The Big Why

by Michael Winter

I dont want to be a hypocrite. I dont want to value art over life.

  Gerald: Or the other way around.

  Exactly.

  If they were separate, then you could justify your struggle of conscience.

  Me: I wouldnt have a struggle of conscience.

  This whole discussion, this lifelong thing you have, it’s all about you being at pains to justify the betrayals youve committed in the name of art.

  But I havent separated them.

  Maybe not, but the very curiosity that makes your art good is what gets you into trouble domestically.

  Art does not justify personal betrayal.

  So theyre separate. Or the personal wins out.

  I’m trying to find a balance.

  You make it sound like some equilibrium between joy and joylessness.

  Well, that’s my character, Gerald.

  Your character, not your art, is what has burdened you with having to cope with your own betrayal.

  Thank you, Gerald, for that rationalization.

  Well, someone without your sexual drive doesnt have to deal with it.

  Are you saying that I am passionate and sensual?

  I’m stressing the reverse: if Kathleen is congratulating herself on having more restraint than you, then that’s false. Her fidelity doesnt mean she has more willpower. Just less drive.

  I dont think she’s congratulating herself. I think she’s hurt.

  You want to live your life well, Kent. So that you dont have to be discreet. So youre not racked with guilt.

  Discretion is a vain pursuit.

  There’s no need for secrets when youre a man with a clear conscience. All of this worry about doing the right thing becomes irrelevant when there’s nothing to hamper the free expression of yourself.

  22

  I met up with Rufus Weeks. Let’s meet, he said, at the Bankers Club.

  I’ll wear my cufflinks, I said.

  The Bankers Club is on Broadway. It’s the hub of the world’s finances. I took the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor. Rufus dining at a corner window. He was a runt of a man with a lot of contempt. His contempt was his fuel. It made him unlikeable. Even though his argument was just (avoid war), his motives were not mine. He had investments, he was an internationalist. Rufus Weeks did not want his countries ruined, either by war or by freedom: his businesses prospered because they was no competition. Yes, you stared at this man’s small, expensive coat and smelt a meanness. Who would want to be run by a man like Rufus Weeks. It was a shame that a good cause (revolution) had to be ruined because of a man like him. But the truth is, the cause would never have had motion without a man like him. Look at me. What had budged in Newfoundland because of me.

  Kent, he said. He smiled, but he did not get up. His smile was a lifting of lips from his teeth.

  23

  I took the Glencoe back to St John’s. I realized I was living in the age of the shift from sail to steam. I was witnessing the decline of a way of life. Brigus was an old seaport that had promised to dominate but was losing out to St John’s.

  St John’s. It was Valentine’s Day when I arrived. I was alone in the world of love. At least, I felt alone. I delivered a copy of my birth certificate to James Benedict, the U.S. consul. When you carry your birth certificate you feel alone. The thing is, we’re all very much alike in the core of our bones. We’re alone and it’s Valentine’s Day. At least, that’s how you feel if you have the luxury to feel it. It’s true that all my life I’ve given myself the space to think that thought. It’s a brave thought and I’ve always admired courage.

  There had been a fire near the harbour. A stationery supply store. They think it was sabotage, by German sympathizers. A wooden building full of paper. Flames climbed over the backs of shorter flames, up to a hundred feet. The windows burst with the heat. Ships tied to the finger piers let loose their hawsers and anchored out in the harbour. The ships did this manoeuvre without fear. They were intelligent ships. They were ships used to avoiding fires, but even so one burnt to the waterline from a cinder. As a ship burns it rises in the water. Barrels of cod oil stacked at the docks, frozen in a casing of snow, melted and then exploded as the fire ate through the oak to the oil. A spray of oil and fire lit up patches of harbour. The cold, indifferent masts of the ships in the harbour. All over the city that night, bits of paper floated down. I picked one up: a singed greeting card, a burnt heart.

