by Matt Lennox
He drove the streets. He hadn’t eaten all day. He clenched the wheel until his hands hurt. The flame in his gut had turned into a fire, and it was spreading through every part of him. Every thought in his head was a wordless, desperate scream. In the late evening he pulled up a few doors down from Nancy’s house. He could see the cars in the driveway, the station wagon among them, and all the lights in the windows, and people moving about on the porch. He got out of his car and crossed the yard.
Pete went into Nancy’s living room. There had to be fifty people there and it was hot and cloudy with smoke. Nancy must have seen him as soon as he came in, because she appeared almost immediately.
— What are you doing here?
— I’m looking for somebody.
— Emily’s not here.
— I’m not looking for her. I won’t be long.
— Hey, said Nancy. Look …
He brushed past her. She grasped his arm and he pulled away. He walked through the kitchen and the dining room. Nancy fell into step behind him.
He found Roger in the den at the back, the same place he’d been when they first exchanged words. He was with a few of his friends and some girls. They were playing quarters on the coffee table.
Roger’s head turned. He looked drunk.
Pete kicked the chair out from under him. Roger went down and Pete jumped on top of him. He pinned him down with his knees. Roger had his arms raised to fend the blows as they came. Around them, voices cried out. Pete felt a hand grasp a mittful of his collar and he half turned and punched somebody in the testicles. He was punched hard in the side of the forehead. The world spun. He was hauled backwards. He could see Roger crawling away on his elbows, crablike. Roger’s nose was bleeding onto his shirt.
Pete was on his knees and he was up and down and up again. He held his own. In the end, he was dragged out of the house. He staggered off through the front yard and paused under a street light. Roger came out and stood on the porch, crying out that he would kill Pete. There were neighbours peering out their windows and doors. Pete didn’t say anything. He walked back to his car and got in and turned the key in the ignition.
Streets rolled out in front of him. He drove along the lakeshore. He drove up the hill, drove past Galilee Tabernacle, drove out to the CIL factory, to the shopping mall, drove back down the hill, sped along River Street. He saw the place where Emily had told him he’d better kiss her. He kept going, but there was only so far you could drive before you were covering the same streets again. He was shaking coldly, seeing the red and green lights around windows, the store signboards saying MERRY CHRISTMAS, the wooden creches out front of the churches. Everything seemed cheap and cruel. He hadn’t balanced any account, and he couldn’t possibly go home.
Once more, Lee went to look at the boarding house. When he got there, he stood with his fists pocketed. Then he went up the driveway and around to the back of the house, watching the windows all the while. The back porch was still there but it had been bolstered with pressure-treated lumber and repainted. He went around the porch and followed the steps down to the basement door. The steps and the door were exactly as he remembered them.
He was reaching for the knob when he heard the porch door open and close above. He looked up, blinking against the sky, and could see the side of somebody’s head, could see gloved fingers moving along the deck rail. There were two of them. One asked the other where they should go for lunch and the other said downtown.
Lee didn’t move. He was in plain sight if the men above looked down. But a moment later they were gone in a car. Lee waited a little longer. Water dripped from an icicle overhead. He tried the basement door and found it locked. He tried it again. He pushed the door with his shoulder. It did not budge. That was that.
He went back up the steps and around the side of the house and back to the street.
In those days long past, if he had happened to glimpse the crippled caretaker outside in the yard, he was not afraid of the man at all. He wondered what had become of him.
You know, I’ve seen the old boarding house a few times. You ever go back there?
— Not so’s I remember.
— You remember that day when Dad died?
— Would you change the channel?
Lee went to the television. He changed one soap opera for another until Irene nodded and said: I like this program.
— Down the basement of that house they had a big coal furnace. I saw it the day Dad died.
— Mrs. Pound didn’t want any kids down there.
— I remember. I went down there anyways. I never liked anybody telling me what I couldn’t do.
