The Stubborn Season

by Lauren B. Davis

  David waits until night falls again, then slips out of the camp, crawling on his belly until he reaches the fence that runs around the limits of the compound, then digs under with his bare hands. He tries not to cry out when his shoulder snags on the wire, afraid the company’s security guards will hear him and drag him back. He still owes them the six bucks.

  9

  October 1930

  It was Wednesday evening and Douglas sat listening to the Palmolive Hour on the radio with his vest unbuttoned and a cup of tea on the small table by his chair. He looked so smug and content, Margaret wanted to smack him.

  Margaret had shooed Irene off to bed early. All through dinner her nerves were so on edge she feared she’d bite through the fork. Douglas thought he was hiding the extent of their money problems from her, but he wasn’t. The first hints had come a few weeks back, when he began complaining about little things she bought.

  “Do you really need new handkerchiefs, Margaret? And more gloves? Surely you have a drawer full of gloves.” He had stood in the doorway of the bedroom, with his hands in his pockets, jingling his keys, watching her fold her purchases and put them in the dresser. “For someone so very fond of pointing out how difficult times are, you certainly seem to be selective about where you economize. I don’t mean to scold, my dear, not to scold at all, but merely to draw attention to how important it is not to live above ourselves.”

  “Above ourselves? What are you talking about? I’m the one who’s scrimped and saved and done without while you waste your money on booze. You’ve got your nerve, mister.”

  He had looked blankly at her and turned heel.

  Now, in the living room, Margaret said, “I went into Mrs. Munsen’s today.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yes, I had quite a chat with her.”

  “That’s good, my dear. You should get out more often.”

  “I wanted to buy some cloth, to make dresses for Irene and me.” She began to scratch the back of her hands without noticing she was doing it.

  Douglas continued listening to the music on the radio.

  “You can imagine my surprise when she wouldn’t take our money.” Margaret had the satisfaction of seeing his head snap around to look at her. She could hear the bones in his neck crack. He picked up his teacup and took a sip.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  “If you have something to say, Margaret, then say it.”

  Remembering the scene in the yard goods store, she was embarrassed all over again. “Yeah, a fine cloth. Blue suits you fine,” Mrs. Munsen had said, her arms waggling as she folded the cloth. “But you put your money away, missus. We owe your husband a penny or two. Not all the world’s as kind as him.”

  “You’ve given them credit, haven’t you?” Margaret said, and heard his startled little gasp. “I had to stand there and hear about it, hear how my husband had put me in the position of having to barter, for the love of God!”

  “Not me, for sure, but Karl, my middle son, he’s not doing so good now that Inglis let off everybody just like that,” the woman had said, as though Margaret cared about her doltish son. “We help out where we can, but who’s got extra these days? You feed the family and it’s all gone, eh? You know how it is. Karl with the twins to feed, he’s got his hands full, and your husband, a good man him, he says you pay when you can. So you don’t pay here either, missus. We’ll just make a note of what you take and tell the mister to set it down against what we owe. Like the old country, eh? When the newfangled ways all go to hell, the old ways are best again.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with extending a little credit to a good customer, Margaret. It’s good for business, in fact. Builds goodwill.”

  “I know what you’ve been doing, Douglas. I’ve seen the books.”

  Douglas stood up, overturning his teacup.

  “Douglas! Be careful!” Margaret knelt and mopped at the tea with her apron.

  “Do not tell me, Margaret, do not tell me you’ve been going through my papers!”

  It had been so easy to jimmy the flimsy lock on his desk with a hairpin and a nail file.

  “Oh yes, I’ve been in your precious sanctum sanctorum. You’ve extended credit to almost as many people as have paid. How could you be so stupid? When do you think anyone’s going to be able to pay? Next month? Next year? And what are we supposed to live on in the meantime?”

  “You had no right!”

