The Western Light

by Susan Swan

  Well, I have to go now and read a letter my greatgrandfather wrote. Big Louie says I will be very surprised by it, and she wants to talk to me after I finish. I hope you get to watch the Leafs game in the Bug House. By the way, it’s not fair that you can’t get a review of your case, and cross my heart I will do all I can to help you.

  Your special friend,

  Mary Bradford

  P.S. I can’t help wondering what you mean by special friend? That’s how you signed your last letter. Not that I’m taking it the wrong way. I’m just asking.

  33

  ON DECEMBER 30, AFTER WILLA PUT ME TO BED, I SNUCK DOWNSTAIRS and watched the Leafs play the Canadiens on the huge colour tv that Big Louie had bought in Detroit. We couldn’t get colour tv in Madoc’s Landing. Our reception was always black and white, and as snowy as Christmas on the Perry Como Show. I imagined Morley swearing a blue streak when the Pocket Rocket fired a pair of goals to make the score 3–1. The Leafs lost 3–2 so I went upstairs to read my great-grandfather’s letter. I read it over and over, unable to believe my eyes.

  Vergennes, Vermont

  February , 1862

  Dear Mr. Vidal:

  Me and mine do not appreciate you contacting us regarding the news of our son Cameron nor have our feelings changed since I wrote your aunt some twenty years before. We have no evidence other than the word of your dead mother that you are Cameron’s issue. My son drowned when he was a settler at Maxwell, a utopian commune on the shores of Lake Huron. He was nineteen when he died. In his memory I ask you to refrain from all further communication. Neither myself, nor my wife Isabella wish to hear from you in future.

  With every good wish,

  Bradley Davenport

  When I found her, my grandmother was in her bedroom pinning brooches on her bedroom curtain; she liked to keep her brooches on the inside panel so they would be safe from thieves who were bound to be interested in her one-hundred-year-old porcelain cameos of women wearing leafy garlands and scarves.

  When she saw my face she said: “So now you know about Dad.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Old Mac’s parents weren’t married?”

  “Dearie, I had to wait until you were old enough to hear it. But it makes sense looking back. Old Mac was always proper and sometimes proper people are the ones with the most to hide.”

  “I guess nobody can say that about you.”

  “Now, now. I’m not criticizing Dad. It’s just a shame he thought he had to keep this from us.”

  “You mean that he was a capital B-A-S-T-A-R-D?”

  “Don’t be naughty, Mouse. Children pop out everywhere. Who cares where they come from? It only matters that we love them.” Giving me one of her perfumed hugs, she added, “Life is full of shocks, Dearie. We have to roll with the punches.” Big Louie’s words made my spirits sink. What was the point of working hard to get rich if you didn’t have a father to love you?

  Back in my room, I took out my letter to John and added a second postscript:

  Maybe you don’t remember but I told you my greatgrandfather found his father and struck oil. I was wrong. Mac Vidal didn’t find his father. By the time my great-grandfather came up here, his own father was dead and buried. As if this isn’t bad enough, Mac Vidal was a capital B-A-S-T-A-R-D and his father’s family disowned him. It’s pretty humiliating. Anyway, I’m giving up on my composition. There is no point wasting time on something so babyish.

  PART FIVE

  THE ICEBOX WINTER

  34

  AS SOON AS OUR TRAIN LEFT THE STATION, IT STARTED TO SNOW. It snowed all evening. When I told my aunt about my greatgrandfather’s letter, she said it was about time Big Louie told me that Old Mac was illegitimate. Men go around making babies all over the place without getting married, so it was no surprise to her. Then she said she was sorry she spoke sharply and I knew that she was thinking of Max, whose baby was expected anytime now. In the morning, when I opened my eyes, she was sitting by the foot of my train berth, reading “Can This Marriage be Saved?” in Ladies Home Journal, her expression as concentrated as a nun at her prayers. I recognized the magazine feature. Some nights after Sal finished with the magazine, I read it under the covers with a flashlight and I was always amazed at the solutions the magazine counsellor came up with for hopeless cases.

