You Could Believe in Nothing

by Jamie Fitzpatrick

“Sorry?”

  “I said, what are you thinking about?”

  “I wish Nicole was here.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  He was just trying to place her in ordinary life; eating soup with her eyes fixed on a mystery, or raising fish to a wrinkled nose on grocery day. But he kept coming back to her body, and thoughts of her body summoned the Hungarian cab driver, muscular and olive-skinned. Wearing a wrestler’s singlet, for some reason.

  “It’s an awful tragedy, that family,” said Gerry. “His daughter Wanda, she was abused by Norman’s brother. It went on for years. And Norman knew about it. You’d never prove anything, but he knew.”

  “Oh my God,” said Derek’s mother, watching Norman disappear around a corner. “I would never speak to him again.”

  “There’s so many families like that, Elizabeth. You’d have to be here every day to believe it. You can’t stop speaking to them all.”

  “Doesn’t he feel like he has to do something? To atone for what happened?”

  “Not if you believe the greater crimes are against yourself.”

  Derek’s mother checked her watch and felt for cigarettes through the soft shell of her handbag.

  “My mouth is dry as a bone,” said Cindy. All their mouths were open, seeking oxygen.

  “We’ll go downstairs for a minute,” said Elizabeth. “Get you a pack of gum.”

  She looked to Gerry, who gave an approving nod. Derek and his father sank to the bench. Curtis, who had been reading the docket posted on the wall, joined them.

  “How are you holding up?” asked Derek.

  “Not bad,” said Lou. “A bit…you know.”

  “What ho!” Gerry hailed a woman in cat’s-eye glasses as she appeared from a courtroom. He strode to meet her and they drifted to a corner, marking a professional distance.

  “The prosecutor?” said Derek.

  “I would imagine,” said Lou. They watched for a minute, but didn’t glean much.

  “You know what?” said Curtis, leaning across to look at them both. “The hardest thing is not to judge, and I think you guys have achieved that. I think this is a really strong family, and I think you’re really lucky to be here in Newfoundland, where family means so much.”

  He placed a hand on his stepfather’s shoulder. “We’re all behind you, Lou.”

  With their legs and elbows touching on the small bench, Derek could feel his father stiffen. The contraction of a thigh muscle and a shoulder turning in. Two nights previous the entire family had finally shared a meal, a pork roast barbequed by Joey. Cynthia did stuffed baked potatoes, bread with cheddar, three kinds of salad, and strawberry mousse. The overabundance of food and the chaos of Cindy’s house, her two girls screaming and misbehaving, helped pass the evening. Curtis talked a lot; Lou hardly at all. A man about to go up on charges could be excused for not feeling himself. But Derek suspected the silence had more to do with Curtis. “He’s joined some church, you know,” he whispered to Derek while Curtis was in the kitchen, helping with coffee.

  “I’ve had two failed marriages and plenty of things I’m not proud of,” said Curtis now. His hand remained on Lou’s shoulder, though he must have sensed it wasn’t welcome there. “I carry it all with me, every day. So I’m not going to sit in judgment.”

  Lou stood and lifted his face to the approaching Gerry Joseph.

  “Straight through,” said Gerry. He swept a hand in the air, made a sharp whistling noise. “Conditional sentence. House arrest, like I told you. Just stick with the payback schedule.”

  “No testimony?” Lou’s eyes went wide.

  “No testimony.”

  “I knew Max Ivany would play it square. He’s played square with me ever since the day I went to work for him.”

  “It’s not Ivany,” said Gerry. “This is the prosecutor’s call.” He held Lou by both shoulders now, so he could look straight at him. “We still have to talk to Ivany’s people. Sort out the payback scheme.”

  “Of course, Gerry. Goodness, sure it’s all clear now.”

  “So that’s it, then?” asked Curtis. “No trial?”

  “We’ll be in and out in no time,” said Gerry. “Routine.”

  Pleased to see his father so relieved, Derek laid a hand on his back and offered the other hand to shake. But Lou looked beyond him, searching the room.

