The Long Stretch
A Novel
Linden MacIntyre
for
Dan Rory MacIntyre
‘A chuid de Phàras dà’
Epigraph
“Canadian army to open up the supply route to the north through Arnhem, and then to operate to clear Northeast Holland, the coastal belt eastward to the Elbe, and West Holland.”
Item #8, orders of Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, Commander 21 Army Group, 28 March 1945
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Epigraph
Part 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part 2
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Part 3
1
2
3
4
5
6
Part 4
1
2
3
4
5
6
Part 5
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part 6
1
2
3
4
Part 7
1
2
3
4
Part 8
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part 9
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part 10
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
P.S.
About the author
Author Biography
About the book
Finding Truth in Fiction, by Linden MacIntyre
Read on
Excerpts from Linden MacIntyre’s Causeway
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part 1
1
Sextus was standing just in front of the liquor store, a bag of booze under his arm, squinting. I was coming from the drug store, keeping close to the brick because there was a wicked rain dashing against the pavement. A typical Saturday. November 19, 1983. I remember the date because it’s close to an anniversary I don’t often forget…though I wish I could.
Until that moment, my plan had been simple and not unusual for a Saturday: buy a flask, call Millie, drop by for supper, watch the hockey game, maybe go home, maybe stay. Depending on her cheer.
Well, I said to myself. There’s a bunch of options all shot to hell.
The style of him caught my attention first. The overcoat was practically dragging on the ground. Flapping open. Belt tied casually behind. First I thought: a politician. Then I saw that familiar, unmistakable profile. Jesus. Look at him. I felt a great knotted ball of fear and anger and excitement.
There was nothing stopping me from turning on my heels right then and there. Pretending I never saw him. Just carry on the way I have for thirteen years, recovering from the last time. But I was in the grip of something stronger. Curiosity. And, yes, pride. I wanted him to see that I haven’t just survived these thirteen years. I have grown.
He plucked his little reading glasses from his face, flipped the overcoat open, and plunged them into the breast pocket of a fancy camelhair jacket. As he turned to walk away he spotted me.
“Johnny,” he said, amazed.
I looked, trying to act like I didn’t recognize him, but I could feel the flush on my cheeks.
He, of course, pretended not to see my reaction. There are people like that, who know how to project whatever they want, no matter what they feel. I just go blank, which is useful in my work. I work with people. Or personnel, as they’re called now.
Just look at the bugger as he strides toward me, not a doubt showing. The onus is on me. It would only take a word, a hesitation of the hand. But already shamed, I blurt recognition and catch his hand with a studied firmness.
It is soft. He couldn’t miss the scratchy hardness of mine. I have one of those Scandinavian woodstoves in the living room for extra heat. I split my own wood. I’m bony and fit because I’ve been running and sober for seven years.
“You look great,” he says. “Life’s obviously good to you.”
“No complaints,” I say. “You’re looking,” I begin, searching for a truthful word, “prosperous.” And in a gesture of self-confidence that makes my knees watery, I pat the bulge of flesh swelling over his belt like dough.
He laughs and sucks it in.
Sextus is my cousin. First cousin. Around here that’s about as close as a brother. Closer, in a lot of cases. He’s the only son of my father’s only brother. The late Jack Gillis. Uncle Jack. Finest man that ever lived.
Because there were only the two, each named the first-born after the other. I’m named after Uncle Jack. This fellow is named after my old man. Not the Sextus part. That’s actually the second part of his name. His first name is Alexander. That was the old man’s name. Sandy for short. He’s been dead now for years, since November 22, 1963. The day they shot Kennedy. Almost twenty years ago.
Our name is common around here. But none of the other Gillises are related to us. So seeing him brings back memories. Most of them bad because of everything.
He’s really been gone longer than thirteen years. Last time I saw him was just after Uncle Jack’s funeral. But he’d been gone a long time before that. He’d already made a name for himself away, writing on newspapers. Then he wrote a scandalous book. And then he stole my life and ran with it. For a long time I had to block everything out when I heard his name. But I rebuilt and eventually he just blended into the miserable part of the memory. It means nothing to me now.
But here he is. He shifts his hand to my arm, clutching my coat just above the elbow.
“Long weekend,” he says, by way of explanation.
I remember. He’s a teacher now. Or something.
“Just got in. Jesus. It’s good to see you.”
I am suddenly speechless.
“I was planning to drop in on you, out at the old place. You’re still there, of course? We’d have a drink. Jesus Christ. Wow,” he says, face animated. “Just look at you.”
I half laugh. Allow a look of surprise.
His smile holds firm, though I know he’s reading my mind.
“No, no, no,” he says. “We’ll have lots of time to talk about all the old stuff.”
The rain is staining the shoulders of the overcoat black. I’m wearing my woods jacket.
