“She has a French test today. She studied for it all last evening.” Jack looks at me, eyes widened, glistening.
I did not know this. I did not get home until past ten last night. Dinner was in the oven, Jack and Margaret in bed.
I touch his brow again. “You’re fourteen years old,” I say. “Can you take care of yourself if I leave you alone today?”
“I’m—” Then he stops, does not finish. His eyes glaze. He nods. His hair is stuck to his scalp with sweat.
“I’ll ask Margaret to come straight home from school.” I pause. “I’ll come straight home too tonight.”
He looks at me, hopeful.
“All right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll managed”
He nods again.
“Is there something you can eat?”
“I can make a sandwich.”
“Good boy.”
Like his mother, I think. Sickly. I’ve never really noticed if he has always been this sickly.
I am afraid. There is illness everywhere, yet somehow I escape it.
But something else gnaws at me as I leave the house that morning. Jack started to say something, stopped. There was a quiet withdrawal in his eyes. Then it hits me: Jack is not fourteen. He is fifteen. I have forgotten his birthday. April 30. His arm was still in the cast. No one reminded me.
Maggie would have remembered.
I think of my father, coming home past nine o’clock, exhausted, covered in mud and cement, not knowing it was my birthday, ever. I think of the straight-edged razor that was my great-grandfather’s, how my father never knew that I had it, how it was my mother who saw to it that these things were passed on, that the little things were remembered and dealt with.
Only now they don’t seem so little anymore. Now I am mother and father.
They are huge. They are swallowing me.
That evening Jack throws up in his bed, again and again, before he can get to the bathroom.
I run the water into the bathtub so that he can clean himself, make it cool so that it will fight the fever. At his age I am unsure if I should help him bathe, cool him down. But I cannot bring myself to do it. I close the door on him and leave him alone in the bathroom.
Margaret and I do not finish washing the bedding and cleaning the mattress until past ten, but the sheets are still not dry so we flip the mattress over. Jack can sleep on it without sheets, but I do not know where the spare blankets are kept until Margaret shows me.
It is the weekend before Jack is up and about. The fever has passed.
On Saturday afternoon, I give Margaret money for groceries and lie down on the living room sofa. I am asleep when she calls me for dinner.
We are having corned beef and cabbage.
Monday, on my lunch hour, I saunter into the book department of Eaton’s for the second time in my life.
“May I help you?” A bespectacled lady, graying hair.
“Do you sell cookbooks?”
“My, yes. Right over here.” She leads me down an aisle, scanning shelves. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know.”
She looks back over her shoulder at this.
“Something basic,” I say.
“For your wife? A gift?”
“For my daughter.” I pause. “And for myself.”
She stops, looks at me, but says nothing.
“Something basic,” I repeat.
She takes a blue, clothbound volume from a shelf at shoulder height, hands it to me. “This one’s in its third printing. Very popular. The author, Nellie Lyle Pattinson, used to teach domestic science at Central Technical School.”
It is heavy. I flip through it. More than four hundred pages.
“There are chapters on meat, fish, fowl, eggs, salads, sauces, foods cooked in deep fat, fruits—”
I see a photograph of a table setting, with the correct placement of cutlery.
“—soups, pastries, desserts …” She trails away. Then: “There’s even chapters on diabetic foods and on meal planning.”
I am reading a section called “Chicken Leftovers.”
“It’s quite modern.”
“And this is the one you would recommend?”
“Do you—and your daughter—have another cookbook at home already?”
“No.”
“Then this is the one I would recommend.”
“How much is it?”
“One ninety-five.” Pause. “You can’t overemphasize the importance of eating right. Good nutrition equals good health.”
I think of Jack, his illness.
Then she does a surprising thing. She touches my forearm. “Buy it,” she says. And I realize that she knows. I have become transparent.
On Wednesday I fry three chicken legs in a pan, bake three potatoes. Margaret shucks some corn and boils the cobs.
When we eat, the potatoes are too hard, the chicken still pink inside. Margaret pretends everything is fine. Jack is quiet.
The corn is delicious.
On the streetcar Friday evening, heading home, I see Jack standing on the corner of Bloor and Dufferin in a group of boys his age. They are all smoking cigarettes.
Seeing this, I am depressed. I did not know. I do not want him to smoke. He is too young. And where is he getting the money?
When he comes in the house an hour later, I can smell it on him as he passes. How long has it clung to him like this and I haven’t noticed? But I do not say anything. I have avoided lighting up my own cigar, confused again as to what I should be doing.
Maggie. Oh, Maggie. Where are you?
I cannot think straight. It is more than the summer heat. I do not want to go home at night, even for the children. Everything seems to be amiss. I cannot imagine my future, alone. I am forty-six years old, and cannot decide if I am still young or if I am suddenly old.
I miss Maggie.
Too many people are dying all about me. I understand Mike’s fear. It is real, palpable. God, I wonder, and close my eyes. What else are you going to do to me, to us?
