by Terry Fallis
“You must have been watching someone else. I’m huffing and puffing after ten minutes and we’ve only covered a few yards. It’s goddamn depressing, pardon my French.”
“Dad, you’ve had a stroke. It’s going to take some time. Maybe a lot of time to get your strength back and to teach your bum leg how to behave. We’re starting from the very beginning here. I’m amazed you’re out here on your feet at all so soon after you chunked that bunker shot.”
“Shit. And my game was just starting to come around, too. I had the senior tour in my sights, and then this. It just ain’t fair.”
We sat in silence for minute or so. I reached for something else to say.
“Hey, Dad, who’s the ill-tempered guy in the wheelchair over there?” I nodded my head in the direction of the main doors.
“Oh, that’s Chevrolet,” Dad replied. “I don’t know his name but he’s a prime, grade-A asshole. He wears a different Chevy hat or shirt every day, just to bug my ass.”
“Just to bug you? Come on, Dad. Really?”
“I was wearing a Ford hat on the golf course and I still had it on when I arrived in this joint. When asshole Chevy-boy over there saw it, he flipped me the bird – just like that. I hadn’t even said shit to the guy.”
I stared at his gaudy green Mustang shirt.
“And now you don’t go anywhere without making sure you’re branded like a walking Ford dealership in case you bump into him. Right?”
“Yeah, well, when I get my feet under me again, I might do more than ‘bump into him.’ ”
“Should we push on, Dad?” I asked, standing up. “Let’s see if we can make it to the next bench.”
Dad nodded, gripped the walker with his good hand, and heaved himself to his feet. I walked close beside him, as the orderly had.
“So what do you think of my pad?” my father asked as he shuffled along.
“Dad, I’m afraid no one on the planet still uses the term ‘pad’ to describe their place of residence. You could try ‘crib’ if you want to make people uncomfortable, but I think ‘condo’ is the safe bet,” I replied. “And I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s nice. It’s fine for one person. And you can sit out on the balcony and heckle golfers. I like it.”
“Sorry about the mess. It’s usually in better shape. But I wasn’t expecting to be cooped up here or I’d have done it up nice for you.”
“Dad, it’s fine. It looks like my first apartment in Toronto. I tidied up a bit and rented a tractor trailer to return your beer empties.”
Dad had the grace to laugh.
“So are you feeling any pain?” I asked.
“Not much. My hips are aching a bit, but I don’t have much feeling back in my left side yet. And it might not all come back. We don’t really know what’s going to come back.”
He was starting to breathe heavily again.
“Are you on any medication?” I asked.
“Yeah, they got me on something to keep my blood thin. It helps stop the clots that cause strokes. But it means I got to be careful and not cut myself shaving or I’ll bleed out fast.”
“Really! That’s not true, is it? You cut yourself shaving a lot.”
“Well, it’s sort of true. They want me to switch to an electric razor to reduce the risk of bleeding to death.”
Dad was breathing hard now, making normal conversation more difficult. So we just ambled along in silence. Well, I ambled. Dad shuffled and dragged, shuffled and dragged. We were almost at our next objective. A quite attractive, older woman with a cane was sitting at the far end of the bench, writing on a pad of notepaper. She looked up as we approached and smiled. She somehow looked familiar to me, but I had no idea why.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” my father said as he lowered himself onto the bench, a little closer to her than was necessary. “Can we join you? I need to take a load off before we start back.”
“Of course. You’re welcome to,” she replied, turning back to her writing. Dad kept his eyes on her.
“You sure write a lot of letters,” Dad said. “Every day I’m out here dragging my sorry butt and gimpy leg up and down this road to nowhere, and you’re out here writing.”
Again, she looked up and smiled.
“I’m handicapping the patients so I know who to bet on at the hospital track meet next month,” she replied with a perfectly straight face. “You’re coming along, but I need to see more progress from you before I consider risking any of my money.”
She went back to her writing. Dad was flummoxed, but only for a moment.
