“We had meat loaf. He asked me if I’d like a beer with dinner. I said whatever he was having, so he opened two.” Another pause, thinking. “I met his wife, Pam. And I met his son, Donny.”
I watched Jeanne’s face, but couldn’t read it.
“I have a brother.” And then he smiled. And when he smiled, Jeanne relaxed, and I saw the edge, the touch of relief, the start of something close to wonder, close to happiness, and found myself smiling too.
“He has a life.” He was talking to his mother now. “He works at Delco. His wife takes care of Donny, who is sixteen, but has a medical problem and needs her.” When he didn’t elaborate, didn’t dwell on it, my admiration for him stirred. “We had a nice evening.” Then he nodded, remembering. “Very nice.” He reached in his pocket. “He gave me this.”
I stared at the audio cassette he placed on the table between us: Roy Orbison—In Dreams: The Greatest Hits.
“I listened to it in the car on the way back. Good stuff. He knows a lot about music.”
Looking around me now, at the two of them, at the city, the August night, I could hear the music.
“Will you see him again?” It was the first thing Jeanne had asked. I watched Adam lock eyes with his mother.
He was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe.”
We listened. Waited.
“It’s not as important now.” He was still staring at his mother. “But I’ll keep in touch with Donny. I’m going to write, phone. I’ll see him again. Somehow.” Then he turned to me, spoke to me. “He told me I didn’t need him. Said I had a good father already.”
Our eyes met.
“Said to say hello to you, Leo. And that Donny loved his guide to Dayton.”
Jeanne looked at me.
“He also wanted me to tell you that you owed him a buck for a pool game. And that Mamma DiSalvo says you’re a good tipper.”
Jeanne and Adam were both still staring at me when I closed my eyes. That was when I heard him say it to her.
“He said, tell your mother that I’m sorry.”
When I opened my eyes, Jeanne’s cheeks were wet. But she was smiling. She was smiling. And so was Adam.
“Only the Lonely,” “In Dreams,” “Running Scared,” “It’s Over,” “Crying.” Adam put the tape on in the living room and we left the screen door open so we could hear it on the back deck. We finished our drinks, talked. We listened to Roy, to that unearthly voice, heard him hit those high notes, way up there.
IV
It was the second weekend in October, the beginnings of oranges and yellows, when I finally stood back, placed the paintbrush in the tray, admired it, proud of myself. I’d knocked out the old one, measured, framed it, bought the replacement at Home Depot, screwed it into place, caulked the seams, and had just finished the final coat of paint.
The air outside had cooled. Everything would change, then return again, the seasons rolling round. The past, the present, the future.
See, I said to him. You got your new window. Slides open like a dream, anytime you want. Wide open. Look out there. Feel that breeze.
He smiled. I know he did. He didn’t want much. He never had.
And that night, lying in bed, eyes open in the dark, Jeanne beside me as always, Adam just down the hall, the walls of his room lined with new cracks, always new cracks, I thought of Brendan and Darla, on a mountain in the west of Ireland, beneath wild skies, taking turns lying in St. Patrick’s Bed. I thought of Uncle Jim, of Nanny’s parents, dealing with the cards life had dealt them, adopting children, of Phil Berney, Jeanne’s father, with a baby in a laundry basket at his feet. Then I closed my eyes and looked through the microscope again, saw the life that was teeming, coursing through my body, through all our bodies, swimming upstream against all odds, thought of the plastic bottle of water on the shelf at the back of our bedroom closet, of a silver flash beneath dark waters of a mountain lough. It could still happen, I thought. Yes. It could happen.
About the Author
Terence M. Green is the author of eight books (seven novels and a short story collection); the recipient of a total of nine grants for fiction writing, from the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Toronto Arts Council; a two-time World Fantasy Award finalist; and a five-time Prix Aurora Award finalist. His work has been translated into French, Italian, Danish, Polish, and Portuguese. He is profiled in Contemporary Authors, The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature, Canadian Who’s Who, The Dictionary of Literary Biography, and Books in Canada. He has been praised in the New York Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Globe and Mail, the Toronto Star, the Ottawa Citizen, and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. His novel Shadow of Ashland (more than a quarter of a million copies printed) was selected as a Top 3 Fiction Pick of the Year by the Edmonton Journal in 1997, and as the Book You Have to Read by Entertainment Weekly in 2003.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Shadow of Ashland copyright © 1996 by Terence M. Green
A Witness to Life copyright © 1999 by Terence M. Green
St. Patrick
Shadow of Ashland, A Witness to Life, and St. Patrick's Bed Page 44