The End of Music

by Jamie Fitzpatrick

  It was a small group off the latest flight, and there wasn’t much to do. They picked through the food and clothes with little apparent interest. Alice Henley distributed towels and cakes of Sunlight to those lined up to wash. Joyce helped bring dirty dishes to the commissary, passing through the room being used as a clinic. The girl Maeve had scared sat with her skirt hiked up and stockings rolled down, showing bruised and bandaged legs. A nurse changed the dressings while the girl stared unblinking at her wounds, as if committing the sight to memory. The battered legs looked strong and her exposed neck was straight and sturdy. Joyce was sure she would live many years.

  “Your friend got out this morning,” said Ingrid, when Joyce returned to the clothes station.

  “Andor? Got out?”

  “Flew out to New York.”

  “But…But they’re going to Toronto.”

  “New York or Toronto, it’s all the same to him. He didn’t want to wait any longer, so he talked his way onto a planeload bound for New York.” Ingrid shrugged and apologized—“Boch-uh-nut”—to a grey-bearded man who held up two odd shoes, the last ones in a wooden crate. A boy in a ragged shirt approached. “Hello. Fogo-ta-tash!” Joyce said in the phonetically crude Hungarian she had picked up. She pulled a blue dress shirt from the box at her feet. “Ked-vuh-led? You like?” He snatched the shirt and scurried away.

  “What a shame,” said Ingrid, lifting the shoe crate and tossing it back with the other empties.

  “He’s only a boy. Scared out of his wits.”

  “I mean about Andor. That you didn’t see him to say goodbye.”

  “No, no. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “He left something for you.” Ingrid pulled a small box from a wrinkled paper bag, the light rippling off its shiny black surface. “A jewelry chest, I think.”

  “Goodness,” said Joyce. She took the box, which was much heavier than it looked. “It’s got a racy picture.” The lid was painted with a brown-skinned woman on a couch, her robe opened in a V down to her navel. “Where do you suppose he got this?”

  “When the invasion began, some of them managed to get away with a few valuables, like jewels or money. I talked to one man who took his liquor with him.”

  “Took his liquor? Dragging bottles of liquor around with the Russians after him?”

  “The liquor is what saved him. They came up against a Russian tank, and the tank commander let them through, as a trade for the liquor.”

  Joyce examined the brown-skinned woman on the lid, her breasts fully outlined and barely covered by the robe. Threaded gold lines looped and curled around and down the sides of the box. She opened the lid, wondering if it might be a music box. The blue carpet inside darkened when she ran her fingers against it, and the extra shelf that hinged from the lid held a small bracelet. But no music played.

  “Is there anything in there?”

  “Just this.” Joyce held up the bracelet, made of smooth, polished stones linked together.

  “I’d say he started out with a box of jewelry, and bartered pieces for food or passage,” said Ingrid. “He had a message as well.”

  “Andor? What message?”

  “He said.” Ingrid shook her head and sighed in exasperation. “He said, ‘Tell Miss Joyce my great adventure is over. From now on my life will be like any other.’ He was nothing but jokes and nonsense, the entire time he was here.”

  “Oh, but I would have been disappointed if he didn’t leave us with nonsense.”

  “It’s gotten him this far, I suppose.”

  //////

  The Christmas Eve refugees stayed a few extra hours so they could have turkey dinner with all the trimmings. The school choir sang and the gifts from the toy drive were ready because Mrs. Bowe and the other teachers had stayed up all night sorting and wrapping them, marking each with a B or G and a number to suggest appropriate age.

  Joyce spent all afternoon in the kitchen, using an ice-cream scoop to add a ball of mashed turnip to every meal. Maeve Vardy was at her side, dousing each plate with gravy.

  “Father Kiloran says they’re mostly Catholics, of a sort,” said Maeve. “They looked very devout when we did the blessing beforehand.”

