The Second Son (3 page)

So away he went, with the uncle, the boy, and the rest of his arm in the back seat, speeding down that crooked highway to Cornwall. The old man would later lament that this was the only time he ever got to drive that fast without worrying about the cops. And there he was, too worried about the boy to enjoy it. The cops did stop him, not far from Cornwall, saw the situation and gave him an escort the rest of the way.

Happy endings were harder to come by in those days. They didn’t even try to reattach the arm. I remembered a young man with an artificial arm coming to our house one New Year’s Day and telling the old man that he figured he had saved his life. I wondered if Ed Landry thought about that boy, now that he was lying in the same hospital he had delivered him to. I clung to that good memory — for the first fifty feet inside the building.

I hate hospitals, those anterooms to heaven or hell, whichever you deserve. They all have those broad, high hallways, wide enough for two beds to pass, with shiny enamel paint and industrial-strength fixtures and flooring, like all institutions. I always figured the only people who didn’t hate them were the ones who got to leave when their shifts were over. My Uncle Angus died in a hospital in Edmonton, of stomach cancer. I took two months off work to be with him. Toward the end it went sour. The pain got to him. Too long before he died I was wishing he would go, before I started hating him.

It’s hospital rooms I hate the most, with those huge, heavy doors wide enough for a coffin to pass, yet cramped and confining inside, overflowing with the detritus of decay and the apparatus of infirmity, visitors jammed between beds, trying not to see or smell the future that awaits us all. Down the corridors, past open doors, I fought the image of Angus MacRae, shrunken in the bed, doped up on morphine, surrounded by professional helpers full of smiles and assurances, blind it seemed to the death that stalked the halls. I’m probably going to die in one of these fucking places, I was thinking as I reached the open door of my father’s room.

“Lorna, Lorna,” I heard him calling. Then I caught a glimpse of my mother and backed up a step. I hadn’t planned on dealing with the two of them. I froze by the wall and listened for their conversation.

“Lorna,” he called again, “whilst we can, we might as well have a wee drink.” It came out clear as a bell: “whilst we can.” How out of it was he, I wondered; then smiled at the thought of the Drambuie in my pocket.

My mother sounded tired. “Do you want a drink?”

“Lorna, Lorna, Lorna.” His voice was rising, vexatious, stronger than I would have expected.

“Yes, Ed, don’t yell. I’m here. I’ll — ”

“Goddammit, woman, what’s the matter with you?” I could see why she wasn’t coming every day.

“I know, dear, I know.”

“Eight, nine feet should do,” he announced gruffly. I smiled, recalling what Andrew had said and wondering if I really wanted to go in there.

“Yes, dear,” she answered, “I’m right here.”

“Okay. Eight, nine feet should do.” What the hell did he think she was doing, digging a grave? “I gotta go,” he added, “I gotta go.”

“Okay,” she answered, obviously trying to calm him down.

“I told you. I need the goddamn toilet.”

“But Ed, you’ve just been. Not ten minutes ago.”

“Goddammit, woman, you want me to shit the bed? I gotta go, I told you.” I could hear her walking around and wondered if she was going to help him out of bed. I knew I should go in.

Then I heard her say in a low, soothing voice, “It’s hard, isn’t it, being sick? Try not to be so upset. I’ll be back soon.”

She must have broken through some veil of confusion because he sounded different when he answered, more like his normal self. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yes, I have to.”

“When are you taking me home?”

“You know I can’t do that, Ed. You have to get stronger. So try and rest, now.” There was a moment of silence, then, “I’ll see you in a day or so.”

Shit, I thought, she’ll catch me out here. I took a deep breath and turned the corner into the room.

She heard me coming and looked up, almost smiling. “Here’s your son, Ed, come to see you. I told you he’d be here today.”

“It’s Mike, Dad,” was all I could think to say as I made my way to the side of the bed and put my hand over his. His bed was propped partway up, and she had combed his hair for him. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be working hard at taking shallow, hurried breaths. It was hard to believe that this shell of a man had once made me cringe in fear. An oxygen line framed cheeks and eyes that were almost skeletal, his parched white skin stretched across the bony architecture of his face. That’s me in thirty years, I thought. The fierce dark eyes and brown skin he was once so proud of had paled to match the yellowed gray hair that blended in turn with the dingy white pillow under his head.

