by Susan Swan
30
FIVE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, SAL AND I STOOD AT THE LIVING room window watching a snowstorm.
“It’s going to be an icebox winter,” Sal said morosely.
“What’s an icebox winter?” Little Louie yelled from the kitchen where she was typing up a newspaper story.
“Everybody knows what an icebox winter is,” Sal snapped.
“It feels like you’re locked up in a fridge.”
I didn’t see it like Sal. After all, there’s nothing more reassuring than watching a blizzard from inside a warm house. For one thing, the falling snow is so soft and quiet you know it can’t hurt you as it eddies this way and that in front of the glass or cascades from the branches of the cedars after the wind shakes the branches. The snow brings a bittersweet lonely feeling, too: that you are on your own in your winter life.
As I stood watching the snow, Sal and I listened for my father’s Oldsmobile in the muffled sounds of cars passing on the road. The snowbanks had grown so high we couldn’t see them go by. Not that there were many to see because who, except my father, would go out on such a wild night? He had promised to come home early to watch the Toronto Maple Leafs play the Montreal Canadiens on our black-and-white Zenith television. Now there was no sign of him. But somebody was coming down the road. The figure struggled through the drifts, its face hidden behind a scarf. The figure turned up our unshovelled driveway and started to wade through the snow to our back door. At the same moment, Morley drove up and parked his car on the street. The figure hailed my father climbing out of his Oldsmobile, and they stood outside talking, the ghostly snow swirling around their bundled up shapes.
“For the love of God,” Sal cried flinging open the back door. “Get in out of the storm.”
They hurried into our kitchen, stamping the snow off their galoshes while the spaniels barked wildly.
“Why, it’s you, Mary,” Mrs. Pilkie said, unwrapping the scarf from her face. “John has been telling me all about you.”
“He has?”
“You bet. He says you’re learning to skate this winter.”
Pleased, I rushed over to tell my father about John promising to make me a hockey rink. I wanted to hear his response. But something stopped me. The something that always stopped Morley and me from having a real conversation.
Morley cuffed my cheek. “Are our boys winning, Mary?”
“The score is two nothing for the Canadiens,” I replied, shaking my head sadly.
Morley smacked his newspaper against the kitchen table. “What’s the matter with those bums?”
“You know what happens if you get excited, Doc Bradford,” Sal said.
“Get excited?” Mrs. Pilkie laughed. “Who doesn’t get excited when he watches the Leafs?”
“Doc Bradford gets more excited than most,” Sal answered.
My father poured himself a cup of coffee, pretending not to hear. “So Georgie, are you ready for your insulin shot?” he asked.
Sal quickly ushered me out of the kitchen. A moment later, Mrs. Pilkie hurried into our living room, rolling down the sleeve of her blouse. My father followed, his tired, deep-set eyes seeking out the television.
“Doc Bradford, with you behind us, I guess John and I have nothing to fear.” Mrs. Pilkie grinned at Sal and me. “Nobody will go against Doc Bradford, eh girls?”
“Oh, now, Georgie.” Morley coughed self-consciously.
“I wouldn’t count my chickens if I was you,” Sal said.
Mrs. Pilkie ignored her. “Oh Lordie, you have a Zenith!” She plopped her weight into a stuffed armchair. “Mind if I watch?”
“Nobody’s saying you can’t.” Sal turned up the volume on the TV. “Even if you are Doc Bradford’s patient.”
“Well, that’s not all I am to Doc Bradford.” Mrs. Pilkie removed her dark glasses and rubbed her strange, milky-looking eyes. She’d never be able to take out a boy’s appendix now.
“What are you talking about?” Sal asked.
“Doc Bradford and I have been through a lot together. That’s why he’s getting my boy a review of his case. He said so outside.”
Sal’s mouth dropped open. It was true that Mrs. Pilkie had a special relationship with my father. Together they had done a miraculous thing: they had removed a small boy’s appendix far away from the safety of a modern hospital, my father coaching Mrs. Pilkie through every step of the operation. But I wonder now about Mrs. Pilkie telling Sal that my father had vowed to help her. Did Morley really promise to get a review of John’s case? Sal and I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other out on the driveway. Maybe my father made a vague promise about seeing what he could do for John and that was enough for Mrs. Pilkie to place hopes on Morley too large for anyone to fulfill.
