by David Bergen
She was offering him a form of deliverance, this is what it felt like, and he wanted to crow call out to his neighbours, a young couple he met on the stairway every morning as they went off to work, very slickly, both of them in colourful coats, like Joseph before he was thrown into the well by his brothers, she in high heels, he in long-toed black polished shoes. A beautiful couple, without children, no worries, no one to lose, their future brightly beckoning them. He had talked to the woman, Beth Ann, at some length one afternoon, a conversation about food because Morris had just stepped over to the Happy Cooker to buy himself a new toaster, and now he was returning to his apartment to prepare a bagel. Beth Ann said that she and Tom preferred toaster ovens. And then they’d talked of grilled things and salmon and finally books. She was reading Madame Bovary. She felt sorry for Hippolyte, the one with the club foot. She felt not a spot of pity for Emma: “Emma deserved everything that fell down upon her head.” Morris had been surprised and dismayed at Beth Ann’s vehemence. Such moral indignation. He wondered if it should be “fell down around her head,” but he didn’t correct her. He said that interestingly he had just reread Anna Karenina and he’d always felt that there was a very natural bond between the two books; both about women who are trapped. Beth Ann smiled and said, “Well, they do both kill themselves, don’t they? Anyways, Emma traps herself.” And then she said that she and Tom were having a party on Saturday night, would he like to come? He had hummed and given an indefinite answer. Now he stepped out into the hallway, as if Beth Ann might miraculously appear and want to continue the conversation about nineteenth-century women, but he saw no one. He stepped back inside and phoned Mervine, from the men’s group.
Mervine, in a moment of vulnerability, had recently asked Morris to help him write letters to his ex-wife. Mervine had said that he wasn’t a very good writer, he didn’t have a way with words, and he figured if Morris wrote something persuasive and forgiving and not too elegant, then his wife might be convinced to come back to him. And if not convinced of that, she might at least be persuaded that she shouldn’t have left a man who could write such fine words. There was no answer and so Morris left Mervine a message and said that they should get together to play pool, or maybe have a bite to eat, lunch or dinner, it didn’t matter to him. He had all the time in the world. He’d just been fired from his job. He sat in his leather chair, aware that his own flesh and blood, his family, existed out there in the city, living their lives, and he wondered if Libby was with Shane. He pondered this and as he pondered his anger grew. The man was an outright charlatan. Morris picked up the phone and called the university. The switchboard transferred him to Dr. McKibben’s voice-mail, and when the message cut in, Morris waited and then said: “Mr. McKibben, this is Morris Schutt. A while back I left you a note about my daughter, Libby Schutt. I pushed the note under your door, and as I have not heard back from you, and as I know that you are still with my daughter, I can only imagine that the note was vacuumed up by a janitor and you did not see it, or I can assume that your silence is an admission of guilt on your part. What you are doing is wrong. You know that. Look at it this way. If you were seventeen years old, she would be a one-year-old. Would a teenager date a one-year-old? You see what I mean? Perhaps you are having trouble with attachment, or perhaps you suffered as a child, you didn’t get enough love, or something was broken at a tender age. Figure that out, sir, but figure it out with the help of a shrink, or talk to a friend, or talk to your mother. Don’t use my daughter to assuage your sickness. I will keep calling and I will leave notes, and if you don’t act in a proper manner, I will have to take further action, the kind of action that cannot please you. Though I am a pacifist, in this case I would be willing to meet you in a back alley and use my fists. There are people I can talk to, sir. The ethics board. The president of the university. I know him. I could easily write a column about you, Mr. McKibben, and it would not be flattering. How would you like that? I didn’t think so. In fact, you might try to sue me. Good luck with that. Anyway, that’s all for today. I look forward to you making the right decision.” Morris hung up. He was breathing heavily and his mouth was dry. He stood and poured himself some juice and drank it quickly, feeling the cold deep in his chest.