  When everyone had their pudding, Joyce took up a plate of turkey and dressing and found a stool in the rear of the commissary kitchen. Racks filled with dirty dishes wheeled through the door, and steam plumed from sinks being refilled for another round. “Look alive now, girls,” called a voice, just as several plates crashed to the floor, raising laughter and a round of applause.

  “Joyce!” hissed a voice behind her.

  She turned to see Gloria’s husband looking through a barely opened door.

  “What are you doing in the pantry, Frank?”

  “We’re ready to do the gifts for the youngsters. Come here.”

  She stepped in and he closed the door behind her. Joyce blinked, adjusting to the glare of the overhead light bulb. He was a few drinks in, she could tell by the minty candies he sucked to mask his breath. He always had a few in when he played Santa for the Airport Club kids’ party.

  “Give me a hand with the jacket, will you? Can you get the first three buttons for me?”

  Frank held an old pillow across his waist while Joyce pulled the two sides of the threadbare Santa jacket together. She had to kneel to do the buttons. “They’ll pop,” she said. “The buttonholes are nearly gone.”

  “Christ, Joyce. You’re a saviour.” He groaned, and the pillow belly swayed toward her.

  “You can manage the rest.” Joyce stood and backed into a shelf, knocking over two cans of peaches. The pantry was large, but crowded with crates and flour sacks and beef buckets, the walls lined with tinned fruit, tomatoes, peas and carrots, coffee, lunch meat. A crate of potatoes smelled earthy.

  “Give me a hand with the belt, though?”

  She crouched again, and took the strip of black vinyl hanging from either side of the jacket. He kept the pillow in place as she ran the belt through the plastic buckle and cinched it.

  “Do they know who Santa is, I wonder?” asked Frank, as she stepped away.

  “I don’t know. They’ll be grateful either way.”

  “Do you get lonely up here now? With most people moved to the new town site?” He asked this as if it were the next obvious question.

  “That beard needs replacing,” Joyce replied. The white mass of curls had shriveled on one side. Someone must have left it on a radiator.

  “Remember that?” asked Frank, using his chin to indicate over Joyce’s shoulder.

  She turned and recognized the costume hung from a hook on the door. A head-to-toe bodysuit with a zipper up the front, patterned in faded diamonds of green and yellow. It was more of a jester’s outfit. But Joyce had worn it during her first Christmas in Gander, acting as Frank’s elf at the children’s party.

  “Nobody wore it this year,” said Frank.

  “What happened to that girl you had last year?”

  “Her husband won’t allow it,” said Frank. “But no one ever wore it like you, Joyce. You’ve still got the figure for it. You know that, don’t you?”

  She touched the sleeve, wondering at her brazen confidence of three years ago. It had stretched around her like a second skin. “Where’s Gloria? I thought she was bringing Anthony and the twins.”

  “Anthony’s terrified of Santa. When I pulled off the beard and said, ‘Look, it’s me, Daddy,’ he cried even louder. But Joyce, you’d fit nicely into that costume still. How about it, eh?”

  “No.”

  “Come on now. For a lark.”

  Joyce opened the pantry door. “I imagine they’re ready for you.”

  “A house full of screaming youngsters, it makes you remember the old days. How good you had it.”

  “Merry Christmas, Frank. I’ll see all of you for dinner tomo
rrow.”

  //////

  She helped with the dishes and slipped in for a look at the party. Frank was on his feet, empty sack over his back. The children were gathered around and calling to him in their strange language. Some clutched dolls or teddies or colourful objects. “Bulldog,” shouted Frank, and paused. Ingrid leaned into him and whispered in his ear. Frank nodded, and roared what sounded like, “Bulldog-Kara-Choneee!” The kids laughed and clutched at his legs as he started wading through the crowd. He touched their heads and bent for kisses. He threw his head back and arched to the ceiling until Joyce thought he might fall. The pillow bulged out from under his jacket. The suit was filthy. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he boomed. “Bullllllllldog-Kara-Choneeeeeeee!” The grown-ups were clapping in time as “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” played on the phonograph.

