"Frameshift" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sawyer Robert J.)

Chapter 2

The early 1980s. Ronald Reagan had recently been sworn in as president, and, moments later, Iran had released the American hostages it had been holding prisoner for 444 days. Here in Canada, Pierre Trudeau was in the middle of his comeback term as prime minister, struggling to bring the Canadian constitution home from Great Britain.

Eighteen-year-old Pierre Tardivel stood in front of the strange house in suburban Toronto, the collar of his red McGill University jacket turned up against the cold, dry wind whipping down the salt-stained street.

Now that he was here, this didn’t seem like such a good idea. Maybe he should just turn around, head back to the bus station, back to Montreal.

His mother would be delighted if he gave up now, and, well, if what Henry Spade’s wife had told Pierre about her husband were true, Pierre wasn’t sure that he could face the man. He should just—

No. No, he had come this far. He had to see for himself.

Pierre took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp air, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He walked up the driveway to the front door of the side-split suburban home, pressed the doorbell, and heard the muffled sound of the chimes from within. A few moments later, the door opened, and a handsome, middle-aged woman stood before him.

“Hello, Mrs. Spade. I’m Pierre Tardivel.” He was conscious of how out of place his Quebecois accent must have sounded here — another reminder that he was intruding.

There was a moment while Mrs. Spade looked Pierre up and down during which Pierre thought he saw a flicker of recognition on her face.

Pierre had merely told her on the phone that his parents had been friends of her husband, back when Henry Spade had lived in Montreal in the early sixties. And yet she had to have realized there must be a special reason for Pierre to want to visit. What was it Pierre’s mother had said when he’d confronted her with the evidence? “I knew you were Henry’s — you’re the spitting image of him.”

“Hello, Pierre,” said Mrs. Spade. The voice was richer than it had sounded over the phone, but there was still a trace of wariness to it. “You can call me Dorothy. Please come in.” She stepped aside, and Pierre entered the vestibule. Physically, Dorothy bore a passing resemblance to his mother — dark hair, cool blue-gray eyes, full lips. Perhaps Henry Spade had been attracted to a specific type of woman. Pierre unzipped his jacket, but made no move to take it off.

“Henry is upstairs in his room,” said Dorothy. His room. Separate bedrooms? How cold. “It’s easier for him to be lying down. Do you mind seeing him up there?”

Pierre shook his head.

“Very well,” she said. “Come with me.”

They walked into the brightly lit living room. Two full walls were covered with bookcases made of dark wood. A staircase led to the second floor. Along one side of it were tracks for a small motorized chair. The chair itself was positioned at the top. Dorothy led Pierre upstairs and into the first door on the left.

Pierre fought to keep his expression neutral.

Lying on the bed was a man who appeared to be dancing on his back.

His arms and legs moved constantly, rotating at shoulder and hip, elbow and knee, wrist and ankle. His head lolled left and right across the pillow.

His hair was steel gray and, of course, his eyes were brown.

“Bonjour,” said Pierre, so startled that he’d begun speaking in French.

He began again. “Hello. I’m Pierre Tardivel.”

The man’s voice was weak and slurred. Speaking was clearly an effort.

“Hello, P-Pierre,” he said. He paused, but whether composing his thoughts or just waiting for his body to yield a little control, Pierre couldn’t say.

“How is — is your mother?”

Pierre blinked repeatedly. He would not insult the man by crying in front of him. “She’s fine.”

Henry’s head rolled from side to side, but he kept his eyes on Pierre. He wanted more, Pierre knew, than a platitude.

“She’s in good health,” he said. “She’s a loans officer for a large branch of Banque de Montreal.”

“She’s happy?” asked Henry, with effort.

“She enjoys her work, and money is no problem. There was a lot of insurance when Dad died.”

Henry swallowed with what appeared to be considerable difficulty. “I, ah, didn’t know that Alain had passed on. Tell her… tell her I’m sorry.”

The words seemed sincere. No sarcasm, no double edge. Alain Tardivel had been his rival, but Henry seemed genuinely saddened by his death.

Pierre squeezed his jaw tightly shut for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

“She’s a wonderful woman,” said Henry.

