I Was There the Night He Died

by Ray Robertson

  I can see the spark that this fight could easily flame into if I don’t stamp it out. It’s for times like these that I stopped taking speed. I wish I could tell someone how happy I am with the decision I made. I wish I could tell Sara.

  “Look,” I say. “I’m just worked up about this screw-up with Thames View. But I’m sure that once we get Dad’s papers sorted out we can get to the bottom of why they think we owe them so much money.”

  Uncle Donny lowers his eyes and nods—once—as close to an apology as I’m going to get.

  “The table will be better for what we’re doing anyway,” I say. “That way we can spread out all of Dad’s documents so we can have a clearer idea of what we’re doing.”

  Uncle Donny grants me another silent nod, which I reward with making the first move, pulling out the chair that my coat is draped over and sitting down. Uncle Donny goes to the cold room and comes back with two cans of Cott Cola with all of the enthusiasm of a condemned man helping himself to his last liquid meal. There’s a can opener lying on the table, right next to a pink plastic back scratcher and the glass novelty bird who’s been dipping his beak in and out of the same glass of water for the last thirty years, Sisyphus à la Uncle Donny. I open both cans while he goes to get the file I’d asked him to keep chronicling Dad’s financial affairs since he’s been at Thames View. The single-speaker cassette player that’s small enough to sit on the window sill plays Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits, “Summer Wind” in the middle of winter.

  An hour and two cans of Cott Cola each later, we’re no nearer to understanding how Thames View can be so adamant that Dad’s fees are in arrears fifteen thousand dollars. Uncle Donny goes to the sink and runs the tap. Frank croons away about how he did it his way.

  “I guess the thing to do is to just pay them and let it all get settled out later,” he says.

  Uncle Donny stands at the sink with his back to me. “Are you crazy? Why would we pay them money we don’t owe them? How would we pay them money we don’t owe them?”

  Uncle Donny shuts off the tap but stays where he is, stares out the kitchen window. “I thought maybe me and you could pay them. Just until everything gets straightened out.”

  “Where would you and I get fifteen thousand dollars?”

  He finally turns around from the sink; sticks his hand in his pants pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. “There’s nearly a thousand dollars here,” he says. “If you could put in the rest, maybe we could get this all behind us.”

  I stand up. “Uncle Donny, there’s no—”

  “I’d pay you back my fair share. I know I’d owe you half.” He holds out the money like a begging old man with a wad of bills in his palm.

  “Just put that away, okay? There’s no reason for anyone to panic. I’m going to talk to someone at the bank tomorrow. That’s where I probably should have gone in the first place.”

  “Why do you want to get the bank involved?”

  “I don’t want to get anyone involved. But they’re probably our best bet at figuring out why Dad’s cheques aren’t getting through to Thames View.”

  Uncle Donny is looking at the money in his hand like he can’t remember how it got there. “I don’t know,” he says, slowly shaking his head.

  “You don’t know what?”

  Uncle Donny just shakes his head.

  I take the hand with the money in it and carefully push it back inside his pants pocket. Uncle Donny isn’t the sort of uncle you hug—in forty-four years, I can’t remember doing it even once—but once the money is returned I rest my hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about it, all right? I’ll take care of it. You stay home tomorrow and take a break and I’ll get my own ride to Thames View. I’ll bet you by this time tomorrow it’ll all be sorted out. And as soon as it is, I’ll give you a call, okay?”

  Uncle Donny doesn’t speak, but looks as if he’s going to say something anyway, eyes anxious in their sockets, tongue licking his lips.

  “Go get your car keys, okay?” I say. “I better get home. I’ve got work to get to.”

  Talk of my leaving returns his attention to me. “I’ve got a call to make,” he says. “It’ll only be a minute.”

  It’s only now that I notice he’s not wearing his latest and only fashion accessory. “Where’s your cell phone?” I say.

  “What the hell do I need a cell phone for? Do you know how much one of those things cost? It adds up, you know.”

