“Was it, now? Time flies. I’ve been here a lot longer than that.” He points to a faded photograph of men squinting in the sun in green army fatigues, sweating, with their caps pulled down over their faces. One shirtless man has a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The man kneeling at the far right in the front row looks familiar.
“That’s you,” I say, pointing at the man. He’s young, handsome, and clean-cut. The man in the photograph from the library. “When was this taken?”
“Circa 1964. I was barely out of high school.”
“You were in Vietnam. How did you end up here?”
“Had to come up this way for alternative service. Heard about the islands. Lasqueti, Waldron, the likes. I settled on Lasqueti first. After the war, I came down here.”
“Those were your army buddies? In the picture?”
“Lost three over there. Two more to Agent Orange. Only one still alive, last I heard.”
“I’m sorry about your friends.”
The kettle whistles, and he disappears again, returning with a tray holding a white teapot and two matching teacups on saucers. He pours two cups and hands me one. The liquid smells smoky.
“Lapsang souchong,” he says. “My daughter’s favorite.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Out near Bellevue. Works for Microsoft.”
“How often do you see her?”
“It’s been years.” He sips the tea, returns the cup to the saucer, his fingers trembling. “She writes to me, wants me to visit. I know what she’s got up her sleeve. She wants to put me in one of those old folks’ homes.”
“Did she say that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Maybe she just wants to see you. You’re her dad.”
“I was a bad father, left when she was little. She can’t believe I’ve been thinking of her all these years. But I have.”
“You could visit her. She can’t force you into a retirement home. It’s your choice.”
“Not much is our choice in this life,” he says, looking into his teacup. He puts the picture of him and the woman on the coffee table between us.
“Who was she?” I say. “Malinda?”
“Her full name was Malinda Winthrop.”
Winthrop. Malinda Winthrop. My mind does a flip. The liquid thickens in my cup. I can’t get my bearings. Winthrop, Malinda Winthrop. “Are you sure? Winthrop?”
“Winthrop. Her married name. It’s been so long. You’re related to her?”
“I only look like her. Coincidence.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says.
“This means I’m married to her son, Jacob Winthrop. Doesn’t it?”
“Ahhh. Yes.” His eyes narrow. “She did have a son. It’s been so long.”
“We’re living in the house on the bluff, the one they used to stay in.”
He nods, his eyes sad. He seems suddenly much older and frailer than he was only a minute ago.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what was your relationship with her?”
“My memory isn’t so good anymore. I don’t remember dates or when exactly she left for good, but I remember her. Like it was yesterday. Her voice, her hair. Her perfume.”
“You painted such a beautiful likeness.”
“It was love at first sight. For me, anyway.”
“You fell in love with a married woman.”
“Everyone fell in love with Malinda. Couldn’t help it. She was an angel.”
“How did you meet her?”
“I was a commercial fisherman in those days. Met her in the harbor. She didn’t have a son yet. But she was married. It was her husband’s yacht. Big-time businessman. All pompous and whatnot.”
“Did you two become involved at that time? You and Malinda?”
“No, we weren’t involved yet. Her husband was a bloody bastard, but she stuck by him.”
“How do you mean?”
“It was a long time ago now . . . He treated her like dirt. Beautiful, kind woman like that . . . He hit her. She tried to cover it up but it was obvious to everyone around her.”
“He must have charmed her in the beginning. Before his true personality emerged?”
He touches the picture gently, as if he’s touching Malinda herself. “I thought for sure she would leave him. I told her I would always be here for her. She knew where to find me.”
“But she didn’t leave him.”
“They had the son, and . . .” He puts his cup and saucer on the coffee table, gets up, and goes to the window. “The day we started . . . it was a sunny summer afternoon. She came up those stairs, just like you did. By herself. She must’ve told her husband she was taking a walk. She must’ve decided she was ready.”
“Ready for what? To leave him?”
“She wanted to leave but she couldn’t.”
“You had an affair with her.”
He scratches a bald spot on the top of his head. “Wasn’t an affair. I was in love, like I said.”
“Was she in love with you?”
“I thought she was.”
I look down into my tea. “What happened? Your love affair ended?”
“We were together as much as we could be for a time. But she was devoted to her boy.”
“She couldn’t leave her son,” I say.
“I was supposing so. I never met the kid. But she talked about him a lot.”
“Why didn’t she bring him to you? If she loved you?”
“She said if she left her husband, he would come after her. He would have her committed. He would make out that she was crazy and take the kid. She couldn’t let him take the boy.”