“I have a picture of her,” said Pierre. He pulled out his wallet and flipped to the small portrait of his mother wearing a white silk blouse. He held the wallet where Henry could see it.

Henry stared at it for a long time, then said, “I guess I changed more than she did.”

Pierre forced a weak smile.

“Are… only child?” A few words had gotten lost in the convulsion that had passed over Henry’s body like a wave.

“Yes. There—” No, no point in mentioning his younger sister, Marie-Claire, who had died when she was two. “Yes, I’m the only one.”

“You’re a fine-looking young man,” said Henry.

Pierre smiled — genuinely this time — and Henry seemed to smile back.

Dorothy, perhaps detecting the undercurrent, or perhaps just bored with conversation about people she didn’t know, said, “Well, I can see you two have things to talk about. I’ll go downstairs. Pierre, can I bring you a drink? Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” said Pierre.

“Well, then,” she said, and left.

Pierre stood beside Henry’s bed. Having his own room made perfect sense now. How could it be any other way? No one could sleep next to him, given the constant jerking of his limbs.

The man on the bed lifted his right arm toward Pierre. It moved slowly from side to side, like the bough of a tree swaying in the wind. Pierre reached out and took the hand, holding it firmly. Henry smiled.

“You look… just like I did… when I was your age,” said Henry.

A tear did slip down Pierre’s cheek. “You know who I am?”

Henry nodded. “I — when your mother got pregnant, I’d thought there was a chance. But she ended our relationship. I’d assumed if I’d… if I’d been right, I’d have heard something before now.” His head was moving, but he managed to keep his eyes mostly on Pierre. “I— I wish I’d known.”

Pierre squeezed the hand. “Me, too.” A pause. “Do you— do you have any other children?”

“Daughters,” said Henry. “Two daughters. Adopted. Dorothy— Dorothy couldn’t…”

Pierre nodded.

“Best, in a way,” said Henry, and here, at last, he let his gaze wander away from Pierre. “Huntington’s disease is… is…”

Pierre swallowed. “Hereditary. I know.”

Henry’s head moved back and forth more rapidly than normal — a deliberate signal all but lost in the muscular noise. “If I’d known I had it, I… never would have allowed myself to father a child. I’m sorry. V-very sorry.”

Pierre nodded.

“You might have it, too.”

Pierre said nothing.

“There’s no test,” said Henry. “I’m sorry.”

Pierre watched Henry move about on the bed, knees jerking, free arm waving. And yet in the middle of it all was a face not unlike his own, round and broad, with deep brown eyes. He realized then that he didn’t know how old Henry was. Forty-five? Perhaps as old as fifty. Certainly no more than that. Henry’s right arm started jerking rapidly. Pierre, not sure what to do, let go of his hand.

“It’s… it’s good to finally meet you,” said Pierre; and then, realizing that he would never have another chance, he added a single word: “Dad.”

Henry’s eyes were wet. “You need anything?” he said. “Money?”

Pierre shook his head. “I’m fine. Really, I am. I just wanted to meet you.”

Henry’s lower lip was trembling. Pierre couldn’t tell at first if it was just part of the chorea or had deeper meaning. But when Henry next spoke, his voice was full of pain. “I — I’ve forgotten your name,” he said.

“Pierre,” he said. “Pierre Jacques Tardivel.”

“Pierre,” repeated Henry. “A good name.” He paused for several seconds, then said, “How is your mother? Did you bring a picture?”

Pierre went down to the living room. Dorothy was sitting in a chair, reading a Jackie Collins novel. She looked up and gave him a wan smile.

“Thank you,” said Pierre. “Thank you for everything.”

She nodded. “He very much wanted to see you.”

“I was very glad to see him.” He paused. “But I should be going now.”

“Wait,” said Dorothy. She took an envelope from the coffee table and rose to her feet. “I have something for you.” Pierre looked at it. “I told him I didn’t need any money.” Dorothy shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s photographs — of Henry, from a dozen years ago. From when you would have been a little boy. Photographs of what he was like then — the way I’m sure he’d like you to remember him.”

Pierre took the envelope. His eyes were stinging. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, her face not quite masking her pain.