I TOOK MY TIME GETTING to the hospital the next morning. I drove slowly through Alexandria, looking for familiar sights, watching for familiar feelings. The town’s expansion had killed a few of them, starting with the new subdivision that stretched across the fields and through the bush where we used to build our tree forts. The old downtown was still there, along Main Street and the Pond. And the mill square was almost intact, with the Mill Restaurant where the Hub used to be on one corner and the big brick post office opposite. But faded window displays and final sale signs told the tale. The business strip that was once the heart of the community had been replaced by big boxes and parking lots stretched out along the southend highway.
I’m sure that suited most people fine, easy parking and city prices. Still, something was missing. Old favourites were gone, like Chenier’s Hardware and Charlebois’ Dairy Bar, where we used to go for ice cream on Sunday after mass. Same with Mr. Dickey’s barbershop and the Five and Dime, where we went each year to spend our precious Christmas money. Must have broken the old man’s heart, I was thinking.
I stopped for a late breakfast at one of those new restaurants on the highway south of town. There were six or seven people in the place, and I didn’t recognize one of them. There was a waitress about my age with the name “Allison” pinned to her chest. There were no “Allisons” when I was a kid. I asked her what her last name was and she told me, “Sinden.”
“That’s a new one on me,” I said. “Did you grow up around here?”
“No,” she said, “I moved here from Montreal a few years ago. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m from here all right. Name’s Landry.” I figured I might as well find out what I was up against. “My mother worked in the post office and my brother’s the principal at the high school. My father’s retired.”
No reaction. She just shook her head. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Like I said, I didn’t go to school here.” She cast an eye at the fellow by the cash register, as though there was some rule about discussing personal history with customers. “You want to order?” she asked, looking down at her scratch pad.
When the order came, I took my time eating, watching the comings and goings. Never did see anyone I knew. The guy at the cash register looked at me kind of funny when I was leaving. Probably he came from Montreal, too.
I drove south through Lancaster and took the overpass over the 401. I wanted to take the old highway along the St. Lawrence. It was clear and cool, a nice day for a drive. There wasn’t that much to see, it turned out — lots of houses on both sides of the road, blocking the view of the river, mostly. It looked like the only thing stopping Cornwall from suburbing clear out to Lancaster was all the swampland around Gray’s Creek. I couldn’t concentrate on the scenery, anyway. I kept thinking about the old man. We had driven this road all the time when we had the cottage at Summerstown. And this was the road he raced down that one day in his life he got to play the hero.
A young lad had gotten his arm caught in the drive shaft of a truck at his uncle’s garage on Main Street. My father was at the pumps filling the tank on his new Pontiac when the kid’s uncle begged him to drive them to the hospital in Cornwall. They couldn’t find the doctor, and people were starting to panic. The arm had been severed at the elbow and it looked like the kid was going into shock. No one would accept the responsibility, afraid of ruining their upholstery, I guess. “To hell with the seats,” my father said when the boy’s uncle talked about laying out a car blanket. “Use it to wrap him up.”
So away he went, with the uncle, the boy, and the rest of his arm in the back seat, speeding down that crooked highway to Cornwall. The old man would later lament that this was the only time he ever got to drive that fast without worrying about the cops. And there he was, too worried about the boy to enjoy it. The cops did stop him, not far from Cornwall, saw the situation and gave him an escort the rest of the way.
Happy endings were harder to come by in those days. They didn’t even try to reattach the arm. I remembered a young man with an artificial arm coming to our house one New Year’s Day and telling the old man that he figured he had saved his life. I wondered if Ed Landry thought about that boy, now that he was lying in the same hospital he had delivered him to. I clung to that good memory — for the first fifty feet inside the building.
I hate hospitals, those anterooms to heaven or hell, whichever you deserve. They all have those broad, high hallways, wide enough for two beds to pass, with shiny enamel paint and industrial-strength fixtures and flooring, like all institutions. I always figured the only people who didn’t hate them were the ones who got to leave when their shifts were over. My Uncle Angus died in a hospital in Edmonton, of stomach cancer. I took two months off work to be with him. Toward the end it went sour. The pain got to him. Too long before he died I was wishing he would go, before I started hating him.
It’s hospital rooms I hate the most, with those huge, heavy doors wide enough for a coffin to pass, yet cramped and confining inside, overflowing with the detritus of decay and the apparatus of infirmity, visitors jammed between beds, trying not to see or smell the future that awaits us all. Down the corridors, past open doors, I fought the image of Angus MacRae, shrunken in the bed, doped up on morphine, surrounded by professional helpers full of smiles and assurances, blind it seemed to the death that stalked the halls. I’m probably going to die in one of these fucking places, I was thinking as I reached the open door of my father’s room.
