The Master of Happy Endings

by Jack Hodgins

  Elena may have been the only person he’d ever told about discovering Cindy Miller’s love poems behind the windshield wipers of his car, tucked between a corner of the daybook on his desk, and all over his mother’s house after Thursday-evening meetings of the newspaper club. He hadn’t told anyone else about the humiliation of being called to the principal’s office and shouted at for risking the reputation of the school with his habit of thinking he could behave as if he weren’t working for the district’s taxpayers.

  To Thorstad, the Montana family home appeared to be large enough for a dozen people to live in, though Mrs. Montana hadn’t mentioned children other than Travis, or a tribe of in-laws living beneath her roof. But it seemed none of its rooms were meant for him. Travis took the suitcases from his father and led Thorstad across the lawn to a cottage he called “the guest house”—cedar-shake walls and a border guard of blooming rhododendrons. Even if he decided to stay, he was obviously not to think of himself as family.

  “Sorry about the poison arrow,” Travis said, when he’d set the luggage down on the beige carpet. “I don’t want my mother to think I take her seriously.”

  “Then I’m not to masquerade as your wounded grandfather?”

  Apparently this did not deserve an acknowledgement. “I wouldn’t unpack if I was you. You aren’t really needed. And I know you won’t want to stay.”

  Was this a challenge or an outright rejection? It felt, rather unpleasantly, like a door slammed in his face. He was tempted to inform this young man that it was he and not the tutor who was on probation here. But he had returned the plug to his ear and set off, shaking one hand to a beat that only he could hear.

  Though Thorstad was not to live in the family home, here in the guest house he was at least able to enjoy the forgotten smell of furniture polish, the tall pot of flowering plum branches in a corner, the comfortable furniture upholstered in leather—everything so immaculate the place might have been furnished yesterday. Framed black-and-white photos hung on the burgundy walls—half-lit faces, horses stampeding at night, unidentifiable fragments of naked flesh.

  He discovered nothing quite so artistic in the bathroom, where a garishly coloured poster demonstrated the horrific fate of neglected gums. An array of toothbrushes, rubber picks, and packages of dental floss had been set out along a shelf. The boy with the water pistol had found new ways to give himself a laugh.

  Axel Thorstad had arrived in a surprisingly tidy world. The grass outside was as uniform as plush carpet, the driveway free of leaves and coniferous needles; the inside of this guest house as clean and polished and free of clutter as a furniture showroom. Of course, this could be temporary. The boy was not keen that he stay, and the “change in plans” could very well be unthinkable. He imagined a burst of applause from his honour guard of red-eyed stumps when he appeared at his door, but did not look forward to his first visit to Lisa Svetic’s Store.

  He stood his cello case in one corner of the sitting room. Obviously, he should not have brought it with him, but it had begun to surprise him lately with additional shards of melody from the Dvok Cello Concerto, and even a few splinters of sound from within the score of Prokofiev’s C major Sonata for Cello & Piano—though only long enough to ignite a flame of excitement and hope before sinking again beneath the dark cloak of lost memory. However, there was little point in replacing the broken strings until his future had been decided—if there was any point in replacing them at all.

  Until the telephone rang to invite him across for dinner it hadn’t occurred to him that he might not be dining alone, as he had done for years—making his own meals and eating whenever he pleased. He hoped that seven years of Estevan hadn’t destroyed his table manners.

  But of course the Montanas knew how to make you relax in their dining room, which looked out through a wall of glass and across an expanse of lawn to a latticed gazebo, a drop to the beach, and an expanse of water, islands, and mainland mountains beyond. Despite the wafer-thin china, the fragile glasses, and the pale carpet underfoot, they were so casual they might not have noticed any of this luxury, and expected their guest not to notice as well. Axel Thorstad could not recall when he’d last eaten at a table covered with a linen cloth, or with a bowl of yellow roses positioned beneath an elaborate chandelier.

