Natural Order (27 page)

I don’t want Rose in my room. I don’t want to have to share with anyone anymore. I want to be back in my house. I want my old mattress. My bathroom with the brown furry bath mat. I want my butterfly kitchen. But all of that is gone. Strangers live there now. They’ve likely torn up the carpets. Steamed off the wallpaper. Painted the walls and patched up the holes where I hung my pictures. I don’t even want to think what they’ve done to John’s old room.

Timothy brings in Ruth’s obituary notice from the newspaper. It says she was eighty-four.

“I thought she was eighty-two.”

He shrugs. I’m not as sad about Ruth’s death as I thought I’d be. I have Timothy now. The service will be held at the funeral home on Tuesday, followed by a luncheon.

“Look at all these names they wrote in here. ‘Dearly missed by’ my arse,” I say. “I’ve never seen one of these relatives walk through those doors. Not one. I don’t intend to eat your cookie.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t?”

“It’s too nice. If I ate it, I wouldn’t be able to look at it and you did such a nice job. You should sell them.”

“I don’t think there’s a lot of money to be made in cookies.”

“Tell that to Mr. Christie.”

He laughs, and the sound makes me close my eyes. It feels like I haven’t heard laughter in years. He tells me he won’t be coming next Friday. He’s going away for the weekend. Back to Toronto.

“Oh,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as disappointed as I feel. “Anything special?”

“Just visiting friends. I haven’t been back since the spring. I miss it sometimes.”

“Do you drive?”

“Yes, I have a car.”

Then it comes to me. A wish so old, it’s fraying around the edges. “May I ask a favour?”

He nods. “Of course.”

I’m not sure if it’s right to ask. But I’m more afraid of
not
asking.

He leans in. “What is it?”

“My son is buried at Lakeside Cemetery. My husband, too. I don’t remember the last time I was there. There’s a vase on top of the stone. I used to put flowers inside. People might think that no one cares.”

“You’d like me to take flowers to the cemetery?”

“No,” I say. “I want you to take
me
to the cemetery. I’d like to visit.”
One last time
, I think.

He exhales and slowly slides his palms down his thighs. “Joyce, I’m not sure I can do that. You’re in a wheelchair—”

“It folds up.”

“—and I doubt the home would let me—”

“Lots of people go on day trips. There’s no rule against it.”

“It’s not … it’s not as simple as it seems.”

I look down at my hands. “I see.”

“I would if I could.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

A heavy silence closes in. I’ve crossed a line.

“Have a nice time in Toronto,” I say.

CHAPTER TEN

I
HAVE TO
get groceries. Walter consumed all of my cookies. My cupboards yawn back at me. When I open the front door, I’m ashamed to see Mr. Sparrow standing on my porch. Since his return from the hospital, I haven’t dropped by or asked him how he’s doing. He’s holding a pint of peaches and wearing a blue baseball cap that reads “Don’t Forget My Senior’s Discount!” in white letters.

“How was your visit with that fellow?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say, taking the peaches from him. “Strange. But fine.”

“He was a little ornate, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I don’t mind you saying.” I consider filling him in on the situation, then think the better of it. I don’t want to say the word
homosexual
in front of Mr. Sparrow. It doesn’t fit within our talks of weather and vegetables. “Excuse me for a moment.” I slip back inside and set the peaches on the chair in the hallway. I need to get to the grocery store before it closes. When I step back out, I lock the front door behind me, hoping he gets the message.

“You changed,” he says, gesturing at me. “You were wearing that nice outfit before.”

“I’m on my way to pick up a few things. Would you like me to get anything for you?”

“I’m good. But thanks. I’m assuming he’s gone home by now.”

“Who?”

“Walter. Said he was driving back to Miami. I asked why he didn’t fly and he said he didn’t like his feet leaving the ground. I can appreciate that.”

I pause. “Did Walter tell you? About Freddy … and him?”

He turns to face the street. He takes so long to answer me, I think he may not have heard. “I had an older brother up north. Earl. He worked in the forestry business. Never married. He’d come to visit every couple of years or so. Maybe you met him.”

“I don’t think I did.”

