Why had I burst into tears? I was happy...finally free from everything.
It wasn't like me at all.
"I worked as a specialty courier for large companies," Violet was saying, the conversation suddenly made sense to me as if a dozing United Nations translator had just snapped awake. "I made sure certain packages were delivered on time and untampered with."
"What kind of packages?" Chris leaned ahead.
"Is this your police training kicking in?" Violet asked, smiling. "It was the new opium. Computer disks, corporate information that the big wigs didn't want to transmit through the net, afraid of a virus or someone cracking their ice and stealing those oh so important multi-million dollar concepts. Most companies are anal retentive about keeping their business secrets."
Violet had been a courier? Methinks I should have pried a little more.
"Was it dangerous?" Joanna asked.
"Not really. I learned how to defend myself long ago. Nothing ever happened anyway."
"So are you on holidays, too?"
I winced. Now was a good time to explain that I had been fired. Today's phrase of the day...zip it.
"No, I got bored. I'm just traveling right now. Seeing things. I'll start looking for something else soon. I have connections."
One of the things I was starting to appreciate about Violet was how self assured she was—she had no fear.
"Feeling better, Casey?" Christopher asked. All eyes turned to me, I shrank back. Spotlight's here...time to tap-dance around the topic.
"Yep."
Christopher gave me a searching glance. Did he expect me to say more? I did my clam impression. Finally he smiled. "I finished the Mustang."
He'd been working on the car for over ten years. "Can I see it?"
"Of course." Christopher got up, rested his hands on Joanna's shoulders. "You two will be okay without us?"
"We'll survive."
Off Christopher and I went towards the garage.
Sixteen
'Yeah' 'Uh huh' 'Gee' and Other Great Conversational Helpers
Christopher flicked on a light, smiling broadly. "It looks good, Casey. Everything's perfect."
The Mustang was covered with a tarp. He slid it off gently, revealing light blue metallic paint, shining chrome, mag wheels.
"It's almost as pretty as a Volvo," I quipped.
"You and those square boxes. This is a real car. Made in Detroit in 1965." He went around to the driver's side, pulled on a lever, then opened the hood. "Just look at this." Everything glittered from constant polishing. Christopher started touching parts, speaking reverentially, but he shifted to a language I didn't understand with words like alternator and cylinders, verbs like calibrating. I feigned understanding, sticking to noncommittal "yeahs" and "uh huhs" and "gee, that must have taken a long time."
Chris didn't know it, but he was talking about the yin and yang of things, the great mysteries of the world. He sounded just like Richard, my Volvo mechanic who spoke with a quiet determination about how push rods, camshafts and pistons should work as one. Underneath it all was the simple way in which man's ideas and nature had combined to produce a vehicle that could move.
Christopher finished his presentation by yanking the dipstick out like a sword from a stone. "Right on the line!"
Not surprising since he probably never drove the Mustang.
Chris closed the hood, wiped away his fingerprints with his sleeve. As he rubbed, he asked: "So what's happening with you?"
Had all this just been a pre-amble to personal questions?
"What do you mean?" Playing dumb. My only talent.
Christopher gave me a stern look.
"I quit my job," I added. "I just couldn't take it anymore. It was too much shit, Chris."
"If there's one thing I understand now, it's office shit. I've been chained to a desk since the accident." He paused. "So what are you doing now?"
"Driving."
"Where?"
"I don't know. I just have to get away."
"What're you going to do for money?"
"Got enough for now," I answered hoping he'd let the whole matter drop.
Back off with the reality, Bub!
"How long are you going to stay?" Somewhere he had decided to let me go my own way. It must have been hard.
"Overnight. I want to make it to the coast in the next few days."
"What's there?"
"The ocean," I answered. I wanted to see the water, feel it working against the earth. I could sense a magnetic pull. I wasn't that far, I was over a third of the way there. The mountains then the ocean.
Life could be that simple.
"Casey, I don't know what you're doing, but I hope it turns out."
Then silence. I glanced around the garage, all the tools were hung neatly on the wall.
"You talk to home?" Chris asked.
"This morning."
"How was everything?"
"Mom said you should phone Dad. That he's working too hard."
"It's harvest time. It's in a farmer's blood to work yourself to death every fall. Did you talk to him?"
Christopher always asked me this question. "No." I managed not to sound angry or tired, just a flat statement.
He was staring at me, a piercing look. I couldn't help imagining the bullet inside his brain spinning, somehow picking up my thoughts. "You ever going to talk to him?"
My mouth started to form No but I shrugged as the silent word dropped, heavy as lead, from my lips.
"You ever gonna tell anyone why?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes."
"Because he's hated me all my life. I finally got past the point where I wanted his love or even, God forbid, his respect. He just doesn't exist for me anymore. So why talk to him?"
"He doesn't hate you, Casey."
"Look at this!" And I held up my left hand, fingers spread so the space between my middle digit and pinkie was wide open. "I can't even get married cause I don't have a ring finger." It was a joke I had used on every girlfriend I'd dated, but my anger had somehow turned it into a real complaint. "He did this. And that's just the beginning. Not one word of encouragement, nothing. Did he beat you?"
