by Mary Lawson
CHAPTER THREE
Tom
Struan, January 1969
He had turned the big winged armchair towards the window so that one of the wings shielded him from the rest of the room, which was why his father hadn’t noticed him when he’d stuck his head out of the study to roar at the others. The roaring didn’t bother Tom—in fact, it barely registered—but he’d automatically glanced up and as he was about to return to his paper a movement caught his eye: Adam, his youngest brother—no, second-youngest, as of a week ago—straightening up from a crouching position on the floor. He’d been playing with his Matchbox toys right outside the door of their father’s study and must have curled himself into a ball, arms over his head, to protect himself from the blast. Now he was unfurling.
Their eyes met. It had been many months since Tom had noticed much of anything that took place either within his family or outside it, but he couldn’t help noticing the anxiety in his younger brother’s eyes and it struck him that a kid that age shouldn’t be looking like that. Tom wondered vaguely how to reassure him. Make light of things, maybe. Turn their father’s temper into a joke.
Keeping his voice down so that their father wouldn’t hear, he said, “I reckon he was a little bit annoyed. Whaddya think?”
Adam nodded but didn’t look particularly reassured. Maybe he was too young for humour.
“He wasn’t mad at you, you know,” Tom said. Probably their father hadn’t even noticed him down there at his feet.
Another nod. Still not reassured.
Tom couldn’t think of anything else to say so he returned to his paper. He read The Globe and Mail cover to cover, world news to racing results, every day; it was fascinating, every word of it, and it took up almost all of his free time. He had a lot of free time nowadays, more than he wanted, but the number of jobs you could find in a place the size of Struan involving no contact with people was limited, and that was his chief requirement. At the moment he drove the town’s one and only snowplough, perched up high in the draughty, freezing cab, peering through the frosted windscreen, blinded by flying snow, terrified of mowing someone down. Once he’d pushed Paul Jackson’s snow-covered Buick twenty feet before he realized it wasn’t a snowdrift.
The job was shift work; he alternated with Marcel Bruchon, a farmer who augmented his income that way during the winter months. Marcel would be out there now, thundering down the main roads, snow flying off the blade of the plough like the wing of some gigantic bird, trying to get the roads cleared so people could get home from work. Marcel took the late shift and Tom took the early one, which suited him fine. He started at six in the morning, cleared the main roads—there weren’t many, Struan was a small town—then worked his way out to the side roads. Some days the snow fell so fast there was no way to keep up with it and the farmers and other out-of-towners had to resort to snowshoes or skis or just stay home. The only drawback of the job was that if there was no snow there was no work, but from November onwards that was rare.
Summer had been more of a problem, job-wise. The previous summer he’d started off working at the gas station, but people kept talking to him while he filled up their tanks and cleaned their windshields so he quit. Then he got a job working as a ranger for the Forestry Commission. He’d spent the days perched in a fire tower on the top of Mount Allen, binoculars glued to his eyes, searching for telltale wisps of smoke above the endless rolling sea of trees. In theory it should have suited him even better than the snowplough—not a soul for miles in any direction—but in practice it had turned out to be a mistake. There was too little thinking involved and he couldn’t read to distract himself, so his mind filled up with thoughts like lungs filling up with water till he could hardly breathe. At least with the snowplough you had to concentrate on the road. So he’d quit fire-watching too and got a job driving a logging truck, which had turned out to be just fine.
Something bumped into his shoe. Tom lowered his paper and saw that Adam was in the process of driving his battered fleet of Matchbox cars across the room and parking them at his feet. He must have felt Tom’s gaze because he looked up guiltily.
“It’s okay,” Tom said. “You can play with them here. Just don’t run into my feet.”
Adam nodded and moved the cars carefully around the corner of the chair. But Tom felt a stirring of irritation in his guts; unlike his father he normally had no difficulty blocking out his family but now that Adam had intruded on his privacy other things were intruding too. He could hear the thudding of Peter’s and Corey’s feet upstairs in their bedroom; there’d be a scuffle followed by a loud thump as one or other of them collided with a wall and then more scuffling. In the study his father blew his nose with an angry blast. Down beside the chair there was a tinny crash as Adam staged a pileup. It had been a mistake to talk to the kid.
Tom tossed the paper onto the floor and stood up. Outside it was dark already, although it was only half past three. The wind was picking up, hurling gusts of snow against the windows. His stomach felt agitated. Maybe there wasn’t enough in it, he thought. He’d had lunch at Harper’s after his shift but that was a good while ago.
He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared into it, then became aware that Adam had followed him and was standing by his left knee and staring into it too. Tom fought the urge to tell him to go away. Definitely it had been a mistake to talk to him. He had nothing against this particular brother—relative to the others he was a model of good behaviour—but he wanted to be left alone. His wish was to be invisible and he had the uneasy feeling Adam was starting to see him.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, trying half-heartedly to keep the irritation out of his voice.
Those anxious eyes again. A nod.
