All the muttering, all the shouting, even the snoring in the cell had stopped.
When they were finished, they threw McEwen, nothing more now than a sack of sharp bones and lumpy, multicoloured flesh, into the cell.
And now Douglas had to face his wife. He wondered which would be worse, but then shivered this thought away, because to joke about it, even to himself, was a betrayal to McEwen, a man he didn’t know, didn’t want to know, but to whom he felt he owed something.
Douglas drew a deep breath, ran his hand along the top of his shiny head and opened the door to his house.
“Where have you been?” Margaret was disgusted at the sight of him. “You’ve been drinking!”
Douglas moved past her, not quite pushing her but coming close enough to give her a heart-hiccuping start. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again when she found no words ready. Douglas hauled himself up the stairs and disappeared into the bathroom. Margaret heard water running.
As she approached the bathroom door she made her hands into claws. She’d go right through the door if she had to.
Inside the clean space of the bathroom, Douglas looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, his face framed within the ivy pattern of the wallpaper. Behold the conquering hero, he scoffed at himself. Shock provided a window of weird objectivity, and it was through this portal that the sagging lines and pouches and rabbity eyes told the truth of who he was. Before this night he had believed himself to be no more or less brave than the average man. But now the truth was revealed. He was a coward.
The scene played over in his head like a newsreel.
He couldn’t tear his eyes off the terrible spectacle of the man lying on the cold concrete floor, his face swollen and bloody, his left eye so puffed up it looked as though some parasitic creature had attached itself to his face. His shirt was hiked up, and Douglas saw the evidence of the beating: marks quickly going from red to purple, blood drying on boot-shredded skin. The men gathered close.
“Leave him alone,” said one.
“See if you can wake him,” said another.
“Should we try and get him on his feet?”
“Bastards did him in but good.”
McEwen moaned and stirred, his arms and legs twitched. His eyes flickered open and then closed. A trickle of blood leaked from his mouth.
“Looks like he’s lost a tooth or two,” said a man with no more than three teeth in his head himself.
“Shoot the dog,” said the big Indian, quietly, although what he meant was unclear.
McEwen made a wet sucking noise in his throat. He tried to push himself up on his elbows.
“Get him sittin’ up,” someone said.
“Perhaps we could lean him against the wall,” Douglas said, and when eyes turned toward him, he pointed. “That wall, maybe.”
Pairs of hands heaved the limp body into a seated posture against the wall. McEwen’s head sagged on his breast and a string of pink-tinged drool stained his already filthy shirt.
With the injured man settled, the rest went back to their conversations, their pacing back and forth, their smoking, their cards, although now and then they glanced discreetly in McEwen’s direction, as though to make sure he was not about to leap on them, or fall, or die. They acted as though the violence might be contagious, and Douglas was not so sure they were wrong.
Douglas resumed his post near the bars. He didn’t like to think about what was happening to the other man, Tim Buck, who along with McEwen had been culled from their lot upon arrival.
It was very hot in the cell and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and between the cheeks of his buttocks, places where he could not reach. The lining of his stomach felt ragged. He vowed that should he get out of this unharmed, he would never drink again. His muscles, cramped from tension, began to tremble. His shoulders began to shiver. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands beneath his soggy armpits, praying that the shaking would stop and that no one would see his fear.
He heard a terrible retching. McEwen, clutching his stomach, was going to be sick. McEwen’s head lurched, and men scattered. He tried to get up on all fours, then gave up and leaned over on one arm. He vomited blood.
The men in the cell stepped over each other trying to get out of the way.
“Guard! Guard!”
“Get a doctor!”
“Jesus H. Christ!”
Douglas was pinned against the bars. He turned his face away. A young cop approached the cell.
“What the hell’s the racket in here?”
“I think that man is going to die,” said Douglas in a voice that he did not completely register was his.
“Goddamn it!” said the policeman. “Dan! Jack! Get over here!” Other policemen came running and the door was opened. Men were pushed out of the way. Douglas saw McEwen, held under the arms and knees, being carried out of the cell. His head was tilted back. Douglas thought, He’ll choke. The man will choke.
