Chapter 13

Emm couldn’t bring himself to wash dishes or make the bed, but he began to carry his dirty plates to the sink and rinse his stubble and toothpaste down the drain. He told himself he was doing it to make life easier for Cleon, but Betty noticed too. To Emm’s surprise, he was pleased with himself for pleasing her. Perhaps because it had been his choice to do so. He hoped Izora was taking note.

With the new routine, Betty seemed calmer, just as Cleon had predicted. Emm applied the same thoroughness toward cleaning that he’d brought to every challenge he’d set himself, whether selling cars or adding to his household. Betty slowly warmed to him, at one point admiring his fastidiousness. Emm felt like a hungry child who was fed praise after a steady diet of criticism.

Not that there was a complete thaw in their relationship; Betty still expected him to make his own lunch. But she invited him to sit with her at the table. Since they were both newspaper readers, they found plenty to talk about. “So, are you excited about the Olympics?” she asked.

Emm confessed he wasn’t, then waited for her disapproval. Would she banish him again?

Instead, Betty laughed. “To tell you the truth, except for gymnastics, neither am I. But Cleon follows all the events, so I’ll watch them with him. In the den.” She raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll make sure it’s straightened up,” said Emm. “Perfect den, score of ten.”

Betty smiled. “I hope you’ll join us. It’ll boost Cleon’s morale if we’re both there.”

Emm agreed. It might even be fun. Cleon knew enough about the athletes’ stats to act as an in-house commentator. He and Betty chatted next about Queen Elizabeth’s trip to Canada this summer, part of her silver jubilee tour. Betty was sympathetic when Emm said he was anxious about adapting to metric units when the road signs were converted in the fall. “Maybe it’s a good thing I’m getting older,” he said. “I don’t have to worry about driving under the new system.”

Betty admitted she was nervous about the switch too. “I don’t like change either, although I am looking forward to the opening of Eaton Centre next year.” Emm confessed that except for buying houses and cars, he thought shopping was best left to women. Betty chuckled. “Like every other man. I will say this for Cleon, though. When I ask, he comes with me and is unbelievably patient, whether I’m choosing new curtains or trying on clothes.”

Emm wasn’t sure if he saw this as a virtue, or flaw, but he liked hearing Betty laud his son. He accepted a glass of lemonade. “I hope I’m improved enough to visit the new CN Tower when it opens in June. I read it will be the tallest free-standing structure in the world.” Emm thought a minute, afraid his memory was going. “Darn. I can’t remember how tall it is.”

“I can’t either, but Cleon will. We can ask him at dinner.” Betty poured them both more lemonade. “I’d love to take the grandchildren to see the Tower. Although I don’t know if I’m any more capable of keeping up with them than you are.” She laughed, then frowned. “I wish the boys treated Cleon better. It breaks his heart that they brush him off these days.”

“Don’t all grown children do that with their parents?” Emm asked. Not that he had, at least with his mother, but his children had certainly turned their backs on him. He wondered, if Izora had lived, whether they would have been kinder to her, and maybe, by extension, to him.

“I suppose every family is different.” Betty brightened. “Wait until Mark and Paul’s own children reach adolescence and start to disrespect them. I bet they’ll develop more sympathy for their old dad and come running back to Cleon for advice.” Emm was doubtful, judging by how his adult children treated him. But, as Betty had said, every family was different.

The lightened mood between Emm and Betty prevailed and changed the tenor in the household as a whole. Even after Toronto lost their final two games to Philadelphia, Cleon’s spirits didn’t plunge. He was only mildly disappointed. Betty was sympathetic and Emm told his son not to lose hope, there was always next year. Cleon smiled at the sports cliché and said it was enough that they’d had a good run. It was he, not Emm, who quoted Dale Carnegie. “‘Success is getting what you want. Happiness is wanting what you get.’ I’m happy with what I have.”

***

Betty drove Emm to his next doctor’s appointment. When he came out of the exam room with a cane instead of his walker, she actually hugged him. “Stick close to your father-in–law,” Dr. Sawyer told her as he saw them out, “until he gets his sea legs back. Er, land legs. Make sure he practices an hour or two a day to start. Once he’s steady, all restrictions are off. Even climbing.”

As soon as Emm could move easily between the den, kitchen, and bathroom, he ventured outside every day. Betty accompanied him around the block, and then through the neighborhood, timing their walks and increasing them a half hour every other day. She encouraged him, the same way she did Cleon, saying she had faith in his full recovery. At dinner, she told Cleon about his father’s daily progress. Emm thought that Cleon himself moved better, with a lift in his step.

“You’re like your son,” Betty told Emm one day at lunch, after their longest walk yet. “Strong on the inside. Of course, that shouldn’t come as a surprise. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Emm glowed at the compliment. “Is his strength what attracted you to Cleon?” he asked.

Betty laughed. “I didn’t know about the body building until later. It was his name. I thought he was French and would be more romantic than the other boys I dated.”

Emm was surprised. He’d expected odd names would help his daughters get husbands, not help his sons attract wives. “Do you know if he got teased for his name when he was younger?”

Betty shook her head. “Not that he ever said.” She grinned. “Just the opposite, in a way, when he began coaching. The students thought ‘Cleon’ sounded kind of sci-fi, and they liked it. Of course, they never called him anything other than ‘Mr. Benbow,’ but their playing took on the warlike aggressiveness of Klingons. It helped them win some of those early trophies.”

“I guess I haven’t kept up with the television shows kids watch these days.”

“I don’t care for them either, but you have to keep up to connect with your grandchildren. It was the same with dance crazes when our boys were young. Personally, I prefer the old ones.” Betty smiled as shyly as a young girl. “Cleon was, still is, a good dancer.”

