by Rudy Wiebe
“Gabe! What happened?”
His tall son seems shrunken; does not look at him. He says, more softly,
“What?”
“A man was looking at me.”
“You didn’t use a cubicle?”
“He was in the next one, with a mirror.”
“Mirror!”
“I saw it, it poked under the wall, and drew back, twice, I …”
“Did you see him, a face?”
“His hand, and I stood up and pulled up my pants quiet and jerked the toilet paper loud and the mirror came again and I kicked it so hard, his hand, he yelled and I ran out …”
Sitting on the basement floor, Hal remembered. Heavy as the file boxes and lamps and worn hats and brief cases and discarded computers piled around him, heavier than his avoided but merciless memory, he felt the whispered beauty of his lost son: slender, light-brown hair curly but not yet shoulder length as it would be, no moustache yet above the perfect part between his perfect teeth; fifteen, and within the year fully as tall as he.
… his shoes were neatly placed together … he was lying with his right foot crossed over his left ankle and his hands …
No need to hide his weeping. There was no one here to touch him, to attempt a stupid comforting word. He could wail, scream, howl, laugh—what thundering angel would hear him? God, that eternally suffering Rilke! Gabriel bought the Duino Elegies in July 1984 to take on his journey—always alone even with my family—a journey he gradually grew to disdain as deeply as the life he would return to without hope in suburban Edmonton, on October 18. Within the first four elegiac lines:
For the beautiful is simply
The beginning of a terror we can just barely endure,
and we marvel at it because it so calmly scorns to
destroy us. Every angel is terrifying.
But in Frankfurt, in Athens he was no slim teenager: he was six foot three, 165 pounds, broad chest and legs and arms taut as steel … what does the beautiful have to do with muscles?
There was always a box of tissues in the basement bathroom, as in the two others, thanks be Yolanda of sacred memory. Hal would not look in the mirror as he tugged three tissues out; he knew every one of his liver spots. Owl must be about the same three-quarters of a century but the Dene man looked so much better; at least the skin of his face and hands, which was all he had ever seen. Maybe never sleeping inside a White building helped. He had invited him often enough, “I’ve got seven, eight, rooms on two floors, plus a basement and an open, soft-carpet attic, come, sleep wherever you like.” Owl smiled and looked slightly embarrassed, black eyes shifting, so Hal didn’t say it any more. Once in February when he trudged home along 104th past the funeral house thermometer flashing “-26 °C” he noticed two metal shopping carts between cars behind the Blessed Redeemer Church, and then the hump of sleeping bags beside the back door. Snow drifting down, ice driven in gusts of wind and Owl sat there with his knees up and head propped against the brick wall, wrapped in double hoods and sleeping bags. An electrical cord led from the car plug-in beside the door and disappeared under his pyramid of blankets, but his face was bare, serene as Nelson Mandela in the slanting snow. The faint hum of a hairdryer? Hal stood for a long moment, watching: yes, Owl was breathing; asleep.
Owl and The Coffee Shack’s blah coffee, the accidents … the Orange Downfill. The Edmonton City Police, he needed to contact them to see what—no no, not yet, time enough—now he needed to walk in the moist April air of melting snow, he needed coffee, he needed anything but accidents and this empty, crammed basement. And before he could think to stop, his eyes lifted: in the mirror a gaunt, grey-bearded man stared at him. He could not … comprehend … that as himself. Momentarily he had no memory of this face as personal, not even when he touched it with what he recognized instantly as his hand … face folds and hollows and lank white hair curling at the
Hal, really, you don’t have to look like that. There are fifteen barbers on Whyte
Thank you miene scheene Yo, ever with me, my only and ever beautiful love you forever.
The telephone rang. Like a prayer always with him which he never spoke—police! No, they’d be at the door. Good to move, move! He hoisted himself up stair by stair on the banister to the kitchen phone call display. Ontario, Dennis thanks be to God work number in Toronto, he could collapse on the desk stool.
“Hey Dad.”
“Hey Denn.”
“How’s it going?”
“Okay …”
But quick Dennis had caught his tone. “What, what is it?”
“The usual … no no, it’s okay, okay … maybe I made a mistake …”
“What? What’d you do?”
