A long silence followed and neither man spoke.
“We might have been afraid of what would happen if we did talk,” Am finally went on. “There was plenty of anger, too. I was angry that there was nothing anyone could do to stop those two utterly useless deaths. There was nothing I could do.”
How many layers of anger? he wondered. How many layers had he erected between himself and his own feelings during the intervening years? Now Mags wanted a different kind of life, that was clear. Well, he didn’t like the way things were either, but he didn’t know how to get to a different kind of life.
“There must be things that can’t be fixed, things that have to be smoothed over,” said Kenan. “Between every man and his wife.” He drank the last of his whisky. He wasn’t sure of his ground here. He was thinking of his own marriage and what needed fixing. He was thinking that things were somewhat better around his place right now.
Am thought they’d sat there long enough, so he walked over to the opening in the floor, certain that the tower was swaying. He gripped an overhead beam until the tower stopped moving, and he stepped onto the top rung of the ladder. He felt Kenan’s hand on his arm, steadying. He descended without a word and missed the bottom rung, but corrected his balance in time. Even so, his foot hit the floor with a thump. Kenan was right behind. They left the hatch open above. Am backed into the cupboard of sand that hid the pendulum cables, and banged his right shoulder hard against its door. He and Kenan laughed as if something hilarious had just happened. They laughed even harder when they put on their boots. But Am sobered suddenly as he remembered that he had a duty to perform. It was New Year’s Eve; the bell was supposed to be connected to the workings of the clock so that it could ring in the new year at the stroke of twelve. Back up to the tower they went, leaving their boots on as they climbed. Am fiddled with shaft and gears and connections. The clapper was set to strike the giant bell in the centre of the tower. His familiarity with the mechanism allowed him some clarity, and when he was satisfied, or at least half satisfied, he went back down the ladder. He took the side stairs from the apartment down to the street, glad to have Kenan with him.
The hell with Mags, he thought. The hell with the concert.
The hell with the music director. Who did he think he was?
The hell with Calhoun, the editor of the Post, who had tried to make life difficult—and public—because of a little snow scattered around the rink.
The hell with New Year’s Eve.
He started laughing again, and now he let Kenan take the lead, thinking the younger man would head toward the rink or the skaters’ shack or maybe the widow’s barn. But Kenan surprised him. He took to the centre of the road and walked into the night and the fog, toward the opposite end of town. Because it was New Year’s Eve, the rink had to be avoided. There would be skaters and revellers out there until after midnight. The skaters’ shack would be kept open; the fire would stay lit in the stove. A faint glow from a light on the pole at one end of the rink, a dim glow like an aura, signalled inside the fog as the two men turned away.
Am wondered if Kenan was becoming used to the idea of being outside, with people moving around. Or the risk of people moving around. There was still no one in sight along the road. He didn’t know if Kenan spoke to anyone when he went out on his night walks. That wasn’t the kind of thing Kenan talked about in the tower, or in the back veranda of his house when Am was visiting.
The air was damp, and Am didn’t speak any of these thoughts aloud. He figured that if he did, he would start laughing again. Laughing at nothing. What did he have to laugh about? He rubbed at his shoulder where he’d bumped into the pendulum cupboard. He was beginning to be more concerned about paying attention to his feet, because each step was now demanding his attention. The distance between the soles of his boots and the surface of the road was not measuring up the way it should. With some steps, his feet came down heavily; with others, the road rose up to meet them. He needed to stay upright, didn’t want to end up with a broken leg because of hidden ice on the road.
As usual, Kenan had his hood pulled up, his face partly covered. It didn’t bother Am to look at Kenan’s face; he was used to him. The scars had never bothered him anyway, once he’d paid his first visit. This was Kenan, who had grown up in the town and gone off to war. The same boy he always was, as far as Am was concerned. Even if Kenan himself was aware of having changed. Suffered. Yes, that was the word. The boy had suffered, and the memories of the war had not let go of his mind.
