Road Ends

by Mary Lawson

  For the two years he taught us, our geography classes included history, art, philosophy, politics, religion—just about everything, an education in the fullest sense of the word. He started off by introducing us to the countries of the Mediterranean and by way of illustration brought in a selection of his own photographs for us to see. I was stunned by them. The photographs themselves were extraordinary, but more than that, I’d never imagined such astonishing places existed. When we were dismissed at the end of the day I went back to his classroom and asked if I could look at the photographs again while he was tidying up. The next day he brought in several of his own books on art and architecture and said I could borrow them.

  I hid them under my bed. I wasn’t afraid my younger sisters would get hold of them, I was afraid my father would.

  I’m sure Mr. Sabatini guessed that things were not good at home. I remember him telling me that he’d been flung into jail once in some foreign port and to keep himself from despair he would call up in his mind the wonderful places he had still not seen, and plan the order in which he would visit them when he got out. It can’t have been mere chance that he told me that.

  It would be an exaggeration to say that he changed my life but he certainly made the one I had more bearable. He gave me something to dream about, something to strive for. I’ll never achieve it now but just having the dream was valuable. It has broadened what has otherwise been a very narrow life.

  Here’s an ironic thing: after all my dreams of travelling the world I am the only one of my siblings still in the North. Alan and Harry live on adjoining farms in Manitoba. They married sisters and have at least a dozen children between them. Margaret married a Toronto man and seems quite happy down there. They have four children. My other sisters are dotted across the country. Margaret’s the only good letter-writer in the family. She keeps the rest of us up to date.

  One way or another this has been quite a night. I was sitting here at my desk, thinking about Mr. Sabatini, when the door of my study opened and there stood Emily in the doorway.

  She was looking … I’m not sure how to describe it. She was looking unlike herself. For a start she wasn’t holding the baby, and Emily looks incomplete without a baby, but more than that she looked wide awake and much more focused than usual, rather as she did for a moment a few days ago when I went up to speak to her about Tom.

  Before I could speak she said, “Edward, what did I do wrong?”

  Her voice was unsteady but she asked the question with such directness that I was taken aback.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She said, “I must have done something wrong but I don’t know what it was. I’ve never known. You never said.”

  I said, “Emily, what are you talking about? I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  “You and me,” she said. “You used to love me and then you didn’t, and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

  She wasn’t crying but her lips were trembling. I felt the most crushing sense of shame. I stood up quickly and went around the desk and stood for a moment, uncertain, and then put my arms around her. I don’t tend to do that sort of thing but I couldn’t think what else to do.

  She gave a little start but she didn’t pull back, just stood with her head bowed, her forehead not quite touching my shoulder.

  I said, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Emily. I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault. It was mine.”

  We stood for a minute like that. I didn’t know what else to say, so I said again that I was sorry.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter.”

  That made me feel even worse—her saying it didn’t matter. As if her life didn’t matter. Or as if she assumed I would think that.

  I said, “Yes, it does. It does matter. I’m sorry,” knowing that repeating those trite words couldn’t make anything right.

  After a moment she stepped back and looked up at me and said, “I want to go back to bed.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll come up with you.”

  I followed her upstairs. The baby—Dominic—was asleep in a tangle of bedding, his mouth making those involuntary sucking motions Mother Nature has programmed into them.

  Emily looked up at me anxiously.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “I only want to go to sleep. By myself.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, somewhat stiffly. “That’s what I thought you meant.” I have never insisted on “relations.” I’ve left it to her to make the advances.

  I went back downstairs, still with this terrible weight of shame. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t want to read; I didn’t want to think. I went into the entrance hall and pulled on my outdoor clothing and went out into the dark. I walked fast into town.

  Walking from one end of Struan to the other takes less than ten minutes. If you kept walking south and east eventually you would hit civilization; if you kept walking north and west you would hit Crow Lake, where the road comes to an end. In either case you’d freeze to death long before you got there. When I reached the gas station at the far northern end of town I turned around and walked home.

  I knew there was no point in going to bed, so I went into the kitchen and got myself a bowl of cornflakes, more for something to do than because I was hungry. I took it into my study thinking that I’d look through one of the books on Rome while I ate, but I found I didn’t want to think about Rome. I ate the cornflakes staring at my desk. When I’d finished I decided to go through the few remaining scraps of Mother’s diaries. I felt so terrible already that I thought nothing I found there could make me feel worse.

  In the end, only one of the entries was complete enough to make any sense, and Mother’s writing was so shaky that in some places I couldn’t make it out at all, but it reported an incident I remember only too clearly. I can date it exactly because Mother wrote it in the margins of a page torn from the Temiskaming Speaker and the date is still legible—18th September 1934. I would have been twelve.

  … the children were screaming and all three of the boys tried to shield me but that made him angrier still, and he turned on them savagely, knocking them away, first one and then another, and all the while I was pleading with him to stop but that only made him worse, and it wasn’t until he had worn himself out that he finally stopped and left the house. All of us were crying, myself as well. I have never cried in front of them before and it terrified them. It was more than an hour before I had calmed them all down and got them into bed. I believe my arm is broken, and my eye is very bad, but worse than that, worse by far, is that the children witnessed it.