  I don’t argue with him, and Uncle Donny goes to his bedroom to make his phone call while I remove my coat from the back of the chair. While I’m doing up the buttons on my jacket I wander into the living room to get a peek at what Uncle Donny’s idea of a mess really is.

  Where I’m shocked. Not because there’s stuff lying everywhere, but because there is no stuff. Almost no stuff: a crisp brown plant rotting in a green plastic pot on the floor where the TV used to be; several empty Cott Cola cans scattered around the room; a pile of Pro-Line tickets raked and ready to be made a bonfire of. But certainly none of the things that make Uncle Donny Uncle Donny, like his heated, vibrating recliner or his chair-side, glass-encased mini-fridge or his fifty-two-inch television or the revered collection of several remote controls laid out for easy access. He must have sold all of it to get the money he offered me to help pay Dad’s bills. I can hear him coming down the hall, so I duck back into the kitchen.

  Poor old bastard, I wouldn’t want him to know that I know, I wouldn’t want to embarrass him. Poor old bastard.

  * * *

  The person in charge of accounts overdue at Thames View isn’t in, but everyone in room #131 has had their supper. And had their dishes cleared away and been cleaned up for the evening and had their catheters and diapers removed, emptied, and replaced. I know it’s their job and they do it because they get paid to and not because this is how they’d choose to spend their weeknights if they won Lotto 6/49, but the caregivers at Thames View allow Dad and me both our dignity. I can’t claim to know much that goes on inside his head, but I know Dad prefers to be clean and comfortable and well fed, and he always is. As for me, even though there’s a tablespoon of guilt seasoned with a dash of shame in knowing that I couldn’t possibly do for him what the strangers who work here so capably can, that’s offset by the reassurance of knowing that, even if I’m not here—especially if I’m not here—Dad is clean and comfortable and well fed.

  Speaking of dignity:

  “Do you know who I am, Grandpa?”

  What sounds like a man who’s swallowed a chicken bone but who’s too feeble—or too afraid—to do more than attempt to wheeze it free of his blocked windpipe. Between Dad’s advanced Alzheimer’s and the daily cocktail of drugs he takes, his days of struggling to speak, of sputtering his way to frustration, rage, and tears, are over. Not so for the man with the bed closest to the door.

  “Do you know who I am, Grandpa?”

  The same man, making the same terrible sound, only slightly louder and with more urgency this time, panic taking hold now, the bone clearly impeding the oxygen intended for his rapidly emptying lungs.

  “He doesn’t know, Donna.”

  “Yes he does, don’t you, Grandpa? You know who I am. You know who I am, don’t you? I’m Lizzy’s daughter, Grandpa. I’m Donna.”

  The same man, the same sound, until, eventually, struggling free from somewhere, “Du, du, du … ”

  I can feel my own tongue and teeth involuntarily coming together to finish the man’s stutter for him.

  “That’s it, that’s it—who am I?”

  “Du, du, du … ”

  I can feel sweat—real sweat—pushing through the pores on my forehead while I wait for the man to complete the word, embarrassed to anxiety for both of us: for him to have to try and say it; for me to have to hear him suffer.

  “You’re almost there, Grandpa, you’re almost
there.”

  “Du, du, du … ”

  I can feel a single drop of sweat slowly roll past my left eye and down my cheek. Obviously, for the remainder of eternity the man is doomed to never say what he wants to say, just as I’m condemned to everlastingly witness his two-syllable torture.

  “Du, du, du, duna.”

  “Donna!” Donna shouts, clapping her hands. “That’s right, I’m Donna!”

  I breathe, not aware I’d been holding my breath.

  “See,” Donna says to her mother on the other side of her grandfather’s bed. “I told you he knew who I was.”

