The Carpenter (21 page)

—There’s an ambulance on the way. It may take a little time to get out here. There’ve been a couple car accidents in town with the snow … I brought your friend up and covered him. There’s nothing more I can do. I am sorry.

Lee nodded. He couldn’t stop shaking.

—I told him we should leave the job site. I wanted to go before it got dark.

—Never mind that, said Stan. This isn’t anything you can hold yourself to.

—It was my idea to leave.

—Maybe, said Stan. And there’s nothing I can say but it was an accident. My name is Stan Maitland, by the way.

—I’m Lee.

Stan nodded. Even if Lee had been paying attention, Stan gave nothing away just then.

—What were you boys doing? said Stan.

—We were working. Bud was under the house making it level. I was in the kitchen doing the carpentry.

—Carpentry, said Stan.

—Doors, windows, joining. Cabinets. It’s my trade.

—I was never much of a carpenter myself. About every time I swing a hammer it’s my thumb I hit.

—What do you do? said Lee.

—Not much of anything any more. I try to keep this place from falling down.

—How long have you lived here?

—On and off my whole life. It was my brother’s house for awhile. My dad built it. That’s almost a hundred years ago. I lived here with my wife until she passed on.

Lee lifted his tea and drank. For once he did not want a cigarette at all.

—It’s real sugary, he said.

—You’ll need the extra kick to help you get warmed up.

Stan guessed Lee was at least mildly hypothermic, as well as in shock. Cassius lay down under the table. Neither Stan nor Lee took conscious note that the piano music had quit.

—It’s a business about getting old, said Stan. You start to wonder how long anything you leave behind will last after you’re gone. Like a house, say. Probably not all that long.

—It doesn’t matter. You go when you go and nothing you leave behind matters no more.

—I suppose maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s even some comfort in that.

—Sometimes it stops mattering even before you go.

—Well, I don’t think it’s any good if a man ever gets to that point.

Lee gathered the blanket around himself. He couldn’t seem to think straight, couldn’t set his mind to the events of the last hour. He liked Bud, Bud was okay. Now Bud was gone, but how could that be? He’d never been so confused in his life.

—Here’s something I want to know, said Lee.

—Yes?

—If everything I ever done, if this is what it brought me to, is it maybe that I never had a choice in it?

—I don’t know, said Stan. Do you think so?

—No. I don’t think so. No matter how I try, I can’t see how that would be so.

After Emily finished with the piano she went out of the front room and through the hallway. The door to the kitchen was closed. She used the washroom on the ground floor and when she was in there she could hear Grandpa talking to somebody in
the kitchen. Their voices were pitched low. She couldn’t make out the words.

The washroom had a small window looking down through the trees to the little beach below the point. She was drying her hands when she noticed the barge out on the sand.

She came out of the washroom and almost went into the kitchen. Then, as she thought again of the barge, curiosity got the better of her. She got a blue afghan off the couch in the living room and wrapped it around herself and put on her shoes and slipped out the front door. She followed the path down through the trees. The snowfall was slowing down and the twilight was strange. The dark water against the beach was calm but out past the point she could see the whitecaps. In the grey sand was a confusing mix of tracks. Something looked to have been dragged. She went and looked in the barge. She looked at the water in the bottom. She saw how the toppled-over cement mixer had been moved aside. Snow collected on her hair and eyelashes.

—I remember you, said Stan.

—Do you.

—Yes. In truth I do. I was a cop for many years.

Lee didn’t say anything. Stan had given him a leftover grilled-cheese sandwich to eat and he’d managed a few bites of it.

—I’d heard that you’d come back, said Stan. I don’t know if you remember or not, but I was the man who drove you down to the provincial jail. You weren’t all that old—

—I was twenty-two.

—Yes. Well. I was old then but you weren’t. I thought about that at the time.

—I was old enough.

—How long has it been?

—You mean how long did I do? Seventeen years.

—It’s a long time, said Stan.

—The Crown wanted to hang me.

They were quiet for a full minute. Stan at the table, Lee as close to the woodstove as he could get. Just then the mud-room door opened and Cassius stood up. Emily came in from outside, wrapped in the afghan, with snow in her hair.

