Another selection from Seths Search for Place John comes downstairs. Dads in bed. I nod. Hes not used to tranquilizers. He should sleep right through ‘til morning. I empty an ashtray into the stove. The fires low. I add a couple of pieces of slabwood. Dry. Ironic. Moms dead and theres dry wood. I light a cigarette. Time for some tranquilizer of our own. He sets a bottle of black rum on the table. Goes to the pantry for glasses. Elizabeth gets up. Goes to the pantry. Words. She goes upstairs. John brings two water glasses. You and Ill have to carry the banner tonight. You do drink rum, I hope. I dislike the aftertaste. It constricts my throat till I feel like vomiting. Choice? I ask. Of mix. Coke or ginger ale. Coke, I guess. Cheers, he says. Or whatever should be said on an occasion like this. He sits in Dans rocker. Down the hatch, I suppose. Im surprised. It shows. Forget that, he says. Poor taste. He swallows half his drink. I sit in Mannys rocker. Try to follow Johns example, but the drink is sticky. I manage a quarter. Silence. Weve never done this before. I offer him a cigarette. He shakes his head. I dont have any vices. He laughs. Though not everyone would agree. He raises his eyebrows. Drinks. How are Amy and the kids? Fine, I answer. The kids are excited about Christmas--naturally--and Amys been busy. Its a big time for kids. I nod. But now? Theyd cried a lot. As I had. Feel like doing. I drink half the remaining rum. Are you going to take them to the funeral? No. He nods. We wondered. But... Funerals arent for kids. Impressions are too strong. Better to let them remember Mom alive. He tilts the glass. Empties it. Pours another drink. Adds to mine. Wood shifts in the firebox. The teakettle chatters to a boil. Its a shock. You dont think people close to you will die. Every time its a shock. Whats your new school like? Backwards. He laughs. Most are. Whats peculiar about yours? It ran on fear. For years. Most people still expect it to. Fears created distrust. And hate. And more fear. Most of the staff are incompetent. And the communitys inbred. How did it get so bad? I shrug. Inflexibility, I suppose. Inability to see alternatives, perhaps. Sadism. Sounds like the school here thirty years ago. I doubt it was as bad as that. He finishes his drink. Rises. Sways. Spills rum as he pours into his own glass. Repeats with mine. His smiles gone. Dont be so sure, he says. But Long Bars different from Granite River and Deer Point. Because you grew up here? I laugh. If you mean because Im partial to Long Bar, I admit it; but I think Long Bars different. In degree only. He drinks deeply. And not likely in the direction you think. He slumps. Attempts to rock. Flat rockers resist. Thump. I consider. The glues leaving my throat. The rum is smoother. I light another cigarette. I cant imagine growing up in Granite River or Deer Point. Amys fathers an example. No, I say. Theres a difference in kind. In what way? People care for others here. You think so? Here people care for people who arent part of their family. There families fight among themselves all the time. Only time they stops to gang up on someone outside. Especially someone not born there. The electric clock groans as the minute hand labours from six to twelve. Loose glass rattles in the storm window. Tiny air cells explode in the burning wood. The kettle still chatters. John leans forward. The rockers thump. Youve heard of Louis Mouton? Just the name. Used to live in Long Bar? A few years. In his early teens. Family came here from New Brunswick. Saint John, they always said, but it turned out to be a small place farther up the river. He finishes his drink and holds out the glass. Your turn to do the honours. He grins. Pain, not humour. I comply. Spill only a little Coke. He drinks. Is silent. I wait. Light a cigarette. Drink. Wait. The clock groans. The kettles quiet. I add wood to the fire. Killed in Normandy. Louis Mouton? And he shouldnt have been there. Ive never heard him speak of the war. Its a family understanding you dont ask John about the war. I say nothing. Age alone, to say nothing of the medical reason. He holds the glass at eyelevel. Studies it. Slumps again. Bastards. Who? Who? Germans. The Canadian Armed Forces. Stupid recruiting officers. Incompetent medical officers. Cyril Wolfe! His voice is hard. The school trustees! Half the people of Long Bar! He shakes his head. Disgust? Bitterness? I wait. Smoke. Drink. Im already drunk. Objects turn slowly in my peripheral vision. The rums backing up. Ill suffer. And in the morning we take Dad to choose a cemetery plot. The storm window rattles. If theres wind in the morning, itll be cruel on the hill behind the church. And with no snow the frosts deep. Theyll have to use fire before they can dig. Look. He leans forward. His voice is tight. Sometimes we dont see things clearly at the time they happen, dont see them as they really are. Especially if it involves a personal challenge. Agreed. Youve never heard the story of Louis Mouton? I didnt know there was one. No. A bitter laugh. Its not one peopled be proud to tell. Sooner let on it never happened. He drains his glass, holds it out to be refilled. When Louis Mouton was a kid, he had undescended testicles. Not uncommon. When he was old enough, they operated, but they found what they thought were malignant growths on both testicles. So they castrated him. Christ! Youve heard how animals turn on ones of their own kind that are different? Injured, perhaps. Or sick. Or misshapen. I nod. Well, its not just animals that act that way. People do, too. His face is tight, like his voice. They were cruel to the kid. Vicious. So the family moved. The father was a machinist. He was able to get work here at the factory. No one knew them here, and its a long way from the Saint John River. They thought things would be all right. He pauses to drink. They werent? They were for awhile. But a place like this wont tolerate secrets. Or cant. Like an allergy. You may not know whats causing the irritation, but you have to scratch or sneeze till you get rid of it. I raise my eyebrows. Never mind the analogy. Its not the best. The point is that in a community as tight and inward-looking as this one secrets get revealed sooner or later. So people found out. He nods. Can you imagine being fourteen or fifteen and being ridiculed constantly? And being given crude nicknames? Always an outcast? Christ! I try to imagine having no balls. The rum burns in my throat. I feel sick. Disoriented. It got so bad that even his teacher, Cyril Wolfe--the gutless, sadistic bastard--started making comments right in the classroom. And when Louis parents complained to the trustees, it was treated as a joke. Bastards! Louis disappeared. Not even his family knew where hed gone. They went back to New Brunswick themselves. You said he was killed in Normandy. John nods slowly. He lied about his age so he could enlist. How he passed the medical is a mystery. Or considering how the war was going, maybe its not a mystery. He sighs. Anyway, he died on the beach during the landing in June of Forty-four. Just a kid. Tears. I get up to put wood into the stove, wipe at my eyes while my backs to John. With a lot to prove. I guess he proved it all right. To other people. But to himself? Who knows? My eyes wont focus. The scene slips sideways, snaps back and slides again. John sits back, slumps. He could be Dan, if Dan werent dead. The loose pane in the storm window rattles again. Not everyone gets to die in their sleep like Mom. Itll be ungodly cold on the hill behind the church. Decembers a hell of a time to die.
Posted on: Tue, 04 Feb 2014 17:11:19 +0000
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