"Dad beat you?" One side of Christopher's harlequin face showed surprise, the other was frozen and emotionless.
"Yes. Dear ol'Dad for you was Eichmann for me."
"When did this happen?"
"The summer I turned nineteen. I fucked up, backed into the auger at the grain bin. He called me a useless bastard and hit me. Not even in the stomach but in the face. Bang! I fell and he kicked me then walked away. I took it in, I didn't tell anyone. And for years I pretended to love him, I came to all the family functions, I even hugged him on his fifty-sixth birthday. Then I went to the bathroom and threw up. I just drove back to Saskatoon and never said a word since."
"I didn't know, Casey."
I was still seething, could see Dad mirrored in Christopher's face, that haunted look he had passed down to all of us. "He loved you guys, he even bought Deidre a car when she went to university. Me, nothing. Was it cause I wanted to be a writer?"
"Casey, he has everything you've published in his office."
"You're lying."
"I wouldn't lie."
"Then he's just saving it because he feels guilty."
"Maybe he's proud."
"Don't do this, Christopher." I clenched my fist.
"Do what?"
"Try to make everything better again. You and Deidre used to always do that. This can't be fixed."
"I'm not lying, Casey. I know Dad treated you like shit. I saw it all my life and I don't understand why. But there's a lot you don't know about him."
"I don't want to know."
"Maybe you should."
"Just forget it, okay?"
Christopher had a look like he would say something and I felt the sudden urge to strike him right in the centre of his twisted face. He turned and carefully pulled the tarp ov
er the Mustang, hiding its beauty from the world. "We should go back inside, I bet the women are missing us now."
I nodded, but I just wanted to be alone, to get away from all of them.
I followed Christopher, breathing in like I was going for a deep dive.
Seventeen
What was in the Box
A coin toss decided that the women would prepare supper. Christopher and I retreated to the cedar smell and fluorescent brightness of the basement. We played pool silently.
Christopher made a shot then looked right at me and again I had the feeling the bullet inside his skull was spinning. "Has Mom said anything to you about Sarah Brennan?"
"Yeah, I think so, at least she's been talking about a relative of ours from out east."
"That's Sarah. What'd Mom say?"
"Just that she's staying at the farm."
"Do you ever listen to Mom when she talks?"
"Yes. Why?"
"It's just that she goes on a lot."
"A lot about nothing."
"That's what I mean. If you listen, you'll find out it's always about something. Mom talks around her real feelings. If she's having a bad day she'll tell you about how she can never get the house clean. When she asked you to tell me to phone Dad, what was she really getting at?"
I shrugged.
"Maybe she wants you to phone Dad. Maybe Dad's been asking for you."
"Never." Why was he talking about Dad again? Hello...pick a new topic.
"Let's say he did want to talk to you. Mom wouldn't come out and say anything because she hates conflict. So she hints at it. She's spent her whole life doing this. Can you imagine how tough it's been for Dad to know what she wants, to understand her?"
"He probably just ignored her."
Chris frowned, leaned on his pool cue. "Do you remember anything about Sarah Brennan?"
"No...should I?"
"Well she and our third cousin Gary were visiting us when you lost your finger. In fact cousin Gary drove you and Mom to the hospital."
"I don't remember that." Moments like these frightened me. My recollection of that whole trip was of Mom gripping the steering wheel, whispering we'll be at the doctor's soon while I squeezed myself against the truck's passenger door. Cousin Gary wasn't in there. And I couldn't picture Sarah, either.
Chris continued. "Mom's talked to me a lot about Sarah too and so I've tried to figure out what's going on. Mom pretends to be the perfect host but there's something about Sarah that threatens her. Dad and Gary used to spend a lot of time together before Gary moved out east. When he came back with Sarah, I guess she and Dad hit it off. They used to write letters to each other."
My father sitting down and writing letters? To his cousin's wife? Dear Sarah...the weather is great. So are the wheat prices. Some of our cows mooed today.
"Did Dad have an affair?"
"I don't think so...Sarah was just someone he could communicate with. A soul mate."
Intuition flared in my brain, lighting a runway for landing thoughts. Flight Sherlock coming in! "The chest on Dad's dresser. It held her letters didn't it?"
Christopher shook his head. "That's not what Dad had in there. Didn't you know?"
"Know what?"
"About the secret life of our father?"
I stared blankly. Christopher set his cue against the wall and left, only to return a minute later, a piece of paper in his hand. "This is one of the things he kept in there. I stole it when I was a kid. Never did have the guts to tell him." He handed the folded paper to me, yellowed with age.
"What is it?"
"Take a look."
I opened it carefully as if it were an onion paper snowflake.
It was a poem.
I read:
Buried
Five full fathoms below the earth
the Norseman sleeps
bereft of mirth
he dreams of oceans and flames
the clamor of battle
the Valkyries singing his name
but all he knows
is the sound of eight legs stamping
the snorting and straining of horses
and the loveless rustle of plows
above
Arlen Stewart
My father had written this piece of poetry. I couldn't imagine Dad's callused hands wrapped around a pen, holding the sheet down, sweating over each careful word.