“Christ, what a coincidence.” Laughing and wagging his head, unaware of the pounding sleety rain. “Man, you’re just the guy I wanted to see.”
The words keep rushing at me and I’m studying the face for some connection with the real world. Like remorse maybe.
Then he blushes, removes the clutching hand from my arm and thrusts it into his pocket. Fumbling with something there. Keys probably.
“Look,” he says, as if reconsidering. “If you just want to…,” and the busy hand comes back out of the pocket, fluttering. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you.”
“No, it’s all right. What were you going to say?”
“Well.” He clears his throat. “I was over at the graveyard. The old man’s
grave. There’s no stone.”
“No,” I say. “Uncle Jack has no stone. None of them have.”
He searches my face with those eyes that show none of the uncertainty in the voice. Hard con-man eyes. The hand flutters to his face.
“Would you believe,” he says, “I don’t remember where we put him? Sandy I can vaguely remember. Angus, of course, I wasn’t here. But my own father?”
The we laugh, both flushed, eyes engaged.
“You must think,” he says. “God. I can’t imagine what.”
2
They named him Alexander Sextus because he was the first-born in the sixth generation of Gillises living here. And the sixth Alexander. Names used to be important around here. The county we live in is Inverness, named for the county I guess most of the people came from in Scotland. Everybody knows Nova Scotia means New Scotland. A Latin name, like Sextus. The Sextus idea came from his mother. Something new. Tired of the repetition—Sandy, Sandy, Sandy. That’s Aunt Jessie, ahead of her time. Today the place is up to its arse in Shanes and Shaunas, Jasons and Kyles. Anything to be different. Not so long ago everybody was John or Sandy or Angus.
But that’s the least of the changes. It’s become pretty much like any other place on this side of the ocean. Which is almost funny, considering how intense everybody now seems to be about the past, that mythical time when, compared to the present, everybody was poor and proud and happy. Now you hear them going on about roots and connections. Placing tartans and bagpipes in obvious places to fool the tourists. The way I remember it, though, the old people in our family couldn’t have cared less. They’d say where they got to was more important than where they came from.
During the wars a lot from here got over there, visited the old country, saw how backward things were. Reported back. Made the old people feel better.
My old man was all over Europe during the Second World War but didn’t even bother going to Scotland. Claimed he was never interested. Spoke Gaelic like the rest of them before the war, but never after. Something about his memory. He was wounded. In the head. Took away the piece of his memory that held the Gaelic and a lot of other things, like feelings. People around here admired my old man for his hardness and for what happened to him. Getting shot. A wound that would have killed an ordinary man. You had to live with him to know the truth: that hardness is often just a shell. And that there’s more than one way to be killed.
Angus MacAskill was a different story. Went away from here the same time as the old man. Joined up together. But Angus came back from the war with a Scottish wife, one kid and another on the way. More or less intact, except for what you couldn’t see. Angus was with my old man when he was shot. They were in a barn in the north of Holland. Outside a place called Dokkum.
You don’t forget something like that. Not just that it was so dramatic: somebody getting shot. It was a war, people getting shot all the time. And the old man survived it. What gave this story a life was the weird coincidence that put them in that barn at that moment. The odds of that happening were practically zero, since they’d basically been through different wars, in two different parts of Europe. And, of course, the consequences of that get-together, which are still making life difficult. Not least of all for me and the fellow standing in front of me with the rain running down his face, through the grooves beside his nose, like tears.
I’d have expected, if I had ever anticipated seeing him again, seeing an outsider. But except for the clothes and the smooth manners, he’s more like us than ever. Like the Gillises. Big shouldered and dark faced, with deep lurking eyes and a complexion like bark, an unready smile that dominates.
He used to complain about his name. But it always made him seem special. And he was good at the books. Good talker. Seemed physically strong so never had to prove much. And he lived up to expectations, becoming special. Writing, away. When we were kids, away was the place you went if you had worth, or wanted to get ahead. He was always bound for away.
“Were you going to get something inside?” he asks.
“Oh, just a pint of vodka for later,” I say.
“Never mind,” he says, gesturing to the bag under his arm. “I have one here. Will you come with me, then?”
I nod. Can’t tell him the vodka was for Millie.
Millie and I are both AA. That’s where we met. But now and then she allows herself a little treat. And I seldom object. I’m strong in some ways but Millie is stronger when it comes to having the odd drink. Millie can be a lot of fun.
It is raining harder as we hurry across the parking lot to my car. Water is pooling on the asphalt. I’m wearing my work-boots. He has dress shoes on, flecked with wet grass from his earlier trip to the cemetery. Inside the car, with the rain rattling on the roof, he asks permission to smoke. Lights up his last one, then drops the empty pack over the back of the seat, onto the floor.
