The Miracles of Ordinary Men

by Amanda Leduc

  He bent over the wheel and started the engine, his left wing obscuring Stacey’s face. He backed out of his cramped spot a little too fast, shifted into gear, and pulled out of the lot. A hundred feet past the school, he reached for the radio — something, anything to fill the silence.

  A silty breeze ruffled the wings as he drove over the Fraser River. He wondered what kind of son he was, that his cat — eating more than she should be now and looking remarkably well after her return from the dead — waited to welcome him while his mother lay cold in the morgue.

  —

  When he was twelve, he’d had a dog.

  Dodger, the incontinent beagle, had barked into all hours of the night and remained happily oblivious to housetraining. Sam had come home from school one afternoon to find Dodger gone and his mother weeping. A garbage truck, she’d said. The grave was a fresh pile of dirt by the back garden.

  Years later, his mother got tipsy at a New Year’s party and confessed that there had never been a garbage truck. She couldn’t stand the barking, the smell of stale pee in the house. That long ago morning, after discovering dog shit on the couch, she loaded Dodger into the car and drove thirty kilometres out of town. She dropped him off at the side of a green country road.

  “There was a farmhouse,” she’d said, remembering. “A grey farmhouse with maple trees out front. It looked like a nice place.” As though nice people lived there, as though they might have taken him in. As though it mattered, now.

  “I was fine for a while,” she said. “And then I felt terrible.”

  “You felt terrible?” he said.

  “So I went back,” she said, ignoring him, “and I walked up and down the road for an hour, calling his name. I went back the next day too. And the day after that.”

  “What if you’d found him?” he’d asked. “What would you have said?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, her smile sheepish, strangely shy. “I never got that far.”

  Now, driving home, he found himself wondering what had become of Dodger, all those years ago. The first and last dog he’d ever had. Maybe the nice people in the grey house took him in. Or maybe he froze in the ditch — that was a cold autumn. The grave marker wouldn’t stick in the dirt because the ground had frozen over.

  That was the first lie she’d put in the ground. Flowers, turnips, falsehoods — his mother had planted all manner of things.

  Had she known about the wings, she would have marched Sam into the church and done one of two things: prayed for deliverance or given thanks to God. A hunch told him it would have been the latter — all my hard work paid off! Either way, it would have been seen as an event, a signal, a forerunner of change. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called her.

  “This is a sign, Sam,” she might have said. Perhaps she too would have patted the nearest wing, or run her hand along it, once more the mother, smoothing away his worry.

  A sign for whom?

  “You,” she might have replied. “The rest of the world. Does it matter?”

  He should have called.

  —

  When he opened his front door, he heard a thump in the kitchen. Chickenhead, jumping off the counter. He took off his shoes, put on his most menacing face, and stretched his wings as far as they would go.

  “What have you been doing?”

  She came into the room at the sound of his voice, all purrs and delicate paws. He curled his right wing in and brushed the lower feathers against her fur, over her eyes. She batted the feathers away and wound herself around his ankles, then followed him back into the kitchen. He opened the bottle of Scotch and poured himself a glass. Drank it straight down. He thought of Doug, blank-faced and making calls from the quiet of his mother’s house, and poured himself another. And Father Jim. Father Jim would need to know about this. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to get in contact — but perhaps Father Mario would know.

  He trudged to the bedroom, shedding clothes as he went. Naked except for his boxers, he pulled his black dress pants out of the closet. A black button-down shirt to finish — this would impress Janet, this image of sober, sorrowful son. No doubt she’d be more impressed if she could see the wings, of course, the starkness of white against black. But Janet did not believe in God. (Neither do you, said that tiny voice in his head. And look what happened.)

  Back in the kitchen, Chickenhead was mewing for water. He splashed some into her bowl and briefly considered bringing her along. But Janet, like Julie, was not a cat person. Janet wasn’t an animal person at all. Doug once joked that even her plants were bound to die. She was tall and thin and Sam couldn’t think of her as anything other than a shrivelled spinster in an empty apartment, husband notwithstanding.

  The drive to his mother’s house wasn’t long, but that night he caught the tail end of rush hour. He pulled up to the gabled North Vancouver house as the sun set over the Pacific. Emma — too poetic for journalism, though he hadn’t yet had the heart to tell her — would make something of that sunset. All purple and red and gold reflected off the ocean.

  Carol had purchased the house for the view, back when money could buy a view in North Vancouver. Nowadays views were hereditary, passed down from parent to favourite child, new husband, whomever. The house would probably go to Doug. His mother’s mind had been fixed on dahlias and the northeast trellis — he doubted there was a will. He doubted a lot of things today. Like the fact that forty-eight hours ago he’d been standing on his own curb, a resurrected cat fresh in his arms. And now he was here, with his wings and his empty hands, his mother’s husband grieving on the other side of the door. Even Janet the Atheist would judge him now, if she knew all the facts.

  Inside, the first thing he noticed was the light. Someone had pulled back the curtains in every room and rays from the setting sun were a shifting mass of red-gold-white over the furniture, against the hardwood floor. He could feel the wings shift, stretch, and lengthen into the golden glow of the house.

