Thicker Than Water
Bill Newman
There it was: a first for Henry. My husband had been mentioned in Ottawa’s local newspaper.
Unfortunately, his name appeared on the obituaries page.
Henry had been a keen sportsman and therefore fitter than most men his age. So if a fortuneteller had
said, three months ago, that I’d now be a widow, I wouldn’t have believed it.
And that is where I should start the story, three short months earlier, at the beginning of June.
* * * *
“The trouble with men is…”
Gordon piped in. “Excuse me! Is that all men?”
The eight of us sat around two tables pushed together in the Mulberry Bush pub, the regular meeting
place for our monthly office reunion. We were all retirees from the federal government. Although none of
us had reached sixty, we had opted to take the department’s generous early retirement package instead
of grinding away for a few more years of office politics and BS. Gordon was the youngest of our group –
only fifty-one. The remaining seven comprised four women and three men. I wondered why Gordon had
taken the golden handshake so early. He’d worked only twenty-five years for the government, and even
with the extra incentive it would be hardly enough on which to travel the world, which was my personal
fantasy.
I tried again. “The trouble with some men is that they like pursuits that exclude women.”
“Mine doesn’t,” Maggie said. She knew that I was talking about my husband because it was a constant
refrain of mine. “We golf together.”
“My wife and I did, too,” Gordon said.
Better get off this topic I thought. Gordon’s wife had died the previous summer. Her death made him an
eligible bachelor again. Well, that was my opinion; I saw him as too young and too good looking to be
classified a widower.
Some of us had assumed Gordon’s wife’s death was the reason he’d got out of the rat race as early as
possible. He had mentioned many times that he thought the stress on her at work was the main cause of
her breast cancer. “I meant pursuits like, ice-fishing,” I said, congratulating myself on rescuing Maggie
from her faux pas. “How many women would want to spend the day with their feet on a block of ice?”
Maggie chuckled. “There were times during menopause when I might have entertained the idea. But
talking of golf, why don’t we organize a tournament?”
I cringed. She seemed to be insensitive to the possibility that the subject might remind Gordon of
happier times. But the topic didn’t appear to bother him, and so we spent the rest of the evening
debating the logistics of a day’s outing on the links. Half of our group committed their spouses; the others
had to pair off. Gordon drew me as his partner for the day.
“You have your own clubs?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure your husband doesn’t want to come along?”
“Golf’s not on his list of sporting activities,” I said. I could have added, “Because I play it.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s retired, too.”
“No, I meant as a hobby.”
“Oh, fishing, mountain biking, poker.”
Gordon was too polite to ask why I didn’t participate in any of those activities. I would have told him. To
me, fishing was all worms and waiting; I couldn’t keep up with my husband on a bike, and he wouldn’t slow
down; and poker, well, it was beyond the pale. Do women even play it?
* * * *
“You remembered I’m playing golf all day with the my office friends,” I said, intonating it as a statement
rather than a question. We were having breakfast, and Henry hadn’t noticed that I was in my golfing attire.
“Yeah, that’s great because I want to put in some extra miles on the bike. Big race on Sunday,” he said.
Henry was no casual mountain biker; he raced competitively in the fifty-to-sixty age category. On
alternate Tuesday evenings, he’d be up at Camp Fortune participating in their summer series of events.
The coming Sunday’s race, however, was an Ontario-level event. For Henry it was the big time. I had to
admit he was quite good at the sport. I went to watch him once; he finished in about tenth place out of
fifty or so riders. But he was never going to make the Olympic team, even if they had one for old farts.
Good, he had the distraction of training for The Big Race, so that meant we were both happy. I
switched topics before he could ask: “Who are you playing a round with?” It was the kind of corny joke I
knew he’d crack, and I was pretty sure I’d turn scarlet if he did so.
I decided to quickly change the subject. “I had my blood work back.” He wasn’t likely to be very
interested in the results of my annual check-up, and it was a convenient diversion from golf-with-Gordon.
Why did I feel so guilty about it?
“Oh, did they find anything?”
“My hematocrit is low, that’s all,” I said.
“What’s the doctor prescribed for it?”
Huh? I had expected his eyes to glaze over if I went any deeper into the details of the checkup, not
have him ask sensible questions about it. I recovered from the shock. “I can’t remember. It was a long
name, like Erythro-something, I think.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What time will you be back from the golf?”
