The Matter With Morris

by David Bergen

  And why not, Morris thought now as he bent against the cold wind, who else was to be held accountable for Martin’s death? Why he, Morris, of course. But this was not a thought that he wanted to think. He just couldn’t stop thinking. One night, full of anguish and unable to sleep, he had risen and sat at his kitchen table and written down what he believed, at that time in his life, to be fact. He wrote: “Justice is the most important thing. Justice means not harming others. Perfect justice is perfectly impossible, but that does not mean we should not know what perfect justice looks like. Evil is voluntary. War is voluntary. War is caused by humans. Martin’s death was an accident. Accidents imply chance. I do not believe in chance.”

  He stood, retrieved a few of his books, and sat again. Man, he discovered, should be by nature a rememberer, a good learner, magnificent, charming, and a friend and kinsman of truth, justice, courage, and moderation. This from Socrates. But to find moderation was not easy. He knew that. Morris wrote, “The most just person is the one precisely aware of his failures.” The danger, of course, was that this kind of thinking might lead to piety, which then led to fanaticism and the kind of behaviour that drove him, so long ago now, it felt, to ask people on the street the question “Are you free?”

  One time, half a year after Martin died, in Toronto on a trip to visit his editor, Morris had taken a taxi from Chinatown to the harbour, and he began to talk to the driver who was quite dark and quite certainly Middle Eastern. He learned that his name was Hasim and that he came from Afghanistan and this produced a singular pang. What a strange symmetry. He had talked to the man’s eyes which studied him in the rear-view mirror, and the man had talked back. They spoke of the weather, too humid, and of the price of gasoline, too high. And then he aimed the conversation in a certain direction. “I was at a party the other night and I fell to talking with a woman.”

  “Fell?” Hasim said.

  “Began. I began to talk to her, and you know, I have this question that I ask. Are you free?”

  “Ahh yes,” Hasim said. “Free.”

  “Well,” said Morris, “in this case the woman thought I was flirting with her, until I explained that it was a philosophical question. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “Yes, I understand. Say on.”

  Aha, he thought, a thinking man. And then, perhaps because of the coziness of the car, or perhaps because of the openness in Hasim’s eyes reflected in the mirror and the sense he had that those eyes could be trusted, or perhaps because he could not truly see Hasim’s face or the doubt and disbelief he might be expressing, he said that he had had a son named Martin who had been in the Canadian army, and that his son had been killed in Afghanistan. He told him the whole story, from beginning to end, which included his anger at his son for his defiant ways, how he had, in a moment of antagonism, told him to join the army, and his son had, and then how his son had written letters home detailing his fears, and how Morris had not really responded, at least not in good faith, and then his son had died, and there had been a knock at the door one day when he had been upstairs, writing. “I am a journalist,” Morris explained. He said that when he saw two people in uniform at the door, he had not wanted to answer because he knew what the message would be. He talked on, even after they had reached their destination and the taxi sat idling in the heat, and beautiful people passed by on the sidewalk, and on several occasions some of those same beautiful people tried to open the door to the taxi, but Hasim shooed them off, saying, “I am on my break.” And so Morris talked, and at some point he confessed that his son had been shot by one of his own men. And that was when Morris began to cry. He felt no embarrassment, no shame, and it was as if he knew that Hasim would not judge him, that it was almost as if Hasim had been dropped down into his life in order to be the recipient of this news. No disapproval, just a nodding of his head as he said, “This is a grave affair.” When he had finally stopped talking, Hasim said, “I have a sister in Kandahar, and my sister has a daughter who goes to school. This could not happen if your son had not gone there to fight. Do you see? My sister’s daughter is free. And my sister, she is free as well.” He tsked and shook his head and Morris thought, Has this man heard me? Is he a spokesperson for the government? Is this what I want to hear? But Hasim continued, generously. “There is madness there. Morris, please, I would like you to be a guest in my house. Would you come to my house? To meet my wife and my two sons?” Then Morris saw that there was only goodwill, and he nodded and said he would like that very much, but perhaps the next time he was in Toronto. He would phone. Hasim gave him his phone number, written on a taxi chit, which he took and folded into his shirt pocket. Hasim got out of the taxi and came around to open the door for him, and when he tried to pay, Hasim said, “No, it is me who should pay you.” They shook hands and Morris said, “You have a good soul, Hasim.”

