Measuring Up

by Dan Robson

  Carol and my father ended things sometime after that. It was her decision—she was the one who broke it off.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You know what, it’s funny. At the time, I never really knew. I don’t know, it just felt like something—I can’t even tell you why,” Carol says. “I don’t even know, back then, why. But looking back now, I think what it might have been, for me, was that although he was so sweet and good to me and I loved him and everything, he wasn’t the affectionate type. And I think I needed that. That’s what I think it was. And I didn’t realize that, probably, until just the last couple of years. You don’t always understand yourself when you’re younger.”

  “Was it tough to break up?” I ask. “How did it go?”

  “Yeah, he was pretty upset. I mean, we both were. It’s hard to break up for everybody. If you’ve been through that, you understand, right? I know definitely it was hard for him, for sure.”

  I wonder what Dad knew about heartache. I wonder if he remembered the agony, or if it had faded into a faint memory of what had once felt so real and endless, the way first love always does when it ends. Or maybe, beneath the sting, there was relief—and the thrill of new possibility after so much of his young life had already seemed locked in place.

  A couple of years later Carol and Dale got together—and the boy with a crush on the girl dating his best friend finally got his chance. They started a new life together, drifting ever away from those long-ago days. Carol and Dale would have two sons, making stories of their own as they rocked along heavy waves of marriage. Years later they’d divorce, but they’d still sit in the kitchen and talk for hours. And one day they’d take a long drive together to sit at the front of a packed church to say goodbye to an old friend.

  I wonder if Dad ever thought of them. I wonder if he thought about how life breaks into fragments and leaves pieces behind as time barrels on. Or if he ever thought about what might have happened if his heart hadn’t been broken and a first love had lasted forever. Did he think about how close the course of our lives can be to taking us somewhere else entirely?

  After he and Carol broke up that spring, I know that Dad did take more flying lessons. In an old box of his things I found a Brampton Flying Club logbook that charted the hours he spent in the sky. Also in that box was a pilot’s operating handbook for a 1977 Model 150M Cessna Commuter. On October 23, 1977, he earned his solo flight certificate in that plane.

  I know that he flew to Waterloo on June 10, 1978—and to the airports in London and Brantford, Ontario, on June 24. I can see his signature written neatly and proudly at the bottom of the page in the logbook, confirming that Rick Robson had indeed soared through the clouds.

  I know that a few weeks later, on July 11, 1978—convinced by a couple of friends who were trying to get him over a broken heart—he walked into a bar in downtown Toronto.

  That night, Dad met Mom.

  15

  We drive through our neighbourhood, along the streets I used to bike as a kid—down Corkett, where our ball hockey games were halted by passing cars, and then down Burt, past the house where I’m told Carol and Dale lived for several years before moving north to Barrie.

  Mom is driving, which is odd. Since Dad died I’ve always been the one at the wheel.

  We turn left onto Major William Sharpe Drive—which I’ve just realized was likely named in memory of a soldier whose history has otherwise been wiped out. I’d walked, biked, and driven down this road thousands of times and not once thought to wonder who this man was, let alone that he was an actual person. As kids we’d even dropped the “Drive” altogether, referring to it only as MajorWilliam Sharpe—as though Sharpe were another word for Avenue or Street. Whenever our school bus reached MajorWilliam Sharpe, my sisters and I knew we were almost home. And MajorWilliam Sharpe was the boundary for how far we could bike. Now I wonder who this Will Sharpe was—and why he became a major, and whether he lived to see the street that was named for him.

  Probably not. Streets are rarely known to the names they’ve been given.

  Mom turns right on Flowertown Avenue, which for a couple of blocks is lined with houses built in the eighties, like ours, until a sudden shift to houses built in the late fifties and sixties. This is where the old farmer’s field began. This is where Dad would have biked to the edge before charging in. We leave the stalks and drive down the same road. We roll to the intersection of Flowertown and Cumbrian Court, where Dad and I sat stalled in the Honda, me grinding the gears as cars honked and sped around us.

  My grandmother’s bungalow, with its pink brick and beige siding, is the second house from the corner, with a maple tree out front that I used to climb. Dad’s blue truck sits at the top of the long driveway. I picture him leaning beneath the raised hood of a green Land Cruiser as we park over a pattern of old oil spots.

  Auntie B has done her best to keep the grass cut and the roof from leaking, but it’s been hard since Dad left us. After my grandfather died, it became his job to keep the old house standing. We were only five minutes away. He’d go over to the house to fix anything that needed to be repaired. A few years back, he had the old pool filled in because no one used it anymore. He hired someone to do that, though Pa probably would have given him a hard time for not doing it himself. It was an act of erasure, I thought—filling the hole he’d dug and along with it any trace of the blue liner, the steel siding, the whirlpools that pulled kids around in a circle when the adults moved as fast around the edge of the pool as they could. The grass was fresh above it, as though sitting on a grave. You could see the outline of what was there, but only because you knew. In the decades ahead there’d be no sign of those summer days spent by the water.

  I wonder what Dad thought standing next to the filled-in hole. Did the sweat and tears of digging it seem futile, or did the years hidden beneath the grass seem like treasure?

