Ragged Company (47 page)

But rounders do. Dick surely did. So when Dick and his friends bought a home in a nice, stable neighbourhood and removed themselves from the street for good, the physical properties of their house didn’t matter a whit. Not to Dick. Not to his friends. What mattered was the idea, the one idea that Dick’s questing mind could latch on to and, ultimately, give to me.

Dick taught me that home is a truth you carry within yourself. It’s belonging, regardless. It’s the place where you never need to qualify, measure up, the place that you never have to fear losing. It’s bred in the heart and germinated by sharing, spawned by community. It’s through the solidarity of humanity, as tight and loyal and steadfast as a rounder’s code, that we all make it through together. He taught me that with his open acceptance of me. Regardless.

Dick had never had a home. Not really. Not ever. But he gave me one. When he died tragically, he bequeathed a portion of his money to me so I might reacquire the home I sold. My family home. My heritage. My history. The one place that anchors me. I sold it because I had come to believe that I didn’t need it anymore. But Dick knew differently. He knew that I needed it. He knew that I hadn’t got the idea yet. I hadn’t yet understood that home is a truth you carry within you, a place you can return to always when you stop long enough to breathe. He knew that I needed to return to my physical home in order to finally learn that lesson. So he bought it back for me.

He took care of his friends, too. He made sure they got whatever it was they needed, because what they needed was what he
wanted. He kept little for himself, because he said he didn’t need much to be happy, and I believe him. I wonder what kind of a world this would be if we all shared that sentiment. I wonder how different we all would be if we learned to see beyond what we think we know. I wonder how poor the rich would become and how wealthy the poor would be if we could do that for each other. I wonder if we can.

Double Dick Dumont could. All that ever mattered to him was being warm, being fed, and being with people. He never put a price on that. He valued it too highly. His absence has left a great hole in my world, but I am more because he was once here, because he lived. He taught me to see beyond what I think I know and, in that, he gave me the world.

His funeral will be held at the Salvation Army chapel downtown, tomorrow at 2 p.m., and donations toward projects to aid the homeless will be accepted.

I
GOT THE SAME ROOM
at the Hilton. I don’t know why. I guess I kinda wanted to feel like I was closer somehow. Closer to where the friggin’ shoe dropped. Not that I could do any fucking thing about it, but I just wanted to be close. It wasn’t spooky. It wasn’t much of anything at all except a nice hotel room with a heck of a view. I walked around a while and I touched things. Touched the table, the chairs, the TV, the remote control, and poured myself a drink from the bar. There wasn’t nothing of the man here. Just the shadow of him. I sat at the window and drank, looking out over the tops of the buildings and walking in my mind down all the streets I knew by feel from down below but felt so distanced from way up there. The street. I used to feel like I was part of it. Like having sawdust in my shoes when I was a carny, only out there it’d be more like dirt and dust and some fucker’s spat-out bubblegum. I didn’t miss it. Fuck, it was good to sleep in a comfortable bed and have the only wind you ever felt at night be the wind of a good fart in the darkness. I smiled at that. Such a friggin’ poet, I was. Dick knew that. He liked my lingo. My rap. My spiel. I watched the sun go down at that window, only moving away to top up my drink. Once darkness settled over the city, I rented some movies off the hotel system, sat back, drank, and watched movies like I figured Dick would do.
Total Recall, Pacific Heights,
and
Mr. Destiny.
That one got me.
Mr. Destiny.
This friggin’ guy’s car breaks down and he goes into a bar where this bartender’s all kinda magical and sends him back to his life. Only, the life he goes back to is
the life he woulda had if he’da made another kinda choice way back when. Fuck. It bugged me but I couldn’t stop watching.

