“I thought Chris was sick,” Johnny answers. “Couldn’t move, eat, or talk this morning. He should be working.”
“Is it true?” Loraine says.
Johnny won’t give in so easily. He distrusts the veins of gossip in Lesser; they become clogged and twisted so that what enters as fact at first exits as story, something made up: interesting, like the poetry Charlene used to read, but completely wrong—nonsense. “What did he tell you?” Johnny asks.
“That you were with Melody the night Rebecca was born. Down in Fargo. Helping her abort the baby.”
“I didn’t help her. I was the chauffeur, that’s all. And it wasn’t a baby yet. It was like eleven weeks.”
Another pause and Johnny has to listen to Loraine’s panic; her breathing is quicker, elevated. Then, “Oh, Johnny, I was hoping it was all wrong. Careless talk. But … shit, you took her down there?”
“What,” Johnny says. “What.” He can hear Chris talking in the background. His voice is high and strained, but Johnny can’t get the context. Just drivel.
“That’s it?” Loraine asks. “That’s your explanation, an adolescent ‘what’?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide. She asked for help. She came to me. There was no one else, she said.”
Loraine laughs, a cracking squeal that hurts Johnny’s ear. “You’re so gullible,” she says. Then her voice tightens into a dry whisper. “And you’re not sorry, are you?”
“Why?” Johnny says. Sometimes Loraine’s a mule. Puts her head down and won’t budge. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at Rebecca’s birth, sure, but she wasn’t exactly scheduled for that night, was she? I mean, I could have been hunting with Michael, or drinking in St. Adolphe. I just happened to be taking Melody down to Fargo to take care of a fetus that your son happened to be responsible for too. Only what would he have done? Married her? It’s the coincidence that’s killing you Loraine, admit it. I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just the timing was off.”
“You’re sick.” The venom in Loraine’s voice makes Johnny sit up and take notice. He switches the receiver to his right ear. His neck, if he were to look in a mirror, would beam out at him, red and patchy and hot.
Loraine’s still talking. “Riding south with a teenage girl. Killing a baby. Huh. You probably wanted to fuck her.” Horror slips in. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Jesus, Loraine.” Johnny’s thinking about Chris, who’s sitting near his mother, listening to her talk like this.
“You wanted to though, didn’t you? Nice young cunt.”
Johnny doesn’t answer. He’s listening to Loraine cry, thinking how her face looks when she gets like this—all old and ugly and loose. He’s losing his patience. His tongue touches a sharp lower incisor; he lost a piece of it last week, biting into a steak. The rough edge makes the tip of his tongue hurt and swell.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“And then there’s Chris. You should see him. He’s completely devastated. Walking around in circles, mumbling. I had to yank this out of him. It’s like he’s been hit by a truck and managed to survive. Did you ever think?”
“Yes.”
“So, it didn’t matter.”
“It wasn’t the most important consideration at that point.”
“You screwed up Melody too, I hope you know.”
“Yeah,” Johnny says, “I’m a pretty awful guy.”
“It’s the scope, you know. You understand? A decision like this pulls everyone down with you. You have no sense of the implications. You don’t get it, do you?”
Johnny thinks that there is a relief in finally giving up and falling, spiralling downwards, aware by now that nothing and no one can save him.
“This isn’t going to work,” Loraine says. “This family thing. You’re the odd one out, Johnny, you see? I certainly can’t sleep beside you any more. I said you should come by. Don’t bother. Your clothes will be out by the road.”
Johnny flutters feebly; one last attempt at flight. “Oh my. A sad day. Leaving your bed. Don’t fuck any more, anyway.”
“That’s everything to you, isn’t it. Fucking. That little muscle you adore.”
“You used to adore it.”
“When I could find it.”
This ought to be funny, Johnny thinks. He laughs, then realizes he shouldn’t. He opens his mouth then and says what he knows will hurt. “That’s fine. Just fine. I’m out. Now maybe there’ll be room for Chris in your bed. He’s been aching for you. Cozy and convenient. No problem.”
There is a brief awful cry and then silence. Loraine has hung up.