  He misplaced the taxi chit. Or perhaps it got lost in the laundry. He hunted for it but could not find it. He called Beck Taxi in Toronto and asked for information regarding one of their drivers, Hasim, but it turned out there were seven men named Hasim working for the company. And besides, that kind of personal information was never divulged.

  3

  On the day he learned of Martin’s death, Morris had been working at home, alone in the house. He was writing his weekly column, putting on the finishing touches, when the doorbell rang. He saved his file, backed it up to a memory stick, climbed reluctantly down the stairs—he disliked being interrupted while writing—and as he approached the front door, he saw, through the glass, two men in army uniform. He knew instantly and with absolute certainty the reason for their visit. He stood, several feet from the door that remained closed. He had the thought that if he turned away and walked back upstairs and returned an hour later, the men in uniform would have disappeared and that this moment would pass into eternity. His body began to shake and he heard a voice crying, “No, no, no.” It was his own voice, he heard the timbre of it, the bass tone, and he stopped himself. There would be no scene, no indignity. He stepped forward and opened the door.

  It had been an accident. Martin had died when another soldier’s rifle unintentionally went off while they were on foot patrol. It had happened in the Panjwayi District the day before. The bullet had passed through Martin’s jaw, into his brain, and exited the top of his skull. He had died while en route to the field hospital. The man who told Morris this was the padre. He appeared to be the spokesperson. He introduced himself at the door. He said, “Mr. Schutt, my name is John Fellows and I’m a captain and a padre with the seventeenth Wing here in Winnipeg.” And then he had given Morris the news. Only later, standing in the living room, had he introduced the other man, a commanding officer who had been a part of Martin’s training. But Morris, oddly, was focused on the padre, curious that he should first call himself a padre rather than a chaplain, as if he were some sort of “father,” and curious also about the padre’s demeanour: he seemed so calm and prepared. While he spoke, he leaned forward and studied Morris carefully, as if to ascertain some sort of possible damage. Morris had many questions, but he thought later that he had asked the wrong ones. He asked if Lucille knew. She didn’t. They had come here first. Then he asked what that meant, “unintentionally.” The colonel said that the soldier whose gun it was had fired accidentally while the unit was on foot patrol. He said that Martin had been well loved by the other men. He was a hero. Morris asked how this could be, how could his son be shot by one of his own men? Were they careless, stupid? His hands began to shake and he pressed them against his face, and then looked up.

  “He’s dead?”

  The commanding officer nodded and said, “There will be an investigation, of course.”

  “And to what end? The culprit will be charged? Why? You say it was an accident. What’s the soldier’s name?”

  He looked at the men standing before him. They were good people. They were doing their jobs, but they also had to deliver information that was more difficult than death due t
o an improvised explosive device, or death during a firefight with the Taliban. Without waiting for answers to his questions, he said, “I don’t like the army, and I didn’t want my son to sign up, but he did so to punish me. Look at me now. I’d say he’s succeeded.”

  The padre made a clicking noise with his mouth. He reached out to take Morris’s hand and he let him. He realized that these men had done this before; that whatever madness and grief and anger he threw their way, they had seen worse. And he also saw that his hatred of the army was nothing new. They had experienced this as well, were inured to this kind of reaction, almost dismissive, and this dismissal angered him. He turned to the commanding officer, a man about his own age, fifty perhaps, and asked him if he had a son. Then, not waiting for a response, he said that the people in power, the ministers, the prime minister, the generals, the colonels, all of them, they were the ones to blame for this. “Little war games,” he said. “Plucking boys, innocent, gullible boys, who’ll jump when you tell them, who’ll leap into a den of lions if you order it, who’ll bark and dance and beg and fetch, plucking them from the world of love and desire and goodness, and throwing them to the wolves.” And he said no more. Only much later would he realize that his anger and his rage at his son’s death had erupted at that moment in the living room, and that he had then dismissed and buried it; put it away.