“Eileen and I always believed he was of a particular persuasion, so to speak, but he never said anything to confirm our suspicions. Earl and I never talked about it. That bothered me. Not that I cared one way or another if he was that way, but the silence got to me. Eileen was always after me to ask him, but I never did. That’s what happens. When you don’t talk about things, you’re left forever making up conversations in your head.”

Mr. Sparrow places his hands on his hips. “He died a long time ago. Going on twenty-five years now, I guess. Heart attack. Seems a shame to me that all those years went by between us.”

He turns back to me. “Walter said he was going to ask you to help him with a party.”

“He did.”

“You said no.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to help.”

“No need to defend yourself.”

“I don’t know him at all.”

“You know him a little.”

“It would be so much work.”

“Maybe not.” He stands there, blinking. “Well, I won’t keep you then.” He adjusts his ball cap and begins making his way down the front steps, slowly, one at a time. “Those peaches should ripen up in a day or two. Put them in a paper bag. I find that always helps.”

He shuffles down my front walk, his brown pants hanging off him. My hand massages my forehead. Damn it, Mr. Sparrow. Damn your peaches and your sad stories.

“Mr. Sparrow!” I call out. “If I do this, you have to come to the party.”

“With bells on!” he calls back.

I call the Seahorse Motel as soon as I go back inside. If I put off doing it, I know I won’t go through with it.

“Walter Clarke’s room, please,” I say, hoping that he may have checked out.

The line clicks. I consider hanging up, but push myself on.

“Hello?”

“Walter, it’s Joyce Sparks.”

“You’re not outside my door again, are you?”

“No, I’m home. I’m calling …” I don’t want to do this. I don’t
have
to do this. I just want this man to go away. I want all of this to go away.

“Joyce?”

“I’m sorry. I’m a little scattered. The past couple of days have been difficult ones. I’m not used to dealing with these sorts of … things.”

“Is there a particular reason for your call?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’d like to invite you to a potluck lunch tomorrow at my house. It may not be exactly what you had in mind, but I’ll invite some friends who knew Fred. Not that anyone was close to him. But they’re people who knew him. My sister. And my friend Fern. I’m also inviting Mr. Sparrow.”

“I don’t know what to say, Joyce.”

“Say you like meatballs because that’s what we’re having.”

I keep checking my list as I circle the grocery store aisles. Onion flakes.
Check
. Minute Rice.
Check
. Tomato soup. What aisle is the soup in? I squint at the overhead signs. I can’t remember the last time I actually cooked for someone other than myself.

I hold a package of ground beef in each hand, debating how much I need. When did I last make porcupine meatballs? I put both packages into my shopping cart and add a third. Then I add a fourth for good measure. I’ll freeze the leftovers. It’ll do me good to get away from those packaged dinners that are far too easy to toss into the microwave.

I had to run Walter’s story by Fern three times before she got it down.

“And Freddy never came back to Balsden?” she asked. “Not even once?”

“How is he supposed to come back if he’s dead?”

“It’s not like anyone would’ve recognized him. Let’s face it, Joyce. None of us look the same as we did at seventeen. What can I bring for lunch?”

“How about that broccoli salad? The one with the cheese.”

“I’ll have to go out and get ingredients.”

“I’m sorry about the short notice,” I said. “Everything came up so suddenly.”

“No need to apologize. I’m a woman of the United Church of Canada. I can make a salmon loaf standing on my head in thirty seconds.”

Helen kept her opinions to herself. “I’ll bring scalloped potatoes. And something for dessert. Maybe squares. I’ll see what I have on hand. Is this man Jewish? The potatoes call for bacon.”

“I never thought to ask. Why would he be Jewish?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” She said she’d leave it out to be on the safe side.

Something catches in my throat and I start to cough.

“Are you all right?” Helen asks.

“I’m fine. Relatively speaking. It’s been a lot to digest in the course of a day.” I don’t tell her about the cemetery. There are things Helen and I don’t discuss.

He coughed during one of our Sunday-afternoon phone calls. I remember that moment distinctly. It was Victoria Day, 1984. We’d had a terrible rainstorm the previous day and water had seeped into the basement. Charlie had spent most of the morning going up and down the stairs carrying cardboard boxes and setting them to dry out in the backyard. I’d been telling John about Marianne’s upcoming wedding. It was taking place in September. John was to be one of the groomsmen. I was looking forward to seeing him in a tuxedo, knowing that it might be the only time I’d ever see him in one. I had almost given up hope of his ever getting married.

