The Long Stretch

by Linden McIntyre

  “Wha’?” he says innocently. Over at the sink drying his hands. The seizure past.

  “Mother of God,” I said, “somebody left half their guts hawked up in here. Yech Christ.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Musta had a nosebleed in my sleep last night…ran down my throat.”

  Before I left for home he said: “I don’t want you going telling the young fella. Or anybody. Okay?”

  “Sure, Jack.”

  After Aunt Jessie was gone, Ma said: “We were half thinking you’d want to be staying here for a little while. Till you get things ready.”

  By the look on her face, it had already been decided.

  “God. Look at you! You’re so tall and so thin!”

  Me glowing and wanting to eat her.

  She asked where my bags were, I said I’d left them over at Squint’s.

  “Oh,” she said, a little surprised.

  “I thought it might be best for the first little while,” I said.

  Then she dragged me half running to the living room and down onto the couch where she covered my face with kisses and messed my hair and told me to stay there while she made supper. And chattered all the while from the kitchen about new projects starting up and thousands working in construction, and everything changing. It was like the causeway all over again. People coming home. Her working at the motel. Assistant manager now but still planning to go back to school. One of the girls from work going to be the bridesmaid.

  The wedding had been set for June, right after the federal election, so Sextus could be the best man. I wanted Uncle Jack but she said no, Sextus would be better. He was travelling around the country, writing about the campaign. Coming home as soon as it was over.

  After we ate we lay together on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around each other. There was no longer any doubt in my mind why I’d come home, or where I’d spend the rest of my life. Right here. Like this.

  But later, when I awoke and found her to be sleeping, her head close to mine, curls tickling my nose, I was suddenly overcome by dread. The faces of our fathers filled the room, beaming their unhappiness all around. And when my stirring woke her she sat up slowly and asked, “Do you really want to? Go through with it? We don’t have to, you know.”

  I said, “I really want to.”

  Then she told me that she could understand what I was feeling. She felt the same thing. But it would pass.

  “We’ve got the jitters,” she said. “I hear everybody gets them.”

  You want to get married but you don’t want to get married. And you finally do because you said you would.

  I was glad she admitted jitters and misgivings, because the images of her father and mine were jostling in my head all the time, it seemed. The old odours of his work clothes, still hanging on pegs in the porch. His hardhat and utility belt on a shelf. But more than that, I had the awful feeling that I was to be measured against his judgment for as long as I stayed here.

  That was fifteen years ago. I have learned to ignore it. But only after recovery from years of absolute failure.

  The old people around here used to fear the cailleach oidhche, the spirit that threatened their sleep, uninvited and unwelcome, creeping up on them with her smothering weight. I know her well. Not as an old woman, but as a man.

  The slightest movement and she’s fully conscious. Legacy of her father’s prowling.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, hint of panic in her voice.

  “I’m beat,” I said. “Gotta go home.”

  “Home?”

  “Ma offered me a place out there. Just so—”

  “It wouldn’t do any harm to stay here,” she said. “I could fix up a room.”

  “No,” I said. “It isn’t that.”

  5

  It was late in May. The election was on for June 25. Our day was June 29. It was surprisingly easy to settle in with Ma and Squint. They lived in a big old place that had been mostly closed off until Ma moved in. Within a few days I found a rhythm in the place. Going out in the mornings, checking what Squint was up to. Usually fixing some piece of machinery. He had half a dozen men working in the woods and he spent most of his time repairing vehicles and equipment. The tree-farmer had a major problem. I’d picked up enough general knowledge of machinery working in the mines that I could be useful to him. Knew a lot about diesels.

  Squint was easy on the head. He had some of the old man’s edginess but a lot of Jack’s slow deliberation. And he loved to talk.

  So I asked him, “How has old Angus been making out lately?”

  He laughed without stopping what he was doing.

  “Angus is Angus,” he said.

  “What exactly is it that’s wrong with his hearing? He always acts kind of deaf.”

