The Stubborn Season

by Lauren B. Davis

  Pack up all my care and woe, here I go, singing low,

  Bye-bye, blackbird.

  He turned, did a little pirouette, saw the lights of a car approaching, and as nimbly as his rubbery legs would allow, he capered to the sidewalk and bowed as the vehicle passed. “Toro!” he called.

  Back out into the street, he stamped into a puddle. He threw back his head and let loose, singing like Al Jolson, his hand over his heart.

  No one here can love or understand me

  Oh, what hard-luck stories they all hand me

  Make my bed, and light the light, I’ll arrive late tonight

  Blackbird, bye-bye.

  The driver had come south from Sioux Lookout the day before in search of work. He looked down to consult the map on his lap, holding a lighter to read by. He looked away from the road for only a second. He couldn’t be blamed, everyone said later, it really wasn’t his fault, after all the man was clearly drunk as a Davey’s sow and raving in the middle of the slippery road. One minute there was the man’s face in his window and then his body all twisted there on the street, his blood flowing out of him in an astonishingly vast river, red to pink in the rainfall, and pink to nothing at all as it ran down the drain into the sewer.

  Part IV

  16

  April 1936

  The day of the funeral was damp and dull. Irene sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in her tartan housecoat with her feet in a pair of her father’s old socks. She had given up on sleep hours before. She rested her elbows on the slightly sticky tabletop and her forehead on the heels of her palms. More than anything else this grief was exhausting. Since the news, Irene moved through the house as though through a pool of viscid liquid. To lift a kettle, to fold a towel, to butter a piece of bread—all these things had to be thought out in advance, had to be navigated and achieved with the weights of mourning tied to her wrists. She wanted only to lie in bed, to sleep, to forget. But muzzy with the desire to sleep as she was, she could not quiet her mind enough to actually rest, and so more often than not she found herself sitting at this table, with a cooling pot of weak tea in front of her.

  The last time she’d seen her father, he had given her a kiss and squeezed her arm. “It’s going to be all right, Pet, I promise.” This as he left the house for work on Thursday. And it was Monday, now. How did it get to be Monday? He had whistled as he sauntered down the street that day, whistled Happy days are here again, the skies above are clear again. The face of the policeman, early Friday morning. He was so solemn, so ashamed looking, as though he himself had run her father down like a rabid terrier in the street. Her mother screaming and smashing about, flinging herself like a demonic rag doll, so that finally the policeman called a doctor and she had been sedated and had remained so all that day and the next night.

  And her father on the slab in the morgue. I’m sorry, miss. This will be hard, but we need to be sure. Can I get you something, a glass of water? She had looked at the man in astonishment. What good would water do to wash away the memory of his face, his head, the appalling shape of his head, all wrong, his mouth with the lower lip torn away …

  She put her hands over her eyes.

  You’d think the house would feel empty, but it felt more cramped than usual, with the rock of sorrow so large in the centre of everything, and the ghost of her father appearing before her as she entered every room.

  This was the hardest part. Irene could hardly bear to look at his things, not because they reminded her of him; she wanted to be reminded. It helped erase the terrible image of the morgue. But there was, in this most final of equations, so little of him, so little to tip the balance in favour of his life. A few clothes, hung tidily in a closet. A pair of brown shoes. A pair of black shoes. An old hat in need of blocking. A corner of the living room for his desk and his papers. And that was all, really. The rest of the house was filled with her mother’s presence, her sharp acrid scent, her preferences for deep colour and cluttered surfaces.

  How could someone spend nearly fifty years on the planet and have so little to show for it? It was like the house was no more than a hotel to him, a place where you brought only what you would need for a brief stay. Her mother muttered about him having other women, and although Irene didn’t believe he had a woman stashed away anywhere (for how could he have afforded it?), she almost hoped it was true. It was a comfort, somehow, to think that somewhere out there he had a fuller life, a life that was not so glaringly unfulfilled. Surely he could not have tread so lightly on the crust of the earth that he didn’t leave any imprint at all.

  It broke her heart to think how little she had known about her own father. They had never had a conversation about what he hoped for in life, what he regretted, what he believed. She didn’t know whether he believed in God, in an afterlife, in anything.

  She had found a shoebox of old photos in the back of the closet. There was a picture of her father and mother standing in front of the house where her mother had been raised. She had taken the photo out of the box and slipped it into her pocket. She took it out now and studied it. Her father wore an ill-fitting, light-coloured tweed suit and a dark tie that was slightly twisted around and puffed out from the top of his vest. He held a cigarette in his left hand, while his right arm tightly clutched her tiny, dark-haired mother, who stood nearly on tiptoe, her body hitched up with the force of his grasp. Her mother wore a funny checked coat and impossibly small black shoes. Her father had hair then. He smiled, looking pleased with himself and his girl. He looked so self-contained and proud, with his narrow chest stuck out and an eyebrow raised. Irene put the photo back in the pocket of her robe and pressed her fingers to her lips.

  Although she thought she was done with weeping, her eyes already red and swollen, she wept again.