That same day Phil Barkman comes to visit Johnny at OK Feeds. Phil seats himself and announces there is a movement afoot to close down the centre. Phil says this almost carelessly, as if he were speaking of the weather. He’s wedged himself into a black vinyl chair and his fingers tap his thighs. Johnny knows Phil doesn’t lie, he has no need. His carelessness is simply a mannerism—his eyes show concern, not glee.
“Melody’s dad came to see me,” Phil says.
Johnny ducks his head.
“He says he’ll talk to the mayor and the councillors and he’ll start a petition,” Phil adds. “He figures he can have you shut down by next week.”
Johnny sighs. “It’s not a bad thing,” he says. “The centre. Nothing evil there. Not even me.”
“I know that,” Phil says.
“The kids’ll miss it.”
“Sure they will.”
“How’s Melody?” Johnny asks.
“She’s a strong girl. Eleanor talks to her. Has set up a little prayer time with her. She’s full of forgiveness. She’s living with us. We made a little arrangement with her parents for the summer.” Phil says all this quietly, as if it were private or liable to break Johnny in some way.
But Johnny ignores the soft tone and says, “Yes.” He thinks he should apologize for the other night and as he considers this the words just turn up on their own, as if Phil were pulling them out on a rope. “Sorry,” he says. “You know. That night. I was lost. Confused. Don’t believe at all what I said. I heard it somewhere and it came in handy. Or I thought.”
“Sure,” Phil says. “Hey.” His face is calm and joyful. Johnny feels an urge to hug him but now Phil is lifting his hands to the ceiling as if begging for a blessing. “Like I said. Melody, who could have been devastated by your comments, seemed the least critical.”
“I’m a noisy gong,” Johnny says. Phil always makes him feel contrite.
“All of us, sometimes,” Phil says. “It’s a good verse to remember: ‘If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.’ Keeps us honest. You’re unhappy, aren’t you?”
Johnny thinks about this. Looks inside himself, considers, and discovers he is incapable of finding any sadness there. “I live on faith, hope, and love,” Johnny says. “I love Loraine.” He closes his eyes. Opens them. Phil is still there.
“Of course you do,” Phil says. “You’re a lover of women.”
Johnny stares at Phil. He’s got a small head, big eyes. Strange, to be called “a lover of women.” Makes Johnny feel good. Sometimes, Phil’s perceptions are perfect.
“How do you separate feeling from doing?” Johnny asks.
“I don’t always.”
“You suffer from weak flesh?” Johnny asks.
“Sometimes,” Phil answers.
Johnny wonders what that means for someone like Phil Barkman. Probably something to do with Eleanor, who had a look about her, touching Melissa that night. Then Melody. A glow; like it was lovely to minister to a woman’s skin.
“Pride’s a bigger one for me,” Phil says. Then, shaking his head as if surprised at this conversation, he asks, “What are you going to do?”
Johnny thinks he’s never had trouble with pride. Selfishness, yes, but never pride.
“Close it down,” he says. “That’s what I’ll do.”
That evening Johnny lets h
imself into the centre and stands in the middle of the main room and listens. The tap is dripping in the back. The Pepsi machine hums. Several flies buzz and bang against the front window. Johnny picks up a swatter and kills them. It’s fly season in the country. He remembers when he was young and how the cows tightened their assholes so flies wouldn’t get in. Johnny can feel his own body tightening, closing up, keeping out the vermin of Lesser. A protection of sorts, but dangerous too; nothing good can come of it.
He finds a piece of paper and a purple felt pen. He writes “Closed” on the paper and tapes it on the big window facing Main Street. He takes his few belongings from his desk, drops them in a paper bag, locks the front door, and leaves. Johnny stops at Bill’s Hardware and buys a pup tent, Coleman stove, sleeping bag and a frying pan and camping dishes. The girl who serves him is new in town. She’s unfamiliar with the cash register and fights with it. She’s got an empty hole in her nose, no stud, and no other jewellery. Her shoulders are bare, she’s tanned.
“New job?” Johnny asks. He knows all the teenagers of Lesser.
The girl nods. “I’m here for the summer. From Abbotsford. Bill’s my uncle.”
“Oh.” Johnny watches her fingers touch the merchandise. “You like Lesser, then?”
Her nose wrinkles. “You going camping?” she asks.