“What did Mum give you for lunch?” He never ate lunch at home himself. He had a bowl of cornflakes and a piece of toast first thing in the morning before setting out for the gas station where the snowplough was kept, and a hot beef sandwich with gravy and fries at Harper’s restaurant when he finished, regardless of the time of day. There were two half-width booths at the back of the restaurant, one of which was usually empty. If not, he’d spread his newspaper over the table in one of the larger booths to deter company. He’d made a point of never getting into conversation with either of the waitresses; apart from giving his order, which he no longer had to do as they both knew what it was, he didn’t have to say anything but thank you. The hot beef sandwiches were good, as were the fries, so in pretty much every way it beat eating with his family. In the evening he’d make himself a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of coffee. On Sundays Harper’s was closed, so on Sundays he lived on coffee and sandwiches.
“She was busy with the baby,” Adam whispered.
“You can talk normally,” Tom said irritably. “He can’t object to that. Didn’t you have any lunch, then?”
“Cornflakes,” Adam said, slightly louder. Then he added, “But the milk tasted funny.”
Tom took the milk bottle out of the refrigerator, sniffed it, walked over to the sink and poured it down the drain. He went back to the fridge. Inside was a packet of lard, an egg box with two eggs in it, one shrivelled carrot and a plate with a bowl inverted over it, which turned out to contain a highly suspect lump of meat. Tom dumped the meat into the garbage bag under the sink. The meat smelled bad and the garbage bag smelled worse; he quickly closed the cupboard door again. He looked around the kitchen for any further traces of food. The counter was cluttered with unwashed dishes and saucepans and old papers and half-empty glasses and cups and somebody’s shoes. The only food he could see was the box of cornflakes—empty, it turned out—and a jar of peanut butter so well scraped out there was nothing left but the smell. The bread bin was empty as Peter had so loudly observed.
Tom opened the food cupboard above the counter: one can of peas, two cans of Heinz baked beans, one of peaches, one of condensed milk, one of condensed mushroom soup, a carton of Minute Rice, a bag of flour, an open bag of sugar, a box o
f salt with a built-in spout, a jar of relish and a jar of dried-out mustard. He checked the cupboards under the counter: a box of Quaker Oats. That was it.
He opened the top cupboards again and took out the two cans of baked beans, then looked around for the can opener.
“It’s in the sink,” Adam said, whispering again.
Tom looked down at him. “You haven’t been using it, have you?”
Adam shook his head but he looked guilty.
“Well don’t,” Tom said. “It’s dangerous.”
“Okay.”
“How old are you, anyway?” Tom asked abruptly, because it somehow seemed relevant.
“Four and a half,” Adam said. He hauled up his shirt and scratched his belly. He didn’t smell too great, though not as bad as the garbage or the meat.
Tom thought suddenly, This place is going to hell.
He urgently wanted to get back to The Globe and Mail. He’d almost got to the obituaries, which were one of the best bits—all those people you’d never heard of and had now discovered just too late.
How long had it been since their mother had come downstairs and cooked a meal? Since before the baby arrived? He wasn’t sure he’d seen her at all for a couple of days, not even drifting about with the baby in her arms. Maybe there was something wrong with her. It couldn’t just be the new baby; she’d had babies before—eight of them, in fact—and he couldn’t remember the place falling apart with the others.
Though of course, now that he thought about it, Megan had been here for the others. Maybe she was the one who’d kept things running. But Megan had been gone three years now. She’d flown the coop.
He went over to the sink. Adam was right: the can opener was in there, along with a tangle of dirty plates and utensils and saucepans, all of them now spattered with sour milk.
“Where’s Mrs.… whatever her name is?” Tom said. “The lady who helps Mum clean the house. Has she been here this week?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Tom rinsed off the can opener, opened both cans of beans, looked for a clean saucepan, discovered there were none, rinsed off two spoons and gave one of them and a can of beans to Adam.
“Thank you,” Adam said, very politely.
They ate where they stood, spooning in the beans. Tom had to force them down. He was fighting a growing sense of dread, brought on by his small brother and the empty cupboards. There was something going wrong and he didn’t want to know about it, far less deal with it. He pushed down the last of the beans, swallowing hard, dumped the can in the garbage, nodded briefly to Adam and went upstairs.
The door of his mother’s room was closed. He hesitated for a moment and then tapped lightly.
“Come in,” his mother’s voice said.
He opened the door cautiously. She was sitting up in bed with the baby over her shoulder, gently rubbing its back.
“Donald,” she said, and smiled at him. “Come in, dear. How are you?”
Tom decided against pointing out that Donald was on a ship on the other side of the world along with his twin brother, Gary, both of them having joined the navy two years ago. There was nothing particularly worrying about his mother mixing up her children’s names though; she’d always done it.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine too,” she said. “A little tired, but fine. Isn’t your brother the sweetest thing you ever saw?”
Which one, Tom thought. I have many, none of them sweet. “Yeah, he’s great,” he said. “Um, I was wondering about food, Mum. There doesn’t seem to be much in the house.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “Well don’t worry, there’ll be something.”
Tom shifted his feet. “I’ve had a look and there’s hardly anything. And I think Adam’s been … hungry. Like, really hungry. He didn’t have any lunch today. There isn’t even any bread in the house.”