“Oh I saw a … I … I looked in Gabriel’s boxes, the ones in the basement.”
A silence; Dennis’s voice shifted from concern to his careful neutral: “Why did you do that?”
“It’s the end of April, and it started snowing overnight … it’s mostly gone already.”
“That’s Alberta, it snows whenever … sometimes September too.”
Neither said anything for a long moment. They did not speak of Gabriel often, and not since Yo’s funeral. They talked flat day-to-day facticity: his back and thigh aches, his right side, the birds singing along Denn’s Don Valley bike route, Double Cup Ben endlessly unscrambling Mennonite family trees online and, “sweet little muffin”—as Dennis called his daughter Emma—watching a spring worm ripple itself together and withdraw into the earth. Hal realized, once again, that he had never yet dared to ask Dennis: Do you ever think … how you found him, when I wasn’t …
Never there to have a memory. Now he said, “Gabe was born January 28, so …”
“Sorry Dad, I don’t get it.”
“Nine month consequences, April 1960.”
“Oh, the anniversary, fifty years sort of, of you and Mom …”
Hal burst into an embarrassed laugh, far too loud: “There was no snow that April, not south by the Oldman River!”
After a long moment Dennis said, gently, “I could come. Easy, catch the evening flight and the weekend’s in one day. We could go out to Aspen Creek, probably some snow left at the cabin, so a nice log fire—”
Hal avoided him quickly, “You know, that was years before the cabin. We were visiting Grossma and Grosspah in Taber with Miriam, she was barely a year and Yo wanted to go to the Oldman River, I’d talked so much about us in high school finding a buffalo-kill site and arrowheads and stone hammers and the weather was so warm, we left Mir with them and drove to the river, past the old church, it’s long gone now, you know, and hiked all over those prairie ravines, flood plains, the huge cottonwoods, after Grossma’s funeral we drove there with you too, by the Oldman, you remem …”
He stopped himself. What did he want to natter about? How slowly they undressed each other and lay down, the dry spring grass prickling them through their spread clothes, Yo’s complete bright skin in the sunlight, the taste?
“So-o,” Dennis said easily, Hal could hear his smile, “by the Old Man’s playground river …”
“Your mom was never that sure about it.”
“But it could have been.”
“O yeah, I think so, yeah.”
“Did you ever tell Gabe?”
“Well, I—” his stupidity, having to evade the warm possibility of talk that Dennis had offered, impossible now with what he had just done. He sagged on the phone stool. “Denn, listen, it’s okay, I’m really okay, don’t worry. I bent a bit, remembering, but it’s okay, I’ve put the boxes back, closed them, I was just going out to meet Owl at The Coffee Shack on Whyte, have a coffee. Don’t spend two days on this now. Come in July like we were talking, all you three together, I’m all right, when Emma’s out of school okay?”
“Since when do you and Owl drink Coffee Shack coffee?”
“Never—today’s unique. A Whyte Avenue adventure!”
Dennis laughed so hard Hal’s ear rang; as if grabbing an excuse t
oo. “Good, Dad! Still a bit crazy. But call the house tonight, okay, before Emma goes to bed, you can say goodnight, every day she has a different school story.”
“And we’ll explore the creek then, like always, she’ll find more freshwater clams. The creek is too high and muddy right now …”
And out of nowhere his memory flipped, he should say it to his beloved listening son far away in Toronto but alive and loving him, the Orange Downfill, he would surely remember the orange—no.
“Denn, you,” he said and caught himself, “you filled the gas tanks on the pickup, both tanks, I saw the receipt in Yo’s file boxes. She kept every receipt forever, for everything, before Gabe got the pickup that Wednesday before … you had put a hundred and seventy-six litres in its two tanks.”
The crinkly receipt in the box blazed in his memory; Hal got himself shut up. Why was this—the gaunt face in the mirror?
In his ear Dennis spoke as if he were reciting a court statement: “Yes, I filled the tanks. Mom sent me to Riverbend Shell, they had serviced the pickup and I filled up with a hundred and seventy-six litres at forty-six cents a litre on your credit card. But Gabe had switched off the auxiliary tank before he started the … only the main tank, it was empty.”
“Denn, Denn! I’m sorry.”
