The Matter With Morris

by David Bergen

  A few days later, when Lucille came by to check on him, he told her in an outpouring of magnanimity that he was becoming reconciled to his past, his upbringing. Everything that he had rejected in his father turned out to be true or correct: the parsimony, the frugality, the strictures, the chastity, the faithfulness. His father had been maniacal about living honestly and with integrity. He had recycled before it was in vogue. He had tithed more than ten percent. He had sheltered the homeless and fed the poor. He was not wasteful or degenerate. Many of these things Morris had rejected. He had thrown out the old and gathered up the new, the modern, the material, as if the past could be thrown out like a heap of garbage. It turned out that his father, in his stinginess and harshness, had been quite right about the world. It was damned.

  Lucille smiled, briefly, something he had not seen in a long while. “You’re scaring me, Morris,” she said. He studied her studying herself in the bureau mirror. A memory of Martin admiring himself in this same mirror the first time he wore his dress uniform. What a clean-cut handsome boy, all done up for servility and for war.

  “I’m scaring myself,” he said. “Once, when Dad was sleeping, I thought how easily I could smother him. Just take a pillow and press it down onto his face.”

  Lucille turned. “Oh, Morris. That’s awful.”

  “No one would know.”

  She looked at him carefully and then said, “Maybe it’s me you want to kill.”

  He found his father sitting in a wheelchair by a window that looked out onto the street. There was a remnant of food on his blue shirt, near the left pocket. It was still damp, a green purée, and he took a Kleenex and wiped at it, cursing the incompetence of the workers. “Just a little something, Dad,” he said.

  His father studied him. “Morris?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Good. I was thinking about the house. I want you to dig down to the weeping tiles. The foundation is cracked. We’ll have to tar and patch. Reinforce everything. Samuel can help.”

  “Samuel’s in Idaho, Dad. He lives with Dorothy.” This was not true, he no longer lived with Dorothy, but it was easier to maintain that memory.

  His father considered this. Nodded. His eyes gleamed briefly, sadly. He said, “Do it yourself then. Get Martin to help.” He brightened. “How is Martin?”

  He took his father’s hand and held it. Stroked the back of it, where the blue veins ran in bas-relief. His father was docile, the result of medication that had been suggested by the family doctor. After all, the old man couldn’t just depend on music to calm him. His singing was bothering the other patients, and so the medication was an attempt at settling him down, and it was working. Too well. His father’s eyelids dropped and he slept and then woke and said that he had to pee. He wheeled him to the washroom in his room. Helped him stand, loosened his belt, and pulled down his pants and underwear. Settled him onto the toilet and held his hand as he peed, while with his other hand he pushed his father’s penis downwards so that he would not have an accident. He was aware of touching his father.

  “I have to poop,” his father said.

  “That’s fine.”

  “But I can’t.” He looked at Morris, so close that they could feel each other’s breath. Clarity now, the knowledge of intimacy. His father said, “The Metamucil isn’t working. I’m all bunged up. I’m so tired.”

  Fifteen minutes later, his father stood and looked down into a toilet bowl that held two small turds. Morris wiped his bum. Pulled up his pants and tucked in his shirt. Buckled him and straightened his tie. And then helped him back onto the wheelchair. Back in his room, next to the bookshelf that held the King James Bible and Pilgrim’s Progress, he stood and drew the blanket up to his father’s throat. Touched his brow and then bent to kiss him. Eternity. The rejection of modern man, but never his father’s abjuration. His father had always fought the oblivion of infinity and even now, near death, he still fought it with utter ferocity. As his father’s eyes closed, and then opened, and then closed again, he read to him from Ecclesiastes. A book of melancholy and despair, but full of gladness as well. A return to nature. All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full. And as he read, he thought about this young woman Alicia, who would come to him at midnight.

  2

  In the months that followed Martin’s death, Morris had found himself walking the streets in the late evenings, looking into the lit windows of houses where people went about their domestic business, as if by peering into the private lives of others he could come to some better understanding of his own way of life. At some point, perhaps early on, though he could not be certain, he began to talk to himself and offer a version of what he saw in the houses. He only talked to himself in his head so that any passersby, though there were few, would not be alarmed. He told no one of this routine, certainly not Lucille, who would have declared him not only mad but criminal. He continued these walks through the fall and into winter. Later, living on his own, Morris had maintained these late-evening walks, and so it was one summer night that he stepped out of his condominium and walked up Corydon and then down towards the large houses near the local high school, and as he passed by the swollen lives of strangers, he paused at one point and saw a woman in a strapless dress, working in the kitchen. A man approached her from behind and enveloped her. The woman poured coffee into china and then she lifted the cups as the man whispered in her ear, and he released her and the two of them disappeared from view, into the other room to lie side by side and nuzzle on a chaise longue. On the next street, in a massive barn frame, Morris saw a man standing in a room, behind a couch, watching TV, thinking about the cost of a new garage door. The man was alone. His wife was leaving him. And then, much later, returning home, Morris came upon a family sitting around a table, eating very late, and the father, or what appeared to be the oldest man at the table and therefore the father, was wagging a finger at his beautiful teenage son, asking him hypocritically to tell the truth.

