On the second morning there, I rose at 5 a.m., took my fishing rod and tackle box, went out alone. Anchored in a secluded bay, the world heart-stoppingly peaceful, I thought of my father, how he would have loved it, and I missed him. It’s funny—I don’t usually miss him. I remember him, but missing him is for some reason rare. This was one of those rare times. I pictured him with his hat on, the hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth.
The water was so clear and still, I could see the bottom, a dozen feet down: rocks, logs, a sudden drop-off. Beneath the surface. I had only to see beneath the surface.
Memories, like sawdust-covered ice, slow to melt.
It was the outdoor lovemaking that flourished, though. The beauty, the privacy, the freedom. Jeanne and I did it as often as we felt like it. It was wonderful. Sun, moon, water, and the earth itself—they were all sexual. I understood the primal drive of the ancient farmer and wife who copulated in the fields on a spring night to nudge the gods toward a full harvest.
Jeanne and I had three glorious days alone together. On the fourth morning, Adam took the bus up from Toronto and we met him in Bancroft. He had two days off that week from his summer job at Mr. Lube.
His visit added a new dimension to our holiday. He completed it. We had been happy when we were alone. We were happy when he was with us. We were happy driving him back to meet the bus two days later, anticipating our last two days together alone.
We were a family. We grilled chicken breasts on the barbecue, ate hot dogs, read magazines, floated on rubber rafts, hands and feet trailing in the water, lay on the dock at night and watched shooting stars, roasted marshmallows in the rock-ringed fire pit outside.
After dinner, both nights, Adam and I went fishing. We took the boat down the lake, among the stumps and lily pads, where the water was still and not too deep, cut the engine and drifted. Hula popper, crazy crawler, jitterbug.
Jeanne stayed behind in the cottage and read. She waited for us. We could see it in her eyes when we came through the door.
On the Sunday, our final evening alone, we drove down the Lower Faraday Road to Coe Hill and dined out at Winnifred’s. We had a bottle of wine with dinner. The waitress lit the candle on our table.
On the way back to the cottage, we saw a deer, watched it saunter off into the woods as we drove by.
Like that ancient farmer and his wife, we hoped for a harvest. Hoped and waited.
In August, when nothing happened, again, we began to wonder.
III
That afternoon in Dayton, I stopped at the Root Beer Stand on Woodman Drive, not far from Delco. With my root beer, I had a foot-long coney, and knew that I was going back to the Legacy Lounge, one more time.
FOURTEEN
I
Do I have regrets? Many. Every day, I regret that my mother died alone in a hospital and that I was not there. I regret that my father’s mind went before his body did, that he died alone in a hospital and that I was not there.
I regret a thousand harsh words, misunderstandings, bad decisions, impatiences.
Regret is not what I feel when I remember that my son, at birth, did not live. There are no words for what I feel. None.
I remember sitting on the floor in the room we had set aside for a nursery, disassembling the crib we had purchased, sealing the screws, nuts, bolts in an envelope.
Dad told me he used to bicycle up to Leaside from Cabbagetown, five miles maybe, to the airfield there, during World War One, to see an airplane up close. He told me he used to swim in the Don River, now called the Dirty Don. He told me he cut his foot in Riverdale Park on a broken bottle when he was a kid, and the infection was so serious that he almost lost his foot.
I remember him taking me to a movie once, just him and me. He held my hand on the street. It was 1954. We went to see Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea at the Imperial Theater onYonge Street. He told me that he had read the book as a kid, and wanted to see the movie.
I remember in the 1950s when Mom used to iron clothes in the kitchen, she always hummed a distinctive tune. I asked her what it was.
“When It’s Springtime in the Rockies,” she said.
Why do you hum it? I asked.
Because it’s my favorite.
Why is it your favorite?
The silence preceding a truth. Then: When I was a little girl I saw a picture of Lake Louise and thought it was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. I thought I’d like to go there someday.
These are some of the things they told me.