He still felt the need to talk and so he phoned Samuel in Idaho, which would surprise his brother because they rarely spoke. No answer there either. His brother was a teacher of Arabic who worked secretly for the CIA. He had done this for a number of years now, ever since the Americans had suffered that terrible loss on September 11 and then had decided that whoever was not for them was against them. And they proceeded to pillory all things Muslim. And Samuel, his brother, had benefitted. He had told Morris this when he’d last come to visit their father, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially that he now worked for the CIA. This did not surprise Morris. As a young man, Samuel had studied to be a missionary and had learned Arabic as an aid worker in the Sudan and then he’d married an American woman, become an American citizen himself, divorced, and found a job in the States where he could apply his Arabic. Samuel had always loved America and things American. He considered Canadians to be weak and dependent. Morris left Samuel a message on his machine: “Samuel, Morris here. I’m thinking of converting to Islam. Give me a call.”
Then he sat down and typed a letter to Ursula. He said that he would be delighted to join her in Minneapolis. Perhaps in late October, a month from now, though there was nothing in his life at the moment to keep him from seeing her sooner, should she prefer. “This letter,” he wrote, “will arrive at your house in a few days, and then your response, should you decide to respond, will take another week, and so it seems practical to plan for a month from now.” He said that her letter had pleased him greatly. He missed her. He said that he was less aware these days of Martin’s absence, but that might be because he was filling his life with material things and material thoughts, and what a distraction this could be. He said that he had much to tell her, some things that might surprise her. “I am a difficult man,” he wrote. Then he wrote “Love, Morris,” as if that would compensate for admitting that he was difficult. Or perhaps he wanted to scare her. He did not understand himself. Ever since he had spent that night with her, first smelled her from head to toe, and then slept on the bed next to hers, he had had little desire for anyone else. She kept appearing in his mind. On the back of his eye. She surrounded him and this was frustrating his erotic life. There was a need to clear up the problem and his sense of relief made him feel capricious and volatile.
When he had told Dr. G that he paid women for sex, Dr. G had shifted in his chair and looked slightly bored.
“It’s only been a while now,” Morris said. “I started, almost by chance, after Lucille left me.”
Dr. G lifted his head. “When you say things like ‘by chance’ and ‘Lucille left me,’ you make yourself out as a puppet.”
Morris ignored this. “You’re not shocked? You don’t find me pathetic? Dirty?” “Should I?”
“Well, most people would find it reprehensible. And yes, I do enjoy it. Most of the time.” “And you’re not most people.” Morris shrugged. “No, I’m not.”
“Why stop there? Why don’t you drive downtown on a Saturday night and pick up a fourteen-year-old girl? Or hire three women at the same time?”
Morris sighed. “Lucille says I gorge myself. On grief and sex. She says that I was unprepared for Martin’s death. That I should have seen that Martin was going to a death-dealing event, not a feast. She prepared herself, as if she knew that some rehearsal was required. I didn’t, and so I was surprised by the unexpected.” He paused, then said, “She’s right.”
“You’ve told her about hiring women?”
“Oh, no.” He brightened. “Chekhov hired prostitutes.”
“So you and Chekhov, you’re equals. And your daughters? What about them? Wouldn’t they be surprised?”
Morris leaned forward and touched the dog lying at his feet. A shudder. The wet m
ournful eyes pondered him. You poor fucker.
On Saturday, he picked up Libby at her mother’s house and took her to a Vietnamese restaurant. They ate pho and spring rolls and drank green tea and they talked about Libby’s debating team; she was the leader, and she told him about argument and riposte and speech. She said that often the content was inconsequential, like political debates, where flow and ebb and smoothness of the words could beat out intelligence. She didn’t like that. She thought she might quit. It was taking time away from her reading, her pre-cal, her volunteer work. She was wearing a soft brown sweater, a turtleneck, and her hair was cut short, and she looked like her mother, same chin, though her nose was sharper and she was prettier than Lucille. Her eyes were brighter and she was more willing to smile and try to please people. Morris thought that that might be a problem, this need to please, which was why when she said she might quit the debating team, he didn’t argue.
“Might be a good thing,” he said.
“Mrs. Kualla, our supervising teacher, says I can’t quit. The team needs me. She’s a Nazi but she’s a good Nazi. You know what I mean?”
