Good to a Fault

by Marina Endicott

  “I’m sorry,” she said, apologizing for something. That there is such a place in the world, and that you’ve ended up in it; that by my agency, my fault, my own most grievous prosperity, you are condemned to this shithole.

  “I’m sorry, I’m searching for Clayton Gage. I need to find him because his wife is ill.”

  The man said nothing, but his mouth moved, the whiskers twisting together and rotating. She realized he was pulling his teeth back into place. “Who?” he said, finally.

  “Clayton Gage. His wife wanted me to—she needs to talk to him.”

  “Younger fella, nose, smooth hair?” The old man struggled to sit up, and Clary, watching him, steeled herself to step into his room. He had managed to get up on one elbow, and she held the other sharp elbow to give him some leverage. His skin had a grey tinge, probably grime more than illness. Finally he swung his legs around and was upright.

  “I seen him,” the old man said. “Next door but one. Eleven, I think it is.”

  Clary didn’t know how to let go of him. Would he fall over?

  “Don’t get many visitors here,” he said. “Except the NDP canvassers last month. Gave me a ride over to vote.” His bone-fingered hand patted her sleeve.

  “Are you warm enough?” she asked him.

  “Been through worse winter than this,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  She was reluctant to give it to him; but it held no magical protection, after all. “Clara Purdy,” she said. “Maybe you knew my father, George Purdy?”

  “George Purdy? Plumbing and hardware store by Stepney’s?”

  “Yes, that was him,” she said.

  “I sure knew of him,” the old man said. “You’re his daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard he died, though.”

  “He did, nearly twenty years ago.”

  “Not such a bad thing to go early,” the old man said, grinning, his whiskery whiskey mouth hanging open. Three teeth showing. Clary laughed too, but felt a nasty clutch of grave-stink from him.

  “Well, I should look for Clayton,” she said. She disengaged his arm, waiting to see if he would collapse.

  “You tell your dad, Harry Benjamin said hello,” he said, winking at her.

  She could not tell if it was a joke or if he had forgotten that her father was dead, so she smiled and nodded and went out.

  “Don’t close the door!” he yelled. “That’s my TV, that doorway.”

  The next door down was 10, and the one after that, 11. Clary raised her hand to knock but had to force it to make a sound. Knock-knock-knock—she made her knuckles obey her. No noise from inside. She knocked louder this time. The old man—Harry Benjamin—had said he was there.

  “Clayton?” she called. Still no answer. She didn’t know what to do. Leave a note?

  She moved toward the light coming through the small front window, which looked out onto the snowy street. Her car was safe, nobody stealing the battery, which happened often each year in the first few weeks of real cold.

  A man came walking along, talking to himself, arms gesturing jaggedly in the air, angry about something. It was Clayton.

  She flinched back from the window. In a minute he would be coming upstairs. She couldn’t—Clary ran silently up the last flight of stairs, pulled her coat around her and sat hidden on the top step. His boots clumped up the stairs. He was muttering to himself, she couldn’t hear.

  Harry Benjamin said Hey! but Clayton ignored him, key fumbling in the lock, and the door opened and shut behind him.

  She sat huddled on the top step. It was darker; no window onto the street up there. The building creaked and cracked in the cold. Somewhere, someone flushed a toilet. As her eyes grew used to the inner twilight she saw a magazine on the floor, and the vague image became clear, an enormous pair of breasts bursting out of some leather contraption. Instead of jumping up and running away, she sat still. To keep her mind quiet she prayed, for Harry Benjamin in his dirt, for the waitress, for the upholsterer. For Lorraine, almost out of habit. As usual, her prayers seemed to be swallowed by clouds, by the earth’s gravity.

  She got up and went down the stairs. This time she knocked on the door of number 11.

  When he saw her, Clayton made as if to shut the door, but stopped.

  “They all right?” He was thinking of the children, of course.

  “They’re fine,” she said quickly. “They miss you.”

  That was the right thing to say. The muscles of his face unknotted.

  “It’s Lorraine,” she said. “They’ve done the transplant, it’s just the waiting now—but she needs you, needs to talk to you.”

  He stepped back into the room. Unlike Harry Benjamin’s, his was orderly. The small table was clear, the narrow bed’s blankets had been smoothed.

  She stepped over the threshold and waited for him to speak.

  He moved to get his papers and can of tobacco and stayed by the table, rolling a cigarette, lighting it, blowing the smoke out the window gap. His body was strung up tight. Beneath the tension, he looked like he’d been doing some hard physical work.

  She almost said something about Swingline Upholstery, but stopped herself. She kept her hands folded in front of her and her eyes lowered, like an old maid, or a Salvation Army poster.

  “What does she want me to do?”

  It was a complaint, not a question, but Clary tried to answer it. “You’re her husband, maybe you can give her some support that she can’t get anywhere else.”

  “I can’t handle it. Cancer.”

  “She’s thinner, but you won’t be too shocked. I know it’s hard.”

  “How would you know?”

  “My father died of cancer, and my mother just two years ago. I know a wife is—But there’s a chance she might get better now, after the transplant.”

  He turned and glared at her, daring her to keep on. “She’s going to die, you know it.”

