Leaning, Leaning Over Water

by Frances Itani

  The train answered with a rush of steam.

  “Ooo la la!” I shouted down to Grampa King. “Blah-blahblah-blah-blah!”

  “Shut the window,” Father said. He’d settled into the seat facing me and Eddie. Lyd was sitting with Mother across the aisle. Mother had turned away from us and Lyd was pretending that she was not part of the King family on the move. Soot was pouring in and already Eddie’s face and mine were smudged with black.

  “Shut the damned window,” Father had said, again. “Just try to stay clean, will you, until we get to your new home.”

  Well, I thought. I opened my eyes. Grampa King is under the ground and I hardly know anything else about him except that he was silent most of the time, and his favourite radio program used to be “Jake and the Kid.”

  Our family is shrinking, I thought. And now I’m a traveller in my father’s first car and we’ve been living in Quebec for years and I know hundreds of French words, maybe even thousands, if I counted them up.

  As if he could read my mind, Eddie began to sing in French, from the front seat. He quickly switched songs.

  Alouettey

  Smoke a cigarettey

  Chew tobaccy

  Spitty on the floor

  No one was in the mood.

  “Enough!” Father said.

  “I don’t think I can stand one more thing going wrong in this family,” said Lyd. “Father’s getting more weird by the day.”

  She had come home early from business school in Ottawa where she was learning shorthand. I loved the swirls and curves and lines of it. She’d showed me how to write my name—a right-leaning w with a fallen side, the other side shooting off into the air.

  Lyd had a grey suit now, which she’d bought at Middleman’s. She wore it with black shoes, flats. The suit had a straight jacket and two pleats at the waist of the skirt. I teased her about looking “office proper.” The business school taught her that her hair was supposed to be up, too. And how to dress when she went to apply for a job.

  I was about to graduate from grade eleven, high school leaving in Quebec. In the fall I planned to move to British Columbia. I was going to get a job for the summer, save the fare, cross the whole vast country sitting up in a train—no berth—and find work in Vancouver. I knew Father would say I was too young but I was prepared to fight him when I was ready. It wasn’t my fault Quebec schools had only eleven grades. Anyway, I planned to live safely at the “Y” in Vancouver until I got on my feet.

  I was off for five days, now, because it was review week before exams. I’d been peeling potatoes when Lyd came in. We took turns making supper before Eddie came home from his paper route, and Father from work.

  “What do you mean, things are weird?” I said.

  “After we go to bed,” Lyd said, “Father writes things. I got up last night to see who was in the living room. Whatever he had in front of him, he tried to cover over. It was two o’clock in the morning.”

  I knew Father had been getting up in the night, leaving for work earlier than usual, spending more and more time alone when he was home. Sometimes he went to the Pines—to the cliff overlooking the headwaters of the rapids—and stood there as if awaiting a sign. Other times he marauded up and down the banks, stepping over heaps of drift logs that had washed to shore. Occasionally he and Duffy rowed upriver to fish, one at the oars, the other at the prow to call out deadheads—the log drive had been heavy this year. Most of the time, Father was pulling more and more into himself. All of this made me more determined to get away.

  “I have to study for finals, Lyd. I don’t want to stay in high school the rest of my life. Anyway, I can’t solve Father’s problems. I’m getting out of here, remember?”

  “Then you’d better tell Father your plans,” she said. “Anyway, I’m only mentioning it. He is our father.”

  “It’s the grief,” I said. “Mother died. His father died. Even if there is something else, what would we do?”

  “We could try to find out what that something else is,” she said.

  I looked at her and groaned. We walked into the living room, checked the desk, checked the shelves. Went to his bedroom and pulled out the heavy mahogany drawers. At the bottom we found a thick Hilroy scribbler with times tables on the back. Inside the cover Father had written: Private journal of Jock King. None of the entries was dated, except for an occasional day of the week.

