by Anne Emery
“What’s going on?”
We had an audience, composed almost entirely of hungover lawyers.
“I’ll explain outside.”
I followed her and, when we cleared the house, she said: “A Father Burke called us early this morning to try to locate you.”
Oh God, what was it? I felt a spike of fear and demanded to know what was wrong.
“Your wife was rushed to hospital last night. The Grace Maternity. That’s all we know. The priest couldn’t find you, so he called us.”
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! Of all times. The one and only night I was out of reach. Tom and Normie must be frantic. I thanked the officer, ran into the house and grabbed my keys, told Charlie I’d explain later, got into my car and drove away. The police car followed, then turned off at a crossroads, and I put the accelerator to the floor. This was August; the baby wasn’t due till October. As I knew all too well. Damn it to hell! I had never got around to reissuing the divorce papers; I thought I still had plenty of time. But, if the baby wasn’t due yet, what was happening? Maybe something had gone wrong. Well, obviously. Maybe there wouldn’t be a — I resolutely turned my thoughts from the direction in which they were headed.
I got to the city, roared up to the Grace Maternity Hospital, parked illegally, and ran for the door. I was directed to the floor where Maura had been admitted and, eschewing the elevators, I took the stairs two at a time, not knowing what I was going to find. Or what I wanted to find. I concentrated my mind on my son and daughter, and willed them to be there when I arrived.
The only person I knew was Burke, sitting on the edge of his seat, massaging his temples with his left hand. When he caught sight of me he shoved his right hand into his pocket. But I had seen it. A rosary. His face was grey, and he had dark circles under his eyes.
“Where were you?” he barked at me. “Tommy called in the middle of the night. He couldn’t reach you.”
“What’s going on?” I shouted back.
“She hemorrhaged. They had to —”
“When?”
“After midnight.”
“And now?”
“They thought she was going to be all right. I took the kids home. But something went wrong again, and they’ve got her in surgery.”
“What did they say, for Christ’s sake? Is she going to be all right?”
“Where in the hell were you, Monty?”
I didn’t reply that I’d been partying. I couldn’t bear the thought of what the ordeal must have been like for my children. Or how I would make it up to them. And that was without even knowing what was happening to their mother.
“Where are Tom and Normie?”
“Fanny’s going over to the house to pick them up. They wanted to be here, but what good would that do? They’re better off with Fanny until there’s something we can tell them.”
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“What?”
“Why are you in your collar?”
He shook his head in disgust at the inanity of the question. But I knew. He hadn’t decided at midnight to dress up for the role of a priest visiting the sick. He wore his clerical black so there would be no confusion about his status in the waiting room. He didn’t want anyone to pinpoint him as the husband, the lover, the father of the child.
We sat together in silence. The tension was palpable. Then, down the hall, a door flew open. Someone burst out with a bundle in her arms and rushed across the corridor to another room. Burke’s black eyes fastened on the corridor, willing it to impart some information. Three people in surgical garb emerged from the first room, removed their masks and conferred in low voices. Heads were shaken and gloves snapped off. Two of them walked away. One turned in our direction and came towards us.
“Mr. MacNeil?” She looked first at Burke, then at me. I stood up.
“You have a healthy little — little! — boy. Congratulations. Mum’s tired and weak, but she’s going to be fine. It will be a while before you can see them, but they’re in good hands.” The doctor smiled at me and left the waiting room.
Burke slumped in his seat, eyes closed, the very portrait of exhaustion and relief. I could not even begin to plumb the depths of my feelings about the situation. I was overcome with a desperate desire to be out of there.
“I’m going.”
Burke’s eyes flew open. “You’re what?”
“I’m off.”
“Are you having me on, Montague? She’s just come through —”
“She’s fine. Her child is fine. I’m not the father. I don’t want to be here.”
“But Tom and Normie —”
“I’ll go get them, I’ll drop them off here, I’ll come back and pick them up.” I turned and walked away.