2
Margaret, who will be seventeen on August 21, has a girlfriend, Eleanor Nolan, who goes to St. Joseph’s with her, whom she met when we lived east of Yonge, at 198 Berkeley in Cabbagetown. Eleanor and her family live up the street at number 222. Margaret is spending a great deal of time at Eleanor’s place, and rather than travel all the way back across the city to our place in the west end, she has taken to staying with my sister Rose and her family on Sherbourne Street. And since Jack would rather be with Margaret than with me, he too spends most of his time in the east end, either with Rose or with Bridget on Sackville, or even at Mike’s place, chumming with his cousin Carmen.
I am empty inside. I need more than Jack and Margaret. The space, dark and deep, has not always been there. This is new.
I am alone, for the first time ever.
She comes up to me after ten o’clock mass at St. Cecilia’s on Annette Street, corner of Pacific Avenue, Sunday, August 15—surprises me, as I am alone, standing on the street at the foot of the stairs. Jack and Margaret have been staying with Rose and her family for the last few days.
“Mr. Radey.”
“Yes.” The sun shines hotly on us. My Homburg, not yet on my head, is in my hands, and I feel the heat on my brow. I squint into the glare.
“I’m Gertrude McNulty.” A strong face, confident, determined, peers out from beneath the feathered Sunday hat. Much younger than me, I think.
She extends her hand.
I take it gently—not like I would a man’s—still unsure of what I should say, of why she is talking to me. Instead of words, I smile.
“You were pointed out to me,” she says.
I tilt my head sideways, still holding her hand.
“I wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss.” She hesitates. “I’ve lost loved ones too.”
I am touched. A stranger, I think. I cover the hand I am holding with my left one as well and
squeeze it softly. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
She smiles demurely, pleased.
“I’m surprised that anyone would know enough about me to point me out to anyone. Especially here. I haven’t exactly been a regular.” I go to churches for funerals now, I think. Then I remember St. Paul’s, that night years ago, when I slipped into a back pew, lit a candle, when I sensed things unraveling inside me. When I needed help. And now I am back, trying again. I have nothing to lose.
“Father Colliton told me. I asked him who you were.” She drops her eyes. “Forward of me, I know.”
I shrug. “My daughter was baptized here.” Realizing that I am still holding her hand, I let it slide free, collect my thoughts. “That was a long time ago.”
I notice that she is paying attention, listening intently. Then I see her as a woman: dark hair, feminine, attractive, warm, without being pretty, and remember the softness of her hand. A woman’s hand. “I’ve only recently moved back into the area. I’ve a place on Margueretta Street.”
Her eyes, wide set, crinkle in the sun. She nods sharply, a decision made. “Let me buy you a coffee.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s a place up on Dundas, just up the street, real close. It’s open Sundays.”
I shuffle my feet, almost embarrassed, glance over my shoulder as if gauging the distance.
“Unofficial welcome back to the parish.”
Then I study her more closely. There is intelligence in the eyes, warmth in the smile, honesty in the face. And what am I going to do today anyway? City ordinance laws let us do virtually nothing on Sundays. She has reached out to me, whatever her motives, and I want to accept, want someone to talk to, perhaps more than I know.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“I don’t eat much in the morning.” I wait until she is seated before sliding into the booth opposite her. The diner is small but clean. I have not been here before.
“Do you cook?”
“Not much,” I admit.
She nods, opens the menu in front of her. “You need to eat.”
“No, really.” I take my hat off, set it on the bench beside me.
“Really,” she says.
She orders two fresh farm eggs (scrambled) with toast from the menu—an order for both of us—along with two Blue Ribbon coffees.
“That’s too much. Too expensive.” I am adding it up: thirty plus thirty plus ten plus ten. Eighty cents. “I don’t need it.”
“Nonsense. I said I’d buy. My treat. Sunday is a day of rest. We’ve been to church, fed our souls. Now we should treat ourselves, feed our bodies. It’s almost noon.”
She has not taken her hat off. The eyes that peer out at me are framed by that strong face, her mouth set firm, smiling. She folds her hands on the table in front of her.
“Do you know everybody in the parish?” I ask, accepting.
“Most.”
I nod. “And what did Father Colliton tell you about me?”
“That your wife passed away just after Christmas. That you have two teenagers.” She pauses. “That you seem quite alone.”
I nod again. The coffee is placed on the table in front of us. We tinker with the sugar, the cream, paper napkins, providing breathing space, thinking space. Finally, I lift the cup toward my lips and say, “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
“And the breakfast.”
She smiles broadly.
“What do you do, Mr. Radey?”
“Call me Martin.”
“Friends call me Gert.” The smile.
“I’m thinking of being a monk,” I say, playfully. “I wouldn’t have to change much. Clothing, perhaps. I’d get my meals prepared for me. That would solve my cooking problem. Learn to make some wine, some cheese. It’s not such a bad deal.”
We both smile.
“I’m a receiver at Simpson’s.”
“Really. That sounds like a good job.”
I remember another conversation about jobs, good or otherwise: tea at a corner table, Bowles’ Restaurant, Queen and Bay. I clear my head. “I guess,” I say. “What about yourself?”
“I’m a telephone operator at Swift’s.”
“The meat company?”
She nods.