  Tuesday: Five-thirty, tidied desk in tower. Walked downstairs and through showroom. Aware of an increase in pulse. Didn’t think much about it, opened car door in staff parking lot and slipped behind wheel. By the time I reached Sussex St. and curved down to the bridge, was perspiring and grabbing at my collar. Loosened the knot of my tie. Hands clammy at the wheel. Sucked air when the tires bumped onto the planks of the bridge. Could feel and hear the rattle and echo of wood. Heart fluttered like wings in a cage. Was certain I’d black out.

  “Jesus Cripes,” said Lyd. “He’s sick.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Keep reading.”

  We took turns and read aloud to each other.

  Wednesday: River calm. Left early. The drive to Ottawa, no problem. But can’t get home at night. Can’t seem to get across the Interprovincial Bridge. In my head, the picture of black black water. Know its distance beneath the bridge, know its depth and speed of flow. Dare not look down. Tonight when I reached the Hull side, careened to the right and parked at edge of road. Had to get out. Leaned into car roof and knew I’d never cross again. Logic denies this. Have to cross again. How else to feed my children? How else to get home?

  “This is like a book,” I said.

  “Or something very strange,” said Lyd.

  “Hurry up and read,” I said, “or Father will be home from work. If he can get home.”

  “This might have been written weeks ago,” she said. “There are no dates, remember?”

  “But you said he was writing last night.”

  “Well, there’s more.”

  Thursday: Walked to shore, sat on bank, stared at Ontario—far far away. Miles downriver, three bridges link Ontario to Quebec. Past the rapids, past the booms. Three ways to cross.

  Checked to make sure children weren’t around, closed eyes, traced route in my head, starting at dirt road in front of house. Theory: If trip can be done in the mind’s eye, panic can be overcome on the bridge.

  Begin: Follow pocked road out of village; turn right onto lower gravel road, follow river’s flow, catch glints of blue through scrub. Pass turn-off to first bridge, the Champlain. Long slow curve of lampposts, Chinese restaurant below, mild ripple of white water all around.

  Carry on to Moussette Park where my children roller skate; through Val Tétreau, up hill, down again, pass the graveyard, Armories, cross the tracks, pass the Standish Hall and into downtown Hull. Peer inside E. B. Eddy building through stickpropped windows; glimpse men in undershirts guiding thunderous rolls of paper. Ignore turn-off to Chaudière Bridge with old timber slides and falls.

  Keep going: past Fortin Gravelle, past Ottawa House, bump over cobbles of Main Street of Hull. Waver in and out of streetcar tracks, see Achbar Furniture, St. James Anglican, the Laurier Theatre where children aren’t allowed to go. Pass the Interprovincial Hotel on the Quebec side, below. Salute, and cross the bridge. Carry on to my place of work.

  No change of heart rate.

  No shortness of breath.

  Now. Return journey. Have to take the head journey home.

  Lock door of office. Place one foot before the other, descend tower stairs. Identify sleek sharp fins of Chevy in the lot, rub sleeve over hood rockets, for luck, unlock door.

  So far, okay.

  Turn wheels away from lot; hands start to tingle, then feet. Blood rushes from my head; dizziness between the ears.

  Can’t do it. Can’t get myself home.

  Even in imagination, can’t drive onto bridge and reach the other side. Cannot turn the car homeward, to Quebec.

  Lyd passed the scribbler t
o me and I read.

  Friday: After they left for school, I circled back and came home. Went to shore and dipped hands in river. Thought of Maura and wondered what I’d say if I could speak to her now. Would I tell her that I carried on? Every fleur-de-lis etched onto aluminum placed a slice of pea-meal bacon on our plates. I carried on, though the girls don’t use the trays, now, in our own home. Carried on until last year, when the machines in the factory were silenced and every man walked away.

  I’d tell Maura that I have my first shirt-and-tie job. Keeping books in an office in a glass tower that overlooks a showroom of waxed-and-polished cars. That we have our first car, a ‘57 Chevy with fins—two-tone blue, storm and sky. When I saw it in the used lot I knew I’d hold the picture forever.