  “Who knows,” Squint said. “Selective deafness. Hears what he wants to, misses the rest. Pretty useful handicap.”

  “He’s faking.”

  “No,” he said.

  September 1944, in Italy. Angus got caught out in his own artillery barrage. Out in no man’s land. Coriano Ridge.

  “Typical of Angus,” I said. “Caught out.”

  “Well,” Squint said, “maybe. But Angus was a specialist. They sent him out on sensitive snooping assignments, lightly armed. Gathering information about what the enemy was up to.”

  “Lightly armed?”

  “You had to travel light, and the Sikhs taught him to depend mostly on his knife,” Squint said. “Lots of stories about what Angus would be getting up to out there. They say he could travel at night like a raccoon. Whenever they wanted to take a prisoner for questioning, they’d send Angus.”

  When I finally encountered him, in front of the liquor store in Port Hawkesbury, Angus looked like a wreck. His hand shook when he held it out to me. Still wearing a necktie, but the shirt collar was grimy and the skinny neck scruffy.

  Very serious. Asking about Ma and Squint and Jack. I was surprised by the amount of dignity he could muster. What did I think about the election? Was I ready for the big day? Great thing, Effie and me. Hoped we’d have a whole barnful of kids.

  Some hope.

  Before I left him he dropped his voice and asked if I could spare a five until the cheque came. I dug one out and gave it to him.

  I remember asking Jack, “How did you face Angus, after you first found out?”

  Jack shrugged. “Figured if the fella that caught the bullet could put it behind them, who was I?”

  Then I blurted: “But what if Pa didn’t know? What if he thought it was a sniper like everybody else?”

  “That’s a good one,” Jack said.

  And each evening I would drive in to the motel and get Effie. We’d go to a movie. Eat at the drive-in. Or a restaurant. Or just drive and talk. Then we’d go home and have a drink of something. Or tea. And she’d ask if I wanted to stay and I’d say I’d better not.

  “You’re so old-fashioned,” she’d tease.

  Me mumbling something apologetic.

  Her saying, “It’s a good thing one of us has his head screwed on right.”

  6

  Getting married is way too easy. A couple of people not yet wise enough to make a sensible decision only have to go along to some church or government person and ask to be married and it’s done. So sure of themselves.

  Of course it’s easy to get out of commitments now. Thanks to Mr. Trudeau! People in and out of marriages like mortgages. Actually a mortgage is a lot more binding. Ending a marriage? No fuss, no muss. But I see lots of fuss and muss at work. People and their personal problems take up half of my time.

  June went by quickly. Another Kennedy murdered. Sextus had to leave the campaign for a week to deal with that. Must be the only reporter they’ve got up there, Ma said. Then Trudeau walked away with the election. I didn’t vote. Didn’t give a shit one way or the other.

  Sextus and Jack both docked on the twenty-eighth, Friday night. Met up at the airport in Halifax. Drove down together. Both a little wobbly getti
ng here. Then we got together with Squint and Duncan. Father Duncan, at this point. Had a little stag party. Drinking and talking. Jack and me catching up. I never mentioned Scotty.

  Effie wanted to get married outside. In the field below the house, near the poplar trees. I was thinking: Not far from where Pa shot our dog. Duncan, who was presiding over everything, got the goahead from the bishop on the understanding that we’d all troop off to town later and sanctify the whole performance with a proper Mass. Which is what we did. Effie invented a lot of the ceremony, with Duncan’s approval. There was a lot about loyalty and respect. She had daisies tangled in her hair. They had to be artificial because the real ones weren’t out yet. Only dandelions. I joked she should try them but she just gave me a look. Jack and Squint and Angus standing at the back of the crowd looking very edgy.

  Jack saying afterwards: “Jesus, boy. That was some nice.”

  Me searching his face for evidence of mockery.

  What else? Dinner at the Skye. A party at the house. A couple of Duncan’s priest friends showed up. One had a fiddle and the other brought a guitar and they were good.

