by J. J. Martin
My shaking fingers set down the letter.
Instead of loading the pickup truck with boxes for the dump, I spent the day reading in the basement, pausing only to text Jamie at one o’clock that afternoon and asking him to meet me at the Blackburn Arms for dinner that night.
What R U talking about? He texted.
Wait. C U @ 6, I replied.
I texted that if he wanted to know who his dad was, I would tell him that evening.
After hours of reading, the ziggurat of boxes came to resemble a stack of coffins to me, and our silent house took on a feel of a crypt. By the time I left the basement, it was twilight and I ran up the stairs, frightened as if ghouls were chasing me and would grab at my legs.
6
I beat Jamie to the Blackburn Arms and was already two glasses of Boddingtons in by the time he arrived. It had begun raining outside. He shook the drops from his overcoat when he entered.
“There you are, my dear!” he said to the pint of beer the waitress placed in front of him. Squirm winked and waved at Jamie from the bar and mouthed “on the house” with his hand over his heart. Squirm had been a minor celebrity very briefly, as he was on the kid’s TV show You Can’t Do That on Television in 1980. For a few years, he was the centre of attention. He found it uncomfortable, though, and it changed him for the better. The experience made him humble. His old compatriot Rob fared worse. He didn’t live far away from Blackburn since he was doing ten years for multiple break-and-enter convictions at the Innes Road prison.
Jamie and I drank.
“I’m all atwitter,” he said. “What did you want to tell me?”
Jamie looked fantastic in his suit. He was a corner-office partner at a law firm downtown, practising corporate law, so it was no surprise. He belonged to the Rideau Club, after all, and Clare was some sort of head nurse at the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario. They had twins, and a gorgeous river-view house in Rockcliffe, a stone’s throw from Rideau Hall.
“That’s a nice suit,” I said. “Serious.”
“Thanks.”
“You look great. Navy is your colour.”
“Clare got me this tie last year.”
“It’s perfect. Matches your eyes.”
“Kind of, yah. You’re right. I think it’s Hermès.”
“Spectacular.”
“Thanks.”
I wiped my eye, shook my head, and squashed down the lump in my throat with beer.
“Everything okay?”
“I love you.”
“Okay …” Jamie looked around the pub. “I love you, too?”
“Good. Because I’m what you’ve got left. I wish I had more to give you.”
My brother frowned. “Come on.”
“You are the best thing to come out of our family, and I am so glad. So glad. I want to say I’m proud of you, but you did it all yourself, so how can I take pride in that?”
The waitress appeared. I ordered a chicken pie, with another beer. My brother ordered a salad. “Watching my waistline,” he whispered dramatically to her, patting his belly.
He asked how many beers I’d had.
“I learned something important about our dad today,” I said.
“Right, that’s why we’re here. Let’s hear it.”
“What do you remember about Dad’s job growing up?”
“I remember when he retired, and they gave him that cool drum he hung in the living room.”
“I took it. The drum. It’s in my apartment now. What else?”
“I remember Mike Racine saying he would be working at Indian Affairs, and us wondering why Dad never mentioned him.”
I nodded. “Mike came to the funeral.”
“He did?”
“He stood at the back, just like he did when we first saw him at Scouts, way back when.”
“I didn’t see him.”
“There were two other Indigenous guys who came to the funeral, too.”
“Right! The old guy who almost cried and said he wanted to make sure Dad was dead or something like that. Very strange.”
“Exactly.”
The waitress arrived with my newest jar of ale.
“Seriously, how many have you had today?” Jamie asked.
“Who’s counting?” I sipped and wiped beer head off my lips with my sleeve.
He stared at me. “You should be counting.”
We watched the game on TV for a short while. A couple of plays.
“Those guys didn’t say they worked with Dad, but I believe I know who they were.”
Jamie looked at me and waited.
“The old guy said ‘That’s him’ and pointed at Dad in the casket. He was emotional.”
“You think the younger one was his son?”
“Sure. He was the one, I bet.”
“What do you mean?”
I sighed and closed my eyes. “The one our father took.”
Jamie blanched. “Sorry?”
“The one Dad took.”
“Took where?”
“Today I went through a pile of boxes in Dad’s basement. I expected bits and shits I could toss out. But they were files from his work. It was awful. I have no idea why he was keeping them at the house. I felt like I was discovering evidence of the Holocaust.”
Jamie leaned back, looking confused and alarmed.
The waitress brought our dinners. I sat glumly watching the steam coil up from the hole in my chicken pie. My brother, staring at me, barely noticed the salad plate under his chin.
“What do you want to tell me?”
I grew clumsy-mouthed. “You remember, you know, our old parish priest? There’s only one you know I could mean.”
Jamie searched my eyes. “Father Sweet?” He stabbed some lettuce and a tomato. “’Course.”
“I came across a name in Dad’s files. The name of a guy you-know-who used to talk about a lot. At first I didn’t know why the name seemed so familiar to me, then I remembered it was a priest he looked up to.”
