by Heather Burt
“But that’s nature. Terrorists are people.”
“Terrorists are nature. Nature, fate, destiny—call it what you will. There are cycles of action and reaction that govern the human world, just as they govern the natural world.” He drank down most of his whisky. “You see, people do things to each other—good things, bad things—and destiny arranges for those actions to be suitably answered.”
Clare met his eyes. “But you said yourself, those bomb victims came from all different sides. Innocent people ended up dying.”
Mr. Vantwest shrugged, in a manner that suggested the point was not so important. “We never know a man’s whole story, do we? At any rate, I’ve become a fatalist, and I can’t help thinking that Fate singles out certain of us for special treatment. If others happen to get in the way, they’re no different from those poor devils who get swept away in the flood.” He held his glass in front of his face, tipping it this way and that, then lowered it. “But what you say is true. Innocent people suffered in that attack. It was the work of sinister minds.”
She didn’t understand him, not completely, but his voice was oddly comforting. She turned to the photographs on the wall beside her. The nearest was a black and white portrait of a group of people on a lawn. The adults were seated in chairs or standing; the children were on the ground. There was a tree to one side of the group and a stately white bungalow with latticed trim behind them. No one was smiling.
“That was taken before we came to Canada,” Mr. Vantwest said. “On my father’s tea plantation.”
Clare leaned closer. An older man with a pipe in his hand she assumed to be Mr. Vantwest’s father. Mr. Vantwest was in the photo, young and handsome. Seated cross-legged in front of him was Rudy, half of his face screwed up in a squint. The stick-like legs that Clare remembered protruded from the same schoolboy shorts. One of the women was unmistakably Mary, a little slimmer, in a flowered dress. The woman enthroned in the centre wore a lavish sari and a jewelled necklace. This had to be Mrs. Vantwest. More than any of the others, she suited the stately bungalow.
Clare glanced at Mr. Vantwest. Your wife was beautiful, she wanted to say. But his feelings about the photograph were unreadable.
“Was the tea plantation near Colombo?” she said instead.
“Hmm? What’s that? Oh, no. Up in the hill country.” Mr. Vantwest studied the portrait a few seconds more, then, tilting his glass toward the lettering on Clare’s sweatshirt, he said, “You’ve studied psychology? At university?”
At this abrupt shift, she recalled Adam’s observation that his father didn’t like talking about the old days. Thankfully, he didn’t seem annoyed.
“Uh, no. My degree was in music.”
“No matter. It’s part of your generation to analyze the psyche. Tell me, what do you think it is that causes homosexuality?”
He posed his question without a trace of discomfort. Every syllable of the word homosexuality was given due articulation and emphasis. He then added, “Are the causes in the upbringing, or is a person simply born with those characteristics, like he’s born with a particular eye colour?”
Already flushed from the whisky, Clare imagined her face shading to the deep red of Mr. Vantwest’s carpet.
“I’m not sure. I guess it makes sense that it would be biological.”
Surely it was biology that had been acting on her recently.
“I don’t agree with you completely,” Mr. Vantwest said. “Whatever caused my youngest son to be homosexual—he is homosexual, you know—was most certainly decided before his birth, but I don’t believe biology was to blame.” He was making no sense. But Clare nodded, and he continued. “For a long time I believed it was something he could get over. I thought he’d been manipulated by the people he spent time with. I thought he could be a regular boy, if he’d just set his mind to it. But I was wrong.”
He finished his drink and shot an inquiring glance at Clare’s glass. She shook her head. As Mr. Vantwest crossed the room to fix himself another, he hummed. Clare noticed that a lower button of his light blue shirt had come undone, revealing a white undershirt. He screwed the cap back on a bottle of colourless liquor and again raised his glass.
“My son was made the way he was by Fate,” he then announced.
Clare said nothing, and, for once, it seemed to her that silence was best. She drank to the toast—if that’s what it was—and Mr. Vantwest came to stand between the wooden crate and the armchair, facing the photographs on the wall. He pointed to a fuzzy, cracked photo of two young men standing on either side of a hanging bell.