—Emily, said Stan.

—Grandpa. There’s a man down by the basement door. He’s under a tarp and he’s—I think he’s deceased, Grandpa.

She was so factual about it.
Deceased
, she’d said. She was concerned but not panicking. She looked like it was out of the range of what she could figure out. Cassius went over to her and she knelt down and embraced him.

—There was a bad accident, said Stan.

The man in the rocking chair, this man she did not recognize, who was wearing a toque and was draped in a blanket, whose posture and absurd appearance was telling her what Grandpa was not, this hard-looking man, she could see his hands shaking.

—Goddammit it, said Lee. I just can’t get warm. Not at all.

The weather cleared by late evening. Pete went in through the emergency doors of the hospital. He was hungover, still wearing the work clothes he’d slept in. The emergency room was sparsely filled. A woman was holding a towel against a cut on her forehead. She looked annoyed more than anything else. A boy with his father was coughing steadily. Pete went up to an orderly at a desk.

—Can I help you.

—I got a call from my mom.

—You got a call from your mom.

—My uncle was in some kind of a work accident. They brought him here. Leland King is his name.

—Yes, said the orderly. Wait here, please.

The orderly made a call. Pete sat down. The woman with the cut sighed loudly. Then a cop came into the emergency room and
spoke to the orderly. The orderly gestured at Pete. The cop came over and Pete stood up.

—To confirm, said the cop. This is your uncle you’re here about.

—Yes, Officer.

There was something unreadable on the cop’s face. He said: Your uncle. Leland King. He was in a work-related accident this afternoon. He’s banged up. Has mild hypothermia. They’re going to keep him here overnight.

—Jesus, said Pete. Can I see him?

—You want to see him?

—Why wouldn’t I?

The cop shrugged.

—Well, you can’t see him, said the cop. The doctor said he’s resting now. He’s okay, your uncle. But the other guy …

—The other guy. Bud?

—What a situation they got themselves into. Of course, Leland King is the one to turn out okay. Funny how that goes.

The cop was almost grinning. He turned around and went back into the interior of the hospital. Pete watched him go. Then he went over to the orderly.

—Listen, can you tell me anything?

—I can’t let out any information other than to say they just want to keep him here under observation.

—Is there a phone I can use?

—Pete?

He turned from the orderly’s booth and Emily was standing there. He tried to make sense of her.

—Emily.

—I had no idea he’s your uncle. I just heard your name from one of the constables. It happened near my grandfather’s place. Oh my God, Pete. Your uncle’s friend died.

—Jesus Christ. This keeps getting worse.

Emily laced her fingers together and looked at the floor. When she looked at him she smiled wearily, said: My grandfather took
care of most of it. I’m just tired at this point. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired. The only thing I can think about is going to bed. Is that pretty terrible?

—No. I don’t think so.

—It’s good to see you, Pete.

—You too. Under the circumstances and all. I haven’t seen you in awhile.

A white-haired man, broad-shouldered despite his age, came into the emergency room. He was carrying a wool jacket. Emily introduced Pete to Stan. Stan nodded.

—Your uncle’s going to be fine. You don’t need to worry.

—So I hear.

Stan put his arm around Emily’s shoulders. She folded against him and yawned.

—I’ll take you home, said Stan. And you, Pete? Do you need a lift anywhere?

—No, I have a car here. I was going to see my uncle but they said to come back tomorrow.

—He’ll be alright.

Stan told Emily he would be in the truck and he shook Peter’s hand again and left. Emily hung back a moment.

—I have to go, Pete.

—I know.

—It would be nice to see you again soon.

Emily went out and Pete watched her go. Then the woman with the cut on her forehead called out that at some point she was going to need some goddamn assistance. Nobody was listening.

T
he accident on Lake Kissinaw was big news for the remainder of November. There was a police investigation and then a Ministry of Labour inquest. Stan’s and Lee’s names were kept out of the paper but for a few days all you would see were pictures of Bud and his despairing widow. He was not buried. He was cremated and his ashes were spread at a campground he’d gone to every May long weekend for the last ten years.