  His vindicated granddaughter’s identity finally established, Grandpa—actually, Mr. Goldsworthy, that’s what the white plastic nameplate affixed to the end of his bed says—can now return to the incessant lip wetting and tongue sucking he seems to enjoy best. I know I’m wrong—we’re all taught that until they reach Dad’s irreversible silent stage the Alzheimer’s patient needs to be encouraged, prodded even, back, if only temporarily, from the edge of endless night that every moment shadows his mind just a little bit more—but I can’t help but be thankful that Dad’s losing battle for dying daylight is over.

  I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help but be relieved that Dad is past the point of putting the TV remote control in the freezer or his wristwatch in the sugar bowl, or that his mood doesn’t whip from calm to tears to arms-flailing anger for no apparent reason, or that he no longer insists that one of the care workers is stealing his socks and underwear, or that he doesn’t endlessly open up his wallet and take everything out only to put it all back in before five minutes later starting all over again. Where we’re at—here he’s at—isn’t where we want to be, but since this is where we all knew we were going to end up, I’m glad that the struggle not to be here is over. I overheard one of Mr. Goldsworthy’s other daughters tell the nurse that her father had been a mechanic at Chatham Motors for forty years. Any man who knew—without ever having to bother lifting the hood—every nut, bolt, and belt that made the engine run in every North American car built since about the time Diefenbaker was Prime Minster shouldn’t be subjected to being tested on the name of his granddaughter. I know I’m wrong, but it’s not right.

  Picking up the remote and clicking on the TV, “Let’s check out NHL on the Fly, Dad,” I say. “The Wings are at home to Colorado. It’s not the rivalry it used to be, but you know as well as I do that both of them still hate to lose to the other one more than to just about anybody else. This could be a good one.”

  Chapter Five

  Waiting your turn for the next available customer service representative at the bank is like standing in line at customs or waiting in your car to cross the border: even if you haven’t done anything wrong, it sure feels like you have. Today is Customer Appreciation Day at CIBC, but the cold coffee and warm orange juice and broken sugar cookies don’t make me feel any more appreciated.

  A strikingly plain, fiftyish woman, hand extended like a shark fin, is headed directly for me. I stand up before she arrives, hope she’s here to welcome me and nothing else. “Mr. Samson,” she says, and we shake hands.

  “Would you like to come this way, then?” She directs me toward the rear of the bank, where several white cubicles without nameplates resemble a human honeycomb of bureaucracy, each worker bee invisible to the eye but clear to the ear, a steady clatter of keyboard tapping and telephone yakking accompanying us to our appointed cell at the very back. An opened palm indicates where I’m supposed to sit. I feel like a herded farm animal who’s reached his final, fatal destination. I sit.

  “I understand you have some questions regarding your father’s account.”

  “The nursing home where he’s at claims they haven’t been receiving the monthly transfer of his expenses for quite awhile now. They get his OAS and CPP cheques directly from the government, but his pension money from the factories he worked at make up the difference of what he owes them. My Uncle Donny was supposed to make sure this was all set up. Which he did. Which it is. Which it was, I mean.” I’m starting to confuse even myself. I point at the computer—this is a woman who clearly appreciates the value of the hand gesture. “Can you just tell me what’s going on with his account?”

  “Certainly.” And with that her fingers attack the keyboard with a precise ferocity, hardly slowing down even when she glances at the manila folder open on the desk. I make books for a living yet type with two fingers. If I had her job, I wouldn’t make it past lunch time of my first day. A good novel is full of all sorts of people convincingly doing all of the things that people do, but it only takes a ten-minute stroll outside your study to be reminded how utterly useless a writer is at anything except explaining the world to itself. Writers are practically Masonic in their insistence upon the difficulty of the writing life, but all except the most arrogantly entitled know that we’re the ones who got off easy. Those who can, do; those who can’t, and are lucky enough, write down what everyone else is doing.

  The woman looks up from the screen. “Everything would seem to be fine with your father’s account. It’s active and up to date.”

  “Okay. Then why isn’t his nursing home getting their money?”

