by Eric Walters
“Is that what you’re going to write?” I asked.
“I don’t know what I’m going to write yet. I won’t know until I sit down at my typewriter and start pounding the keys. Then the story sort of takes on a life of its own.” He stopped and looked over at me. “That sounds sort of strange, doesn’t it?”
“Not really. I think I know what you mean.”
“You do?”
I nodded.
“Are you still writing?” he asked.
His question surprised me so much that I didn’t have time to decide what I should say and instead just answered truthfully. “Not any more.”
“You were quite the little writer,” my father said. “Great imagination, lots of details. I loved your stories.”
I knew that. I used to love showing them to him. That was one of those things I used to do to make him happy. He would tell people that he was raising another little reporter.
“Why did you stop writing?”
“I don’t know. I just didn’t have anything I wanted to write about any more.”
“Who knows,” my father said, “that could change. Lots of things could change. Well, here we are…our destination.”
“Here we are?” I asked. “I don’t see any here here.”
“Read the road sign up ahead.”
“It says ‘Welcome to Millwater’…Millwater!”
“One and only. Welcome to the town of my birth.”
Just past the sign announcing the town limits my father slowed down and then pulled the car into the parking lot of a store. We kicked up a cloud of dust as we rolled over the gravel.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“A store.”
“The general store that your grandfather owned. I was born in the back bedroom of the house attached to it.”
“You were born here?”
“Right here. Come on, we’ll get ourselves a cold drink.”
We climbed out of the car and walked onto the wooden verandah that stretched along the front of the store. My father stopped and turned around.
“Here it is,” he said, gesturing grandly. “This is the town of Millwater. Pretty impressive, eh?”
Impressive wasn’t the word I would have chosen. Besides the store there was a small gas station just down the way—two pumps. There were houses, well set back from the highway on both sides—maybe twenty or thirty altogether. Farther away, but I guess still part of the town, were a couple of barns and matching silos stretching up to the sky.
“It’s pretty much the same as it always was,” my father said. “A couple of houses have new siding…I can see they’ve put an extension on the old McPherson place…and…and that’s about it.”
“Really?”
“Really. Nothing much changes in a place like this.”
“Even the people?” I asked.
“Especially the people. There are people who’ve been in this town for five generations. I’ve been gone over forty years and I bet I still know most of the people here, or their relatives.”
I wondered if that meant we were going to talk over “old times” with a bunch of people I didn’t know and had no interest in ever getting to know.
“Are we going to stop in and visit anybody?” I asked, dreading the answer but needing to know.
“Of course, knowing them and having anything in common with them are two different things. Besides, it’s important to stay low-key.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re here to observe. Good reporters just sit off to the side and watch. Why don’t you grab one of those chairs over there while I go in and get us a couple of pops. A Coke for you, I assume?” he said.
“Nothing else but.”
The store’s door had a bell that gave a ping as my father walked in and rang out again as he closed the door after himself. I sat down on one of the big wooden chairs, shaded from the sun by the roof of the verandah, with a good view of the highway. We’d be able to see Terry as he ran past.
My father soon reappeared with the drinks. “Here you go,” he said, handing me my Coke.
“Thanks.” I took a big gulp from the bottle. “So, did you know the guy running the store?”
“I think I went to school with him.”
“You did?”
“Can’t be sure without asking, but his name tag said ‘Tim’ and he looked familiar…about the right age. Got me thinking,” he said as he took a slug from his bottle.
“Thinking about what?”
“Thinking that maybe if my family hadn’t moved when I was little that might have been me in there behind the counter.”
“Come on, be serious.”
“I am being serious. My grandfather ran the store, and so did my father up until the time we moved. Who knows?” he said with a shrug. “Who knows.”
My father took another sip from his pop and sat there silently, sort of just staring off into the distance like he was trying to see something far away.
“It’s a shame your grandfather died before you got to know him. You two would have liked each other.”
“What was he like?” I asked.
“He had a real playful side to him. He’d come home from a hard day’s work—sometimes twelve hours—and he’d grab a bite to eat and come on out on the street and join in with me and my friends with whatever game we were playing. Didn’t matter if it was road hockey or baseball or real hockey down on the pond. He’d just come and join us.”
He took another sip and began staring off again. Then he let out a big, deep sigh.
“I guess I never did that for you, did I?” he asked. “Always too busy…on the road on assignment or doing something on deadline. There was always a deadline or something else I should be doing.”
He was right, there had always seemed to be something that he had to do, something that took him away from me and Mom, something more important. Maybe this was the time for me to say something to—
“Look, here they come!”
8
“There…finished,” my father said. He pushed back his chair, got up from the desk and stretched.
“That didn’t take too long,” I commented.