  Where was Uncle Rory? She wanted him here so badly. But there was nowhere to write to. That last postcard from Kenora hadn’t even had a return address on it. It had read: “The wind’s blown me back out west. Conditions in the mines in Nova Scotia enough to break your heart. We’re not giving up, though. We’ll make them listen yet. Keep your head up, Doodles. And keep studying. You’re a smart girl and can be anything you want. Never take a factory job! I’ll write more from where I land. Love to your mum and dad, and to you, Rory XXX.”

  She was unclear who the “we” referred to, and didn’t really believe it was the Communists, as her mother said. Not that she cared. She just wanted him here. Wanted not to be left alone.

  From upstairs came the creak of bedsprings, and she heard her mother shuffling to the bathroom. Irene closed her eyes and turned her face up to heaven. Please, God, just a few minutes more alone. Let her go back to bed. But heavy footsteps on the stairs made it clear God’s deafness was to continue today as it had yesterday and the day before that. Her mother moved as if afraid she might fall.

  Irene stood up and filled the kettle again. Tea, more tea, always tea. She added a few more leaves to the pot. Her mother announced her presence by blowing her nose.

  “I’d kill him myself, if he were here,” her mother said, not for the first time.

  “Tea?” Irene kept her face turned to the window.

  “These pills the doctor gave me, they’re not helping. They just make me dizzy. I can’t think straight. What are we supposed to do now? What’s going to happen to me?”

  “We’ll be all right.”

  “How can you say that? How the hell are we supposed to be all right?”

  “I told you. I’ll quit school, I’ll take over the shop.”

  “What the hell does a kid like you know about running a shop?” Margaret snorted.

  “I’m seventeen. I’m not a kid anymore. Lots of young people work, younger than me. If they can find work, that is. And I’ll hire someone to help.”

  “Hire someone? That’s a laugh. And where’s that money going to come from?”

  Irene had told her mother about the unexpected gift she’d found among her father’s papers.

  “I d
oubt that fool even kept up the premiums.”

  “I told you, Mum. I called Great-West Life. They’ll be here tomorrow with the cheque. Two thousand five hundred dollars, Mum. We’re going to be all right.”

  “Oh, you’ll be fine. After all, you’re the beneficiary. Not me. Not his wife.”

  They had been over all this before and Irene didn’t believe that telling her mother again that she’d always take care of her would do any good.

  “With the mortgage on the house and the store, we won’t be fine at all,” her mother continued. “You’re not a druggist! What are you going to sell? And I’m not well enough to help, you know. Not with my headaches and now this. It’ll kill me. You’ll be burying us both.”

  “Drink your tea, Mum, you’ll feel better.”

  “A soda fountain. What the hell was he thinking? He’s ruined us, you know that, don’t you? The second he gave Mr. Casselman that poison!”

  “He made a mistake, that’s all. He didn’t poison anyone.”

  “That’s not what the neighbours are saying, you know that, don’t you?”

  Irene rubbed the space between her eyes with her middle finger, willing herself not to turn around and scream at her mother.

  “Your father was a drunk and a fool, Irene. And everyone knows it. They whisper about it. I know that and you know that. Why, I can’t even leave the house.”

  “I don’t know what everyone is saying, and neither do you! Can’t you leave it alone, just for today, Mum? Can’t you please? We’re burying Dad today, for God’s sake.”

  “Oh, so it’s going to be like that, is it? Very well, Irene. Very well. You’re a cruel girl. My husband’s just died and you won’t even let me talk about it. That’s just like you. You’re upset and that’s all that counts. Your father wasn’t the man you think he was. He wanted more children, you know. Wanted a son. That was his big regret. Not having a son.”

  Irene wanted to scream that Margaret was probably the reason her father had been a drunk, that living with her would drive anyone to drink. She wanted to scream that it would serve her mother right if she just walked out the door this very minute and took the insurance money with her.

  But she knew what fury that would unleash. Hadn’t she learned that as a little girl? It didn’t matter that she was as tall as her mother now. In her mind she was still small. She felt like a prisoner brainwashed to believe the bars of the jail were there, even if they weren’t anymore.

  So she kept her mouth shut, although the pressure of the words blowing tornado-like against the inside of her head was so great it made tears spring to her eyes.

  Seeing those tears, Margaret thought her remark concerning Douglas’s disappointment at not having a son had struck the mark. She picked up her teacup and took a sip. She was ashamed of herself. She said these things and she knew she shouldn’t, the hurtful words kept slipping out and she couldn’t stop them. She wanted to throw herself in her daughter’s arms, asking forgiveness. Maybe everything would be better if she did. She opened her mouth to speak.

  “This is bitter,” she said and put the cup back on the saucer carelessly, slopping tea onto the table. She left it there, wrapped her housecoat around her and left the kitchen.

  “Take a bath, Mum,” Irene called after her. “The service starts at ten. They’ll be here in a couple of hours.”

  “I’m not going,” her mother called back.

  Irene followed her and stood at the bottom of the stairs. Margaret made a great display of struggling up each step, one hand on her heart, one foot quiveringly raised, the other hand gripping the banister.

  “What do you mean, you’re not going?”