  “Give me another moment, please.” Her fingers fly at the keyboard once again and she takes her moment and maybe one more, before, “The cheques from the various factories you spoke of were directly deposited into your father’s account at one time, but at the request of your father’s legal overseer, they’re now mailed to your father directly at his current address, specifically”—The woman consults her file—“Thames View Gardens.”

  “Hold on—my father’s what?”

  This time the woman illustrates she’s equally adept at flipping pages as she is at clacking keys. “It seems that your father’s brother, a Mr. Donald Gordon Samson—I assume this is the Uncle Donny you spoke of earlier?” I nod. “Was given power of attorney by your father over his affairs before your father became a resident of Thames View Gardens.”

  “Okay. Right. And?” I didn’t know Dad gave him power of attorney—I barely know what power of attorney is—but since Uncle Donny was handling the majority of what went on when I wasn’t here, it makes sense. I guess.

  “I’m not sure what else you’d like me to tell you.”

  “How about why my father is being threatened with eviction from his nursing home?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea. That would come under your uncle’s province as legally appointed overseer of your father’s affairs.”

  It sounds so simple coming from her mouth—right up until it leaves my ears and enters my brain, when it makes absolutely no sense. “But my dad’s cheques—there’s more than enough there to cover his room and board and everything else he needs at Thames View.”

  I can see that the woman is consciously pausing before saying what she next has to say. This, I can tell, will not be the pause that refreshes.

  “Did your father ever discuss with you the rights and responsibilities that come with someone having power of attorney over someone else’s affairs?”

  “I didn’t even know my uncle had power of attorney until you just told me.”

  “I see.” The woman lowers her eyes to her keyboard.

  “So what are you saying? That my uncle has been cashing my father’s cheques and keeping them for himself?”

  “I’m sure I didn’t say any such thing.”

  “But that’s what you’re saying.”

  “No—again, I didn’t say anything of the sort. What I said was that you should perhaps speak to your uncle about your father’s financial affairs.”

  “Oh, I plan to, believe me.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah, good.”

  The woman escorts me to the front of the bank. I’d love to have a reason to be furious at either her or the bank or both, someone or something I could self-righteous
ly scream at right here, right now, but when she stops walking and offers her hand and says, “I wish I could have been of more help,” goddamnit—I think she actually means it.

  * * *

  By the time I find my feet in Tecumseh Park, I’m calmer, although it’s not the thinking I do on the walk over that does the semi-soothing, it’s the view of the winter-wrapped trees and the snow-dusted river and the walk to the park itself, exercise being the human body’s built-in anxiety exhaust system.

  I used to take the bus to the depot downtown and then walk through the park to CCI. John McGregor was the closest high school to home, but Chatham Collegiate Institute had the best football team. And if by grade eight it was apparent even to me that I wasn’t NHL material after all, maybe football was my way to sports celebrity salvation. Because if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again—even though everybody knows you’re probably going to fail anyway. Which I did—was a starting linebacker by grade ten, but never big or fast or nasty enough to be anything more than a good high-school player—but which I didn’t, either, CCI turning out to be not only a football powerhouse but, incidentally, the city’s only academically elite secondary school. Not the reason I went there, but the reason I ended up being glad that I did. Mum had very clear career goals for me—to work in the air-conditioned front office of a factory like Siemens and not down on the dirty assembly line like my dad—and education, of course, had a role to play. Just not too much education. Too much learning, after all, being dangerous, like too many hotdogs on your birthday; was suspicious, like too much time spent alone in your bedroom. CCI made it okay to be smart. And now, apparently, it wasn’t going to be there for much longer to make it okay for anyone else.

  The school parking lot is full. When I went here, only the teachers and maybe half a dozen lucky students, with rich parents, parked their Tauruses and Cordobas and Trans Ams in the gravel lot. Which is a paved lot now, and where there’s a shiny new black BMW parked near the school’s east-side door that seems familiar, although that doesn’t make any sense. Until its owner sees me staring at her car.