“You’re talking to a pro, somebody who’s never missed a deadline in his entire professional life. And believe me, I don’t know another reporter who can say that without lying. I’m very proud of that fact. I make a commitment and I keep it.”
Obviously he wasn’t talking about commitments to his family.
“Besides, while some articles take a long time to write, others practically write themselves.”
“And this one?” I asked.
“Maybe you can be the judge.”
“You’ll let me see it?”
“Why not?” he asked with a shrug. “Tomorrow morning there’ll be over four hundred thousand people reading it. Besides, I’d like to know what you think about it.”
“Wait…you want my opinion?”
“You’re smart, and you were there today. Read it while I refresh my drink.”
I clicked off the TV and got up off the bed. This motel certainly wasn’t like the luxurious hotel we’d stayed in when we were in Halifax, but it was comfortable.
My father walked over to the dresser and poured himself another drink.
MILLWATER, NOVA SCOTIA—The Trans-Canada Highway gently curves and climbs through the lush countryside. It passes by forests and fields and a scattering of farms and small towns. One of those towns—not much different from the 10 towns before and the 10 that come after—is Millwater.
A sign just on the outskirts signals a reduction in speed. This is more a courtesy than a necessity. It’s not like there’s much danger of there ever being enough traffic to pose a risk. There are one or two stores, a gas station, a few dozen houses
and, well set back from the road, a school.
“Welcome to Millwater—Population 200” is what the sign says. It’s an old sign. That same sign was there the last time I passed through 10 years ago. And it was there 43 years before that—the day my family moved away. It said 200 the day before we moved, and it said 200 the day after we moved. It doesn’t really announce the population as much as a belief that there should be 200 people here. There aren’t. There haven’t been 200 people living here for a long time. Maybe never.
Millwater is the sort of place where every conversation starts with a comment about the weather. That says a lot about the realities of living in the country, where everybody’s life is a farming life and the weather isn’t just an inconvenience but a matter of grave importance. It’s not like in the city, where the weather just means taking an umbrella or putting on a sweater. Instead, it defines what can be done and should be done that day. Do you plant, or mow, or fertilize, or harvest? Do you move the herd, or repair fences, or work in the barn? It could also mean the difference between the farm failing or thriving, between money for a new tractor and new shoes for the kids or being able to make the mortgage payments to keep on farming.
My father wasn’t a farmer. He ran the general store. I sit on the wooden porch of that store and watch. Beat-up old pick-up trucks and cars pull in, and their occupants amble up. “Do you think it’ll rain today?” I’ve heard that question half a dozen times in the hour I’ve sat here. Any time it’s aimed at me I answer the same way—“Looks like it could.”
I spent the first ten years of my life in Millwater. It’s a place where not much happens. Not that that’s necessarily bad. It just is. Sure, occasionally somebody gets married or buried or born, or a new tractor is purchased. I remember sitting on this front porch as a child and watching the traffic pass by. And I remember thinking that everybody who passed by was involved in something important—going someplace else. It seemed like all around us important events were unfolding. Everywhere except Millwater.
That changed today.
From the east, the Trans-Canada slopes gently down to meet the town. I caught my first glimpse as he crested the hill. A lone figure, moving along the side of the road. He’s running, but the gait is different. There’s a strange rhythm to his steps. Not step after step after step after step. It’s more a long stride, followed by a skip, and then a short step. And the longer you watch, the more this rhythm gets inside your head. And you have no choice. You have to watch.
Cars pass by him in both directions. Some pay no notice, don’t appear even to see him. Others slow down, people hanging out of windows, staring, gawking. Some honk their horns and wave. He waves back each and every time—with a little jerky motion he raises his hand and acknowledges them. I wonder how many times he’s done that. Others pull right off to the side of the road and get out of their cars and watch, and clap and cheer him on.
As he gets closer you can see the reason for the strange pattern in his gait. While his left leg is strong and muscular, in the place of his right is an artificial limb made of metal and fibreglass. Step after step. Striding forward with his powerful left leg, a small skip, and then a step on his prosthesis.
He moves closer and you can make out his features. He’s young—he’ll turn 22 later this year. His head is topped with a mop of curly, unruly hair. His face is tanned and handsome. He looks like the boy next door, or a friend of your son’s, or maybe the boy your daughter brings home. Not that any boy will ever be good enough for her—but he looks like he might be as close as anybody could be.
If you look at him—and you have to look very closely—you can see a slight twinge on his face when that artificial leg hits the ground. I know it must hurt. I also know he doesn’t want people to see that in his face.
Moving in tandem, just behind to protect him from traffic, is a van. As he enters the outskirts of the town the van pulls out and drives off, coming to a stop in the centre of town, in front of the store, right in front of me. The driver’s door opens and a man, as young as the runner, emerges. He walks to the back of the van and half leans, half sits against its rear bumper. He’s watching his friend, waiting for him to arrive.