  After about an hour Edward came out from his bedroom. His face was red and swollen, partly from Stanley’s blows and partly from tears. He stood in front of me and said, “Mother, if he does that again I will kill him.”

  I was so horrified I almost cried out. I said he must never, ever, allow himself even to think such a thing again. I tried to make him promise, but he wouldn’t promise …

  The next bit is indecipherable but at the bottom of the page there are several more lines.

  Edward has been my joy, my consolation. To see his intelligence develop, to watch his face as he reads and see him so transported, has given me hope that he will escape all this and that some good will have come of my life. But now I am fearful for him. Very fearful. I believed he had the strength of character to rise above hatred and bitterness against his father, but now I am not sure. But I must have faith in him. Those were words spoken in anger and he is still very young. I must have faith. He is a kind and loving person; he will put this behind him. I know he will.

  I sat until after midnight, reading and rereading those lines. I don’t know how to deal with them. I don’t even know what to feel.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tom

  Struan, March 1969

  Eleven inches of snow in one dump. Marcel took it personally; in a fit of fury he drove th
e snowplough just that little bit too fast and the heavy snow shooting off the end of the plough created a vortex, a mini tornado, and demolished six road signs in the blink of an eye.

  “Rip’ ’em right off der posts,” Marcel raged. “Now I gotta go an’ put ’em up agin, gonna take me a week. I piss on it! I piss on dis goddam’ snow!” and he unzipped his pants and did so.

  On Crow Lake Road there was an exposed stretch where the wind played tricks, scooping snow into fantastical shapes on one side, scouring it down to bare ice on the other. Tom was heading home at the end of his shift when a truck in a hurry overtook the plough, hit a patch of ice, went into a spin and shot off into the bush. Tom stopped the plough so fast it was a miracle he didn’t leave the road himself. He leapt out and ran down the track left by the truck, cursing as he went. The truck’s driver was cursing too—Tom could hear him as he came up, so at least that meant he was okay. He was trying to get out, but the truck had embedded itself in deep snow and he couldn’t get the door open. Tom shovelled the snow away with his hands. It was heavy work and he was panting by the time he was done.

  “Thanks,” the driver said as he climbed out, but he sounded madder than hell. “Thanks very much, but God damn it!”

  “You okay?” Tom asked, still breathless.

  “Yeah, but I’m gonna be late! I have to meet this guy …” The man stopped, recognizing Tom at the same moment Tom recognized him—the man who’d rescued him from the coleslaw at Harper’s restaurant. “Hi,” the man said, calming down a little. “Didn’t realize you drove the plough. Thanks for stopping.”

  “That’s okay,” Tom said. To anyone else he would have said, “What do you think you’re doing going that fast on a road like this?” but he owed the guy. “Want a tow out?”

  The man looked at his watch and shook his head. “Thanks, but it’d take too long. Could I hitch a lift? I’ll get it towed out later.”

  “Sure.”

  “Just gotta get some stuff from the truck.”

  The sign on the truck said, “Luke’s Rustic Furniture.” The man—Luke, presumably—disappeared inside the cab and reappeared with a large cardboard box. “Samples,” he said. “And they’re not broken, so that’s something. This is great of you. I appreciate it.”

  The hurry, it turned out, was because he had an appointment with the boss of the hotel/hunting lodge that was being built out along the lakeshore. He was hoping to get the contract to make the furniture for the lodge.

  “The boss-guy phoned from Toronto first thing this morning,” the man said when they were under way. He was cradling the box of samples on his lap. “Said he was going to take advantage of the weather and fly up for the day. He’s got some people to talk to, said would I like to meet him for lunch and discuss things. I heard the plane fly over about an hour ago, so he’s here.”

  He looked across at Tom. “I’m Luke Morrison, by the way. And thanks again.”

  “Tom Cartwright,” Tom said. “No problem.”

  That was it for a couple of miles. Luke sat in silence, seemingly mesmerized by the plume of snow streaming off the blade of the plough. It was hypnotic, Tom knew: he’d had to train himself not to look at it.

  Eventually Luke stirred himself. “Cartwright, did you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your dad manager of the bank?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He helped me a lot when I was starting up my furniture business,” Luke said. “Ten, fifteen years ago. I was just a kid, really, knew nothin’ about nothin’. I went to him for a loan. He showed me how to draw up a business plan, work out what I needed to borrow—all that sort of stuff. He took a lot of time over it. Really helpful.”

  “No kidding,” Tom said, trying not to sound as sour as he felt.

  Luke nodded. “Nice guy.”

  Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Tom thought bitterly. Maybe he should make an appointment to see his father at the bank. That way, he might get ten minutes of his time.

  More miles went by. A couple of inches of new snow covered the road, easy for the plough to deal with. What it couldn’t deal with was the treacherous layer of compressed snow underneath, hard as ice and just as lethal. Chains were the only answer to that and most cars had them, but even so people ended up in the ditch on a regular basis.

  “Speaking of families,” Luke said. “The … ah … waitress at Harper’s the other day? Sorry about her, she’s a pain in the ass. Best thing is to ignore her.”