“Sure,” Johnny says, sliding his credit card back into the wallet. “Sort of.”
Johnny knows where he’s headed, but before he goes there he drives by Michael’s land out by the river. Johnny has never been here before, though he’s driven past and caught glimpses of the one-and-a-half storey house. One light glows from the big room facing the road. Johnny knocks, waits, knocks again, and then Avi is there with her big head and long neck, a book in one hand.
“Michael’s not here,” she says. “He went fishing. Left this afternoon.” Avi is watching Johnny’s face, as if she knows about him. Has already caught the smell of his sin drifting on the wind, which all day has blown from the east. She lets him in, though not happily it seems. Johnny surmises she wants to spend the evening reading and drinking. Still he slips past her; she has aroused in him a memory of big, rangy, Charlene. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or the smooth fall of Avi’s shoulders. He feels a need in his gut.
Johnny stands beyond Avi and takes in the room. Everything’s open. The walls have been removed and big beams run along the ceiling. Mounted animals everywhere. Birds in a potted tree by the window. Butterflies pinned on cork. Bear rugs on the floor. Moose head on the wall. There’s a stand of guns over by the bookcase. Johnny turns now, thinks he should leave.
“You all right?” Avi asks.
“Sure,” Johnny says. “Why not?” He is certain now that she knows.
“Here,” Avi says, lightly pushing Johnny’s elbow. “Sit. I’ll get you a drink.”
She brings him a whisky. No ice. He works at this slowly while Avi settles herself in a low chair. She seems smaller now; Johnny is still standing, looking down at her.
Avi says, “Michael was at Chuck’s this morning. News is you’ve been trying out the role of Good Samaritan.”
“I don’t think people see it that way.”
“Well, it probably goes beyond their sense of goodness.” She pauses, rubs a finger lightly over one eyebrow, and says, “I’m surprised.”
“Yeah?” Johnny likes the feel of this house, even though it is a bit Michael-heavy. Avi leans to lick at her half-full snifter of rum. Each of her little sips softens Johnny so that he begins to see her as an accomplice. Here is a woman, he believes, who understands him.
“Yeah,” she echoes. “Michael said people were upset.”
“A little,” Johnny says. He watches Avi’s hand run over a bare leg. Her skirt slid up when she sat and Johnny can see a bit of ripple in her thigh. The beginning of fat. He likes that, likes what it says about Avi Heath; that she eats well and likes to put sweet things in her mouth and doesn’t mind the look of herself in the mirror. Her fingers are long. Nails are chipped. That too is exciting, especially after the perfection of Loraine’s tiny hands. Avi’s movements are slow and sleepy. She’s been drinking for a while. Being here is like resurrecting Charlene. Johnny’s throat is on fire. He stands now and tiptoes the edges of the room, touching delicately at the animals.
“Michael doesn’t let me touch,” Avi says. “Just the rugs.”
Johnny ignores her. Strokes the head of what he thinks is a whisky-jack. He touches the neck of a Canada goose. “I quit my job,” he says. This is not true but Johnny thinks that it could be a possibility. Especially now that he’s said it.
“Oh.” She’s standing beside him now, also touching the goose. Her voice is in his ear. A whisper. “That’s my bird. Michael convinced me to go hunting that fall.”
Johnny wonders why she had it mounted. He turns and is looking at her jaw. Her hair is pulled behind her ear. She is turning grey.
He thinks that Avi would simply have to turn and then it would be Johnny and Avi all over the place, tearing up the rugs, knocking over delicate birds. But Avi keeps looking at the goose. She says, “You’re a strange man, Johnny Fehr. I didn’t like you at first. Despised you for the death of Charlene. But that’s not fair, is it? Not fair to Charlene, who had her own mind, her own furies. Do you ever miss her?”
“Now,” Johnny says. “Right now I do.”
Avi pulls back. Her mouth parts and her glass goes up. “More?” she asks, taking his glass, tearing away, moving towards the kitchen.
Johnny experiences both regret and relief. He has a memory of Loraine, way back, in the egg room. He’d never even kissed her before and they’d been talking when Loraine stood and walked over to Johnny and fell into his arms. Or he fell into Loraine’s. It was never quite clear. They kissed, long and hard. After, they were more pleased than surprised. Then, Loraine pushed him away and backstepped. “That’s enough,” she said. “I want you to come back.”