  Dad enjoyed taking care of the old house after his father died, I think. We used to be here all the time.

  I’ve kept his truck here because there are no other cars at my grandmother’s place now that she’s in her nineties and can no longer drive. And these days the blue trash bin at our house is taking up half the driveway.

  But tonight we’re buying a toilet and a tub. And only a truck can carry that.

  It’s seven-thirty on a cool spring night. There’s a hole bored halfway through the side of our house and a muddy trench system dug into the basement floor. The sun sets pink and orange. And Home Depot is open until ten.

  Big box hardware stores are tough for me. Dad used to complain about them all the time. He much preferred Guest Hardware, the shop he favoured most of his life. I remember going there with him when I was young. There was so much stuff packed into a small space on the main floor and down in the basement. Any screw you needed. Any bolt. A lawn mower? A table saw? You named it, they had it. Whatever you needed to keep your house standing.

  But then, in the 1990s, big box complexes with their massive parking lots were built on the north and south sides of town. I distinctly remember when they arrived. Giants like Home Depot and Lowe’s filled spaces that could be airport hangars. The rows seemed to stretch for miles. For every item the old hardware store carried these mammoths had dozens more—and with endless brands to choose from, stacked on grates you needed a mechanical lift to reach. You’d think that, for my father, it would be like a trip to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. But it wasn’t.

  There was something impersonal about the wide aisles, the endless inventory, the staff in their orange work-apron uniforms with name tags to create the illusion of a personal connection. But the big boxes could never be the old-time mom-and-pop hardware stores that their aesthetic tried to emulate. There was no heart or soul in the place. No connection to the people who bought the tools they’d use to bring shape and structure to their lives. There’s something about a store that knows the generations that have
passed through it—something that connects it to the tools it sells and the people who buy them. People they know by name; tools they’ve sold for years. There’s an intimacy to it.

  And inevitably, just as Dad had worried, the big box stores put the small local shops out of business. Guest Hardware closed down shortly after Dad had done that first renovation on our main floor and basement. The only convenient option left was the leviathan that had consumed it.

  My father never found the same joy there. He’d go in, get what he came for, and leave. Sometimes when we went together he’d lament the end of that old hardware store as he scanned the rows. I always felt lost in Home Depot, despite the huge signs hanging in front of the aisles. It’s one thing to know where something is in theory and entirely something else to know what you actually need when you get there. Dad could glance at a wall of nuts and bolts mere seconds before grabbing the exact size he wanted. I’d stand there for at least ten minutes until I was frustrated enough to pull out my phone and ask him.

  I’ve been inside a Home Depot only a couple of times since he died. Each trip was draining. It’s weird what sets off the memories. I only ever went there with Dad, so it was impossible not to associate a trip there with him. I once walked the aisles for more than twenty minutes on an errand to pick up light bulbs. They weren’t hard to find, but I wasn’t really looking. I just needed to walk around the place and feel like he was beside me. It was an odd nostalgia, but I felt as if I could have walked those mile-long aisles for hours.

  * * *

  —

  But this time it’s different. This time I’m with Mom and Tim, who’s met us—and we’re on a mission. Since Dad died my mother has become particularly hostile to salespeople. She carries an automatic defensiveness, as though every store employee sees her as a helpless widow and is trying to con her. She seems to believe that there’s always a deal to be haggled over, and that if she doesn’t try she’ll get ripped off. “That’s the best deal you can give me?” has become her go-to phrase during nearly every transaction she makes.

  There’s much more variety in the Home Depot toilet section than I expected—an entire aisle is dedicated to porcelain thrones. You don’t really notice the different designs and intricacies of each until you see them lined up side by side. I had no idea how expensive and complicated toilets can be. In my entire life it never occurred to me that there might be more than one standard version of a can. I mean, I’ve heard of the super high-tech ones with temperature settings, personalized music, and multiple strengths and angles for bidet spraying and blow drying. But here were dozens of toilets of the same manual wipe and flush variety. There are different shades, shapes, and sizes. Some have long tanks, some short. Some have oval seats, others round. Some even come in a yellowy-beige hue that makes them look vintage in a weird way.

  It’s overwhelming.

  The three of us spend at least twenty minutes walking back and forth down the aisle, considering style, features, and price. Mom wants the perfect one. She’s set on a Kohler because that’s the brand Dad liked, she says. I don’t know how this is a thing she remembers, but it seems sweet to me that somewhere in the past my father had made a comment about the quality and comfort of a Kohler toilet and that moment had stuck with my mother. It’s the little things that make a marriage.

  If Dad can’t be here, we’re at least going to take care to honour his memory properly.

  The Kohler Highline Classic Comfort seems to be the best in class. Its overview boasts of simple design and efficient performance, which conserves water without sacrificing flushing power. The tank curves inward with a seductive elegance. But it comes in at more than $300.

  We waver at the price and check out another Kohler model for $269. I’m starting to see the difference now. The lower-priced model seems plain and forgettable compared to the siren song of the Classic Comfort. Mom seems to agree, quickly moving past it.

  “Look at this one, Dan,” she says.

