Barrington Street Blues

by Anne Emery

  I usually did my best to participate in these multi-level talks, but I was on my way to being half-corked and I had other things on my mind. Namely, how many hours would I have to wait until I could get Maura by herself and continue our newly resumed marital relations. The MacNeils had their room, the old lady had hers, Brennan had his, Maura and Normie were in the fourth bedroom, and Tom and I had a couch and a cot in the basement. Things must have been crowded when Alec, Catherine, and their seven children shared this house in earlier times. But, then, who had more than four bedrooms? Alec had built this place himself; it was a palace compared to some of the houses in the area, particularly the company houses, owned by the coal company.

  As long as Normie didn’t get too wound up tonight, I could count on her falling asleep by nine. Could Maura and I both beg off whatever entertainment was planned so we could be alone? Maybe Alec would take Brennan out to a tavern, and — I realized someone had asked my opinion on something. “What?”

  “Never mind, Montague,” Alec said. “He talked himself out at the courthouse this week, did he, Maura? Or do you two not talk at all now? If not, why is he here? We were hoping you two were finally going to get back under the same roof.”

  I smiled. The in-laws were on my side.

  I went back to my calculations. I wasn’t the only quiet one at the table. Maura’s spooky grandmother sat across from me. Old Morag rarely spoke and, when she did, it was usually in Scottish Gaelic. She was regarding me with her glittering black eyes, which she then trained on Maura and on Brennan. She shook her head, as if in disagreement with an utterance only she could hear.

  “Alec, get your fiddle out after dinner and give us a tune, why don’t you?” Catherine suggested.

  “I may do that.” The old man’s voice had softened. “If our little Normie will do a step dance for us. You were kicking up your heels with your dad last night, weren’t you, little one?”

  “That was fun!”

  “Do you make music yourself, Normie?”

  “I can play four songs on the piano. Tommy Douglas plays the guitar and saxophone.”

  “So you just need a few more kids in the family: a fiddler, a drummer, and a singer. Then you’ll have a family band. Like the Barra MacNeils.”

  “Any relation?” Brennan asked.

  “No,” said Donald.

  “Yes,” countered Alec.

  “Distant,” declared Catherine.

  “And the Rankins. Whatever happened to the big families?” Alec demanded. “That’s what I’d like to know!”

  “Everybody’s telling the church to get stuffed when it comes to birth control, Dad,” Maura answered. “And rightly so. The pope’s own hand-picked commission came out in favour of relaxing the ban.”

  “People can’t afford them, that’s what,” the old man declared. “Big families are a luxury only the rich can afford, and they don’t want them. Hiring nannies to watch the children while the parents cavort on the tennis court! And all the while, working people are being squeezed and cheated to the point where the thought of another child —”

  “We’re having a baby!” Every tongue was stilled. Every eye locked on to my little girl. She beamed at her mother. Maura sat staring at her, speechless at last. The old grandmother was rocking and nodding her head, the terrible eyes shining at my daughter.

  “Is she right, Maura?” Catherine asked.

  “Ach, she is right,” the old lady intoned. “The child has the sight.”

  My wife nodded dumbly.

  “Mummy didn’t tell me. But I know there’s a baby in there. I’m so excited!”

  I, thunderstruck, could no longer hear what was being said around me. We were having another child? How many weeks ago was it that we were together? The tests they had now were amazing in their ability to confirm a pregnancy so early. Well, not so amazing. I was just out of step. As the news sunk in, I was filled with a joy that almost made me delirious. I could see it all: me as the solicitous husband, my wife’s belly growing, the birth of our new baby, the walks around the old neighbourhood with the baby carriage, the five of us together in the old house, everything falling into place at last. I could feel a grin spreading across my face and I didn’t even try to contain it.

  “And you’re due when, darlin’?” my mother-in-law asked.

  Silence. Then, reluctantly: “The third of October.”

  What? This was the eighth of June. The third of October was less than four months away! That meant she was already more than five months gone, and I hadn’t been with her until — I stared across the table at her, and she stared back, unable to turn away, horror written all over her face. My eyes turned to Brennan, whose normally unreadable features had been blasted into an expression of shocked disbelief.