“Oh,” his mother said, and she did sound mildly concerned, which gave him hope. “Well, for the moment, could you just make him a sandwich? I’d do it but this little fellow is hungry too—he seems to be hungry all the time, day and night.”
The hope drained away. Did she just not listen or was she going nuts? She was smiling down at the baby. Tom had a sudden fleeting memory of how it had felt to be on the receiving end of that smile. The warmth of it. The safety.
“Sure,” he said. “Sure. I’ll make him a sandwich.”
He went back downstairs. The dread churning around in his stomach was mixed now with anger and frustration. He needed—not wanted, needed—to get back to his newspaper.
He crossed the living room and stood for a moment outside the door of his father’s study. His father would be sitting at his desk surrounded by his bloody books; he’d look up and on his face would be an expression of barely contained impatience, as if this were the tenth time Tom had interrupted him in as many minutes instead of the first time in years. Once upon a time Tom wouldn’t have been put off by that. Once upon a time he’d had privileged status with their father, though he’d never been quite sure why. But no longer.
He stood facing the door, head down, mouth a tight line. He had something important to say and he was going to say it. He would say, Dad, your wife is losing her mind, your four-year-old son is hungry and there’s no food in the house. I thought you’d like to know. He wouldn’t wait for a reply. He would turn around and go back to his obituaries.
On the other side of the door the silence was so deep that either his father was dead at his desk or else he knew Tom was there and was waiting for him.
Tom turned on his heel and crossed the living room again, into the entrance hall where the coats were piled on pegs and the floor was a mad scramble of boots. He found his own and savagely pulled them on. The twins might have been of some help had they still been home—they were both reasonably sensible—but the idea of either Corey or Peter doing anything was laughable and he wasn’t going to waste his breath by asking them. It was easier to do it himself.
He checked his pockets for money, reckoned he had enough to buy the basics, looked up and saw Adam standing in the doorway, watching him, his hands clenched tightly under his chin.
“Don’t stand in the doorway!” Tom said sharply. “You’ll catch cold. I’m going to buy some food.” He went out, slamming the door behind him.
It was so dark outside you’d think it was four in the morning rather than four in the afternoon. Marcel and the snowplough thundered by just as he got to Main Street, but even if it hadn’t been snowing so hard there would have been no question of taking the car. The piles of snow thrown up by the plough blocked off all of the side roads; opening them up again was the second stage of the procedure and in weather like this the plough never got to the second stage. Anyway, it would have taken him at least an hour to shovel out the driveway. He walked along the road, following in the wake of the plough. From time to time muffled snatches of its roar were carried back to him on the wind.
It was viciously cold. He pulled his scarf up over his nose and his hat down to his eyes and bent his head into the wind. Snow was drifting back across the road—by the time the plough got to one end of town it would all need doing again. You could plough the same bit of road forever. Like Sisyphus, Tom thought, rolling his bloody rock up the hill.
There was a lull in the wind, and the roar of the plough was suddenly loud. He looked up and saw the tail lights winking in the distance, and all at once Robert was beside him and the two of them were staggering along this same stretch of road in a similar blizzard, howling with laughter and drunk as two skunks. Robert had filched a bottle of hooch from a logger who’d slipped on the ice outside Ben’s Bar. Somehow he’d managed to hold the bottle aloft as he fell, and Robert had relieved him of it. They were fifteen or so and it was the first time they’d been drunk and it was wonderful. Rob found a hubcap half buried in a snowbank and insisted on taking it with them, clutching it close to his chest, crooning to it, and Tom had yel
led, “Don’t kiss it, don’t kiss it!” afraid that his friend’s lips would freeze to the metal, wondering how they’d explain that to the doctor.
Then the wind swung around and blasted him again, and Rob was gone.
It wasn’t far to the centre of town—nowhere in Struan was far from anywhere else. Many of the stores had closed early to allow staff to get home while it was still possible. The post office, the drugstore, Harper’s restaurant, all of them shut. Ben’s Bar was still open, its windows lit by oily light. This being Saturday it would be full of loggers, most of them more than happy, storm or no storm, to spend the night on the floor.
Marshall’s Grocery was still open, to Tom’s relief. Better still there was no one in it apart from the girl behind the counter. What he feared more than anything was running into someone he knew, someone who might try to talk to him, or look at him with sympathetic eyes.
The wind caught the door when he opened it and he had to lean his full weight against it to get it closed again.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” the girl behind the counter said.
Tom nodded, stamping his feet to get rid of the worst of the snow. He removed his gloves and hat and shook the snow off them, grabbed a shopping cart and headed straight down the first aisle before the girl had time to say anything else. He scanned the shelves, picking off likely-looking items as fast as he could and dropping them into the cart: two loaves of bread, a pound of butter, two quarts of milk, a box of cornflakes, four cans of Heinz baked beans. He slowed down, looking for something that could be called a meal, and finally selected four cans of stew. Then he saw some cans of corned beef and got four of those too. He looked at the meat counter, but everything required cooking, so all he got was a dozen hot dogs in a plastic bag.