“My brother,” he said.
Ernie. The odd duck.
“My son is the spitting image of him. You can’t tell from the photograph. The quality is poor, and Ernie isn’t looking at the camera.”
Clare scrutinized the image. The way she and Mr. Vantwest were positioned, each looking at the photograph, made it suddenly possible to talk freely. “Is Adam like your brother in other ways?” she said, risking the loaded question.
“Perhaps. I never knew my brother well. It only matters that my son reminds me of him.” He coughed. “You see, for many years now, ever since I was a boy, Fate has kept its eye on me. Every aspect of my life is part of its scheme, its revenge—my wife’s death, my grand-daughter’s handicap, my son. Especially my son. This incident in Colombo is just the latest.” He sighed wearily then laughed, just as wearily. “I’m a bloody Shakespearean hero. I’ve made my mistake, and now there’s no escaping Fate. I thought it would have relented long ago, but no.”
Did he even know she was there, Clare wondered. Or had she become an inside voice for him, prompting and responding where necessary, but otherwise unreal? She imagined that these things Mr. Vantwest was sharing had never been uttered to anyone else, that he might even be on the verge of a confession of some kind. But before the words of his last sentence had settled, a key scratched obtrusively at the front door, followed by sounds of rustling bags.
“Mary,” Mr. Vantwest announced dryly.
The aunt was back. Having hoped she’d appear at the start of the visit, Clare was now disappointed. She set her empty glass on the wooden crate and stood up.
“Alec?” the aunt called, louder than necessary. “Alec? Are you here?”
She came to the door of the study, Provigo bags in her hands. Her look of surprise was entirely justified. But its cause was not what Clare expected.
“Ah! This is such a coincidence!” the aunt exclaimed. “I was just with your mother. We saw each other at the shop, and she drove me home.”
“Oh, well, I just came over to invite you—”
“Ah, yes. Your mother very kindly invited us to dinner on Tuesday, but we have already arranged to visit the Pereiras that day. Isn’t that right, Alec?” She glanced at her brother, and the shadow of a frown crossed her face. “But I told her we would come another time. Maybe the following Saturday.”
Mr. Vantwest placed his glass on the wooden crate, next to Clare’s, and refastened his undone button. Clare wondered what the aunt would make of this. The possible connotations gave her a sudden rush of panic. “Next Saturday would be fine,” she blurted. “That’s why I came over, to invite you both for dinner.”
“Dinner with the Pereiras has not been confirmed,” Mr. Vantwest then said, sloppily, ambiguously, and the aunt’s frown settled in. She eyed the glasses on the crate and shook her head.
“Alec! What is this? Only last week the doctor was telling you you mustn’t drink. You’re eating too much sugar already, and now you are going to kill yourself with arrack. Is that what you want to do?”
The awkwardness returned. Clare stared at the floor and braced herself, certain that Mr. Vantwest would explode. But his reply was calm, nonchalant even.
“The doctor’s instructions were to restrict myself to an occasional drink. That is the limit I’m exceeding, Mary. And if I wanted to kill myself, I’d be more efficient about it.”
The aunt gasped; Mr. Vantw
est sighed.
“You needn’t worry, Mary. I have no intention of muddling with God’s plan for me.” He turned to Clare. “Thank you for the dinner invitation. If a week Saturday suits your mother, we’d be happy to come then. Assuming, of course, that things at the hospital are progressing as they should.”
Clare nodded. “Of course. I should get going. Excuse me.”
She slipped through the study door, past the aunt. She felt tipsy and hot and wanted only to be outside in the cool, deserted street. But as she reached the front door, she remembered her keys, still on the coffee table, and had to turn back. Mr. Vantwest was behind her. “My keys are in there,” she said, and he stepped aside to let her pass. From the kitchen came sounds of grocery bags being rummaged through. As Clare retrieved her keys, she saw Mr. Vantwest pick up a photo from the record player cabinet.