Breathing. Then, “Yeah … it comes back, you never know when. A carefree kid, our family seemed so fun, easy, and jacking around with Colin and Ailsa tagging along, it …”
Silence. So blank it seemed they were both waiting for a dial tone. And suddenly, before he thought Hal said, “Dennis, did you ever read Gabe’s diaries?”
“No … no. I was so young then and once Mom and I talked about them, but I really didn’t … you know …”
“And you and Ailsa were friends, in church, when she started high school she …”
“Yeah, sort of, for a little while, but she and I never really … and then they moved away, very soon—Dad, listen. Maybe I should come.”
Hal could not speak.
Dennis said, his gentlest telephone voice: “Maybe it’s long enough.”
Hal repeated, agreeing, “Long enough.” And then he remembered again: the police! and his stunned mind wallowed into logic, “Yes, you’re right, but this is a poor time for you, and a few more weeks, they don’t matter … save it, save it. When you all come, in summer, then we’ll have time, plenty of—but thank you for your intuition.”
“What?”
“Calling in your hectic day.”
“Huh!” A small laugh, surely of relief. “I’m hammering at this dumb conference budget and it pops into my head, just say hi to Dad! Think something good and clear for two good minutes, oh boy.”
“Sorry—I’m really sorry.”
“Dad, it’s okay, it is good! It’s time we talked Gabe. It’s long enough. Okay?”
“Yes, it is. Dennis, I love you.”
“I love you, mien leewa Pah.”
The unexpected Low German, my beloved Pa, in his nostrils the wisp of his own childhood like homestead Tweeback, a pan of doubled buns pulled out of the wood stove, a nudge of such warm comfort spreading from inside his mouth through his body. He swallowed and hung up. The kitchen clock: another hour before Owl.
Ailsa Craig. The great blue rock in the outer Firth of Clyde, Scotland.
Had Gabriel ever mentioned that place to anyone? Never to Hal. Another 1984 secret he left for them in a few blue words.
DAILY PLANNER 1984: September Friday 28
Overnight bus London / Ayr / police search at Dumfries for stolen Walkman / Ayr a.m., walk—1976 family memory of Auld Brig o’ Doon, the dark kirk, Burns statue / good cider Tam O’Shanter Inn, delicious bass meal / p.m. bus to Girvan. Setting sun, and there Ailsa Craig rises out of the Irish Sea. Stunning / when you look away, you can’t believe your memory. Evening in a bar with 3 “good ol’ boys,” very friendly
** Question: Why am I here? **
September Saturday 29
The boat Glorious, only 7 passengers / bright day, heavy rolling sea from 2-day storm—Dad would be woofing his cookies / from southeast ACraig is like the top half of a pointed head heaved out of the water, bald rock base with green hair top / tiny beach, rollers crashing, can’t land, can’t walk over island on this brilliant day / take rolls of heaving pics. / white lighthouse, ruined castle keep higher on rock. Nobody allowed now to live on ACraig / North Cape is blue hone—hone—for centuries the only rock cut for curling stones, west/south side gannet cliffs. ACraig there looks like a half-sunk Cree stone hammer with groove carved below north end / gannets nesting on rock spikes white with birds and manure, great gannets sailing on black-tipped wings. Ailsa my rock. Crashing smashing sea, untouchable
September Sunday 30
Sky bright again, walk to Girvan docks. They say today sea is calm enough, they’ll land, 2 hr. hike around castle ruins and over ACraig peak they say it’s the core plug of eroded volcano 1/2 mile wide, 3/4 mile long, 220 acres—2/3 the size of our Aspen Creek land, valley there 100 ft. deep with maybe 5 beaver / ACraig 1114 ft. high rock with gorse, 80,000 gannets. Curling stones, nausea, a beautiful mountain of birdshit. Buy ticket, walk down pier. Can not step onto boat. Fool again. Walk back, wait for Ayr/Glasgow train. Long Firth of Clyde, the rock on the sea forever / was/is anything there? How/what will/can I ever know.