Lee did not go to the memorial. He’d been very fond of Bud, but the thought of people, almost all of whom would be strangers, standing together, looking at him, whispering his name, knowing that it was he who’d been with Bud at the last moment, was too much to bear. He went up to the poolroom instead, and had a few drinks and shot a few games, and then went home and watched the hockey game on his TV.

By early December, six inches of snow had come to stay. Lee came into the hospital through the visitors’ entrance and went directly into a smoking area encased in glass. He nodded to an old man in a wheelchair who was smoking through a tracheotomy. Lacklustre Christmas garlands hung from the walls. Lee lit a cigarette.

Two hospital volunteers were sitting at a desk near the elevators. They were both old, a woman and a man, she with white-blue hair and he with liver spots on his bald head.

—I’m here to see Irene King, said Lee.

They peered at him. The woman painstakingly consulted a list of patients in a three-ring binder. She said: She’s in room 3B. Amiens Wing.

—I know where she’s at. I’ve been here a few times since she got here.

They gave him a visitor’s pass. He felt them watching after he’d passed by. He hadn’t been in any state of mind to pull together his observations in the short time he’d spent here following Bud’s death, but he felt a revulsion towards the hospital, he suspected because of its institutional nature.

It was in the hospital that he’d been interviewed about the accident by the police and by an investigator from the Ministry of Labour. His parole officer, Wade Larkin, had come for the interviews. It hadn’t taken long to clear Lee of any culpability but that hadn’t left him any more at ease. Clifton was in more trouble, and as his part in the investigation wore on, work had ceased.

Lee took the elevator up to the third floor. Up here were a number of other terminally ill persons. Irene shared her room with an old woman named Mrs. Petrelli, who was dying from pancreatic cancer. She did not speak English and she became talkative only when her son came to visit in the early afternoons. The remainder of the time, she watched the TV in the corner of the room, soap operas or news broadcasts. Irene reported that Mrs. Petrelli had had night terrors on two occasions, had screamed until the nurse came. Mrs. Petrelli’s son said his mother was bombed in Italy as a teenager in the Second World War. Most of her family was killed.

Irene was sitting up in bed wearing a nasal tube, her supper tray on a bed table in front of her. The meal was chicken and peas
and it reminded Lee of the meals in prison. He sat down beside her. Under the bed, just at the edge of sight, was a catheter pouch full of urine.

—Did Barry or Donna visit today? said Lee.

—Barry said he would come by.

The television chattered. Mrs. Petrelli moaned.

—You shouldn’t have to share a room, said Lee.

—It’s okay, son. Unless she has her nightmares.

—You should have your own room. Goddammit.

—Lee, now.

He held up his finger.

—Wait, Ma.

Lee went out of the room and found the duty station, where a nurse wearing a cardigan over her scrubs was bent over a clipboard. Lee leaned on the edge of the desk. The nurse asked in a flat voice if she could help him.

—I want my mother to have her own room.

—To whom are you referring, sir?

—Irene King.

—Is there a problem?

—She shares a room with a lady who doesn’t even speak English. My mother is real sick. She should be in a more comfortable way. She shouldn’t have to worry about sharing the TV with nobody or getting woke up in the night.

—I hate to say but it’s not so quick a process. Bed space is always an issue.

—Well, what can you do about that?

—I can recommend a hospice or in-home care.

—Something I’d have to pay for, in other words.

—That’s correct. But I assure you, sir, the comfort of all patients here is very important to us.

—She should have her own room.

—It would be nice if this hospital was twice the size it is, I agree.

Irene had been in the hospital since the last few days of November. Lee had gotten a call from Donna, relayed upstairs through Mr. Yoon. Later he’d heard the whole story from Pete, how Pete had come home late one night from work and found his grandmother on her knees in the bathroom. She was trying to cough quietly. There were bright spots of blood in the sink and in the toilet and on the floor.

Dr. Vijay called it hemoptysis. Some of the cancerous blood vessels had burst in her lungs. The doctor did not think it was necessarily severe, and said it would likely subside on its own. But they needed to discuss a more aggressive treatment, he said. In the meantime, she was to be kept in the hospital.