“Well, the problem is, you’re not seeing my best event,” Dad countered. “The fifty-foot sprint was never my game. The pole vault is my specialty. We start training for that tomorrow, and I’m looking for a good spotter to help me plant my pole, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, that’s really what he said, while leaning over toward her. Unbelievable.
“Jesus, Dad, please,” I hissed and swatted his arm. He looked back at me, puzzled. “I’m so sorry,” I said to the woman. “He’s recovering from a stroke and he’s not himse—”
“What?” he interrupted. “I’m just having a nice chat with this young, attractive woman. Nothing wrong with that. And you’ll have to whack my right arm if you want me to feel it.”
She just smiled at me and shook her head a little.
“It’s okay, young man. I deserved that. I foolishly set him up. And I should have known the inherent weakness of the male species would lead him to such a ribald, albeit clever and amusing, response. I do understand,” she said, before turning to my father. “You, sir, are a live one.”
“You got that right, ma’am. And it’s only my left leg and part of my left arm that are temporarily giving me trouble. Everything else, and I mean everything else, works just fine.”
I think I physically cringed.
“Okay, Dad. That’s it! I can’t believe this.” I stood up. “Let’s leave this miraculously patient and forgiving woman in peace. We have to get back now so I can have you sedated. Come on, up we go.”
I positioned the walker for the return fifty-foot sprint and hoisted Dad to his feet.
“I hope to see you again, ma’am,” Dad said solemnly.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” she replied, turning back to her writing.
“What the hell was that, Dad?” I hissed, after we were safely out of earshot.
“What? She’s a looker. I was just making conversation. Nothing wrong with that! And did you see the pair of …”
“Stop, Dad!” I interrupted. “Dad, she is not the sum of her parts. She’s a real person.”
“Oh geez, here we go again,” my father sighed. “Are you still banging that drum? I thought for sure you’d have outgrown that after all these years.”
“Dad, it’s not something you outgrow,” I replied. “Anyway, don’t you think she’s a little old for you?”
“Yeah, well, who the hell cares? Around here, my options are limited. So I’ve learned to adjust my standards.”
“Give me strength,” I said, looking to the sky.
As we approached the door, I tried to steer Dad away from the man in the wheelchair, who was still anchored in the same spot, watching our progress. But Dad kept pulling me toward him.
“Ford dickhead,” the old man said when we got close.
“Chevy ass-wipe,” Dad replied.
“Hey, you know what Ford stands for, don’t you?” Chevrolet asked. “Found On Road Dead.”
“Yeah, except for those four Ford victories at Le Mans, against how many wins for Chevy?” Dad taunted over his shoulder. “Let me try to remember. Oh yeah, none, not a single one.”
By this time we’d already passed Chevrolet but he managed to give us the finger as we moved through the doors.
Yolanda was waiting for us just inside.
“Mr. Kane, if you two car-nuts ever start a-brawlin’, I can’t guarantee any one of the staff will leap in to pull you apart.”
“Don’t you worry, Miss Yolanda. That’s just the way I like it,” he replied with a wink.
I made my escape after getting Dad set up in front of his TV while he rhythmically squeezed the two little black rubber balls in his left hand. His Ford Focus was still sitting in the parking lot, so I drove it back to my apartment.
Over the next week, I spent my mornings hunting down reasonably priced furniture, buying some kitchen and bathroom stuff, and arranging for cable TV and high-speed Internet in the apartment. I spent my afternoons walking and talking with Dad, while he ogled every woman, whether patient, doctor, or staff, who came within his field of view. He also exchanged a few epithets with Chevrolet each time he passed him. Each afternoon, the older woman from our first encounter, who still looked familiar somehow, was on a different park bench, always writing. For three days in a row, she would position herself on the next bench from where she’d perched the day before. I might be wrong, but it was as if she was giving Dad a new target each day, making him walk another fifty feet if he wanted to chat with her. He always made it, though their exchanges were always brief. They never even introduced themselves. They’d just leap into their acerbic jousting. I could only take about a minute of this before I became so mortified that I’d drag Dad back to his feet and make good our escape. She just kept smiling through it all. Dad thought she was playing hard to get, while I thought he was playing hard to like.
