Break in Case of Emergency

by Brian Francis

  “I thought his drinking was under control,” Shirley says to her lap. “He sounded sober when I spoke to him on the phone.”

  “How often is he hitting the bottle?” Grandpa Frank asks Bruno.

  “He no hit,” Bruno says. “He drink.”

  “I mean, how often does he get drunk?”

  “Depend,” Bruno says with a shrug. “It’s not bad like before, when he performing. Things now not so busy, which is good. He had to slow down. He was nervous to come. Maybe it’s no surprise. When he’s nervous, he drink. And other things.”

  “Other things?” Grandma Kay asks.

  “He can’t stay here,” Grandpa Frank says. “Not in this condition.”

  “We can get a hotel,” Bruno says. “You have hotel here?”

  “It’s Tilden,” Shirley says. “Not Middle Earth.”

  “How long were you intending to stay?” Grandpa Frank asks.

  “Two nights. We have a show in Toronto on the weekend. Then we go back.”

  “A long way to come for a few days,” Grandpa Frank says.

  “It was important to Arthur,” Bruno says. I feel him glance in my direction. My eyes are back on the evergreens.

  “Doesn’t seem that way to me,” Grandma Kay says.

  “I’m sorry,” Bruno says. “I was afraid of this. Maybe it’s not right. He want to come. He says he want to see everybody.”

  I look over at him and our eyes lock for a moment. Why couldn’t you have been my father? I think. Why couldn’t it have been you when you stepped out of the car? You know how to make conversation. You’re not drunk or wearing my grandma’s panties. I could even deal with you being gay and a drag queen, so long as you acted normal, like a father, most of the time. I could walk down the street with you and no one would think a thing. Just another father and his daughter, spending time together.

  “I suppose I should start supper,” Grandma Kay says, getting up from her chair. “Do you eat ham?”

  “We leave before dinner,” Bruno says. “But grazie.”

  Grandma Kay places her hands on her hips. “There’s too much food. It’ll go to waste. You might as well stay, provided he wakes up in time. My issue isn’t with you. You seem like a nice enough fellow. It’s with Arthur. It’s always been with Arthur.”

  Grandpa Frank says he needs to finish mowing the timothy grass. Shirley says she’ll help Grandma Kay with dinner.

  “Not that I’m much use in the kitchen.”

  “Have you ever peeled a potato?”

  “No, but I try to dream big.”

  “Toby, why don’t you take Bruno to look at the cows?”

  “I’m sure he’s seen cows before,” I say. I don’t want to talk or look at anyone, let alone some man I’ve just met. I just want to fall into a dark, deep hole and never come out. The only thing getting me through these minutes is knowing that I won’t be here much longer. This sorry life. But I still need to be careful. I can’t raise anyone’s suspicions.

  “I don’t mind,” Bruno says. He gives me something like a smile. I have no idea what I’m going to talk to him about, but I say, “Okay” and manage to stand up.

  Grandma Kay tells Bruno to put on a pair of Grandpa Frank’s rubber boots. “I don’t want you to mess up those fancy boots you have on, and there’s a lot of crap out there.”

  “There’s a lot of crap in here as well,” Grandpa Frank says before walking out the back door.

  “Don’t mind him,” Grandma Kay says, handing Bruno the boots. Bruno’s eyebrows shoot up and he takes the boots from her like they’re a stinky garbage bag. He isn’t what I’d call good-looking, but there’s something about him, the shadow of stubble on his cheeks, the way his chest hair creeps past the collar of his T-shirt. Is he gay too? I can’t be sure, but he doesn’t seem gay. Well, not as gay as my father. I look down at the gold ring on his finger and see there’s a ruby in the centre, the size of a jellybean. Is it real? He’s different from what I’m used to seeing, between Grandpa Frank and Mike and the other hired hands, the boys at school with their uncombed hair and awkward bodies and defensive eyes. He’s from Europe, a place I’ve only ever seen on a map. A world away from here.

  “Have you ever been on a farm before?” I ask as we walk toward the barn.