“Late. We’re having dinner afterwards at the club. Can you get yourself a take-out?”
“Sure.”
* * * *
There were twelve of us for the day of golfing, although it looked like eleven, because Gordon had not
arrived. On the assumption that my partner was merely late, Maggie, our organizer for the day, shifted
our foursome into the last position. The juggling worked; Gordon did show up, tires squealing as he
turned into the parking lot just as the second foursome was teeing off. I didn’t think it was him at first
because he wasn’t driving his five-year-old Honda Accord.
Gordon parked and jogged over. “Phew, sorry,” he said, flushed.
“What’s with the new car?” I asked.
“It’s not mine. Just test driving it.”
“But it’s going to be parked here all day,” I said.
“The dealer is right behind me in my car. He’s taking this one back to the showroom. This is as far as
he’d let me go in it. Here he comes.”
Sure enough, Gordon’s car drove up, too. The car salesman must have been sure of a sale, for he
retrieved Gordon’s clubs and cart from the trunk of the Honda and brought them over.
Maggie’s husband, Ted, made up our foursome. “We should be getting going,” he said.
We strolled towards the first tee. Gordon swapped keys with the salesman, grabbed the handle of his
cart, and caught up with us again. We were off.
Ted and Gordon sliced into the rough on the right but Maggie and I found the fairway ahead of them,
mainly because we played off the forward red tees. Maggie and I took our second shots. No Tiger Woods
stuff here but at least we could see where our balls landed, both still a hundred yards from the green on
this par 4 hole. The men used their number 9 scythes to extricate themselves from the long grass and we
were all on the green for three.
I didn’t get a chance to have a quiet chat with Gordon until the fifth hole. Ted had put his ball into the
creek while attempting to carry it. Maggie had played hers conservatively short of the same creek and
went with him to help locate the submerged ball.
“Are you thinking of buying it?” I said. The black, 5-Series BMW had certainly piqued my curiosity.
Perhaps he planned to purchase it from the proceeds of a life insurance policy on his wife.
“Possibly. Do you think it’s a bit extravagant?”
Not if you’re looking for a chick magnet. I could hardly say that. Instead a more politically correct: “It’ll
be a head turner.”
“Got to do something with the money.” He pointed down at my feet. “There’s your ball.” I’d almost
stepped on it.
Not to be diverted, I seized the opportunity. Indeed, carpe diem was my motto, although I was sure
that, to the ancient Romans, it simply meant have a nice day. “Thanks. The insurance money?” I let the
question drift off my tongue as though it somehow it was related to the lie of my golf ball.
“We hadn’t any life insurance. Or rather we’d cashed in the policies to help pay for the kids’ university
tuition.”
Well what money, then? “Downsizing the house?” Christ, what a nosey bitch I am.
“Yeah, sort of. I’m thinking of getting a condo.”
Ah, that explains that. I whacked the ball another hundred and thirty yards nearer the hole, a good
shot for me. I found it helped me focus if I imagined the ball was one of my husband’s pair.
After the round, we sat down to dinner in the clubhouse. I managed to seat Gordon and me at one end
of the table. It meant I could more easily corral him for a semi-private conversation. Through the first
course, the men, predictably, bragged about their shot-making excellence. When the testosterone-
fuelled conversation had run its course, and not before, I decided to get back into inquisitorial mode with
Gordon. “Where’s the condo?” I asked.
“Er… I’m looking for one in Rockcliffe.”
Not exclusive million-dollar-minimum Rockcliffe? “Wow. With that kind of money, I can see why you’d
want a BMW.”
I’d made a statement that clearly demanded an answer, but wasn’t gauche enough to be terminated
with a question mark. Very clever of you, girl.
Too clever, he didn’t answer it. “I’ve got one in mind, but I need a second opinion. Your husband
wouldn’t object if you came and looked it over with me?”
“No.” My answer came out of my mouth too quickly, but I didn’t think he noticed. I covered it by saying,
“The BMW or the condo?”
He laughed. He looked even more handsome with a smile spread across his face. “Both, if you’ve got
time.”
“When?”
“Oh next week, say Monday?”