Finally, the furniture was delivered, including a bed, basic dresser, a kitchen table and four chairs, a cheap couch and easy chair, and a bland, wheat-coloured area rug for the living room. I picked up a flat-screen TV for an amazing price at a local big box store and set it up myself. Things were shaping up. Just before lunch on about day seven, I arrived at the apartment with the two boxes of books I’d just picked up at the FedEx depot. It certainly wasn’t my entire book collection, but I needed at least some of my favourites to make me feel like this was my home, if only for a while. That’s what books do for me. I sat on the floor in front of the built-in shelves and started unloading. There were biographies, lots of novels – mainly Canadian – some history, and memoirs. There weren’t nearly enough books to fill the shelves, but plenty to make the place look welcoming and a little lived-in. That’s what books do for apartments.
I was unloading the memoirs from the second box when it happened. I don’t know why it had taken me so long to realize it. Even with the passing of so many years, it should have dawned on me long before now. I held the book in my hand and looked at the face staring back at me. I could scarcely believe it, but it was true. I was sure of it. Shocked and excited, I headed for the door, the book in my hand.
It was just after lunch when I arrived.
“Why, young Everett, always great to see your smiling face,” Yolanda said as I came through the doors. “That’s every day this week. Can’t get enough of us, huh?”
“Love it here,” I said as I hustled by the nurses’ station. “Just love it.”
“I’ll talk to the pharmacist to see if I can get you something for that,” she replied, shaking her head.
Dad was in his room watching TV.
“Hi, Dad,” I said as I passed right by his open door without slowing down. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I just caught a glimpse of his perplexed look.
I nodded a greeting to Chevrolet as I passed his sentry post just beyond the doors to the walking paths. He grunted something, but I was moving too fast to notice what he’d said.
I found her on a bench at the far end of the Yellow path. She looked up from her writing when I stopped right in front her. She smiled.
“You’re Beverley Tanner” was all I could muster.
“Nice to see you again, young man. But you have me at a disadvantage, sir,” she replied.
The sun was behind me so she squinted a bit as she looked up.
“Sorry, I’m Everett Kane, son of the lewd and lascivious Billy Kane, your occasional bench mate.”
“Everett. A lovely and sadly neglected name. Nice to meet you.”
She held out her hand and we shook.
“Now, how did you come to discover that I’m Beverley Tanner? No one has recognized me for years.”
“I’m a fan” was all I said as I handed her the book I’d been holding behind my back.
“My, my, I haven’t seen one of these for a good dozen years. Wherever did you get it?”
“I bought it at a used bookstore about eighteen years ago when I was in university,” I started. “And I loved it. It had a big impact on me at a time when I was trying to sort some things out.”
“I’m honoured and, well, surprised. I don’t think that book was read by many sporting your anatomy.”
The book she now held in her hands was her own memoir, The Funny One, with the edifying subtitle Reflections of a Feminist with a Sense of Humour.
“I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe it’s you. The odds of meeting you like this are, um, microscopic,” I said.
“Yes, they’re almost as low as meeting a youngish man who owns, and seems even to have read, my book, let alone liked it.”
“Correction, loved it.”
She tucked her note pad and pen into her small canvas bag and patted the bench beside her.
“Everett Kane, sit down and tell me your strange story. This, I have got to hear.”
I sat down. She held the book on her lap. Suddenly, the world shrank, and I was unaware of anything else going on around us. “Hmmm, how long do you have?” I asked.
“Well, I’m recovering from my fourth stroke in five years, so I could check out for keeps, any time now.”
“No, no, no! That’s not what I was asking,” I stammered. “I just meant it’s nearly four o’clock. When is dinner?”
“Have you had the food here? Trust me, I don’t mind missing dinner. And neither will anyone else who’s eaten the slop they serve in this place.”