In any case, Morley didn’t contradict Mrs. Pilkie. Maybe he hadn’t heard her boasting about his help. He sat stiff and white-faced on the sofa, his eyes on the television. The same mood of religious awe we felt at the Dollartown Arena was sweeping up my father in its grip. Sal and I felt it, too, as we sat down, turning our faces towards the screen. We were taking part in something more holy and serious than our daily lives in Madoc’s Landing. On the ice, Leafs player Tim Horton had just knocked down Jean Beliveau of the Canadiens. “That Horton, eh?” Mrs. Pilkie said.
“Beliveau started it,” my father growled.
“No, Horton did,” Sal retorted, coming in with coffee and a plate of the butter tarts she had baked that morning. It was the only baking she did well, and the tarts were Morley’s favourite.
“Oh, they’re all roughnecks!” Mrs. Pilkie held up her cup for Sal’s coffee.
By the blue line, the referee in the Montreal Forum was handing out a penalty to Horton. On the sofa, my father had started breathing heavily, a bad sign. He bit into one of Sal’s tarts without looking at her.
“A thank you would be nice, Doc Bradford,” Sal said. “I baked them for you specially.”
Morley grunted. As the camera zoomed in on the referee’s face, my father leapt to his feet. On the screen, the referee was escorting Horton off the ice.
“You no-good son-of-a-bitch! Beliveau started it!” He grabbed a second butter tart.
“Watch your language, Doc Bradford!” Sal cried. “And sit down! You’re blocking our view.”
“I won’t sit down. That goddamn ref has it coming.” Morley wound up like a baseball pitcher and the butter tart hit the television with a satisfying splat. Its juicy sauce slowly slipped down the glass. “You two-bit bum! You’ll pay for that call!” My father threw another tart. Now large blurry smears of syrup and raisins covered most of the screen. We could no longer see the game.
His shouts brought Little Louie. Mrs. Pilkie was laughing, as if she’d seen men behaving like this before. My aunt looked aghast.
“Doc Bradford, that’s enough,” Sal said. “It’s bad for your blood pressure.” She nodded at me. I nodded back, although I hated sending my father outside during a game. But I went along, because Sal told me it kept my father from having a heart attack.
While my aunt and Mrs. Pilkie watched, Sal grabbed Morley by the arm and steered him like a resentful child into the kitchen where she made him put on his coat and hat. He didn’t resist her, but he wasn’t going to co-operate either. When Sal opened the back door and pushed him onto the kitchen porch, I wanted to stop her. But I couldn’t make the words come.
“You stay outside ’til I say otherwise,” Sal told him.
He dropped his eyes and said, “Mmm-hmm.” I wasn’t allowed to interfere. He and Sal had worked out a system. He had to wait out the game in the garage, warming himself with the space heater that was used to start the Oldsmobile on cold winter mornings. Sal and Morley’s system didn’t allow conversation. They used hand signals to communicate the score. The index finger on Sal’s right hand meant a Leaf goal and her left index finger meant a goal by the other team.
After the Montreal Canadiens scored the next goal, Sal told me to put on my winter
coat and tell my father. He sat waiting on an old lawn chair wearing his dove-grey fedora and dark winter coat. A plaid scarf was wrapped around his neck. How could he sit there with nothing except a space heater warming his toes? The air inside the garage froze me to the bone.
Shouldn’t I spring him from his exile? And how would I go about it? I didn’t have many options although I could always try scolding him in Sal’s sternest shaming voice. This is ridiculous behaviour for a grown man. Come inside before you catch your death of cold! Would he come back if I pointed out that no sport, even hockey, was worth suffering over? But I already knew my father thought hockey was worth it. So I cleared my throat. Morley looked up hopefully; clouds of steam floated out of his mouth while I shook my head and held up the index finger on my left hand. The steamy clouds of his breath suddenly grew bigger and more dramatic.