  Have I said how unimpressed I was with that soot-begrimed, sordid city? It teemed with poverty and squalor. Its steep hills and the clutter of ships’ rigging at the wharves could be termed picturesque, if the eye held no communication with the heart. It was a city built on the belief that no one would be staying long. A permanent tent city made of wood. I stayed only the one night.

  I made a visit on Judge Prowse. I thought I could persuade him to weigh in and influence what was happening to me. I received a warm welcome at his home. He was big and jovial and aggressive, in the last year of his life. I’m having a little dinner party, Prowse said. Would you join us.

  His house had high ceilings, and that space up there above my head made me feel rich and lavish. I began to tell him of the situation, but he cut me off.

  We are discussing the war, he said. Come in.

  In the dining room he introduced me to John Bartlett, an uncle of Bob’s. He was wearing gloves. He was known as Follow-on John. I met his wife, and then the sealing captain Abram Kean.

  So youre the spy in Brigus, he said.

  And youre the cause of a hundred widows.

  Kent.

  Prowse took me aside. That’s not right, he said.

  We walked into the parlour. I can’t behave with that man, I said. I came here only to clear my name.

  You havent heard the reports, Prowse said, of the cruiser Dresden. It is to enter St John’s harbour and force our surrender. Kean and John Bartlett here are to sink two ships out by the Narrows. To trap that cruiser in the harbour. Then we’ll destroy it. Forgive us, but we think that action is rather heroic. Your situation, Kent, I hesitate to even compare your situation. We are well aware of it and frankly you are the limit. Do yourself a favour and drag your tail in the dirt. I’ve been dogged in helping you here. Show them youre licking your wounds. Let them think youve been a bull-nosed arsehole and want forgiveness.

  I said that was the last thing I’d ever do. I was tooth and nail, and I had a few more things to write and decree and deride. If that was —

  Prowse cut me off again. He laid a light finger on my chest. For three months, he said, I’ve been softening Morris and Squires towards you. Yes, the prime minister himself. And what have you done in those three months? Write letters, be flagrant and snotty and arrogant and half a fool.

  Prowse turned to look at me and something changed in him.

  I’ve just decided, Kent. I’m done with you, do you hear? If youre to let your arrogance lead you, then go ahead and find yourself friendless. I have helped and by God I’m done helping you. The one thing I cannot do is prevent the residents of Brigus from reciprocating the contempt that you have so emphatically expressed for them.

  And with that I realized I was on my own.

  24

  I heard myself using a snotty tone to Judge Prowse. I was put off by it. But then wondered where snottiness comes from. It comes from an attempt to be funny and companionable. And this striving stems from a sense that one is not secure or confident — it’s a lack of confidence. That one feels smaller than the world one is trying to keep up with. So a snotty tone is saying, I dont feel I’m good enough.

  25

  Kathleen: How was Gerald?

  Me: He’s great, he’s. I saw Alma too, briefly. And she said, Yeah, I know he’s great, but I have to deal with him.

  Kathleen: Meaning the whole package.

  I was standing in the doorway, stretching, naked
. It was February and I was celebrating my first full year here.

  Alma was away having this affair with a mechanical engineer. And all Gerald could think of was the afternoon he spent in the mechanical engineer’s kitchen. The engineer had a set of kitchen chairs that were beautiful. Gerald envied the chairs. And that the mechanical engineer had arrived at them probably with no exertion. The mechanical engineer doesnt even know that the chairs are beautiful. That is the thing with attractive people: they dont know that they are surrounded by things of beauty. As soon as youre made aware of what is talented about you, that self-consciousness degrades your attractiveness.

  Kathleen: I know that man.

  What man.

  The mechanical engineer.

  What is a mechanical engineer.

  Anyway I’ve met him. He’s got a face that attracts, perhaps. Which is different from an attractive face. That cultured pout suits a man whom Alma might fall for. Handsome hair.

  And some hair?

  I said handsome hair.

