J. W. Mogan, House & Sign Painting, 345 Queen.
Herbert O. Charlton, Furniture, Carpets, 347 Queen.
G. H. Moody & Co., Fresh Meat & Vegetables, 350 Queen.
The 9 Little Tailors Co. Ltd., 352 Queen.
R. W. Hislop, Baker and Confectioner, 356 Queen.
Geo. F. Moore, Conveyancing (Deeds, Wills, etc.), 359 Queen.
We turn south onto Power Street, where Lillian lives with her mother and three brothers. On our left is St. Paul's Roman Catholic Church, then the House of Providence—its spacious grounds and dignity housing the aged, the orphans, the destitute. Lillian lives across from it, atop Osgoode Dairy, at number 82.
In the tall grass by the woods beside the Don River north of Cabbagetown, in spring, sexually exhausted, clothes disheveled, Lillian and I lie entangled side by side. I roll over, shield my eyes from the sun, dizzy from the passion of the interlude. Then I drop my hand from my brow, close my eyes, and through sun-spotted lids I see that my boyhood is gone forever.
THREE
Eternity is in the present. Eternity is in the palm of the hand. Eternity is a seed of fire, whose sudden roots break barriers that keep my heart from being an abyss.
—Thomas Merton
The Sign of Jonas
There are so many illusions. There is the illusion that our life is all of one sweep, that it has a beginning, a middle, an end—that there is some shape that can be discerned. But instead of shape, I see now, there is texture, a surface composition mingled with a basic substance, woven from some primordial loom. Some of the threads intertwine tightly, some loosely, some are dead ends needing to be snipped. Many are soft, others coarse. They all wear with time, fraying, rotting with the rains and winds and the dryness of the sun.
We live several consecutive lives, and each time we look back on our previous life it is with wonder. Sometimes it is with fondness, other times with shame, but always with wonder.
Everything changes, replaced completely. And we move on, forward into the future, unraveling, shrinking, expanding, thinking that we are going somewhere.
How often have I stood with hand on doorknob, entering a room, and wondered how did I get here? Or stared out a window at my surroundings, listening to those with whom I live, and wondered how did this all happen to me?
And then we die, and the next surprise befalls us: there is more. And still, nothing is clear, except that the Day of Judgment is ongoing, in constant session, and that we are not punished for our sins, but by them.
The flock—my flock, I now think of them—was squawking, whistling, preening, in the branches of a great maple tree. I had no desire to disengage myself from them, and this intrigued me too. Why did I not fly off by myself?
I was not what I seemed, so I was convinced that they may not be what they seemed either. And when we sat there, resting, what did they await? When we flew, what did they see? The world, I know now, is mystical, not magical: mysteries that human reason cannot plumb.
I stared down at the city, through the hole in time, and saw the cleansing, the conflagration begin.
FOUR
Tuesday, April 19, 1904
The Queen's Hotel
Fine cuisine, courteous staff
210 boudoirs, 17 private parlors
Running water to all rooms
Telephone in lobby
Accommodation for 400 guests
Private garden, fountains
100 Front Street West, Toronto
"I'll be twenty-four years old in less than two months," I say.
My boyhood friend, Jock Ross, sitting across from me in the lounge of the Queen's Hotel, pours his second bottle of Carling's Ale carefully down the side of his tilted glass and nods. He watches the foam rise to a proper head before he smiles.
"So is that a complaint or a boast?" He sips the ale, sighs, sets it down, stares at me, eyes twinkling. "You're in your prime, same as me."
It is past seven o'clock and we have been sitting here since we finished work. "So what's going to happen to you and Nancy?"
Jock looks surprised. "What do you mean?"
"Isn't she on about marrying?"
He shrugs. "They always are. So what?"
"How do you put them of?"
"It's a talent. A gift. You should know that." He strokes the end of his moustache, still smiling.
I smile in return, sharing some imagined masculine confidence. Then: "Does it bother you?"
"What?"
"That you're deluding her."
"I'm not deluding her. She's deluding herself. I've promised nothing."