  “Just what I said.” She kept her face averted. “I have no intention of making a spectacle of myself. In front of all those gawking eyes. I couldn’t stand it.”

  “You have to go.”

  Margaret turned. “I don’t have to do anything. I told you I thought this funeral was a waste of money and in bad taste, too, given the state your father was in when he died. The only people who’ll come are the neighbourhood snoops wanting a show.”

  “Aunt Janet will be there, and Uncle Oscar.”

  “Just coming around to see what they can get.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous, am I? Fine. Do what you want. What I’m going through doesn’t matter.”

  “Mum, please …”

  “No, no! I won’t! I won’t go!” Margaret slapped her hand on the railing. “I won’t fall apart in front of strangers. I won’t!”

  “All right, Mum, you don’t have to go. It’s all right. Go back to bed.” And she smiled at her mother. If she worked herself up into hysteria, neither of them would be able to go.

  “I don’t want you to go either. I need you here. Don’t leave me, Kitten.” She reached out her hand.

  As clearly as if her mother had spoken aloud, Irene saw how Margaret thought they’d live together, the two of them, locked up in this house, sharing everything until they melded into one single entity. Where do you end and I begin? She looked at her mother’s hand, the bird-like scrapping hardness of the fingers and slightly yellowed nails. Afraid, she involuntarily put her own hands behind her back.

  “I’m going, Mum. You don’t have to, but I’m definitely going.”

  “You don’t have to, you know. It won’t matter, dear. Why put yourself through it?” said Margaret, wheedling. “We don’t need to parade our grief. It should be private. We can comfort each other.”

  “Go to bed if you want, Mother. Or come with me. It’s your choice. But I’m going.” Irene turned back to the kitchen.

  “Selfish!” her mother called after her. “Selfish like your father! I might just as well take all those pills the doctor left. I might just as well!”

  Irene cut herself a slice of bread. She heard her mother upstairs pacing and muttering. She poured herself a glass of milk and heard something shatter. A glass, a bottle of pills, maybe. Or a photograph. Irene forced herself to eat.

  When she went upstairs her mother’s door was shut, but it was quiet inside. Irene went straight to her room and closed her door.

  She had laid out her dark dress on the back of the chair with her stockings and slip. She took off her robe. She slipped her clothes on and looked at herself in the mirror as she buttoned up the collar. A serious girl looked back at her. Pale and wan, but with dark brown eyes in which Irene thought she detected a trace of her uncle Rory. A capable person. A person who could do anything she wanted. Arrange a father’s funeral, say, or run a store, be an employer, or tread water for as long as necessary, even when her mother would like to pull her down among the reeds and fishes and drown them both.

  Irene picked up her purse, checked to see she had her gloves and headed to the door without saying goodbye. She plucked an umbrella from the stand and as she opened the front door she brushed against the black wreath hanging there. This had been another expense her mother said was showy and unnecessary but that Irene had insisted on, hoping it would attract some of the neighbours to call. She was disappointed that they had not, but didn’t hold it against them, understanding all too well the difficulties her family presented.

  The driver from the funeral home had not arrived yet, but Irene decided to wait outside on the porch. She felt she had let her father down. They should have buried him from home. That’s what people did when they couldn’t afford a grand viewing at the mortician’s, but of course her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Irene wanted at least to have the hearse come to the house, but she’d been shouted down on that as well. She hated to think of her father lying all alone on the cold mortician’s slab, travelling all alone to his final resting place.

  She took a deep breath of the mild air and thought, if you had to pick one, that April was a good month for funerals. The earth was soft enough to dig in but cold enough still not to be rude with bursting life. And then there was the bleak bone-grey sky, the coat-soaking drizzle, and the trees caught betwee
n the promise of life to come and the skeletal fingers of leafless March.

  The black car arrived and the surprisingly young black-suited man came around and opened the door for her.

  “All alone, miss?” he said.

  Without looking back at the house to see if her mother was peeking out the window, she replied that yes, she was alone.

  “The rest … will meet us at the cemetery.”

  “Yes, miss. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.

  The hearse, Mr. Carrick the mortician, Reverend Dillard and the mortician’s assistant were waiting for her. The coffin was already placed at the graveside. Irene blushed and twisted her gloves in her hands. She felt exposed out here under the roofless sky. Perhaps it would have been better to have had a service at the church after all. At least she could have sat and made herself small, could have taken some comfort from being enclosed, if not by the support of friends and family, then at least by walls. But she had to admit that few people would likely come, even with a notice posted, and the idea of sitting alone, or nearly so, in a place made for many made her shudder.

  Mr. Carrick opened the door for her and took her hand.

  “My condolences, Miss MacNeil. Deepest sympathy,” he murmured.

  “Thank you.”

  As she stepped out of the car she saw worms wriggling by the side of the roadway, washed out of the earth by last night’s rain. Two gravediggers stood under a nearby tree, their hats pulled low and their collars turned up against the drizzle. The minister came toward her, carrying a big black umbrella. Irene realized she must have forgotten her umbrella on the porch. She was doing that a lot the past few days—losing a train of thought, a hairbrush, walking into rooms and then forgetting why she was there.