Professor Dmitri Kaminski, a renowned Russian geologist, had agreed to be a keynote speaker, but two months ago, he had suffered a massive stroke. He had survived mainly unscathed, but he was forced to cancel his address. Leonard had been left scrambling to find a replacement.
That night, he had waited at home for a call from another geologist — Antoni Nowak — who was from Poland. Nowak was expected to confirm taking over the keynote spot. The scheduled call had not come, and my father was wracked with anxiety. He had finally attempted to call Nowak, but no one answered. He was more stressed than anyone had ever seen him.
Jacob could not help but editorialize, telling me that Leonard was reaping the consequences of living for work and only work. If you lived for something else — for your family, for relationships — work fell into its proper place. It did not overwhelm you.
I really couldn’t care less what Jacob thought about maintaining a healthy balance between work and life.
Dinner that night was awkward. The conversation suffered from Leonard’s complete apathy. Stella made coffee to go with the cheesecake, and they went to the living room. She tried to entertain them with a story about falling off a ladder while attempting to reattach the eavestrough. At the point where everyone was supposed to laugh, Leonard said, “I must check my email.”
It was clear he hadn’t been listening to anything anyone had said. He speculated aloud that maybe Nowak had emailed him instead of calling. Jacob told him not to get so worked up. It would all work out. If Nowak did not confirm that day, he would confirm the next day. But Leonard was already on his feet. He asked to use the computer in the bedroom. Jacob said sure.
“Leonard went into our bedroom alone, sat down at my computer, and there it was — all of it — the whole proof of our affair. And I just let him do it. I must have known what would happen. On some subconscious level, I must have wanted him to do it.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You wanted him to do what?”
Jacob was slow and deliberate in his reply, just as I imagined him with a class. Even now, he was getting off on illuminating my supposed ignorance.
“My computer was open to my email account. All the emails between Mary and I were there for him to see.”
“So he busted you.”
Jacob could not look at me. He looked only at his shoes. He was trying to bail himself out with more words, but it was not going to work.
“Understand,” he said softly. “Subconsciously, I set it up that way. I never just leave my email open like that. The one day that my email happens to be open, Leonard comes to my house. I know that’s not a coincidence.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I said. “You wanted him to find those emails?”
Jacob forced his head upwards. This would be the last time he looked me in the eyes.
“Yes, I wanted him to find those emails,” he retorted. His gaze dropped away again. “At some point, everyone needs to confess. Maybe I had not consciously chosen it, but my subconscious had orchestrated events to turn out that way.”
“But you could never have known he would go use your computer,” I said. Jacob did not answer. He probably knew his own theory was ridiculous. That a human could be neatly divided into two: the part you saw that acted reprehensibly, and the part you didn’t see, that, ever so conveniently, actually had morals and ethics? That was a bullshit theory.
While Leonard was in the bedroom, looking through love letters between his wife and best friend, the conversation continued in the living room. They maintained the small talk as long as possible until there was no other subject available besides the obvious. What was taking Leonard so long? He had been in the bedroom for fifteen minutes or more.
Jacob got up to go see. He went into the bedroom. Leonard was bathed in the white glow of the computer screen. There was no other light in the room. Jacob said, “It’s dark in here.” He startled Leonard. He tried flicking the light switch. Nothing happened.
“It burned out,” said Leonard.
Jacob came closer. He could see his own emails now. In the half-light, his colleague’s eyes resembled two empty holes.
“You need a new bulb,” Leonard said.
Jacob said nothing.
“I couldn’t believe the banality of his words,” he said to me — or rather — to no one. Stella closed her eyes. My presence seemed to no longer matter. Jacob was telling the story to himself now.
Leonard had stood up. Jacob started to apologize. What words could possibly help his cause now?
“Get out of my way,” Leonard said.
Jacob simply acquiesced. He followed his colleague into the living room. He stopped and watched what happened next. Leonard approached his wife and slapped her once violently across the face. Then he went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank it. He poured another one and drank it just as quickly.
Everyone crowded into the kitchen. In the tumult that followed, Leonard only uttered two sentences. Mary and Jacob declared their remorse for all that had happened, and for how long it happened, and for how long they had kept it from him, but he listened without expression, without interjection, only asking two questions when finally the voices cried themselves hoarse.
“Why did you do it? Was it worth it?”
That broke my mother. She sank to her knees, grasped at his feet, and begged for forgiveness. He would not look at her. He turned away and filled another glass of water. He drank it.
Jacob insisted Leonard say something. It couldn’t be left this way. Everyone needed to talk about the situation. But his argument was wasted on my father, who had never believed in talking about much, even at the best of times. And I cannot say that I saw it any differently. What could have been resolved that night? They could have talked until five in the morning.
At last, my mother begged simply for Leonard to take her home. It was killing her to drag this out in front of everyone. He nodded. He pulled her to her feet. They went to the entranceway, where their boots and coats were, and pulled them on. Then they departed.