I sit back, thinking. Jock is an Orangeman, something that meant nothing to me when we were boys. Now it is an irony that we both view with amusement. Yet I wonder if there is some fundamental difference in our outlook that is rooted here.
My sister Teresa married Peter Curtis, a molder at Massey-Harris, last year. The wedding was enormous. Emma was maid of honor; his brother Fred, who works as an attendant at the asylum, was best man. The year before that it was Elizabeth who got married—to Jim McKenna, and I was best man, with Kate as maid of honor. There were one or two weddings a year it seemed. I danced with Peter's sister, Maggie, but now I cannot picture her face when I try.
"You want to end up like your father?" Jock asks.
Yes. No. I don't know.
"Not me. I've seen how my old man's been eaten alive with the responsibility." He sips his ale. "He'd give his eye-teeth to be here with us right now, doin' this."
I allow that this is true, but the argument still does not satisfy. "There must be more."
"There is. And I'm going to see Nancy later to indulge in it." A wink.
"Don't you want your own place, your own family?"
"Someday."
"When? When is it time?"
"Don't know. I just know it isn't time yet." He pauses, serious for a moment. "I guess you just know. I guess it depends on the woman."
"And Nancy?"
He frowns, thinks, dodges the question. "I tell you, Martin. It all scares the hell out of me."
"But living at home with our parents? It's got to end."
He concedes this with a nod. "That it does." Then he smiles. "Maybe next year." He empties the rest of the bottle into his glass. "And what about you and Kathleen?"
I smile, shrug. I know what he means. Lillian is a memory, as is Suzanne, Judith, others. Kathleen will join them, inevitably. And Harriet. Dear Harriet, back in Elora, my first girlfriend, my childhood love. Her head resting on her forearm, soft hair cascading across her wrist, her other hand laboring over the printed letters in the notebook on her desk in Miss Lecour's class. Gone like a wisp of smoke across the hills, from a time that I can scarcely comprehend.
And a new smoke wafts toward us from the present.
The wail of the sirens turns heads everywhere in the lounge, a mutter of curiosity floating among us.
The noise overwhelms, all talk stops. We wait, listening.
A man enters, tells one of the waiters loudly enough so that we can all hear that flames are rising from the roof of Currie Neckwear on Wellington, two blocks north of us.
Jock and I look at each other, drain our glasses, pull our coats and hats on, and head for the door. We are not alone.
How does this happen, this inferno? The newspapers the next few days will detail it relentlessly: the wind, the shortage of hydrants, the low-pressure water system, the errors in judgment, buildings with no internal firebreaks. The intestinal wonder of the modem high-rise—the elevator shaft—provides wind tunnel after wind tunnel, as flames roar upward through the chutes four stories at a bound.
After an hour of watching, our faces lit by the horrible glow, Jock and I return to the Queen's Hotel, sip another ale, subdued. We are numbed by both the weather and the event, but we do not go home. We remain near the flames, like moths, wanting to see how it will all play out. For now, the hotel is safe.
But it is not over.
Around 11 P.M., a
blackened firefighter enters the lounge, tells us that we should vacate the premises, that we should go home.
No one argues. The lounge empties.
We venture back out into the unnatural heat and light, the sound of a nightmare unfolding mere blocks away. The flames have crossed Wellington, have moved south and east, leapfrogging to Brown Brothers' Stationery. As we watch, it and other once-dominant edifices collapse in upon themselves, become boiling ash-mounds that will not rest, a spectacle scarcely believable. A dozen or more buildings are ablaze. The heat cooks our faces, bakes the grimace into our mouths.
And still the radius grows. The firefighters work in the center of the maelstrom about us, beaten at every step, losing ground in inevitable stages. Flames rise higher than imaginable, a riotous Babel. Slowly, the hours like days, detachments pour in from Hamilton, then as far away as Niagara Falls, Buffalo. The wind whips our faces, whips the fires; the temperature drops, and strangely, snow begins to swirl.