These were my parents: before I was born, holding my hand on Yonge Street, ironing clothes in the kitchen, humming.
II
“You want chicken noodle soup?” she asked.
“I think I do.” I sat on the stool, rested my elbows on the mahogany counter, left one seat empty between Bobby Swiss and myself.
She ladled it out, set a steaming bowl in front of me.
“It’s good.” He smiled at me through a haze of blue smoke, Marlboro dangling from his fingers.
“And a Bud,” I added.
She set the can in front of me, drifted up the bar.
“I’d have some,” he said, “but it might spoil my dinner. Wife’d be mad. This”—he tapped his beer glass with the fingers holding the cigarette—“don’t spoil nothin’.” The ash fell off his cigarette. He brushed it down the counter.
I sipped the soup. He was right. It was good.
“You get any of your writin’ done?”
I thought about it. “A bit.”
He shook his head. “Goddamn,” he said.
I smiled.
“I guess you use a computer.”
“It’s the only way.”
“Goddamn.” He sat back. “I can’t imagine writin’ nothin’.” He was looking at me with one eyebrow up, the other down. “Matter of fact, I can’t even imagine readin’ nothin’.” He laughed.
I thought of Adam, his son, a student of English literature.
“Wife used to read too much. Whenever I caught her, I told her she was wastin’ her time. She liked them pocket books, them romances. Found out that she was readin’ in the bathroom, just so’s I wouldn’t complain. After that, I left her alone about it.”
I nodded as though I understood. But I didn’t. Not at all. “You have to pick your battles,” I said. “They have to be ones worth fighting.”
“Exactly.” He sipped his beer.
I finished my soup, pushed the bowl aside.
“What you seen of Dayton?”
“Not as much as I’d like. It looks like a pretty city.”
“It’s a city,” he said. “Like most others.”
“Carillon Park.”
He nodded.
“Lots of Wright brothers stuff.”
“Lots of Wright brothers,” he agreed. “Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.”
“John Glenn. His name pops up too.”
He smiled. “John Glenn Parkway. Like Chuck Woolery Boulevard. Not much difference, as I see it.”
“One was an astronaut. A senator. The other hosted The Dating Game.”
“Like I said. Not much difference.” He drained his glass, refilled it from his jug.
The news came on the TV. More about Oklahoma City. I waited to see if he’d react.
Instead: “Shoot some pool?” He took the cigarette from his mouth after he’d asked the question.
“I’m not much good at it.”
“Don’t matter. It’s a buck a game. Loser pays. One of the few things I can afford.”
The Federal Building, photos before and after, commentary too low to hear. He looked away. Not interested in the past, I thought.
I turned and stared at the two tables, the green velvet, the low-hanging lights. It’d been a long time. I thought of Uncle Jim and me, shooting pool that time in the Legion Hall. “Why not?”
“Is that your license plate out front?”
He chalked his cue. “JESUSROX?”
“Yeah.”
“What made you think it was mine?”
“You seemed to know your music, when we were talking yesterday.”
He angled the cue against the table, set the cigarette in an ashtray, freed both hands, ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, pulled it from the back of his collar. “It’s mine all right. One of them vanity plates. Wife give it to me as a birthday present two years ago. She knows about me and rock music. The Jesus part, though, that was her idea.”
“You not religious?”
“Nah.” He picked up his cue, leaned down, sighted along it and the white ball. “Kind of has a nice ring to it, though. Jesus wasn’t a bad guy. Didn’t hurt nobody. He helped them prostitutes, didn’t he? Mary Magdalene? My kind of guy.”
That clack sound, after the stroke, so clean and sharp and pure.
“What’s your wife do?” I asked.
He straightened, picked up his cigarette. “Watches TV.” He smiled, looked at me. “Lots of things. Used to, anyway. Now she stays home.” He picked up his beer from the cardboard coaster on the table’s edge, held it without drinking. “My son,” he said. “He’s a full-time job.” His brow furrowed.