  “Well, we have to bet against that.” But she did know it, deep in her heart, and it was hard to hold that knowledge away from him. “Darwin is betting that she’ll make it.”

  From the blank look he gave her, she knew not to harp on Darwin’s virtue.

  “Lorraine misses you,” she said. “Please come.”

  He stood silent.

  “Please,” she said. A hundred thoughts ran through her head—offer him money, say Come back and stay in my house—threaten him with the police for his earlier thefts. She did none of these. She pretended she was Darwin, who was so good at not talking.

  “What’s her room number?” he asked, his voice rusty and effortful.

  “536.” She turned and left.

  Harry Benjamin waved to her as she went down the stairs, stepping carefully because her knees were shaky after the great exertion of talking to Clayton.

  Grace and Moreland were still there when she got back, even though she’d stopped for groceries. They were always out of milk, and it had sounded like diapers might be a good idea.

  Grace had already saved that day, with a huge multi-pack from the bulk warehouse store. She’d made shepherd’s pie for supper, and was sliding it into the oven when Clary came in. Clary crossed the kitchen and hugged her, a rare thing between them.

  “What’s with you?” Grace asked, suspicious.

  “I met a guy who used to know my dad,” she said. “I miss him, don’t you, Grace?”

  “I do. You need a coffee and a bite of cake,” Grace said. The remedy for any spiritual distress.

  Clary sat down and drank her coffee, listening to Moreland playing Lego with the children in the living room. Fern was folding laundry on the dining room table, talking away to Pearce, who was talking back to her, la la la. How could anyone have children without a family around them to help? What on earth had Lorraine done with nobody? Clary put her head down on her arms for a minute, wondering how Darwin was, and Lorraine, and whether Clayton would actually go in. But mostly just resting.

  When Grace brought her
a piece of cake she ruffled up Clary’s hair and said, “Moreland and me are at Auntie Ann’s, and we’ll stay a week or so, till all this excitement is done.”

  Clary lifted her head to say thank you, but Grace was already off to the living room to nag at Moreland about the mess. In a peaceful way.

  36. Leaning on the sky

  It was a relief to pile Dolly and Trevor into the car and head off down the street with no other adults to alter the balance. Moreland and Grace had gone Christmas shopping, taking Pearce, and Fern was spending the afternoon at the dentist with Mrs. Pell. Lucky Fern, Clary thought, gliding along down snowy Cumberland Avenue to pick up Darwin, being released at noon.

  In the back seat Trevor began to sing in a high, thoughtful drone, at first wordless, then adding a chorus to it. “I can fly, like an eagle,” he sang, staring out the window. Driving felt like that to Clary, a release, an eagle in air, a good skater on big ice.

  “I can fly high…” he sang. “I’m dreaming of the sky, I’m leaning on the sky.”

  They loved their mother. Seeing her often was better for them, Clary thought. And who could count how many more visits there would be? When she got very bad they would not be able to go. She could not bear to think of Trevor and Dolly watching their mother die as she had watched her own. Not so soon. She prayed, please, God, make her better—please. Every muscle straining to ask it, to beg it. Trevor’s reedy song sharpened her desire, her will. Please. The prayer went out of her and drifted away, like a message had been successfully sent.

  The children clattered along the hall, not spooked this time, first to Darwin’s party room where the old guy was holding court with four cronies, wheezing and laughing. Darwin had clothes on! Dolly felt her heart skip, up in the air—he was not going to die! She clutched him until he squawked, “Hey! Watch the nose! I’m delicate!” Trevor piled on too, but Darwin said, “Wait, you don’t want to get infected—I’ve got lice! Get back!”

  Clary said, “Oh, stop, don’t even—” and couldn’t stop herself from scratching her head.

  Dolly loved it when Clary was funny. Her stomach felt so good! She was not worried in this room, and when Darwin said they should wander down and see her mom, she could stand it.

  Her mother was sitting up awake, looking see-through, but not actually dead. She smiled that little apologetic smile that Dolly was so sorry for. Why were they all being sorry? God should be sorry.

  Lorraine told Clary they’d said that the engraftment was looking good, good counts. Her voice was mostly air, but her mind was with them, as it hadn’t always been lately. She looked at Clary steadily and her gaze was painful to bear; and the children: Trevor leaning over the bed so he could rest his cheek on her leg, Dolly’s hand motionless on the pillow.

  Please God, please, Clary said again. Please. She went into the bathroom and leaned back against the door and cried, buckets of tears washing out of her eyes and mouth and nose, making no sound. She washed her face in cold water and went back out.

  Paul turned up at the house that evening with three big white bags of take-out food. Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full, Clary sang to herself. One for my master, one for my dame. The bags were balanced on an old cardboard box marked Xmas.

  “You weren’t coming to me, so I thought I’d better—” he said, quickly, as if he was shy with her. “I don’t know if you like Vietnamese, but I thought the children would, it’s plain and fresh-tasting. And Frank Rich brought me two trees, so I have one outside, and a few decorations…”

  Clary helped him put the bags on the kitchen table, and put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him. He was foolishly happy to have done the right thing. Pearce staggered in and Paul caught him around the chest and whirled him into the air.