  “I have every right,” she said, standing. “You won’t tell me things. All you say is, ‘Buy cheaper meat, Margaret. Cook with beans instead, Margaret. Do without new shoes, do without new stockings, don’t buy a magazine, can’t afford this, can’t afford that!’ “ She singsonged the words, her hands on her hips. She felt more alive than she had in some time, the fear for their future mixed with the red-hot joy of having him dead to rights, the perverse pleasure of having her fears confirmed. “We’ll lose everything!”

  “Things are not that dire.”

  “Collect that money, Douglas.”

  They stood facing one another, their laboured breathing the only sound.

  “I’ll run my business as I see fit,” said Douglas. “Stay out of it.”

  And before she could say another word, he strode to the hallway, picked up his hat and walked out, not even bothering to close the door. Margaret wanted to run after him, to scream at him in the street, but the neighbours would see and she couldn’t bear that. She stood in the doorway, all the passion of a moment before draining out of her feet onto the chilly floor. Then she slammed the door. She kicked over the chair, ran up to her bedroom, slammed that door and threw herself sobbing across the bed. Soon they would be out on the street, she knew they would be. They would starve.

  Down the hall Irene turned her face to the wall and pulled the pillow over her head.

  It was mid-October now, and they were blessed with a fine Indian summer. As the day ended, Douglas decided to take a long walk before going home. He was in a slightly bleary fog of whisky and goodwill toward men. He was thankful he was no longer burdened by an automobile. A brisk walk was good for the constitution. He stepped out into the lengthening shadows and took deep breaths of the muggy air. His flask rested against his heart. Although it was a balmy night, he whistled “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” and doffed his hat at ladies.

  He decided to walk all the way along Queen Street, maybe as far as University, even up to Queen’s Park and then back along College to home. He strolled along, pleased with himself and the world. As he rounded the corner of Bay and Queen streets he came upon a group of perhaps twenty-five men and five or six women. They were a ragtag group; even in his jolly mood he could tell that. They were lean and serious. The man in front of him wore pants so thin in the backside they were barely decent.

  Douglas did not like crowds, especially not crowds of dingy men and especially not on an evening when he felt so full of fellow-feeling. He tried to pass, but he was slightly unsteady on his feet, and someone bumped into him. A man reached out a steadying hand, and Douglas saw that the knuckles were covered in scabs.

  “Whoa there, pal,” the man said, his voice friendlier than his hard-luck face. “Steady,” he said and smiled.

  “Fine,” said Douglas. “I’m fine.”

  “’Course you are. Can’t blame a man for taking a snort to make hisself feel better in times like this.” The man looked around and then leaned into Douglas, speaking softly. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a taste thereabouts yer person, do you? For a pal?”

  “Certainly not,” said Douglas. He brushed imaginary crumbs from his lapels.

  “Ah well, too bad, eh?” said the man.

  Douglas was gently jostled into the centre of the crowd. Finding himself surrounded, he thought he might as well listen. No doubt some Methodist preacher calling on the Lord to bring on Armageddon. It might be amusing.

  A young man stood on a crate, head and shoulders above the crowd. He was pale and
wiry, and didn’t look like he’d be much good at anything that didn’t involve a desk and a stack of paper.

  Douglas couldn’t follow the man’s words. He said something about the capitalists and how they didn’t care about the working man, who was starving for lack of food and atrophying for lack of work. He waved his hands about a great deal.

  “Now Tim Buck, he’s a man with a difference, let me tell you. He’ll not sell you out the way the Tories have, the way the so-called Liberals have. He’s a man who cares, is Tim Buck. You support him and he’ll support you!”

  The man next to Douglas nudged him. “That there’s Tom McEwen, and the guy behind him”—he pointed to a small, clean-cut young fellow who looked like a department store clerk—“that’s Tim Buck. Great man. We’s here for Tim Buck, eh? All of us. Ain’t gonna put up with this no more. Not no more.”

  Douglas’s head began to clear. There had been newspaper reports of this Tim Buck, a Communist. A rabble-rouser. A threat to the Dominion.