  The padre asked if he wanted to call his wife, or if he would prefer that they speak to her. He said that he would call. He went into the kitchen and dialled her direct line rather than going through her secretary, Joan. Her machine kicked in immediately and he knew that she was seeing a patient. He left a message. He said, “Lucille, it’s me. Morris. Please call.”

  He didn’t want to worry her, though he made his tone serious enough to warrant some suspicion on her part. He never called her at work and so she would be curious. But he certainly didn’t want to give her any grim warning and have her thinking the worst. But what was worse than this? He thought of going through Joan, having her interrupt the session, or of leaving another message and saying that it was the worst thing possible, and she would know and come quickly, with utmost haste. He knew that Martin’s death would destroy her.

  They’d made love that morning, before she went to work. Now, facing these two men, he wanted to step back through the day to that moment when their eyes had met and she had clasped his buttocks with her heels. Back through time. Erase the day. Though Martin must have been dead already while they were having sex. For how long?

  The padre was talking. He said that he would stay with Morris until Lucille came home. He thought it best that he be here when she heard the news. “In our experience, it’s important to have someone else present.”

  What a terrible job, Morris thought, and he nodded.

  The commanding officer spoke then. He said that the common practice was for someone to be with the family during the day. At least for the first while. To be a support, to talk to the press, to field questions. A family wasn’t necessarily equipped for the hard questions at this time, for the snooping and prying. “Journalists are looking for a story, I’m sorry to say, and in our experience we are able to provide a buffer for the family. Is that okay? If we are here for you?”

  Morris nodded again. He wanted to say that he was a journalist, that he knew the methods and the people, but he said nothing.

  Lucille had been amazing. When she walked in and saw the three of them in the living room, she said, “It’s Martin,” and Morris had gone to her and held her for the longest time, and then she’d pulled away and sat down and said, “Tell me,” and the padre told her. After, she cried. Morris sat beside her and held her hand as she cried, and then she looked up and said that she would make tea. Her hands were shaking.

  The padre said that they didn’t need tea, they were fine, but Lucille insisted. Morris watched her rise and walk towards the kitchen, and the commanding officer, softer in tone than his uniform and rank would imply, followed her. He heard them talking as the water boiled. Muffled voices, the occasional question. He felt proud of his wife. How solid she was, so fine in this moment.

  Later that night, after the phone calls to family and friends and to his brother in Idaho, after Libby had come home and been given the news and cried and cried and then been put to bed with a hot-water bottle and two sleeping pills, only then did Lucille show her rage. “Why didn’t you tell Joan that it was an emergency? My God, Morris, you treat me like a child, like I’m breakable, and then you act surprised when I break. I should have been here. It was my right.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Lucille. You’re being unreasonable. I knew what they were about to tell me the minute I saw them.”

  “Did you? Truly? Oh, my. Oh, my.” Then she asked why Sheila had to come back the next day. Sheila had arrived at the house after dinner, been introduced as the assisting officer, and stayed till midnight. She would return in the morning.

  “It’s how it works,” he said. “They’ve done this before.”

  “He was shot by one of his own,” Lucille said.

  “Shh. Don’t.”

  “How could it be an accident? Do you think they’re lying? Do you think he wasn’t liked by this unknown killer? What was the soldier’s name? Maybe they’re covering it up. Maybe an enemy soldier broke into the compound and killed him. I don’t trust them, Morris. They want everything to be clear and certain and I’m not getting this story. Did you see the padre’s eyes? He wasn’t being straight with us.”