  “Where are the girls?” he asked, eyes clouding and mouth falling open. “Where’s Elizabeth? Did she come? No?”

  “Dad, they’re just downstairs,” said Derek, giving him a gentle shake.

  “Yes, of course,” said Lou, his face relaxing into a smile. He looked back to the lawyer, his lifelong friend, and the two of them shared a vigorous handshake.

  Cynthia mashed the cake with a long knife. Slivers of red jelly separated the chocolate layers, but failed to keep them intact. The first slice toppled one layer over the other.

  “Ooh, shit!” said Cindy. “Plate! Plate!”

  “You used to be able to get a floury cake,” said her mother. “Nobody makes a floury cake anymore. A sturdy cake. Everything has to be like pudding.”

  Gerry Joseph had said they’d be in and out of the courtroom in a flash. But by the time Lou was dispensed with—about twenty minutes of bored drawling between the judge and two lawyers—it was almost noon. Returning to Cynthia’s in two cars, they had devoured stale sandwiches with too much mayonnaise, left from a baby shower she had hosted on the weekend. Then Cindy suggested a drink, and Derek’s mother, suddenly exultant, had sent him to Sobey’s for the cake.

  The kitchen windows opened to the sun, and a nice westerly wind cleared the air. Derek stood at the counter and poured red wine.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” said his mother. “Seeing old Melinda Mills this morning, right there on Water Street. She was my cousin, the only family I had when I came to St. John’s. Gave me my first job at the library, and fired me when I got pregnant.”

  She ran a finger around her plate, gathering a ridge of red and licking it off.

  “She looks the same as ever, with that big bun of hair. I said, ‘Lovely day, Melinda.’ She didn’t like that. Nobody ever used her first name at the library. She wouldn’t allow it.”

  Derek and Cynthia stood looking through the kitchen window, where Vivian and Tasha ran a circle around their grandfather. Vivian surprised him, the elfin brawn revealed by her spaghetti-strap shirt.

  “She’s growing up,” said Derek.

  “Jesus, is she ever,” said his sister. They watched for a few seconds before Cynthia stood on her toes and leaned into the open window. “Dad? Dad, bring them in now. That’s enough sun.”

  “What’s that?” called Lou, cupping a hand at his ear.

  “I’ll get them,” said Derek, and crossed the kitchen to the back door.

  “What a day,” said Lou. “Fine summer’s day, eh?” He gathered Vivian in his arms, but she squirmed from his hug.

  Derek held Tasha’s hand while she crouched to yank a fistful of grass.

  “Can I ask you something about Detroit?”

  “Ask what?” replied his father. “Here we go, Viv. One, two, three!” Holding her by the wrists, he lifted the girl so that her feet dangled in the air.

  “Was Mom alone when she went there? Did you have to go down there and get her?”

  Tasha threw her handful of grass overhead, and cried out with impatience as she tried to shake the bits that stuck to her palm. Lou returned Vivian to the ground and ran the back of his hand across his brow. A dark trail of sweat ran down the centre of his polo shirt.

  “For the love of the lord Jesus, Derek,” he said. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

  Vivian looked up at the two men with a frown, then turned to examine the sky. In her composure Derek picked up a note of finality, of things happening for the last time.
r />   The girls were bundled away for their afternoon nap—“Dead to the world,” said Cynthia—and a deep suburban contentment settled over the house. Lou dozed off on the couch, mouth open to the ceiling, snoring in quiet groans. Joey was in the garage, getting stoned. Cindy told her mother to leave the mess, she’d just throw it all in the dishwasher later. But Elizabeth said it was only a few cups and plates, and filled the sink with water.

  Cynthia beckoned Derek from the end of the hallway. She was standing on the basement stairs, so her head hovered just a couple of feet above the floor. Derek followed her down to the family room, where Curtis sat cross-legged on the carpet. Cynthia dropped across from him, folding stockinged feet under the wool skirt. So Derek felt compelled to sink to the floor as well, though there was a sectional couch they could have used, and a reclining easy chair and three bar stools.