  The noise echoed around the room, bringing others from the kitchen. “Good lord,” said Beth Ann. The parents hadn’t moved quick enough, and one young man was bowled over by the child mob. Frank trudged through the crowd, the kids swarming him, grappling at his legs and sleeves. Mike Devine thrust himself into the middle of it, raising his big arms. “Now, now, boys and girls,” he shouted. “I think we all need—”

  Frank called out something, and the children must have understood because now they were jumping and screaming, drowning out the music. From the sack he drew a handful of candy.

  “I didn’t know there were so many,” said Joyce.

  “It was all families, this flight,” replied Beth Ann.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” said Maeve, wiping a tear away. “They’re all God’s children. Even the poor Jews.”

  Candy spilled to the floor. The kids dove for it.

  “I meant to tell you,” said Beth Ann. “Gord Delaney—”

  The shrieks from the children hit a higher register as more candy rained down from Frank’s hand. Then another handful, landing at Mike Devine’s feet. The children attacked, nearly toppling him before he could back away.

  Frank finally escaped through a fire exit, with Mike doing his best to hold off the horde. A little boy in a green cardigan slipped through the door. Mike, teeth gritted and hair askew, grabbed the tail of the cardigan and dragged him back, handing him to an old woman who landed a good cuff at the back of his head. The boy started crying, cuing an outbreak of tears around the room. Several older boys appeared to be fighting in the corner, running hard at each other and tumbling to the tiled floor. A little girl sat alone not far from Joyce, sobbing and pulling at her fine yellow hair.

  “Gord Delaney and Fran. They’re moving to Halifax in the new year.”

  “Moving?”

  “For work. They haven’t told anyone. But Dave got wind of it. Gord’s been hired to run the show up there. It’s closer to Fran’s family as well. They’ll have a bit of help.”

  Joyce counted a pulse in the arch of her foot. She had never known Gander without Gord. Never sung without him. “Could Dave lead the band, do you think?”

  “Dave’s going to give it up. He says there’s nobody to lead the band, really. And he’s tired of it.”

  The children began to slow, voices turned hoarse. The criers sniffed and snotted. The fighting boys slumped in exhaustion. The room trembled in aftershock. Joyce sneezed twice from the dust they had kicked up. The boy in the green cardigan sprawled on the floor, wiping a sleeve across his hot face. The yellow-haired girl hung over the shoulder of a birdlike man, her mouth open and eyes glazed.

  “It couldn’t go on forever. God knows I could do to have Dave around the house more. We were in such a rush to get in. The yard’s a shambles, and the basement half-done.”

  Joyce wiped her nose. The Hungarians were on their hands and knees, men, women, and children, gathering the remaining candy. Who knew when they might see such bounty again, or where?

  “Never mind all that,” said Beth Ann. “Are you working tomorrow?”

  “I’m off until four on Boxing Day.”

  “There’ll be a crowd making the rounds tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t know.” Making the rounds was tiresome. Trudging through the snow. Fumbling with boots in a darkened foyer while your stockings soaked in melted snow. Warm drinks and mixed nuts in an overheated living room. And just as you started to get comfortable someone would be shouting Come along now, come along, forcing all hands back out into the black night, feet freezing and sweat chilling, on to the next house. Last Christmas a fellow from Atlas Construction had vomited in Nel Anstey’s lap. It was like he was taking aim, the way he lurched at Nel and let fly. A few feet to the left and he would have hit Joyce. “Everyone’s so spread out now. You can’t just dodge to the next house.”

  “The boys will drive. But listen now.” Beth Ann glanced behind her, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Those new boys started last month at Air Traffic Control? They’re coming with us. Not one of them married, Joyce.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Top dollar at ATC is a fortune, Joyce. Best salary in town. Wouldn’t you rather have a fellow like that, instead of dirty old Frank Tucker pulling you into the pantry?”

  “I didn’t let him do anything,” hissed Joyce.

  “Of course not. But that’s how a fellow treats a girl when she’s footloose.”