When Lee went back to the room, he saw that Barry had arrived. Barry had stopped to speak some words with Mrs. Petrelli, standing by her bed and holding one of her skinny hands.

—Si chiamano figlio mio? Egli ha sposato un ebreo.

—God bless you, said Barry, patting her hand.

—Barry, said Lee.

—Hey, Brother Lee.

They went to Irene’s bed. She was looking out the window and her breathing sounded like dirt caught in the gears of a machine. Barry was about to speak but Lee spoke first: We’re looking at getting you your own room, Ma.

—Lee, said Barry.

—That’s what we’re going to do.

—Well, said Barry.

They stayed for awhile. Barry talked about his sons, about Donna, about the Christmas outreach programs Galilee Pentecostal had organized. Meals for the infirm, a gift drive for the empty-handed. Lee sat with his face planted on his fist. He watched how Barry was solicitous in the telling. He badly wanted a cigarette.

—It makes me proud, said Barry.

Irene and Barry were both looking at him.

—Say what?

—I was saying it makes me proud, Lee. How you’ve been keeping your faith since the tragedy. You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.

—You done well, son, said Irene.

—I think maybe it’s time for a prayer, said Barry. He turned to Mrs. Petrelli and asked would she join them in prayer.

—Chiamare l’infermiera. Io sono affamati.

Barry took Mrs. Petrelli’s hand and he took Irene’s hand and he held them. Irene reached her other hand out to Lee and he took it in both of his own. Irene squeezed her eyes shut. Mrs. Petrelli gaped. Barry lowered his head.

—The burdens that are put on us, there’s nothing that’s not intended to strengthen us in Your service.

—Dear Jesus, said Irene.

—The body gets weak but the soul gets stronger.

There were tears collecting at the sides of Irene’s shuttered eyes. She whispered: Oh dear Jesus.

Lee watched his mother, wondering what these words were doing for her. He thought about the Bible, he thought about some of the verses he’d learned, or at least some of what he’d heard chaplains saying—hope in hard times, deliverance in the face of death. They spoke of God as the high tower, God as shelter from the wicked, God as the shield, God as the sword, God as the one who would escort you up from your earthly pain to heaven, where you would be pain-free for the rest of eternity. All you had to do was have faith. But faith in what? In these words? Was his mother squeezing her eyes shut from the words alone? Because all Lee could hear were the words, and they’d never sounded so hollow.

—Amen, said Barry.

—Egli ha sposato un ebreo, said Mrs. Petrelli.

Ten minutes later Lee stood to go. He kissed his mother’s
forehead and smoothed back what remained of her hair. He went out and looked at the duty station, but the nurse was gone. Barry caught up with him at the elevator.

—Brother Lee, thank you for coming. It means so much to her.

—It would mean more if we got her into her own room.

—Honestly, I was a little surprised when I heard you say it. I thought we agreed on the arrangements.

—I agreed till I saw the room lately.

—Bed space is a major issue here, Lee.

—Don’t worry about that, Barry. I’ll find something to take care of it.

Barry clasped his hands together and smiled tightly: Can we agree it’s something to discuss with Donna?

—We can agree.

—Good. Are we still seeing you for supper next Thursday?

—I’ll be there. I’ll introduce you to my lady friend.

—We’ll be happy to meet her, said Barry.

—I’ll see you soon.

—Lee, there’s one other thing.

—What’s that?

Barry pushed a pamphlet towards him.

—It’s something to think about. Everybody is here to help, Brother Lee.

Barry went back to Irene’s room and Lee got into the elevator. The pamphlet showed a drawing of a figure contemplating a bottle. It advertised Alcoholics Anonymous. The meeting was held weekly at the Charles Grady Memorial Community Centre. Lee wondered if Barry had even noticed that part. Probably not. He managed a thin chuckle.

He carried the pamphlet with him into the smoking section in the cafeteria. He had a smoke among the ill and the dying, the relatives, the attendants. He put the pamphlet on the table and took his leave.

