Featherstone opened the door for the next runner, a man who extended his hand as he entered the room. “I’m Bill Leach from Cobden.” With his compact body, velvety skin, smooth brown hair, drooping ears and pleading eyes, Leach reminded Rhona of a beagle. Invited to sit down and describe his connection to Paul Robertson, Leach began immediately in a perfect pulpit voice, a deep beagle baritone.
“I’m a United Church minister. Paul Robertson and I attended theology school at the University of Toronto. In recent years, I’ve run into him at presbytery meetings.”
Rhona heard the chill in Leach’s voice. “Am I right in assuming you did not like Paul Robertson?”
Leach, perched on the edge of his chair, shook his head. “As transparent as that, am I? Well, in a way, Paul was responsible for my life taking the course it did, and for a long time, I thought it was going the wrong way.”
“I’m forming a picture of Robertson. Tell me what happened?”
Leach cocked his head to one side. “Well, I can’t imagine it’ll help you much.” He pressed the palms of both hands together and raised them as if he was about to pray. “Paul and I were in the same class at theological school. The basic qualification for the ministry is a bachelor of divinity, but, if you aspire to go anywhere in the hierarchy or to be called to a big city church, you require at least one graduate degree. With a basic one, you begin your career with a five-point charge in Saskatchewan and end up with a one-point charge in a town like Cobden.”
“What’s a five-point charge?”
“The number of churches you serve. On the prairies and in the Maritimes, one minister may serve five separated congregations—each is a point. But, to return to my story—for graduate school to be a possibility, I had to win the one large scholarship the theology school offered.” He shook his head. “Paul Robertson wanted it too; not for the money—for the prestige. When the time for scholarship interviews came along a rumour ran through the school saying I’d plagiarized a major paper. You can guess what happened—the college awarded the scholarship to Paul.” He interlocked his fingers. “I took a three-point charge in Manitoba. Paul Robertson didn’t ruin my life, but I wonder what I could have done if I’d had more education.”
Why would the interviewers have believed a rumour? Surely, they would have investigated the suggestion of plagiarization. Rhona didn’t believe Leach’s story, but Leach did and had been pleased to have a chance to tell it.
“Were you aware Robertson ran, and did you expect to see him at the marathon?”
“Because of his darn T-shirt and the number of times he’s been on television, I should think almost everyone in the Ottawa Valley would recognize him.” He undid his two forefingers and pointed them at Rhona like six-shooters. “Paul is—was—his own favourite subject and, at church meetings, we heard about his exploits. Did I expect to meet him? No, and I didn’t.”
His eyes twinkled, and he pointed his fingers at himself. “Because I run faster than Paul, the organizers gave me a number allowing me to start toward the front of the pack.” He lowered his hands. “One of the small and not very admirable things you should know about me—I wrote down his time after his first marathon four years ago, and I’ve tracked him since then. I was twenty minutes faster when we started, and the gap has grown. This year I cut ten minutes off and ran it in three hours and twenty minutes.”
“Congratulations!”
“In my opinion, Paul Robertson would sink to any level to obtain what he wanted. If he did that to me, you can bet he’s done even worse things to other people.”
Four
After Kas left, Hollis made one or two phone calls, but her reaction time had slowed again. Every action required intense concentration and left her exhausted and doubtful she’d ever move easily again. She wondered if this physical reaction would be transitory, or if she’d spend months sporadically operating as if tons of water pressed down on her. The phone rang. She picked it up on the fourth ring.
“Hollis, it’s Elsie.”
Hollis wasn’t surprised. St. Mark’s relied on the practical goodness of Elsie Workman and her husband Roger to match the physical with the emotional needs of the congregation.
“Hollis, dear, we were shocked to hear about Paul. You can count on Roger and me to do whatever we can to help.” She took an audible breath. “You’re going to have lots to do in the next few days. I thought, if it’s okay, I’d come over every day to answer the door, the phone and organize the food everyone’s sure to bring. If you think it’ll be an intrusion, just say so. I won’t be hurt, dear—everyone reacts to tragedy in a different way . . .”
People could be so kind. Tears threatened to flow, but she took a deep breath and banished them. “Elsie, it would be great. I do need you. Come over whenever you’re ready.” The prospect of Elsie’s cheery intervention in her life lifted Hollis’s spirits. Her limbs felt lighter; she dared to hope they soon might resume normal functioning.
Twenty minutes later Elsie arrived, rustled up a toasted tuna sandwich, insisted Hollis eat and then sent her upstairs for a lie-down. When Marguerite phoned late in the afternoon, Elsie intercepted the call, and thinking Hollis would want to talk to Marguerite, trotted upstairs to tell her.
After Marguerite offered sincere conventional words of sympathy, she said, “Is Elsie planning to feed you dinner?”
“Force feed I’m afraid. You know Elsie—she believes food fixes everything. I’m grateful but not hungry.”
“Come over, and we’ll eat nachos or popcorn or drink gin. Whatever you want.”
“Gin sounds pretty good.”
“I have two hospital visits left to make before supper. Let’s say any time after six.”
Exactly what Hollis needed. Marguerite could answer her questions about Paul. At five thirty, she made herself take MacTee for a decent walk before she changed.
Clothes had always been important to her. Once, in a moment of introspection, she’d figured out the reason: she’d been a large, ungainly child, a great contrast to her pretty, petite mother who, unhappily, had dressed her only daughter in frills and bows, accentuating her size and making her feel even larger. Early on, Hollis had realized what the right clothes did for your self-image and psyche and, ever since, had been obsessed with her appearance. Even so, it shocked her to acknowledge to herself that, even at this moment of crisis, she cared so much.
After she’d tucked herself into a conservative pair of black wool trousers and a black and white patterned silk shirt she vacillated between a black or pink wool blazer before she chose pink. She rejected a large splashy brooch and selected a smaller one—a silver filigree star.
On her way out of the house, she passed through the kitchen and avoided MacTee’s eyes lest he take eye contact for a tacit invitation to throw himself against her and leave a residue of hair. Outside, she climbed into the cab of her ten-year-old Nissan pickup. Once again, as she did every time she faced the mess, she vowed to clean out the winter’s debris. An archeologist could read her history by investigating the layered strata.
Marguerite lived in a downtown residential area, where developers had converted turn-of-the-century mansions into apartments. Her veranda-wrapped brick building with leaded glass bay windows must once have epitomized the glories of Victorian living. Hollis pressed the bell beside the bevelled glass door and identified herself, and Marguerite