  As long as she remained single, she had to endure it all. The pity and hushed whispers. The dancing boys who brushed their lips to her ear and worked their fingers into her waist. The besotted men who pulled her into the pantry, sighing as she dropped to her knees to help with their buttons and big pillow bellies.

  The room was nearly silent now. Parents lined up for the washrooms with the bodies of their spent children draped across them. Exhaustion seemed to sweep the room all at once.

  “Don’t be sad about the band, Joyce. It’s someone else’s turn.”

  “I’m not sad.”

  “A lot of people just want records now anyway.”

  “They can’t leave right after Christmas,” says Joyce. “We’ve got a booking for New Year’s.”

  “And that’ll be it, then. By next New Year’s, you can have your own night on the town, maybe with a fellow to take you out.”

  15

  Before flying to Gander, Carter writes: Be ready. I have a feeling something’s going to happen very soon. We have to be ready to roll and get on it quick.

  Tumours advance, creeping over the back and blooming in the lung. Rogue cells seek out glands and organs, working inside and multiplying, scorching everything in their path. A phallic nub of cancer pushes at a bone, breaks through and sinks deep, feeding on the marrow. These visions are disgusting in detail and texture. But if he could share them with Leah she would nod in recognition. He has a strong urge to see her again. He fantasizes about another bathroom-stall moment, and a long look at the ruined body. She stopped returning emails and calls after the bowel blockage visit.

  Carter lingers over the email as his flight is called, and shortens it.

  Be ready. Something’s going to happen very soon.

  He sends it to Jordan.

  //////

  The motel off the Gander Bay Road is new to him, as are the streets that curl away from it and wind around Cobb’s Pond.

  “All this was woods when I grew up,” he says to the apple-cheeked girl on the front desk.

  “Look out if the wind changes,” she says. “The sewage plant up off Rowsell Avenue is maxed out. If we get a breeze coming this way…” She shakes her head. “Oh my God.”

  Carter sits on the slippery, floral-patterned bedspread and calls Terry, who says, “Welcome home, Newfie,” and explains how they’ll start with a visit to the Globe Theatre dig, which is the dissertation project of a student named Red. Then they’ll stop to review last year’s work at the B-24 Liberator, and see how many sites they can hit in the days following.

  Carter calls home. Sam has an electro
cardiogram later this week. He’s had one every year, but doesn’t seem to recall the other years.

  “He didn’t eat,” says Isabelle. “He wouldn’t let me say goodnight. I told him he’s fine. It’s routine. But he won’t talk about it.”

  “He’ll bounce back.”

  “How’s your room?”

  “Fine. A bit cramped.” There is a notch cut into the door so it doesn’t jam against the dresser. The bar fridge in the corner won’t open unless the bed is nudged sideways. The bed rolls easily on its wheels, but nudging it blocks the door to the small closet.

  “He’ll be fine,” says Isabelle. “It really is just routine.”

  “According to the doctor.”

  “According to you.”

  “How so?”

  “If it was anything other than routine, you would have stayed home for it.”

  Terry pulls up at six-thirty in the morning, giving the horn a couple of rude blasts.

  “They say this neighbourhood stinks to high heaven,” he says, as Carter straps in.

  “We’re waiting for the wind to change.”

  “We’re lucky.” The dusty hatchback rumbles past Carter’s high school. “No flies yet, with the cool air.”

  The old Globe Theatre is a grassed-over foundation at the corner of a dirt road. The students from Memorial are there, four men and two women, drinking from mugs. A pot steams on a nearby Coleman stove. Birds flit noisily in branches. The airport is a sea of asphalt hidden beyond the trees, close enough that they hear its machinery drone and creak in anticipation. But the sky is quiet.

  “This used to be the old Legion, here on the other corner,” says Terry, nodding at another overgrown patch. Carter helps him unload backpacks and a bag of tools. “And houses, up and down all these roads. The chapel and schoolhouse. Drill hall.”