He didn’t know, but he said he did.
She talked about her work at Deer Lodge Centre, where she read to a ninety-year-old woman called Minnie Pishker. “She has no idea what I’m reading, but she likes the sound of my voice. Her arms are like sticks, Dad, and she knows when I’m there as soon as I walk in. Lifts her skinny arms and says, ‘Libby.’ She makes a sucking sound with her mouth. She’s blind yet she senses everything. No one visits her. I think her daughter comes at Christmas. It’s so sad.” She blinked and Morris imagined that she might cry. But she didn’t. She continued, “She reminds me of Grandpa. Has a foul mouth like he does. She swears at me in Yiddish. Calls me kurveh. Mr. Fox, down the hall, told me what it means. But she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
For a year now, Libby had volunteered at Deer Lodge where Morris had put his father when he was too confused to take care of himself. Libby had chosen Deer Lodge so that she could see her grandfather more often. Every day she was there she went down to Grandpa Schutt’s room for lunch and sat with him. At first she had been upset that he did not know her, that his mind soared in many different directions, and then one day she discovered that he liked to listen to her iPod Shuffle, that this quieted him and relieved his agitation. And as he became familiar with the music, he began to sing along in his baritone voice, quite beautiful really, chiming in to songs by the Pogues and Bob Dylan. “He likes ballads,” Libby said. “Softer music. No techno, that upsets him.” She was so matter-of-fact. She bought him his own iPod and downloaded some classical music and gospel tunes. Some country. His favourite was Leonard Cohen. One evening, Morris arrived for a visit and he heard his father grandly singing “Bird on a Wire.”
Morris could learn something from his own daughter. He said now, “Your mother must be happy, you working in a hospital, a step closer to becoming a doctor.”
“I’m not going to be a doctor. You know that.”
“You’re eighteen, Libby. You don’t know that yet.”
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“Oh, well, what a question. I’m pursuing happiness.” He smiled and then shrugged. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about your father.” Then he said that he wanted to warn her. He was getting rid of his cellphone and his e-mail address. “Though I’ll keep my land line. You can call me at home, but no message service.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m cancelling everything. No more technology in my life. I’m throwing out the TV as well. And cutting off the Internet.”
“Why are you doing this? Does Mom know?”
“She’ll find out. It’s not a big deal. I was standing in the meat line at De Luca’s and the woman in front of me gets on the phone and asks her husband what kind of cheese they want, Reggiano or Padano. She can’t even make a simple decision. The cellphone has become a soother, an umbilical cord, a clattering intrusion. If we ‘re texting or talking, we think we’re alive. So, kaput, mine’s gone.”
Libby said, “But I like being able to call you. I like knowing that you might pick up, or that I can text you and you’ll get right back to me. This makes me sad. Why wouldn’t you want to talk to me?”
“Libby, Libby. It’s not that. We can talk as often as you like. You can write me letters. You can come over and walk in my door anytime. You can phone me at home, just like that. To tell the truth, if you were the only one in the world who had my number, I’d keep my cell. It’s the others I don’t want to talk to. My editor, my agent, your mother, Meredith.”
Libby jumped on this. “Why don’t you say sorry to Meredith? She’s waiting. She told me that you’re stubborn. Called you a mule and said that all you had to do was say sorry and she’d let you see Jake.”
“She said that? ‘Stubborn’?”
Libby nodded.
Morris spooned the last of the soup from the bowl. Little flecks of peppers, a remaining noodle, the last bit of shrimp. He said, “We did talk. She wouldn’t really listen, but she did say I could see Jake. I’m taking care of him next Saturday. The thing about Meredith is she’s inflexible.”