Does it matter God knows
October Monday 1
In Praise of Lemmings no better than Sex Gang Children yuk. Besides that spend the day in Glasgow Public Lib. trying to research A name but get nowhere much / librarians too small time. Train to Edinburgh, enormous river and crowded Scotland, then discover Ailsa Craig Hotel! Near rr station, 3 star luxury (hnnnn)
POCKET LOOSE-LEAF NOTES (no dates)
Ailsa Craig, by Rev. Roderick Lawson, ©1934
- granite islet of spectacular columnar rock rising abruptly from the sea
- the sharp shape of a huge tea-cozy … solitary in the waste of waters
- Prince of Darkness dropped it as stepping-stone between Scotland and Ireland
- haven for Scottish Roman Catholics, 1597, from there Hugh Barclay tried to help Spanish fleet re-establish RCs in Scotland. Rev. Andrew Knox discovered plot and Barclay drowned himself in the sea off ACraig
- strikingly beautiful name, plainly of Celtic origin, “Island of Seafowl”?
What pray god am I doing in Scotland. Searching a beautiful name? There is nothing here, no Prince of Darkness passing. Get out. Get home as soon as
Obsession - that which preoccupies or vexes; an unwanted or compulsive idea or emotion persistently coming to awareness; the state of being obsessed
Obsess - to occupy the mind to an excessive degree; preoccupy, harass, haunt
Haunt - to visit repeatedly, esp. supernaturally, like a spirit or ghost; reappear in the mind, or memory; to linger about, pervade; a place often visited
DAILY PLANNER 1984: October Tuesday 2
Massive ACraig Hotel Edinburgh breakfast. Looked up more at National Lib. of Scotland / what is it possible to make of the name: core of eroded volcanic extrusion? curling rocks? Devil’s stepping stone, church violence? Ugly list for an extraordinary solitary place. Go to movie Comfort and Joy filmed in Glasgow, not much but I’m happy for “small” films. Packed evening hotel wedding party / if only I could celebrate some thing. ACraig Hotel a converted 1820 Georgian townhouse, 17 rms.—free TV / free hairdryer for my lovely curly locks
Could an extraordinary, solitary person be the Devil’s stepping stone?
POCKET LOOSE-LEAF NOTES (no dates)
Other Etymologies:
- Gaellic “Aillse Creag” modern name meaning “Fairy Rock”
- or Gaelic “Creag Ealasaid” meaning “Elizabeth’s Rock”
- “Ealasaid a’Chuain”: “Elizabeth of the Ocean”
- “Paddy’s Milestone”: traditional Irish worker route, Belfast to Glasgow; the Devil placed the rock there for easier (satanic?) travel between Ireland/Scotland
- “A’Chreag”: “The Rock”
- island belongs to 7th Marquess of Ailsa, 18th Earl of Cassillis
A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, by Roland Barthes, 1979
—gestures of a lover at work—
p. 18 What the Greeks call charis: “the luminous radiance of the desirable being.”
p. 21 I love you because I love you.
p. 67 Touching bodies: every contact, for the lover, raises the question of an answer: the skin is asked to reply.
p. 71 The Other’s body—to scrutinize means to search: I am searching the Other’s body, as if I wanted to see what was inside it.
p. 120 It frequently occurs to the amorous subject that he is, or is going, crazy.
p. 157 The love letter Goethe
Why do I turn once again to writing?
Beloved, you must not ask such a question,
for the truth is, I have nothing to tell you.
All the same, your dear hands will hold this note.
Like desire, the love letter waits for an answer; it implicitly enjoins the Other to reply, for without a reply the Other’s image changes, becomes simply the other.
SPIRAL NOTEBOOK (3): October 2, 1984
(Edinburgh) It is 3:30 in the morning back home.
What does Ailsa look like when she sleeps, in what position does she lie. Are her hands under her blanket. I move through the house. How does it smell—sound—look like in the kitchen, living room—is there a record on the stereo, what concerto was last played, what jackets are hanging in the coat rack by the front door. Is there a painting or sketch on the easel, do the parents sleep with their door open, which side of the bed do they sleep on. Has the mother looked in the mirror lately, is the washroom messy, is the brother asleep in his room, does he dream. And then back to A’s room, is her door closed yes probably what does her room look like—what was she doing last night—what face did she see in the mirror before getting into bed what does she dream how does she smell how does she breathe is her hair tangled how do her slim hands lie outside the blanket what are her first thoughts when she wakes up. Will I ever know my fairy my rock