31
While Jacob was speaking, the blizzard had arrived with an open fist. It slapped the house with a ferocity that appeared from nowhere. Day had become twilight, choked with swirling snow. The Brookfields did not repeat their offer of shelter. I had no more business with them, anyway. I could feel the draught, cold as an ice pick, jabbing under the door. I didn’t offer a farewell. I punched open the door and braced myself for the cold.
I could not drive any faster than forty kilometres an hour. The visibility had dropped to nearly nothing. Everything was constantly moving. I would try to anchor my vision somewhere in the strange landscape, but within seconds, my eyes would be wrenched into the snow’s bizarre, plummeting swoop. I was convinced that I would die on the very same road that had claimed my parents’ lives. It would be a stupid, futile way to go. For the sake of a fight with Jacob Brookfield. It would do me no good to have the truth just to take it to a premature grave. And I did not even have the whole truth yet.
After half an hour, I heard the clatter of my wheels on the train tracks. I had been in a trance of concentration. I was jolted back to full awareness. It occurred to me that the old woman was nearby. Her house was behind me somewhere. I had missed it. I scrunched to a halt. It was a foolish thing to do — right there in the middle of the road. Had there been any passing vehicle, in all likelihood, it would have hit me.
I turned around and I found the entranceway to the acreage. It was marked by two varnished logs on either side of the track. There was a skull on each one. They were the skulls of horses, I think. I had never noticed them before. The snow seemed to be thinning. I could see ruts and holes in the dirt track. A misty outline of a house was appearing.
The old woman, when I found her, was not as old as I had expected. She was in her early sixties, maybe. I did not find her in the house. I knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. I found her in the adjacent barn. It was not far, but in t
he chaos of the sudden storm, it seemed a fair distance. What alerted me to its very existence was the snort of an animal.
It was an old mare. The woman was feeding it. There was hay in her hand for her friend, and for her, a pipe smoking between her lips. The smell of the smoke was awful. It was like the smell of urine. I called out to her because she would never have heard my footsteps over the blizzard’s howl.
“Hello?”
She turned.
“Hello?” she called back. “You lost? Car troubles?”
I got into the shelter of the barn. It was strangely calm. I shook my head in answer to her questions.
I extended my hand. “I’m Luke,” I said.
She did not accept my hand.
“Excuse my manners,” she said. “I don’t want to get your hand dirty.”
She turned away fully from the mare and brushed the hay from her hands, and her palms were visibly worn with dirt. They were rough and callused.
“Serious storm,” I said.
“No mistake about that,” she replied. “I got stuck in here. I was so immersed in my work that I didn’t see it coming. Then I figured I’d just wait here with Rocinante. She gets spooked by the wind.”
I told her why I had come. As I was doing so, observing her, noticing the pinkish rim around her eyes and the yellow nicotine stains on her fingers, it occurred to me that she might be insane. It was minus twenty, my legs were shaking uncontrollably despite my winter clothes, and yet she stood there in jeans and a light sweater as if it were merely a brisk summer evening. And every now and then, even while I spoke, she took her intense gaze from me and returned it to her horse, and uttered a few words under her breath that I did not understand. Nothing that I was saying seemed to be news to her.
Eventually, after a few more hungry puffs of her pipe, she replied.
“Those were your parents, then. Do you know how many people I’ve seen killed on this road? Five in the last ten years. It’s a tragedy. It’s nearly an every-year tragedy. Three of them in the last three years. I don’t trust myself to drive anymore. I get my godson to drive out for me. He brings everything I need. People are such crazy drivers, and they’re rude, too.”
She had not expressed condolences for my loss. In fact, she seemed irritated.
“My godson can bring everything I need. He has a truck. He can bring clay for my pots. Firewood when I need it. I can’t always chop wood for myself these days.”
“You’re a potter,” I said, trying to sound interested.
“No, I turn the clay into people,” she said, and then she laughed.
“Sorry?”
“Don’t apologize,” she quipped. Her eyes were gleaming. She was like a magpie.
“I’m just looking to know anything about that night they died. I know you told the police, but—”
“Yeah, I told them. I told them, but they didn’t believe me.” The edge had returned to her voice. “I read in the paper they said it was accidental. It wasn’t accidental. Every time this happens, they wring their hands as if there’s nothing they can do. Well, it’s no coincidence that the people that get killed are the people going a hundred miles an hour.”
“That’s how fast my parents were going?”
“Your parents were a goddam meteor. It’s like they were racing that train. It’s like they wanted to hit it.”
“You saw the collision?”
“I saw it clear as anything. The car headed at the train like an arrow. I never saw anything like it. Didn’t even touch the brakes — I’m sure of it. No wonder they got torn up like a tin can. Bloody tragedy. I’m sorry for you. I hope like hell you don’t drive like that or else you’re going to be dead, too.”
32
That is all I remember about the meeting with the old woman, which seems now like a dream. When I left the barn, the storm had abated and the driving was considerably easier. What was difficult was the pressure behind my eyes: the realization that I wanted to cry. I finally knew what had happened that awful night. My father had propelled the car into the train because he could not respond in any other way. Governed all his life by grim reason, he was governed then by something else entirely. I pitied him, I loved him, I wished I could have said something.