Sure coulda used a Mr. Destiny at some points in my life. If I’da stayed with the farmer, maybe I woulda got myself some land and learned how to be a farmer myself. Maybe if I’da chose a good city job after my wheel days ended, I’da been a Square John myself by now. Fuck that. Fucking Square Johns. No, Mr. Destiny was fucked up enough to turn a guy like me into one of them heartless fucks. Square Johns always figure they’re top of the fucking roost and they can move in wherever they want and be welcome. Not in my friggin’ world. No way. Not ever. Then I thought that maybe a Mr. Destiny coulda sent me back to that evening we seen that fucking
Ironweed
and Dick walked out. Maybe a Mr. Destiny coulda sent me back to say something, to chase after him, to be a fucking winger and not leave his side. I drank a little harder after that thought.

I woke up with a king-sized hangover. The clock said 2 p.m., and when a couple of those little hotel bottles didn’t do nothing for me I headed out for the Palace to get fixed up proper. I stopped in the doorway before I left. Dick. He’d passed out here just like I did. Only he never woke up. Poor fucker. I closed the door on the hotel room and walked away.

“Hey, old timer,” Ray goes when I walk in.

“Fuck you,” I go. “I’m still young enough to go at the drop of a hat. Wanna try me?”

“No way. I got too much to live for.”

“Yeah. All this.”

“Hey, it’s a life,” he goes, and drops me a double Jack back and a beer. “Have some lunch.”

“A steak in every glass, my friend. A steak in every glass.” I drain the shot and chase it with a swallow of beer.

“You seen the paper?” he goes.

“No. I ain’t seen shit but the back of my eyeballs up until half an hour ago. Why?”

“You better read this,” he goes, and sets the paper down in front of me.

My eyes are all blurry and I can’t get a focus on the words. I rub them a bit and they clear as Ray plunks down another round. I give him a heartfelt thank you with my eyes and smooth the paper out on the bar in front of me. At first I don’t see nothing. Fucking editorial pages. Nothing for me there, I figure, and then I see Rock’s picture. Only after that do the words jump out at me.

“Teachings from the Streets” by Granite Harvey. I swallow some more hooch and start to read. When I’m done, I fold the paper up, hand it back to Ray, and walk out. Not word fucking one to anyone.

D
IGGER DIDN’T COME BACK
all that day. When he didn’t return the night before the funeral, I started to think that maybe we’d lost him too. Not to the ground, just to pride. I woke up that morning and the house was quiet, but when I walked downstairs everyone was up. James was there too, even though it was early morning. He’d brought suits for Timber and Digger and a dress, gloves, a veil, and shoes for me. He handed them to me silently and I held him close for a moment or two. A good man. A good, kind man. I wished that Digger could see that. As the morning went by and we all prepared ourselves, a few people began dropping by to pay their respects. Granite’s editor and his wife arrived about noon and stayed to make the trip downtown with us. Our realtor arrived and asked to accompany us as well, and shortly after that Sol Vance from the lottery office arrived and also our banker Harriet Peters with her husband. By one o’clock we had a houseful, and I felt awed by this show of affection for Dick from people whose lives he’d barely touched. James, typically, had arranged for cars, and as we walked slowly out to them I stopped at the sidewalk and looked at our house. It sat on its plot of land like a regal old lady and there were all sorts of tales she could tell, all sorts of stories held in the arms of her joists and timbers and stone,
tales for long winter evenings by the fire and the elastic twilight of summer on the veranda. A very regal old girl. I grinned and settled into the car.

“Problem?” Margo asked.

“No,” I said. “No problem. Just looking at her.”

“The house?”

“Yes.”

She looked right into my eyes. Studied me. “Yes. I would too,” she said, and settled in closer to me.

There was a traffic jam at the corner of the block where the chapel was and I worried briefly that we’d be late, but it cleared soon enough and we drove on through to the front. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was a line of people through the doors, down the stairs, and halfway down the block. There were rounders, street people, Mission and shelter workers I recognized, Fill ’er Up Phil, Heave-Ho Charlie, and others. But there were also strangers. Strangers dressed in elegant mourning clothes. Others in sombre suits and dresses, blue jeans, sneakers, leather jackets. Children, teenagers, elderly folk, and couples standing there staring up at the eaves of the building, as if waiting for a sign. I saw the major scurrying about near the doors, trying to accommodate everybody as best he could. When he saw me he blew out a breath and walked hurriedly to the car.