  “You’re related?” It seemed polite to pretend he hadn’t worked that out.

  “She’s my sister.”

  Tom tried to think of an appropriate response. “Sorry to hear that,” might be a little impolite. “She seems to have a thing about vegetables,” he said at last.

  “Been going on about them for years.”

  “That must be kind of …” he searched for a word … “wearing.”

  “You cannot imagine,” Luke said.

  Tom laughed. He hadn’t laughed for a long time and it felt good, felt as if it loosened things that had been clenched up inside him.

  “What do your parents think?” he asked.

  “They’re dead, so they don’t have to deal with it.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Luke lifted a hand dismissively. “Years ago.”

  Ahead of them a moose stepped out of the bush, ambled into the middle of the road and stopped. Tom touched the brakes carefully, then stepped on them harder, and the snowplough slewed sideways, straightened up again and came to a stop. The moose paid no attention. He was gazing into the woods on the far side of the road, lost in thought.

  “Sometimes they don’t seem any too swift,” Luke said.

  “That’s for sure.” Tom honked the horn. The moose swung his head around, gave them a baleful look and sauntered on.

  After that they sat and watched the snow-laden trees go by until they got to Struan, where Tom realized he’d not only managed to carry on a whole conversation without breaking into a sweat but had passed the turnoff to the ravine without even noticing.

  Luke Morrison was meeting the boss-guy at Harper’s, so Tom dropped him off there and went and parked the snowplough. When he got to Harper’s himself, Luke and a bald guy in a suit were ensconced in one of the bigger booths. Along with their lunches there was furniture—dollhouse size—all over the table. The bald guy was forking fries into his mouth with one hand and picking up pieces of furniture with the other, turning them this way and that. “… As many as you need,” Luke was saying as Tom walked by. “The numbers wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Tom stole a quick look at the models as he went past. They looked good. There were three or four different designs, some of them fancy, some of them plain, all of them sturdy and graceful-looking. He’d have liked a closer look at them himself.

  He’d picked up a copy of The Globe and Mail on his way to Harper’s but before he could spread it out the Amazon sped by carrying two plates of hamburgers and fries. She delivered them to a table near the front, then headed back towards the kitchen, pausing, as if purely in the pursuit of duty, at Luke’s table.

  “How’s your dinner, sir?” she asked the bald man solicitously, inclining her head to show her genuine interest and concern. “Are you enjoying the hot turkey sandwich? How about the coleslaw—isn’t it just the best?”

  From where he sat Tom could see the man’s face and Luke’s back. Luke was running his fingers through his hair—a gesture of stress, Tom guessed. You could bet this wouldn’t have been his choice of meeting place. But the bald guy smiled widely. “It’s real good,” he said. “All of it, coleslaw included. What’s your name, miss, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Bo,” the Amazon said. “Good, that’s what I like to hear, a rave review. And you, sir,” she turned graciously to Luke, tipping her head to the other side. “Are you enjoying your meal?”

  Tom looked away—it seemed cruel to watch. Luke must have forbidden her to let on they so much as knew each
other and she was having so much fun with the situation she hardly knew what to do with herself.

  “Well, there we go!” Tom heard her say. “Two rave reviews. The chef will be so pleased. Now how about dessert? There’s blueberry pie, apple pie, lemon meringue pie, black cherry pie, pecan pie and Mrs. Harper’s world-famous brownies, all with cream or ice cream. My own personal recommendation would be the blueberry pie because our blueberries up here are the best in the country, but they’re all delicious.”

  “Well, I for one am going to have exactly what you recommend,” the bald man said. “And some more of your excellent coffee.”

  Luke’s hair was starting to resemble a well-ploughed field. He muttered something and the Amazon said, “Excellent choice, sir! Coming right up!” and bounced off to the kitchen. The bald man followed her with his eyes.

  “Now she is something else,” he said admiringly. “Didn’t know you grew them like that up here!” He was all but licking his lips.

  You dirty bastard, Tom thought, with disgust. You’ve got to be pushing fifty!

  On the way home he took a detour down to the lake to have a look at the plane. It was sitting on its skis out on the ice, a Beaver, as Tom had guessed it would be, a single-engine, propeller-driven little workhorse designed by de Havilland Canada and purpose-built for the rigours of the Canadian bush. Back when he was four or five he’d been playing on the beach one day when an unimaginably wonderful machine had swooped down out of the sky, skidded along the top of the water, settled down on its floats and taxied right up to the shore. The door opened and a man leapt out and splashed barefoot to the beach, pausing just long enough to tousle Tom’s hair as he went by. Tom had been so astonished he couldn’t speak.

  He’d been hooked then and there. The miracle of flight—the glamour of it, the romance, the nonchalant ease with which man defied the law of gravity—everything about it enthralled him. Two decades later, still enthralled and studying aerodynamics in Toronto, he’d come to realize that the truly astonishing thing was that it wasn’t a miracle: man had worked out that it could be done and therefore he had done it; it was as simple as that. Now man had taken on space itself; he had broken free of Earth’s gravity and orbited the moon. Soon he would land on it. No miracles required, just a little imagination and a lot of math.