  “Tell Derek,” said Cindy, lifting her blouse at the shoulders and letting it settle back around her. “Tell him what you just told me, what happened in Detroit.”

  “I tried to run away,” said Curtis. He was stripped down to his white T-shirt again. The half-dressed look. “When Lou came to Detroit to bring us back here. I wanted to stay with my dad, so I ran away.”

  Derek nodded slowly. “And what happened?”

  “I didn’t get very far. But I didn’t want anything to do with him.”

  “So there was poison in the well, right from the start,” said Cynthia.

  “That’s very well put,” said Curtis.

  “Listen to this,” said Cynthia. She lifted an index finger and read from a small sheet of paper. “ ‘We are bound by the choices we made, no matter what. We have to make it work, for everyone’s sake. For the future.’ That’s what Dad wrote to Mom.”

  “When?”

  “A long time ago, I think.”

  Derek recognized the two ancient letters in his sister’s hand, the one from Joan St. Croix’s mother and Lou’s scribbled appeal on blue stationery. Cindy still clung to them.

  “Well,” said Curtis. “In spite of everything, you have to give them credit for trying. There’s real courage in that.”

  Cynthia made a face and slipped the letters back in an envelope. The old paper was cracking, coming apart at the folds.

  The light, uneven steps on the stair belonged to Vivian. She crossed the room and slumped against her mother.

  “Not now, Viv, please,” said Cindy, squirming and raising an arm to shield herself. Vivian retreated, wounded by the sharp voice. Derek knew how she felt. Cynthia’s anger was like the touch of a live wire.

  “Come here, Viv,” he said. “Leave your mom alone for a minute.”

  Vivian ran and fell against Derek with a loud grunt. He tried to stroke her golden hair, but she was all arms and legs, giggling and climbing over his knees. Through the basement ceiling, they heard the creak of the couch in the living room, then Lou’s deep snore. Cynthia folded her arms and stared at the floor. How could that man sleep, luxuriating in this lazy afternoon? She wouldn’t be crediting him with any courage.

  The court appearance had been a letdown. Derek had imagined a final, bold act of familial unity, a final reckoning before he turned his back. But there had been no reckoning. Instead, the court case was shoved through, its scabrous details unrecorded. Dodging the past was hard work, and Lou was rewarding himself with a good snooze.

  “What are you kids up to down there?” called their mother, her voice bouncing merrily down the stairs. Cindy raised her wine glass and tipped it back, tongue extended to find the last drops, stood, and climbed the stairs. Vivian ran after her, humming a tune.

  “Cynthia’s like glass,” said Curtis. “Brittle. I don’t trust her with the true story. We have to protect Mom.”

  “Maybe Mom doesn’t need protection,” said Derek.

  “Well, you know the story. You can do what you like with it.”

  He was right. Derek could challenge his mother with the accumulated evidence, the letters, the DVD, the knowledge from Curtis. He could bring it to Cynthia.

  “No, I’ve had enough,” he said.

  “You know they weren’t even intimate back then,” said Curtis.

  “Back when?”

  “For a long time they weren’t sleeping together. They weren’t a good match. Physically, I mean. I think they disappointed each other in that way.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. How could you know that?” It occurred to Derek that this was how his brother lashed out, with indiscretions rather than anger.

  “I was older than you. You pick up on these things.”

  Derek thought of the wedding photo, how it showed no cynicism or disappointment.

  “Obviously things changed,” said Curtis. “People can create happiness, you know. They had you and Cindy. I’m sure there was much happiness in that. Do you mind if I try a biblical analogy on you?”

  Derek shrugged. His brother shifted to face him, sitting with his legs crossed like a swami.

  “You know the story of Samson? The great strongman of the Old Testament? Protector of the Israelites?”

  Derek had a vague picture of a pro wrestler in a loincloth, pulling the pillars of a temple down around him. “What about him?”