  This city, so humble and resigned, nearly out of breath, made from Tyndall stone and fir and asphalt and brick and pine and white oak and cedar shingles and metal and glass, row upon row of houses both modest and hopeful, spreading out like a bloom, enveloping farmland where cows used to graze and shit, suburbs built on dung heaps, this city in the frozen soul of the country, a bitter and godforsaken place, not rich enough to defend itself, not important enough to require defence, a city neither soft nor prosperous, a city that held so poorly its countless poor, a city of thieves, a city of blight, a city of greed and garbage, of landfill sites where scavengers rose and fell, a stolen city run on voracity, a city whose heart was scooped out, and in that heart walked Morris Schutt, former columnist, imaginer of others’ lives, clumsily recording his own life, the tread of his Ecco shoes on strewn streets, a group of boys clattering by on skateboards, the smell of weed, the ache in his heart: Who will protect me, thought Morris, who will be my neighbour, who will love me?

  At ten o’clock Saturday night, Morris checked into his room at the Fort Garry Hotel. He carried a small leather bag into which he had put a change of underwear and socks, several condoms, a vial of pills for instant erections, a shaver and shaving cream, and a clean white T-shirt which he sometimes liked to wear underneath his dress shirt. In his room he stripped, showered and shaved, took one Cialis, and then lay on the bed in a bathrobe and watched the beginning of an adult movie. At eleven thirty, he dressed again in his suit and put on his shoes and then studied himself in the full-length mirror. He wore the Hermès tie that he’d bought in New York the year before. It was striped pink and grey and was softly textured. He admired it and the cut of his suit jacket. At his age, fine clothes could only improve his look. He was almost handsome in a suit and tie, and he knew that this handsomeness could not sustain itself as he removed his clothes, not that Alicia would complain. Her job was to prompt and carry on. What he looked like physically was of little consequence. This was a monetary arrangement, and though he would like
to believe otherwise, he would be one more man on Alicia’s path. Still, he was capable of fooling himself, otherwise he wouldn’t be standing in this hotel room. He shook himself; this was a night to feel, not think.

  She arrived at midnight. Her knock was light, and when he opened the door, she looked at him and said, “Mr. Schutt,” and he looked at her and said, “Oh, Christ. Leah?”

  She looked at the number on the door and then she said, “Maybe I have the wrong room.” She glanced over his shoulder into the room to see if he was alone.

  “Alicia?” he said.

  She nodded slowly. She was thinking, he could see that, and then she smiled and said, “You wicked man.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Unfortunately.”

  She laughed, very lightly, nervously, and said, “This is too weird. Icky.” And she sucked in a small breath and asked, “Now what?”

  “You can go. Don’t worry, you’ll still get paid. I’ll pretend everything was fine, and we’ll both try to forget this little meeting, though of course we won’t forget it. I’m sorry about this. Really.”

  “Why are you sorry? Were you sorry before, like five minutes ago, just before you opened the door?”

  “No, but five minutes ago I was a stranger, a man with no name. Now I’m Mr. Schutt.”

  “That’s funny.” She tilted her head. “Where’s Mrs. Schutt?”

  He made a motion with his hand, as if dismissing someone or something. “There is no more Mrs. Schutt. She kicked me out.”

  “Oh. So you’re not being naughty.” “I am though.”

  She shook her head and smiled. “You want to think that. You want it to be true, because that makes it moreexciting.” She said this plainly, matter-of-factly, as if quoting a statistic. She asked if she could have one drink at least. “I’m all dressed up.”

  Morris studied her. “Do you want to? I mean, it would be only a drink, but I would understand if you want to just say goodbye.”

  “A drink. Yeah, that would be nice.” And she shrugged and slipped her large purse from her shoulder and unbuttoned her sweater.

  Morris stepped back and Leah entered the room. His brain was muddled, and though he believed that he should ask her to please leave at this moment, he took her sweater, with its Peter Pan collar, and saw that she wore a silky top with thin straps that revealed her smooth shoulders and fine clavicle bones, shoulders he would normally at some point during the night have kissed. He placed her sweater on the bed and asked if she would like some champagne. She said that that would be lovely. The word “lovely” seemed wrong for a girl who had once known his son Martin at school, and who had perhaps even kissed him, though Morris had always believed they were just friends. She had come to the house occasionally, even eaten a meal with the family, and Morris had been impressed by her composure and confidence. She was Vietnamese, the child of parents who had left their country in the early eighties, thinking they were heading to New York by boat but ending up in a Thai refugee camp for four years. She was born in the camp and spent her first year there. When she told the Schutt family her story, she had been nonchalant and almost dismissive, both of her parents’ sacrifice and of her own history. Martin had been quite vocal that evening, surprising Morris with his political knowledge; it was as if Leah had loosed something in him. Now, in the hotel room, she stood by the window that looked out towards the small park eight floors below, a park that held large stones, the remnants of a fort from hundreds of years earlier when settlers had required protection. She parted the curtain and stood with her back to him and he recalled Ursula in that same position, looking down at the streets of Minneapolis and asking him to smell her, and as he thought of that now, he was aware of the space he took up in the world. She turned back towards him and giggled and said, “Wow. This is weird.”