  Doug sat in the kitchen, at the bar. Janet had brought Chinese food and the containers sat open on the table. She looked up as Sam entered and then back down at Doug, who was locked around a mug of tea. There. No double take, no slam of shock on her face, not that he’d expected anything less.

  He said, “Traffic,” as though it mattered. The water in the kettle was still hot, so he took out a mug and made himself tea. He turned to face them, the mug steady in his hands, and waited.

  Doug was five years older than Sam — a musician, a composer of ridiculous radio jingles whom Sam’s mother had met two years ago, on New Year’s Eve. The same New Year’s Eve as the dog story, in fact. The joke used to be that Doug had an instrument for every flower in the house, although he wasn’t good with plants, except perhaps to sing them into growing. Usually he looked younger than Sam but today something old seeped from his skin.

  “She wasn’t feeling well,” he said, the words directed at the counter space between his hands. “She’d had a headache the last few days, but we thought it was the weather. You know how she gets when it rains,” and yes, Carol had suffered migraines since Sam was a child. “But when she came out of the shower she had this look on her face. She blinked, and she put a hand to her head,” and Doug’s own hand went up, remembering the story, “and she just slid down the wall until she hit the floor.” He took another deep breath. “I thought she’d fainted and I went over and shook her. Then I dialed. I should have been faster.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Janet, quick to jump in.

  “It was so quick,” Doug continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. “It was over before the paramedics even got here.” His voice cracked, stumbled to a halt. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll take care of everything,” said Janet. She rubbed a hand up and down Doug’s back.

  “Actually, I’ll take care of everything.” Sam ignored Janet’s narrowed eyes, her pur
sed lips. Instead he stood, and he stretched the wings out, then pulled them in. He was so tired. “I have to find Father Jim and let him know.”

  “She didn’t want a big funeral,” Doug said. “We only talked about it once. You know — just in case.” Then he looked up. “Father Jim? I thought Father Mario served at the church.”

  “He does,” Sam said, not wanting to elaborate. “Father Jim was there while I was growing up. He should know, at least.”

  Doug nodded. “Where will you start?”

  “I’ll go to the church tomorrow.” He looked over at Janet. “Will you take him back with you tonight?”

  She nodded. Her face had relaxed and she looked, surprisingly, somewhat pretty, somewhat sad.

  “Good.” The irritation went as quickly as it had come, leaving behind the sour taste of guilt. He could have been here, this morning. He could have stretched time for tea, a chat, the chance to extend his hands and push Death away.

  But God, it would seem, had thought Shakespeare more important.

  —

  When he got there the next morning, the church was empty save for Mrs. Glastonbury, who knelt in the front pew and whispered loudly into her hands. Mrs. Glastonbury, who had come to the church to pray for her dead husband every morning since Sam was a child. The husband (officially, according to the Church) had died while investigating a domestic dispute in the city, but (unofficially, according to Father Jim) had actually died of heart failure while screwing a whore in a seedy East Hastings hotel. At eleven the story had been thrilling, all the more because Sam had heard it via the eavesdropper’s window. Stooped in the vestment closet, forgotten while putting his robes away, he heard Father Jim say the word and had to stifle a yell of delight. Whore. Whore.

  Mrs. Glastonbury, he remembered, had given out toothpaste for Halloween. Today she muttered her rosary in a low, fanatical tone that made perfect sense — only a person who thought candy came from the Devil could sound like that.

  Father Mario was behind the altar, fiddling with the tabernacle. He closed the door of the little silver box and then turned to face the entrance. He saw Sam immediately, smiled, and gestured to a pew. Sam, once more in black, the wings hunched on either side of him like extra, flashy limbs, slid into a seat.

  “Samuel,” said the priest. “I heard about your mother — I am so very sorry.”

  Had he introduced himself before? He couldn’t remember. “Yes. Me too.”

  “How can I help you?”

  Sam coughed into the left wing and felt strangely embarrassed, as though he were turning down a lover. “Can you tell me where Father Jim practises?”

  “Father Jim? I believe he’s on the Island now.” If the other priest was surprised, he didn’t show it. “In Tofino. He is teaching and writing a book.”

  Sam nodded. “Is there a phone number I can call?”

  “Of course,” said the priest. He stood and motioned to the rectory. Sam followed, the wings trailing softly in his wake.

  The rectory smelled the way it had when he was eleven — incense and dust and fresh linen from the vestment closet, all resting on the weathered scent of old wood. The white cupboard in the corner had held Father Jim’s supply of Scotch, once upon a time. Scotch and vodka, for those difficult pre-Easter days. He had an urge to open the cupboard and check to see what currently graced the shelves — Father Mario probably kept candles, or extra glasses for the holy wine.

  The priest, oblivious, copied a name onto a small red notepad and then scribbled a number. His hands were small and square, the nails blunt-edged. “Brother Thomas receives the visitors, I believe.”

  “Thank you.” Sam’s own fingernails were dangerously short now. A childhood habit, that, come to taunt him. He took the paper and folded it once, then once again.

  “Have you thought of going to see them?” Father Mario asked. “The drive is not so long.”