  Dinner had been prepared by someone named Marietta, who had since gone home to feed her own family. They helped themselves to bowls and passed them on. Apparently there were no other children living in this enormous house, no in-laws in the extra rooms, no other guests. There were just the four of them to work their way through a sequence of dishes—a crab-and-melon salad, the salmon en croute, and a lemon soufflé dessert. The conversation alighted briefly and almost distractedly on several topics: the rising costs of a university education, Carl’s reasons for taking up dentistry, Mrs. Montana’s successful colleagues, and Travis’s admiration for the great basketball player Steve Nash, a local hero. Occasionally Travis paid attention to the small gadget he’d laid beside his plate, his thumb tapping at tiny keys. Once, he looked up to address Thorstad. “So, would you say you were a hotshot teacher or what?”

  Mrs. Montana put down her fork. “Travis?”

  Travis shrugged. “Just wondered.”

  “I apologize,” Mrs. Montana said. “Our son isn’t overjoyed at having a tutor—but he usually remembers his manners. And he doesn’t need to wonder. He knows how his father has spoken of you.”

  “Centuries ago,” Travis said.

  Thorstad made an effort to smile at this, though he considered it reason enough to get up and walk out. Obviously this boy had little interest in winning him over.

  Only when the coffee had been served and Thorstad had sat at this table longer than he’d remained in one spot at any time during his seven years on Estevan did Mrs. Montana sigh and place her china cup carefully in its saucer, and examine him for a few moments as she might once have examined McQuarry’s farm for its commercial potential. Then, as though with confidence that he would measure up to expectations, she said, “Now Travis has something to tell you.”

  “Yes.” Carl Montana addressed the edge of tablecloth he’d taken into his hands. “Time to tell the man how he’s been misled.”

  “Carl,” his wife warned.

  Travis snapped his electronic gadget closed. “I have to go to L.A.,” he said, though he looked to his mother while he said it. “My parents were afraid you might not agree if you’d known. I told them you aren’t needed.”

  So this was it, the mysterious change, withheld from the old man till now. Thorstad had just arrived and the boy was planning to leave. He wasn’t needed after all.

  “We didn’t know about this ourselves!” his mother protested. “This time!”

  “I have a small role in a TV series.” Pushing his shoulders back, Travis delivered this with something like defiance. “Forgotten River. This is its third season.”

  Perhaps it was a confused expression on Thorstad’s face that prompted Mrs. Montana to help. “Travis has been in several school plays over the years. Last year this TV producer or whatever he is came up to visit the drama teacher, an old friend from school, and saw Travis perform in Our Town. He interviewed him the next day, and flew him down for auditions.”

  “Just a minute,” Thorstad said, both hands flat on the table as though to keep things from shifting more than they already had. “Does this mean I’m to go home and cool my heels until he returns?”

  “We thought it was just a lark,” Carl said. “But he was offered a speaking role—a young fellow who appears only now and then on the series.”

  “He’s gone down three times,” Mrs. Montana said, “and one of us has always gone with him.”

  “We hadn’t anticipated this one,” said Carl Montana to the tablecloth in his hands. “Apparently they’ve added Travis’s character to an episode where he didn’t appear initially. The final one of the season. And neither of us is free to go with him.”

  “And anyway,�
�� his wife added, “this time he needs a tutor and not just a chaperone. He must do well on exams.”

  “It will be two weeks out of his life,” said Carl.

  Thorstad might have stood up to leave immediately but needed to be sure he understood. “You’re planning to ship me off to California?” The anticipated comforts of home and the easy access to libraries and concerts had been, it seemed, illusory. “And this is before the exams?”

  Mrs. Montana regretted to say that yes, it was indeed to take place before the exams. “Which is why we hope you will agree to go with him. At our expense of course. He has agreed to put in two or three hours of study every day, with your help.” This was delivered with narrowed eyes, daring the young actor to contradict. “He has a room in a trailer where he can work between scenes, and there will be times when he isn’t needed. It is crucial that he come home and ace the finals.”