  Everyone at the table, as if in answer to an unspoken command, turned to me.

  With one last look at my former wife, I got up from the table, grabbed my wallet and keys, and walked out.

  †

  Roaring down the Trans Canada at roughly twice the speed limit, still half-lit from the booze in Glace Bay, I cranked up the car radio and was mocked even by that. It was a song by Free Movement about a guy who gets the bad news, rises from the table, stubs out his cigarette, and walks away from his marriage. I scrabbled around the glove compartment until I found a George Thorogood CD and rammed it into the machine. I was the personification of the word greaser. But I didn’t care. As long as I lived, I would never get over sitting there at the dinner table, with her family all around us, me with a big fucking grin on my face, thinking we were going to be together again, counting the hours till Normie would fall asleep so I could get in there with MacNeil, anticipating it like a sixteen-year-old kid, and all the while she knew she was carrying a child that wasn’t mine and that everybody was going to know it. She didn’t even care enough about me to give a thought to what this would do to me; she didn’t have one shred of residual feeling for me. Warn me off from the trip to Cape Breton? Why bother? Who cares? And just who was Mr. Wonderful, that she would risk a pregnancy at forty-two or whatever age she was; wasn’t it more dangerous after forty? I didn’t fucking know.

  So, who was it? Her Latin lover, Giacomo? I hadn’t heard his name or caught sight of his dark curly locks for months; I thought he’d gone back to Italy. Or he’d fallen out of favour with Her Worship. But if it wasn’t him, who was it? The look on Burke’s face when she made her announcement! You usually couldn’t read his expression if your life depended on it, and there he was looking as if he’d taken a musket ball to the heart. I’d wondered about the two of them before; in fact, I’d come close to pounding Burke one night during a drunken row in which he’d told me to smarten up or I’d lose her. But I realized I was being ridiculous. Or was I? I knew he had taken a shine to her, but I always told myself he liked her as a friend.

  Think about it, though. The guy had taken a vow of celibacy. No, it wasn’t a vow. A vow was made to God. This, he explained, was a promise. To his bishop. I knew he took it seriously; he lived a celibate life nearly all the time. But not entirely one hundred percent of the time. This wasn’t a delicate little virgin when he entered the seminary; he’d been getting more tail than any three of the rest of us put together until he went into the sem. And he’d had the occasional fling since then, as I well knew. Very rarely, to be fair to him. But still. And how many times had I seen him and her sharing a little laugh? And dancing together? Like last night. And what exactly had been going on that Saturday morning I’d popped in at the house unannounced and found Brennan there half naked? The more distance I put between myself and her, and the faster I did it, the happier I would be. But by the time I reached New Glasgow I was falling asleep.

  I pulled off the highway, stopped at a convenience store for toothbrush, paste, and some other overnight supplies, and signed in at the Heather Hotel in Stellarton. No sooner had I flopped down on the bed than I was wide awake again and restless. I went down to the pub, sat at a table, and ordered a double wh
iskey. A party of young women was whooping it up in the corner. Businessmen and Westray miners took up most of the rest of the pub. I knocked back my drink and got another. And started brooding about Burke again. He was always trying to get MacNeil and me back together. What if he had another motive in trying to shove us together? Part of it was genuine, I had no doubt. He counted us both as friends; he wanted the best for us. But did he also want her with me because this way he could be sure of seeing her fairly often? And was there something else too? I remembered the time he had put the run to this Giacomo, saying mysterious things to him in Italian on the phone. What had that been about, really? Was he doing it for me, or for himself? Was it that he couldn’t stand the thought of Giacomo or any other guy having Maura if he couldn’t have her himself? Did I not count because you don’t miss a slice off a cut cake? I was her husband; he was not jealous of me. But with other guys — I was tired of myself and my deranged reasoning. I ordered a beer and surveyed the pub.

  One of the young ones from the girls’ night out came up to the bar and asked the bartender for a Singapore Sling. She chatted flirtatiously while she waited; she had obviously known the guy forever. As she was about to return to her table, she was greeted with shrieks of joy when two of her long-lost friends burst into the bar with elaborate excuses for the lateness of the hour. It was clear that there was no room among the party at the back; they asked if I would mind sharing my table. What could I say?