  “Let’s hear it for Tim, friends! Tim Buck!”

  “Excuse me,” said Douglas, starting to push through the cheering crowd. He did not want to be among Communists. Methodists were bad enough. He was too hot now and didn’t feel well. He stuck out his elbows.

  “Hey, watch who you’re poking!” someone snapped.

  “Sorry,” said Douglas and tried to move forward.

  “Oh Jesus,” said someone else. “It’s the cops!” The crowd became very quiet, everyone looking this way and that. The police had come off a side street and were upon the group before they knew it.

  “We’ll fix you sons of bitches.” Several policemen shouldered their way through the crowd with far more success than Douglas, who was hemmed in on all sides. Over the top of people’s heads he could see uniformed riders on horses.

  “We have every right to be here. You have no legal reason to stop this meeting,” said McEwen. Tim Buck stood at his side, his arms folded across his chest.

  People began to mutter about their rights, but there was a hum of fear. A man grabbed a woman’s arm and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  More blue uniforms pushed through, their batons held out in front of them. The horses pranced nervously, their chests thrust out, driven forward by their riders, and people in front of them held their hands up, trying to quiet the animals and keep out of their way.

  “This is a lawful street meeting!” McEwen called out.

  “Shut that bastard’s mouth!” yelled a policeman, and with that, another, thick-limbed and stocky, raised his elbow and used it to abruptly close McEwen’s mouth.

  In that instant people started running and truncheons began to fly. Douglas saw the man who had asked him for a drink cower in front of a mounted cop. He threw his hands up over his head and screamed, “Don’t hit me, I’m an anti-Communist!” The cop cracked him on the back with his baton and said, “I don’t care what kind of Communist ya are.”

  Douglas turned to his left and his right, pushing people who were backing into him. He found his path cut off in every direction and he pushed backwards, only to feel hands roughly upon him.

  “Right then, Mac. Into the van with you,” said the cop.

  And although he protested that he was not a Communist, he was an Anglican, this only made the beefy man laugh. Douglas found himself in the back of a urine-rank paddy wagon with McEwen and Buck and several others. Three men bled from wounds to the head or face. One man’s nose was broken and he cupped his hands against it gingerly as blood dripped onto his shirt.

  “I’m not a Communist,” said Douglas, looking from one man to the other.

  “You are now, friend” came a voice from the corner. “Tom McEwen’s the name,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome to the Great Repression.”

  Where the hell was Douglas?

  Margaret smoked one cigarette after another and practised sending smoke rings into the sticky air. She got up now and again to check whether the telephone was working. She fiddled with the radio dial, listened to Chick Webb and his orchestra live from the Savoy Ballroom. At ten she turned to CPRY to hear Fred Culley and his Dance Orchestra. When that was over and the newscast began, she turned the radio off with a snap.

  Where the hell was Douglas?

  A month ago he had been brought home by Mr. Steedman, a soft-spoken churchgoing man who lived with his wife and two small sons three doors down. Mr. Steedman had had to prop Douglas up in the doorway to make sure he didn’t fall while he rang the bell.

  “Just about made it home, Mrs. MacNeil. Found him asleep in his car at the end of the block. I thought for a moment he might be hurt, but, well, looks like he’ll be fine.” Mr. Steedman smiled. He had a wide, handsome face, clean and honest. He looked sorry to be embarrassing her this way.

  “You’re very kind to bring him home.” Margaret threw Douglas’s arm around her shoulder and began to wrestle him through the door.

  “Hello, there,” Douglas had slurred. “It’s the little lady. Ain’t she pretty? Prettiest girl …”

  “I can’t tell you how embarrassing this is.”

  “No need to say anything,” Mr. Steedman said. “I’ve been known to tie one on myself. Do you need any help? I could help you get him to bed.”

  “Thank you, you’ve done enough. I can handle it from here. Thank you.” She closed the door.