“Yes, that’ll be fine,” I said, also too quickly. Did Gordon wonder what kind of relationship I had with my
husband? One in which I could commit to a meeting with a member of the opposite sex without first
consulting my nearest and dearest?
* * * *
“I’m going to look at a condo that one of my retirement group is buying.”
Henry looked up from the newspaper. At breakfast he preferred reading the paper to having a
conversation. “Okay. I’m going to the marina to make sure the boat is gassed up for our next trip.”
When he said “our next trip” he meant the one with his two fishing companions, not one with his darling
wife. It would have been nice to go for a ride in the boat once in a while. A romantic cruise, that is, not
one with all of his fishing gear, or, heaven forbid, his two buddies.
Gordon had asked me to meet him at the dealership. I left my car in their lot and we drove to Rockcliffe
in the black BMW.
“Don’t they mind you using their expensive machinery for free car rentals?” I said, sinking back into the
tan leather seat.
“It’s a continuation of the test drive. This one has different options.”
It sort of made sense, but enough of the small talk, I wanted to get onto serious matters. And since we
were alone, and I was married, I figured there was really no harm in asking: “Jesus, Gordon, where are
you getting the money for the BMW and the condo?” There, I said it. “Were you involved in one of those
government phony-invoice scams?” It seemed like a good idea to soften a very personal question by
making a joke of it.
“If I had, then the condo would be on a Caribbean island that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with
Canada. No, sorry to disappoint you but it’s dot-com money. Heather and I cashed in at the peak. She
wanted to keep it quiet. ‘It’s not anyone’s business,’ she used to say. But she might have wanted to keep
it quiet because some of her relatives had lost their life savings on the stock market.”
I knew what he meant. This was 2001. Henry and I had held on too long when the bubble burst. “We
lost money, too,” I said. I could hear my whining tone. I was still mad about it.
“But Henry has a respectable pension doesn’t he?”
Where’s that question leading? “Yes, he does."
* * * *
I considered the BMW luxurious but the condo more so. Its floor area was about the same as our
house, and it came with an underground parking garage and a security gate. Inside, it would have looked
better had it been furnished, but I have a good imagination. I valued it at over a mil, easily.
BMW, exclusive condo, good looking, and bags of cash: if you ignored the fact that his wife had just died,
Gordon was a lucky man. I wondered if Henry would think about giving me a divorce? Steady on, girl, he
may be looking for someone younger, say thirty-five, with big boobs, and a voracious sexual appetite.
On the way back to the BMW dealership he said, “Want to come back for coffee?”
I giggled.
“What’s funny?”
“It’s been a long time since a man has asked me that.”
“I’ll help then. The answer begins with the letter Y.”
“Well if you insist. I’d love to.”
We picked up our respective cars and I followed him to his house at the west end of the city. It was a
bigger house than ours but I estimated that selling it wouldn’t pay for half of the condo. We parked
ourselves in the kitchen, all granite surfaces, oak woodwork, and stainless steel European appliances.
He loaded up the coffee percolator and switched it on.
“Why do you want to move?” I said, admiring his kitchen.
“Too many memories and too much maintenance. I’d rather spend my time golfing and traveling.”
“I see.” I did see, because I wanted to do the same.
“Want the guided tour?”
didn’t query why he’d made the offer. I guess people assume that women like to look over other
people’s houses. However, the only room I’d be shown, apart from the kitchen, was the master bedroom,
with the emphasis on master.
“It hasn’t seen much use lately,” he said.
“Oh, where do you sleep, then?” I said, deliberately missing the innuendo. You’re going to have to
spell it out, buddy.
It was true what they said about younger men – definitely preferable. Okay, so he was only four years
younger than I am but he didn’t look his age. I, on the other hand, was convinced that I showed every
one of my fifty-five years. However, for all but sixteen of those years I’d been practicing the art of making
the male organ large enough to be a very tight fit.
* * * *
I drove back home on autopilot, reliving the scene from a Harlequin romance novel that Gordon and I
had reenacted. Gordon possessed all of the attributes that the romance publishing house demands of
the “male interest” in their guide to writers. Including the one that says the guy doesn’t fall asleep after
sex.
Henry wasn’t in when I returned home. I’d made a diversion via the mall to buy a few items of
underwear and some food just in case it was necessary to explain what I’d been doing all day. Henry was
well used to the fact that I could spend three hours at the mall and come back with nothing. Ergo, if I
actually purchased something then the expedition would have required at least twice that.