She lifted a finger from the bedrail and poked the side of his hand with it. Her skin was tight across her skull. She breathed. Her eyes flashed in their dark hollows. Her voice rasped at him: That was a long time ago, Leland.
— Yes.
Lee looked into the other half of the room. No one had come yet to occupy the other bed. His mother had gotten her own room after all.
— Barry thinks you’ve been drinking.
— He said that?
— He worries about you.
— He doesn’t need to worry so much.
— He worries about Donna. He worries about the little boys. Peter.
An unpleasant feeling went through Lee at the mention of Pete’s name. He’d been drunk when he told Pete the truth. He didn’t know if he would have told him otherwise, although it bothered him to think how the great shame remained a secret even now. It more than bothered him-it made him angry. He flexed his fist and pulled his eyes away from his mother’s and looked at the TV for a little while. He didn’t know if word had gotten out to the rest of the family yet that he’d told Pete the truth, and he didn’t know what it would be like for him to see Pete again. Maybe it would be easier not to see the kid at all any more.
And besides, nobody had said anything to him yet, about coming over on Christmas Day.
He leaned over and adjusted the blankets on Irene’s bed. He said: Well, Barry doesn’t need to worry about me.
She groped for his hand. She smiled: I know. I told him. He doesn’t need to worry about me neither. I’m close. Called up to Jesus. He doesn’t need to worry about me at all.
The Owl Cafe was turning a brisk trade. There was a hiss of frying in the kitchen. The cook sweated in his whites and turned plateloads of food onto the wicket. The radio played an endless list of Christmas songs. Voices were layered in conversation and there were boxes and bags full of gifts piled into booths. The waitresses moved about quickly. Nobody paid attention to the bell-chime as the front door opened.
Helen served a bowl of soup to an old deaf man at the counter. When she turned she saw that Lee was down at his usual place, sitting with his hands folded on the countertop. He was alone, as always.
She went down to him.
— Hello, Brown Eyes. Haven’t seen you in here in a little while.
— That’s true.
The cook spoke through the wicket: Helen, your fried chicken’s up.
— It’s real busy, Brown Eyes, said Helen. Maybe later on.
— I want a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll order some lunch.
She brought Lee a mug of coffee. He emptied two sugars into it and stirred in some cream.
Helen took a plate of fried chicken from the wicket and delivered it to a woman down the other end of the counter. Lee watched her. The place was busier than he had ever seen it. Near Lee, a man was trying to flag Helen down to pay his bill. Helen came and took the bill and returned the man’s change. The man left her two quarters. She moved a strand of hair from her forehead and asked Lee if he was hungry.
— Am I hungry. Why not. I’ll have the BLT.
She wrote the order down and posted it on the wicket. Lee lifted his coffee. He watched her work. The old deaf man had finished his soup. Helen cleared away the bowl. The old man counted coins out of a leather change purse and laid them on the counter. He stood up from his s
tool and shuffled out of the diner.
The cook called to Helen that the BLT was up. She brought the plate to Lee and refilled his coffee. She had her other hand knuckles-down on the countertop. Lee closed his own hand over hers.
— Haven’t seen you.
— I’ve been busy.
She pulled her hand away. The people sitting around them were making an effort not to notice.
— I’ll check on you in a bit.
— Wait, said Lee. What time do you get done today?
— It’s real busy. I don’t know what time I’ll finish. I’ll check on you in a bit.
She moved back down the counter again. Lee raised his hand, called to her:
— Hey, miss. There’s a hair in my sandwich.
She returned to him. He was grinning.
— It’s real busy, Lee.
— Let’s just make some plans.
Helen pressed both hands down on either side of Lee’s plate and pitched her voice low and lethal: If you’ve got to know, Lee, you talked about all that serious shit. You and me, serious. You think that’s what I wanted to hear? You can’t even keep a goddamn job. Now why don’t you eat your sandwich and pay your bill and get back to whatever it is you were doing.