  “There is one interpretation that says his story is defined by betrayal. He is betrayed by his parents, his people, his wife. Ultimately he betrays himself, because he can never escape it. It’s in his DNA, almost.” Curtis leaned forward and pinched thumbs to forefingers below his chin, as if holding a housefly by the wings and shaking it. He had given the lesson before. “He can never free himself from the primal moment of betrayal. It’s part of him. He carries it. Thrives on it, in a way, though it destroys him.” The hands dropped in conclusion, palms open. “We all struggle to live with moments of betrayal. We often fail.”

  Back in the kitchen, reedy female voices climbed and descended, punctuated by violins, hundreds of them, it seemed. Elizabeth Butt was on the balls of her feet, the limp in her left leg miraculously absent.

  “Lahhhh-la-la-lah,” she sang, holding a cake plate and a cup towel.

  “When I grew up we could get this music on the radio, just barely, on a Saturday or Sunday. Oh my, it was lovely, and then it would disappear, and you couldn’t get it back no matter how you turned the dial.”

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “I don’t know, my dear. Opera, is all. I just turned on the radio.”

  With a squeak of feet she turned a near pirouette.

  “Lahhhh-la-la-lah.” Her voice cracked as it climbed to the final note.

  The scarf slipped from her neck. She caught it and dropped it on a chair, lifted another pair of dripping plates high in front of her.

  Cynthia opened the door to the garage.

  “Joe, could you get the girls cleaned up and changed? Rob will be picking them up for supper.”

  “Why supper?” Joey’s voice echoed deep.

  “He can’t do Friday.”

  “How’s Rob making out?” asked Derek.

  Cynthia gave him a look.

  “Do you remember that woman? Works for tourism? He’s seeing her again. He was seeing her way back, back before Tasha was born, when I was first with Joey. I just don’t get it.”

  A strapping male chorus took up the tune. Elizabeth sighed and smiled and placed the plates in the cupboard.

  “It sounds Italian,” said Derek. “What are they singing? What does it mean?”

  “Who knows?” His mother tested the tap water with her fingers before filling a glass. “Don’t ask me what it means. Why would you want to know what it means?”

  FIFTEEN

  The week after his conviction, Hey-Hey Lou Langdon disappeared from the radio without notice. On his final day, the family endured three column inches in the newspaper. Radio Voice Convicted on Charges…veteran media personality wi
ll retire…longtime fixture on the local airwaves…falsified travel claims…

  “At least they kept the nasty details out of the paper,” said Cynthia. “Mom killed the story at the CBC, you know. They were going to report it until Mom called someone there, someone she knows.”

  Curious about the change at Classix 490, Derek tuned in on several mornings after his father left, and heard a pronounced difference, a tweak in the programming software. There was an amplified lewdness in the traffic reports—Ooh, I need a man, said Gina, her voice crumbling—and an updated hit parade. Jake the Snake introduced music from the 1980s and 90s, songs that Lou would have never abided. Songs from Derek’s youth.

  “They’re all in the soup down there now,” said Gerry Joseph. “Unauthorized cash bonuses, questionable overtime, inappropriate leave, it’s all coming out. Max Ivany’s people will be cutting the place to ribbons, mark my word.”

  “Got out of there at the right time,” said Lou.

  There would be no shameful retreat. The ad had already been placed in the paper.

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  The spring rains let up, and on a fine morning Derek saw Kelly and Billy on Military Road, walking their boy to school. A ragged wind flattened Kelly’s T-shirt, and there was no mistaking the expansive breasts and elegant bump. At the office Derek went online to view the stages of pregnancy. He could count weeks, but from one drive-by look he couldn’t tell where Kelly might be, given that she was chubby around the waist to begin with. He thought about Googling “large pregnant women.” But that would produce mostly perverted results, blocked by the company firewall.

  He was bound to run into her before long, and if she had anything to tell him she could do it with a single glance. If Billy had anything to say…Well, he didn’t expect it would ever come to that. People were drawing back from the ledges they had walked throughout winter’s soggy decline. It felt as though a silent consensus had been reached, that history had done enough for now and should be resealed, the cork jammed back in the bottle.