The Unexpected and Fictional Career Change of Jim Kearns. David Munroe

Maddy for the conclusion, nodding sagely and reiterating her wisdom about the ramifications of actions until at last we were dismissed.

      We left the car in its spot and walked down to the subway, a ten-minute stroll on a green, breezy evening; after a quick jog on a westbound subway line and a five-minute ride north, we found ourselves rubber-necking the homes of Rosedale Heights.

      As I’ve said, I love looking at these types of houses, being awed by their extravagances, and as we turned up the flagstone walk to 145 Dunnegin Road, I could almost imagine a fleeting history behind this one. Not constructed of mere brick, old-world craftsmen assembled this silver-grey mini-castle with granite hewn from the Canadian Shield in 1914 — with each block undoubtedly quarried and cut to exact specification at site, then dragged across corduroy roads and over inhospitable landscapes by Belgian draft horse to the nearest outpost. Stacked onto freight trains, the cargo arrived in the big city with parts of thumbs or forefingers jellied between each dense square. Perhaps not quite on the scale of the castles highlighted on A&E, this house, and the houses on this street, seemed to hold a sense of more than just the families that lived in them. They exuded a suffering inherent in their existence; they accentuated mankind’s addiction to needing so much more than was necessary.

      Maddy rang the bell and Sarah Brightman-Crowley herself answered the door; blonder than I remembered her, with skin smooth and tight and teeth huge and white, she squealed, “Maddy ... Maddy Moffatt?” She rushed out, hugged her close, then took a step back.

      “You look fantastic,” she said, scanning Maddy up and down. “So do you,” Maddy said.“It’s been so long.”

      Eric’s birth had shooed her away as any sort of acquaintance (with Rachel’s arrival sealing the deal), and twenty-plus years had passed since Sarah had first stepped through Adam’s door, taking over Audrey’s room when she’d moved back home. But she and Maddy had meshed from the start, often going out for a drink or bite to eat during the time they’d lived together.

      As for what she thought of me, I have no idea, but one incident had left me with a clue. Coming home late from work one evening, I’d found her stretched out on the sofa. Classical music, pleasant stuff, floated from the speakers, but I’d never heard it before. I walked over to the turntable and picked up the album cover.

      “This is really good,” I said, reading it aloud. “Pachelbel’s Canon? I’m not familiar with it.”

      Sarah looked up from the sofa, lifting an eyebrow. “No, I would think not. But it’s pronounced Pacobel, as in Taco Bell ... and I’m sure you’re familiar with that.”

      Now Sarah turned and extended me an arm’s-length hug. “Jim,” she said.“How are you doing?”

      I resisted the urge to grab my stomach, shake it, and say, As you can see, I’ve been into the Tachelbel way too much lately, instead offering,“Good, good. How are you?”

      “Just super,” she said, ushering us into her home.

      We stood in the foyer. Above us hung a sparkling chandelier, its size suggesting the destructive power of a small bomb should it drop.And before us, a marble staircase swept upward, with tributaries branching left and right onto an expansive second floor.

      The dining room to our left held two long buffet tables bearing hotplates and crystal platters brimming with exotic foods —a layout decadent enough, it seemed, for a grilled endangered species section; white-jacketed chefs, with their puffy hats tilted at cocky angles, stood behind the tables, creating plates for guests. The enormous bar, my one reason for being here, lay at the far end of the tables; red-jacketed barkeeps roamed its length, dispensing single malt Scotches, vintage wines, and champagnes.

      To the right, through vast French doors, people stood around the living room in small knots, sipping said Scotches and tipping fluted glasses to their lips.

      “Grab something to eat and drink, then mingle,” Sarah said, backing into the living room.“I’m sure I’ll see you later and we can catch up.”

      Maddy and I stepped into the dining room. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m going to stuff myself with coquilles St. Jacques, mahi mahi, and any other seafood I can get my mitts on.”

      She scurried to the buffet and I walked directly to the beer. When we met back in the doorway a moment later, she scooped a glass of white wine from a passing waiter’s platter, handed it to me, then eyed me suspiciously.

      “Beer and no food? You’re not going to get totally hammered and take a whiz on their Persian rug, are you?”

      I raised my bottle. “It’s Tuborg Light,for Christ’s sake.They don’t carry any of my brands here.”

      “Not a single one of your eight favourites?”

      Stung, I couldn’t help but eye her food and retaliate. “How about you? What the hell’s that? Duck liver?”

      Scallops and prawns also littered a plate that held no hint of vegetables.“You’re not going to drop dead of a heart attack, are you, squirting hot cholesterol all over the Brazilian hardwood when you hit?”

      “I’ll eat some vegetables tomorrow,” she said, “when I’m hunched over a plate of chicken fingers at our kitchen table.” With that, she grinned wickedly, speared a scallop, and popped it into her mouth. I responded by tipping my beer to my lips and downing a third of it.

      We wandered into the living room and an almost surreal scene. At just after nine o’clock, with the light of a fading summer evening barely penetrating the room and the rows of recessed halogen lights in the ceiling above laying down no more than a subtle glow, it seemed as if we’d stepped into a Botox party, a mixer for slightly over-the-hill Barbie dolls and recently retired Armani mannequins; I couldn’t be sure: was I hallucinating or dreaming in plastic?

      We stood next to the doorway for a while, with Maddy looking happy enough as she tucked away her cuisine and scrutinized the crowd; I still felt uneasy ... even with most of a fast beer in me. The room stretched forever and teemed with people, but I recognized no one. And the other men’s definition of casual dress didn’t agree with mine.

      Finishing her food, Maddy set her plate on a side table and took her glass of wine from me.

      “Thanks,” she said. “Now let’s get in there and, as the lady said, mingle.”