As he went outside, he thought of the call that faith was supposed
to be, the call in your heart. He’d thought he’d heard it once or twice, perhaps, but now, everything that had gone before was doubtful. Everything, it seemed, was just words.

T
he sun was going down, making long shadows of the gas pumps. Duane was finishing with a customer and Pete was in the store. He kept looking at the clock on the wall.

—You seem like you’re in a hurry tonight, said Caroline. Big date?

Pete shifted his feet.

Caroline nodded: If it’s a date, you’ll have to tell us about it. Go take Duane a hot chocolate. Yes, you can have one too.

Pete went to the coffee stand and mixed powdered hot chocolate and hot water into two Styrofoam cups. He sealed the cups with plastic lids and went outside. The air smelled of cold concrete. He gave one of the hot chocolates to Duane. Duane spat a wad of chewing tobacco into an empty pop can.

—Thanks, said Duane. Feel like working, you dog-fucker?

—Not really, said Pete.

—I thought not. Hey, you know this guy?

Duane was pointing. A Camaro was parked across the lot. Billy was coming towards them at a brisk pace.

—What’s up? called Billy.

Pete crossed the distance to meet Billy halfway.

—What’s up? said Billy.

—I don’t know. What’s up?

—You tell me, you fucking traitor.

Pete did not reply. The heat through the Styrofoam cup was creeping into his fingers. Billy’s face was pale and etched.

—Where are you going tonight, Peter?

—I guess you know already.

—You fucking traitor.

Billy’s voice was gaining an edge. He was so angry that tears had formed in his eyes. He knocked the hot chocolate out of Pete’s hand. It hit the ground and the lid burst off. The hot chocolate steamed on the dark pavement.

—Say something, Peter.

—I don’t know what to say. It just … doesn’t have anything to do with you.

Billy pulled his fist back but then Duane swept between them, barrelled up against Billy, pushed him away. Billy kept calling Pete a fucking traitor. Pete happened to glance over at the store. Caroline was watching from the window. Duane walked Billy backwards, speaking to him all the while. There was no real fight in Billy anyway. There was only hurt etched on his face.

—You’re a fucking traitor, Peter.

A few feet farther on, Duane released Billy. Billy pushed Duane away and shook his shoulders. He pointed at Pete and said they were done. Then he slouched away in the direction of his car. Pete and Duane looked back at the gas pumps but no customers had come in the meantime.

—You okay? said Duane.

—I’m fine.

Pete bent down and numbly retrieved the Styrofoam cup. They walked back and Pete dropped the cup in a garbage can. His hands were shaking and the image of Billy’s hurt face seemed to have been burned into his mind. If there’d been anything to do or say before, the opportunity was lost now.

By this time Caroline had come outside. She came right up in front of Pete, not standing as tall as his chest.

—You, mister, keep your personal shit away from here. I’m trying to run a business. Understand?

—I’m sorry, said Pete.

She went wordlessly back to the store.

Duane leaned against one of the pumps. He looked amused. He said: A girl between buddies, I’m guessing.

—Everything changed when I met her. I just wish he could have seen that at the time.

Pete drove into town. He was stiff inside a brown tuxedo and dress shirt he’d rented. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he swung past Lee’s place first. For advice of some kind, perhaps? There was also a desire just to see the man, given the accident he’d survived a few weeks previous. But at Lee’s place, the windows were dark. That seemed to be the case lately. Maybe he was on one of his long, town-wide walks, hunched into his coat, smoking a cigarette. Pete drove on.

The address Emily had given him was the house of her friend Samantha, who lived on Harding Crescent, up near the golf course. It was a nice part of town. Snow lay on lawns and rooftops and the tops of hedges. There was light in the windows of Samantha’s house. Pete parked behind another car. A corsage of small roses he’d purchased sat in a box on the passenger seat. He took it and got out of the car and crossed over to the porch.

Samantha opened the door. He had a vague memory of her from the party at Nancy’s house in the fall—she’d spent the night conspiring in the kitchen. Samantha was wearing a purple formal gown and was heavily made up. She nodded, and she called out to Emily that Pete had arrived, but Emily had already appeared in the hallway.