Johnny, hearing Avi clink bottles now in the other room, is despondent. He has the urge to go, to leave this house and this woman. He sits. Waits for his drink.
Coming back to him, the amber liquid waving in the glass, a plate of crackers balanced in one hand, Avi is more distant, more clear-headed. “You make foolish decisions, Johnny. You never should have taken Melody to the States. Realistically, you could be arrested.”
“She’s sixteen,” Johnny responds.
“Ah, but if it were pushed by her father, he’d have a point. You probably pretended to be this girl’s father, right?”
Johnny nods, tired now of Avi’s presumptions. Thinks she knows everything.
“You should have passed her on,” Avi continues. “To a counsellor. Her mother.”
“That’s what you would have done?” Johnny asks.
Avi smiles. She reaches for the Saltines. Eats them greedily. “How about Loraine? This must have been a shock to her.”
“She detests me,” Johnny answers.
Avi doesn’t respond to this confession. She licks the top of a cracker. Her long tongue repulses Johnny.
“I gotta go,” he says.
“I’ll tell Michael you came,” Avi says. She kisses him at the front door, sweet rum passing onto his lips. But Johnny is cured by now. He’s remembering Loraine, and right now, walking away from Avi, he thinks she’d be pleased, proud of him.
He goes back to his land. To the farm where only rubble remains. In the dark he pitches the pup tent alongside the row of spruces lining the driveway, unzips his sleeping bag and crawls in. The grass beneath the tent is uncut and so is high and soft. He sleeps deeply, waking once during the night to the sound of a small animal, perhaps a skunk, scuffling on the other side of the nylon. The animal leaves. The wind pushes at the trees. The night is dark, no moon. He sleeps again and rises in the early light, hungry. But he has no food. Poor planning.
He drives to Île des Chênes, taking the gravel road past Loraine’s farm, casting a longing eye at the stillness of her house. He stops
at her driveway and retrieves the boxes of clothes she has dumped beside the ditch. Rising from the depths of his trunk he hesitates and listens, hoping for the sound of the screen door slamming, the dog barking, the pad of her rubber boots. But everyone’s still sleeping.
He has toast and coffee at a small restaurant and then wanders the countryside. This is Saturday. He follows a similar routine on Sunday: out past Loraine’s, breakfast in a foreign town, rolling up and down the country roads. Near the end of the day he pulls into Lesser and stops at Chuck’s for cigarettes. He considers having coffee as well. He steps into the restaurant and discovers Melissa Emery sitting in a booth touching shoulders with Eleanor and across from them are Melody and Phil. All four are leaning forward and almost knocking heads. They don’t see Johnny, so he pays and leaves, but not without first seeing Melody’s hand go up to Phil’s shoulder and Phil turning and looking at her, his face astonished.
The following day, Monday, is a holiday, the August long weekend. The roads are empty. People are resting. By midafternoon Johnny finds himself puttering along the river road west of Lesser away from St. Adolphe, towards the Rat River bridge, the same bridge he smashed into last fall. He remembers this accident ruefully, touching now at his jaw, the tiny scar on his cheek. There is a gathering at the river today. On the east side. Hundreds of cars. Johnny, curious, parks his Olds and steps down a newly made path between scrubby oaks to the rear of a crowd of people. Johnny wonders if this is a baptism, just like the old days before the invention of indoor tanks. It isn’t.
A man is speaking to the crowd. He talks of Mennonites and settlers. And then a younger man with a blue-and-red tie takes over and he explains how the first eighty or so families of Mennonites arrived here by riverboat in 1874 from Fargo. Came up the Red River and decided to settle here.
Johnny realizes that his grandfather could have been on that boat. Or a later one. He’s not at all sure but the possibility excites him. He thinks how beliefs, or greed, or bad or good luck, or the simple meandering of life, brought people to these banks and those people had children and the children had children and Johnny might be one of the offspring. He realizes he’s happy to have his own child. Rebecca. Odd. History has never excited Johnny but it moves him now.
A Year of Lesser Page 21