  I was afraid to stop driving that night. After it became time to leave the party. I remember Uncle Jack was drunk. On the verge of passing out. I volunteered to drive him home. Sextus took me by the arm. Fairly drunk himself.

  “Hey, man,” he said. Talking like someone from away. “I think you got something else to take care of.” Arm over my shoulder, face close to mine. Sweaty. His arm hot. “Little bit of business over there in the corner,” nodding his leering face toward Effie, who was with Ma and Squint, conspicuous in her new suit. Her travel clothes.

  “I’ll take care of the old man,” he says. “You take care of that.”

  Two hours after we left, near Truro, Effie asked, “When do you plan to stop?”

  Fortunately I had a bottle of rum with me. I took a large drink when she went into the bathroom. Then a couple more when it became obvious that she was taking her time in there. Sitting on the side of the bed with a quart of rum fighting panic.

  Scotty was supposed to be for practice but all she proved was that I needed lots of it. Should have started sooner. Practising. Christ.

  The drink helped. I felt suddenly reckless. Undressed. Clambered into the bed. Switched off the bedside lamp. And thought of Angus.

  She didn’t wait for me to start anything. She took control. All the things that I’d imagined were supposed to happen seemed to happen. But when it was over, I still felt that I’d missed something.

  Squint and I actually became friends in the following months. No way was he going to be my stepfather. He was no Uncle Jack. But gradually I warmed to him. Occasionally we’d go in to Billy Joe’s for a beer. Played a lot of cards. Effie and me, himself and Ma. With a few drinks, Squint was one of the few who’d talk about the war. Places he’d been. Some of the things he’d seen. And I often wondered how much he really knew.

  I got work at the pulp mill. Started stevedoring, loading boats. Then the woodyard, driving a loader. Called into the office one day and Sandgren, the Swede, back from New York, asked if I wanted a permanent position. I said sure. Sandgren had become personnel manager by then. He pointed out that I really needed a grade twelve certificate but he was sure I’d get that sooner or later. And I assured him I would. Before I knew it I was in. Wondering why he smiled at me and acted friendly. But I never got a chance to ask because he was gone soon afterwards. Back to Sweden. Never heard of either one of them again.

  7

  Squint came by one afternoon on one of my days off shift. Effie was at the motel. It was early afternoon but he’d already had drinks by the look of him.

  “Come on to town,” he said. Which meant to Billy Joe’s.

  My choice was to go with him or have him settle in here. Probably had a bottle in his truck. I decided to go. Squint was a binge drinker. Would go on it for a week at a time. No harm in him, though, Ma said.

  The tavern was practically deserted because it was mid-afternoon.

  “You know what day this is?” Squint said.

  Then I remembered. November 11.

  “Was there no ceremony this year?” I asked.

  “Didn’t go this year,” he said. “Your ma gets a little tense. For good reason, as I understand.”

  I felt a tightening in my gut.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “Your father was a good man. Shame he had to live with something like that…considering how everything happened.”

  I didn’t ask. Something told me I didn’t have to.

  “Nobody ever told you, eh?”

  “Told me what?” I said, studying my beer bottle.

  “About what happened to your old man.”

  I nodded.

  “Funny thing,” he said. “I was there. But I don’t quite remember exactly how the two units came to be so close together. We’d never been in the same area before. But out of the blue we heard we were relieving the 9th Infantry Brigade and I remember somebody saying, ‘Jesus that’ll be the North Novies.’ And sure enough, it was. Somewhere close to the German border. Near a place called Dokkum. You ever heard of it?

  “I was out all night on a contact patrol. Not a hide or a hair of a German to be found. Near daybreak I’m after coming out of some woods, from the east, into a big polder with an old stone barn in the middle of it. Sun just coming up.

  “Then I sees this commotion around the front of the barn and when I pull up, they’re taking somebody out on a stretcher. Looks dead to me. Has that orange look. And a wicked smash in his head. Blood all over. I look closer and Jesus Christ, it’s Sandy Gillis.