She went back down the counter, moving with her shoulders lifted. Not three seconds later there was the noise of crockery breaking. All conversation in the cafe came to a halt. Lee was standing when she turned. She could see the shards of his plate and the mess of the food on the floor. He drove the coffee mug forward off the counter. The mug burst on the floor as the plate had.
Helen could feel all the eyes on her. Lee’s hands were opening and closing. He bared his teeth and said: You’re nothing but a cheap goddamn bitch, you know that?
The cook came out of the kitchen and stood with his arms crossed. Lee hauled his billfold out of his pocket. He flung a handful of change and one-dollar bills onto the counter, and then he turned and went out of the cafe.
The bell on the door chimed his departure. A woman in a booth laughed once and then clapped her hand over her mouth. The radio was still playing Christmas carols.
The old men convened at Western Autobody. They stood in the office, Stan, Dick, Huddy, some of the others, drinking coffee, watching the garage. Bob Phillips and the other mechanics had two cars raised on the lifts. The pneumatic wrench whined. The old men in the office exchanged bits of gossip from the last week. Dick and Stan leaned against the wall together.
— I’ll be working Christmas Day, said Dick. I’m coaching the new kid. He’s a bit of a mouthpiece. Always knows best, that kid.
— Reminds me of you, said Stan.
Through the window, they watched Bob as he tightened the lugs on a tire on one of the lifted cars. After awhile, Stan said he should be getting on.
— Where do you have to be? said Dick.
— I’m going up to the shopping mall. I have a present to buy for Louise. I’ve got something in mind. She likes to go fishing and she likes to know the names of everything, every goddamn bird and bug you can imagine.
Huddy was putting his hearing aid back in. He peered at them, said: Birds?
Stan went out to his truck. Dick caught up with him.
— Stan, are you in town on Christmas Day or are you staying out at the Point?
— I’ll come into town to see Frank and Mary and the girls. It’s easier than them coming out to me.
Dick went and started the unmarked car and Stan started his truck. Then Dick came over and leaned on the side panel.
— Stanley, I overheard Frank on the telephone with Mary. I know about the house. I’m sorry.
Stan nodded. He said: I know. But it’s … Mind you, it’s a few years off yet. Anyhow, I’ve got some things I want to do with it, some new doors to hang. I never was much of a builder. It takes me a long time to do any of that. But time I have. Time I have.
— It’s a good old house.
— I know. So you’re working on Christmas Day?
— I am, said Dick.
— I’ll come by after I’m done with the family. You leave the new kid on the desk and we’ll go get some lunch. We’ll find someplace that’ll be open.
— Okay, Stan.
Stan found a book called The Young Naturalist at the bookstore in the shopping mall. He turned the book in his hands. He opened it and read a passage on the denning of beavers. The woman at the checkout asked him if it was a Christmas gift and he said it was and she asked him if he would like to inscribe it. She offered him a pen. He printed: Louise, here is a good book about nature. You amp; me can learn together. Happy Xmas, Grandpa. His printing looked peculiar to him. There was sway in the letters. He paid for the book and the woman gift-wrapped it.
Stan had seen Eleanor Lacroix the day before yesterday. She’d called and asked him to meet her in town. They’d met up for a cup of coffee at a small diner near Stan’s old boxing clubhouse. They talked for half an hour or more-mostly Eleanor did the talking. She and her fiance, Tommy, had a vacation they were going to leave for the next day. She had to get away, she said. She couldn’t imagine Christmas at home without Judy around.
Stan nodded. He told her she looked like she was doing well, which was true. There was colour in her face again and she’d put some weight back on. He’d only ever been able to say he’d come up short looking into Judy’s former boyfriend. He was sorry. He was goddamn sorry there wasn’t anything more. He was sorry for a lot of things. He did not elaborate on this. He just listened as Eleanor told him about her vacation plans.
Outside the diner, she got a rectangular gift-wrapped object from her car.
