The Second Son (4 page)

I shook my head in frustration. “You shouldn’t have put her up on that pedestal. She was so hard to reach.”

“You should be so lucky, to be loved by a woman like that.”

“I live in hope, Dad.” More wasted wit. I could see the fire going out of his eyes again. He was coming back to the present, looking around the room, as though he was contemplating the fix he was in. “Enough about her, Dad. I came to see you.”

“Well,” he sighed, “I’ve had my say. I hope you make your peace.”

“Don’t worry about me. You just try to get well.”

“There was a time, boy, I thought I would. Now I just need one last favour.”

“What’s that?”

“Get me out of here. I want to die at home, amongst my own people. Not lying here listening to some nut saying his prayers ten times a day.”

“What do you mean?” I eyed the shadow behind the curtain in the next bed, wondering if he could hear all this.

My father lowered his voice to a whisper, “That guy over there, he’s praying all the time in some strange language.”

“You sure it’s not French?” I whispered back with a grin.

“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered at me. “I need to get out of here.”

I stalled. “You think the doctors’ll let you?”

“They can take me home in an ambulance. I’ll pay for it.”

“I’ll talk to Mom.”

He gave me a strange look. “Crank me down, I’m tired.”

I looked at him more closely. His face had gone grey. Maybe it’s the light, I thought. I lowered the bed, wishing I had kept my mouth shut. “I’ve probably tired you out.”

He shook his head. “You have to forgive them.”

“It’s okay, Dad.”

“Promise me.”

Jesus Christ, I thought, by what right do you demand so much? From me, of all people? Well, I was just as stubborn. “We’ll see how things go.”

“Aww, Mike,” he sort of moaned then and closed his eyes again, exhausted by the effort to impose his will.

I sat there for another ten minutes or so, not sure if he was asleep, grateful he’d let that last subject go. I decided it was safe to try and leave. I squeezed his hand one last time and told him I was going, that I’d see him tomorrow.

“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Tell your mother. Get me outta here. Die at home.”

“You’re not going to die.”

He closed his eyes and sucked in some air, enough to insist, “Talk to your mother.”

“Okay,” I said as I left him. Ed Landry, a man for all that. I resolved to talk to my mother about letting him come home to die. And smiled just a little at the prospect.

I wasn’t out of the room when this tense little man stepped from behind the curtain and plucked at my sleeve. He was in one of those ratty hospital housecoats, with paper slippers on his feet. I also noticed a fresh set of hairplugs that probably cost more than my car. He couldn’t have been much over thirty and didn’t look very sick to me. “You are the son of Mr. Landry?” he whispered.

“Yeah.” I tried to shrug him off but he followed me out the door.

“It is important that I am speaking with you. Can you be waiting a moment, sir?” His voice was louder now, with a sense of urgency added.

I stopped a few feet down the hall, trying to be polite to a supposed sick person. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“Mrs. Landry does not speak of a second son. This is you?”

“That’s me, the backup.”

His eyes went blank. “Sir?”

“You know, in case something goes wrong with the first one.”

He flashed a confused smile. “I am not sure I am understanding. You are from far away?”

“Yeah, far away.” I was losing interest.

“You are understanding my confusion, yes? My name is Hamad Aboud. It is the most of three weeks I am here. I am understanding that your father is here for many months.” This guy’s tone was a lot more polite than his questions. That’s probably the only reason I kept listening.

“And,” I prompted him.

He paused just a second before he plunged in. “Your father is needing care, better care. He is much neglected, I am sorry to be telling you.”

That sounded more friendly. “You mean the staff are neglecting him? Someone in particular, or everyone?”

He shuffled his feet a couple of times before answering, “It is unfortunately not the staff I am meaning, Mr. Landry. In my culture, you see, the family are caring for the sick and the old. They are not letting strangers to care for the ancient ones.”

This was getting tiresome. “Your culture, eh? Do you usually take so long to get to the point, in your culture?”

He smiled, thinking I was actually interested, I suppose. “Sometimes it is said we are too much worried about politeness. This is true.”

I frowned. “That’s good to know. Nice talking to you.”