“Sixteen. Isn’t that what you told me yesterday?”
“Yup.”
“Teenager. Sixteen-year-old can be a full-time job.”
“It’s more’n that.”
He stepped aside so that I could take my shot. I bent toward it.
“He’s schizophrenic.”
I didn’t take the shot. I straightened.
He shrugged. The tip of his cigarette glowed fiercely as he pulled the smoke deep, held it, expelled it at the ceiling.
“I don’t know much about that,” I said.
“You learn fast.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Lot of that Jesus stuff started to show up in our house after Donny was diagnosed. The wife, you know.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He was always a strange kid. Marks were all over the place in school, up, down. You’d never know. Then he hit puberty. Became a teenager. Acted crazier than ever. Started talkin’ crazy, ramblin’ all over the place. Teachers didn’t know what to make of him. Told me a story once about how he was hallucinatin’ about a Black & Decker drill. I didn’t know what the hell he was talkin’ about.”
I took my shot, stood back, watched the balls roll, settle.
“If you were to phone my house right now, and he answered, he’d say ‘Stand by one,’ or somethin’ nuts like that. He repeats stuff he hears on TV. Sometimes he sounds like a paid advertisement.” He put the Marlboro to his lips, inhaled, set it again in the ashtray on the table’s rim. He chalked his cue. “Every now and then, he’s fine, like he knows somethin’s wrong with him.”
My father, in his last days.
“He’s not a bad kid. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. You can’t leave him alone though. Might burn the house down.”
“He’s on medication?”
“Lots. Three of these, two of those. Blues, reds. Pammy—that’s the missus—she takes care of all that. Me, I go to work, to Delco, package up the fuckin’ shocks and struts, make sure we can pay for the blues, the reds, whatever other color of pill he’s takin’. It’s a livin’.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s a good kid. Ain’t his fault. Doctors explained it to me. His wiring’s all fucked up. Needs his chemistry balanced.”
“We all need our chemistry balanced.”
He looked at me. “Ain’t it the truth.” He took his shot. That clack, so pure and sweet. Balls jumped across the velvet, silent.
I recognized the glass pyramid. Another ad for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame appeared on the TV. Opening September 2,1995.
He looked up at it.
“Why Cleveland?” I asked.
“Lobbyin’. More’n six hundred thousand people signed a petition.” He squinted, thinking. “Cleveland can make a claim,” he said. “Know who Alan Freed was?”
“Deejay? Is that the guy?”
“That’s him.” He smiled, impressed. “Pioneered rock and roll. Probably named it. He’s Cleveland.”
I nodded.
He leaned to sight his shot. “Chuck Berry made his first public appearance there. Elvis played his first concert north of the Mason-Dixon line in Cleveland.” He settled the cue softly between thumb and forefinger. “Joe Walsh, Phil Ochs, the Raspberries, Wild Cherry, Bobby Womack—all Cleveland.” Hair fell across his forehead.
It was my turn to be impressed.
The clack.
The cue ball settled, a faint blue chalk mark on its perfect white surface.
“Did you know Roy Orbison died the year after he got into the Hall? He was the first to die after being inducted.”
I shook my head. “Didn’t know that.”
“Fact. Inducted in ’87, at the second annual dinner, Waldorf-Astoria, New York. Dead in ’88.
“‘Only the Lonely,’” I said.
“‘Running Scared.’” He sighed. “‘Crying.’ Goddamn. He could hit that high note.” He looked at me. “You know he died of a broken heart.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He wrote ‘Only the Lonely’ in his car, ’cause there wasn’t enough room in the house. His first wife died in a motorcycle accident. Two of their three sons were killed when his house went up in flames two years later. He turned to prostitutes. Used to go down to a cat house in Juarez.”
I didn’t ask how he knew all this. I never doubted him. I hadn’t asked how he knew about Mary Magdalene either. You never know what somebody knows.
