Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage

tweed hat was resting on the bed. He looked as if he had been out on important business.
    To see his lawyer? His banker? To make arrangements with the funeral director?
    Whatever he’d been doing, he looked worn out by it. He too was gray in the face.
    They both looked up at Grant with a stony, grief-ridden apprehension that turned to relief, if not to welcome, when they saw who he was.
    Not who they thought he’d be.
    They were hanging on to each other’s hands and they did not let go.
    The hat on the bed. The jacket and tie.
    It wasn’t that Aubrey had been out. It wasn’t a question of where he’d been or whom he’d been to see. It was where he was going.
    Grant set the book down on the bed beside Fiona’s free hand.
    “It’s about Iceland,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d like to look at it.”
    “Why, thank you,” said Fiona. She didn’t look at the book. He put her hand on it.
    “Iceland,” he said.
    She said, “Iceland.” The first syllable managed to hold a tinkle of interest, but the second fell flat. Anyway, it was necessary for her to turn her attention back to Aubrey, who was pulling his great thick hand out of hers.
    “What is it?” she said. “What is it, dear heart?”
    Grant had never heard her use this flowery expression before.
    “Oh, all right,” she said. “Oh, here.” And she pulled a handful of tissues from the box beside her bed.
    Aubrey’s problem was that he had begun to weep. His nose had started to run, and he was anxious not to turn into a sorry spectacle, especially in front of Grant.
    “Here. Here,” said Fiona. She would have tended to his nose herself and wiped his tears—and perhaps if they had been alone he would have let her do it. But with Grant there Aubrey would not permit it. He got hold of the Kleenex as well as he could and made a few awkward but lucky swipes at his face.
    While he was occupied, Fiona turned to Grant.
    “Do you by any chance have any influence around here?” she said in a whisper. “I’ve seen you talking to them—”
    Aubrey made a noise of protest or weariness or disgust. Then his upper body pitched forward as if he wanted to throw himself against her. She scrambled half out of bed and caught him and held on to him. It seemed improper for Grant to help her, though of course he would have done so if he’d thought Aubrey was about to tumble to the floor.
    “Hush,” Fiona was saying. “Oh, honey. Hush. We’ll get to see each other. We’ll have to. I’ll go and see you. You’ll come and see me.”
    Aubrey made the same sound again with his face in her chest, and there was nothing Grant could decently do but get out of the room.
    “I just wish his wife would hurry up and get here,” Kristy said. “I wish she’d get him out of here and cut the agony short. We’ve got to start serving supper before long and how are we supposed to get her to swallow anything with him still hanging around?”
    Grant said, “Should I stay?”
    “What for? She’s not sick, you know.”
    “To keep her company,” he said.
    Kristy shook her head.
    “They have to get over these things on their own. They’ve got short memories usually. That’s not always so bad.”
    Kristy was not hard-hearted. During the time he had known her Grant had found out some things about her life. She had four children. She did not know where her husband was but thought he might be in Alberta. Her younger boy’s asthma was so bad that he would have died one night in January if she had not got him to the emergency ward in time. He was not on any illegal drugs, but she was not so sure about his brother.
    To her, Grant and Fiona and Aubrey too must seem lucky. They had got through life without too much going wrong. What they had to suffer now that they were old hardly counted.
    Grant left without going back to Fiona’s room. He noticed that the wind was actually warm that day and the crows were making an uproar. In the parking lot a woman wearing a tartan pants suit was getting a folded-up wheelchair out of the trunk of her car.

    The street he was driving down was called Black Hawks Lane. All the streets around were named for teams in the old National Hockey League. This was in an outlying section of the town near Meadowlake. He and Fiona had shopped in the town regularly but had not become familiar with any part of it except the main street.
    The houses looked to have been built all around the same time, perhaps thirty or forty years ago. The streets