“Amelia,” he said. “I had no idea to expect this many. It’s wonderful.”

“Yes, it is wonderful,” I said. “Where did they come from?”

“The article,” he said. “They all read the article Mr. Harvey wrote in the newspaper yesterday and they’ve all come to pay their respects.”

I almost cried right there and then. Almost broke down and wept in the street, but instead I stood proudly, straight and tall, and led my friends to the chapel. As we walked, the rounders and street people stepped forward to shake hands and offer soft words. Others nodded, smiled, and looked at us in the sad way people do when words elude them. There were easily a hundred, likely more, but when we walked into the chapel itself it was
crowded. People stood everywhere. Seats were reserved for us at the front, and as we made our way there I looked for Digger, but he was nowhere to be seen. We settled in our seats and I closed my eyes and said a tiny prayer for Digger, wherever he might be, and for Dick, who lay in the open coffin at the front of the chapel. I missed them both dearly.

Then I stood, straightened my dress about me, and walked to the coffin. I heard the others fall into place behind me. It was like something in a dream. Time slowed, I could hear my breathing in my ears, each step had a slushy feel against the carpet, and the coffin was growing larger, clearer. Dick. He lay there in slumber, hands folded on his chest, a nice suit and tie with a neat little handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket. He was dapper. I touched his hands and felt the hugeness of my grief wash over me. A tear plopped down on his wrist and I smoothed it dry. Then I bent forward and placed a kiss on his cheek like I’d done a thousand times through the years and waited for the smirk and giggle that didn’t come. I looked at him and admired his peacefulness. I pushed his hair back from his forehead and then placed those fingers to my cheek, feeling him against my skin and missing him immeasurably.

I looked for Digger again when I sat down, but he was still nowhere to be seen. The major started the service and although it was touching and serene, I missed most of it. I was too busy walking the streets with Double Dick Dumont. I was too busy recalling the shards of the life I was left with, holding them, feeling them, allowing my skin its memory. Only when the song began did I resurface. Only when the band kicked into the marching tempo of the hymn did I return to my place. When the voices picked up the lyrics it was the most splendid sound I had ever heard and I turned to face all those people, to recognize them, honour them, share with them the words of this song that had meant so much to Dick. I sang through broken vocal cords, salty tears running down my face, easing across my breast where the hurt and absence, grief and sorrow, lay. I sang. Sang like I had never sung before, and saw a slow march of shadowed ones ease through the door and make the honour walk past the coffin. Lots
of them. Shadowed ones. The homeless, derelict, and forgotten.
Shall we gather at the river,
I sang,
the beautiful, the beautiful river.
I closed my eyes and saw Dick beside that river and it was glorious.

M
Y
C
HRIST
. All those people. All of them touched by words on paper. All of them bearing some degree of sorrow born of one man’s sentiment for a friend. It amazed me and I cried again as that old hymn was carried on about two hundred voices to wherever that river might be. Granite, James, Sol Vance, Fill ’er Up Phil, Heave-Ho Charlie, and I carried our friend to the hearse, and if there were a few fumes of whisky in our wake, no one said a thing. As we rolled down the street, following the hearse to the cemetery, I looked out the back window and saw a long line of cars following too. Headlights shone dimly in the mid-afternoon haze of downtown and I watched as we passed familiar landmarks, places where we’d stood, places where we’d gathered ourselves for the effort of the day or bade each other a kind goodnight during all those years when night’s privacy was our only treasure. People stopped and looked as we passed. Many waved. Many nodded, perhaps touched by Granite’s words too, and I thought about the irony of all those people seeing Dick on the street for the first time when it was his last time. I wondered where Digger was right then, and if he was okay. As we turned to make the final approach to the cemetery I looked out the back window again and saw that the line of cars stretched over three blocks. Amazing.