“What does this have to do with Dad’s work?”
“Dad knew this priest and, and —” I stuttered, trying to find the right word “— sort of worked with him.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means we live in a very small world.”
My brother sat up, suddenly more erect. His lips parted, and he looked at me with deep concern. He looked terrified.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
“What’s wrong?”
“Flash,” he said quietly, and clenched his fists.
I bolted up and came around, easing him out of the booth and pulling his small body to the floor just in time for him to cry out an unholy shriek and go rigid. I held his head while his body seized, and his eyes rolled back.
The old man at the bar laughed. “What the hell!”
Squirm strode from behind the bar and briskly told the man to leave, pointing at the waitress to escort the gent out. He made a scene while Squirm knelt to hand me a few bar towels for Jamie’s head.
“That guy just earned himself a permanent ban,” said Squirm. “Too bad. He’s a cook. I could use a new cook.”
After a minute, Jamie let out a groan and began huffing like he’d run a marathon. Spittle ran from his mouth.
“You didn’t bite your lip, at least,” I said. Jamie was too out of it to respond.
The waitress finally got the loudmouth to leave, promising him his tab was on the house, but he wasn’t welcome back. Another man helped her ease the fellow out the door.
“Thanks, Squirm,” I said. “Appreciate it.”
He waved me off. “You lads are always welcome here. This is home.”
Blackburn had long stopped feeling like home to me, but Squirm still looked like the same thug I knew as a kid. He was fatter and slower, and softened by disappointment, which comforted me. I nodded.
Jamie had wet himself. I placed a towel over his lap as I rolled him onto his side.
The other man came o
ver. It was Padre, the pastor from the Good Shepherd Church where we’d just had Dad’s funeral.
“You fellas need a hand?” he asked.
“No, thanks. All under control here.”
“Shit,” Jamie said.
“Yah, buddy, I’m sure you feel shitty,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Shit.”
“Oh,” I said. “Understood.”
7
Jamie had his workout kit in his bag. While he went to the toilet to change and clean up, Padre sat with me as I finished my chicken pie and beer.
“I knew your dad a little,” said Padre. “He and I went golfing once or twice.”
“Didn’t know Dad golfed,” I said, between forkfuls.
“He was proud of you,” he said.
I stopped chewing and looked at the man — the priest — across from me. “Come on,” I said. “Don’t give me the pastor routine. I don’t buy it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lookit, I don’t know what your agenda is here, but whatever it is, I appreciate your help with my brother tonight and sending off our father, but I’m not a church guy, so whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. Yah?”
“No? Your dad told me you studied theology in university.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “Figures he’d say that. I took one year of anthropology of religion. Big difference. You don’t need to believe in God to get a degree in that. Which I did not get. Because I quit …”
“As for my agenda.… My agenda is you.”
“Oh, I bet it is, black-shirt,” I said, downing my beer.
Padre looked around the pub, squeezing his knuckles.
“Look, I’m sorry you had a bad experience with … but, if you ever need to talk,” he said.
“With all due respect, you’re the last person I would talk to.”
He sighed and sipped his beer. “I’ve heard that a lot over the past three months.”
“Oh yah?” I said, chewing. “What’d you do?”
“I’m new to the parish. You didn’t know? The previous priest is on leave. So, I’m here to serve the parish and help out.”
“‘On leave,’ eh?” I nodded sardonically. “You guys. When I was a kid, our priest was moved out under a cloud and an old Irish guy was brought in to fix us. Fix the parish.”
“I know all about Father Sweet.”
I stopped eating and examined Padre. “How’s that?”
“He sponsored the previous parish priest into the seminary. I know all about Sweet.”
My brother came back to our booth, uneasy on his feet. He stood balancing himself at the edge of the table.
“I’ll take you home, Jamie,” I said.
“I’d still like to talk with you,” Padre said. “There’s more to say. About your dad, and maybe about Father Sweet. And Father Lemieux.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jamie.
“Daniel Lemieux, the priest I’m relieving,” said Padre.
My mouth dropped open. Danny Lemieux; our old neighbour and Father Sweet’s favourite altar boy.
“Didn’t we know a Danny Lemieux, back in the day?” Jamie asked me. “From hockey or something?”
I nodded slowly.
“I’m here to help,” Padre said evenly, locking his eyes with mine.
“We need to go,” I said. “Jamie’s legless and I need to get him home.”
“Don’t worry about this,” Padre said. “I’ll take care of the bill.”
Squirm came over to tell us the same thing.
“Squirm, you’re having a bad night with all this gratuity,” I said. “You can’t keep comping everyone’s bill.”
“It’s karma,” he said dismissively. “What goes around comes around.” Squirm grinned.
“I’m not going to argue with that,” I said.
Outside, the only vehicle I recognized in the parking lot was my own. Jamie’s S-Class Mercedes, which I was looking forward to driving, was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s your car?”
