said sharply, "that I hadn't seen him in twenty years. You could tell me anything at all—I'd have to believe it. The man was a stranger to me."
He liked the sound of her voice, as he had liked the brief glimpse of her which she had permitted the village during her quick trip to arrange for her brother's burial. She was tall and straight and thin, well dressed, with coiffured white hair and a lift to her chin She had been brisk and businesslike, in Sechelt.
"It wasn't that people didn't like him, exactly," said Alberg thoughtfully. "Most people described him as the life of the party, that sort of thing." He tossed the pen aside and leaned back. "But there were a couple of people who told us they felt kind of uncomfortable with him. And this interests me, as you might imagine.”
"Really,” said Carlyle Burke's sister, politely.
"Yeah. That's all we've got. Some people felt uncomfortable with him. They said things like. . ."—he shoved the defaced letter aside and ruffled through the file on his desk—"I'm quoting, now. 'He made me nervous with all his boisterousness.' And, 'It was like he was always acting a part, and you'd wish and wish he'd give it a rest now and then but he never did.' And, 'I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but whenever he asked me to dance I'd try to find an excuse; the way he liked to fling people around when he was dancing-well, it was too much for me, I'm seventy-eight years old.'” Alberg rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes and waited. "Nothing serious there," he said absentmindedly. "It just got me thinking, that's all.”
' "No," said Mrs. Morris. "No, it doesn't sound particularly serious."
Alberg sat up. "In the twenty years since you saw him," he said amicably, "who did you talk to about him, and what did you tell them?"
"What makes you think lever talked about him? To anyone?"
"I don't know. But I'm sure you did."
He imagined her sitting at a small desk under a window. There would be white curtains at the window, the kind that hung straight to the floor. Maybe the desk had pigeonholes. It was probably made of dark wood, and it probably shone in the light from the window, or the lamp that would be standing next to it. He saw her fidgeting with the telephone cord, wrapping it around her lingers, unwrapping it, wrapping it again around her lingers, marking them.
"I can fly out to Winnipeg to see you," he said softly, "if that would be easier for you. Maybe talk to your children, too, while I'm there.”
"There's no need for that," she said coldly. "They never met him. They never laid eyes on him. I made sure of that."
He waited again, and when she finally began to speak her voice was toneless. She spoke quickly, and Alberg gave an inaudible sigh of relief.
"He was nine years older than I. He taunted me when I was a child, baited me when I was an adolescent. My parents punished him, but it didn't do any good. He didn't like me, that's all. Maybe if I had been born when he was younger, or older .... I'm trying to be charitable. Really, I don't believe it would have made the slightest difference. He just didn't like me, that's all. So of course eventually—it didn't take long—I didn't like him, either. It's as simple as that.”
"Was he physically cruel to you?"
"Oh, not really. It was nothing like that," she said quickly.
"Did he get into trouble at school, for the same kinds of things?"
"I don't know. I don't remember. I was nine years younger than he; that's a big difference, when you're children."
"Was he ever married?”
Another pause. "Good heavens, Mr. Alberg. He was married to George Wilcox's sister. I'm astonished that you didn't know. "
Alberg stared blankly at the photograph of his daughters that hung next to his desk. "Jesus. So am l."
"But perhaps it isn't so surprising after all," she said, almost comfortingly. "It was a long time ago—thirty years ago. And the marriage only lasted two years. Audrey was killed in a car accident."
"Thirty years ago.
He liked the sound of her voice, as he had liked the brief glimpse of her which she had permitted the village during her quick trip to arrange for her brother's burial. She was tall and straight and thin, well dressed, with coiffured white hair and a lift to her chin She had been brisk and businesslike, in Sechelt.
"It wasn't that people didn't like him, exactly," said Alberg thoughtfully. "Most people described him as the life of the party, that sort of thing." He tossed the pen aside and leaned back. "But there were a couple of people who told us they felt kind of uncomfortable with him. And this interests me, as you might imagine.”
"Really,” said Carlyle Burke's sister, politely.
"Yeah. That's all we've got. Some people felt uncomfortable with him. They said things like. . ."—he shoved the defaced letter aside and ruffled through the file on his desk—"I'm quoting, now. 'He made me nervous with all his boisterousness.' And, 'It was like he was always acting a part, and you'd wish and wish he'd give it a rest now and then but he never did.' And, 'I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but whenever he asked me to dance I'd try to find an excuse; the way he liked to fling people around when he was dancing-well, it was too much for me, I'm seventy-eight years old.'” Alberg rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes and waited. "Nothing serious there," he said absentmindedly. "It just got me thinking, that's all.”
' "No," said Mrs. Morris. "No, it doesn't sound particularly serious."
Alberg sat up. "In the twenty years since you saw him," he said amicably, "who did you talk to about him, and what did you tell them?"
"What makes you think lever talked about him? To anyone?"
"I don't know. But I'm sure you did."
He imagined her sitting at a small desk under a window. There would be white curtains at the window, the kind that hung straight to the floor. Maybe the desk had pigeonholes. It was probably made of dark wood, and it probably shone in the light from the window, or the lamp that would be standing next to it. He saw her fidgeting with the telephone cord, wrapping it around her lingers, unwrapping it, wrapping it again around her lingers, marking them.
"I can fly out to Winnipeg to see you," he said softly, "if that would be easier for you. Maybe talk to your children, too, while I'm there.”
"There's no need for that," she said coldly. "They never met him. They never laid eyes on him. I made sure of that."
He waited again, and when she finally began to speak her voice was toneless. She spoke quickly, and Alberg gave an inaudible sigh of relief.
"He was nine years older than I. He taunted me when I was a child, baited me when I was an adolescent. My parents punished him, but it didn't do any good. He didn't like me, that's all. Maybe if I had been born when he was younger, or older .... I'm trying to be charitable. Really, I don't believe it would have made the slightest difference. He just didn't like me, that's all. So of course eventually—it didn't take long—I didn't like him, either. It's as simple as that.”
"Was he physically cruel to you?"
"Oh, not really. It was nothing like that," she said quickly.
"Did he get into trouble at school, for the same kinds of things?"
"I don't know. I don't remember. I was nine years younger than he; that's a big difference, when you're children."
"Was he ever married?”
Another pause. "Good heavens, Mr. Alberg. He was married to George Wilcox's sister. I'm astonished that you didn't know. "
Alberg stared blankly at the photograph of his daughters that hung next to his desk. "Jesus. So am l."
"But perhaps it isn't so surprising after all," she said, almost comfortingly. "It was a long time ago—thirty years ago. And the marriage only lasted two years. Audrey was killed in a car accident."
"Thirty years ago.
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