  “When I was young,” Bruno says. “My zia had a pig farm.”

  “What’s a zia?”

  “Sorry, zia is Italian for aunt.”

  “What about uncle?”

  “Zio.”

  “Those are definitely more fun to say than aunt and uncle.”

  I lead him toward the coop. “These are the chickens. I don’t like them very much because they peck at me when I take their eggs.”

  “That’s a mother for you,” Bruno says.

  “No,” I say. “They just like to hurt people. I take a tennis racket with me to shoo them away. When I was younger, I was more afraid of them. Not so much anymore.”

  “How long you live here?”

  “Since I was ten.”

  “Yes,” he says with a nod, and I wonder how much he already knows about me. If he knows about my mom. He must. My father would’ve said something. Or else Bruno would’ve asked by now. It makes me feel raw and exposed, like my insides are on the outside of my body. It’s not fair that a stranger can know these things about me when I don’t know the first thing about him.

  We walk to the barn. “The cows aren’t here. They’re out to pasture. Grandpa Frank will call them in soon though. You’ll hear him banging his plastic bucket, although they never listen. Cows are smart. They know what stalls to go into. Then Grandpa Frank and the other hired hands will hook them up to the milking machines.”

  “Do they mind?”

  “They don’t seem to,” I say. “But I’ve never asked them.”

  I show him the name plaques above the stalls. “Grandpa Frank names them all. Sometimes I do too. The name comes from where they were born. These here are the calves.”

  I take him to the small pen where the calves are kept. Three come walking over to us. “They think it’s their feeding time, but it’s not. They drink out of these hoses.”

  “Not from their mothers?” Bruno asks, kneeling down to pat one on the head.

  “No,” I say. “They’re kept separate from their mothers.” I realize then that I’ll miss these calves once I’m gone. Not that I’ll be able to miss anything when I’m dead. Which I guess is the point. “It’s easier that way.”

  His head turns slightly. “You think?”

  “That’s just the way it is,” I say. “How long have you been his manager?”

  “Arthur? Maybe eight years.”

  “That’s a long time. Is he an alcoholic?”

  “No. Yes. He was. Then he get better. Then he get worse. Then he get better. He’s better. For a while now. But this trip, it make things worse again. He’s nervous.”

  “Is he really famous? That’s what my mom told me.”

  “Arthur is very talented. When he was younger, he used to play the biggest concert halls. People, they loved him. Then, things changed.”

  “How did things change?”

  “Some people, they run away from things. You can’t catch them because they are fast. But then they get tired. They no can run any more. Arthur did not have self-control. He let things take over. He had a shadow over him. When I meet him, he was not good. He was like a scared child. So I take care of him. And he get better. Most times. But he still have the shadow. That’s what he was running from. I no sure if I make sense. That’s the best way I can speak about it.”

  “Do you think my grandma was right? That it was a mistake for him to come here?”

  “Today, yes,” he says, standing back up. “Tomorrow, that’s another day.”

  On our way back to the house, I see Mike piling up the hay bales. He stops when he sees us. His mouth falls open quickly before he realizes and he shuts it quickly. I can only imagine what he must be thinking, seeing me with this strange, o
lder man. Not that I mind. And not that I’ll tell him anything either. I can’t let him know about my father, who he is. I’m too embarrassed, and I can only imagine what Mike would say. He’d never understand. Not that I do either.

  * * *

  When we return, the kitchen is damp with ham-scented steam. I’m suddenly starving. There’s a pot on the stove, foam spilling from its edge. A can of No Name peas sits on the counter, a clear plastic bag filled with dinner rolls next to it. Grandma Kay used to make all of her own bread but hasn’t for years. The kneading bothers her hands.

  “Supper should be ready soon,” she says, tightening the apron around her waist.

  “I’ll go wash up,” I say and excuse myself. But instead of going to the washroom, I go to my grandparents’ bedroom and gently open the door. He’s still sleeping. His face is slouched to one side, his mouth open. I’m surprised by how young he looks with his own hair. It’s brown and curly. I can see now the boy who posed with my mom at the carnival all those years ago. I search his face for traces of my own. Maybe it’s there, in his nose and ears. But maybe it’s not. I’m not convinced.