“I took a cab,” Jamie said, shrugging. He wore his suit jacket for warmth, but otherwise was dressed as if to play soccer. “Don’t drive me home,” he said. “Let’s sleep at the old house. I’ll text Clare and let her know not to wait up.”
8
The only pieces of furniture left in the den were a pink tweed sofa, and a yellow faux-leather stool worn by time into a grotesque, arsed-out brown. Jamie stretched his back on the chesterfield, a can of Coke balanced on his chest. I crouched on the stool, drinking Crown Royal from a “Greetings from Sunny Florida!” juice glass.
On the floor, I set up my father’s old portable turntable and we listen to a scratchy copy of 2112.
“Great album,” I said. “Wish it was in better shape.”
“That new priest seems like a nice guy,” said Jamie.
I changed the subject. “How are you feeling?”
He looked at me. “How are you feeling? You’ve been drinking all night.”
My thumb stroked the juice glass. “Remember when you-know-who left the parish?” I asked.
“Father Sweet?”
“Poof,” I said. “Gone one Sunday and there was that new guy in there.”
“Barely.” Jamie shrugged and rubbed his face.
“Well, I remember,” I said. It was about a year after our camping trip in 1978. “Suddenly, with no explanation, he was transferred to another church somewhere up north. That’s what I overheard from the adults, anyway. His replacement was that dull Irish priest. Remember him? He didn’t seem to really care about anything, just read his Agatha Christie stories, drank Bordeaux and soda … and spent a lot of time with his live-in housekeeper. What was her name? Oh yah, Moira.”
“What I remember,” he said, “is you yelling at Mum and Dad when they wanted me to be an altar boy.”
“I did?”
“Big time.”
“When was that?”
“Before Sweet left. They wanted me to do it because you dropped out and wouldn’t go.”
We were sitting in the den, where we used watch TV as a family. We would all sit here silently watching some ridiculous sitcom like King of Kensington in the dark and saying nothing. Mother in the corner smoking and flipping through a magazine, Dad grinding his teeth, staring at the screen like it was an alien transmission. Emotionless as the laugh-track played.
“I don’t remember that,” I said.
“Boy, they were mad.”
“What else do you remember?”
“I don’t know.” He sipped his Coke. “You quit Scouts, I remember that. You quit everything.”
“You were their pride and joy,” I said. “Mother and Dad.”
“No. You were their pride and joy. I filled in when you gave up.”
I looked down at my lap. “Whatever.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it quite the way it came out. But remember all the stuff we used to do? Before you became a hermit, locked in your room? We used to play hockey. Scouts, camp. Remember the tree fort? And the CCM Mustangs?”
I thought of the treehouse we built, perched and level in the trees with our glorious construction site hidden in the scrub. That view. I sensed my heart rate pick up and my blood pressure fall. I did not like where this line of discussion was going. The memory of that summer smothered me, crushing and hot, full of nausea, regret, and grief.
“Dunno,” I said.
We had already thrown out the shears, and so I watched the rain pelting the back patio in the garden, where a metal bistro table and chairs Mother bought decades earlier now lay in a rusty orange pile, lit by a weak outdoor lamp. When she bought them, she said we’d have dinner out there in the summertime, but I only recall it being used as a place for her to sit and smoke, and stew.
“I never quite got it … I still don’t,” Jamie said, slowly, finally, so the insinuation could hang in front of me.
I stood and ripped a macramé owl from the wall, throwing it back toward
the garage door, where I had garbage piled.
“I wonder why they made us go,” I said. “Church.”
“Church? Pff. They never doubted that.”
“Maybe they thought we’d be better people or something.”
“You’re an idiot. People don’t think about what they do. They just do it, then they try and figure out all the trouble they get into later. That’s why there’s lawyers. And that’s how lawyers get rich.”
I dipped my head proudly as I sat back down. Jamie was a successful lawyer and I loved it when he sounded scrappy.
“I haven’t seen you have a flash in a long while,” I said.
“Another suit ruined.”
“They’ll be able to get that out. Your dry cleaner must have you on Air Miles.”
My brother took a deep breath and looked at me.
“What? Bad joke?”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
I stood to turn on the ceiling light.
The album was nearing the end of the side, when Geddy sings about where his life might be and the strain of carrying on.
“I’ll just come out and say I don’t want you to worry,” Jamie said. “But I’ve been having more seizures and it’s not the usual reasons.”
His tone was serious — almost frightened. “What’s the new reason?” I asked.
“There’s a, like a thing in my head. It’s … you know … like a growth.”
I shifted uneasily in my chair and cleared my throat. I looked at the juice glass and wished I had not drank so much.
“A bad growth?”
He propped himself up and smiled teasingly. “There’s a good kind?”
“I mean, is there anything they can do?”
“Yes. Surgery.”
I muttered some gibberish I didn’t even understand. Crazy talk, literally. Nervous, crazy talk.
“That’s why I didn’t drive tonight,” he said. “That’s why you’ve been seeing Clare drive us around. I can’t drive. Not anymore.”
His voice black as oil, he apologized for not telling me sooner.