I didn't even know he could read.
"Is there more?"
"This is all I've ever seen. I think he kept everything in that chest."
And it was ashes now. Gone.
My hands trembled.
"Why did Mom burn it?"
"Who knows. She must've had a good reason. Mom wouldn't create that kind of conflict unless she felt it was necessary. It's one of the things that lead to Dad's breakdown."
"Breakdown?" Nurse! Quick we need a jack to pry his jaw off the floor. "What?"
"No one explained it to us kids. It was a month or so after you lost your finger. Dad just stopped working, stopped shaving, sat in his chair shaking."
"I don't remember this."
"Mom sent you, Deidre and Lloyd to Moose Jaw. You stayed at Auntie Helen's and missed a week or so of school."
"What happened to Dad?"
"Mom somehow got him to see a therapist. They thought it might be some sort of mental illness so they put him on medication. He stopped going after a week."
"Did they find out what caused it?"
Christopher shook his head. "No. I don't imagine Dad said too much to the shrink. They might have been worried that it was schizophrenia. It runs in our family you know."
"It does?" Hey, Dr. Bob, lookit the DNA on this clan. I'm surprised they can even tie their own shoelaces.
"In fact that's one of the family secrets about Sarah's son. He has some really serious problems. When he was in his late teens he disappeared for a year. Police found him unconscious in a ditch. Through passports and airline ticket stubs they figured out he had been in Japan all that time. He didn't remember a thing. But he's not alone—there are tons of bad bats in our belfry. Like good ol' Uncle Phil in New Brunswick who decided not to get out of bed on his twenty second birthday and died there forty years later."
"How did you find out about this stuff?"
"At our re-union, last summer. Family gossip around the barbecue."
"And Dad—has he been okay since that one episode?"
"I think so."
I looked at the poem again. My father could write. The universe was more strange than I ever imagined. I slowly re-folded the paper and offered it to Christopher.
"Keep it."
I did so, going to my room and hiding it in my suitcase.
Supper was ready. We ate ham and scalloped potatoes, talked for a while, then one yawn beget another and we retired to bed, saying our goodnights.
I had a long bath, then went to my room and cuddled up to Violet, weary and empty. The day had been too long, my mind was unable to measure everything.
"You were wrong about Christopher," Violet whispered.
"What?"
"He's not ugly. He's quite handsome. In fact he has very penetrating blue eyes. You made him sound like Frankenstein."
"I didn't! And you know, it's a common mistake but Frankenstein is the name of the doctor, not the man he stitches together from cadavers. He's called—"
"Were you one of those kids who never colored outside the lines?"
"What?"
Violet laughed. "Nothing. But sometimes you see more bad than there really is."
"No, I don't," I whispered quietly, even though her words struck home. Is the glass half empty or half full, Casey?
I dunno...just don't drink the water you'll get diarrhea.
Sleep drifted in, bringing dreams of burning Viking ships, men slumbering beneath the soil, and me stumbling through it all with a Volvo hubcap as a shield.
I'd have settled for a cheesy sitcom.
Eight
een
Christopher Robin Says: "Be careful, Pooh."
My bladder, persistent alarm clock that it was, woke me at about five a.m. I opened my eyes, sat up. Violet slept soundly, curled into the form of yin.
I dressed quietly, crept to the bathroom, then padded out of the house and into the shadowy back yard to practice Tai Chi. When I finished the long form there was enough light in the eastern sky to reveal the mountains. They were only shadowy monoliths in the distance, but the view made my heart beat a little faster. Why did they mean so much to me?
It was an ancient feeling of awe, passed down by my Gaelic ancestors. I could never live in the mountains: what if constant exposure made the wonder vanish?
I continued practicing, again surprised at the fluidity of my motions. I felt on the edge of a breakthrough, a deeper understanding of the purpose behind this martial art. If I could just make my body a little lighter, my muscles looser, my mind emptier, I would be able to slip into another dimension of energy and warmth.
It was so close. A heartbeat away.
I finished without attaining this new dimension, went into the house. Everyone else was waiting for me at the table. Breakfast was done ranch style—big, tempting, filling with selections from several types of farm animals. I ate slowly, heading towards that stuffed, pleasant feeling.
"So where do you plan on being tonight?" Christopher asked, spreading jam onto a piece of toast.
"In the mountains somewhere I suppose. I don't want to go too far, too fast."
Christopher nodded. "It's Lloyd's birthday tomorrow."
"That's right."
"He turns twenty-seven. Which makes me feel really old. Mom said to be sure to call him."
"You talked to Mom?"
"She phoned while you were out dancing on our lawn. She still reminds us about birthdays and anniversaries. Guess you never outgrow that. She said Dad's kind of sick too."
I felt myself tighten at the mention of his name. Or was I worried?
"Sick?"
"She figures he's got the flu. But he keeps on working."
I was concerned, which surprised me. It was hard to imagine Dad feeling bad. He was always the same.
The Not So Simple Life (A Comedy) Page 6
