The doctor stabbed at his smelts, opened them with his fingers, taking the backbone out and leaving it on the table beside him, doused some vinegar on one and popped it in his mouth. In his pockets there was snuff (for the woods), pipes (for the office), and cigarettes (on hand when he was too lazy to clean his pipe).
As the doctor passed the smelts around, Clare talked of the wedding that was announced between Vye and Myhrra, and how happy she was that Myhrra was getting a chance to be happy. The doctor again frowned, again thought Nevin and Vera would make fun of her, and again came to her aid by telling her that she was crazy, and that no one was ever happy in a marriage – and he could cite a thousand marriages and not find a happy one.
What the doctor said, and how he said it, had the desired effect Both Nevin and Vera realized how insulting he was to his sister-in-law, and so disarmed the very things they themselves thought. Clare then stood and made some tea – of which Vera would have a cup if it was black.
“Frugality and fasting,” the doctor said. “That’s how to live life – eh, Vera – not like us gluttons,” he said taking another smelt.
“Fasting,” he said again, and Vera smiled, looked over at Nevin, as if by not taking the smelt that she wanted, and drinking tea black, which she never did, she showed him all that she was.
The doctor was thinking of retiring soon and starting his “other occupation” which was fly-fishing, but each month the hospital, with its grey corridors and too few beds, had a crisis, and this crisis propelled him on for another month, much to the agitation of those about him.
His biggest concern at this time, and something which if you looked at him you would think he was not capable of being concerned over – because one only had to go back to the volunteer program to see what a misogynist he was, and remember how he told his own sister-in-law Clare to go home and stop bothering the patients by being so nice to them – his one concern was that nurses who did their work fairly be treated with fairness.
The doctor had always seen the same things during an accident or crisis in the hospital. Noting everything about him, wearing his bow-tie and his thick black glasses, he could see not only concern on the faces of the bereaved but an excitement caused by impending death in those about him. For this, he disagreed with the volunteer system because it gave voyeurs of death a legitimacy to bother the bereaved. Also, people could be selective about what they volunteered for, and he could not see volunteering for one thing because you were altruistic and not another.
Often because of insomnia he would be awake all night and sleep from noon till late afternoon. Drawing on his strength to get up as soon as he woke, he would toss the blanket off him and stand. He often slept in his pants, and his bare chest still showed signs of being powerful. He would listen to the school bus rattling past, and, looking out the window, he would see snow escaping in great blows over the back fence, and the school kids walking home across the snowed-in driveways under the metallic grey-blue sky.
Then he would wash and shave in his own sink in his bedroom, check the window again and see the sun, pink against the black spruce far away, and see the poplar shoots almost covered in snow. Then he would turn on the portable TV in the corner and watch the last fifteen minutes of his soap opera, “The Edge of Night.”
Sometimes he would insult his sister-in-law and make her cry, and then he would feel sorry for her, and would try to make amends. But there was this difference in temperament between them. She, at sixty, perhaps because she was widowed and childless, had suddenly seemed to find a lot to do joining the Gilbert and Sullivan group and the Historical Society. The doctor had always thought of these societies as being a pretence to authenticity that people mistook as cultured and devoted no real time to anyhow. And he disliked them. Yet he still queried her a lot about them.
“Was Roy at the meeting tonight?” “Yes.”
“Of course he would be – that’s the kind of society he likes – those kind of societies.”
“What kind of societies?”
“All those kind – where you eat little sandwiches – those kind – musical societies. He wanted to start a barbershop quartet here, well, it didn’t work, and now it’s historical societies. Find out what Virginian Loyalist came here in 1785 – which has nothing to do with me or you being Irish and Scots, but is considered our heritage at any rate.”
“Well,” said Clare, “why don’t you join the Irish or Scottish societies? They hold great parties every year.”
“I hate them – I hate everything to do with them – and there isn’t one bit of authenticity in them. And I certainly don’t need someone from Dublin coming here to tell me where I came from and quote some Irish poet so everyone can think they’re cultured. I’d rather be shot in the head or strangled in my sleep.”
The trouble with this conversation was that it went on not once but a half dozen times a month. Clare had also taken a concern over Nevin and Vera, whom she loved, and the doctor felt for some reason because of this that he had been betrayed. They came to the house more, and every-time they came to the house the same feeling of being betrayed by something would overwhelm him as Clare smiled and fretted about. It was, in fact, because of this that Nevin believed the doctor to be the most prejudiced person he had ever met. Or at least a man on the wrong side of progress.
But what got the doctor into trouble was his feeling of a deeper reasoning under a surface reason in whatever people said. It sometimes made him cynical whenever anyone else was applauding someone’s virtue, and at times it made him act kind toward those who had just done something that was considered disgraceful. His fault lay in his high moral tone when trying to protect anyone others condemned. Nevin did not know the doctor had already sternly reprimanded two women from the Ladies Aid Society at the church for gossiping about him and Vera, saying that Vera and Nevin had every right to live exactly the way they chose.