— Thank you, Stan. For everything.
— It was nothing, said Stan.
— Maybe you think that. But it’s not right. Because what you did is you cared. I won’t ever forget that.
Eleanor put her arms around him and kissed him quickly on the mouth.
— This is for you, said Eleanor. I couldn’t really think of anything but then I found this.
She gave him the gift-wrapped thing. It felt like a book. All he could say was, Happy Christmas and so long.
Later, after he’d gotten home, Stan unwrapped it. It was a big hardcover book. The Illustrated History of Canadian Boxing, published by the Canadian Amateur Boxing Association. Eleanor had bookmarked a page a third of the way through, and though he’d never seen the book before, he had a sense of what might be on the page. He was correct. Himself, nineteen years old, poised on the mat with his gloves up. He thought maybe the picture had been taken in Parry Sound shortly before he’d gone professional. If it was the Parry Sound fight, he’d won it with a knockout in the fifth round. He couldn’t remember much about the opponent, neither his name nor his face, but he’d worked the man into the ropes with body blows until the man dropped his fists, and then he’d fired his right cross into the man’s jaw and watched him fall sideways. The fight was in a fairgrounds tent and the mat was canvas stretched over hay bales. Hard as rock. But there he was, little more than a boy, living a part of his life he could scarcely remember now.
In the shopping mall corridor, Stan saw a man clad in a canvas jacket and dirty jeans and work boots. Leland King. Lee was carrying a box under each arm and in one hand a paper bag. They were coming directly towards each other.
— Lee, said Stan.
— Mr. Maitland.
— Christmas gifts?
— Yeah. My sister’s two boys. Do kids like these types of things any more?
The boxes Lee had contained two model airplane kits, a B-17 and a Lancaster bomber. Both kits were 1:48. Lee opened the paper bag and Stan saw tubes of glue, a wheel of paints, and a set of camel-hair brushes.
— I used to like these things, said Lee. What do I know about kids?
— I’d say a couple boys would like it. Say, Lee, I saw Peter not too long ago.
— Peter, said Lee, speaking the name as if he didn’t know it.
— He’s a good kind of a guy. When he
talks, you can see he’s sharp.
— He’s so sharp he quit school. That’s how sharp he is.
— I think he’s been seeing my granddaughter, said Stan. Anyhow, he says you’re getting by okay.
— Sure I am. At least I’m not working where somebody gets drowned on the job.
Stan made himself laugh at that. He said: It’s good to see you, Lee. I can’t imagine the boys not liking those airplanes. So long.
— See you, said Lee.
Stan ran a few more errands around the mall. He bought extra batteries and candles in case he lost power out at his house. It was snowing lightly when he went out and got in his truck, and driving back in the direction of town he spotted Lee at the bus stop, waiting for the half-hourly town bus. There was no one else waiting. Across the way was a vacant house with plywood tacked over the windows and the porch collapsed, and behind it a hundred acres of overgrown and snow-dusted pasture. Stan stopped the truck and called to Lee, asking if he would care for a lift back downtown.
For a moment Lee did not move and Stan thought he might not come, but then he stood and pitched away the cigarette he was smoking. He jogged forward, carrying the model kits and the bag. He climbed onto the passenger seat and sat his purchases on his lap.
Stan put the truck in gear and moved back onto the road.
— I hear your mother is in the hospital.
— They found two more tumours in her lungs.
— It’s an awful goddamn thing.
— They can’t do much at her age.
— They can make it comfortable, said Stan. My wife …
But Stan didn’t finish that. He found he had little to say to this man on the subject of his wife.
— For awhile she had to share the room, said Lee.
— She doesn’t have to share any more?
— No. The other lady died.
— I see.
— So far they haven’t given her anybody new. She’s got the TV to herself.
— All this getting old, Lee, it’s a goddamn job all by itself.
— Longest sentence you can do, I guess.