  Carl Montana barely parted his teeth. “We realize this may not be what you’d expected, Mr. T. If you decline, Travis will have to turn them down.”

  Travis thumped the heels of both hands against his forehead. “I have a contract! I have to go! The studio can find me a tutor if you’re going to, like, force me to have one!”

  When Mrs. Montana asked if he had ever been to southern California, Thorstad was inclined to suggest this was irrelevant, but he was a guest here and admitted that he had visited Los Angeles once. “More than fifty years ago. It was a chance to see where I might have been raised if my father hadn’t had a fatal accident.”

  “Fatal?” Both parents said it. Perhaps this was not a word for the dinner table.

  He was sorry he’d given them this, but could not refuse to explain. “He was a stuntman for the movies.”

  Travis threw himself back in his chair, obviously impressed. Perhaps a stuntman’s son was almost as exotic as a grandfather with an arrow in his back.

  “Well,” Carl Montana said. “It will be up to you to make sure our son does not get up to any stunts of his own. We want him back alive.”

  “Carl!” His wife had closed her eyes as though to escape the conversation.

  Carl Montana held up both hands to surrender. “I’m a dentist. I poke and probe and cause occasional pain. What do you expect?”

  “Very funny,” Travis said. “What I want to know is his opinion, not yours. Of course he doesn’t want to go. Why would he want to go where he isn’t needed?”

  If Thorstad had been standing rather than glued to this chair, his brain might have offered him something worth saying. He had a lifetime behind him of thinking on his feet, some of it surprising even to himself. Today, however, in this posture more appropriate for a job applicant, he could offer only to think about it. It wasn’t something you would get to your feet to announce.

  Travis looked rather pleased to hear this. The old guy was having second thoughts.

  Mrs. Montana’s body language was that of a chair about to adjourn a meeting. “You won’t be leaving for a week, which gives us time to book a flight.” Perhaps she believed an agreement had been reached. She stood to finish her coffee, “I must run— a meeting to attend,” and returned her cup to its saucer before leaving the room.

  Carl raised his eyebrows and smiled at his son. “It seems her pals have convinced the council to exempt their golf course from property tax—like a church or Legion Hall!”

  Now Carl, too, pushed back from the table. “I’m afraid I have my own meeting to attend.” There was a hint of apology in his voice. “Not as important as Audrey’s, of course. We’re planning to bring another dentist in to the clinic. You can see it’s impossible for us to go with Travis ourselves.”

  Once Audrey Montana’s platinum Jaguar had whispered past the window and Carl had gone off to some other part of the house, Travis pushed his dessert plate away and laid his folded arms down on the table to rest his chin on his wrists. Obviously he was not about to suggest they shoot baskets or stroll to the water’s edge. With some dismay, Axel Thorstad wondered if he had given up a world of movement for a world of talk, with his rear end forever attached to a chair. As a teacher he had preferred to wander the room.

  “So, were you really the hotshot my father says you were? Did they make you principal?” This time he seemed more curious than defiant, though possibly he was just being careful.

  “You think being made principal is a reward for being a good teacher?”

  Travis shrugged. “I’ve had some pretty rotten ones. Most of them were just lazy. My mother told me you had a bachelor’s degree before you started, and then got a master’s in your summers. Right?”

  “I’m not sure that made me any smarter but it helped my paycheque. And, since you asked, it also meant I was eventually offered a vice-principalship I didn’t want.”

  But this young man was concerned for his own immediate options. “I signed a contract. They signed it too. They have to let me go, whether they make me take you with me or not.”

  “Let’s just suppose for a minute I agree to go. How could I know you wouldn’t tie me up and drop me off a pier the minute we got there, and go out on the street to buy drugs?” Thorstad said this as though he were amused and only quoting someone who might suspect such a thing. “How could I be sure you wouldn’t party the whole time and expect me to make your excuses?”

  Travis sat up abruptly. “I won’t have time! I want to be, you know, so good they will give my character a bigger role next year!” Again one hand went to the top of his head and pushed back through his hair, raising it on end. “By the time they try to bully me into law school I want to be, like, indispensable.”