“That’s just north of the tracks. Real close. Convenient.”
“We’re definitely locals.”
“Who’s we?”
“I live with my mother, who’s widowed. And my sister. Just the three of us. On Gilmour Avenue.”
“I don’t think I know Gilmour.”
“It crosses Annette about ten blocks west of here.”
“A little farther west than I usually go. Maybe I should expand my radius.”
She smiles, takes her hat off, sets it beside her. I watch her fingers as they straighten her hair, gently shape it at the back of her neck. Watch her small mouth smile.
On the sidewalk, outside, at noon, she offers her hand once again. I fold it into mine. Thoughts, cobwebs in a heat draft, float upward from recesses I have forgotten. Her skin, her hair, her mouth. A woman’s hand, in mine.
But I maintain outward poise. “Thanks again, Gert.”
“My pleasure.”
I look around, let her hand go. “How will you get home?”
“I’ll walk. It’s a beautiful day.”
“It is.”
“And you?”
“Streetcar will take me right along Dundas to Margueretta.”
She opens her purse, rummages briefly, takes out a piece of paper and a pencil, quickly scrawls something. “I’ll see you next Sunday, I trust. But if you should need anything, if I can help in any way, don’t hesitate to give me a ring.” She hands me the paper. “And call me for a last consultation before entering the monastery.” The smile.
I take my eyeglasses from my jacket pocket, slip them on, hold the scrap in both hands and read what is on it: LY 6027. A code to a new world. The threads of the spiderweb brush against my nerve ends again.
When I look up, she has already crossed Dundas and is heading down Pacific Avenue, a tiny figure. I watch her all the way to Annette before the streetcar finally slides to a halt in front of me, blocking my view.
That afternoon, Margaret phones. She and Jack want to stay with Aunt Rose for the next few days. Rose gets on the phone, assures me that this is fine with her.
I feel the pressure lift. Are you sure it’s okay? I ask Rose.
Don’t worry, she says. You can use the time alone. They’re fine with us.
Alone, I think. But I do not want to be alone. I feel the guilt surfacing.
Don’t worry, she adds again.
I appreciate this, Rose.
They’re good kids, she says.
I don’t know how you do it, Rose. I find them quite a handful.
Take care of yourself, Martin.
I ignore the cookbook, boil potatoes and fry some ham for dinner, wish that I had a bottle of beer to drink with my meal, like the old days, before the mad zeal of this prohibition. They say the Temperance Act will be repealed soon. Not soon enough for me.
The evening is long and warm. After eating I go out for a walk, cross St. Clarens, end up on Lansdowne, staring at the house where Maggie and I lived when the children were small. Where we lived when Jack was born. Like that night on Power Street—the day I was let go by Peter Sterling, standing on the street across from St. Paul’s Church, staring through the windows above the dairy—I see people that I do not know moving about in the rooms, people like myself, who cannot see their futures, who will not be here two years or three years or five years from now.
When I come back to my flat I sit in my reading chair, but it is Sunday, there is no newspaper today, nothing to read. I light a cigar, take the piece of paper from my pocket, study it again. LY 6027. Then I fold it up, tuck it back into my pocket. Rising, I take my copy of Sister Carrie from the bookshelf, the only other book that I have ever purchased, and sit again
in the chair, holding it in my lap like a talisman. I know much of it by heart. I know how it ends. Know, then, that for you is neither surfeit nor content. In your rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may never feel.
Lying in bed later, the sheets tossed back against the heat, staring up into the darkness of the room, I begin to see, in the still, silent shadows near the ceiling, a path down which I am headed. I hear my father’s voice in the night in Elora long ago, arguing futilely against the momentum that pulled him to the city, see him eating quietly at our table on Brookfield, the heels of his shoes worn down. I see Margaret Loy, my grandmother, stunned by life into an unending silence, sipping from a silver thermos held to her lips. And I know that in a darkness deeper than this by far, in a shadow I can scarcely make out, my brother Mike, no longer able to say the name Kervin aloud, is lying on white sheets, alone, helpless against the enemy, time, not knowing, not understanding that “loy” is the Irish for shovel.
I see three candles on a birthday cake—a white one, a red one, and a blue one. The white one is gone. The red one is puddled. Only the blue one remains.
Monday, after work, I dial LY 6027 and ask for Gert. We talk of her job, the weather. We talk about what we had for dinner. She asks me if I called because I am heading into the monastery and I laugh.
We do not talk of politics. That was what Maggie and I talked about. This is different. This is new. This is another chance. Maggie is gone, forever.
Wednesday evening, the phone rings. It is Gert. Would I like to come to dinner at her place Friday night? I could come there after work.
Yes. Why not. That sounds lovely.
Flustered, I forget that I have children until I hang up. Then I call Rose, tell her that I’ll be busy Friday, could they stay there with her a little longer.
Busy where? You chasing the ladies already? she asks with humor.
Something I have to do, I say, caught off guard at her insight. I cannot tell if Rose is approving or disapproving of my sudden vagueness.
Shadow of Ashland, A Witness to Life, and St. Patrick's Bed Page 24