  Me: He’s a redneck, this mechanical engineer. He builds bridges. He’s taking the hat out of Manhattan. He’s the man with the tan. It wouldnt be beyond him to tell a joke about rape. Have you seen his bridge? Alma and I walked over it. He took us over it and Alma had to comment. My God, he spoke about these gods streaming from the clouds over his bridge. So she said to him, Perhaps these references could be better put to a spiritual work.

  That’s pretty funny.

  Me: Alma’s said a few things in her time.

  Like.

  She once said to me, Your arse looks big.

  She said that?

  No, she said, Those pants, Kent, dont make you as small as you are from behind.

  Speaking of which. I wish you wouldnt stand naked like that for all the world to see.

  The world can’t see us.

  Well then the children. Theyre getting too old to see their father buck naked.

  26

  I told Kathleen what happened with Prowse. I was wondering how it had come to that. She turned, livid.

  Kathleen: It’s always the way with you, isnt it.

  This is what poisoned my wife. Why are things this way instead of another. Why is this the life we’re living and not another.

  I am a believer in planting seeds. But I dont want to be held accountable if those seedlings come to quarrel. It is true that I’d like to make over the world entirely touched by me. Influenced by my opinion. The difference between intention, predilection, and accident. It’s like a meandering footpath that some bright person decides to straighten out to its destination. It says, This is the way. There is intention here, intention is paramount. But of course, something gets lost: the meandering.

  27

  Green. Spring. The colour of water in a white enamel basin. I was not comparing. It was what I was looking at when I realized that I was resigned. I was shoring up defences rather than growing. Why was I here. I was looking into a white tub full of brook water. What I could capture from the brook as my second spring thawed the shell of ice covering it. The brook, like water plunging out of a glass bottle. I knelt there naked with my tub and dipper. I filled the tub. Then I saw her. She was standing up by the gate. I pretended not to see her. I wanted her to see me naked. For some reason I wanted that. Perhaps it was the privacy. I wanted Emily Edwards to see how little privacy we had. I stood and faced her. I held the tub and dipper. I looked down at the brook. The brook is heard more than seen. Without its sound it was calm and green, like water in a white basin. I have never understood brooks, or the capacity of hills to contain water. Could all this water be above me. I let Emily Edwards note my backside as I walked back to the house.

  The volume of emotions. Desire is spoken of, by those who suggest they know, as a flame that devours and grows hungrier. But there is no answer to any vice. Sometimes desire can be sated and puts itself out. Sleeping with Emily would douse the spirit to sleep with her. I knew this, in my case, to be true. I could be better to Kathleen after sleeping with Emily. I’d be more in love with my wife. I am not advocating this to all — there is no blanket for all — I am just warning you against those who would repress desire.

  28

  Kathleen was troubled with the pregnancy and Dr Gill recommended a clinic in St John’s. Youre to have a boy, he said. I’m never wrong, I’ll even write it down. And we watched him write it in his notebook. We got Emily to look after the children and we took the train into town. The clinic advised us to keep Kathleen there. She was upset by this. Frightened to stay on her own.

  Think of it as a time of peace.

  Back in Brigus the children were driving me mad. Emily helped and I merely glanced at her.

  There was the seal hunt, even with the war, and there was the industry of net mending and the painting of boats. Then it would be lobster and a summer in Labrador or the cod fishery in Conception Bay. The flakes would be built and the fish dried. I had seen this seasonal activity the year before, and now I did not give a shit about it. No one was letting me have a place in it. I was an outsider and not to be trusted. I missed my one true friend, Tom Dobie. I had let him down, I thought. I had promised him a union, but I was not the man to help Coaker. I felt I had had a hand in Tom’s decision to sign up early. I stopped looking at the harbour. I hated the town. I passed my days drawing and walking and eating and looking after the children. I was horny and hateful. I had not had sex in five months. For how much longer could I be good?