  Though it seemed to Thorstad that Travis did not have the sort of good looks you associated with Hollywood actors, he did have long lashes and perfectly shaped eyebrows, and the sort of sharply defined features that were probably favoured by the people behind the cameras. Nothing about his dress or manner suggested the modern teens you saw milling about in their sloppy rags and earrings and hooded jackets outside the village dentist’s across the strait. He appeared to be a type that endured despite the changing manners and costumes of successive times: the clean-cut “only-child” who identified to a certain extent with adults. Thorstad recognized something that triggered memories of certain students in his past—an eagerness to claim the attention of the teacher, an anxious need for either equality or intimacy. They were the easiest sort of pupil to work with if you responded as they wished, the quickest to turn against you if you did not.

  These boys were sometimes convinced they didn’t need you. They suspected you weren’t qualified to teach them. The hooligans were easier to win over, and the class clowns, as well as the struggling D students just wanting to get out and find a job. None could be as difficult, at first, as the confident, the wealthy, the talented, or the notably intelligent. The question was, did you want to make the effort?

  Evidently convinced that Thorstad had heard enough to know where he wasn’t wanted, Travis pushed back his chair at last. “I gotta do some math. No help needed!” He started away but turned back in the doorway. “Leave the dishes. Marietta’ll throw them in the dishwasher tomorrow morning. You got your own TV. Bones is on tonight.”

  Thorstad could not bring himself to leave the house without first clearing the table and stacking dishes on a kitchen counter, but eventually he walked out into the familiar evening scent of sea air, cool and a little damp, and passed between the gateway pillars with the intention of exploring this winding tree-shaded street. The declining sun sent striped shadows of the arbutus trunks across the pavement. A purple finch rested on a slender limb of mountain ash and sang its simple notes, throat repeatedly swelling and then subsiding, while it regarded the human below with indifference. Somewhere deep in the woods another responded. Amongst the long grass beside the pavement, bluebells and small white daisies bloomed.

  Outside the stone pillars framing a neighbour’s driveway, a cardboard “HELP YOURSELF ” sign leaned against a stack of clay bricks—some broke
n, most with bits of mortar still attached. Beside the bricks was a roll of fencing wire that would keep the deer and goats from someone’s garden if he were to ship it up to the Free Exchange. Or somehow arrange to take it with him when he returned.

  From around the bend ahead, two of this afternoon’s old men came into sight, again on the wrong side of the road. They made their slow way towards him, apparently investing all their keen attention in the pavement immediately before their feet, a continuous challenge to be conquered with every step. Again the third man appeared several metres behind the others, leaning back at the end of his dog’s tight horizontal leash, and it was clear even at this distance that he was talking—words that might have been meant for the dog, or even for the two men ahead who might not have been aware that he was tailing them.

  Mrs. Montana’s talk of senior-seniors’ homes was enough to make Thorstad look on these old fellows with alarm, the voice of that hooded youth still clear in his head. You want to die, old man? He felt obliged to be polite to these gentlemen, who had almost certainly heard that question themselves. “Pleasant evening,” he said when the first two had got close enough. He’d stepped aside onto gravel, because of course he had been walking towards them on the same side of the road as they in their dangerous city-bred ignorance were walking towards him. The two men turned their startled attention his way, as though to question whether it was he or one of the mock-orange bushes that had spoken. They nodded but did not speak—two pale faces, all eyebrows and watery eyes and loose yellow flesh—before resuming their turtle progress. Both wore thick shoes with Velcro straps instead of laces. It was the man with the dog who spoke—having almost caught up to the others—continuing what appeared to be an ongoing narrative. “I told the lying bugger he wasn’t going to get away with nothing just because he was married to my niece, I knew better than to think he’d ever bring the TV back once I let him get his hands on it. . . .” His words carried on past Axel Thorstad and the roadside bushes and faded eventually to a murmur as the little parade crept on towards the next bend.