“His head,” he said. “Be careful of his head.”
“Mr. MacNeil? Is that you?” A hand touched his shoulder. “What are you doing with this bunch? How did you get here?” said a dark-haired young cop. “Are you okay?” The young man waved his hand in front of Douglas’s eyes.
“I’m not a Communist,” said Douglas.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
“I know you,” he said.
“Of course you do. I’m Bobbie Patterson.”
Yes, that was it. He was little Bobbie Patterson. One of the boys who had stolen candy from the counter and mussed up his magazines. One of the neighbourhood boys Douglas had chased out of the store for years. He reached up and put his hands on Bobbie’s shoulders. He was afraid he might cry.
“I was walking. There were all these people. I wasn’t one of them. I was just walking.”
Bobbie Patterson pulled back and Douglas knew the whisky must be on his breath.
“’Course you were, Mr. MacNeil. ‘Course you were. Let’s see what can be done about this.” And he pulled Douglas from the cell, amidst hoots of derision.
“Yer a yellow-hearted fellow,” said a man. “Good riddance to ya!” And Douglas heard someone spitting.
“You know,” Bobbie Patterson said as they walked down the long loud hall, “you should be more careful, Mr. Mac. These men in there, well, they’re a bad sort. They’re out to undermine everything we stand for in this country.”
“Oh, yes, I can see that,” said Douglas. “I’m just an unlucky bystander in all this. I tried to explain that to the other officers but they wouldn’t listen. Although,” he added, seeing a dark look cross Bobbie’s face, “I can see how they wouldn’t have had the time and all, given the situation. Ha ha. You men are doing a fine job. Yessir. A fine job.”
“You wait here. I’m gonna have a word.” Bobbie laid his finger alongside his nose and winked, then he went to talk to an older officer. The older man glanced in Douglas’s direction. Bobbie put his hand on the man’s shoulder, turned to look back himself, then mimed tipping a bottle to his lips. The other man smirked and nodded. Bobbie clapped him on the back and went behind the desk to a rack of lockers. From inside one he pulled a paper bag containing Douglas’s possessions and walked back to him, grinning.
“Okay, Mr. Mac, you’re free to go. And go straight home, huh?”
“Yes, of course, Bobbie, or should I say Constable Patterson, eh? Yes, straight home with me. It’s been quite a night, quite a night.” Douglas pumped the young man’s hand. He was in a hurry to go. He needed the night air, clean, calm night air, to fill his lungs with the scent of something to wipe out the stench of the cell.
“Just one more thing …” The young man held his hand firmly and wouldn’t let go.
“Yes?”
“Well, let’s be clear here. That man who got took to the hospital. That’s a sad thing, I guess, but sometimes guys come in here all beat up, you understand. Don’t have anything to do with the police departm
ent, you understand. Wasn’t for us he’d of bled to death in that cell. You do see that, don’t you, Mr. Mac.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling, looking Bobbie straight in the eye. “Of course. Like I said, you’re all doing a wonderful job.”
“To serve and protect. That’s our motto. You have a good night, sir.” And he let go of Douglas’s hand.
Douglas fled through the doors. He emptied the paper bag and stuffed his pockets with his keys and change and stamps. The little silver flask was gone. He stood on the moon-bright street and breathed deeply. The smell of burning leaves and gasoline and sandalwood perfume from a dark-haired woman walking by filled his chest. He looked at the woman, strained after the scent and sight of her, as though she’d asked a question that was terribly important but spoken too quietly to hear. The woman wore a camellia in her hair, white as bone and pale as death.
“Douglas! You come out of that bathroom now! How dare you lock the door on me!”
The sound of her mother kicking the door made Irene want to crawl under the bed and hide. She hugged her doll, Noreen, to her chest and then the pillow too, so that Noreen would be protected. Voices became Other Voices. Similar to but not exactly the voices of the people you knew. It was as though there were violent and dangerous people hiding behind the familiar faces of your mother and father, waiting to emerge at unpredictable times like these.