He studied it briefly then looked up. “I was very demanding of him. Even when he was a little boy, but especially later. It’s no surprise he wanted to get away.”
“Rudy?” Clare said.
Mr. Vantwest seemed confused. Then he nodded. “Ah, Rudy too, perhaps. No doubt. Rudy too. But I was speaking of Adam.” He held the photograph out for Clare to see. It was a high school shot, grade nine or ten.
“I’m sorry. It was just that you mentioned him wanting to get away, and I thought ...”
“No need to apologize.” Mr. Vantwest replaced the photo. “Your assumption is quite correct. My two eldest have run off in their own ways. I only wish the youngest had taken the same route as his sister and brother. But he has always been over-dramatic.”
Clare frowned. Conscious of the aunt in the kitchen, she whispered. “You think it was deliberate, what he did?”
She didn’t believe it herself. The Adam she’d spoken to that day hadn’t been suicidal, surely. She began to wonder, as she had on her first visit, if Mr. Vantwest knew all about her motorcycle ride with Adam, and if he were now searching for insights, laying out his greatest fear in the hope that she would quash it. Her right hand clenched, and her keys dug into her palm. But Mr. Vantwest shook his head.
“The crash was not deliberate, no. But the recklessness was. I have tried to instill in the boy my principles and values—a sense of responsibility—and his way of escaping my influence has been to lead a reckless life. I should have compromised earlier on perhaps. But, as I was saying, this is all part of my fate.”
Clare braced herself for the confession Mr. Vantwest had seemed ready to make earlier, but none came. “It sounds like you only wanted what was best for him,” she said. It was a useless remark—banal, presumptuous—but safe.
Mr. Vantwest shrugged. “That’s true. What father doesn’t want the best for his child? But there’s a limit, of course.” He slid his thumb and index finger up the bridge of his nose, dislodging his glasses, and rubbed his eyes vigorously. He then blinked three times in succession, screwing up his eyes and opening them wide. “Yes, there’s a limit to what one’s affections will endure. My son generally puts up a good front, but I’ll wager he thinks I’m an awful bastard. Probably thinks I dislike him.”
His voice had become fainter, as if he were again speaking to himself. In Clare’s head, Adam’s voice was full of urgency.
He’s wrong, Clare. I know he loves me. And I love him. You could see that. I don’t think he’s a bastard. Tell him that you talked to me. Tell him—
But her throat tightened. She opened her mouth and tried to force something out, but the constriction was real and physical, and the words stuck in her esophagus. With each second that passed, they lodged themselves deeper and deeper, until she was sure that if she somehow managed to force them out, they would rattle insincerely, as jarring as the clatter coming from the kitchen.
She looked out the living room window at her own house. “I’m sorry,” she finally said.
Mr. Vantwest held up his hand, his manner suddenly formal. “Please. You must excuse me. I’ve had too much to drink, and I’m afraid I’ve imposed on you.”
Clare shook her head and said, “No, not at all,” but her opportunity had passed. Mr. Vantwest made for the door, reiterating his acceptance of the dinner invitation—a dinner that Clare was now quite certain she would not be attending.
APRIL 1945
Alec sat cross-legged on the living room floor, in a wedge of afternoon light, pretending to read David Copperfield while he waited for his father to come home. The air had cooled down, but the house was oppressively quiet. At regular intervals he turned pages, to generate some noise and movement, but also to give himself the impression that he had better things to do than sit on the floor waiting for his father.
When at last the Tea Maker’s voice sounded in the hallway, Alec’s heart began to pound. Moments later, his father came into the living room, lighting his pipe as he walked, and settled himself regally in the chair by the window.
“What’s that you’re reading, son?” he said.
Alec held up the book, displaying the front cover.
“Dickens. Your mother will be pleased. Is that one of her first editions?”
Alec shook his head.
“Well, if it is, don’t let her catch you taking it outside.”
He closed the book and sat up straight. “Dada?”
“Yes?”