I fastened my lips, I fixed my eyes to the road, and I did not break. I held my nerve all the way to Edmonton and to Julianne’s house. I hammered on the door, hoping she would answer it, because I wanted to spill everything on her shoulder. But it was Vicki that answered. She was visibly hostile.
“Where’s Julianne?” I asked.
“Where’s Julianne’s car?” she retorted.
I pointed to the street. “There it is. I borrowed it.”
“She’s furious at you. That you took the car in this weather.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s out for dinner with Mike. She’s going to see you at the Black Dog. She wants the spare key back.”
I dug my hand into my pocket and gave her the cold, hard key.
“She’s having dinner with Mike?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, Luke. I’m busy.”
She shut the door. It came to rest only inches from my face. I wanted to shout at her. It was insulting to be suddenly standing there staring only at a frosted windowpane. I heard her retreating up the hallway.
I could not cry. I was shivering with anxious rage. Julianne was having dinner with Mike. I could not imagine any words I would have wanted to hear less.
There would have to be some liquor left at home to remedy this. I retreated to the old house. I went through the cupboard, which had provided a dependable supply for a while. But no, Julianne and I had finished everything. I bundled myself up in my winter clothes again. Now the long walk to Whyte, to the store, and the long walk back, my arm weighed down with a box of Grasshopper. I went through them in a hurry as I smoked, my mouth filling with the sweet mix of nicotine and beer. While I self-medicated, I lit a fire in the long-dormant fireplace. For wood, I used a dilapidated stool that I found in the basement. With a few kicks, it was in pieces. I got the blaze going with a few of Jacob’s emails. I considered burning the whole lot. But something stopped me. What was it? I think even then I knew I’d end up telling this story to somebody and that I might need proof. Not for Julianne’s sake, but for Laura’s. I stashed the emails in the travel bag that I’d brought from Vancouver. Then I sat in front of the fireplace and stared at the bobbing and weaving wisps of heat.
It was a long, long time to wait. I had been told to show up at nine. Even after buying the beer, it was only six. And meanwhile, Julianne was having dinner with Mike. With Mike.
I fortified myself for the pandemonium ahead. I sensed it wasn’t going to be pretty. If it was going to be ugly, I would make myself ugly, too. Few things are uglier than someone intoxicated and angry. But I had to eat. After the first six Grasshoppers, there would be plenty more, but you can’t build a proper drunk without a proper base. So I dialed Pizza 73. In thirty minutes, they arrived with a box of sustenance. I made my way through it all, slowly and methodically, until only cheese stuck to paper remained.
I knew I was lurching toward a crisis. I wasn’t even getting prepared for it. I was preparing for the aftermath. Preparing so that the hurt would hurt less.
On the walk to Whyte, the few shadowy forms I saw on the back streets were scurrying like moles. While I had been getting tipsy, the snow had picked up again, and now it was accumulating in hummocks and drifts, and everything looked deliciously soft. Had you not known how freezing the stuff was, you would have wanted to jump into it, bathe in it, eat it up. The most unfortunate part about the coldness was how it stole the comfortable, blurry sensation that was the Grasshoppers’ handiwork. In fifteen minutes, the length of time it took me to reach the Black Dog, I was sober.
There was no lineup to get in, thank God, but all the same, the crowd inside afforded jostling room only. On my clumsy squeeze through to th
e bar, a couple of men glared at me. I looked closer into faces than was my habit because I was searching for Julianne and her hangers-on. I did not see them. I waited a minute or two to order a pint, paid for it, necked a third of it, and continued my search. The English majors were nowhere in the main part of the pub. I descended the stairs at the back. There were comfortable couches down there and a big screen on the wall, which was not illuminated, and another bar just as busy as the previous one. But there still wasn’t any Julianne. I climbed back up the stairs and then noticed that there was another flight of stairs, which I followed, and found myself in an entirely new bar — a bar that had not existed when last I visited Edmonton. This bar had a more polished veneer, and everyone seemed better-looking than the patrons below. But not one of them was Julianne.
I looked at my watch. It was nine-thirty. I returned to the main floor.
There was nowhere to sit, so I slumped against a wall in a corner, underneath a map of Ireland. I studied the map for a while. Beside me, a couple was casually sniping at each other. The girl was asking the boy why he bothered owning a cell phone if he never answered it. The boy was maintaining that he did answer it. This debate continued for a while, with both the prosecution and defense producing evidence to support their claims. Where the hell was Julianne?
Somebody then appeared at my elbow and nearly jammed the rim of my pint glass into my teeth. I was about to say something when I realized that it was Sharon.
“Sorry,” she said, turning around. A kid of nineteen had evidently pushed her.
“Don’t fucking push me,” she said. “What are you in a rush for? Puberty?”
I loved that. He was just the kind of kid that comes right off the farm and ends up on Whyte solely to smash bottles, piss on things, fight people, vomit, leer at women, high-five his friends, snort donair, and jerk off at night’s end. Just the kind of kid that deserved a slight like that. His face lit up crimson with embarrassment.
Blind Spot Page 17