“A woman accepts the advances of a man who dances.” Emm thought back to early in his own marriage. “Izora and I used to waltz around the kitchen table. Until the pregnancies began.”

Betty touched his arm. “Before you know it, you’ll be able to waltz me around the kitchen table. Soon, you can even help me vacuum. I appreciate a man who’s spic and span.” She stood and wrinkled her nose. “Ouch. I’ll leave the rhyming to you and stick to the work I’m good at. It’s early in the season, but I want to get the flower beds cleared to plant annuals next month.”

Emm headed for the den. He turned around to thank Betty for practicing with him. “This might sound silly, but you’ve been like a parent helping a toddler learn to walk for the first time.”

Betty blushed. “Seriously, Emm, at the rate you’re improving, you’ll be able to move into the upstairs bedroom in no time.”

Emm’s legs began to shake. His throat felt dry. “I don’t want to ... shouldn’t overdo it,” he stammered. But Betty was already outside.

***

That evening, on his way to dinner, Emm made himself trip and grab onto the tablecloth to regain his balance, upending a glass of water. Both Cleon and Betty helped him into his seat. Cleon knelt to make sure there wasn’t a bulge in the linoleum; Betty pulled up a fourth chair for Emm to rest his leg on. At lunch the next day, Emm dropped his soup spoon carrying it to the sink, and later in the week, he stumbled into the coffee table, knocking a stack of magazines to the floor.

“I’m worried about you, Dad. I think Betty should take you back to Dr. Sawyer. Maybe you’ve got a blood clot in your leg. Is it swollen?”

“No, I just need to take it slower,” Emm answered. “It’s not a race.”

Cleon looked toward Betty for her opinion. She narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

For the next two days, Emm told Betty he wasn’t up to walking. She tapped her foot and said no doubt it was a temporary setback. On the third day, she waited at the door. When Emm shuffled past her to the kitchen, she bypassed him and moved his soup cans to a higher shelf. He eyed the step stool before slinking off to the couch. Then, on Saturday, when they were all in the den and Cleon said he hoped Emm was getting better, he banged into an end table, toppling Betty’s two favorite porcelain figurines. They broke into small pieces and sprayed fine white dust.

Cleon rushed toward Emm, arm outstretched, but Betty grabbed her husband and dragged him into the kitchen. Emm, trembling for real now, sat on the folded sofa bed. Once again, he was that child who could not control himself, but nevertheless felt like the victim, not the perpetrator.

“Can’t you see he’s doing it on purpose?” Betty spoke loud enough for Emm to hear. “He wants to go back to when we waited on him hand and foot. Or when your mother, or his mother, did. I’m not Emm’s wife or his mother. He’s your father, and you have a choice. Either he leaves, or I do, and you can spend your forty-seventh birthday, and every one after that, without me.”

Emm heard Betty stomp up the stairs. Minutes later, she came down and told Cleon she was going to stay at Mark’s house while he made up his mind. “Sleeping with the grandkids and tolerating their mess can’t be any worse than living here.” Then she was gone.

Cleon didn’t come into the den immediately, so after ten minutes, Emm ventured into the kitchen. His son was at the table, drinking a Molson’s. He motioned for Emm to sit opposite him, in Betty’s chair. Emm eased himself into the seat. He eyed the beer thirstily and waited for Cleon to get him a glass of water. Cleon didn’t move.

“You heard what Betty said, Dad?”

“She threatened to leave you, but she’ll back off. Women do, even those as ... tough as Betty.” Emm nodded. “Things will settle down again. I just have to be careful not to overdo it.”

Cleon shook his head. “Going back to how it was a couple of weeks ago would be another change. Betty won’t stand for it.” He got a second beer, another Molson’s. “Neither will I.”

Emm looked around the neat kitchen and conjured a memory of his kitchen, during and after the Stork Derby: baby bottles boiling on the stove, wet diapers hanging on drying racks, streaks of mud tracked in by the children making crazy patterns on the floor. “I’ll leave if that’s what it takes to save your marriage.” He gazed up at the ceiling, as if to appease Izora, but self-sacrifice was only a small part of his motivation. Emm could no longer watch Cleon kowtow to Betty. If that’s the kind of man his son had turned out to be, then Emm had failed him as a father.

Cleon said nothing, just wrapped his hands around the bottle.

The blood pounded in Emm’s temples. He told himself not to say more but was unable to keep quiet. “You should have married a woman as agreeable as your mother, after all. If you don’t put your foot down, you’ll lose what little self-respect you have left.”

“I made the right choice when I married Betty, and I’m making the right one now. If you hadn’t offered to leave, I’d have told you to.” Cleon took a third Molson’s from the refrigerator. “Sometimes, making up your mind is easy.”

***

Early Monday morning, Emm called Mrs. Cray. She didn’t hide her disappointment. “I was just reading Dr. Sawyer’s latest report. You were doing so well, Mr. Benbow. What went wrong?”

“I don’t blame my son,” Emm said, “It’s his wife. I’m an old man with health problems, and her demands are unreasonable.”

“Did your son speak up for you?” Mrs. Cray asked.

“Hah! Those two would defend each other against provable charges of treason.” The moment the words were out, Emm envied them. He tried to think of a time when he’d taken Izora’s side, and all he could come up with was defending her flapper dress against his mother.

“I’ll record your move,” sighed Mrs. Cray, “but you’re going to run out of options.”

“I’m only down two, three counting Arvil, with a long roster to go. When I started my family, I was planning ten years ahead. Who knew that having a lot of children would come in handy fifty years later?” From Mrs. Cray’s sharp intake of breath, Emm sensed she heard the bluster in his feeble laugh. Time was running out and not because he was in a race with other derby contestants. This time, the only one threatening Emm was himself.