I had turned to leave but he reached out and clutched at my arm again, “But wait, Mr. Landry, I have — ”

I turned back and shook my arm free. “Just what is, Mac?”

“Mac? Oh, this is a name, yes? I am hearing this often. All these Macs. It is very interesting, yes? We have something similar.” He tried to get a smile out of me, then gave up and went back to his mission. “I must be telling you, sir. In our culture it is the duty of the wife to look after the husband. She is coming to the hospital every day, feeding him the meals and making sure he is looked after. That is the duty of — ”

“Hey,” I growled, “it’s none of your goddamn business what my mother does.”

His smile disappeared and his tone was suddenly officious. “It is not required to blaspheme, sir. In our culture we are holding most seriously these reponsibilities. This is all what I am telling you.”

“Yeah? Well, in our culture we mind our own business. What are you doing here, anyway?” I stared at the hair plugs.

He puffed himself up. “I am a Canadian citizen, and — ”

“I don’t mean that, dickhead. What are you doing in the hospital? Did your hair plugs get infected?”

With a hand to his head and his eyes widening, his words came faster. “I am having an ulcer of the stomach, sir, a very bad problem of the stomach.”

“No damn wonder. You worry too much. You need to relax and enjoy this free health care you’re getting. That’s part of our culture.”

“So too in ours. We care for our sick. I am assuring you.”

“Yeah, right. So you care for your sick, and we’ll care for ours. How’s that sound?”

He seemed oblivious to the threat in my voice. “But your family are not caring, sir. That is being the problem. Your poor father lies here alone many days and — ”

This guy should have done more research on the Landrys before he set out to reform them. I finally barked at him, “Aw, fuck off, will ya. Before I squeeze your head.”

Now I had his attention. He started to bluster and back away. “I can see you are a most ignorant fellow, sir. It is corrupted, your whole society. You will see.”

By now there was someone who looked like an orderly making his way down the hall. I guess our voices had gotten pretty loud. I laughed at the little prophet and attempted to strengthen his convictions. “Yeah, we’re all going to hell in a handbasket, you self-righteous little prick. And we’re gonna take you with us. No virgins for you, buddy.” I turned to leave then and met up with the orderly.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, blocking my way. He was a big son of a bitch, a foot taller than me, probably used to intimidating people.

I gave him the old jailhouse stare and said, “Yeah, there’s a fuckin’ problem. Keep this asshole away from my mother. Unless you want trouble.”

“Oh,” was all he could muster. He stepped aside and let me pass. Nobody wants trouble. I found that out a long time ago.

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT
when she called. “Mike, are you there?” she asked between sobs.

“Yeah, it’s me.” I figured she was phoning because I had upset her earlier that evening and she couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t liked it much when I told her the old man wanted to come home to die. I don’t know why I bothered. It was no easy task, trying to make conversation with those two. I had to listen to the whole song and dance from her and Andrew about why it was impossible to look after him at home. That’s when I decided, just for the hell of it, to pass on the observations of Hamad the Good.

Somewhere in the middle of the argument, about the time I noticed Andrew finishing off his third drink, I realized I was doing a pretty good job of expressing Hamad’s position. The look I got from Jean, rolling her eyes in the direction of Andrew’s gin glass, convinced me to reverse field and tell my mother I understood. In fact, I assured her, I had told Hamad to fuck off. So he probably wouldn’t be bothering her any more with advice on how to care for her husband. I realized how right I had been when I heard her next few words. “Your father has passed,” she said between more sobs. “The hospital just called. A few minutes ago. He’s gone.”

I was breathless. It had crossed my mind that afternoon that it might happen soon. Just not this soon. He had seemed so strong when he was arguing with me. I had a quick fleeting thought about the Drambuie, then pushed it from my mind. I heard her crying again on the line. I took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry, Mom.” I knew she’d been waiting for it for two days, the “Mom” part. Maybe it would be easier the next time.

Faint hopes easily dashed, I thought when she spoke again. “I need you to go in, to sign some papers. Before they send the body to the mortuary.”

