by Greg Kearney
Hugh is sitting with Teresa, who is asleep.
“She’s gone, son.”
“What?”
“She passed away.”
“But when? I was just hanging out with her an hour ago.” He kneels beside her and touches her face. Dead.
“It happened just now. In her sleep.”
“How could you tell?”
“I could tell. I’m her husband. A husband knows when his wife has died in her sleep.”
Hugh strokes his wife’s small, bald head. “There’s nothing to tell. She was asleep, and then she — woke up a little, and I heard her say, ‘Oh, hey, I’m having a heart attack, I guess, eh?’ and then she fell asleep again and died.”
His mother, the sum of his understanding of women and only friend, lies dead beside him. Hugh is haggard, slightly sweaty. They can talk about the particulars later.
Joel calls 911. He asks Hugh if he should call people now or tomorrow. Tomorrow, his father says. Joel feels a small spike of pleasure: his father has said his brother can wait until tomorrow.
The paramedics come. Two tall guys in their thirties. They treat his mother with great care, almost tenderness. Joel can’t help but imagine himself being fondled by the paramedics. He feels guilt over this brief fantasy and goes and stands in the bathroom.
When they’ve gone, Hugh sits at his place at the kitchen table. Joel opens two bottles of beer and sits where his mother used to sit.
“What a woman,” Hugh says, spent but dry-eyed. “How did I get such a woman? So smart, and tough. She never refused me, not once. In bed, like. She sure was nice.”
Joel sips his beer and lets his father talk.
“Your mom gave you six thousand dollars. That’s all she had in the world. So don’t go saying nothing to Dallas, because she didn’t give him nothing. Promise you won’t say nothing to him.”
“Of course I promise. Why would I bring that up with Dallas? We don’t speak as it is.”
“I don’t know. Now, what are your plans again? Take it from the top.”
“I am moving to Winnipeg, where I have already secured a bachelor apartment that doesn’t have bugs. I am going to get a job, and I will not be picky about what kind of job. I am going to investigate all post-secondary education opportunities in Manitoba, and if a course catches my eye, I will submit it to you for your approval.”
“Good.”
“And what about you? Tell me your plans from the top.”
Hugh chuckles. “Let’s see. I’m gonna go to work, then I’m gonna come home. See how that goes.”
Joel nods.
“You know, don’t ever think I don’t love you as much as your mom does,” Hugh says, all slurry. “She’s just more mouthy about it, that’s all. It’s hard for me sometimes to say what I feel.”
Joel assures his father that he can feel his love. Joel suddenly knows what his future plans are; his father’s grief has made everything clear.
“I know what I want to do with my life.”
“Yeah? Good.”
“I’m going to learn to sew on Mom’s sewing machine. And I’m going to learn to crochet, and weave, and dry flowers, and garden, and can cucumbers.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, there you go. But a canned cucumber is a pickle.”
“Really? Oh. Anyway, these past weeks have settled it for me. Looking after the house with you, helping you, you know … I just want to keep helping you. Now that Mom is gone, I want to look after you and — this sounds weird but I mean it in the loosest sense — I’d like to try to be sort of like kind of a — replacement wife, like. Do you know what I mean?”
Hugh does this thing with his mouth and jaw that he does when he’s taken aback: the jaw juts forward, the mouth draws sharply downward on one side.
“No, I do not know what you mean. You aren’t my wife, you’re my kid.”
“I know, I’m just saying that I find homemaking gratifying and would like to function essentially as your —”
“Quit talking so goddamn stupid. Why do you have to say such stupid things? I had a wife; she’s gone now. I don’t need a replacement wife. And I sure as hell don’t need my kid to — what? Propose to me?”
Joel is suitably mortified. “I just meant that I want to be of help to you.”
“You want to be of help to me? You go get a job and a place to live that doesn’t have bugs. That would help me. A lot. I’ll be just fine on my own. All right?”
“Okay. Can I at least hold you for a moment?”
“What do you mean, ‘hold’ me? Could you at least ‘hold’ me? That sounds off. A father can hug his kid if he hasn’t seen the kid for a while, that kind of thing. Otherwise … I’m just going to put this all up to you being upset about your mother.”
Joel gets up from the table. His foolish notions will be his doom. Did he just make a pass at his father? When he was conceiving it all, it struck him as a very wholesome proposition: the dutiful son serving his father, like a Bible story. Joel burns with shame; is it his fate to forever think, and feel, and talk, as his father said, so goddamn stupid?
“I’m really sorry,” he says, turning away. Hugh calls him back to the table.
“Now you listen, Joel Alan Price,” Hugh says, struggling to stand. “There is not a goddamn thing wrong with you. Your mom was a good mom. She done a good job with you. Why do you want to get yourself all in knots and talk stupid and act like a punk, when you know full well you’re just as plain as the rest of us? Eh? Why?”
“I don’t know,” says Joel, head hung. “I was just trying to —”
“Well, stop trying, and start doing. Do you even know your social insurance number by heart? Christ. Goofy! Come here now.”
Hugh pulls Joel into a rough hug. Held by his good, calm father, Joel feels sorted and even soothed.
Then Hugh sways slightly, left and right, still holding Joel; it’s probably just drunkenness, but the way Hugh’s hand goes to the small of Joel’s back as he sways would make this embrace look, to an outside observer, like a slow, mangled waltz.
Acknowledgements
I adore and revere these sage, helpful people: Marc Côté, Barry Jowett, Meryl Howsam, Bryan Jay Ibeas, Andrew Brobyn, Angel Guerra, Tannice Goddard, Barry Callaghan, Michael Callaghan, Gabriela Campos, Michael Rowe, Zoe Whittall, Gloria McIsaac, Shawn Syms, Scott Dagostino, Gord and Kim Sweeney, Pippi Johnson, Andrea Currie, Kaila Wilfert, Brandon Matheson, Patricia Matte, Debra Matte, Chris Letestu, Mikiki, David Beazely, Suzanne Bennett, James Huctwith, Lisa Foad, John Criscitello, Sky Gilbert, Benjamin Nemerofsky Ramsay, Julie DiCresce, Lila Cano, Kim Erskine, Brooke Rosenfeld, Kathy Speek, Ruby Rowan, Karmen Jacobson, and my beloved, Robert Matte.
The author gratefully acknowledges the support of Canada Council for the Arts and Ontario Arts Council.