Slowly the runner comes. Never faster or slower. That same awkward, entrancing gait, until a few steps before the van he slows down to a walk. The second man greets him, offering a cup of water, a pat on the back and a plate of cut-up oranges—my kids called them “orange smiles.” Together they walk to the van, open the sliding door and sit down, their legs hanging out the side.
Just a few at a time, a crowd starts to gather around them. That’s something I never thought I’d see—a crowd in Millwater. Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, the runner stands up and starts to talk. His name is Terrance Stanley Fox, but he introduces himself simply as Terry. He tells them that at age 18, while attending first year in Kinesiology at Simon Fraser University, he was diagnosed with cancer, and five days later his leg was amputated. He tells them how that night, while awaiting the surgery to remove his leg, he had a dream to run across Canada to help raise money for cancer research. When he was receiving treatment, chemotherapy, he thought about those all around him suffering and how he wanted to try to do something to help them, some of them just kids. And now, three years later, he’s fulfilling this dream. He calls it the Marathon of Hope. Those words are written across the side of the van.
He started his run in St. John’s, Newfoundland, on April 12. He dipped his artificial leg into the Atlantic Ocean and began running. That first day he ran 26 miles—the equivalent of a marathon. And the next day he ran 26 miles. And the next, and the next. And here he sits. Forty days, close to a thousand miles, and halfway across his second province. Imagine that—every day for the past 40 days he has run an average of 26 miles, on one leg. It’s almost impossible to believe that could be real. But it is.
I listen to the young man. His story isn’t polished and professional. He’s speaking from the heart, not from a speech he has written down and memorized. It’s obvious that he isn’t a politician or a public speaker. Sometimes his speech is halting. Sometimes I wonder if he’s close to tears. Always he is friendly, genuine and considerate. As I said, he isn’t a politician.
Having given his speech, he thanks people for taking the time to listen to his story and asks them to help support the Marathon of Hope—to contribute a few dollars, or perhaps more than a few dollars, to help fight cancer. People come forward and press money into his hands and the hands of his friend, Doug Alward.
He starts to run. Stride, skip, step. Stride, skip, step. The crowd begins to clap and cheer as he runs past the remaining buildings that make up Millwater. More than a few people begin to cry. Not just the women. An old farmer who looks so tough that he wouldn’t blink if you hit him in the head with a shovel wipes away a tear from his eye. There’s a story there. Maybe it’s about his wife or a son or daughter who battled cancer. Maybe won the battle. Maybe lost it. I could ask him, I guess, but I can’t. I’m too busy wiping a tear from my own eye.
Nothing ever happens in Millwater. Except today. Today a little piece of history was made. Today a man named Terry Fox passed through town. He’s a hero. Terry would tell you different. He’d tell you he’s no hero. I’m telling you he is.
I felt shaken…my breath taken away. I looked up from the page.
“So what did you think?” my father asked.
I sniffed hard. I couldn’t believe it…I was fighting back tears. What the hell was wrong with me? “It was…it was…good.”
“Only good?” He laughed.
“Really good.”
“And what did you think about the last couple of lines?” my father asked.
“About him being a hero?”
He nodded. “After reading the article, do you think he’s a hero?”
“Sure. Of course…yes.”
My father smiled, a smug sort o
f smile, and took another sip from his drink. “I’m glad I could make you think that.”
“That’s what you think too, isn’t it?” I asked.
“That’s what I wrote.”
He hadn’t really answered my question. “But is that what you think?” I persisted.
“What’s important is what people think when they read my story.”
I was confused. “But…but…you do think he’s a hero, don’t you?”
“I think he’s attempting something heroic. But it really doesn’t matter what I think or don’t think. Some people say never let the truth get in the way of a good story. I never agreed with that. The truth is the truth.”
He took another sip.
“If you don’t think he’s a hero, what do you think he is?” I asked.
My father shrugged again. “I didn’t say that I didn’t think he’s a hero. Maybe he is, but who knows? Maybe he’s a con man, or somebody into self-promotion or a fraud.”
“A fraud?”
“For all we know he only runs a few miles on each side of the towns and sits in the back of the van the rest of the way. Or maybe he’s keeping all the money they collect for himself.”
“Do you really think he does that?”
“I doubt it,” he said, shaking his head. “In my business you get to know people. I’d bet that this kid is legitimate. Genuine. Honest. What do you think?”
I struggled to find the words. Before my father mentioned it I hadn’t even thought about him not being honest.
“Well?” my father asked.
I shook my head. “I think he’s really running…that he’s doing this to raise money for cancer research…I think.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but it would sure make one heck of a story if he was crooked. The only thing the public likes better than building up a hero is tearing one down. Tragedy sells more papers than triumph.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I almost felt stunned—did people really like to read about people failing?