by Eric Walters
“I’ve never been to Vancouver.”
“Sure you have! We were at that little restaurant—you have to remember that restaurant—and the story had just broken across the whole country. Everybody was congratulating me and asking me for my autograph and—”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Sure it was. I remember we were—”
“It was Dean,” I said.
“Dean?”
“You remember him. One of your sons from your other marriage.”
“Come on now, Winston, I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve that tone of voice or attitude.”
He’d done lots of things to deserve that attitude. Lots. And maybe it wasn’t Dean, but I knew it wasn’t me, which meant my father was wrong. My father didn’t like being wrong. And the only thing harder for him than being wrong was admitting he was wrong.
“Think about when that story broke and the year that I was born and you decide if it was me,” I said.
He didn’t say anything. Maybe he was thinking through the situation…or maybe not.
“Here’s the paper, Mr. MacDonald!” The flight attendant beamed as she reappeared and thrust the newspaper into his hands.
“Please, call me Mac…everybody does. ‘Mr. MacDonald’ sounds like somebody’s father.”
He was somebody’s father. He was my father. I was having a hard time trying to figure out what was so wrong with that.
“Sure…Mac,” she said.
My father looked at the paper as though he were studying it intently. But he wasn’t wearing his glasses. They were safely tucked away inside his jacket pocket. I knew that without those glasses he couldn’t possibly read what was written there. In fact, he wouldn’t know if he was looking at his column or the horoscope page. He hated wearing them, especially since he’d begun using bifocals—he called them “old men’s glasses.” Then again, he was an old man.
“Not one of my better columns,” he said.
“I thought it was wonderfully written,” she gushed.
“One tries,” he said, “but it’s a challenge to come up with something every day. Especially when you realize that whatever you write is going to be read by over four hundred thousand people.”
“I had no idea it was that many!”
“Closer to a million for my Saturday column,” he added. “Now, how would you like me to inscribe this?”
“Um…if you wouldn’t mind, how about ‘To Judy, one of my most faithful readers.’ ”
“That sounds good.”
“Do you need a pen?” she asked.
“Not necessary,” he replied, pulling a pen out of the same pocket that was hiding his glasses. “No writer worth his salt would ever travel anywhere without a pen or two in his pocket.”
He put the pen to the paper, wrote what she’d asked and then signed it with a flourish, like he’d just done something wonderful.
“Thank you!” she said excitedly as she took the paper back.
“My pleasure,” he replied. “So, do you make this flight from Toronto to Halifax very often?”
“Three times a week.”
“And are you stationed out of Toronto or Halifax?” he asked.
“Toronto.”
“Me too,” he said with a laugh. “So, how long is your turnaround time in Halifax?”
“It’s different on different flights,” she said. “But this time it’s a long delay. I work a return flight to Toronto tomorrow afternoon so I stay overnight in Halifax.”
“I’m in Halifax tonight too,” he said. “Say…I was wondering if perhaps you could do me a favour, Judy.”
“Oh, my name isn’t Judy, it’s Jennifer.”
“It is?” he asked, sounding confused. “But you had me sign the column to Judy, or did I hear you wrong?”
Maybe his hearing was going as well as his eyesight.
“I could change it to Jennifer,” he offered.
“Oh, no. I wanted it made out to Judy. Judy’s my mother. She’s such a big fan of yours! She’s going to be just thrilled to get this!” she said, tapping the paper. “She never ever misses one of your columns, and I remember when I was little she used to watch you on TV all the time…that was you, right?”
“Yes…yes, it was me,” he mumbled.
It was obvious that some of the wind had been taken out of his sails. I tried to keep the smile off my face, which was hard considering what I really wanted to do was laugh out loud.
“I was pretty young back then, in middle school, but I used to watch too…sometimes…if there was nothing else on. Now, you were going to ask me for a favour,” she said.
“Yes…if it’s not too much trouble…do you think that you could…could bring me another drink?”
“Another? You’ve hardly touched the one I just—”
She stopped mid-sentence as my father tipped back his glass and drained it, leaving only the ice cubes clinking together.
“And make sure this one is a double too.”
I worked harder to smother a smile. I could guess what the favour was going to be. He’d been about to ask her out before he found out it was her mother who was the big fan. Well, maybe he could have asked her if her mother was willing to go out on a date!
“Certainly,” she said as she took his now empty glass. “And does your grandson want another Coke?”
Grandson? Oh, she meant me!
“He’s not my—”
“Thanks,” I said, cutting him off and handing her my empty glass.
“You’re welcome,” she said, taking the plastic glass and heading down the aisle.
This was wonderful, simply wonderful! I pulled my earphones up off my neck and back over my ears. I knew I wouldn’t be the only one who wouldn’t feel like talking now.