When I collected my kids at Fanny’s, and gave them the news, Normie was so excited that I didn’t have to think about what kind of a pose to strike for her. Tom was subdued. Aside from casting a couple of glances my way, he did not probe for a reaction. I dropped them off at the hospital, assuring them that I had checked and Mum was fine. Father Burke was there. I had to get home and then to the office; I would see them later. I felt guilty and I felt justified, all at the same time.
I had a trial that day, for a client facing seven years in prison, so I had a good reason to be nowhere near the Grace Maternity. I drove home, showered, went to the office to get my file, and appeared, hungover but presentable in my barrister’s gown and tabs, in the Supreme Court of Nova Scotia. Justice Helen Fineberg convicted my client, and he was remanded in custody to await sentencing. I returned to the office.
On my desk were the notes I had taken of my conversation with Constable Riley about the Sybil Kraus case. I didn’t have the energy to do anything more than put the notes in the file, but I couldn’t find it. Ross Trevelyan must have it, I thought, so I got up and walked to his office.
Ross was talking on the phone and glaring out his window. He didn’t see me.
“Dad. Elspeth and I don’t have a boat. Nor do we have the resources at this point in our lives to acquire one. So why would we want to join the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron?” He listened for a moment, then continued. “A social membership without a boat? What would be the point? We know everybody there anyway.” He stopped to listen again. “I just got here, remember? I can’t expect to be making three hundred thousand dollars my first year at Stratton Sommers. As a matter of fact, though, I have a couple of cases on the go that should bring in a nice return, so . . .”
I didn’t want to hear this, and I didn’t want Ross to see me loitering in his doorway. But when I tried to melt into the shadows he caught sight of me. I made kind of a wry face and turned to leave. That’s when I heard the crash of the telephone receiver and a shout from Ross.
“Collins!” I turned and stared at my law partner. “Get the fuck in here and close the door!”
Normally, I wouldn’t take that kind of crap from anyone, no matter where they were in the hierarchy of the firm, but Ross was clearly a man under stress.
“Ross. Settle down. I’m sorry I overheard the conversation. We all have those kinds of hassles sometimes; you should hear me and my wife on the phone! I just stopped by to —”
“How much fucking longer am I going to have to wait for you to get your ass moving on the Leaman and Scott case? Jesus Christ! We’ve had it for nearly four months and you’ve been dicking around looking for all kinds of shit that isn’t there. The file is full of crazy notes of yours, relating to Dice Campbell and his widow, and all these other red herrings, and for what? My father even said you asked him something about it. He’s pissed, and guess who he takes it out on? We stand to make a nice little bundle, and you don’t seem to give a damn. Just because you have two houses and not a financial care in the world, and you can take your evenings and weekends off, and spend your time swilling booze and blowing into a harmonica and banging groupies, doesn’t mean the rest of us can slack off! I should just start the lawsuit myself and leave you out of it.
”
“We have lots of time, Ross. I just want to be sure we have a case before we start the action, so we won’t be faced with a huge award of costs against us if it turns out we’ve brought the treatment centre into it without justification. And I have to say you’ve got a highly distorted idea of the kind of life I lead! I’ve got two kids and —”
“Save it, I don’t want to hear it.”
“All right, well, let’s cool things off a bit, Ross.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry, Monty. What was it you wanted to see me about?”
“I just wanted to get the infamous Leaman file from you.”
“It’s over there on my table. Get it out of my sight. And I do apologize.”
“Forget about it. See you later.” I grabbed the file and left his office.
I returned to my desk, shoved the Sybil Kraus notes into the file, and contemplated the rest of the week ahead. I had another criminal trial, and discovery examinations in a case arising out of a multi-vehicle fatal accident that happened during a blizzard three years before. Leaman and Scott would have to wait.