It isn’t far to the cemetery but he says he needs more cigarettes first. I take him to Langley’s. He dashes inside, hunched against the rain as if it hurts. When he comes back he has a can of Sprite and some plastic glasses. As I’m pulling onto the street he’s pouring two long shots of vodka into the glasses. He tops them up with the soft drink and hands me one. Like old times. I feel a blast of guilt. AA reflex. But what can I do? I take it and immediately notice the blue and white flash of a police cruiser hissing by. I can feel the Mountie staring at the incriminating plastic glass.
“Shit,” I say. I brush the condensation from my side window and peer after him into the side mirror. He is gone quickly into the shower.
“What?” says Sextus.
“The Mounties.”
“Oh,” he says with a half-laugh.
“It isn’t like the old days,” I say. He was always too cocky.
“Sure isn’t,” he says.
Old days you were drinking in the car all the time. There wasn’t anywhere else. It’s always been like that. Alcohol and recreation: you can’t have one without the other. Men in the old man’s generation were the same, though they probably didn’t have as much access. Alcohol was probably the root of all the problems. Especially the old man and Angus. Even the old man getting shot. Nobody has ever denied it. They were well into some found booze when it all happened.
You started drinking early because there wasn’t anything else to do. Sixteen. Seventeen. Just about when you got the driver’s licence. Driving around trying to pull in hit parade music on the radio. You could get a lot of American stations, stuck as we are out in the water, an island. Cape Breton. Canada’s little toe. That’s how the grade one teacher would explain it, pointing with a long stick at the Neilson’s candy map on the wall of our two-room schoolhouse.
A good radio would get New York City clear as a bell. Or Wheeling, West Virginia. Local stations were boring. Then, when you’d be feeling good you’d roar into a dance somewhere, which was mostly fiddle music. You’d leave the New York music behind and bluster into the jolly hall, head suddenly filled with the squeal of jigs, heart pounding in time with the reels, ready for anything. The girls sitting along the walls on the hard chairs waiting to be asked; the hard guys hanging back near the door eyeballing everybody. The booze smoothed out any rough spots that might have created resistance on the slide toward happiness. Later on in your life, when you needed something to help through a hard patch, you knew where to turn. It takes a while to realize that if there is happiness, the booze will never help you get there. I found out the hard way.
3
“I was ninety-nine per cent positive there was a tombstone,” he says, brooding.
The cemetery gate is open and I turn in.
“I thought it was over there.” He wipes the inside of the windshield with the back of his hand the way I tell people not to. He leaves a smear.
“No,” I correct. “He’s on the other side.”
We’re driving slowly along a narrow road that loops around the perimeter.
“It was a day like this,” he says. “But a lot colder
.”
Rain lashing, wind trying to tear the pages out of Father Duncan’s prayer book. Father Duncan helped Father Hughie with the funeral Mass for Uncle Jack. Sextus looking dark and doomed, holding on to his mother, Aunt Jessie. Us remembering and grieving. Him planning ahead. The last time I saw either one of them…him or Effie. The day of Jack’s funeral. Thirteen years ago. Last February.
What else. My mother’s arm is looped tightly through mine. Effie, my wife, is on the other side of me, keeping up appearances but making stealthy eye contact with him. Plotting with him. Near consummation of all their wicked plans. I’m in the dark, but not for much longer.
Effie’s brother, Duncan, the priest, is shouting into the wind. I’m hoping there’s a short version of the prayers for the dead. I’m frozen. Wet. Rumsick. And remembering Jack.
If there is a shorter prayer, Duncan doesn’t know it. I distract myself from Effie and the cold, reviewing the homily in my head. It was by the parish priest, Father Hughie. Uncle Jack was one of the Peters of the world, Father Hughie said. Jesus had a special affection for people like him. Working people. Blue-collar Apostles. I remember making a little rhyme from it:
The twelve were all, save Matthew, working class.
The priest finds relevance in this coincidence at Mass.
Angus MacAskill was there. Looking grim. Angus the Giant they called him sometimes in his later years. The fuamhair. Even young ones at the tavern, Billy Joe’s, not knowing a word of Gaelic, would say: “The old foyer.” There was a real giant named Angus MacAskill in Cape Breton once. Biggest man in the world, I guess. But they called this Angus MacAskill the giant because he was so shrivelled, and weakened by the booze. Irony. I’ve heard that people called him Monty after the war because, in his better days, he looked like the famous field marshal. They say Angus actually spoke with Montgomery once. Spoke right up during an inspection. That was in Holland too, just before the end. They’d say Angus was bold as brass—useless as tits on a bull, but full of gall. People couldn’t understand the connection between himself and Sandy Gillis, my old man. My father was low key. Solid. Except, of course, when the devil was in control. Which people rarely saw. That’s Angus buried over by the fence. No stone there either but I know where he is. I helped put him there. Angus was Duncan’s father. And Effie’s.
The Long Stretch Page 1