“Lorna, Lorna,” I heard him calling. Then I caught a glimpse of my mother and backed up a step. I hadn’t planned on dealing with the two of them. I froze by the wall and listened for their conversation.
“Lorna,” he called again, “whilst we can, we might as well have a wee drink.” It came out clear as a bell: “whilst we can.” How out of it was he, I wondered; then smiled at the thought of the Drambuie in my pocket.
My mother sounded tired. “Do you want a drink?”
“Lorna, Lorna, Lorna.” His voice was rising, vexatious, stronger than I would have expected.
“Yes, Ed, don’t yell. I’m here. I’ll — ”
“Goddammit, woman, what’s the matter with you?” I could see why she wasn’t coming every day.
“I know, dear, I know.”
“Eight, nine feet should do,” he announced gruffly. I smiled, recalling what Andrew had said and wondering if I really wanted to go in there.
“Yes, dear,” she answered, “I’m right here.”
“Okay. Eight, nine feet should do.” What the hell did he think she was doing, digging a grave? “I gotta go,” he added, “I gotta go.”
“Okay,” she answered, obviously trying to calm him down.
“I told you. I need the goddamn toilet.”
“But Ed, you’ve just been. Not ten minutes ago.”
“Goddammit, woman, you want me to shit the bed? I gotta go, I told you.” I could hear her walking around and wondered if she was going to help him out of bed. I knew I should go in.
Then I heard her say in a low, soothing voice, “It’s hard, isn’t it, being sick? Try not to be so upset. I’ll be back soon.”
She must have broken through some veil of confusion because he sounded different when he answered, more like his normal self. “You’re leaving now?”
“Yes, I have to.”
“When are you taking me home?”
“You know I can’t do that, Ed. You have to get stronger. So try and rest, now.” There was a moment of silence, then, “I’ll see you in a day or so.”
Shit, I thought, she’ll catch me out here. I took a deep breath and turned the corner into the room.
She heard me coming and looked up, almost smiling. “Here’s your son, Ed, come to see you. I told you he’d be here today.”
“It’s Mike, Dad,” was all I could think to say as I made my way to the side of the bed and put my hand over his. His bed was propped partway up, and she had combed his hair for him. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be working hard at taking shallow, hurried breaths. It was hard to believe that this shell of a man had once made me cringe in fear. An oxygen line framed cheeks and eyes that were almost skeletal, his parched white skin stretched across the bony architecture of his face. That’s me in thirty years, I thought. The fierce dark eyes and brown skin he was once so proud of had paled to match the yellowed gray hair that blended in turn with the dingy white pillow under his head.
His bare arms lay on top of the sheet like sticks, weighed down with sagging folds of sallow skin. All that was left of his once imposing presence was the broad barrel chest that had housed his force, now rising and falling with the measured urgency of finding enough air to keep him alive. Maybe he was sensing my thoughts when he closed his right hand around mine and squeezed with enough of his old strength to make me wince. You son of a bitch, I thought, you’re still in there.
He stared up at me through rheumy, clouded eyes. “Is that you, son? Where did she put me? Who are these people?”
I looked to my mother for some signal of what he was talking about. She pulled her coat tighter and fastened another button. “Why didn’t you call? We could have taken one car.”
I shrugged. “I figured you would have said something last night. If you were coming today.”
She stared at me for a few seconds. “Yes, I see.” If she was going to say more the old man pre-empted her.
“Mike, you ask them. Why did they put me here? Ask them.”
“He gets confused about where he is,” my mother whispered as she nodded her head in the direction of the curtain around the bed across the room. “That man over there is a foreigner. He kneels down on some newspapers every few hours and chants these strange prayers. I talked to the doctors about it. It’s confusing for your — ”
“Lorna. Don’t leave me with these people. Take me home.” He sounded desperate.
She shook her head. At the futility of it all, I supposed. “You know I can’t do that, dear. You’re not strong enough.” When she got no response she finally said, “I have to go now, dear. And let you visit with your son. You two have a lot of catching up to do.”
Sure, I said to myself, I can do some catching up with the zombie. I felt the anger building at how long they’d waited to call me home.
She bent over to kiss his cheek and squeeze his hand, then started to leave. She turned back at the door. “You’ll come for supper tonight?”