  “Yes, it should be,” he said. “And if it isn’t, then there’s something wrong with us, isn’t there?” He removed the wire that held the cork and then popped it and poured champagne into each glass and walked towards her, holding out her glass. She took it and said, “Thank you.” She dipped slightly, as if in deference. “Wow,” she said again, and then she said, “Cheers,” and held up her glass and he reached his glass out and said, “Cheers,” and they drank. The champagne was expensive, and he wanted her to notice, but she didn’t. She wouldn’t appreciate the finer things in life. She drank greedily, as if she had run a marathon and was now drinking water. She held out her glass for more. Her hand was shaking.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not treacherous.”

  “Oh, I know that, Mr. Schutt. You don’t scare me.”

  “Are you disappointed?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. No. Not disappointed. I don’t think so, anyway. Why? Are you?”

  “A little. Maybe. Or it might be embarrassment.”

  ” “For me?”

  “No, no, not at all. Not you. It’s me.” And he raised his glass and drank as she sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs. She was wearing a black skirt. Her legs were bare and she wore high heels that he believed must be quite expensive and he thought then that this was not her first time, and this excited and dismayed him.

  She said, “I guess we both have secrets.”

  “Secrets are necessary,” he said, and immediately he cringed. He was standing outside of himself, observing, and he did not like what he saw. He did not like his words or how they came out of his mouth; he did not like his lack of hair or how his chin doubled when he lowered his head; he did not like the tie he wore anymore or his own luxurious shoes or how he was trying, yet failing, to impress her with pricey champagne. He did not like anything about himself and he felt a moment of panic.

  Leah was nodding and she held her mouth in a certain manner, as if the situation she had found herself in was not at all surprising, as if she had experienced too many men who were trying to fend off boredom. How many? Morris wondered.

  “Well,” Leah said, holding out her glass for more champagne, “what’s next?”

  Morris held up the bottle. “We’ll finish this and then you can go. How about that?”

  As they drank, Leah wandered about the room. Morris sat on the chair by the desk and observed and listened to her as she wandered. She went straight to the point and asked Morris if he wasn’t curious about her and why she was doing this, and then without waiting for an answer, she talked about her situation. She used the words “my situation” as if it were something that had fallen down upon her, as if she had had no choice, and Morris thought that this was wrong, but he let it pass, he wasn’t interested in debate. She had removed her shoes and she moved about in bare feet. She had a bruise on her left calf, and later, when he asked her about it, she said that she played Ultimate Frisbee with friends. A sports injury, she said, and she smiled sleepily. That was later, but now she was talking about men and sex. She saw sex, this kind of sex, as less dangerous than sex with love. She said that she had been in love once with an older man who treated her very well, and the affair had lasted for a year, and he had flown her to New York for weekends and they had spent time together eating wonderful meals and going to plays and making love in grand hotels, but then the man had gone back to his wife of thirty years and had stopped calling her. This was the last time she had let herself go, the last time she had allowed herself to become crazy with desire and love. What she had learned from that experience was that she liked older men, that they were softer and more generous than younger men, who were often arrogant and egotistical. They knew nothing about understatement or coaxing. “I imagine that you, Mr. Schutt, know how to coax. Am I right?” And then she continued, not waiting for his response. “I plan on studying medicine in Australia. I need money for that and this is the best way to build up my bank account. I’m young, I have a beautiful body, I’m free, and I have no hang-ups about sex. Older men who have money, men like you, Mr. Schutt, they are men who can afford to pay me. They want to pay me, it makes them feel strong and helpful. I’m very close to m
y goal.” She paused and then said, “So, that’s me.”

  He knew that she was closing one door and opening another, and that it was now his turn to speak, but he did not have anything that he wanted to say. Her voice had lulled him into a sense of safety and ease and he did not want that feeling to disappear. He asked her if she smoked marijuana.

  She grinned. “Weed? Of course I do.” Then she said it would be terribly cool to smoke up with a famous columnist. “Cool,” she said again. She looked up at the ceiling and around the room. “Isn’t this a non-smoking room?”

  “It is, but we just have to open the window in the bathroom. Whatever, the smell will be gone by the morning.”

  “Am I staying till morning?”

  Morris lifted a hand. “Don’t worry. We’re not going to have sex.”

  “I’m not worried, Mr. Schutt. Everything’s chill.” She fluttered a hand, as if shooing him. “I don’t have issues.”

  “But I do,” Morris said. He took some papers and a pouch from his bag. Rolled a joint and lit it, inhaled twice, and then handed it to Leah, who took it willingly.

  She smoked, luxuriating in the moment, and then she handed him the joint again. They smoked without talking, as if the ritual offered something beyond words, as if the sharing was a stepping inwards, a slide back into a shallow cave. At some point, she motioned with the joint, pointing at his chest, and said, “Love your tie.”