I worked every night that week, and had a couple of stiff drinks when I got home, then collapsed in bed. I checked in with the kids regularly but did not set foot in the Grace Maternity Hospital.
On Saturday, I got a call from Tommy Douglas. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Tom. How’s it going? Are you sure you don’t want me to stay there with you for a couple of days?” I had given them the option of staying at my place, as usually happened when it was my week, or having me move in with them at the Dresden Row house. They wanted to stay there, to be within walking distance of the hospital until their mother was released. Tom had been conscientious in looking after Normie, I knew.
“No, you don’t have to move in. Everything’s copacetic here. Uh, Mum wants to have the baby baptized right away.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. There’s nothing wrong with him, aside from being premature. She just . . . I don’t know,” he finished lamely.
Great. A christening. Who exactly was going to be present? The child’s father? Surely not, if I was getting this call. What was my role going to be? Godfather? An image came unbidden to my mind: the unforgettable scene in The Godfather: Michael Corleone at the baptism of his sister’s child, reciting his vows on the baby’s behalf, interspersed with scenes of his men gunning down his enemies as the sacred ritual proceeds.
“Do you renounce Satan?”
“I do renounce him.”
“And all his works?”
“I do renounce them.”
I snapped myself out of it, only to envision a church filled with family and friends, not knowing what to say to old Monty standing there with a stupid look on his face.
“So it’ll just be here at the house.”
“Sorry, Tom, what’s that again?”
“Just us at the house. And Brennan. She thought you would, well . . .”
My feelings were being spared. She was going to forgo a big church christening so the kids could have me there but nobody else would be looking on. What choice did I have?
“Sure, Tom. When is it?”
“She thought tomorrow night. She’s getting out in the morning. The baby has a name now.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “Dominic. Second name’s Alexander.”
“After Alec the Trot.”
“Granddad. Right.”
So. Sunday night I was at the door of my former residence for the christening of my wife’s child by someone who wasn’t me. Normie greeted me at the door.
“He’s so cute, Daddy! And so tiny! I’m only allowed to hold him if I’m sitting down. And you have to keep your hand under his head at all times so it won’t flop down. Father Burke isn’t here yet. Tommy picked him up and made him cry. Not Father Burke. Obviously. Dominic. He just has to get used to him. Tommy does. Are you coming in?”
“You’re in the way!”
“Oh! Sorry.”
I stepped inside and there it was: the tableau I had been dreading for weeks. My wife holding her baby. A baby whose paternity I wasn’t quite clear on. A baby she loved, presumably, as much as she loved my two children. I suddenly found that notion more wrenching than anything related directly to me. She looked up with trepidation. I couldn’t think of anything to say. The baby was small but not inordinately so. He had black hair.
“This will be quick,” she said finally. “Brennan’s on his way over.”
No sooner did she speak than he arrived at the door. He gave Normie a hug and gave me a look over her head, as if to say: “You’re not going to ruin this for them.”
I stood by as my wife held her child, the priest poured water, and the baby howled. Father Burke made a sign of the cross on the tiny forehead and spoke the words of the sacrament of baptism. I resolutely forced the cinematic images of violent retribution from my mind as we mumbled our vows and our renunciations of evil. After the ceremony Burke picked up the squalling infant and looked lovingly into his face. The baby calmed down, gave a little burp, and promptly fell asleep. Maura took him away to his crib. She came back and stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.
“Are you all right now?” I asked, finally.
“Oh yes. Tired, but, you know.”
“Can I go sit by his cradle, Mum?”
“Why don’t you leave him for a little while, Normie. Daddy’s here now, so —”
“Daddy! Would you like an ice cream dipped in chocolate? Just like Dairy Queen!”
“Sure. I’d love one.”
“Father? Are you allowed to eat chocolate at night?”
“I have a special dispensation from the bishop for tonight, Normie. What luck!”
“Is that what it is, though? Somebody said you can’t get married. I already knew that. But they also said you can’t go out at night and dip the something — maybe they didn’t mean ice cream. But anyway, if the bishop says it’s okay . . .”