His bare arms lay on top of the sheet like sticks, weighed down with sagging folds of sallow skin. All that was left of his once imposing presence was the broad barrel chest that had housed his force, now rising and falling with the measured urgency of finding enough air to keep him alive. Maybe he was sensing my thoughts when he closed his right hand around mine and squeezed with enough of his old strength to make me wince. You son of a bitch, I thought, you’re still in there.

He stared up at me through rheumy, clouded eyes. “Is that you, son? Where did she put me? Who are these people?”

I looked to my mother for some signal of what he was talking about. She pulled her coat tighter and fastened another button. “Why didn’t you call? We could have taken one car.”

I shrugged. “I figured you would have said something last night. If you were coming today.”

She stared at me for a few seconds. “Yes, I see.” If she was going to say more the old man pre-empted her.

“Mike, you ask them. Why did they put me here? Ask them.”

“He gets confused about where he is,” my mother whispered as she nodded her head in the direction of the curtain around the bed across the room. “That man over there is a foreigner. He kneels down on some newspapers every few hours and chants these strange prayers. I talked to the doctors about it. It’s confusing for your — ”

“Lorna. Don’t leave me with these people. Take me home.” He sounded desperate.

She shook her head. At the futility of it all, I supposed. “You know I can’t do that, dear. You’re not strong enough.” When she got no response she finally said, “I have to go now, dear. And let you visit with your son. You two have a lot of catching up to do.”

Sure, I said to myself, I can do some catching up with the zombie. I felt the anger building at how long they’d waited to call me home.

She bent over to kiss his cheek and squeeze his hand, then started to leave. She turned back at the door. “You’ll come for supper tonight?”

“I guess so, if you want.”

She gave me a funny look. “Of course. Come for five. We eat early these days.” I suppose I was expected to know it was
en famille
.

I sat in silence for a few minutes watching the old man breathe. His eyes were closed again. It seemed hopeless, trying to have any kind of a conversation. Then I remembered the Drambuie. I worked the little bottle out of the jacket pocket I had jammed it into, and from the other pocket retrieved the glass I had taken from the motel room. I leaned closer and put a hand on his bare arm. It was ice-cold. “Dad,” I said, “would you like a little something to warm you up? An eye opener?”

I swear, he actually lifted the lid on one eye and tried to focus on me. “Uh,” he grunted, “ ’at you, Mike?”

Encouraged, I prodded some more, “Yeah, it’s me, come to see you. Do you want a drink? I brought your favourite.” When he didn’t respond, I tried another trick, repeating “
Prendre un ’tit coup, c’est agréable
” a couple of times in a singsong voice. When I saw the flicker of a smile cross his face I shook his arm a little and said, “C’mon, Dad, you can’t let a fellow leave without having a drink with him.”

I was finally rewarded when he stirred in the bed and blinked his eyes open again. “You still here, Mike? Did I hear something about a drink?”

“You sure did,” I answered as I busied myself with pouring him a shot. “C’mon, you’ll have to lift your head a bit.” I slipped an arm behind his shoulders and brought him a little higher in the bed. I was afraid if he choked to death they’d charge me with manslaughter or something. I brought the cup to his lips and he took a sip, wincing as he swallowed it down. “
A wee drap
,” he managed to get out before he relaxed his head back against the pillow. His eyes were wide open now and he seemed more alert. “Drambuie,” he said as he lifted his head again and smiled.

“You sure it’s okay? What about your heart?”

“Not dead yet,” he answered a little louder. “Crank me up and we’ll have a few.” I figured out the buttons and raised the bed some more. He drank three good shots of the stuff before he said, “ ’Nough.” Then he smiled up at me, “What about you? Aren’t you drinking?” Now I knew he was awake.

I poured myself a stiff one and threw it back. It tasted good, even in that motel glass. “So,” I said, “how’s the world been treating you?”

He grinned. “Sick
malade
, hope to die.”

I laughed out loud. How many times in his life had he said that? And now here he was in Cornwall with a bunch of strangers and it was finally true. The old man could be hard, but in his better days he would have seen the humour in that.