That night, I held up my left index finger five more times inside the garage. My father’s reaction never changed. Each time, he stared at me in disbelief, clouds of his breath billowing from his mouth. Each time, I waited for him to slump over, dead in his lawn chair. But nothing of the sort happened. And when I came back with news of another Montreal goal, he was still sitting upright wearing an expectant look as if he couldn’t help hoping I was bringing good news.
No good news came. By the end of the game, the final tally was eight fingers on my left hand (for Montreal) and two fingers on my right (for the Leafs). George Armstrong, the gentlemanly Leaf captain, had a misconduct penalty for arguing a call, and the referee had handed out penalties to every player except the goalies. Sal put my father to bed with a hot water bottle and his electric blanket turned on high. Still in high spirits, Mrs. Pilkie kissed me goodbye. I watched her leave, and then I stared for a long while at the snow falling in the yellow glow of the street lamps.
THE NEXT DAY, MY AUNT and I packed our bags for our Christmas holiday. Morley drove us through the snowy streets to the train station. We said our goodbyes inside the freezing car, our breath fogging the windshield.
“Will you come down for Christmas?”
“I’ll have to see, Mary.” He helped my aunt and me out with our luggage. We walked over to the platform where the conductor stood, waiting to put us on the train. When my father was sure we were in good hands, he honked goodbye, and his red taillights slowly disappeared down the road. Did I mention the hopeless mood I fell into when Morley didn’t come on my holidays? The hot, achy feeling was too embarrassing for words. I tried to push it down before Hindrance whispered, See, Mouse, I told you. Morley doesn’t waste time on pipsqueaks.
PART FOUR
CHRISTMAS AT THE GREAT HOUSE
31
ON THE TRAIN, I MADE A LIST OF THE REASONS I BELIEVED IN John. There was no point holding back now.
The Case for John Pilkie
1. Morley believes a concussion made John kill his wife and baby girl, and so do I. (It’s a just a crying shame John didn’t use his concussion for an alibi.)
2. The people who believe he’s a killer (like Sal and Sib) are prejudiced. Sal wanted to marry him but he chose somebody else and Sib is jealous because Sal used to be engaged to John.
3. And there’s another reason. Grown-up truth is different from plain truth because grown-up truth feels intimidating, like the way Morley looks in his white operating gown instead of the bright orange Bermuda shorts that Big Louie gave him for his birthday. There are so many interpretations of truth, after all. There’s the stuff you read in old books and songs and newspaper stories pasted in my scrapbook, and long-ago epistles such as my great-grandfather’s letters. And then there are the loving things we write on greeting cards and the dumb things we say to each other without thinking. So no matter what the newspapers report, John’s truth will be different from what other people tell me.
4. The last reason isn’t obvious. John is always nice to Ben and me. If he is as bad as Dr. Torval says, I would like him anyway because when he is kind, he is kinder than anybody else.
32
CHRISTMAS DAY WAS COLD AND OVERCAST. AFTER OPENING OUR presents, we sat in the breakfast room eating steak and kidney pie while bottles of sparkling Burgundy cooled in the snowbanks outside. Nobody drinks the wine now, but in Big Louie’s day it was a big deal.
“Is Morley coming today?” I asked.
“Maybe he’s trying to come.” My aunt left the table and dialled our number on the alcove phone. She waited a while before she hung up. “I can’t get anyone on the line,” she said, coming back. “Something must be holding your father up, Mouse.”
“Something always holds Morley up,” Big Louie said as she soaked her second helping of kidney pie with Willa’s gravy. “That man’s going to drop dead of a heart attack.”
I felt myself flinch, but I didn’t take up Big Louie’s remark about Morley, the way I normally would. I guess I didn’t think Morley would show in the first place.
WHEN EVERYONE WENT OFF FOR afternoon naps, I dialled our number. On the other end, the phone rang and rang until Sadie, the town operator, patched me through. “Doc Bradford’s residence,” a nasal voice said. “Sal, it’s me, Mouse. Is my father home?”
“He’s at the hospital operating. Guess you heard about the Wongs on Highway 29? Well, their truck slipped on some ice. Mr. Wong bled to death on a snowbank.”
“Ugh. That’s horrible.”