I needed a shower – not because I wanted to wash Gordon from my skin but to cover my tracks.
Luckily, I could have three showers a day, and Henry wouldn’t bat an eyelid. This would be my second
today.
I closed the bathroom door and opened the medicine cabinet. I reached for the pills. They were
supposed to boost my hematocrit level, my red blood cell count, and after the love-making with Gordon I
felt sure they were really working.
I noticed that some of the pills seemed to be missing. They were fairly large, so removing just four of
them was immediately obvious.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Henry was in the garage, lubricating his mountain bike for an
upcoming race. I sometimes wished he’d spend a similar amount of time oiling and then riding me, but all
his energies were diverted elsewhere. Half an hour later, he joined me in the kitchen where I had
returned to domestic normality by starting to peel the potatoes for the evening meal.
“There are some pills missing from the medicine cabinet,” I said.
He reddened. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d notice if I took a few.”
“You’re not anemic, too, are you?”
“No, I was hoping they’d enhance my performance.”
“Sounds exciting,” I said, but left out, “Ooh, twice in one day!”
“I meant for the bike race,” he replied, sounding annoyed at my flippancy.
Of course, the bike race. “Couldn’t you get the doctor to prescribe some?”
“I tried, but he wouldn’t. My red blood count is normal – about forty-four percent.”
“So what effect were the pills going to have on that?”
“Increase it to forty-eight percent, I hope.”
He was nuts but I didn’t say so. I returned to the potatoes and thoughts of Gordon’s enhanced
performance, rather than my husband’s.
* * * *
Henry actually won his next bike race. I was flabbergasted, and he was over the moon. The extra red
blood cells had done the trick, although they didn’t seem to have any effect on the supply of blood to his
penis. Not that this bothered me because I’d spent the week helping Gordon get his new abode straight,
a woman’s touch with the decorating. In exchange, he’d paid me in kind. I felt cherished.
The following week, I was at the doctor’s. “I mislaid the pills somewhere,” I told him. It was the only
reasonable excuse I could think of to get a supply for Henry. My husband did not want to slip off the
podium, and there were two more races remaining before the end of the season. I must point out,
however, that I wasn’t being entirely unselfish; I was keen to have my husband happy and preoccupied.
“Be more careful,” the doctor said, writing the prescription. “They’re very expensive.”
But worth every penny.
* * * *
Gordon was the first to phone. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said.
“Thanks. Henry died doing what he liked best. Perhaps we should all pass away like that.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Are you okay with the funeral arrangements? I can take charge of them if you
want.”
“That would be nice of you,” I said. It was true, and would mean I’d have Gordon around to comfort me
in my time of need.
“When should I come over to discuss things?” he asked, sounding self-conscious.
Right away. “As soon as you have the time. I could really use the company.”
“I understand. I’ll be there straight after lunch. Or how about lunch out? You don’t want the bother of
cooking. About noon?”
“Yes, that would be perfect.”
Noon was two hours away. Plenty of time to get showered and dressed. I also needed to expunge,
from my hard drive, an article I’d found on the Internet. I discovered it while researching the drug Henry
and I had both been taking.
Erythropoietin (EPO) is a hormone that is produced naturally in the kidneys. Its function is to stimulate
the production of the oxygen-carrying red blood cells. In the late eighties the drug industry had been
able to synthesize it and market it as a treatment for anemia.
Ever since EPO first appeared, athletes have taken it to boost their red blood cell count and hence
artificially improve their performance. The downside with this is that overuse causes thickening of the
blood, which can trigger heart failure.
For both of these reasons EPO was immediately classified as a banned substance by sports’
governing bodies. Not that this had deterred athletes from using it because the other attraction of EPO
was that it was undetectable.
I pushed the Microsoft Windows button to empty the trash. The article was gone and so was Henry. He
hadn’t needed much encouragement to keep taking the pills, not while he kept winning. I suspect the
extra dose of them helped, the ones that I ground-up and mixed into his coffee. I thought it would be a
tidier solution than a divorce.
I discovered, a couple of years later, that a method had been devised to detect EPO. In Henry’s case
no one was even looking for it. A man of his age having a heart attack while engaged in a strenuous
sport was hardly front-page news.