They passed the hotel and Am peered through the windows, wondering who was looking after the place. If Dermot and Agnes were at Naylor’s listening to Mags sing, then their oldest son, Bernard, must be in charge. Bernard pretty well managed most things at the hotel now, which gave Dermot a break to spend his time whatever way he wanted. Crowing about his automobile, for one.
He thought of the concert, which would soon be over. No one expected Kenan to sit in the middle of a crowded theatre, but Am would be missed. Everyone in town would expect him to be there to hear Mags sing. Didn’t matter. It was too late now.
Kenan was walking past the corner of Main and Mill and he continued in a westerly direction. The night was darker, the fog thicker, once they left the lights of town behind. Am’s feet were becoming less and less reliable, but he was doing his best to keep up. The boy walked with such uncanny confidence, he could probably see with his good eye closed. Am wondered how many shots of whisky they had downed in the tower, but the thought vanished before he could calculate the answer. His arms and legs felt as if they were flailing now, and he told Kenan they’d better head back. He thought he told Kenan; he wasn’t sure he’d spoken the words aloud. He must have, because Kenan did a brisk about-turn, as if he were in uniform again. Am stumbled to try to keep up.
They had retraced their steps and were passing Dermot’s hotel for the second time when Am weaved in front of Kenan and led him around to the drive sheds behind house and hotel. Dermot loved his horses, but he also loved his Dodge Brothers Touring Car. He was as proud of his auto as he was of any of his mares.
The car was where it always was, under a wooden overhang specially erected to protect it from wind and blowing snow.
Am walked to the car and threw back the big tarp that had been spread over the top. He put his hands on the door and pulled it open and squeezed himself in behind the wheel, holding himself sideways and upright as long as he could before he collapsed, laughing, down onto the seat. There was so little room, the only way he could get himself in was by bending double. He decided that he’d drive the damned car up and down the street to celebrate the new year. And why not? The year coming in couldn’t be any worse than the one on the way out. His brother wouldn’t be happy, but he’d get over it. If he didn’t want anyone to steal his car, why didn’t he secure it better? From the tower, Am had seen Dermot drive it up the street only the day before. In any case, Dermot and Agnes were at the concert and wouldn’t know. Am would steer it back under the overhang and cover it over before Dermot had a chance to leave the theatre. Am had no idea how much time had elapsed since he and Kenan had finished off the whisky. The clock faces on the tower couldn’t be seen through the fog, not from this far. Otherwise, he’d have glanced up to check.
“Do you know how to start this thing?” Kenan was standing directly in front of the car, staring at him through the fog with his one eye. He had pushed the hood of his jacket back and his head was bare. He was grinning.
“Of course I do. Do you?”
“I can turn the crank with one hand. Do you have the key?”
“Of course I have the key. Damned fool leaves it right here for anyone to grab.”
Kenan was in a half-crouch in front of the Dodge. He was muttering and laughing to himself. He peered up at Am, who was flicking switches, pushing and pulling at knobs. Kenan turned the crank: up, back to the side, up and back. It seemed to take forever, but the car suddenly sputtered and Am gave a shout. Kenan raced around
to the passenger side and yanked at the door and half fell into his seat. They were laughing like crazy now, and couldn’t stop. Not while the car jerked and spluttered and jerked again, and started to move. Am barely managed to get it out from behind the hotel without bumping into the side of the building, and finally, they were out on the street.
Am turned left. Silver arrows of light exploded like fireworks before his eyes as he tried to get his bearings on the road. He felt that icicles were being hurled at him from every direction. He blinked and blinked again. He ducked. Tried to clear his vision. He bent a bit lower and peered through the bottom part of the windshield, but he could make out no more than the frozen ruts that rose up in front of the wheels.
He stopped the car in the middle of nowhere, anywhere, though the vehicle took its time shuddering to a halt. He was aware that he was laughing like a fool again.