“Margaret, for God’s sake! Keep your voice down.”
“You dare tell me what to do! After you’ve been out whoring around town? A common drunk?”
“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ll wake up the neighbours! You’ll wake up Irene!”
“It’d be good for her, to see what kind of a father she really has.”
“Margaret, I’ll not have this, do you hear. Get control of yourself.”
“Keep your hands off me. Don’t you ever touch me again!”
Her mother’s voice was completely gone now, replaced by the Other Mother, the woman who came and went inside her mother’s skin. Sometimes you could tell just by looking at her; sometimes you had to hear the voice. The voice of the Other Mother was full of spit and sour with no laughter and no way to make her see you as you really were. Irene wondered what her father would do. He was as big as the Other Mother, bigger even. If Irene were bigger she would stop the Other Mother. Put her hand over her mouth and make the words stop coming out until the Nice Mother came back. Irene hugged her knees and held Noreen tightly.
Shadows crossed the threshold of her doorway and she closed her eyes, held her breath. Irene heard her parents descend the stairs. There was a cast-iron heating vent in the corner near the door. The words came through as clearly as if her parents had been standing in her room.
“You tell me, Douglas, you tell me right this minute. Who is she? Who’s your little floozy?”
“I don’t know where you get these ideas, Margaret.”
“Oooh, don’t you take that tone with me! I’m not the one who’s out gallivanting all over town.”
“No one is gallivanting. I worked late. I had a drink. I fell asleep over the accounts. There’s no sin in that.”
“You coward. You’re going to add lying to everything else? A real man would stand up and admit what he’s done. He’d take the consequences with his shoulders squared. But not you, oh no. Not the sorry excuse for a man I married. Tell me who she is!” The voice rose to a shriek, and Irene covered her ears with her hands. She pushed back in bed until she was in the corner.
There was a momentary silence and Irene held her breath.
“That’s quite enough now,” said her father.
Irene let the air out of her lungs. It would be all right now. Irene was very good at reading voices. She didn’t have to even see her father to know what he was trying to do. His voice was reasoning, calm, a little afraid. She knew what that felt like. You had to be careful here, when the Other Mother was so close to the edge of the dark place.
“You’re making yourself hysterical. I’m telling you there is no other woman. I admit I was thoughtless, I should have called.”
“I called you. You didn’t answer. You think I’m a fool. You’re laughing at me. I can see that now. I hope you’re proud of yourself. I hope you’re very proud. You’ll never be able to make it up to me. Everything is different now. Everything is very different.” Her mother’s feet on the stairs again, each step deliberate and measured.
“Margaret,” her father called softly. “Come back here. Don’t act like a fool.” Her mother kept walking. Her shadow passed as she went into their bedroom and closed the door. Irene heard the sound of a chair being put under the doorknob. Her father would have heard that too.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said to no one.
Irene smoothed Noreen’s sea-green dress over the doll’s porcelain legs. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’m right here. I’m right here.” She knew she was too old to be talking to her doll, too old by far. “Don’t be afraid,” she said.
After a while Irene heard her father make up a bed on the couch. She lay quietly, trying to fall asleep, but it wasn’t easy.
“Good night, Noreen,” she whispered.
Douglas pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to stop the flow of tears. He lay on the chesterfield and tried to understand why he hadn’t told Margaret the truth. He tossed and turned, unable to exorcise the demons that haunted him. The smell of the unwashed prisoners, the metallic smell of his own fear, the reek of blood and urine. The implied threat in Bobbie Patterson’s words and the cold grip of the young constable’s hand. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to confess his fears. He wanted to confess his cowardice. He lay staring up at the ceiling, up to the room where his wife lay in their bed, from which he was banished, and deservedly so. Not because of what she thought he had done, but because of the things she didn’t know about. She didn’t know of his delight at saving his own skin, of his pathetic, salivating response to his own redemption, with nary a thought to the plight of those left behind. The tears squeezed from under his hands, rolled down the sides of his face, filling his ears, wetting his hair.