4
The elevator door opened. We stepped in and my father pushed the button for the twelfth floor.
“So, were you impressed with that restaurant?” he asked.
“It was okay.”
“It’s probably the most exclusive restaurant in all of Halifax. I’ll bet you would have been more impressed if you’d had more to eat. You should have tried something more expensive.”
“I didn’t want something more expensive. I wanted a club sandwich and fries.”
My father chuckled. “Did you see the expression on that waiter’s face when you ordered? He looked like he was going to squirm right out of that fancy tuxedo of his! I think you might have been the first person in the history of that establishment to order a ‘club sandwich on white, toasted, with extra mayo.’ ”
“It’s what I wanted.”
“Was it at least a good club sandwich?”
“I’ve had better,” I replied.
The elevator came to our floor and we exited. Our room—1220—was right across the hall. My father turned the key and opened the door to the hotel room. He flicked the light, illuminating the suite. It was big and luxurious. No surprise there.
“Remember,” he said, “when I’m on assignment everything is covered by my expense account, so you have to live large. Go first class or don’t go at all, that’s what I always say.”
This trip had been classy and expensive all the way. The airport limo, the first-class flight, this hotel suite looking like something out of a movie, the rental car that was waiting for us downstairs, the restaurant—I was impressed. Not that I’d ever say anything, but I was. It wasn’t like Mom and I lived in poverty, but this was all top of the line. That was just like my father.
“So, your mother told me about some of the problems you’ve been having.”
I remained silent.
“School can be pretty boring,” he said.
“You’re not kidding,” I agreed enthusiastically.
“When I was in school it just seem
ed to me like nothing they were trying to teach me had anything to do with the real world,” he continued.
“Exactly!”
“And that’s why I used to skip classes so often,” he said.
“You cut classes?” That was about the last thing I’d expected him to say.
“All the time.” He laughed. “But don’t go telling your mother that I told you about it. She already thinks I’m responsible for most of the ills of the world and I’d prefer she didn’t blame this on me too. So don’t rat me out, okay?”
“I won’t,” I said. What were the chances I was going to tell her about this conversation when I didn’t tell her anything about anything else anyway?
My father pulled out a package of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it. He exhaled a puff of bluish smoke that spiralled up into the air. I coughed.
“Filthy habit,” he said. “Hope you never take it up.”
“I’m too smart for that,” I said, taking a less than subtle shot at him.
“Good. You don’t have to make all the same mistakes as your old man. See if you can find yourself some new and interesting errors to commit,” he said, poking me in the shoulder with his free hand. “You know, the only people who don’t make mistakes are those who are too timid to try new things. Stay bold, take chances and be prepared to make bold mistakes. Little people make little mistakes. Big people make big mistakes.”
That was certainly strange advice. Did he think I should run away from home longer and get more lengthy school suspensions? How about just suggesting that I try not to make any mistakes?
“A writer’s got to be prepared to take chances,” he said.
“Did you always want to be what you are?” I asked. I didn’t want to answer any of his questions, and the best way to avoid them was to change the subject. And the best subject to change it to—one I knew he never ever got tired of talking about—was him and his job.
“So, you want to know if I always wanted to be a reporter,” he said.
I nodded.
“Haven’t I ever talked to you about this stuff before?” he asked.
“Maybe some of it, but I like hearing about it.”
He smiled. What I’d just said actually was sort of the truth. I did like it when he talked about his work and his adventures. It seemed to me that he did have a pretty exciting job and that he was really, really good at it. Sometimes I thought that was the problem—how could me and Mom and our lives compare to the things he did for work?
“I wanted to work for a newspaper as far back as I can remember. Other kids wanted to be firemen or cops or lawyers or teachers or doctors. Me? All I ever wanted was to work for a paper. Do you know what my first job was?”
I shook my head.
“You sure I haven’t told you this before?”
Again I shook my head. Although I was pretty sure I’d heard this story, I just couldn’t remember it right now.
“I delivered newspapers. That way I could at least feel like I was part of the newspaper family. Then my first job as a reporter was working for my high school paper. I covered sports and wrote articles about what was wrong with the school. Do you have a newspaper at your school?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Too bad. Maybe there’ll be one at your high school next year. If there isn’t, maybe you’ll want to start one,” he suggested. “I was in grade eleven when I became the editor of the school paper. I loved that job! It was probably the only thing that kept me from dropping out of school long before I did!”
“Dropping out long before you did?” I questioned. “What do you mean by that? You didn’t drop out of school.”
“Well…I guess I did sort of drop out.”
“Sort of? What does that mean?” I asked.
“I never got my high school diploma.”
“But you had to…you went to university. You took journalism…you have a master’s degree, right?”
He took a long drag on his cigarette. “I do have a master’s degree in journalism from Carleton,” he said.
“So you did go to university.”