“Helen said Marianne is already over budget,” I was telling him. “And she hasn’t even bought the dress yet. Helen wants her to go traditional, but you know Marianne. She has some peculiar tastes. Apparently, she wants all the bridesmaids in burgundy.”

Then it came. A sound as dry as cracked clay.

“Are you sick?”

“Just a bug,” he said. “I’ve been off work for a few days.”

“Have you been to a doctor?”

“No. And don’t start. It’s a cold, nothing more.”

I’d been hearing the odd thing in the news, snippets about an illness that was affecting men … well, gay men. The term
gay
was foreign to me, too distant from my vocabulary. My son was not one of
them
.

I told him to get his rest. When he came home at the beginning of June for Charlie’s birthday, he seemed fine. A little thinner, but nothing alarming. I was happy to see he’d shaved his moustache off. He said he was in the running for executive chef at the club.

“If I get this,” he said, “I’ll be the youngest executive chef they’ve ever had.”

“We’ll keep our fingers crossed for you,” Charlie said.

But a few weeks later, during another Sunday phone call, the cough was back. Only that time, it sounded looser, more jarring. Stones rattling.

“I thought you said you were over that cold.”

“I am. It’s just taking a while to fully clear itself out.”

“You should see a doctor. This isn’t the time of year for colds.”

“Everyone at work is sick right now. I’ll see one if it gets worse.”

“Promise?” He often said things I wanted to hear.

“Promise.”

“I don’t like the idea of you being alone. I can come for a visit. I’ll take the bus.”

“Mom, I’m thirty-one. I can take care of myself.”

I made him swear to call me the minute he came down with fever or if his cough got worse. “I’m serious, John. You can’t take these things lightly.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

I called back two days later. He said he was fine. I called back on Sunday. He admitted that he’d come down with a fever a few days before, but it had been mild. He said he was feeling much better. I wasn’t to worry. He planned to go back to work the next morning. On Tuesday, I received a phone call.

“Mrs. Sparks? It’s Angela Dawber. John’s friend from high school?”

Panic raced through me. “What’s wrong?”

“I took John to the hospital last night.”

“The
hospital?”

“He’s fine now and back home. He was feeling short of breath.”

“He’s had some sort of cold,” I said. “He hasn’t been able to shake it.”

“I think you should come to Toronto if you can. Just for a few days. John could use a little help, although you’d never hear him say that. You raised a stubborn son, Mrs. Sparks. Marty and I can’t get to him as often as we’d like.”

“Marty is your husband?”

She paused. “No. He’s John’s friend. I don’t think you’ve met him. Anyway, the two of us have been checking in on him. He’s lost some weight on account of being sick. Not too much. But some. If you stayed with him, you could fatten him up. Home cooking and all that.”

“Yes, I’ll come,” I told Angela. Why did I have to hear this news from someone else? Why couldn’t John have told me himself? I informed Charlie that John had taken ill and I’d be on the train to Toronto the next morning.

“I’ll stay until he’s on the mend. Maybe a week. There’s a lasagna in the deep-freeze and some stew. Don’t touch the squares. They’re for the bake sale. And I’ll know if you take one and try rearranging.”

“I should come,” Charlie said. His brow was lined. The overhead kitchen light accentuated a head of hair that had gone half grey. When had that happened? “I’ll take some holiday time.”

“One of us is all that tiny apartment can handle. I’ll call you every day. He’ll be fine, Charlie. Really.”

I said whatever needed to be said. There was no point getting Charlie all worked up. But once the train reached the outskirts of Toronto and began to slow down, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread inside me. Although I would not,
could not
consider the possibility of the illness I’d read about, I felt the word’s proximity, its cold shadow. I closed my eyes and vowed I wouldn’t allow anything to harm him.

The train pulled into the station shortly after noon and I hopped in the first cab I found. Everything seemed so chaotic. The cars, the people on the streets. What was it about this city that had drawn John to it? We came to a red light close to John’s apartment and I saw two men standing in front of a bank. One had his hand in the other one’s back pocket. He caught me looking and waved, his fingers tinkling in the air like piano keys. I turned away.