Tell (23 page)

E
VERYONE WOULD BE AT
N
AYLOR’S
. P
EOPLE HE
knew, people he was close to. Dermot and Agnes, Tress wearing her fancy new watch, friends and relatives from town and outlying farms. Maybe Oak would be there, too. It wouldn’t be the first time Oak changed from overalls to proper trousers to go to the theatre; he loved the moving pictures and could be found at Naylor’s on many a Saturday afternoon. Mags, in her green velvet dress, would be singing for a large audience, a big night for her. But Am would not be there to listen. He hadn’t told her; he’d made the decision after she left. She’d said goodbye more than an hour ago, leaving early to warm up with the other singers. She’d left his ticket on the kitchen table, third row centre, where he liked to sit for any performance.

He didn’t feel well enough to go. He had taken a pink pill, and that was helping. Maybe the pain really was in his mind. Maybe Dr. Clark had been right when he’d told Am he was as
strong as a bull. Later, after the concert, after Mags returned, Am would tell her he’d been suffering from something, but he didn’t know what. If she cared to know. As if she didn’t already know. Maybe he would confront her. What he couldn’t do was sit in an audience and watch her onstage with the music director—the two of them performing together.

He wasn’t going to think about that now. He climbed up to the tower and pulled the flask of whisky out from behind the beam. There was plenty left; he and Kenan would finish it off. He knew Kenan would be outside once the streets were clear of theatre-goers. He would watch for the boy’s inimitable stride, even through the fog. He would intercept.

Am poured his first drink, gulped it back and kept a steady watch through the clock. By the time he spotted Kenan, he had two drinks under his belt. He went down to the street without a coat and called out. Kenan was surprised to see Am at home and came up the ladder behind him, hoisting himself with his good arm. Both men knew there would be a hubbub later, the street filled with revellers. Neither wanted to be part of the din. Am wanted more to drink, and now he had company. He was cheered by the younger man’s presence.

He poured a whisky for Kenan and another for himself. The two clinked glasses and swallowed it back. Am hadn’t asked his brother where he’d obtained the whisky. He didn’t care if it came from a blind pig or from a speakeasy farther along the shores of Lake Ontario. Dermot was now calling himself a wine merchant in an attempt to get around the authorities. No matter what the changes in the laws were, Dermot found a way around them.

Am drank a fourth and Kenan a second glass of whisky. When that was gone, Am urged his nephew to split the rest with him. Am’s pain had completely disappeared.

He peered out between the numerals of the clock. The winter fog was taking serious hold of Main Street. Most people would be inside the theatre, where he should be. Where Mags believed he’d be.

Kenan had removed his jacket and was sitting comfortably on a crossbeam. He looked over at Am, who hunched back down on the stool in front of the south-facing clock.

“When you learn that someone is lying to you,” said Am, staring at the floor, “you start to lose your bearings. That’s what’s happening under my own roof. This roof. Mags and I were devastated by what happened to our family, and we made the mistake of living with the sorrow pushed under like a deadhead, a hidden threat under water. We did that instead of dragging it up into view so we could talk about it, try to make ourselves better.”

A long silence followed and neither man spoke.

“We might have been afraid of what would happen if we did talk,” Am finally went on. “There was plenty of anger, too. I was angry that there was nothing anyone could do to stop those two utterly useless deaths. There was nothing
I
could do.”

How many layers of anger? he wondered. How many layers had he erected between himself and his own feelings during the intervening years? Now Mags wanted a different kind of life, that was clear. Well, he didn’t like the way things were either, but he didn’t know how to get to a different kind of life.

“There must be things that can’t be fixed, things that have to be smoothed over,” said Kenan. “Between every man and
his wife.” He drank the last of his whisky. He wasn’t sure of his ground here. He was thinking of his own marriage and what needed fixing. He was thinking that things were somewhat better around his place right now.