It is 2 A.M. The news continues to spread. Troops and police jockey to maneuver the crowds. When the heat becomes too much for the firemen, they turn their hoses on nearby walls and stand angled beneath the ensuing spray, the suspended water drops like lit diamonds, adding to the dizzying visual. The downtown core is swollen with bodies. Looking upward, we see the roofs of buildings for blocks around, beyond any anticipated circumference of the fire, filled with onlookers seated on chairs, wrapped in blankets for warmth. And blankets again come into play—water-soaked ones, hanging from the top of the upper window sashes of the Queen's Hotel, to prevent the wood from catching fire. People fill every inch of street space, every step that affords a better vantage point, perch on every windowsill: a front-row view of the Horseman who rides among us.
We watch because we cannot draw ourselves away.
There are no words.
Then the Howland warehouse, stored with cartridges and dynamite, explodes, a volcano erupting, and we stand breathless. Plate glass windows shatter in icy showers. Burning walls topple, dust roiling upward. Against the orange of the fire and the black of the night, sparks from fallen electrical wires arc in blue crescents. From broken feed pipes, gas belches in mad jets high into the frozen air, as the earth splits and the pavement buckles.
The sky glows for miles and night disappears as we witness the apocalypse that levels our world.
Strangely, no one is killed. Twenty acres of our downtown world disappear, two hundred and twenty businesses. Things will never be the same. In the destruction we sense a new beginning, a chance to transform our world, ourselves.
The dynamiting of buildings rocks the city for days. It is two weeks before every small fire dies.
I never call on Kathleen again. I am changed. We are all changed.
FIVE
Wednesday, June 15, 1904
Gramma Whalen sits silently in what has become her chair at the kitchen table with us, her wide eyes focused on her plate, her mouth a small oval, her white hair pulled straight back. Since the fire, Ma has brought her to live with us. The very next weekend, in fact. First the asylum at Longue Point in Montreal, and now this, Ma says often, convincing herself. Two hundred people, including nuns, burned. Even though she cannot read, Ma saw the before-and-after drawings of the Longue Point asylum that were printed in The Globe. No place is safe, she says.
"Eat up, mother," Ma says.
Gramma Whalen ignores her, touches nothing.
Da and I pretend we do not notice. Da stares down into his dinner, slicing potatoes.
We are alone in the house. Gramma sleeps in Rose's old room. The girls have all married. It is what Ma wanted, but she seems to take little pleasure in the fact.
"Mother."
But Gramma doesn't look up. We don't know if she is thinking, dreaming, despairing, or merely resigned.
Ma gets up, goes over to her, cuts her vegetables, spoons some into her mouth, sits patiently beside her. Gramma chews absently. Sometimes she swallows, sometimes she does not. Today she swallows, and Ma sighs, relieved.
Da pushes his plate away, finished. He watches the two of them, expressionless. Then he lights his pipe, blows a stream of smoke upward.
Gramma watches it float aloft, disperse, disappear. She does not move.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be twenty-four years old. Nobody knows how old Gramma is.
Ma has made a small cake—chocolate, my favorite—which she sets before me at dinner's end. There are three small candles on it—white, red, and blue. Gramma stares at it, fascinated. There are only the three of us. Da is not yet home from work. Once again, I am the only man.
Ma strikes a match, lights the white one, does not light the other two. Then she sits back. "If you're lucky," she says, "the good Lord willing, you'll get seventy-five years on this earth. The white one is for the first third."
We watch the flame.
My glance slides in measured stages to the red one, the blue. The white one is a third gone already, wax gathering hotly at its base.
"Happy birthday." She pushes a gift-wrapped box across the table toward me—silver paper with gold ribbon encasing it. Gramma's eyes, unblinking, follow the movement of the package.
I smile. The ribbon slides off, the paper tears away, and I lift the cardboard lid beneath the glitter.
I am surprised.
First, I take out the straight-edged razor with the wooden handle. Unfolding the blade, I read "Killarney Razor" etched in its steel, and in smaller letters, near the hinge: "Marshalls, Argyle Street." I fold it, set it down, take out the shaving mug with the pattern of roses circling its wide lip next, lift out the brush inside it, touch its softness.