  A moment later, Little Louie tossed the magazine aside and stared sadly out the train window. I guessed her mind was still on Max. Maybe she felt blue about returning to Madoc’s Landing with me. I shut my eyes again and tried not to think about my aunt and her problems.

  BY THE TIME WE STEPPED out onto the platform at Madoc’s Landing, it had stopped snowing. There was no sign of Morley, and it was cold, icebox cold, just as Sal had prophesied. Tubby Dault, Sal’s father, picked us up. He whinnied like a horse when he laughed and said that my father and the hockey team were snowed in good up in Owen Sound. But John Pilkie and the Rats had won their game. My aunt gave Tubby a long-suffering smile.

  Tubby was a short, barrel-chested man who ran a bootleg taxi. When you saw him coming, you knew somebody in town was either out for a Sunday drive, or having themselves a party. So when he drove in our driveway, the neighbours peered out their front window. I pointed at our suitcases and our neighbours nodded and shut their curtains. On the kitchen table, my aunt found Morley’s note: I’m in Owen Sound with the boys and Sal is at the farm. The young Coverdale fellow has made a rink in our backyard. Morley.

  John’s promise rushed back to me and I hurried over to the kitchen window. A broad rectangle of ice shone under the porch light. So he was a man of his word, after all. John is your special friend, I told myself as I walked up and down the living room, slapping my sides to keep warm. I had to do something. The house was frigid. “Something’s wrong with the furnace,” my aunt called as she fiddled with the thermostat. When she turned on the taps, no water came out. The pipes were frozen and it was too late to call the repairman. So she plugged in Morley’s electric blanket in his bedroom and made me get under it while she built a fire in the hearth.

  “The pipes froze because Sal wouldn’t let Sib spread horse manure on them. That keeps them from bursting.”

  “It sounds like the cure is worse than the disease,” Little Louie replied.

  “Well, maybe, but everything’s going to be fine,” I said.

  Little Louie laughed tonelessly as she crawled in beside me. “I’m the one who should be telling you that,” she replied, putting her arm around me, holding me close.

  IN THE MIDDLE OF THE night, I woke and found my aunt gone. I put on slippers and a dressing gown and went to look for her. The house was so cold I could see my breath. Her voice floated upstairs. I could tell by her tone that she was arguing with my grandmother. I wrapped the sleeve of my housecoat around the receiver of the hall phone and put it to my ear.

  “Steel yourself, Louisa. I have news for you.”

  “It’s happened.”

  “Max’s wife had a baby boy. And he’s happy about it. I warned you, Dearie. Men change when they have a son. Especially if the boy looks like his daddy.”

  “Well, that’s your opinion.”

  “It’s a godsend, Louisa. Max isn’t husband material.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this. What about father? Was he husband material?”

  “You know the answer, Louisa. I don’t want you to suffer like I did.”

  “Somebody’s on the party line,” my aunt said coldly. “I’d better go.”

  “All right, I’m here if you need me. Goodbye, Dearie.”

  My aunt slammed down the phone.

  35

  THE ICEBOX WINTER UNFOLDED THE WAY SAL SAID IT WOULD. IT snowed so much it covered up our backyard rink. Sal wouldn’t let me go outside. Luckily, the snow hid the new pink flamingoes on our neighbour’s lawn along with the eggshells and rotting banana peels that Sal heaved behind our garage when she didn’t want the bother of taking the garbage out to the sidewalk. As for Morley, he worked day
and night. Little Louie worked hard too. Every day she visited the mental hospital, researching her story, and every afternoon she came home with weird information like her description of the Total Encounter Capsule that Dr. Shulman was building for the men at Maple Ridge. It was going to be a windowless, soundproofed room, Little Louie told me, eight feet wide and ten feet long. Its walls would be painted green and it would be empty except for a sink and a toilet. The guards would stick straws through the door so the men could sip juice, milk, coffee, and eggnog, because they were locked in for three days once the therapy started. According to Little Louie, television cameras would be trained through holes in the walls so the men couldn’t get away with anything. But strangest of all, the men were going to be locked up without their clothes on because Dr. Shulman believed nudity broke down their defences. When I asked if John Pilkie would take off his clothes too, she laughed. She said he would do anything if it would get a review of his case. I worried for him. The closest I could imagine to being in such a mortifying situation was having the Bug House boys catch me peeing standing up, which is what I did in the maple bush when I was caught short.