  “You idiot! Out there for all the neighbours to see. You’re a disgrace.” She had plopped him in a chair and left him. The next morning he woke with a neck so stiff he could barely lift his throbbing head.

  “Serves you right,” she said, and she hid his car keys.

  She had wanted him to ask about the keys, wanted him to beg her forgiveness. But he only said, “Margaret, have you seen my keys? I have to get the car.”

  “I’ll be getting the car, Douglas. And keeping it until you can prove you’re fit to drive it.”

  “Suit yourself,” he’d said. “Gas is too expensive anyway.”

  A week later he brought a man home after work. Douglas sold their Ford to him for $200. Walked into the kitchen smug as a feudal lord, riffling the money in the air like a fan. What he had done with the money she had no idea. She certainly never saw a penny.

  If he was out squandering what little money they had left, she’d bash his brains in with the marble pastry pin. They’d never again brought up the subject of the credit he was giving out. She thought her silence might have pried some words from him, but there had been none.

  She climbed the stairs now and went into her daughter’s bedroom. A path of light fell across Irene’s sleeping form. Margaret reached into the pocket of her housecoat and pulled out her tin of cigarettes and her silver lighter. She lit one, and then snapped the Zippo shut. Irene didn’t stir at the sound.

  “Sleeping, baby?”

  Irene did not respond.

  Margaret was about to sit down on the edge of the bed when she heard footsteps on the porch. She whirled toward the sound and rushed from the room.

  As soon as Irene heard her mother’s footsteps clattering down the stairs, she opened her eyes, just peeking through half-closed lids at first and then opening fully, staring fixedly at the point where her mother had been.

  Douglas climbed the porch steps slowly. His feet felt encased in shoes of cement. He had spent the past several hours in a cell at the police station on College Street. It was a malodorous concrete space, crowded with men. Some smoked cigarettes and two played cards. One of these card players was a red-skinned Indian man. He was huge, at least three hundred pounds, with jet-black hair cut so close to his head that Douglas could see the multitude of scars on his scalp. He played some game that Douglas didn’t understand and every time he snapped a card down on the pile in front of him, yelled “Shoot the dog!” and his partner laughed. Others hunkered against the wall, their eyes as flat as tin plates, giving away nothing. One man, the front of his pants stained dark with what Douglas’s nose told him was urine, slept in a corner, his sno
res phlegm-filled.

  Douglas sat primly on the edge of a bench near the bars where the air, he imagined, was slightly fresher. He remained very still, careful not to draw attention to himself, for who knew what these men would do if they knew just how little he belonged to their tribe. Only the conviction that they could turn on him at any moment, like hyenas tearing at the stomach of a weakened packmate, stopped tears from lining his cheeks. He willed himself not to pull the hem of his jacket away from the man beside him and thereby betray the intensity of his disgust. He sat still and silent and hoped this passed for assured self-containment.

  He wanted to tell the police that it was a mistake, that he was not a Communist, but no one seemed to care. When he had been brought into the station, herded up to the desk and told to empty his pockets, he had tried to explain but was told to shut up and do as he was instructed. A hand had grabbed him roughly by the upper arm, and Douglas had been shamed by how scrawny his own arm must feel under such strong fingers. It made him aware of how weak he was and how vulnerable, and he then became afraid not only of the men with whom he had been arrested but also of the police themselves.

  After they had clanged shut the heavy, barred cell door, the police brought in McEwen and began to taunt him, telling him they would take care of his kind. That they knew what he was up to. That he should go back to where he came from. McEwen said he was born right here in Canada and had a right to his beliefs. That he was a member of a legally recognized political party and that the police had no right!

  A policeman had silenced him with a punch to the stomach. Douglas watched, horrified, as they beat him to a bloody pulp. McEwen kept his hands over his ears, his elbows shielding his face, until he became unconscious. Douglas thought they would stop the beating then, but they did not. They kept right on kicking him in the ribs and the back and the legs. What shocked Douglas almost as much as the beating was the fact that the police did not even try to hide what they were doing.