  “You’re not from here!” one of the new arrivals said to me.

  “No, I’m a come-from-away.”

  “With Sobeys, I bet.”

  “Mmm.” I imagined it was a common sight, personnel from the grocery chain appearing in Stellarton for a conflab at headquarters. I wished I were there for something as routine. “Right.”

  The first girl, who had been at the bar, offered to stand me a drink for my generosity in sharing my table, so I started on yet another beer that I did not need. It was all a blur after that.

  †

  I woke up the next morning with an agonizing headache and a feeling of squeamishness in my stomach. The smell of stale smoke and stale beer was overpowering. Must be from my clothes. Had I been in a bar? Where the hell was I? The horrible evening came back to me, Maura’s pregnancy and the excruciating humiliation of her announcement in front of everyone. Or had she announced it? Wasn’t it my daughter who blurted it out? And the witchy old grandmother. And Burke sitting there. And then I had bolted and driven home. But I wasn’t home. I went to a bar and passed out. The image of a glass of whiskey rising to my mouth — I rocketed out of the bed and into the bathroom just in time to eject the foul contents of my stomach into the toilet. A couple more sessions of that and I stood and looked at myself in the mirror. Jesus! I had to get out of here. Where was I? I couldn’t bring myself to shave; my hand was too shaky for that. I peed for what seemed like five whole minutes, brushed my teeth for an equally long time, and took a leisurely hot shower. My stomach was better, but the headache was still paralyzing. I walked into the bedroom.

  “Sorry I fell asleep before you finished.” I nearly jumped out of my skin, which was all I had on. I turned my bleary eyes to the bed and saw a young woman sitting with the bedspread up to her neck. She had a plump, pretty face and short brown hair sticking up all over her head. Who the hell was she?

  “What did you say?”

  “I just said I fell asleep before you were done because you seemed to be taking a while and I was really tired.”

  Before I was done? What happened? Was I having sex with someone who wasn’t even conscious? Was there something in the Criminal Code about that? Did loss of consciousness nullify consent? Would this constitute . . . I tried to clear my head.

  “Sorry,” I said finally, “that’s what too much alcohol does to me. Things take a little longer to, uh, come to a conclusion. So, anyway . . .” What was her name?

  “Should I get dressed, or . . .”

  “Whatever you like, sure.”

  “Or did you want . . .”

  I’m some guy — an older guy — she doesn’t know, I was such a lousy lay last night that she fell asleep, and she wants to know what I want to do? I fervently hoped my daughter would not grow up to be such a pleaser. But how could she, with MacNeil at the helm? Strong mother, strong daughter, I’d always been happy to think. The thought of MacNeil, who didn’t care about pleasing anyone but herself, whose body was now —

  I forced my mind to the here and now. What I was about to do with a person I didn’t even know was out of character, or so I liked to think. But if all around me were losing their heads, why not me too?

  “Let me in there between the sheets with you, sweetheart. Let’s see if I can keep you awake this time.”

  “Jake?”

  Jake! “Uh, yeah?”

  “Maybe I should, like, brush my teeth. I have my cosmetic bag with me, and it will only take a minute.”

  “Go ahead, take your time.”

  She stayed awake and became positively chatty afterwards. I still didn’t know her name. All I wanted was to get out of there and back to Halifax. As soon as the girl was gone, I’d be on my way; I’d grab a burger at a drive-through and boot it for home. She got dressed and headed to the bathroom, then emerged shortly afterwards with her makeup on and her hair somewhat tamed. She gave me a shy smile and busied herself with her handbag. My urge to get moving was visceral.

  But I heard myself ask her: “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah, kinda.”

  “Let’s go have breakfast.”

  “Okay!”

  We sat in the restaurant, and she resumed what must have been our conversation the night before. “So, like I was saying, I told him: ‘No, I’m not going to let the fries just sit there swimming in grease, and then serve them to somebody an hour later. I’m going to put new fries in, and if the customer has to wait an extra two minutes, fine, he’ll be grateful for fresh-tasting food.’ Now, you can imagine how that went over. So I came up with a compromise, because I’m not a troublemaker. Well, you understand what I’m saying, Jake, in your own job — you don’t grind up a big hunk of meat and let it sit there for two days on the counter, getting all brown and old, right?”