  Then, one grey January afternoon after school, an envelope arrived with the familiar curly letters and the two I’s dotted with smiling faces.

  To my special friend, M.B.:M

  Boy, have you got yourself in a funk! You sound so blue I had to sit down and whip off this letter. You are special, and that’s why I used the word. You are also one heck of a letter writer and I would be lost without a friend like you on the outside. Nobody in this godforsaken dump understands and doesn’t want to either. Even Jordie doesn’t believe me when I say my concussion made me crazy. He says he does but I can tell by his smirk that he is just humouring me, the way he does the other nut cases. And it is not babyish to write a composition about your great-granddaddy. It is a grown-up thing to do. And who cares if your great-granddaddy’s parents weren’t married? I sure don’t. I know you must be plenty upset or you wouldn’t have used a swear word. Look here. Your great-granddaddy is your hero. And a hero doesn’t get everything he wants although most of us can get a lot of what we want if we work hard and take ourselves seriously.

  Now this may sound funny coming from somebody like me. I’ve made a mess of things. I know that. But I had some bad luck. Peggy used to say there is something in my nature that makes my bad luck. She understood me very well. That’s one of the reasons I loved her. But I won’t get into my troubles here. Don’t you go giving up on your composition. Those old oilmen were an interesting bunch even if most of them were Yanks who didn’t respect our Queen.

  I’m glad you had a good Christmas. Your family are top drawer. Especially you, and your aunt Louisa. She’s a fine figure of a woman and a career gal too. The Christmas holidays wore me down. I got into a little altercation with Sib Beaudry. Nothing serious. Doc Bradford said Mother Pilkie could bring me a turkey dinner but Sib wouldn’t let her. And Dr. Schulman was in Florida. I sat with the rest of the nutcases and ate rubber turkey in the group therapy room. Afterwards, the cook from the main building sent over candy canes and little red candy Christmas trees. Then Jordie showed us It’s a Wonderful Life with Jimmy Stewart. Sib shut down the movie projector halfway through and made us go back to our cells. The things I could tell you about this dump. Never mind. You’re too young and sweet to hear what goes on. Hey, Jordie tells me you are learning to skate. Keep up the good work!

  With fondest regards,

  John

  There was another letter in the envelope, under the first one. I read it as fast as I could and then I read it all over again, unable to believe my luck.

  Dear Mary:

  At the Beaudry farm, I said I would tell you and your pal about the old days when a has-been like myself started out. Well, here goes: my daddy said I was born with skates on so he didn’t have to lace them for me. There was some truth to my daddy’s boast. I always wanted to play hockey. Right from the start I wanted to fly down the ice, my blood on fire. I loved the chilly air coming off the rink and the fans’ screams in my ears. When I was a tyke, my daddy would take me to the Ontario Hockey Association games and tell me I was going to be a star. He said I had the discipline or at least I did until that so-and-so tripped me and I fell head first into the boards.

  If freeze up came early my daddy built a small ice rink out at the Light. He would strap pillows onto his shins. I would take shots at him until I fell down. Then he would pick me >up and set me down on my skates and we would go at it until the sun set. In late fall, it was pretty bitter out on the water. I never complained. Daddy Pilkie was a hard man. He was always at me to check the bejesus out of the other team. So I swung my stick like the best of them. Course, you never can avoid roughhousing. That’s the way the fans want it.

  I went through the junior leagues playing in the finals every Easter. In the summer I worked at Towonda Lodge building guest cabins for Old Man Beaudry. By the time I was nineteen, I wasn’t scrawny any longer. I was tough although I never grew much after I was sixteen. My specialty was speed and ragging the puck. These skills got the attention of Mr. Lewis the scout who came up to Madoc’s Landing. He found the best players north of Barrie, Ontario. Kids up here have nothing to do except play hockey. Hockey brings winter inside, eh? You could say hockey shrinks winter down into a rectangle of ice so us players can charge across it like gods of the timberland doing combat for our fans. It’s a miracle the way we can enjoy ourselves all huddled together under the arena roof. Did you know hockey started in Brebeuf County? Those braves used to play stickball. Sometimes their games lasted for months. They got injuries that crippled or killed them. I learned this from a museum.