“No, Dad, it’s you. You say sorry and then you break into this long rationalization for why you said what you said or how it’s the other person’s fault for why you said what you said. Just say sorry and shut up.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. Said that she had to get home. She was meeting a friend. She wrapped a yellow scarf around her neck. Morris imagined that she would never find a boy good enough for her, which was why she was dating this Shane, who was probably a postmodernist to boot. She was too vulnerable, and though she would say she was unimpressed by credentials, there was something gullible about her. She loved her father, wasn’t that a sign of gullibility? Though a daughter like her would forgive her father of much. Had already. She had never said a word about Martin, whom she loved, even after he and Lucille had sat her down and given her all the facts, even told her about Morris’s anger and threats and the challenge to Martin to just go and join the fucking army already. She had said nothing. Just hugged her father and cried and said, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Who wouldn’t want to be with a girl like that?
He dropped her off at home, watched her run up the stairs of the old house he used to live in, a three-storey Tudor style that was begging for a paint job. Perhaps Lucille’s new man, a heart surgeon and handy at many other things, was also a scraper and a painter, and while repairing Lucille’s heart, he could have a go at the house. Morris drove away, surprisingly full of good cheer. Libby had kissed him on the cheek and hugged him and told him to be good and to think twice about getting rid of his phone. He meandered happily through the city, torn between liberty and licence. He had in mind a tryst, someone who would offer him tricks, a prestidigitator, a juggler. He flipped open his cellphone as he drove and phoned the Fort Garry Hotel and made a reservation for that night, and then he dialled the 800 number by memory.
The woman who answered was efficient, as always, and Morris imagined her as the secretary slotting appointments into various daybooks. The time and the place was agreed upon. No credit card was required; Morris had an account with this company. When the woman asked what he preferred that night, Morris said, “Surprise me.” When the woman called Morris back, she told him that Alicia would be joining him, and that she would arrive at midnight. Morris hung up and experienced the charm of humble awe. A brief meditation on the human soul. His soul. He saw that he knew nothing, and in acknowledging this he was suddenly at peace with not knowing. In the past, as a columnist, he had been expected to know something, had even presented himself as knowledgeable, and in pretending he had found prestige. No longer. Socrates had said something about ignorance: All I know is that I know nothing. Morris had been reading about Socrates lately, trying to make his way through The Republic, thinking that if he could understand the bigger questions, questions that soared above his own insignificant wor
ld, then he might not be so flummoxed by his own littleness. It was a bit of deception, this notion of knowing. Hah. And so, Morris thought, knowing that you know nothing makes you in fact a little wiser. He understood that the woman who would join him later that night, a woman with a false name and a sham of a smile, yet a willing heart, was not the path to love, but it would be a form of knowing, and it was a connection. He would reveal himself, offer his modest body to her, and she would not recoil. They would become acquainted. It was contact that he craved. He anticipated carnal love. He knew he was selfish and deluded and he wanted to remain so, at least for that evening and on into the night.
But first, in order to reclaim some balance on the teeter-totter that his life had become, he would pay his father a visit. With the gradual loss of his intelligence and memory, his father strangely was becoming more tender, as if the unforgiving walls had been broken down, and as a result, Morris himself could be more indulgent. He was learning to touch his father, to rub his feet and back. About a month ago now, on a Sunday morning, after an expensive Saturday night with a woman named Chelsea (it had become a pattern that he visited his father either before or after a night with his women), he had dropped in on his father and fed him a baguette that he’d picked up at the French bakery in St. Boniface. As you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me. Together they had chewed the bread and then taken a drink of water from a plastic cup, and his father, sitting at the edge of his bed, his white legs bared, had mumbled something about Morris’s kindness. “Ach,” Morris said, “you’re my father.” And then he’d kneeled behind him and shampooed his father’s hair and dried it, and then lifted his shirt and rubbed his back, and in doing so he was struck by his father’s flesh, so loose in comparison to Chelsea’s, and he remembered how, the night before, she had lifted her arms above her head as Morris bent to kiss her navel. On that Sunday morning, seeing the back of his father’s small grey head, he suffered shame, for his own sexual vigour, and for the uselessness of his father’s cock. Do not take me there, Morris thought. He read then, from a collection of poems by Frost that his father kept at his bedside, selecting pieces at random, because it didn’t matter to his father, who simply liked the sound of what he believed was Samuel’s voice. Morris accepted this, as he accepted the responsibility of taking care of his father. What affection and impatience he felt.