“The blood’s still smeared all over the snow. Sib and I saw it yesterday. The Mackie girl had a head-on collision at Angel’s Corners. Both cars are write-offs.”
“Is the Mackie girl going to live?”
“If she’s lucky. She’s got a fractured skull, a dislocated shoulder, plus two broken legs. Your father was up ’til 5:30 this morning putting Lorraine back together. Did you get some loot for Christmas?”
I told Sal about the adventure book, The Lennon Sisters and the Secret of Holiday Island by Doris Schroeder, in my Christmas stocking. The Lennon Sisters were singing stars from the Lawrence Welk tv show. I didn’t tell Sal that Morley took out one sister’s gallbladder and that made the Lennon Sisters embarrassing as far as I was concerned. I didn’t talk about getting new skates. Sal would say I was spoiled and maybe I was. It was hard to feel happy about my presents when Lorraine Mackie was broken into pieces and Mr. Wong had bled to death on the snow. Should I get Christmas presents while others suffer? I didn’t know the answer and maybe Morley didn’t either. Maybe that was why he worked so hard helping others.
CHRISTMAS DAY UNFOLDED WITHOUT MORLEY showing up. Before dinner on Boxing Day, Big Louie gave me a letter written by my great-grandfather and an heirloom brooch made of seed pearls and filigreed gold. She saved the brooch for last, because she didn’t want the box getting lost in the Christmas wrapping. The brooch belonged to Big Louie’s mother. Afterwards, I waited for my father to call me back. Finally, I gave up waiting and decided to write John and tell him how much I liked his letter.
Dear Mr. Pilkie:
I want to thank you for taking the time to read my composition. And I hope you had a good Christmas dinner at the Bug House. Christmas here was tons of fun and the snow isn’t up to the windowsills the way it is at home.
On Christmas afternoon, we played the Fox and the Hare. First, my aunt helped Uncle Willie stomp down a large circle in the snow. Then Uncle Willie told me to be the hare, but my aunt said she would be the hare. She knows I could never catch anybody.
My aunt ran after Uncle Willie who pranced like a show horse along the tramped down paths. As soon as my aunt got close, Uncle Willie lay down in the snow and started moving his arms up and down. He told my aunt she had to make snow angels too so she lay down in the snow beside him, laughing and panting, and pretty soon all of us were lying on our backs moving our arms up and down in the snow.
For Christmas dinner, we ate two fifteen-pound hen turkeys because male turkeys are tough. Uncle Willie cut us slices while Big Louie shouted: “Start carvin’, Marvin! I’m starvin’!” You would have been crazy about Willa’s mashe
d potatoes, and her homemade bread sauce, not to mention her perfectly browned turnips. Willa put red carnations in our finger bowls and homemade bread inside our linen napkins. We dipped our fingers in the bowls and ate the bread with our turkey.
I hope your own turkey was juicy and the hospital cook didn’t leave your roast potatoes in the oven until they turned hard as hockey pucks. After dinner, Uncle Willie produced a joke book. A dozen pardons for all the dirty words that follow. It started with Uncle Willie reciting a verse:
“This is the story of the bee whose sex is very hard to see. You cannot tell a he from a she but she can tell and so can he.”
My grandmother finished it: “The bee is a very busy soul and has no time for birth control so that is why, in times like these, you see so many sons of bees.”
Everybody laughed their heads off.
“Let’s see if you can remember this one, mother,” Uncle Willie said. “The farmer asks the young man, are your intentions toward my daughter honourable or dishonourable?”
“And the young man says, I’ve got a choice?” Big Louie answered. Everybody laughed twice as hard and Uncle Willie swore that my grandmother was the only woman who could tell the punch line of a dirty joke properly.
Maybe Uncle Willie’s jokes will make you mad so please ignore the places where I have scratched the jokes out. Tomorrow we’re going on a sleigh ride along Bear Creek and then we will visit my great-grandfather’s grave. In case you forgot, he’s the pioneer oilman. My grandmother toasts my great-grandfather’s grave every Christmas with a bottle of champagne because my great-grandfather was a temperance man. And every year, my grandmother pours a glass of bubbly on his tombstone, and shouts: “Down with temperance, Dad!”