Free Lauchlin of the Bad Heart by D. R. Macdonald Page B

fine art of pugilism in his London club. Photos Lauchlin had taken in Cape Breton, some with women, some not, that he sometimes examined, peering at what remained of those places, of that self that might still be useful to him.
    And the postcard he’d long ago tacked above the little desk because he liked the woman on it, not for mailing but for himself. Silent Waters, a bromide print, England late forties, it had that postwar feeling about it, a peaceful sensuality possible once again. A nude woman, her hands touching lightly the gunnel of a rowboat as if it is the edge of a bed, stands in a placid, misty pond, her feet immersed in its mirrored shallows. She is turned slightly away from the camera, just the profile of her face, the simple lines of her lovely body inclined toward the boat in the grey, misted light as if she might gently push it aside and step deeper into the water: in those soft black-and-white shades she looks quietly desirable in some way he could not explain, and he never tired of her, imagining the rustle of cloth as she’d removed her dress, the way her garments lay out of sight on the grass.
    He put on a clean shirt and jeans and sat in the chair by the parlour window. Many times he had driven over the mountain on a night like this, up the west coast where Morag lived. Yet he felt that he had dressed for Tena MacTavish somehow, absurd though that was—no way would he encounter her tonight. Maybe it was just the two quick whiskys that primed him for her company. Good for the heart anyway,old Dr. Fraser had told him, whisky in moderation. Lauchlin avoided younger doctors and their contemporary advice—Fraser had seen him fight, he understood the limits of medical solutions. So Lauchlin nursed a third glass, turning it in his hand as the set sun became a slow, red river of ingot along the ridge, the mountain’s green darkening down to the strait, the water a faintly shivering black.
    At the store below, Clement’s truck pulled up and he dashed inside with the engine running. What would he and Tena talk about when he came home? Ordinary things, or would she tell him something that only her blind eyes could see? A day different from those of other wives, even the way she baked, feeling velvety flour in her fingers, the sweet grit of brown sugar. After Clement drove away, Johanna doused the store lights, flipped the Open sign to Closed. She’d stay down there a while, checking stock, pencilling a list of goods for him to pick up in North Sydney tomorrow. The livid red sky ebbed into gauzy pinks, died to cool aquas, and then the first shade of night.
    “ YES ?” MORAG SAID , a little out of breath. The phone there was back in the kitchen and she had probably run down the stairs.
    “It’s Lauchlin, Morag.”
    “Hello, Lauchlin.”
    Their voices struck the familiar notes, it would not have mattered what words they used, how dull or ordinary, it was all voice at first, feints and dodges, an old tune of reunion and evasion. When had she come down? How were things with him? How did she find being home again, alone in the house?
    “Why didn’t you tell me Nell died?” he said, when the small talk got smaller.
    “It’s not like we were still in touch,” she said.
    “Jesus, you were home for the funeral, weren’t you? What does that really mean anyway, in touch?”
    “I think you know. I was here for three days, Lauchlin, that’s all I could get at the time. I’m back to settle her estate.”
    “Estate. She’d get a laugh out of that. She buried at St. Margaret’s?”
    “They took her up there, yes.” They listened to each other’s breathing. Morag sighed. “Lauchlin. I didn’t want to start it again. It was an emotional time for me.”
    “Of course. Bound to be.”
    “Do you want to come up?”
    “It’s nearly dark. It’s late and I’m feeling a little unsteady. Tomorrow I have to go into town. But I’ll come up before long.”
    “Strange to be here alone,” she said. “Auntie