  The church was having its annual fundraiser. But this time it was to help purchase cloth for uniforms.

  Rocky: Can we do the Anther Panther and the Wonderbird?

  Yes. But you and your sister and the children must organize it.

  After a week I went back to St John’s to visit my wife. I took her out to dinner. I analyzed her face. I studied the surfaces of it. I did not look into her head. I allowed her the secret life.

  As we left she said, Your coat.

  As I’d put it on, the vents of my coat had passed over a diner’s table. A corner had slipped across his plate of pork and mashed potatoes. There was something green and glistening. I’m sorry, I said. But they were annoyed. The diner and Kathleen. And this irritated me. I was annoyed, not at myself but at the proximity of the tables, and even at the diner’s encroachment on my right to don outerwear. It pissed me off and I was not apologetic. It was the world’s fault, especially this British enthusiasm for war. The way the world was. I wanted the world to alter itself and fit me like a size-forty suit.

  We went to the theatre. In the play was a wedding. And I thought, This is the only sacrilege. It would be fine to pretend a love scene on stage. But a marriage is the words. The words are spoken. And so it is not a real minister, but the words are real. The bride and the groom must speak them. And how can you speak them without diluting their spirit? They should be words spoken only during the ceremony. How some people do not say the name of God.

  I said, Let’s make love.

  Kathleen: Right now I’m not interested in you.

  Then let’s forget it.

  29

  I was driven out of my mind.

  Bob Bartlett: Take Emily. Take her.

  So Emily Edwards came to look after the children for longer stretches of time. She could stay in the house while I travelled again to St John’s and got Kathleen set up in a house for pregnant women. Prowse recommended a midwife — a woman, he said, who knew them all in Brigus.

  On the train back to Brigus I prayed. I prayed to be absolved. To have this nagging ferocity of spite lifted. I sat angrily. I was the essence of anger. That train was methodically dragging me back to a house of domestic banality, in a town that either ignored me or treated me with suspicion. I wrote a letter to the St John’s paper. I said I wanted to be exonerated from all charges. Either that or put up against a wall and shot.

  Em
ily was good with the children. She had this unconscious thing. She did not know she was beautiful. She was always seeing things that were the most fabulous things, or a person who was the most handsome or a food that was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She made my heart light. Her mouth, it was her tongue. Her tongue kept licking the words she’d just said. Her mouth was full of saliva, she kept swallowing as if everything she said was delicious and tasty. Things were always the best they had ever been, and she pronounced it all on her last breath. As if this would be the last thing she’d say, this declaration. The thing is, I believed her.

  Was I hoping to be good? My wife. I’m a man who crumples money in his pocket. It appears from my pocket. To pay for the theatre tickets I rummaged in the lining of my pockets to peel off bills. I’ve already said I’m sure my father never had a wallet. Does it feel to you that I am troubled by my father?

  My father wrote notes in books. Years after his death my mother would stumble on a note in the margin or on a bookmark. I can see her now, standing, face down, reading a note from my father. It was part of the reason why she could not move on.

  30

  I wrote to Kathleen on my birthday. My birthday is the first day of summer. How a year ago I had such hopes for this place. Now Gerald’s pear tree was struggling below us. And I was accepting that this was a doomed venture. I had snuffed out my ecstatic bliss at being alive in the world. I had turned thirty-three, the age of crucifixion, and had failed at my own private goal. I wrote, How fearfully old.

  Emily was new to cooking, so she got Mrs Pomeroy to bake a cake. And they came down. Emily took me by the wrists and kissed me on the cheek. Happy birthday, she said. The children helped me blow out the candles. The sides of Emily’s mouth full of delight. She wanted me to be having a good time. Then she stroked her own belly and felt the cuff of the lemon cardigan she wore over her light dress. She liked to touch herself, as if straightening the contours of her own body. I had seen her backlit in the sun, rubbing her breasts through the dress out of the enjoyment of having them touched in the sunlight.