“Get out there and be my beacon,” he said to Kenan between gasps. “I need you to give direction. Get out there and climb up onto the hood and straddle it and pray that it holds your weight. Dermot will take after the two of us if we put so much as a scratch on this car. Use your good eye to see what it can see and point your good hand so I can follow the direction you’re pointing.”
Kenan doubled up to get out of the car, and he climbed onto the hood, his long legs dangling. His body was rocking with laughter that couldn’t be controlled. It kept rising up, hiccupping out of him. He was hearing the voice of his friend Hugh: “I plan to come out laughing, and you will too, Kenan. Even if it’s the laughter of madmen.”
“That’s exactly what we are,” Kenan said aloud, to the fog. His drunken thoughts whirled through his brain. “We are madmen. Raising war, raising hell, trying to raise peace. Dying along the way, or surviving—to do what? To kick up our heels, to try to love our wives, to find decent work, to drink whisky in a tower and steal a man’s auto …” His thoughts gave out. He almost fell off the hood.
The two of them bumped and rattled along, splitting their sides. They could have walked as fast as the car was moving. Am steered blindly from inside. Kenan was in front of Am, but on the outside, one-eyed, pointing this way and that with his good arm and steering the course for both. He was trying to lead the way down the middle of Main Street, but a sudden memory of planes flying freely above the trenches of grimy mired men made him stretch his arm out horizontally. His torso swayed, weaving back and forth as if he were flying.
He heard a shout from behind the opening in the windshield.
“What the hell kind of direction is that? Do you want … fly … right up off … road?”
Am was having trouble with his speech. The words were bumping into one another, skewing his thoughts. He should have carried the big flask down with him, but it was probably empty. Was it? Had they finished it off?
Kenan was still trying to fly on the hood. Am heard him give out a whoop of laughter and he tried to stop the car, but again, the effort took some doing. They both felt a large thump. When the vehicle came to a halt, it was halfway up the boardwalk, directly opposite the theatre. There was no starting it up again.
The doors of the theatre opened. People, young and old, spilled out of the foyer and down the steps on either side of the entrance. They collected on the street, some still singing “Auld Lang Syne,” which they’d begun inside. Others were peering through the fog and up toward the clocks, waiting for the reconnected bell to reverberate in the tower and send its echoes out over the streets as it chimed in an untarnished new year.
Dermot was one of the first people out of the theatre, Agnes right behind him. He saw his own car through the fog, saw his laughing brother playing the fool, saw his son-in-law collapsed in laughter on top of the hood. He came striding across the street and left Agnes to walk home along the boardwalk, following the crowd.
Tress was still inside, waiting to congratulate her aunt. People from the town were trying to decide if that was Kenan Oak sliding off the hood of Dermot’s car across the street. The tower clock struck twelve and the bell began to ring. All eyes looked up to the tower. Am stared up, too, as if he were new to the town, glad to be present while a bell chimed in the new year. And then he realized it was his clock, his tower, his bell, and he said aloud, to no one—as no one was listening—”At least I got one goddamn thing right.”
Maggie was spared the sight. She and Zel and Luc and Andrew and Corby and the entire choral society had begun to celebrate on the open stage. They were hugging and laughing and shaking hands, heady with the elation that accompanied their success. Luc was already beginning to plan, talking about a more ambitious choral work for a spring concert.
It was only when Maggie was home again, only when she removed her green velvet gown, that she realized she had lost her locket. It must have become unfastened. Or the chain had broken. It must have slipped from her neck.
She retraced her steps in the apartment, put on her coat, went back down the stairs, opened the side door. Am still wasn’t home; he would have gone back to the hotel with Dermot and the limping auto. She didn’t know where Kenan was. He might be with Am and Dermot, but she suspected that her nephew was at home with Tress. Maggie had been told about the commotion outside the theatre, about Dermot taking charge of his auto, but she had remained onstage, where, for this one evening, she felt she belonged. She had stayed and celebrated with her friends.