  “That man has a terrible job to do,” he said, but he was thinking of other things. He believed that everything in the world, even the loss of his son, was necessary. Because, if it had been an accident, then it was unnecessary, and if it was unnecessary, then it became pointless, an event that did not fit into the larger design of the world. Which was nonsense. Because, for him, nothing could be accidental. Not the colour of Lucille’s hair, nor the socks he had chosen to wear that morning, nor the shape of his son’s ears, nor the coffee he had spilled at breakfast, the black stain spreading over the white tablecloth. An error perhaps, but not an accident.

  Lucille’s voice floated through the darkness of their bedroom. “Why did you tell him to go? Why, Morris? Why do you always have to be right? Did you ever think of the consequences? Oh, God. Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?” She began to weep. She sat up and wept and beat her hands against her thighs and he held her and shushed and said that Libby would hear. She didn’t want to upset Libby, did she?

  Then he said, “I loved him, Lucille. I loved him terribly. I just didn’t know how to tell him. He wouldn’t let me.”

  “He was twenty. That’s all. He was twenty years old and he’ll always be twenty. How does that work, Morris? Tell me. Please tell me.”

  “Come. Come here.” And he pushed her back onto the bed and rubbed her back, felt the fine bones of her rib cage, the sharp shoulders, the elasticity of her skin. He talked to her, told her what a beautiful boy Martin was. He said, “Remember the day he walked into the house and announced he was going to Afghanistan. He was happy, Lucille. I’ve never seen him happier, as if he had found a calling, and no matter what we said we couldn’t convince him otherwise. He was brave, Lucille. He had to be brave. Now it’s us, our turn. Okay?” He kissed her forehead, her face, and tasted the salt from her tears. He held her head to his chest as she wept and then she stopped, and eventually she fell asleep, and he did not let her go because he feared she would wake.

  In the morning, Sheila had reappeared. She kept a constant pot of coffee on the go, and whenever the phone rang, she made it clear that she was willing to take it, to screen the calls. Morris said that he could handle it. He had friends who were journalists, and if they wanted to call, he would speak to them, and if there were any unwanted calls, he would hang up.

  “I understand that you’re upset, Mr. Schutt,” Sheila said. “And so is your wife. You’re vulnerable to suggestion, and it might just slip out that you’re angry with the Canadian Forces.
You might end up saying something you’ll regret later. We want to be united.”

  “Do we? And why? Because you are concerned about appearances? Well, I’m not, and I’ll say whatever is necessary.”

  That evening Lucille told Sheila that she should leave and not return the following day. There was no point. “We ‘re quite capable of talking to the press,” Lucille said. “We know how to think. We stand side by side, and if our heads wobble a little, that’s normal. But we know what we believe. We’re not here to protect the army or to justify some war or even to claim our son was a hero. He might not have been.”

  Sheila said Lucille was wrong, that their son was a hero, and she found it sad that they couldn’t accept that. Her cheeks were round and ruddy and her dress shirt was too small so that the button holes were stretched. She made a little popping sound with her mouth as she exhaled in exasperation. Lucille saw her to the door and swept her outside into the night. “Am I cruel?” Lucille asked when she returned to Morris, who sat like a puritan on a straight-backed wooden chair in the living room. But she did not sound sorry, and she did not want an answer to her question, this he knew.

  The ramp ceremony took place on a cold and windy Tuesday at the airport. Morris was flanked by Libby and Lucille. Glen stood beside Meredith. She held Jake, who was restless and wanted to see the airplanes. The casket was closed; Morris and Lucille did not want a public viewing. They were given Martin’s uniform and a flag. Morris had been surprised to see one of the pallbearers weeping. The drive from the airport to the funeral home was silent. He had read of the Highway of Heroes near Toronto, where the public gathered on overpasses and paid respects to the fallen war heroes, and as they drove down Sargent Avenue towards the downtown, he wondered how it was that he had come to live in a place where a fallen soldier was driven ignominiously past warehouses and big box stores and empty sidewalks.