  Meat? What was she talking about?

  “Hey, Monty! What are you doing out here in the boonies?”

  Christ! I turned to the sound of the voice, and saw a lawyer I knew sitting a few tables away. “Hi, Don. How’s it going?”

  “Great. Probably run into you in Halifax next week.”

  My companion was looking at me over her omelette, her face the very portrait of pained accusation. “Monty? You mean your name isn’t Jake?”

  “No, it’s Monty.”

  “And I suppose you’re not really in town to receive the top-selling meat manager award either? I’ll bet Sobeys doesn’t even give out that kind of award! You just made it up to impress me!”

  “I’m sorry. I was loaded. Not that that’s a good excuse, but —”

  “You probably don’t have a job at all. At Sobeys or anyplace else. You’re probably on pogie! And you were just looking for someone to go to bed with, and then you got lucky. Because not only did you get that, but you figured with my job you’d also get a free cheeseburger and fries! Didn’t you? Well, I’m not like that! The day you’ll get a free French fry offa me is the day the moon turns blue!”

  “I understand. I won’t try anything like that with you.”

  “Good. And I suppose you’re married too. Using a fake name because you don’t want your wife to find out. If I’da known that —”

  “One thing I can tell you in all honesty: I couldn’t care less if my wife finds out.”

  “That’s sick!”

  “No, it’s just that she doesn’t care. Our marriage is over.”

  “That’s what they all say, I bet.”

  “It probably is. But in my case it’s the painful truth.”

  “Looks like somebody’s got you on the stand for a
change, counsellor, and you’re not holding up too well. Maybe they should rescind your Q.C.!” Don was beside our table, making my life just a little more miserable than it already was.

  “I’m taking a shelling, no question,” I agreed.

  “Good luck!” He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Checkout time’s not till noon.” He continued on his way.

  “What did he say?” my companion asked me.

  “Nothing.”

  “I asked you what he said!”

  The witness will answer the question. “He said checkout time’s at noon.”

  “Why would he say that?”

  “I guess he’s hoping you and I can patch things up.”

  “Patch what up? You’re a total stranger and —”

  “I was a total stranger last night.”

  “I didn’t think so. You gave me a whole life story. Your name was Jake, you had worked your way up to meat manager at the Cole Harbour Sobeys, you’re like me being too shy to sing karaoke unless you have six beers first, and you share my love of snowmobiling. Now that I think of it, there’s not a lot of snow in Halifax. You’ve probably never been on a snowmobile in your life, have you?”

  “Once.”

  “Or an all-terrain vehicle, like you said.”

  “Doom buggies, never.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me. I felt like a heel. I was a heel.

  “I’ve been a real prick, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “I’m sorry. Honestly. Let’s go.”

  “Let’s go where?”

  “I’ll drive you home. Unless you have a car here.”

  “No, I don’t. But I’m going to call a friend to come get me.”

  I didn’t know what to do, besides give her a quick kiss goodbye.

  “You’re never going to be stopping by here again, are you?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, at least you’re finally telling the truth!”

  †

  Was that someone knocking at my door? Well, they could bloody well keep knocking. I was home in Halifax, it was Sunday night, and I was putting back the whiskey and fretting about my fate. Knocking again. Get lost! Obviously whoever was at the door had never heard the song about the guy who would rather be by himself when he’s drinking alone! The last thing I wanted was company, or the obligation to sound neighbourly at the door. Good — the knocking ceased. I poured myself another drink and tried to get my thoughts in order. I did not want to see the face of Maura MacNeil ever again. How was I going to arrange that? I wanted to see my kids as often as I always did, but without her in the background. Especially her getting more and more visibly pregnant with someone else’s baby. Whose ever it was. Whoever’s? I was losing my grasp of the English language. And when the baby was born, well, that didn’t even bear thinking about. I’d have to get the divorce proceedings over before then. That Giacomo had better not cross my path. If he was still in town. Or maybe her old flame Pierre was back. Or if it wasn’t either of them —