“I guess so, if you want.”
She gave me a funny look. “Of course. Come for five. We eat early these days.” I suppose I was expected to know it was en famille.
I sat in silence for a few minutes watching the old man breathe. His eyes were closed again. It seemed hopeless, trying to have any kind of a conversation. Then I remembered the Drambuie. I worked the little bottle out of the jacket pocket I had jammed it into, and from the other pocket retrieved the glass I had taken from the motel room. I leaned closer and put a hand on his bare arm. It was ice-cold. “Dad,” I said, “would you like a little something to warm you up? An eye opener?”
I swear, he actually lifted the lid on one eye and tried to focus on me. “Uh,” he grunted, “ ’at you, Mike?”
Encouraged, I prodded some more, “Yeah, it’s me, come to see you. Do you want a drink? I brought your favourite.” When he didn’t respond, I tried another trick, repeating “Prendre un ’tit coup, c’est agréable” a couple of times in a singsong voice. When I saw the flicker of a smile cross his face I shook his arm a little and said, “C’mon, Dad, you can’t let a fellow leave without having a drink with him.”
I was finally rewarded when he stirred in the bed and blinked his eyes open again. “You still here, Mike? Did I hear something about a drink?”
“You sure did,” I answered as I busied myself with pouring him a shot. “C’mon, you’ll have to lift your head a bit.” I slipped an arm behind his shoulders and brought him a little higher in the bed. I was afraid if he choked to death they’d charge me with manslaughter or something. I brought the cup to his lips and he took a sip, wincing as he swallowed it down. “A wee drap,” he managed to get out before he relaxed his head back against the pillow. His eyes were wide open now and he seemed more alert. “Drambuie,” he said as he lifted his head again and smiled.
“You sure it’s okay? What about your heart?”
“Not dead yet,” he answered a little louder. “Crank me up and we’ll have a few.” I figured out the buttons and raised the bed some more. He drank three good shots of the stuff before he said, “ ’Nough.” Then he smiled up at me, “What about you? Aren’t you drinking?” Now I knew he was awake.
I poured myself a stiff one and threw it back. It tasted good, even in that motel glass. “So,” I said, “how’s the world been treating you?”
He grinned. “Sick malade, hope to die.”
I laughed out loud. How many times in his life had he said that? And now here he was in Cornwall with a bunch of strangers and it was finally true. The old man could be hard, but in his better days he would have seen the humour in that.
He stayed awake long enough for us to have a real conversation, just not the one I wanted. It started okay, with me reminding him about the night he stole Mrs. Ouimet’s lamp. I did most of the talking, recounting the old stories for him as he laughed and added the occasional confirmation, like, “We sure knew how to have fun back then, didn’t we?” He even recalled a couple himself. “I’ll never forget the time we called Jimmy McKay’s wife from Dickey’s barber shop, do you remember that one?” I did and retold it for him. He sighed and said, “Jesus, how we laughed that day. Poor Jimmy’s gone now, you know.”
We were interrupted by the nurse coming to tell him that the priest would be by later in the afternoon. I asked him after she was gone, “What’s this about a priest? I didn’t think you believed in that stuff.”
It was none of my business, really. I didn’t know but what he had started going to church since I had last been home. I guess I wasn’t that far off the mark, though. He gave me kind of a sheepish shrug and said, “Why take a chance? What if there’s something to it, after all?”
I smiled to myself. Ed Landry, a man who always worried about picking the right side. “Hope that priest is a good listener,” I kidded.
It must have gotten him thinking. He roused himself and asked me, “Have you been home yet? Have you seen them?” Had he forgotten already that my mother had just been there?
“Yeah, I was there last night.”
“Were the grandkids there?” When I nodded he went on, “Aren’t they something? They’re the future, those beautiful kids.”
I smiled. “Yeah, they’re nice kids.”
“That Brian is an ace. And Joanne, she reminds me so much of your mother.” I must have made a face. “You have to forgive them, you know. You’re only hurting yourself.”
“Do you think they really care?” I felt myself getting cold. I didn’t want to hear this shit. I told myself he was out of it, not even sure who he was talking to.
But he knew. And he wouldn’t let it go. “They know it was wrong, Mike. Andrew was just a boy, same as you.”
“And what was her excuse?”
He shook his head at my anger. “It was hard for her, too. He was her first, it’s only natural.” Maybe he wondered about that just a bit. “Have you ever told anyone?”