  It’s the Highline Dual Flush. It has a long, solid tank—without insisting upon itself. It’s stylish but understated. Mom stops to consider it.

  “It’s more money though,” she says.

  It comes in at $290. I suggest that there might be value in spending a few extra bucks to get the kind of toilet you want to spend the rest of your life with.

  “The last thing you want to do is sit on a brand-new can and think ‘Shit,’ ” I say out loud.

  That was quite clever, I think, but Tim carries on as if he didn’t hear while Mom gives me a cross look for cursing.

  We finally settle on the Kohler Cimarron, Comfort Height® The Complete Solution® with a round bowl—“Patented Flush Engine: No flapper, No leak, No problem”—which is equipped with AquaPistin® flush technology. It comes in at the high twos, but Dad would appreciate the quality. It’s the shit.

  Tim and I pull one of the boxes out from beneath the display and put it on our orange cart. We move on to the next step in our journey: a tub. As we turn around to look at the bathing options on the rack behind us, a man in an orange apron appears.

  Before we walked in, I had specifically asked Mom not to speak to any of the salespeople. I knew how it would go, and I was right.

  “Can I help you with anything?” the man asks.

  “Yes, we’re looking for a tub,” Mom says. She points to a white tub beside us. “I want a white one. Not like this one.”

  The man looks at us, confused.

  “This tub is white,” he says, defiantly. That was a mistake.

  “No,” Mom says. “It’s not.”

  This is tense. It looks white to me. But if it’s not white white, it’s absolutely in the white family. Maybe an off-white? Eggshell? I don’t know.

  The Home Depot man doubles down.

  “This is the colour of all our tubs,” he says.

  Mom is not pleased. I give her a look that suggests we need to step away from the situation. I can tell she doesn’t like this man and his strong stance on tub colours.

  “Okay, thanks very much,” I tell the man. “We’ll figure it out.”

  As he turns and walks away, Mom sends daggers through his Home Depot apron with her eyes.

  It takes us much less time to find a tub she wants than it did to decide on the toilet. She’s frustrated, and I’m sure it has very little to do with the tub salesman. Mom has to feel like I do. This was Dad’s territory. He would have walked through these aisles with an aura of infinite experience. Dad would have known which toilet and tub to buy right away. I would have followed him with a rolling cart and helped load up whichever one he pointed to, and we’d have been at the checkout within ten minutes. Instead we’ve spent nearly an hour here trying to figure out what to do. It’s not the time that matters. It’s not the differing shades of white. It’s the not knowing. It’s the hesitation. It’s the inescapable absence. I can see it in Mom’s eyes. She wants to go home now. And so do I.

  We settle on a sixty-inch acrylic tub. It’s white, we agree, and it holds water. It’ll do. We put it on the orange cart next to the Kohler Cimarron, have them rung up at the checkout, and push them out the door. Tim and I load them into the bed of the truck while Mom gets into the front seat. She’s always hated pickup trucks. They remind her of the farm where she grew up and then spent the rest of her life pushing away from.

  I climb in and turn on the engine. The truck shakes to life.

  “This thing is so big,” she says.

  “You’re such a city girl,” I say.

  She smiles and we listen quietly to the truck rumble as it takes us home.

  * * *

  —

  Later that night we sit at the kitchen table we’ve had since I was young and my sisters and I would complain about the tuna pot pie Mom made at least once a week. We had an old-fashioned, everyone- at-the-table-for-dinner rule in the house, one that the three of us
always met with frustration. But now I’m glad for the memory. Tonight it’s just me and Mom.

  I can tell she’s aching and is trying not to show it. But she’s breaking. I ask her how she’s doing without him—and she’s honest.

  “I’m not doing good at all,” she says. “It’s been a shitty year. It’s been a shitty life.”

  I’ve heard my mother use the F-word exactly once in our lives, and it’s seared in my memory. She never swears. I’m glad she’s allowed herself to now. But it breaks my heart to hear her.

  She wipes a tear off her cheek.

  “I have no one to do nothing with,” she says.

  * * *

  —

  My mother doesn’t talk much about the past.

  Not the fun parts, anyway—not about her rebellious years, back when she left the farm and the Mennonite church behind and set out from Punkeydoodles Corners, a hamlet named after a nineteenth- century tavern off the old bumpy road she grew up on, near Stratford, Ontario. I know that she grew up very poor. That she hated the barn, having developed a lifelong fear of mice from the many that ran across the rafters and dashed beneath the hay. I know that she went to college in nearby Kitchener, to become a nurse, and that at age twenty-six, after a breakup of her own, she moved to Toronto to work in the Emergency Room at Women’s College Hospital.

  That’s the point where she starts to colour between the lines of her history.

  “I didn’t really know the city,” Mom tells me.

  She’d been in Toronto for only three weeks before the night of July 11, 1978. A friend from nursing school, Ronnie, took her out to a popular bar called Brandy’s on the Esplanade. It was packed most nights, even Tuesdays. The place swirled with music, cigarette smoke, and booze.

  “We were sitting near the bar,” she says. “I noticed him walk in.”

  My father was twenty-three. He had short, light-brown hair, broad shoulders, and a recently broken heart.