Am thought they’d sat there long enough, so he walked over to the opening in the floor, certain that the tower was swaying. He gripped an overhead beam until the tower stopped moving, and he stepped onto the top rung of the ladder. He felt Kenan’s hand on his arm, steadying. He descended without a word and missed the bottom rung, but corrected his balance in time. Even so, his foot hit the floor with a thump. Kenan was right behind. They left the hatch open above. Am backed into the cupboard of sand that hid the pendulum cables, and banged his right shoulder hard against its door. He and Kenan laughed as if something hilarious had just happened. They laughed even harder when they put on their boots. But Am sobered suddenly as he remembered that he had a duty to perform. It was New Year’s Eve; the bell was supposed to be connected to the workings of the clock so that it could ring in the new year at the stroke of twelve. Back up to the tower they went, leaving their boots on as they climbed. Am fiddled with shaft and gears and connections. The clapper was set to strike the giant bell in the centre of the tower. His familiarity with the mechanism allowed him some clarity, and when he was satisfied, or at least half satisfied, he went back down the ladder. He took the side stairs from the apartment down to the street, glad to have Kenan with him.

The hell with Mags, he thought. The hell with the concert.

The hell with the music director. Who did he think he was?

The hell with Calhoun, the editor of the
Post
, who had
tried to make life difficult—and public—because of a little snow scattered around the rink.

The hell with New Year’s Eve.

He started laughing again, and now he let Kenan take the lead, thinking the younger man would head toward the rink or the skaters’ shack or maybe the widow’s barn. But Kenan surprised him. He took to the centre of the road and walked into the night and the fog, toward the opposite end of town. Because it was New Year’s Eve, the rink had to be avoided. There would be skaters and revellers out there until after midnight. The skaters’ shack would be kept open; the fire would stay lit in the stove. A faint glow from a light on the pole at one end of the rink, a dim glow like an aura, signalled inside the fog as the two men turned away.

Am wondered if Kenan was becoming used to the idea of being outside, with people moving around. Or the
risk
of people moving around. There was still no one in sight along the road. He didn’t know if Kenan spoke to anyone when he went out on his night walks. That wasn’t the kind of thing Kenan talked about in the tower, or in the back veranda of his house when Am was visiting.

The air was damp, and Am didn’t speak any of these thoughts aloud. He figured that if he did, he would start laughing again. Laughing at nothing. What did he have to laugh about? He rubbed at his shoulder where he’d bumped into the pendulum cupboard. He was beginning to be more concerned about paying attention to his feet, because each step was now demanding his attention. The distance between the soles of his boots and the surface of the road was not measuring up the
way it should. With some steps, his feet came down heavily; with others, the road rose up to meet them. He needed to stay upright, didn’t want to end up with a broken leg because of hidden ice on the road.

As usual, Kenan had his hood pulled up, his face partly covered. It didn’t bother Am to look at Kenan’s face; he was used to him. The scars had never bothered him anyway, once he’d paid his first visit. This was Kenan, who had grown up in the town and gone off to war. The same boy he always was, as far as Am was concerned. Even if Kenan himself was aware of having changed. Suffered. Yes, that was the word. The boy had suffered, and the memories of the war had not let go of his mind.

They passed the hotel and Am peered through the windows, wondering who was looking after the place. If Dermot and Agnes were at Naylor’s listening to Mags sing, then their oldest son, Bernard, must be in charge. Bernard pretty well managed most things at the hotel now, which gave Dermot a break to spend his time whatever way he wanted. Crowing about his automobile, for one.

He thought of the concert, which would soon be over. No one expected Kenan to sit in the middle of a crowded theatre, but Am would be missed. Everyone in town would expect him to be there to hear Mags sing. Didn’t matter. It was too late now.

Kenan was walking past the corner of Main and Mill and he continued in a westerly direction. The night was darker, the fog thicker, once they left the lights of town behind. Am’s feet were becoming less and less reliable, but he was doing his best to keep up. The boy walked with such uncanny confidence, he could probably see with his good eye closed. Am wondered how many
shots of whisky they had downed in the tower, but the thought vanished before he could calculate the answer. His arms and legs felt as if they were flailing now, and he told Kenan they’d better head back. He
thought
he told Kenan; he wasn’t sure he’d spoken the words aloud. He must have, because Kenan did a brisk about-turn, as if he were in uniform again. Am stumbled to try to keep up.