I gave him a slow smile. “Don’t worry. It’s still the Landrys’ secret. Every family should have its own monster, don’t you think?” My teeth were clenched but he didn’t seem to notice. All these weeks alone and he’d gone philosophic.
“That monster is still on your back, Mike. It will be until you forgive them. You forgave me, didn’t you?”
Not fair, I thought. “You didn’t know everything.”
“Not at first, maybe.”
“And you forgave me, for the store.”
“That was an accident. I knew that.”
I forced a laugh. “What about the other thing. Do you still think that was an accident, too?”
His eyes grew a little cloudier. “Of course, everybody knew that.”
“You shouldn’t tell lies, Dad. The priest is coming.”
“What do you mean?” I couldn’t tell if he was faking it.
“It doesn’t matter. She still hates me. It’s plain to see.”
That got him shaking his head again. “You’re wrong. She never hated you. She loves the both of you.”
“Bullshit!”
“Aw, Mike, don’t talk like that.” I could see I was wearing him down. He pressed on, his voice weaker. “You have to let it go. It wasn’t only her. You pushed people away, from the time you were small.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this. It’s just tiring you out.”
He wouldn’t quit. “Make up with your mother, boy. Do it for me. Before it’s too late.”
Lorna, Lorna, Lorna, I thought. Why is it always about her? “Still protecting her, eh?”
“Don’t be like that, son.” He sighed and let his head lie back, talking at the ceiling. “She was always so fragile, so afraid to get hurt. I was sure she’d say no, when I asked her to marry me. But we were both Catholic, so I thought I had a chance.”
“I guess you got lucky.”
He didn’t catch my tone. “I was always proud to have her at my side, my own bonnie lassie.”
That grinding noise in my head kept getting louder. “I think all that Drambuie is getting to you, old man. You’re starting to sound like Harry Lauder.”
“She always said it was the dancing.” He had gone somewhere else. And it irritated me even more.
“Yeah, a dancing Catholic. Who could resist? And you converted, too.”
That brought him back, his eyes on me again. “Waddaya mean?”
“Well,” I tried to soften it with a smile, “you sounded like a real Scotsman, just now.”
He growled, “Ecoute, mon fils. Je suis né Canadien, et ils vont m’enterrer Canadien. Souviens-toi bien de ça.” He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, probably pondering that burial part. Then he pulled himself back and looked me in the eye. “I was a good dancer, you know. You should have seen her back then. She was the belle of Glengarry, everyone said.”
I shook my head in frustration. “You shouldn’t have put her up on that pedestal. She was so hard to reach.”
“You should be so lucky, to be loved by a woman like that.”
“I live in hope, Dad.” More wasted wit. I could see the fire going out of his eyes again. He was coming back to the present, looking around the room, as though he was contemplating the fix he was in. “Enough about her, Dad. I came to see you.”
“Well,” he sighed, “I’ve had my say. I hope you make your peace.”
“Don’t worry about me. You just try to get well.”
“There was a time, boy, I thought I would. Now I just need one last favour.”
“What’s that?”
“Get me out of here. I want to die at home, amongst my own people. Not lying here listening to some nut saying his prayers ten times a day.”
“What do you mean?” I eyed the shadow behind the curtain in the next bed, wondering if he could hear all this.
My father lowered his voice to a whisper, “That guy over there, he’s praying all the time in some strange language.”
“You sure it’s not French?” I whispered back with a grin.
“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered at me. “I need to get out of here.”
I stalled. “You think the doctors’ll let you?”
“They can take me home in an ambulance. I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll talk to Mom.”
He gave me a strange look. “Crank me down, I’m tired.”
I looked at him more closely. His face had gone grey. Maybe it’s the light, I thought. I lowered the bed, wishing I had kept my mouth shut. “I’ve probably tired you out.”
He shook his head. “You have to forgive them.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“Promise me.”
Jesus Christ, I thought, by what right do you demand so much? From me, of all people? Well, I was just as stubborn. “We’ll see how things go.”
“Aww, Mike,” he sort of moaned then and closed his eyes again, exhausted by the effort to impose his will.
I sat there for another ten minutes or so, not sure if he was asleep, grateful he’d let that last subject go. I decided it was safe to try and leave. I squeezed his hand one last time and told him I was going, that I’d see him tomorrow.
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Tell your mother. Get me outta here. Die at home.”
“You’re not going to die.”
He closed his eyes and sucked in some air, enough to insist, “Talk to your mother.”