"The brush is made of badger hair," she says.
I can think of nothing to say yet.
"They were your father's grandfather's. Great-Grandfather Radey's. Your father's aunt had them when she died. They were with the few things they sent us after she passed." She looks at me. "This was almost fifteen years ago, when you were a boy." She pauses. "But now you're a man."
"Doesn't Da want them?"
"He wants you to have them," she says firmly.
I am moved. "Thanks, Ma."
We watch the candles. The white one is only a flame floating in a clear pool. Now she strikes another match, lights the red one. "The red one is for your next twenty-five years," she says, sitting back. "Your best years. Make them good ones,"
I blow them both out. The blue one stands apart, unknowable. I look first at Ma's face, which is smiling, proud, then at Gramma's. Behind the wisps of smoke, Gramma's face is blank, as ever. But her eyes, I see with certainty and astonishment, are filled with water, staring into the smoke.
"Martin. Can you give me a hand?" Ma's voice, unusually abrupt, is coming from Gramma's room.
When I enter, my eyes scan the bedpan, the commode chair, the tubes, clean diapers piled high. The deadened air smells of talcum, of age. Gramma has slipped between the wall and the bed, wedged herself, and Ma is trying to wrest her loose. I lean across them, mother and daughter, and insert myself, holding Gramma's hand in assurance. Ma backs away, and I lift Gramma free, noting her weightlessness, feeling her frailty.
Gramma watches me, not taking her eyes from mine, a kind of wonder on her face. Fleetingly, I see my mother's face there, see Rose's, Bridget's, Kate's—then my own. The spine beneath my hand is a hollow keel, the breath, close to my face, castor oil. I touch her shoulder, feeling the bone beneath papery skin, beneath flannel. Gramma, I think. Gramma. I have never touched you before.
Suddenly, she is mine.
Da does not come home until past nine o'clock. Exhausted, he eats his dinner in silence.
I look at his shoes, covered with mud and cement, the heels worn down. He does not know it is my birthday, but I am not offended. He has never known any of our birthdays. And I never find out if he knows that I have his father's grandfather's shaving equipment, or if he really wanted me to have it, or if he even cares, because I never summon the courage to
ask him.
He takes a Carter's Little Liver Pill, then lights his pipe. The blue smoke, strong with the smell of the life left in his lungs, fills the kitchen. None of us have any way of knowing that he will be dead within two years.
I remember the smell of the soot and fire, see the Grand River flowing wildly beneath us on the bridge, feel my hand tighten once again in the hair at the back of his head, watch him smile at the pleasure of holding me in his arms.
For unlike Gramma, I have touched him. But not for a long time. He has not been mine for a very long time. And soon, of course, it will be too late.
SIX
The night... is a time of freedom. You have seen the morning and the night, and the night was better. In the night all things began, and in the night the end of all things has come before me.
—Thomas Merton
The Sign of Jonas
Even here, outside of time, there is the sudden, the un-known, the dangerous. Without warning, plummeting like a stone from the clouds that scudded above us, a hawk—is it the same one I observed before?—fell to the top of the maple in which we were resting and plucked one of us from the uppermost branch.
Like an explosion, the sound of hundreds of wings beating. We lifted off in unison, a fleet of black specks of which I was a part, and swept across the city, heading blindly out over the lake, away from the clouds that could conceal such random fate.
My tiny heart was pumping fear, something I did not know I would feel again. And the questions flowed with it: who did the hawk take? Why? Will I ever know who these creatures about me are—or if they are anyone at all?
And it was real. In fact, it was surreal. I could feel it. There was no chance of a dream here, nothing of delusion.
We soared high, the blue waves far below us, finally arcing west, back toward the city. I saw the shoreline approaching, then Front Street, Dundas. We headed farther west, toward the Junction, exhilarated, and settled once again, a sinking black cloud, into a giant maple, where the sounds of relief, exhaustion, and the shrill chirps and squawks of life surfaced anew from the flock.
A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2) Page 2