  An hour to the ferry, then the ride across the water and another three hours or so to the coast. Sam opened his mouth to disagree and then remembered: his cat, his car, Joni Mitchell on the open road. It wouldn’t be Mecca or Memphis, but Cathedral Grove, that wonderful forest of ancient trees, was part of the drive. His mother had loved the green.

  “Your mother and I were great friends,” the priest continued. “She was a wonderful woman.”

  “Yes.” The wings rustled with sudden energy. “I’d like,” Sam cleared his throat, “to see if Father Jim could perform the service. You understand?”

  “Of course.” Father Mario nodded. “I will be happy to attend.”

  He was still so tired. He followed Father Mario back to the entrance and allowed the priest to open the door and make way for the wings. Sam blinked against the sudden sunshine and stepped across the threshold, then turned back, one hand shielding his eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said again.

  The priest nodded. “My best for your journey.” He raised a hand and made a small sign of blessing over the wings. Sam braced himself for more priestly wisdom, but Father Mario gave him a sad smile and turned back to the church, so he went quickly down the steps to hide his surprise.

  —

  The phone at the retreat house rang eleven times before someone picked up.

  “Barnabite Fathers,” said the voice. An oddly business-like, almost military voice.

  “Hello,” said Sam. “I was told that I could find Father Jim at this number. Father Jim McDougal?”

  “Yes.” The speaker cleared his throat. “One moment. May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “It’s Sam. Sam Connor.”

  “Sam,” said Father Jim when he came on the phone, his voice warm and familiar. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Hello, Father.” He was at once five years old, eleven, thirty-five and about to be a jilted man. Somehow, the air smelled of incense. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother,” said the priest. “Is everything all right?”

  “Mom died yesterday,” he said, hating the boldness of the words. “I thought you should know.”

  Silence on the other end of the line. “Sam. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I was wondering if you would mind doing the service. I know I haven’t been in touch — ”

  “Of course,” said Father Jim. “Are you still in Vancouver? Shall I leave tonight?”

  And suddenly the pilgrimage coalesced, took shape. “No,” he said. “The service isn’t until next Tuesday — I could come and get you.”

  “From the ferry?”

  “The retreat. I’d like the drive, if that’s all right.”

  —

  Stacey was very understanding when he made the call into work — maybe too much so. She greeted the news of his road trip with an odd enthusiasm, her voice both respectful and envious.

  “I’m sure the drive will be lovely,” she said. “And it will be good for you to have the time alone, no doubt.”

  Time alone, he wanted to tell her, was not the problem. Then he wondered if she harboured dreams of coming along. “Yes,” was all he said. They’d found a supply. He could take as much time as he needed.

  He called Doug at Janet’s apartment. Doug’s voice was low and detached — where Stacey had had too much concern, he seemed to have none at all.

  “Father Jim’s class finishes on Friday,” Sam told him. “So we’ll be back on Saturday, in the afternoon.”

  He paused. Doug said nothing. “Could you put Janet on the phone?”

  The switch to Janet was accompanied by footsteps; she’d taken the phone into another room.

  “How is he?”

  “Tired,” she said, her voice muffled. “I don’t think he slept at all last night — I could hear him pacing.”

  “Hmm,” he said. His turn for the non-committal grunt. They were conspirators, suddenly, he and Jane
t — careful and polite in the face of death. “Well, let me know if anything happens.”

  “I will,” she said. “Have a safe journey.”

  Safe. He gulped down an urge to paint a picture for Janet right there on the phone: his hands locked around the wheel as he navigated hairpin turns and precarious mountain highways, the wings shining white and blocking his rear-view mirror. “Sure.”

  Once more in boxers he padded into the kitchen, the tiles cool against his feet. An offhand glance at the thermostat told him it was ten degrees in the house, which had to be a mistake. It felt like summertime. When he got back from Tofino, he’d have to get the heating fixed.

  —

  The next morning, he was up before the sun. He crept out into the parking lot and loaded the Jetta with water bottles, granola bars, and cat treats to keep Chickenhead calm.

  A map of the Island to help with the hairpin turns, two cases of CDs to help with the quiet, and he was almost ready to go. Just before pulling Chickenhead out the door, he put on the black shirt and the black dress pants. He slid the shirt over his shoulders and started with the bottom buttons, but his fingers began to shake. He stopped and looked in the mirror.

  His reflection was pale, his fingers locked and white-knuckled. His hairline was receding. The wings rose and fell behind him, in tune to his breath and yet not quite, as though sucking air on their own. He put a hand to his head and clumps of hair came away in his fingers, leaving slivers of shiny white scalp. He took a breath and reached for the buttons again but his fingers were slippery with sweat and he fumbled. The wings waited behind and on either side of him like malevolent ghosts.

  Suddenly, he felt hands reach out and cover his own. His skin surged with power and his fingers moved slowly, deliberately through each button. He watched in the mirror as these hands that were not his hands finished the shirt up to the collar. The dryness in his throat wouldn’t go away.

  Now his reflection showed a man in a crisp black shirt, the wings white and stiff and still. One more breath, and this time the wings moved with him, up and down, and settled behind his shoulders as though they’d been there all his life.