  “Talk about surprised, seeing him there.

  “‘What happened?’ I ask somebody.

  “‘Sniper,’ they say. ‘Over in those woods, by the sound of it,’ pointing to where I just came from.

  “‘Says who?’ I say. I’d been all over that area. Seen nothing. The guy points to the door of the barn and there’s Angus MacAskill standing there. Like he was going to pass out. Almost as far gone as the guy on the stretcher. Soaked with poor Sandy’s blood. Tried to carry him, I guess. Making himself look good.”

  “Look good?”

  “Well,” he says. “Think about it.”

  Looking straight at me, face full of insinuation.

  “I took off then, heading for those trees. Imagine how I feel. They’re saying somebody picked off Sandy Gillis right under my nose. But I never heard or saw nothing. Often when there was a sniper, you’d find signs. Empty shells. Food leftovers. Shit. Clothes. Whatnot. I spent a lot of time in those woods that day. And there was nothing. Not a trace.”

  I haven’t touched the beer. Afraid to look at him. That he’ll stop. Or continue.

  “The official report said a sniper,” he said. “But we all knew different.”

  “No sniper,” I said.

  “Oooohhhh, no. No sniper.” He started fishing in his jacket pocket for a package of cigarettes. Keeping close eye contact. “So you knew,” he said finally, eyes narrowed.

  I nodded.

  He lit up a cigarette. “When the rest of it started coming out, some of the boys thought we should say something. Or do something. Fella shouldn’t get away with something like that. Then the Krauts suckholed. Days later. Maybe a week or so. War was over. And we were thinking about other things.”

  He was studying me quietly: “You’re okay, are you?”

  I nodded.

  “I often wondered,” he said, “how much you knew. Or if you knew anything at all. Especially when that one was around and all the talk was going on.”

  That one?

  “The Dutch one. Who landed here, the Swede’s wife. In my personal opinion she was the cause of it, you know.”

  And he told me, perhaps too eagerly, his theory: that Angus shot my father in a jealous rage over a girl named Annie. Sandy’s little Dutch girlfriend.

  “How would Angus know that the old man had a girlfriend if he was in a
different part of the country right up until they met?”

  “I wondered about that. Only thing I can figure was she was there, with Sandy, when Angus showed up.”

  “In the barn?”

  “I’d put money on it. Angus walked in on them. Everybody in Sandy’s company knew he was having a little fling with this Dutch one. It had been hot and heavy for weeks. Naturally after he got shot word went around that it had something to do with her. Sure enough, Angus in his cups one night after everything was over starts blubbering about some female being in the barn with Sandy when he got there. And everybody just put two and two together. Sandy and this Annie having a little time in the barn, before the North Novies move out. A little bit of a farewell. And who should walk in but Angus the fuamhair from home.

  “Some wicked story, what? Then when she showed up here seventeen years later everybody was talking and wondering what was going to happen. Never expecting what did.

  “Queer when you think…yourself and young Effie…married now. Your old man would’ve got a wicked kick out of that.”

  Squint and I drank late into the night. Eventually he delivered me home. Somehow to bed.

  I came half awake as Effie was dressing to go to work and I decided then that I would never tell her what Squint had told me.

  Whatever happened there no longer mattered.

  Millie says Squint’s story was a load of crap. Admitted that her family had known Annie Van Ryk a lot better than she’d first acknowledged. Squint was talking through his hat. Annie was from Zutphen. Millie had an uncle there.

  “Annie was a doctor’s daughter and she was seventeen and the likelihood of being overnight in a barn with a soldier, no matter how nice, even a Canadian—I doubt it.

  “And if she was! Can you imagine somebody like her who saw something like that happen ever wanting go set eyes on either of those guys again? Not likely. She’d have freaked out, first sign of either one. Run a mile. Wouldn’t have stayed around here a day. Never mind getting involved again.” Involved again?

  “Well…it’s not unlikely that they…knew each other. Over there. Annie and your dad. Maybe even…”