  This is the man I’ve carried deep inside me for all these years. The man that I’d dream would rescue me from my sadness. And now, here he is, a thin line of drool sliding down his chin, a raspy snore escaping his throat.

  This was the angel from the gymnasium. The one who had broken my mom’s heart and stomped on all the pieces. The one who never came back.

  He. Was. Magic.

  There’s nothing magical about the man sleeping in my grandparents’ bed. Even the tiny bits floating through the air, lit up by the sun’s fading beams, are nothing more than dust.

  Chapter 15

  Grandma Kay slides a large casserole dish of scalloped potatoes from the oven.

  “We can discuss where you can stay,” she says to Bruno. “There are some motels not far from here. Most of them are decent enough.”

  “We go back to Toronto and find somewhere,” Bruno says. “We no stay here. Not when Arthur is like this.”

  “You go wake him up,” Grandma Kay says. “Then we’ll see what we’re dealing with.”

  When he leaves, she turns to me. “I’m sorry about all of this, Toby.”

  “Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, I did,” she sighs. “I opened the door. And you should always think twice before you open any door. You never know what’s on the other side.”

  what stays shut, stays hidden

  “When I saw him coming out of the car like that,” she says, “more of a heap than a man, I should’ve told them to go back. But I didn’t. And now you know. Who your father is. And in some ways, I can’t help but think that’s worse than not knowing who he is.”

  She sets the potatoes on the table.

  “The only hope is to have no hope at all. Then you’re not disappointed. That’s the only way you’ll make your way through life.”

  I realize then how much Grandma Kay and I have in common, the guilt about my mom that we carry around like a boulder. And I think about telling her. About the pills. It would be so easy to let the words slip out. And if anyone would understand, I think she would. But I can’t be certain. I can’t trust anyone. So I bite down on my bottom lip.

  Grandpa Frank comes through the back door. “Second milking is done.”

  “Make sure you wash your hands,” Grandma Kay says.

  Shirley comes up the stairs from the basement, a jar of Grandma Kay’s homemade bread-and-butter pickles in her hand, just as Bruno comes back into the kitchen.

  “He is up,” he says. “In the washroom. He’s not happy. But that is the same like home.”

  A few moments later, I turn to see my father standing in the living room. No, not my father. Never my father. He won’t ever be that. I’ll think of him like he is—a stranger. Someone who means absolutely nothing to me.

  Arthur.

  His back is slightly turned to me. He’s wearing regular clothing now, a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He’s staring at something I can’t see. It holds his attention. And for a minute, I wonder if it could be the evergreens too. It’s the way he breathes in deeply and closes his eyes. I watch as he leans over, his fingertips pressing against his temples, like a sudden headache has come over him. I look away before he catches me.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asks when he appears in the doorway.

  “What does it look like?” Grandma Kay asks, passing by him with a serving spoon. “Nice to see you’re dressed.”

  “You haven’t done much with the kitchen.”

  “No reason to.”

  “It looks like the set of a seventies sitcom in here.”

  “Yeah, and you’re the nitwit star,” Shirley says. “Kay, I couldn’t find the napkins.”

  “Paper towel is good enough.”

  I catch Arthur rolling his eyes at Bruno. Bruno shakes his head at him and makes a motion with his hand, as though slicing the air.

  “I’d kill for a glass of wine,” Arthur says.

  “Well, you’ll have to drive into town for that,” Grandma Kay says. “I don’t keep liquor in this house.”

  “I’d like to speak with the manager, please.”

  “You’re looking at her.” Grandma Kay sets a platter of sliced ham on the table, along with a jar of mustard, a plate of Saltine crackers, a dish of red Jell-O, and a bowl of buttered peas and cubed carrots.

  “Everything smells wonderful,” Shirley says before mentioning that she’ll have to pass on the Jell-O. “On account of my diabetes.”

  Arthur arches a thin eyebrow. “You still have diabetes?”