  But she’d want to know other things. I could tell her that a year ago, the Earth paused a beat to allow the news of Sputnik 1, and then began to spin even faster. I could tell her I failed to protect the girls from Elvis and his rocking hips. The most I could do was turn down the sound on Ed Sullivan. She wouldn’t believe any of it, not even the secondhand TV. TV’s almost had it anyway. Eddie sits beside it and thumps it with the broom handle every time the picture tube blacks out.

  If I said to Maura now, “First thing you know, scientists will be putting a man on the moon,” she’d say, “There’s already a man on the moon. Inside. A woman, too.” That would be Maura. If I told her I was worried about the children, she’d say, “The children will be just fine.”

  But the girls are buying boys’ jeans with a fly and they’re making the pant legs tight by sewing them up the inside. They think I haven’t noticed, and they do their tightening when I’m not around.

  “He’s worried about us?” I said. “He doesn’t even go to work.”

  “Maybe he goes certain days,” said Lyd. “Where else would he be?”

  “Well, I’m alone in the house all this week, so he can’t be here.”

  Never felt right after her coffin was put to earth. The dream that night, the night I buried her, the same dream keeps coming back now. It’s my past reaching through—dark light through shutters.

  Last night I woke and sat up. Didn’t know what to do. I’d seen her in her coffin under the earth. The coffin tilted and her head sloped to one side, lower than the rest of her body. She was trying to raise her head from the downward slant but the effort needed more energy than she had. She spoke in the dream; her eyes were sockets.

  —I’m not comfortable, Jock.

  Couldn’t bear to think of her under the weight of the earth.

  —I’m not comfortable.

  Thought of going to the graveyard in the night, digging her up, levelling the coffin. Could do it even now, after all this time.

  Lyd stopped reading and we looked at each other. We were both crying. She put the scribbler back beneath the sweaters and closed the mahogany drawer.

  “Maybe we should tell somebody,” she said.

  “That we sneaked into his room and read his private journal?”

  “We could tell Rebecque. We can tell her anything. Would she tell Duffy? Maybe Father talks about this stuff to Duffy.”

  “Elvis and his rocking hips?” I said.

  But we couldn’t laugh.

  “Did you know he wrote stuff like this?” said Lyd. “It sounds as if he’s been storing it up and now it’s all pouring out.”

  When Father came home, Lyd and I were watching. He looked normal, but I went outside and checked around the car, not knowing what I was looking for.

  “We’d better not say anything to Eddie,” I told Lyd. “He’d just worry. But we have to keep an eye on Father.”

  After supper Father changed into his khaki shorts, checked the barometer on the porch wall and grabbed the binoculars off the sill. He drove the car to shore and parked in four inches of water on flat riverbottom. He got out, washed the car, slipped back inside and stayed there. Lyd and I went down and sat on shore with our books, pretending to study.

  “Maybe he doesn’t go to his office,” I said. “Maybe he wanders around on this side of the river looking for work so he won’t have to cross a bridge.”

  But he did go to work. We read the journal the next day, and the day after that. As long as he kept writing, we kept reading.

  Sat in the car and thought of water, cool under summer tires. Thought of why I can’t get across the bridge without having the attacks. Thought of outwaiting rush hour, putting the car in reverse and backing across, since its nose doesn’t like to be turned towards Quebec. Thought of the rattling planks on the bridge and covered the picture in my mind. Covered it the way canvas sheeting is stretched over the new car models at work when they’re offloaded in secrecy before each fall unveiling.

  Maybe it’s fear.

  Of the river.

  I should have warned Maura. Couldn’t keep her safe.

  What I’m afraid of? I am afraid of the fear.

  “Do you feel safe?” Lyd said.

  “Safe?”

  I remembered how Father used to warn us about the invisible line above the rapids, the last place of safety—or not. How I had sometimes drifted past, to see how far I could go. But that wasn’t what Lyd had meant. It was too complicated to think about. And her voice was shaky.