  Do you know a poem by Poe called “Annabel Lee”? I found it last week in the hospital library. One of its lines reminds me of you because you have the brightest brown eyes of any gal I know. “And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”

  Yours truly,

  J.P.

  I was only half-satisfied by his explanation of special friend (i.e., I was glad he cared enough to write to me about what the term meant to him, although I had something else in mind). What did I want “special friend” to mean? That I was the only one who understood him, and that my understanding would make him appreciate me so much he couldn’t help loving me. That night I dreamt about marrying him.

  Mouse’s Dream about Gentleman Jack Pilkie

  In my dream John looks exactly like Edgar Allan Poe, except that he has on a Red Wings hockey sweater and John’s cowlick hangs over his forehead the way it does in real life instead of being brushed back into a mop of dark curls, which is how the dead poet wore his hair. John looks as sad as Poe in his old sepiatoned photographs because we can’t live in our kingdom by the sea. And John never tires of calling me “Annabel Lee” and he says love always works out, although you have to try as hard as you can, which is what the counsellor tells couples to do in Ladies Home Journal feature “Can This Marriage Be Saved?” “Yes, I know, darling,” I reply, resting my head on his chest and inhaling the hot fresh bread scent of his white shirt that I starched for him myself.

  Naturally, we have problems like other couples, but we act quickly on the counsellor’s advice since we love each other so much. John was often away from Mary playing hockey but when she told him she was lonely, he was able to reschedule his games so they could have more time together. It was a successful resolution and our magazine considers this case closed.

  The next morning I wrote him back.

  Dear Mr. Pilkie:

  Thank you for both your letters and for explaining why I am a special friend to you. You are my special friend too. And thank you for the compliment about my brown eyes even though I know you are just trying to be nice. “Annabel Lee” is one of my favourite poems. I especially like the line that says Poe loved Annabel Lee with a love that was more than love. It must be amazing to have someone love you like that. Not that anyone would want to lo
ve me. I am too twisted and awful looking.

  Our teacher won’t let us take Edgar Allan Poe in school. She says he’s too gloomy. But I think she dislikes Poe because he married his cousin Virginia when she was only thirteen. Anyway, I saw Poe’s picture in a book about English Literature and I couldn’t get over how sad he looked, like a man without a friend to call his own. I guess that pretty much sums up his life because he died of drink and didn’t get famous until after he dropped dead.

  I also want to thank you for getting Jordie to make an ice rink for me. Morley is too busy to shovel it so Jordie came back yesterday and Ben and I watched him spray the ice with our garden hose. The ice froze even and smooth without the little bumps the other backyard rinks get because their parents don’t flood their rinks enough. By the way, Jordie said he would teach me the slapshot. He said every hockey player has to know how to do it. I am still having trouble standing up in my skates although I try hard because I want Jordie to tell you I am doing my best.

  With the very fondest wishes,

  Mary

  P.S. I hope you don’t mind me signing off with the very fondest wishes. I wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong ideas about our friendship.

  36

  YEARS LATER, WHEN BEN WAS RESEARCHING A BOOK ABOUT THE NHL, he sent me an old newspaper story about John. It had been written by Malcolm Thomas, a reporter at The Windsor Star, and I was astonished at how closely the story followed John’s account of his concussions. John may have told us some lies, but the information about his concussions has been backed up with fact. The reporter, too, was sympathetic to John’s situation. He said that John’s second concussion had happened during the second summer after the Detroit Red Wings won the Stanley Cup. Nobody noticed when John fell into the boards in a practice game and struck his head. The team doctor didn’t bother to check out his injury. In the fall, John drove from Windsor to Toronto to play the Leafs, and it was here that things started to go badly for him. “Suffering from loss of memory, the result of injuries received several weeks ago in an NHL game, Pilkie was sent to the Whitby hospital for observation,” the Globe and Mail article said.