The Wife Tree (28 page)

The house grew colder. I wrapped scarves around my neck, pulled on wool gloves, my mohair tam, my breath hanging like fog in the air. Outside, the trees, turned to glass, their branches swelling with the freezing rain to six times their thickness, bent over and touched the earth as though in homage to the storm. Between the hydro poles, wires sagged with the burden of ice. The brittle crust on the snowy lawns grew thicker.

Around three o’clock there came a pounding on the door. Who could it be? A neighbour? A vandal? A stray soul looking for shelter? I went to answer it, surprised, grateful, cautious.

“Who is it?” I called through the door.

“Open up, Mom,” came a voice. “It’s Morris.”

I lifted the letter slot and looked out. It was indeed Morris. I hadn’t seen him since he walked in on Conte and me entwined in each other’s arms. He’d called me cheap. A betrayer. I hadn’t forgotten that.

“I heard about the storm on the news. I drove down here to evacuate you to a shelter while the roads are still passable. Let me in, Mom.”

“Evacuate or evict?” I asked. “I’m not going anywhere, Morris. This is my home. I’m staying put.”

“You can’t do that, Mom. You don’t understand what’s going on out here. They’re calling it the storm of the century. Electrical wires are down everywhere. Hydro poles have snapped in two. The wind is coming straight out of the west.”

The West
, I thought ironically. Another disaster from the West.

“I’m dry and safe in here. I’ll manage.”

“It’s getting dark, Mom.”

“I have candles.”

“The house temperature will drop. You could get hypothermia. You could die.”

“If I die, I don’t expect you to weep. Think of it, Morris. You’d get your inheritance, as you call it, all the sooner. There’d be no obstacle to your laying your hands on the money you want. Olive would have that dining room.”

“That’s not fair, Mom.”

“Maybe you’re here just to prey on your mother again. I know you, Morris. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“I’m no wolf, Mom.”

“From the shelter, you’d be free to cart me straight to a nursing
home. I can see it coming. I understand your tricks. Yours and Olive’s. You’ve been looking for a way to get me out of here. Get me out of here to a shelter, change the door locks and I’ll never get back in. Force a power of attorney on me. Take my money. Abandon me to the State.”

“You’re paranoid, Mom. You’ve lost perspective. It’s time to let your children take care of you.”

“My children buried me long ago,” I said.

I heard him sigh wearily. He leaned forward, pressing his head against the door frame. “Mom,” he begged. “Please. Let me help you.” For a moment he sounded sincere. But I wouldn’t be duped. I brought my mouth close to the letter slot.

“I’m fine, Morris,” I reassured him. “I’m fine. Go home to Olive. Don’t worry.”

Just then a police officer appeared on the porch. He’d crept silently up the driveway without our notice.

“Is something wrong?” he asked Morris. “Are you locked out? I noticed your car. You can’t abandon it like that in the middle of the street. You’ve got to move it off to the side. We need to keep the roads clear in case of emergencies.”

“I don’t even live in Simplicity,” Morris told him irritably. “This is my mother’s house. I just came down here to help her get to a shelter. But she refuses to leave.”

“We always encounter a few old people in these situations who won’t abandon their homes. They have the pioneering spirit.”

“Talk to her.”

“With all due respect, Ma’am,” said the officer, tipping his hat courteously, peering in at me, “your son has some valid concerns. This is a serious storm. The authorities have ordered us to evacuate the most vulnerable citizens. People who are alone and helpless
are our first target. Maybe you should give yourself up.” Turning to Morris, he said, “I can’t stay long. Five minutes in this rain and my cruiser door will be frozen shut.”

Through the slot I could see his dark blue uniform, the icy rain falling behind him, solid as a waterfall. I thought I recognized his voice: the apology, the bewilderment, the melancholy.

“I’m not helpless,” I said. “Don’t you remember me? I’m the woman who threw the paperweight.”

“What paperweight?” said Morris. “Threw it where?”

A look of acknowledgement came over the officer’s face. “I do recognize you,” he said, somewhat cheered. Turning to Morris, he said, “This is a different kettle of fish. Your mother’s an impressive woman. Don’t underestimate her. She’s not a weakling. She looks the truth in the eye. We had a long talk just a few weeks ago and I assure you she’s saner than anyone I’ve met in a long time. It was one of the most useful conversations of my life. This is her home and her decision.” Turning to me, he asked, “Would you like me to remove your son?” I heard Morris gasp with indignation. “If he’s being a nuisance, I can haul him down to the station and have him detained until the storm’s over.”

I considered the offer. The picture of Morris cooling his heels in a jail cell had its appeal. Give him a taste of life in a nursing home. Morris’s face swung my way in disbelief.

“It’s tempting —” I said, pausing long enough to alarm Morris, “— but I think I can handle him. Thank you for your help.”

“You’d better start considering your own safety,” the policeman advised Morris before going away, “because you’re here in Simplicity for the duration. You’re not going anywhere. We’re stormbound. All the arteries out of town have been blockaded to keep people off the highways and out of harm’s way. Simplicity is officially sealed. If you
bunk here with your mother, be sure to pull that car tight up against the snowbank. Otherwise, I suggest you get moving and find yourself a spot in a shelter before they’re all filled up.” He skated away down the drive.

“You’re going to let me in now, aren’t you, Mom?” Morris said meekly. “To sleep, I mean? For a few nights, anyway?” I could see his face reddening with anger, compromise, wounded dignity.

“I don’t think so, Morris,” I said quietly.

“Mom!”

“I wish I could let you in, but I can’t trust you, Morris. I don’t weigh much more than a sack of twigs. You could come in here and pick me up and carry me out the door with little effort.”

“It’s December twenty-third, Mom. I won’t make it home to be with Olive and the boys. You and I could spend Christmas together.”

“Up until this moment, I was facing Christmas alone. Where were your offers of companionship then? Anyway, you pray too much at Christmas, Morris. I couldn’t stand it.”

“Have you forgotten about God altogether? Christmas is about the baby Jesus, Mom. Isn’t that what I grew up hearing from you?”

“I’m smarter now than I was then, Morris. I’ve given up on the fantasy of God. I’ve pitched him out of the house. There’s finally space for me here. I can breathe again. Life is much more manageable without him. My rosary beads went into the garbage a month ago. So did my Sunday missal. I’ve ripped Christ off the walls.”

Morris gripped the doorknob and shook hard.
“Mom!”
he shouted, his voice full of panic. “Open up!”

He left the porch then and struck out awkwardly across the front yard, his feet breaking through the heavy crust to the dry light snow beneath. He tried the back door, unsuccessfully, then went for the bedroom window, which of course I hadn’t locked
since he slithered in through it during the autumn, with Olive pushing from behind. Fortunately, a thick layer of ice had formed on the sill. I heard him striking the frame with the heel of his hand to break the seal, the window glass rattling. No success. Soon he was back on the front porch.

“Where will I go, Mom?”

“You heard the police officer, Morris. Get to a shelter. That’s your best bet. Take your bible with you. There’ll be plenty of souls there to save, I’m sure, ripe for the picking in a crisis like this. It’ll keep you busy. You won’t even notice Christmas.” I let the letter slot snap shut.

He began to hammer on the door then, until I thought he’d come right through the thin wood, and in his fists I heard not the finite need for a night’s shelter but the rage of a lifetime, the desire to destroy me, his mother. He beat at the door until the whole front hall shook. Pictures swung on their nails. My own legs trembled.

“I’m freezing out here, Mom!”

“All the pounding in the world won’t make me open up, Morris,” I shouted to him now, through the door. “I need to be by myself. It’s absolutely vital. Don’t you understand? Leave me to my own resources. Don’t worry about me. If I can get through this storm in solitude, I’ll be able to weather anything alone.”

Eventually he stopped. I heard him mumbling quietly, trying to calm down. It reminded me of when as a child, a brotherless boy, he talked to himself for companionship. Now I heard his voice penetrate the door, quivering with spiritual zeal.

“When the Lord saw how great was man’s wickedness on earth, and how no desire that his heart conceived was ever anything but evil, he regretted that he had made man on the earth, and his heart was grieved.”

“Oh, Morris,” I said tiredly.

“So the Lord said, ‘I will wipe out from the earth the men whom I have created, and not only the men, but also the beasts and the creeping things and the birds of the air, for I am sorry that I made them’…”

It was four-thirty now and dark. I lit candles, paced the flickering rooms, my long shadow cast like a monster against the walls, the ceilings. I returned to the door and pressed my ear against it.

“All the fountains of the great abyss burst forth, and the floodgates of the sky were opened. For forty days and forty nights heavy rain poured down on the earth…”

“Morris,” I called as kindly as I could. “Morris, I can’t undo the past.”

He continued to read from the Scriptures but finally his voice faded and he went away. In my corner chair, I sat very still and heard the world shut down. I listened to the silence and to the soft falling of the celestial rain.

Are the hospitals without hydro tonight? I wondered. Are the old bodies on Second East shivering beneath their meagre blankets? How was William faring at The Cedars, where they had supplies in abundance, an excess of cheerful paint, stacks of thick blankets, an embarrassment of riches? But all the bright blankets in the world couldn’t stave off the cold I’d felt creeping recently into William’s bones.

Sleep came dearly tonight. Overhead, the roof beams moaned with the weight of ice. I did wonder. I did begin to wonder if perhaps Morris was right, if this might be a catastrophe of biblical proportions.

Though I piled every spare blanket in the house onto my bed, still I couldn’t shake off the deep freeze. It crept into my fingers and toes, up through my wrists, my ankles. My knees began to ache with it. Since my trip to the library some months ago, I’d
longed daily to flee to the foreign climates of my daughters. I’d dreamed of naked nights beneath mosquito netting, of rising each morning to a fiery sun, of moving through the drugged midday heat dressed in loose-fitting Asian cottons, my bronzed limbs glistening with a tropical sweat, overhead the broad tough palm leaves clattering high up in the hot equatorial winds. But tonight I found I no longer desired such an escape. I’ve grown accustomed, haven’t I, to this frigid country? Aren’t its temperatures locked deep in my marrow? If I die this evening of the cold, I thought, if this storm wants to kill me, I’m prepared to go.

In the middle of the night, trees began to fall. Across Simplicity, the storm of the century brought down their ancient limbs. One by one, their old branches succumbed to the killing weight of ice and let go. I heard them groaning like wounded soldiers, the tearing of boughs, rending of healthy flesh, protest of the sweet sappy wood as they came thundering down. The earth shook with the impact, the branches heaved, sighed and came to rest.

This morning I looked out the back window and saw the Man Tree’s trunk, a spear-shaped remnant, standing limbless against the pearly sky. His ice-glazed branches snaked darkly across the white yard. I pictured them falling in the night, through the darkness, blindly. Blind as I, Morgan Hazzard, old, sightless Canadian pioneer bundled up comically in layers of winter wool.

Rain continued to fall. Up and down the street, broken branches — what we once called widow-makers — hung dangerously from the trees. I’d seen nothing of Conte since the rain began. Nor had Harry appeared for weeks. Though we cling together like an extended family here on the wartime crescent, are we in the end too old and blind and tired and selfish and frightened and weak to navigate the fields of ice and come to each other’s rescue? Or, maybe when all is said and done, we don’t care about each other, we love no one but ourselves.