He stayed awake long enough for us to have a real conversation, just not the one I wanted. It started okay, with me reminding him about the night he stole Mrs. Ouimet’s lamp. I did most of the talking, recounting the old stories for him as he laughed and added the occasional confirmation, like, “We sure knew how to have fun back then, didn’t we?” He even recalled a couple himself. “I’ll never forget the time we called Jimmy McKay’s wife from Dickey’s barber shop, do you remember that one?” I did and retold it for him. He sighed and said, “Jesus, how we laughed that day. Poor Jimmy’s gone now, you know.”

We were interrupted by the nurse coming to tell him that the priest would be by later in the afternoon. I asked him after she was gone, “What’s this about a priest? I didn’t think you believed in that stuff.”

It was none of my business, really. I didn’t know but what he had started going to church since I had last been home. I guess I wasn’t that far off the mark, though. He gave me kind of a sheepish shrug and said, “Why take a chance? What if there’s something to it, after all?”

I smiled to myself. Ed Landry, a man who always worried about picking the right side. “Hope that priest is a good listener,” I kidded.

It must have gotten him thinking. He roused himself and asked me, “Have you been home yet? Have you seen them?” Had he forgotten already that my mother had just been there?

“Yeah, I was there last night.”

“Were the grandkids there?” When I nodded he went on, “Aren’t they something? They’re the future, those beautiful kids.”

I smiled. “Yeah, they’re nice kids.”

“That Brian is an ace. And Joanne, she reminds me so much of your mother.” I must have made a face. “You have to forgive them, you know. You’re only hurting yourself.”

“Do you think they really care?” I felt myself getting cold. I didn’t want to hear this shit. I told myself he was out of it, not even sure who he was talking to.

But he knew. And he wouldn’t let it go. “They know it was wrong, Mike. Andrew was just a boy, same as you.”

“And what was her excuse?”

He shook his head at my anger. “It was hard for her, too. He was her first, it’s only natural.” Maybe he wondered about that just a bit. “Have you ever told anyone?”

I gave him a slow smile. “Don’t worry. It’s still the Landrys’ secret. Every family should have its own monster, don’t you think?” My teeth were clenched but he didn’t seem to notice. All these weeks alone and he’d gone philosophic.

“That monster is still on your back, Mike. It will be until you forgive them. You forgave me, didn’t you?”

Not fair, I thought. “You didn’t know everything.”

“Not at first, maybe.”

“And you forgave me, for the store.”

“That was an accident. I knew that.”

I forced a laugh. “What about the other thing. Do you still think that was an accident, too?”

His eyes grew a little cloudier. “Of course, everybody knew that.”

“You shouldn’t tell lies, Dad. The priest is coming.”

“What do you mean?” I couldn’t tell if he was faking it.

“It doesn’t matter. She still hates me. It’s plain to see.”

That got him shaking his head again. “You’re wrong. She never hated you. She loves the both of you.”

“Bullshit!”

“Aw, Mike, don’t talk like that.” I could see I was wearing him down. He pressed on, his voice weaker. “You have to let it go. It wasn’t only her. You pushed people away, from the time you were small.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this. It’s just tiring you out.”

He wouldn’t quit. “Make up with your mother, boy. Do it for me. Before it’s too late.”

Lorna, Lorna, Lorna, I thought. Why is it always about her? “Still protecting her, eh?”

“Don’t be like that, son.” He sighed and let his head lie back, talking at the ceiling. “She was always so fragile, so afraid to get hurt. I was sure she’d say no, when I asked her to marry me. But we were both Catholic, so I thought I had a chance.”

“I guess you got lucky.”

He didn’t catch my tone. “I was always proud to have her at my side, my own bonnie lassie.”

That grinding noise in my head kept getting louder. “I think all that Drambuie is getting to you, old man. You’re starting to sound like Harry Lauder.”

“She always said it was the dancing.” He had gone somewhere else. And it irritated me even more.

“Yeah, a dancing Catholic. Who could resist? And you converted, too.”

That brought him back, his eyes on me again. “Waddaya mean?”

“Well,” I tried to soften it with a smile, “you sounded like a real Scotsman, just now.”

He growled, “
Ecoute, mon fils. Je suis né Canadien, et ils vont m’enterrer Canadien. Souviens-toi bien de ça
.” He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, probably pondering that burial part. Then he pulled himself back and looked me in the eye. “I was a good dancer, you know. You should have seen her back then. She was the belle of Glengarry, everyone said.”