  On Thursday, Father called in sick. He’d never done that before; I couldn’t remember him missing a day’s work. I had the entire Chemistry text to review but he came looking for me and asked if I’d like to get some driving practice and go to Britannia, on the other side. We could take the Champlain Bridge.

  But I couldn’t. Chemistry was my weakest subject and my first exam.

  “I thought you were sick,” I said.

  “Well I’m better now. And that’s that.”

  Friday morning, Father went to work but by seven that night he hadn’t come home. At seven-fifteen, he phoned.

  “I’m ill,” he said. “I need a drive. Come and get me. My joints are aching and my knees are weak—too weak to walk. I must have summer flu, after all.”

  I stomped through the field, fuming. I had to take the bus all the way from the village, had to change in Hull. By the time the two of us were in the car, it was after nine and almost dark.

  “I’ll sit in the back,” he said. “I don’t want to spread germs.”

  When I approached the bridge, I watched in the rearview mirror as he ducked down in the back seat. Seconds later, his head came up and he stared down at the river below. We rumbled across.

  Saturday morning, Father drove to Hull to get the groceries at the A&P. No river to cross. Lyd and I made a dive for the scribbler.

  Had to be bailed out by my second born, my child-between. Before I called home, tried different routes to the other bridges. No go. Had to return to glass tower and call home. Back-seat passenger in my own car. Planned to drop out of sight as soon as Trude hit the bridge. Braced for the attack and—nothing happened.

  Instead, body filled with well-being. Stared at river’s surface, even dared it to reach up and pull me down.

  Something inside is marking time; I feel it closing in. Trude can’t come to Ottawa to drive me home every night.

  Barely holding myself together.

  No joy.

  Miss Maura. Have to let go; can’t let go. Need her. Maura would know how to get me home across the bridge.

  —A broken spirit dries up the bones.

  Lyd put the scribbler back in its place. “I wish he’d sound like his old self,” she said. “I wish he’d try to order us around, tell us what to do. He’s never been like this before.”

  “It sounds as if he’s sad,” I told her. “I think he’s losing control.”

  “I don’t feel right,” Lyd said. “Maybe we should tell him we know.”

  But I was against this. I was afraid Father would explode if he found out that we’d been reading his journal. It was that unstoppable journey, Life. Father called it “the big trip.” And he’d sometimes add, “This is the happy part; this is the
learning part. This is the fun part.” But Father had bogged down on his journey and Lyd and I did not know what to do.

  I was trying to memorize a year’s work in three subjects at once and had set up a desk in the porch. Every time Lyd or Eddie walked through the house my thoughts wandered. I could hear them breathing.

  I’d been trying to stay out of Father’s way, too, but he seemed to be everywhere. Saturday, he’d returned from town with groceries and an armful of papers that he’d cached beside his maroon chair. I had seen him writing, pencil in hand. Scratching out, erasing, writing again. Not in the Hilroy scribbler but on long yellow foolscap. Lyd and I couldn’t find the foolscap, later, but in his journal we read:

  Maura and I pulled up roots in Darley against the wishes of two families. We survived years of Duplessis, the old crook. When others around me blathered on about him I knew enough to keep my mouth shut. On Saint-Jean Baptiste Day, I shook hands with the village priest—never interfered in his affairs and he never interfered in mine. Now Maura’s gone and the priest and the “Chef” are still around. Didn’t Maura follow my thumb on the map of the atlas when I hauled it down and traced the Canadian Shield? Wasn’t she looking over my shoulder? No, I remember now. Behind me, she said, “You’re taking me to live beside a wide river, and I don’t know how to swim.”

  Don’t know how it all went wrong. Sometimes I feel someone sit beside me on the edge of the bed —a woman—can’t see her face. I reach, but when I do, she’s gone.

  I dream the river running through me. I dream the river in its seasons. Shallow and log-strewn in summer, the stillness of shore-ice in winter, the turbulence of spring. Last night, I was surprised at the surface terror, the surliness of water hinting at what lies beneath. In my sleep I dreamed: