A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2) (17 page)

Gert lifts her up as she drops it in the mail slot.

I watch in amazement, as she sends it across the city, to my daughter, my granddaughter. Children everywhere, I think.

Specters of Patrick, Loretta, Anthony float in some dark recess. Then I shake my head, trying to lose another image that has surfaced: it has been three months since baby Lindbergh's body was found, decomposing in the woods some four miles from the family's estate.

Margaret calls on October 24 and puts Anne on the phone to wish Joan a happy fourth birthday. When I get the chance, I make conversation, ask her if she's following the Lindbergh story.

Isn't everybody? she asks. It's unbelievable. How could anyone do such a thing?

But I am not good at small talk, so I ask her what I am avoiding asking, what I carry around inside me like a stone. I ask her if she knows where Jack is.

She tells me that Jack is gone, that he and his cousin Carmen have left the country, gone to Detroit to look for work in the auto industry, that they heard there were jobs there. Don't worry, Father, she says. He's written a couple of letters. He moves around, but I have a few addresses. He'll keep in touch.

On November 21, Margaret and Tommy become parents again—a brother for Anne. My grandson, Ronald Francis, is born in the back bedroom of the Nolan house on Maxwell Avenue. Margaret is fine. The baby is healthy.

Before Christmas, Gert and Joan and I move to an apartment atop stores at 3097A Dundas West, just east of Clendenan. The new place is a better fit, cheaper, since we no longer need Jack's room.

I do not tell Gert about how I could see Constance Street from our front window, about how I could not stop myself from looking, about how it is better if we go.

NINETEEN

1934

August, 1934. Joan carries a box of her toys up the stairs beside me at 265 Pacific Avenue. She is five years old, almost six, has long black hair curling to her shoulders, a white bow tied at the top of her head.

"Which room is mine?" she asks, large eyes peering through the open door of the new flat.

"Last one on the left."

She scampers ahead. I listen as the box is set down, hear the closet door being opened for inspection.

Gert, who has been climbing the stairs behind me, appears now at my side. Winded, smiling, she clutches my arm.

Our new flat is in a lovely, brick, three-storey detached house on the northeast comer of Pacific and Humberside. We are only eight blocks from Gert's mother and sister on Gilmour, five blocks from St. Cecilia's School where Joan will start grade one in September. It is tree lined, a residential street—the complete opposite of Dundas—where Joan can play more safely.

It was down Pacific Avenue that I watched Gert disappear that first day, that Sunday, before the streetcar pulled in front of me, blocking her from sight. Now Gert squeezes my arm, lets me know her pleasure. I look at her face staring up at mine, realize how pale and tired she seems. I put my arm around her shoulder, pull her tight, think how a man needs a family, how I need her.

"You did well," says Jock, glancing around the new place.

"Considering," I say.

"Pardon?"

"Considering my wages have been cut thirty percent. And that this is smaller than where we were by three hundred square feet."

"Beautiful house, though. Beautiful street." Jock pauses, thinks. Then: "Thirty percent?"

I nod.

"That's a whack."

"At least I still have a job. They say one in five is unemployed." I look at him. "Did you hear that Metropolitan Life Insurance now claims there were twenty thousand suicides in thirty-one?"

Jock looks surprised, mulls this over. Finally, he says, "There's talk of closing down the Victoria Park and Danforth plant."

I turn and look at him. He is talking about where he works, the place he must travel to every morning, halfway across the city. This is the first I have heard of it. "What do you mean?"

"Just talk."

"Anything to it?"

He shrugs. "Don't know. I hear the talk, though. Hear that it'll be phased out. Replaced as a Nash assembly plant."

I am quiet.

"You seen the pictures in the papers of them Bennett buggies—cars hitched up to teams of horses, 'cause folks can't afford to put gas in 'em?"

I nod. "I've seen them."

"We laughed at first." A beat. "Nobody's laughin' now."

"You heard of Hoover blankets? Hoover flags?" I ask.

Jock waits, a wry smile.

"The blankets are old newspapers to cover yourself up with on the park bench. The flags are empty pockets turned inside out."

We share a dry chuckle.

"Bennett, Hoover, Roosevelt. None of them can get the job done. None of them know what to do," I say.

"Hoover was a Quaker. Pacifist. Didn't know how to fight. Didn't know what he was up against. Bennett'll be out on his ass here next election. He only got in because Mackenzie King was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wheat prices were a disaster, and there he is, sittin' in Ottawa, and everybody looks at him. King'll be back, you wait and see. Roosevelt? Well, he talks a good game. They all talk a good game."

We stand in the half-filled flat, collect our breath, think about the boxes and chairs and disassembled beds and lamps and even the washing machine still outside on the front lawn. Joan's old wicker pram is in the comer, filled with small dresses, blouses, shoes, and the Shirley Temple doll Margaret bought for her after she took Joan and Anne to see her in
Stand Up and Cheer.
I take two cigars from my vest pocket and hand one to Jock. We light them, smoke them in silence, enjoying the moment, unable to see the future, as always.

"Why do I have to go to school?" asks Joan.

"So you can learn to read." Gert is clearing the table, filling the sink with water.

Joan, lying on her stomach on the floor, has the funny pages of the newspaper spread open in front of her. "I can already read." She points to a bubble of dialogue near her elbow. "What does 'Leapin' Lizards!' mean?"

Gert turns to me. It is Friday, August 31.

I place my cigar in the ashtray, lean forward, look at Joan's tiny finger pressed against the black and white of the comic strip. "Where is it?" I ask.

"It's what Little Orphan Annie says all the time."

"It's just an expression."

"Why do they have no eyes?"

"It's just the way they draw them."

Her feet are in the air, moving back and forth.

"You'll make new friends at school. Tell her, Mother." I turn to Gert.

But Gert is pale, clutching her stomach.

"Gert."

She turns, looks at me. Her face is ashen. "Martin," she says. "There's something wrong." There is a sheen of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip. Her eyes are distant, pleading.

No, I think. I rise up out of my chair, go to her, hold her by the shoulders. Not Gert. I have seen this all before, somewhere. This is impossible. "What is it?"

Joan looks up, her face a mask.

"I don't know. Something's wrong. Stomach cramps. Pain."

"Lie down. I'll finish cleaning up." I hold her by the shoulders, afraid to let her see my fear, my desperation. Afraid to let her go. Not Gert, I am still thinking. Please God. Not Gert.

Joan watches in silence. Her feet have stopped moving.

I am waiting in the kitchen as the doctor comes out of the bedroom. Joan is down the hall, in bed.

He sets his bag down on the table, looks at me. "I'm going to put her in the hospital," he says.

"Why? What's the matter?"

"How old is your wife?"

"Thirty-five," I say. "Why?"

"I think she's pregnant, Mr. Radey. And I'm afraid something's wrong."

"Pregnant?" It is like a wind rushing over me. Another baby, I think. The wind is hot, then cold. My right hand clutches and rubs my left shoulder, kneading a muscle that has cramped. "I didn't know she was pregnant," I manage, finally, foolishly.

"I don't think she knew either."

Pregnant, I think. A child. I am fifty-four. "What do you mean something's wrong? What's wrong?"

"She might be miscarrying. She's hemorrhaging. Do you have a phone?"

The questions dizzy me, come at me from an echo chamber: how old is she? do you have a phone? I have heard them before, in another life.

I point to the phone, speechless.

RADEY—At St. Michael's Hospital, on Sunday, September 2nd, Gertrude McNulty, dearly beloved wife of Martin Radey.

Funeral from her sister's home, Mrs. J. Mahoney, 75 Fairview Avenue, on Tuesday to St. Cecilia's Church for Mass at 10 a.m.

Interment in Mount Hope Cemetery.

The Globe and Mail

Tuesday, September 4, 1934

* * *

What do you mean dead? I shout. How could she be dead? You don't die from a miscarriage. This is impossible.

I knock the glasses off my face as I stumble about, thrashing at the hospital curtains surrounding her bed.

Where is her doctor? My voice is loud, too loud, but I cannot control it. I cannot control anything. The muscles in my bladder have had a momentary spasm and my leg is wet. The room is blurred. Gert is here, in this room, but dead.

I want to see her doctor.

He's not on duty this weekend. The nurse is red faced.

What do you mean, not on duty? I sputter. What are you telling me? Are you telling me he was off golfing somewhere while my wife was dying? Is that what you're telling me? He's fishing somewhere?

Mr. Radey. Mr. Radey. Please. We understand. Please.

Understand? How could you understand? I don't understand. You bring that goddamn doctor to me, you hear me? I want to talk to him now.

People gather in the hall, looking into the room, quiet, trying to see what is going on. Someone inside closes the door.

This can't be happening, I shout. It can't.

Mr. Radey. Please.

I want to see the doctor. Bring that fucking doctor to me. Now! How did she die? Tell me how she died.

Septicemia, someone says. I hear the word, then it flutters in the air like a moth, heads for the flame.

I don't know what that is. What the hell is septicemia? What are you telling me?

Septic poisoning. Blood poisoning.

Why wasn't she helped? Why wasn't she given something? There are things she could have been given. Where was her doctor all weekend?

Someone touches my shoulder. It's the Labor Day weekend, Mr. Radey. People are away. We're a bit short staffed.

My wife died because it's a holiday weekend? Is that what you're fucking telling me? Is that it?

No, Mr. Radey. Please. We understand.

The room spins. I clutch at an intern's sleeve. Somebody holds me from behind. My eyes are wet and I still do not have my glasses on. Don't Mr. Radey me! I shout, spittle flying from my lips. Who's in charge here? I want to talk to whoever's in charge. Get me somebody in here right now. Get me fucking somebody who will explain this to me for Christ's sake!

On the day that Joan is to start school she attends her mother's funeral instead. I lift her in my arms and carry her with me as we get out of our cars in the cemetery and I do not put her down but hold her tightly, her arms about my neck, keeping her close, not letting her go, because, incredibly, suddenly, she is all that I have.

My life with Jack and Margaret is over. Gone. I can never get it back. I can never undo my neglect, my selfishness. I was unwilling to pay the price of parenting.

It will not happen again. I will not let it.

TWENTY

The valley is dark and beautifully wet. You can almost see the grass growing and the leaves pushing out of the poplars. There are small flowers on my redbuds and the dogwood buds are beginning to swell.

—Thomas Merton

A Vow of Conversation: Journals 1964-1965

Death was like life: a series of surprises that in hindsight were not surprises. The simplest things happened over and over again, forever catching me off guard. Death occurred daily, here, in the past, below in life, everywhere.

Since morning, three starlings have toppled off branches into the tall grasses below. Yesterday, four were killed on the railway tracks that skirt the lake. The sky was filled with birds, singly and in flocks, tunneling through the air in every direction, destinations inbred or random.