“This afternoon I saw—”
Just then, Mary came into the room carrying a cup and saucer with both hands. The cup jiggled threateningly as she walked, so that it was a relief when she finally set the saucer down on the small table next to her father. Alec waited anxiously for his sister to leave, but instead she deposited herself on the cushioned kavichchi and began picking at a thread in the hem of her skirt.
“Yes, Alec?” the Tea Maker prompted, lifting the saucer, his tone mildly impatient. “This morning you saw?”
Alec shot a desperate glance in the direction of the kavichchi. Then he swallowed hard and carried on.
“Dada, today I saw Ernie and Amitha doing love things behind the factory.”
The Tea Maker’s grey eyes bore into him with such fierceness that Alec wondered if he himself would be the one to receive a scolding. He turned to Mary, who had dropped the hem of her skirt and was firing him a look of disbelief and disgust. Her open mouth formed a neat, dark oval, but no words came out. For a protracted moment, the three Van Twests sat in a charged silence.
The fact that Mary didn’t seem to believe the accusation proved immaterial, for it soon became clear to Alec that his father did. The Tea Maker placed his cup and saucer back on the table and sat up in a manner that accentuated his considerable height. His sideways glance suggested that he thought Mary should leave but that he wouldn’t bother insisting on it. He spoke softly and slowly.
“Tell me what you saw, Alec.”
Alec stared at the dark floorboards. Suddenly truth seemed a supple thing. What he’d witnessed behind the factory didn’t need to be described the way he’d described it. Walking home from the fruit stand, he’d been solidly convinced of his interpretation—he believed it still, more or less—but now other versions, ignored or dismissed, clamoured for his attention, threatening to complicate matters. In his mind he tried to recall the details of the interaction between his brother and the tea taster, but the scene had gone fuzzy, like an out-of-focus photograph. He wanted certainty and clearness, and he could see from his father’s expression that he had the power to impose both. It was thrilling and dizzying.
“Alec. What did you see?”
Eyes still fixed on the grain of the floorboards, Alec moulded his truth.
“Ernie was—Amitha and Ernie were holding hands. Like boy and girl.”
At this, Mary rediscovered her voice.
“Alec! You’re making up stories! I think they were only shaking hands.”
The Tea Maker ignored her, and Alec saw that in his father’s mind the scene he had described was entirely plausible.
“What else, Alec? Was there anything else?”
Again he imagined the strange scene—Amitha’s fingers touching Ernie’s—only this time the picture was clear; it had a definite meaning, for he had given it one. There was more he could say, about the way Ernie and Amitha were standing, about Amitha’s laugh, but he bit his lip and shook his head.
When Ernie came home that evening, Alec and Mary were sent to their rooms. Seated on the floor of the bedroom he shared with his brother, Alec listened at the door for the argument he’d been expecting for months. The crucial battle, in which, despite what he’d witnessed that afternoon, and despite his desire that Ernie be set right, he still felt a particular sympathy for his brother. But nothing, it seemed, was happening. The house was once again oppressively silent. Alec attacked his fingernails with his teeth. He wondered if Ernie had somehow managed to explain his actions, and if he, Alec, would be the one in trouble after all. Strangely, he began to hope that this would be the case, and that he’d be given a punishment of gruelling physical labour that would occupy him until the holidays ended.
It seemed to him he’d been waiting for days when he heard his mother scurry down the hallway, sniffing loudly. Alec hugged his legs and leaned his head against the door. Then he heard his father.
“And how are you planning to put food in your mouth?”
“I have friends. They’ll help me.”
The Tea Maker and Ernie were in the hallway, just outside Alec’s door.
“Your friends are willing to feed someone with an appetite like yours and no money?”
To this there was no answer.
“And what about Sunday afternoon?” The Tea Maker sounded exasperated but resigned.
“Sunday afternoon?”
“The McIntyres are coming for tea. You were to meet their daughter Sirima. That was the whole point of the invitation. What do you want me to tell them now?”