Burke sat there shaking his head. Tom busied himself with the baby’s paraphernalia in the opposite corner of the room. Was he perhaps the author of the overheard, and not clearly understood, wick-dipping remark?
We had our chocolate dips and said our good-nights.
Burke and I stood outside the house, wondering what the protocol was on an evening like this. In other words, was the Midtown on? Would that be sacrilegious somehow? More to the point, would it set me off on a bout of drunken recrimination against a mother and her child? Suddenly I found myself seized by another impulse. And, for some reason, I felt I had no choice but to act upon it.
“Let’s sit in your car for a minute,” I said to him.
“My car?”
“Yeah.”
“All right.”
We got in and he sat looking at me. I gestured with my head: “Face front. Don’t look at me.” He turned and faced the windshield.
“This is something I haven’t said in thirty years,” I told him. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“Do I have to say ‘bless me Father for I have sinned,’ and all the rest of it?”
He shook his head. His silence, welcome as it was, made it difficult for me to continue.
After a few minutes he said: “What do you want to confess, Monty?”
“Thoughts. About her. Maura. And the baby.”
“Yes?”
“After I heard she was in the hospital . . .” The words dried up in my mouth.
“I know. Just tell me.”
“It was only for an instant. Before I could even complete the thought, I regretted it. Renounced it. Honestly. I . . .” My voice gave out, and I didn’t think I could continue.
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I hoped — for an instant, I hoped the baby would die. And if it didn’t, that she would die herself. I’m sorry! I don’t even know who I’m apologizing to.”
“Yes, you do. And you are sorry.”
“And you don’t feel that way now.”
“No. I wish she’d take the child and flee to Egypt. But I don’t wish her any harm. Her or the baby.”
“I know.” He made the sign of the cross over me. “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
Just for a moment, a moment of weakness or of sudden illumination, I was in awe of him. A friend — an acknowledged sinner himself, a guy I drank and had adventures with, someone whose eye I may have irreparably damaged — had the power to take my darkest, most despicable thoughts, deeds, and omissions and strike them from the record. Forgive them and render them of no account in the world beyond. I was relieved when the feeling passed.
Chapter 12
Now the doctor’s gonna do all that he can. But what you’re gonna need is an undertaker man. I ain’t had nothin’ but bad news. Now I got the crazy blues.
— Perry Bradford, “Crazy Blues”
I did not go home in the spirit of peace that should have stayed with me after my confession. Instead, I went home and sought oblivion in the depths of a whiskey bottle. Predictably, the alcohol exerted its depressant effect and intensified my misery over my children’s new brother on Dresden Row. My mind could not rid itself of the image of Maura and her newborn son. Dominic. What was that? Italian? Or — weren’t there Irishmen called Dominic? What was it I had heard recently? The Dominicans? Their initials were “OP.” What did that stand for, and who gave a shit anyway? Order of Preachers, that was it! Son of a Preacher Man! No, it couldn’t be. I didn’t want to pursue that thought, or have it pursue me in my dreams, so I went outside and sat in a deck chair, gazing at the waves splashing on the shore. A wind had come up, and rigging banged against the mast of a nearby boat. A bell buoy clanged in the harbour, a lonely sound. I got up and poured one more for the road up to my bedroom, and made a resolution that this would be my last drink for a week. Or even a month. I didn’t need the stuff, and I didn’t enjoy feeling like crap all day afterwards. That settled, I collapsed in bed.
I had only been asleep for about an hour when my mind came alive with images — memories — of me finishing a set in a smoke-filled bar; then, back stage, a guitar case filled with pills and tabs of mind-altering chemicals; a young girl; someone bursting into the room, screaming, throwing the guitar case against the wall; people scattering — I forced myself to put this, and the family disaster, out of my mind, or I would not get one more moment of sleep.