I was nervous. I was sitting with a hero of mine. Admittedly, she was not a conventional role model for someone like me. But there you go. I gathered my thoughts for a moment, trying to figure out how to tell her what she’d aptly described as my “strange story.”
“Hellooo. This going to take long?” she gibed. “I don’t mind missing dinner, but I intend to sleep tonight.”
“Sorry, just trying to decide how to start.”
“How about you start, say, at the beginning.”
“Okay, okay. From the top, then,” I began. “I’ve always thought of it as an awakening – my awakening. It happened while at school. When I started there nearly twenty years ago, Ryerson University was a hotbed of political activism. I suspect it still is. Most universities were. Central America, racism, the Middle East, funding to universities, terrorism, human rights, equality, you name it, the student movement was engaged in it. The Ryerson Student Union, always leaning a little, or sometimes a lot, to the left, played a leadership role in the national student movement. I was doing my degree in journalism. I had a strong interest in politics and got involved after successfully navigating my first year of university.
“When I made it into second year with reasonable marks, I decided I could begin to dabble outside of the classroom. In the fall of my second year, a vacancy on the Student Representative Council opened up when one of the journalism reps transferred to another school. I ran in the by-election against one other student. I printed up brochures and a few posters and asked my professors if I could talk to the class before they started their lectures. They usually agreed. My opponent was far less serious about it all than I. He stopped just short of promising beer in the drinking fountains. Thankfully, my fellow students were a discerning lot, and I won. That was how it all started.
“I spent the next three years immersed in student politics and the national student movement. My outrage at injustice of all kinds grabbed me by the throat and just wouldn’t let go. One day I’d be marching for better working conditions for foreign workers. The
next, I’d be writing a column in the student newspaper about the lack of diversity on Canadian corporate boards. The day after that I’d join a sit-in protesting the university’s investment in companies that despoiled the environment. I was all over the activist’s map. And I really felt like I was doing something. In hindsight, I might have been ‘doing something,’ but I don’t think I was accomplishing anything. My colleagues and I were spreading ourselves very thin. Yet I’d never felt more fulfilled and energized in my life. I completely understand the powerful hold social movements can exert over their converts. It was almost like an addiction.”
She nodded and smiled.
“Anyway, in my final year, I was burning out, but I didn’t want to stop. I realized I needed to change something. I needed to focus in one area and put an end to my scattershot approach to activism. I thought I could contribute more and achieve more if I concentrated on one injustice, rather than all of them.”
“A wise call. And I gather you chose gender equality as your personal mission,” she said. I nodded. “Why?”
“I attended a powerful presentation about women in advertising given by a woman named Jean Kilbourne.”
“Killing Us Softly,” she said, nodding. “She’s still a good friend.”
“Right! That was it. She was incredible. It was a revelation,” I explained. “Right after that, I started to see gender discrimination, injustice, inequality everywhere I looked. Not to get too melodramatic about it all, but it was as if the scales suddenly fell from my eyes, and I could see. And I saw it everywhere. Everywhere!”
Beverley just nodded and smiled again.
“Plus, I realized that I’d seen the whole gender-role streaming thing play out in my own family, I guess the same way it does in millions of other families. But it was more pronounced in mine – remind me to tell you about my mother some time – so it struck close to home.”
I paused in thought for a moment. Beverley let the silence hang, allowing me to hold the floor.
“But there was something else. I think it was partly a numbers game, for me. I decided if I was going to limit myself to one injustice, I wanted it to be ‘the big one.’ I figured that systemic gender discrimination prevails in every country and every society. So to put it crudely, I considered it more widespread than discrimination based on race, religion, sexual orientation, economic status, disabilities, and everything else. It won on the numbers. I think of it as the world’s most pervasive injustice. For me, equality of opportunity for women became the holy grail of social causes even though I was born into the ranks of those largely responsible for the inequity in the first place. Strange, I know, but not without logic.”