One night he made the mistake of showing Nevin and Vera Clare’s poem: “To Love Oh to Love,” which was written in memory of her husband. This, even though Clare begged him not to show it. “Show it!” he roared. “I guess I’ll show it – she’s a regular JOHN KEEEATS, or something.” He had no idea why he said this.
The doctor was sitting off the pantry tying a gigantic streamer fly, but because they had mentioned poetry he, by sudden impulse, went upstairs and found her green poetry folder and brought it down. It had been a long time – five years since she’d written a poem. For a year after her husband died she had tried to find something to do, and she wrote poems.
The doctor came downstairs and Clare blushed and closed her eyes. Then he handed the lined page to Vera to read and stood over her looking down, puffing dramatically on his big round-bowled pipe.
Vera read the poem and without commenting passed it back to him.
“Not a bad poem,” the doctor said, embarrassed at Vera’s silence.
Clare smiled at them as if frightened. Finally the doctor handed the page to Nevin. Nevin read it, looked over the page, and handed it to Clare, who held it in her hand, fumbled with it, and smiled.
“It’s an awful poem,” Clare said in a false tone.
“Oh no.” Vera said. “It isn’t.”
The doctor, without wanting to, imitated the exact tone of Clare’s voice. “Terrible poem,” he said. He knew nothing about poetry and felt absolutely foolish over this decision to show Clare’s poem. Now he knew this was all his fault and he was angry. “Mrs. Shakespeare.” He laughed unnaturally. “Good enough poem – ha ha.”
What relieved the anguish was that old Allain Garret came in to share a talk and a half pint of rum with the doctor.
Some time later, the doctor argued with Clare over being the sort of old woman who would end up being a Buddhist and writing poems. “What do they agree with that I agree with – nothing whatsoever! And what do I agree with that they do – less than that. They have no idea about moose and have never seen one – and yet chastise anyone for hunting them. They make a mocke
ry of Remembrance Day because they know nothing about it, and it’s the same way with their peace movement. In this they believe they are visionaries. That is, they see what is obvious and are visionaries while those who have suffered and loved more (here he could not help thinking of Clare) get no credit at all – well, so what. That’s the best way to have it good for them!”
That is how the doctor spoke to Clare all that winter. He told her she was thinking like a tourist. This is because she was becoming interested in crafts – and of all things the doctor hated, crafts were foremost. And again he would not say why he disliked them.
Since Clare never knew how to answer these outbursts, she kept silent. Sometimes the doctor would come home from the hospital and sit in the hallway upstairs rocking and smoking his pipe. Clare would hear that he had shouted at Doctor Savard or had insulted someone.
The doctor knew exactly what made him disagree with Savard at certain times. And it had nothing to do with the French and English question. However, it was simply assumed by everyone that it was the French and English question – that he was a bigot.
The doctor found himself at an age when he shouldn’t have to explain anything of how he thought or felt, of explaining nothing on principle. Much like Joe when it came to reconciling himself with his past.
One day Vera went out by herself to cut more wood. She took the chainsaw and walked up the road, and into the back lot of Allain Garret’s. The day was mild and the snow was deep, and it filled her rubber boots. The snow was blue under the trees, and hard there also. The sun was warm, the sky pulpy, which always gave Vera a strange feeling, as if the woods would come over her.
The smell of sawdust and oil that caked the top of the saw filled her with that sort of dread of all the mind-numbing, aching work that lay in front of her. She had her hair piled up under her old hat, that came to the top of her dark eyes. In this way she worked for two hours straight. And as she worked, anyone could see that in her thin, tall body lay a great strength and domineering will.
Hearing the saw old Allain came down to speak with her. He rolled one cigarette and then another, sitting on a maple tree fall, as at home here, with his shirt open, and a toque on his head, as at any time in his life. His pockets were filled with bread and he would lift them up and moosebirds would land on his head. He’d smile, without any teeth, then he would flip the bread up and the birds would scatter here and there.
Old Allain told Vera how he had gotten in trouble with a truckload of pigs. He had been taking them down river for a friend. The pigs were squashed into the back of the truck and the door was loose, and every time he went around a corner, a pig or two would fall out The police eventually stopped him and laid a charge, and he was taken to court. The police claimed that too many of them were squashed together. But Allain had not put the pigs in the truck – the man who owned them had. The expert witness for the defence, a friend of Allain’s, said that he saw nothing wrong with the way the pigs were handled whatsoever. That was until he got on the stand.
“Would you load pigs like that?” he was asked.
Allain’s friend looked at the picture that the police had taken, looked at the people in the courtroom, looked over at Allain, and shook his head as if suddenly frightened.
“No,” he said. “I’d never put a pig into a scrape like that.”
Allain’s lawyer tried to get him to change his mind, and tried also to make him say what he had in private. But the man, now confused and somewhat ashamed, mumbled that he’d never seen so many pigs “in such a state.”
The judge, feeling that this was an excellent opportunity to show where he stood on the subject of cruelty to animals, which was popular, gave a lecture to the defence lawyer – and to the court at large – and complimented Allain’s friend, who still looked frightened.