Shit, I said to myself, that’s why she called. I protested aloud, “Why me? Nobody knows who the hell I am. Let Andrew go.”

“Now, don’t start. I’m asking you to go.”

“But — ”

She interrupted, not crying anymore, the steel back in her voice, “I want you to go. Besides, Andrew has had too much to drink. He’s not safe on the road.”

“Give him some coffee.”

“No,” she insisted, “we put him to bed an hour ago and I don’t want to wake him.”

We put him to bed? I asked myself. How much was he drinking these days, anyhow?

She took my silence for acquiescence. “So you’ll go, then, and call me when it’s over. Tell the hospital to contact Munro and Morris, here in town. The arrangements have all been made.”

I’m sure they have, I thought. “Okay,” I finally told her, “I’ll look after it. Only don’t wait up. Just go to bed and I’ll call you in the morning.”

“If you say so,” she sighed. “Goodnight, dear.”

I was shaking my head when she hung up. “If you say so,” I muttered. “That’s a good one.” The old man would be so proud of us, the dutiful son and the loving mother.

They had him in a narrow room beside the nursing station. They asked me if I wanted to see him before they finished their work. “See him?” I asked.

“We haven’t covered him yet,” the older nurse answered. “Sometimes the family likes to sit with them, one last time. He’s very peaceful now. It helps sometimes, to see them that way.”

I nodded silently and made my way into the room. He lay there with the blanket up to his chest and his arms stretched out on top, by his sides. I slid the chair closer and sat down beside him. Have you ever held a dead man’s hand? It feels the same, only cooler. I don’t have a clue why I did that. It just struck me that this was my last chance, as I sat there staring at the man I loved and hated all in the same breath. I had this vague feeling that he was still with me, hanging around, waiting to say goodbye. Maybe because he looked like he was sleeping, like he might wake up at any moment and give me shit for not taking him home.

He died alone, after all, miles from his beloved Alexandria, waiting now to be carried home in a box and buried in his native soil, behind the church he was baptized in. Would he be happy to know that? Or, I wondered, would he be bitter at being left to die among strangers? Probably not. He had his faults and his disappointments in those he cared for but he was always loyal, even to those who didn’t deserve it. Of course that was my judgment, imposing itself once again.

I knew Ed Landry wouldn’t have wanted bitter thoughts to mar his passing. He’d want to go home to Glengarry and say goodbye in style, remembering the good times and the things he loved about it. I squeezed his hand and stood to leave. I thought about that other promise he had tried to extract from me. I wondered again if he knew how much he was asking. I bent to kiss his forehead, then turned away from him, one last time. It was raining before I got back to the Shady Glen.

It was still raining two days later when we waked him. I was glad when my mother told me it would be only one afternoon and an evening. I had no idea how I was going to stand in that receiving line and shake all those hands. It was one thing to go to a relative’s wake and stand off to the side for an hour or so. This was something else. There would be people coming through that line who might want to sympathize with Andrew and my mother, but not me. I had long since given up guessing which dead-fish handshakes were normal for people and which were that sudden compulsive withdrawal when they remembered who I was. My commitment to the old man did not include humiliating myself. I resolved to play it by ear.

It looked like the McEwan clan had taken over the arrangements. They were quite the crew, Jean’s family. Danny, her brother, was a lawyer in town, and another brother, John, was a doctor in Cornwall. The others, I could never remember their names, were what they call professionals, spread out across the country. It was beyond me why they all showed up for Jean’s father-in-law’s funeral. I didn’t know they were that close. They all grew up down the road from my mother’s Aunt Gertie, just west of Lancaster. I think my mother went to high school with Jean’s mother, and chummed around with her before she got married. Maybe that was the connection.

Anyway, they put on quite the show, well dressed and well coiffed, checking people in and out, ushering them up to the receiving line. They say a wake is the celebration of a person’s life. That’s bullshit. It’s a celebration of life all right, the life the celebrants still have. As far as I’m concerned, the McEwans were all running around being goddamn glad they were still alive and prospering. It seemed to me they were enjoying themselves a little too much, especially Danny.