“You can hear his broken heart when he sings.” He looked at me. “But the music,” he said, “it ain’t dead. I can put it on in my car.”
“Name’s Bobby.” He held his hand out.
“Leo.” I took his hand, squeezed it.
“You married? Got kids?”
“Married. Got a son. He’s twenty-one.”
“He workin’? Or still in school?”
“School. University.”
“What’s he studyin’?”
“English literature.”
He whistled. “Books. Readin’. Writin’.” He shook his head. “And you’re a writer. Chip off the old block. Takes after the old man.” He ran his hands through the hair on the sides of his head, pulled it loose from his collar at the back. “Donny—my boy—he likes maps. Studies ’em. Marks ’em up with a yellow highlighter, makes notes. Sometimes I think he’s tryin’ to figure out where he is, where he should go, like he’s lost. You know?”
I nodded, thought for a moment. “I think I know.” I reached into my back pocket, took out the pocket guide to Dayton I’d been carrying around, looked at it. “Here.” I held it out.
He looked at it, at me.
“I’ve been using it to get around the city. It’s full of maps. I don’t need it anymore. Give it to Donny.”
He took it, was quiet. He turned it over. Then he put it in his own back pocket. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing.”
“He’ll love it.”
“My pleasure.” I finished my Bud, put the can down on the table’s rim.
He was quiet again. He was still thinking about it. I could tell. I picked up the cue ball, closed my hand on the hard, white, round surface, squeezing. Like a stone. Perfect.
“I can hear the dinner bell ringin’.”
We snapped the cues into the wall rack, stood back.
“Will I see you again?”
“I doubt it. Heading back tomorrow.” I didn’t know what to say, so I asked a question. “Besides the chicken noodle soup, what’s good to eat around here? Where’s a good spot for dinner?”
“You like Italian?”
“I like nearly every kind of food.”
“Try Mamma DiSalvo’s. Go down to Stroop, just south of here, make a right. Few blocks along. Near Marshall, on the north side. Tell her Bobby Swiss sent you.”
“I
just might do that.”
He clucked his tongue. “And stop in Cleveland. Have a look at the Hall of Fame. Eighth fuckin’ wonder of the world. Think of the music that’s in there.”
“I just might do that too.” We shook hands. I was touching him. Again. It didn’t hurt a bit. It was okay.
“It’s in the music,” he said. He smiled. “You’ll hear old Roy cryin’, if you listen hard.”
“Take care.” I squeezed his hand, touched his arm, and left.
Outside, I stared at the Olds. JESUSROX.
You can hear everybody crying, I thought, if you listen hard.
At Mamma DiSalvo’s, I told her Bobby Swiss had sent me. She gave me a nice table in the back and I ordered the ravioli and a half liter of red. It was terrific.
When I phoned home that night, Jeanne told me that she was cleaning the house.
“Must be spick and span by now,” I said.
“My heart beats a little faster every time I find a new little dust pile. You’ve no idea.”
“You’re right. I have no idea.”
“The dishes are stackin’ up for you.”
“Leave ’em. I’m coming home. Leaving in the morning.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Right after the continental breakfast.”
I’m not sure, I could be wrong, but I thought I could hear her crying too. When I asked her, she said no, but I think she was.
III
My father liked big band music, had played banjo, guitar, trombone. He thought Bernstein’s score for West Side Story was terrific. He was a lifetime Member of the Musicians’ Union, Local 149, A.F. of M.
My mother liked humming “When It’s Springtime in the Rockies” while she ironed in the kitchen.
Maybe Bobby Swiss was right. Maybe it was all in the music, if you just listened.
That night, I slept rather peacefully. Around 4 a.m., though, I did hear the bathroom door—the only door in the room—open and close once, by itself. It could have been the air-conditioning coming on and going off, creating a vacuum, changing air pressure in the room. I don’t know.
Shadow of Ashland, A Witness to Life, and St. Patrick's Bed Page 39