  “Of course I do. It’s not a zit. It doesn’t go away.”

  “I was always suspicious of you, Shirley. Playing your diabetic violin strings. I can’t help but wonder if it was all for attention.”

  “Are you high?” Shirley’s hands go to her hips. “What an ignorant thing to say. And if anyone around here knows about the need for attention . . .”

  Grandma Kay tells everyone to take a seat. I end up sitting across from Arthur, but I refuse to look at him. I can’t believe he’s acting like such a jerk.

  “Toby, pass the ham,” Grandma Kay says. “Does anyone want barbeque sauce? I have some in the fridge.”

  The bowls and plates are handed around. Bruno asks what the brown things are in the ham.

  “Cloves,” Grandma Kay says. “You’ve never had a ham with cloves before?”

  “He’s Italian,” Arthur says. “They don’t do ham. They do prosciutto.”

  “What’s that?” Grandpa Frank asks. “Pasta of some kind?”

  “It’s raw pig. It tastes like sweat socks.”

  “Eye-talians must have strong stomachs,” Grandma Kay says under her breath.

  I keep my attention on my plate. The appetite I had before is gone. I don’t know how I’ll get anything past my lips, but I need to. I have to eat something. If I don’t, there will be questions.

  “You’re not having much to eat,” Grandma Kay says, and I look up, assuming she’s speaking to me. But she’s not. She’s speaking to Arthur.

  “I’m not that hungry,” he says.

  “You need to eat something,” she says.

  “Especially after all that drinking,” Shirley says.

  “If I eat, I get fat. And if I get fat, I won’t be able to fit into my dresses. I’m already a size twelve.”

  The table jumps.

  “Ow!” Arthur says, bending over to rub his shin. “Which one of you assholes did that?”

  “No swearing at the dinner table,” Grandma Kay says, pointing her fork at him.

  “No swearing or drinking,” Arthur says. “This is the worst dinner party of my life. Next you’re going to tell me there’s no cocaine.”

  “Arthur . . . ,” Bruno says.

  “Oh, shut up,” Arthur says. “You should’ve heard him on the plane here. ‘Arthur don’t do this.’ ‘Arthur don’t do that.’
I’m not a fucking puppet. You can’t pull my strings and make me perform for you. I’ve spent my whole life performing for others, for complete strangers. You’d think I wouldn’t have to deal with this. In fucking Tilden, of all places.”

  “That’s enough,” Grandma Kay says. “No one needs to hear language like that at the dinner table.”

  Arthur turns to Shirley, his eyes like slits. “Shirley, you’ve got too much foundation on. Honestly, you’re orange.”

  “I’m not wearing any foundation.”

  “Well then, you’re eating too many carrots. You’re a diabetic rabbit, dear Shirley.”

  “You’re a complete jerk.”

  “Oh, I’m only kidding. Just having a laugh. You still have a sense of humour, don’t you? Diabetes hasn’t robbed you of that, I hope.”

  “Please be quiet for two seconds,” Grandma Kay says. “It’s the least you can do.”

  “Keep quiet?” Arthur says, rising out of his chair. “I’ve been quiet for years. Have you heard one peep from me in all that time? Have you heard the slightest thing from me?”

  “No, we haven’t,” Shirley says. “And that’s the goddamn problem.”

  “Please . . . ,” Grandma Kay says.

  I slice through the pink circle of ham on my plate.

  “So here I am and what do I hear?” He starts walking around the kitchen. “Arthur, shut up. Arthur, be quiet. Do you have any idea how insulting that is? Now that I’m finally here?”

  “You’re not here,” Shirley says. “You’re anywhere but here.”

  “Well then, where am I?” He throws his hands up into the air. “If I’m not here, then where could I be?”

  “How about up your own arse,” Grandpa Frank says around a mouthful of potatoes.

  Arthur throws his head back and laughs. I see dark pockets where he’s missing teeth. I don’t like the sound of his laugh. It’s not laughter at all, but the opposite of laughter.

  “Good one, Frankie. You always did have a ripe sense of humour. Of course, you needed one, being married to Kay.”