  The children unpacked the white boxes and tubs. They loved the little rolls, the fried ones and the rice-paper plastic-glove ones. Dolly gave Trevor the shrimps out of hers. Vietnamese was Fern’s favourite, it turned out. Grace sat by Pearce and kept a weather eye out for choking while he had a great time sucking rice noodles, draping his head with a select few.

  Moreland went down to the basement to get the decorations, and rummaged out a few beers from the cold room he had carefully retained during the renovations. When the children had eaten they drifted off into the living room, tired but peaceful. The adults sat on at the table, talking about complications and other horrors. They could hear Trevor singing around the corner:

  I’m dreaming of the sky,

  I’m dreaming of the sky,

  I’m leaning on the sky,

  I’m dreaming of the sky…

  Dolly sang it with him, and when Trevor trailed out she added a chorus, boola boola boola boola BOOLA. Pearce ran into the living room where there was room to really dance. They loved their mother.

  After they’d put the tree up, Clary went down to get more beer. In the cold room she found her mother’s Persian carpet, rolled tight as always, but stood on end during the renovation. That would do it no good. She took the beer up, and since Paul and Moreland were deep in a theological discussion, borrowed Fern to help her carry the heavy carpet upstairs.

  “To replace the one we ruined with the torte,” Clary told Paul. “Please, please take it, it’s crowding up the basement and has been for thirty years.”

  “It’s too good a carpet,” he protested, but only formally. He wanted part of her in his house. She had peeled back a corner to show him the jewel colours, the golden antelope and leaves curling around a dark blue ground.

  Moreland offered to put it in the truck, but Grace, coming after him into the hall, said, “Don’t be silly, Moreland. Clary can run it over there with her back windows open.”

  Grace usually assigned all the delivering to him, but Moreland shut his mouth.

  “Paul will need a little help rearranging things, I’m sure,” Grace said, putting Clary’s coat on her.

  Shunted, Clary and Paul walked out into the night at either end of the carpet, their boots creaking on the snow.

  “Is this all right with you?” Clary asked. Paul slid back down the length of the carpet to kiss her, the sudden heat of his mouth and face reviving her in the cold air.

  Unwrapped and unrolled, the carpet changed Paul’s living room completely, transporting the barren chapel to a Persian garden. He had never seen one with that arch-shape—inside the night-blue arch a golden tree, and above the tree, within the arch, birds cavorting in air.

  “But this is—this is valuable,” he said. It almost filled the bare wood floor. “It’s been rolled up all my life. Better to be used.”

  “A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse,” he said. “I think it’s silk.”

  “Is it?” She was slipping the buttons of her blouse through their loops.

  “It’s probably 19th century.”

  “Probably.”

  He turned off the light, rather than draw the heavy Jacobean curtains and shut out the moon. She unbuttoned his shirt. All the buttons in the world still lay between them, too many things to pull off, to shrug out of. The beloved should come into his garden. She leaned into him, pulled him down.

  “Do you think we need to talk about what we are doing?” he asked her. She put her mouth and her hands on him. He said, “We are talking.”

  Finally then their skins were the only barrier, and they knelt on the Turkey carpet. The silk pile caught the skin on her knees like tiny knives, and stray moon or street light flayed the skin on his shoulders, his chest, his stomach.

  “It’s never been this valuable before,” she said.

  37. Whale eye

  Clary looked out her bedroom window and there was Clayton, turning up too early on a cold Saturday. She yanked the sweater over her head and ran to look out the front door. He had parked over toward the Brents, as if he might keep going, and was still sitting in the car, looking mulish. Had he been in to see Lorraine yet?

  Bradley Brent came bustling down his walkway and headed over to the car. Oh, no! Sh
e wondered if Clayton had a weapon of some kind, and tried to dismiss that thought as she stuffed her feet into boots. It must be forty below. The insides of her nose stuck together as she ran down the steps.

  Mr. Brent was in full spate by the time she got to the sidewalk, puffs of white air coming out of his red mouth in the cold. Clayton had opened the car door and was standing up slowly. Her mother’s car! How nice to see it, but she really should have sold it long ago, she thought, with the one extraneous piece of her mind that was not shrieking Alarm! Alarm! Maybe Clayton had a knife—he was so touchy and short-fused. Not that she cared about either Mr. Brent or Clayton, but she did not want the children to see anything violent.

  “There is an allotment of curb space in this city!” Mr. Brent was shouting. “Parking regulations are strictly enforced. I could get a bylaw officer over here in ten minutes and you would be towed, sir!”

  Clary went around to Clayton’s side and took his arm. “Come in and get warm and have a coffee, Clayton,” she said. “Mr. Brent, Clayton is a guest of mine. You are overreacting.”

  “His nose is six inches past where it should be!”

  “Your nose is going to be six inches past your ass,” Clayton said, ruffling up his coxcomb head.

  “That was a threat!”

  Clary gave Clayton a friendly shove towards the house. “The children are excited,” she told him, seeing Dolly’s pinched face in the doorway. “Go on in.”

  As Clayton went up the walk, she turned to Mr. Brent, glacial as her mother.