Now she checked the snow-cleared path leading away from the door of the building. She took a few steps farther out into the street. The locket was in none of those places. She would have to return to the theatre tomorrow. She would have to look there.
She put her hand to her throat, and wept.
DESERONTO POST, JANUARY 1920
Local Items
Your editor and his wife announce, with great delight, the arrival of their baby girl, Breeda Calhoun, born January 1, only moments after the bell in the clock tower rang in the new year.
Special note: Immediately after the esteemed T.S. MacIntosh gave his excellent recitation, which opened the New Year’s concert at Naylor’s, I was called away from my reviewer’s seat because of my wife’s condition. Therefore, and to my regret, I am unable to report on the evening’s entertainment. If someone with nib in hand cares to step forward to write up the grand occasion, I shall be happy to meet with said person. The performers, singers, soloists, musicians, as well as the high school students who created the tableau, deserve to have their efforts lauded. Also, those citizens who were unable to attend deserve to read an account of the evening. Drop in at the office of the Post and let me know if you would like to write a review.
An ice boat recently made the distance from Trenton to Belleville in one hour.
The town’s annual masquerade party will be held on the rink on the bay in late January. That event is only a few weeks away, so start planning your costumes. People are expected from near and far to join the celebrations. As happens every year at this time, bodies will be whirling hither and thither in all directions, by means of the skate.
Found on Main Street: A woman’s gold locket upon which the letter H is inscribed. The finder has conferred a favour on the owner by leaving it under lock and key at the office of the Post. The owner of the locket may present herself to the editor in order to identify and claim said item.
Deseronto, Ontario
One Year Later
JANUARY 1921
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Deseronto: January 1, 1921
Dear Maggie,
You asked me not to write until I heard from you. So you will understand how relieved I was to receive your letter when the post office reopened after Christmas.
It is New Year’s Day. How could I not think of you today? I think of you every day, my dear friend.
So much has happened during the past year, so many decisions were made, and yet, at this moment, I am thinking of how you sang onstage exactly one year ago. All of those beautiful notes, well-rehearsed lines, all drifting out into the theatre air and
vanishing. Those were moments of triumph. You captivated not only your audience but also the rest of us, your colleagues, who stood beside and behind you. No matter what else we do with our lives, Maggie, music will soothe and calm us. Music will last, and outlast, and cast its spell and enter our souls and connect us across time and distance. We must believe this, both of us, all of us.
Now, having thought of last year’s concert, I must add what a shame it was that no one took up Calhoun’s offer to review the concert for the Post. A write-up would have endured in print. Or perhaps not. Even so, for years to come, people who were privileged to be in the audience will remember the wonderful soprano voice of Maggie O’Neill. (I’d have written the review myself if I hadn’t been one of the singers!)
But the news you await is Hanora’s news, of course. I visit as often as I can, not only to send a report, but because she creates so much happiness around her. She is healthy and plump-cheeked and beautiful, just as she was in Toronto in November. It goes without saying that she brings her new parents more joy than they have known since Kenan came home from the war. Tress has stopped working for the time being, though she visits her parents at the hotel every couple of days. Agnes and Dermot, with two grandchildren to love, have embraced their new roles without partiality. They bestowed new carriages upon the offspring, and for a few short weeks before snow fell, the town was treated to occasional glimpses of two young cousins being wheeled about, side by side—the elder of the two crowing with delight, the younger, little Hanora—it seems almost certain that her eyes will be green—staring up at all who stopped to greet her. Grania gets to town frequently, as her new home is not so far away.
I visit Tress and Kenan at their home, which is where I see Hanora. No one discusses what so few of us know. You wondered, in your letter, about the rest of the town. Not a person, I believe, has made the connection to you. Especially as it’s generally known that you moved to Oswego so early last spring, to be close to your sister’s family. Hanora has been accepted as any other child is accepted. Nothing is known except that the adoption took place “away,” in the city. When I think of that day, I believe we live in the Dark Ages. Of one thing, I am certain: everyone involved is capable of closing around this secret.
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