Allain’s friend, after he had betrayed Allain about these pigs, looked as if he was angry with Allain and had been for a long time and could not now forgive him. Allain was fined five hundred dollars. Allain did not know what to do. Every year he got two thousand chicks from the fellow, but now he didn’t know whether to or not. He thought his friend must be angry with him, though he didn’t understand why. They were both seventy years old, and what in god’s name were they doing going to court.
Vera listened to this story and said nothing. She was sitting on the saw, with her legs spread and her boots far apart. She peeled herself an orange as she listened, becoming more and more engrossed, not so much in what old Allain was saying, as by the hair in his ears, the gentle smell of woodchips and wine. She thought of his son at home who dressed in a blue suit jacket and sat in the porch.
More than anything, Vera wanted to become like this old man. She was, above all, a shy person, and would not sit on a saw and spread her legs out into the snow like she did, peeling an orange and nodding her head, with anyone she did not trust. There was a loud crash in the bay. There was the smell of smoke lingering in the bare trees, with the bud tips wet and lonely.
Allain smiled. “You work as good as your uncle, Dr. Hennessey,” he said shyly. “I love that – like Rita Walsh – strong as a ox.” And then he gently patted her head with his thick dark hand.
She got flustered and then smiled, like a child who has just been complimented.
Vye went to see his Belinda because he had things to settle. He went because he wanted to prove to Belinda how concerned he was about their past – and how everything was forgiven and that he still cared for her. Once, when she was pregnant, he had promised her he would marry her – but this promise had not been kept. In her apartment at the back of the house there were Advent candles from Rita because Belinda had wanted to celebrate last Christmas exactly as her friend had. When anyone came to the door Belinda would listen to them. In this way, she had collected dozens of pamphlets, from the Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses, that she displayed proudly on her coffee table.
Belinda had forgiven Vye long ago – because she was frightened that it was her fault, and she wanted him to like her. She was frightened of displeasing Vye and Vye recognized this.
When Vye walked in Belinda was sitting in the chair watching her soap opera. She stood and grabbed Maggie, who wore a T-shirt and strawberry-coloured pants. Maggie looked at him and smiled, and Belinda, carrying her against her right hip, went immediately to pour him tea which was one thing she had always done for him. Whenever he came home from work she would have the pot of tea on the stove. She limped across the room in her furry slippers, with a bandage on her left heel, and sat down again.
The difference could be seen immediately in how he dressed compared to how they dressed. Maggie, who was almost three, was certainly dressed as well as possible – but there was always something faded in her clothes, along with the chain about her neck, and the small stud earrings Belinda had put in. It had nothing, of course, to do with faded clothes – it was the whole aspect. Belinda had on clothes which made her look even heavier than she was – a maternity top, and baggy pants, and a black belt.
Though she had once been very pretty, Vye was upset with her looks now, and it made him angry. He did not want to belittle her – but he always ended up doing it.
The child made him angry too. Every time he saw the child he would remember it kicking its legs in the crib, like some type of messenger.
When he spoke to her, Belinda now looked at him in a stern way as if she had practised this look for a long time to be ready for him. But as soon as she looked at him, she held Maggie closer, and her lips began to tremble, not for any other reason but that she thought he might ridicule her. Then, with the child on her knees, she scratched her right hip, and looked around the apartment as if she was surprised at the cracked plaster and the pipe that stuck up through the middle of it.
Vye talked to her while looking out at the neon sign. The snow was dirty and brown. He looked down at it and yawned. The street was empty, the neon sign was warm and cast its red light on a patch of slick snow by the door. He told Belinda h
e was getting married, that, in fact, he himself was as surprised as she was. “Imagine,” he said suddenly. She smiled kindly, and then blushed. Since she was always worried that he would laugh at her and say things about her child – she could never bring herself to imagine what things – she was only happy that he didn’t, and in fact she realized that in his way he was trying to treat her with kindness by telling her this.
The wedding was going to take place at the United Church. Myhrra had suddenly become United because of the anguish over her talks with Father Garret. She wanted nothing more to do with him or his church, and, besides, Vye was United.
All of a sudden, Vye tried to be Byron’s father. This happened almost overnight. Vye now acted as if he knew all about Byron – knew why he did what he did, and why he sauced his mother. Knew that he, Vye, had to be accepted, so he tried to reason with him and played road hockey in his suit pants. All of this took place as if they were following a prescribed ritual, not being sure where they had learned it. Byron wanted nothing to do with this and acted suspicious every time Vye was around.
Vye was going to be his father. Sometimes Vye would take Byron’s part over Myhrra’s and Myhrra would say “Oh – you two!” And Byron would look at them both as if questioning their reasoning, and trying to figure something out.
Vye and Myhrra’s former life became a pale vestige. Now their whole new life used new words, went to new places, drank new concoctions. They gave up curling and took up racketball; met each other at five instead of seven at night – and yet everything was familiar. For instance, Vye realized that he should love her, but he wasn’t sure if he did. And Myhrra wanted to be elated, wanted to feel that everything was new and exciting – but in her heart she did not feel this.
Nights Below Station Street Page 15