“Okay,” I said as I left him. Ed Landry, a man for all that. I resolved to talk to my mother about letting him come home to die. And smiled just a little at the prospect.
I wasn’t out of the room when this tense little man stepped from behind the curtain and plucked at my sleeve. He was in one of those ratty hospital housecoats, with paper slippers on his feet. I also noticed a fresh set of hairplugs that probably cost more than my car. He couldn’t have been much over thirty and didn’t look very sick to me. “You are the son of Mr. Landry?” he whispered.
“Yeah.” I tried to shrug him off but he followed me out the door.
“It is important that I am speaking with you. Can you be waiting a moment, sir?” His voice was louder now, with a sense of urgency added.
I stopped a few feet down the hall, trying to be polite to a supposed sick person. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Landry does not speak of a second son. This is you?”
“That’s me, the backup.”
His eyes went blank. “Sir?”
“You know, in case something goes wrong with the first one.”
He flashed a confused smile. “I am not sure I am understanding. You are from far away?”
“Yeah, far away.” I was losing interest.
“You are understanding my confusion, yes? My name is Hamad Aboud. It is the most of three weeks I am here. I am understanding that your father is here for many months.” This guy’s tone was a lot more polite than his questions. That’s probably the only reason I kept listening.
“And,” I prompted him.
He paused just a second before he plunged in. “Your father is needing care, better care. He is much neglected, I am sorry to be telling you.”
That sounded more friendly. “You mean the staff are neglecting him? Someone in particular, or everyone?”
He shuffled his feet a couple of times before answering, “It is unfortunately not the staff I am meaning, Mr. Landry. In my culture, you see, the family are caring for the sick and the old. They are not letting strangers to care for the ancient ones.”
This was getting tiresome. “Your culture, eh? Do you usually take so long to get to the point, in your culture?”
He smiled, thinking I was actually interested, I suppose. “Sometimes it is said we are too much worried about politeness. This is true.”
I frowned. “That’s good to know. Nice talking to you.”
I had turned to leave but he reached out and clutched at my arm again, “But wait, Mr. Landry, I have — ”
I turned back and shook my arm free. “Just what is, Mac?”
“Mac? Oh, this is a name, yes? I am hearing this often. All these Macs. It is very interesting, yes? We have something similar.” He tried to get a smile out of me, then gave up and went back to his mission. “I must be telling you, sir. In our culture it is the duty of the wife to look after the husband. She is coming to the hospital every day, feeding him the meals and making sure he is looked after. That is the duty of — ”
“Hey,” I growled, “it’s none of your goddamn business what my mother does.”
His smile disappeared and his tone was suddenly officious. “It is not required to blaspheme, sir. In our culture we are holding most seriously these reponsibilities. This is all what I am telling you.”
“Yeah? Well, in our culture we mind our own business. What are you doing here, anyway?” I stared at the hair plugs.
He puffed himself up. “I am a Canadian citizen, and — ”
“I don’t mean that, dickhead. What are you doing in the hospital? Did your hair plugs get infected?”
With a hand to his head and his eyes widening, his words came faster. “I am having an ulcer of the stomach, sir, a very bad problem of the stomach.”
“No damn wonder. You worry too much. You need to relax and enjoy this free health care you’re getting. That’s part of our culture.”
“So too in ours. We care for our sick. I am assuring you.”
“Yeah, right. So you care for your sick, and we’ll care for ours. How’s that sound?”
He seemed oblivious to the threat in my voice. “But your family are not caring, sir. That is being the problem. Your poor father lies here alone many days and — ”
This guy should have done more research on the Landrys before he set out to reform them. I finally barked at him, “Aw, fuck off, will ya. Before I squeeze your head.”
Now I had his attention. He started to bluster and back away. “I can see you are a most ignorant fellow, sir. It is corrupted, your whole society. You will see.”
By now there was someone who looked like an orderly making his way down the hall. I guess our voices had gotten pretty loud. I laughed at the little prophet and attempted to strengthen his convictions. “Yeah, we’re all going to hell in a handbasket, you self-righteous little prick. And we’re gonna take you with us. No virgins for you, buddy.” I turned to leave then and met up with the orderly.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, blocking my way. He was a big son of a bitch, a foot taller than me, probably used to intimidating people.
I gave him the old jailhouse stare and said, “Yeah, there’s a fuckin’ problem. Keep this asshole away from my mother. Unless you want trouble.”
“Oh,” was all he could muster. He stepped aside and let me pass. Nobody wants trouble. I found that out a long time ago.