“Just for one afternoon, to pick up the degree.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t go to school. They gave me an honorary degree for speaking to the graduating class at the convocation.”
I was shocked. “So…so you didn’t earn the degree?”
“Of course I earned it!” he protested, sounding offended. “I graduated from the school of hard knocks, the school of real life. I learned more in my job as a reporter than those snot-nosed kids ever learned in journalism school! Schools don’t turn out reporters as much as they turn out—”
“Didn’t Mom get her degree in journalism from Carleton?” I asked. “And Dean?”
My father opened his mouth to say something and then closed it up again without uttering a word. I would have liked to have had a camera to capture such a rare and magical moment—my father speechless. Now, without a picture, nobody would ever believe it had actually happened.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Have you given any thought to what career you might want to pursue?” he asked.
“Well,” I said with a shrug, “if I keep skipping school maybe I could become a journalist.”
He shot me a disapproving look, then smirked and chuckled. “It certainly is a career that’s in your blood. It’s one that’s been successful for your father and your mother and one of your brothers.”
“Half-brother,” I corrected him. “Different mothers, remember?”
“I know perfectly well that you and Dean have different mothers.”
“I was just—”
“I know exactly what you were doing, and I’m not going to take that attitude from you. I’m not your mother!”
“And if you were, would that make it all right?” I asked. Maybe I had been giving my mom an attitude, but it was the same attitude he’d been giving her for as long as I could remember.
“It’s never all right, but your mother seems more willing to put up with it!”
Suddenly the phone rang, stopping me from saying what I was going to say—that marriage had given my mother plenty of practice in dealing with bad attitudes.
My father picked up the phone. “Mac here,” he barked, and then he listened to a reply I couldn’t hear. “Fergy, you old dog, how did you know I was in town?” he asked loudly.
He nodded his head in response to something said at the other end.
“I know you’re an investigative reporter, Fergy. I just never thought of you as being a particularly good investigative reporter, so I’m surprised you managed to track me down!”
He covered the mouthpiece of the phone and turned to me. “Old friend…worked together on the Telegram.”
I nodded.
“I’d like to join you, Fergy, but I have my kid with me…no, not Dean, my youngest, Winston Junior.”
There was another reply I couldn’t hear.
“No, he’s only fourteen so I think he’s a little young to have a drink with us.”
He pushed the receiver slightly off to the side. “He thought you could come with me to the bar. Wouldn’t you agree that you’re a little young to be drinking?” he asked me, trying a little too obviously to make a point.
I didn’t answer. Screw him.
“Well, I guess I could…maybe…let me check.”
He put the phone down and turned back to me again. “I’ve been invited to join Fergy and a couple of other guys for a drink. Would it be okay if I popped out for a while?”
“Sure, whatever.”
“Because if you don’t want me to, then I’ll stay here and—”
“I’m not your mother or your wife, so go if you want!”
He smiled and brought the phone back up to his ea
r. “How about we meet in ten minutes at Dooleys?” He listened to the reply. “No, there’s no need to pick me up, I can walk from here. Why do you think I booked into this hotel? If you’re not there when I get there, I’ll start without you.”
He replaced the phone in the cradle.
“Another reason to work for a paper is that you end up with friends in every city. You can always find somebody to chum with.” He looked at his watch. “I don’t think I’ll be too long. Watch some TV, order from room service if you want. Remember, it’s all paid for by the paper. If I get hung up longer than I plan, tuck yourself into bed and go to sleep. It’s going to be an early morning tomorrow.”
“I’ll take care of myself,” I said. “I’m good at that.”
He gave me a look, like he was going to say something, but he changed his mind. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair then stopped at the door and checked to make sure he had his wallet, keys, lighter and cigarettes.
“Oh, while I’m thinking about it, you should call your mother. I told her I’d call when we arrived to let her know how everything was going,” he said. “I guess I should have called earlier. Give her a call.”
I nodded.
“See you later,” he said, and the door clunked shut noisily behind him.
I walked over and picked up the phone. There were instructions written on a card beside it to explain how to get the hotel operator or the outside operator, and how to make long distance calls and reverse the charges and…I put the phone back down. I wasn’t going to call. Let her worry.
I walked back to the bed and glanced at the door. Maybe I should go out for a while too—there had to be a video arcade somewhere around here, didn’t there? Popping a few quarters and playing a few games would be a good way to kill the evening. But I really didn’t have any idea where to go…did they even have arcades out here, or was it just in big cities like Toronto?
Or instead of just heading out for a while, I thought, maybe I should go out for a long time. Wouldn’t that shock him, if he got back and I wasn’t here. I could just picture him getting all worried and calling my mother and…then again, maybe that wasn’t such a smart idea. I was a long way from home and I was tired. I needed at least one good night’s sleep.