But he could not escape the horrifying fact that even though he had made the promise to God that, should he be released from the prison unharmed, he would never touch whisky again, he had no doubt he would break that promise. In fact, even as he thought this very thing, his legs carried him off the couch, down the hall and toward the closet. A voice in his head told him that after all he’d been through, it was only natural to have a drink to settle his nerves. He knew this was nonsense, but was powerless over it. He was a moral coward. In the back of the closet he found what he was looking for. He sat cross-legged in the closet and drank, and drank, and drank some more. The salt from his tears mixed with the taste of the whisky. He gave himself up to the soft warm lull and numbness of the liquor. He surrendered to it completely and drank until he had shut out the visions in his head and he could sleep.
Part II
10
August 1933
By 1933, Margaret spent the better part of any given day poring over the papers. Douglas had tried stopping delivery, seeing how she became obsessed with the unending stream of bad news, but she’d kicked up an even worse fuss, saying he was trying to keep the news from her.
Conditions had deteriorated over the past three years. Prime Minister Bennett had been forced to back down on his vow that no government of which he was leader would introduce the dole, and more than a million Canadians were now on direct relief. The municipal governments, who had been given the bulk of the responsibility, buckled under the weight. All across the country, dissension roiled and seethed. Seven unemployed men in Edmonton went to jail for taking part in a hunger strike. There was a riot in Arborg, Manitoba, over a foreclosure sale. Marches were held all over the country by people demanding unemployment insurance. A system of geographically isolated relief camps had been set up in 1932, run by military law, where unemploye
d young men were warehoused.
In Toronto, the House of Industry on Elm Street had a constant line at its doors, a shuffling, weary mass of people looking for relief supplies and vouchers. Groceries obtained with relief vouchers were supposed to last seven days, but they rarely did. Often people lived on ketchup and water for the seventh day, if they were lucky, or just water if they weren’t. Scenes of families sitting out on the sidewalk with their meagre belongings strewn about them, victims of eviction, were common. People averted their eyes as they walked past.
And there were even darker stories from abroad, where Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party had taken power in Germany. In the Toronto Star, Pierre van Paasen, a journalist on assignment in Germany, described scenes of a Jew being beaten to death, of Jews being tortured, being drowned. On April 4, the paper ran a story headed “Nazis Cut Out Eyes of Berlin Lawyer Before Killing Him: Daughter Flees to Paris to Confirm Story of Horrible Murder: Mutilated Children: Communists Bear Brunt of Hilter’s Terrorism But Jews Do Not Escape.” Margaret fed on the gruesome tales.
“Listen to this one,” she said to Irene or Douglas, whoever happened to be listening. “ ‘Erwin Wellner, arrested in Berlin, was searched and beaten. He was taken to an apartment in Prenzlauerstrasse, where 20 people, mostly in Nazi uniform, whipped the bare soles of his feet and put salt in his eyes.’“ She did not tell them that she thought there were messages in the methods of torture. They were trying to tell the world something more than that they were simply cruel. There was alchemy in the medium. Salt. Judas spilt salt at the Last Supper. Salt to circle a house, protect it from evil.
The night after she read that story she put a tiny pile of salt on the table and left it overnight. In the morning a little had melted. Margaret knew this meant death coming, but she told no one. There were omens everywhere and she trusted them more now that she had decided God was treacherous.
At times she considered praying, as she used to pray and be comforted, but quickly discarded the thought. She had no faith left. God had clearly forsaken her, or perhaps He had judged her unworthy. She refused to go to church and listen to the sanctimonious lies of preachers like the Reverend Fuller. She could see through him, all right, see how he had nothing to offer her but disapproval. And she could see through Him as well, promising love and everlasting life, dispensing only sorrow, starvation and solitude. She wondered at times if she had failed to love Him enough and was being punished. Well, if God had banished her, then so be it. For all her prayers He’d given her nothing. To hell with her? To hell with God.
The Stubborn Season Page 8
