories high, and books lined the walls. A wrought iron staircase led to a wide landing that circled the room, and a small electric lift had been installed on the other side.
He itched to sit in the reading nook on the upstairs landing, with its club chairs and those ever-present lamps, including one of a bronze owl holding a lantern in its beak. “That corner calls for brandy and a book,” he muttered to Nadine.
“It would have to be a leather-backed classic,” she said. “This room would incinerate a mass-market paperback.”
Dot sat in the conversation area in the center, ready to hold court. Behind her was a large table with green-shaded lamps and an onyx chessboard. Against the far wall was a small dilapidated desk with an ergonomic chair and a typewriter. A sleek laptop was pushed to the side.
“That’s where she worked,” whispered Nadine with an awe he’d never heard from her. “She brought it from Manitoba and never wrote at any other desk.” Octavia lay near the laptop, her striped tummy glowing as she absorbed the sun.
Tea was set up, and Dot waved them over. “Lemon squares today,” she said. “Maria felt extravagant. Handsome, you look overheated.” She put aside the newspaper she was reading, folded open to the obituaries, one already cut out.
“Do you often cut things out of the paper?” he asked. It seemed like an old-fashioned thing to do but very Dot.
“I do.” She tapped the clipping with her finger, the nail painted a rich pumpkin orange, then handed it to Nadine. “There are all sorts of interesting things in a newspaper.”
“‘Mary Linquist died at the age of eighty-two, leaving behind two daughters, five grandchildren, and a garage filled with useless inventions,’” Nadine read. “‘Her plan to make chocolate chips with her Chip-o-Tronic 2000 will live in family history thanks to the resultant kitchen fire.’”
Dot laughed, then adjusted her oxygen. “Sounds like a real character, doesn’t she? You can keep that.”
Wes made the tea as usual, letting Nadine dangle a breaking news item as a way to get Dot talking. Because Dot was Dot, it didn’t take long for her to skip from the delays on the construction of a new subway line to talking about fascism, then the ability of music to foment social change.
“Leonard Cohen’s ‘The Partisan’ was anti-fascist,” said Wes as he gave Nadine her cup. “He wrote it about the French Resistance.”
Dot turned to him, chin up and hand stroking Erma’s back. “He what?”
“Wrote it about the French Resistance?” Wes had a sudden feeling of doubt. “Didn’t he?”
“He didn’t write it,” said Nadine. “Anna Marly composed and performed it first. Cohen’s cover is simply more popular, so people assume the song is his.”
Wes prickled at Nadine showing him up, but it soon settled to curiosity. “How do you know this?” he asked.
“I read her obituary,” said Nadine, turning to Dot. “Did I get that right?”
Dot nodded her head. “Like so many women, she had her accomplishments attributed to a man. Nothing against Leonard. A lovely fellow.” She pointed to a small ink sketch on the wall. “He gave me that.”
“It’s common in your books,” said Nadine, leaning forward. “I was reading A Glass and a Half last night. Eliza’s journal was stolen by her husband and turned into books under his own name.”
“I based it on Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Dot said.
Wes blinked at this accidental literary revelation. It had long been suspected by critics, but like so much in her life, Dot had refused to confirm it.
“I thought there was a bit of Colette and Monsieur Willy as well.” Nadine spoke casually, but he saw her hand twitch, almost as if she wanted to reach out and grab the answers that were so close.
Wes waited for his chance to join in before he realized Nadine had it under control. Also, he knew nada about Colette and Monsieur Willy. It was better for him to listen.
“At least we now acknowledge Monsieur Willy forced her to write the Claudine novels to publish under his own name. Zelda has still to get her full justice.”
“Like Eliza, who never got hers.”
“That’s right.” Dot leaned back and closed her eyes while Wes cast Nadine a look to encourage her to keep going. He knew better than to interrupt. Nadine was finally getting them somewhere, and at the moment, it was more important to hear Dot than to give in to the urge to outdo Nadine.
The opportunity to do that would come up soon enough anyway.