They had retraced their steps and were passing Dermot’s hotel for the second time when Am weaved in front of Kenan and led him around to the drive sheds behind house and hotel. Dermot loved his horses, but he also loved his Dodge Brothers Touring Car. He was as proud of his auto as he was of any of his mares.

The car was where it always was, under a wooden overhang specially erected to protect it from wind and blowing snow.

Am walked to the car and threw back the big tarp that had been spread over the top. He put his hands on the door and pulled it open and squeezed himself in behind the wheel, holding himself sideways and upright as long as he could before he collapsed, laughing, down onto the seat. There was so little room, the only way he could get himself in was by bending double. He decided that he’d drive the damned car up and down the street to celebrate the new year. And why not? The year coming in couldn’t be any worse than the one on the way out. His brother wouldn’t be happy, but he’d get over it. If he didn’t want anyone to steal his car, why didn’t he secure it better? From the tower, Am had seen Dermot drive it up the street only the day before. In any case, Dermot and Agnes were at the concert and wouldn’t know. Am would steer it back under the
overhang and cover it over before Dermot had a chance to leave the theatre. Am had no idea how much time had elapsed since he and Kenan had finished off the whisky. The clock faces on the tower couldn’t be seen through the fog, not from this far. Otherwise, he’d have glanced up to check.

“Do you know how to start this thing?” Kenan was standing directly in front of the car, staring at him through the fog with his one eye. He had pushed the hood of his jacket back and his head was bare. He was grinning.

“Of course I do. Do you?”

“I can turn the crank with one hand. Do you have the key?”

“Of course I have the key. Damned fool leaves it right here for anyone to grab.”

Kenan was in a half-crouch in front of the Dodge. He was muttering and laughing to himself. He peered up at Am, who was flicking switches, pushing and pulling at knobs. Kenan turned the crank: up, back to the side, up and back. It seemed to take forever, but the car suddenly sputtered and Am gave a shout. Kenan raced around to the passenger side and yanked at the door and half fell into his seat. They were laughing like crazy now, and couldn’t stop. Not while the car jerked and spluttered and jerked again, and started to move. Am barely managed to get it out from behind the hotel without bumping into the side of the building, and finally, they were out on the street.

Am turned left. Silver arrows of light exploded like fireworks before his eyes as he tried to get his bearings on the road. He felt that icicles were being hurled at him from every direction. He blinked and blinked again. He ducked. Tried to clear his vision. He bent a bit lower and peered through the bottom
part of the windshield, but he could make out no more than the frozen ruts that rose up in front of the wheels.

He stopped the car in the middle of nowhere, anywhere, though the vehicle took its time shuddering to a halt. He was aware that he was laughing like a fool again.

“Get out there and be my beacon,” he said to Kenan between gasps. “I need you to give direction. Get out there and climb up onto the hood and straddle it and pray that it holds your weight. Dermot will take after the two of us if we put so much as a scratch on this car. Use your good eye to see what it can see and point your good hand so I can follow the direction you’re pointing.”

Kenan doubled up to get out of the car, and he climbed onto the hood, his long legs dangling. His body was rocking with laughter that couldn’t be controlled. It kept rising up, hiccupping out of him. He was hearing the voice of his friend Hugh:
“I plan to come out laughing, and you will too, Kenan. Even if it’s the laughter of madmen.”

“That’s exactly what we are,” Kenan said aloud, to the fog. His drunken thoughts whirled through his brain. “We are madmen. Raising war, raising hell, trying to raise peace. Dying along the way, or surviving—to do what? To kick up our heels, to try to love our wives, to find decent work, to drink whisky in a tower and steal a man’s auto …” His thoughts gave out. He almost fell off the hood.

The two of them bumped and rattled along, splitting their sides. They could have walked as fast as the car was moving. Am steered blindly from inside. Kenan was in front of Am, but on the outside, one-eyed, pointing this way and that with his good
arm and steering the course for both. He was trying to lead the way down the middle of Main Street, but a sudden memory of planes flying freely above the trenches of grimy mired men made him stretch his arm out horizontally. His torso swayed, weaving back and forth as if he were flying.