The Sky Is Falling (23 page)

“Joey, Dad told me he called you at school. I'm annoyed at him for going behind my back.”

“Oh, he does it all the time,” said the son we raised to be honest. “Just little things! So who made the bomb?”

I sat on the end of the bed, leaning against the wall, cringing. “We were
peace
activists. We dressed up in radiation suits and handed out leaflets.”

I thought this would sound pathetic enough to douse his interest, but instead he asked, “For real? Where?”

“The Hyatt Regency.”

“No way. Where did you get the suits?”

“They were paper coveralls like painters use. With radiation symbols drawn on the back.” I guess he pictured me in this get-up with my trusted slippers on because he smiled. “Pretty hokey,” I conceded. “Anyway, like I said, it was harmless.”

“But you just mope around all day and read! You hardly even leave the house!”

“I do too!” I said. “How do you think all that food gets in the fridge?”

He filtered more hot milk through the smirk. “That's just so cool, Mom. It's so cool I'm having trouble believing you.”

“I can see that. And I do work, by the way. I have a contract right now.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me about this stuff? I wish you had!”

He didn't understand. How to explain the terror? “Remember
9
/
11
? Remember how scared you were? That's what we felt like all the time. There were so many missiles pointed at us. The last thing we wanted was that somebody would get hurt. But people did.”

“Just that one guy.”

I didn't correct him. I didn't tell him about Pascal. I said, “One is too many.”

“So where did the bomb come from?”

We could be up all night. He had school tomorrow if it wasn't too tedious, so, mustering some parental sternness, I relieved him of his empty mug. “It's almost three. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“You won't,” he said. “You'll change the subject.”

“I promise.” My stomach churned as I said it, but Joe Jr. lay down. As a joke, I tucked him in and kissed him above his piercings. And he actually let me do these things.

That was last night. Now I found out my cleaning lady was caught up in the current “terrorist” frenzy. (“Communist” used to be the catch-all label.) “They should shoot them,” Maria said, gesturing at the paper. “They are animals.”

I bristled. “Maria, this man was falsely accused. No one denies it any more. He suffered terrible treatment. He was tortured.”

The coffee maker made a loud, intestinal sound. I might have taken that as a warning, but I didn't. I decided to make a case for due process with my cleaning lady. I explained that even though al-Qaeda disdains due process, Western democracies have to take the high road. “They can't start playing dirty and kidnapping and torturing people, or holding them without charges for years. Then we're no better.” And while she polished the stove and put it back together like a puzzle, I said, “I'm not condoning what real terrorists do, or saying that people who have been properly tried and convicted shouldn't be punished. But dissent is what strengthens democracy, not suppression. And while we're at it, we might listen to some of their complaints. They honestly believe that Western society is evil. I mean,
I
honestly believe some aspects of Western society are evil. I believe, for example, that excess materialism is evil. That plastic bags are evil. I heard on the radio the other day that samples taken from remote beaches in the Orkneys and Outer Hebrides—do you know where they are? These tiny islands in northern Scotland where there are practically no people?”

She set my coffee down on the newspaper.

“The samples were heavily,
very
heavily, contaminated with plastic molecules.”

Standing there with her hands on her hips—yet another overbearing Slav in my life. How? I wondered. How had she got herself hired? And how had I got on to plastic bags? And what about the missiles, for that matter? The Berlin Wall came down, the Soviet Union collapsed, and almost overnight the arms race ended, making the entire anti-nuclear movement obsolete. A succession of causes rushed in to fill the void. Land mines. Globalization. War in the Middle East. Climate change. The sky keeps falling. But what happened to the missiles? No one mentions them.

No. What has really been bothering me, what has been eating me for twenty years, is that Sonia was no terrorist.

“Do you realize, Maria,” I said, deciding to drop both the bags and the missiles and focus on the real point, that the innocent, sadly, are expendable, “like this man”—I moved the coffee cup to point at his photograph. It left a damp ring behind like we were seeing him through a marksman's sights—“many, if not most, of those people they're holding without charge over there in Cuba? They've done nothing wrong.”

As I waited for her reply, I remembered how tragically she lost her first husband, in one version to crazed pigs, in the other when he fell into the meat-grinding machine. Yet she could still smile! Such fortitude! What an example she was! Her rosy face fairly crinkled with mirth as she told me, “Chop their heads off. That would be better. That's what they do to us. I get you sugar.”

1984

At first I didn't realize he was still with us. The morning after the party he helped us clean up, literally running the vacuum up and down the hall. He asked to use the shower, then hung around the rest of the morning waiting for his sleeping bag to dry out. I saw him roll and stuff it into the duffle bag and assumed, when he walked away, it was for good.

Most of the following week there was no sign of him when I got home, only Pete strung along the chesterfield, cheering on the Road Runner with the peanut butter jar balanced on his chest. But on Thursday I came home early because something upsetting had happened in Kopanyev's class. Pascal's book was lying on the kitchen table with a felt-tipped marker tucked in its pages. I opened it, saw our address and phone number on the inside cover. The rest of it was drawings.

In the beginning they were all of the same two people, a man and woman, each captured in an ordinary act—shovelling snow, cooking, reading the newspaper. There was a sketch of a ranch-style house I assumed the sketch couple lived in, then a self-portrait in a bathroom mirror. A Greyhound bus. The driver. Dozing passengers. Scenes out a window. I turned the page. Sonia! In a few lines he'd managed to capture her worried, soulful essence. There was a drawing of Carla braiding Belinda's hair. Of Dieter gesticulating. I hadn't noticed Pascal creeping around the party, executing us in ink.

Next (assuming he filled the book chronologically), he'd drawn scenes down at the beach: the view across to the mountains, an empty lifeguard chair, a huddle of old Vietnamese men fishing off the dock. The rest of the book was blank. He must have left it behind the morning after the party. Someone had found it and set it out. Or so I thought.

But that night it poured. When Sonia got up to practise with the stove, I woke too and hurried downstairs to stop her. I found her in the living room, cross-legged on the floor with something white cradled in her lap. I had to look twice.

A boot.

“Shhh,” she said.

He was asleep on the chesterfield, palms together, cheek resting on the back of his hand. “He looks so peaceful,” she said.

“There's a chore sheet on the fridge.” Dieter pointed to it. “Sign up for something.”

“Okay. Now?”

“Sure.”

Pascal abandoned his toast, all the pieces making a crooked tower on the plate.

“Another thing. We take turns cooking. Sonia told you about the kitty, right?”

“There's a kitty?” He looked from the chore sheet to the floor around his feet.

“Here.” Dieter flipped open the cupboard where our scant treasure dwindled in the bottom of the lidless Mason jar. “Every Sunday we each put in twenty dollars. What else?”

Upstairs, the music shut off and I instinctively braced for the seismic event of Pete stomping down. “Tell him about the compost,” I said.

“There's a compost.”

“What's a compost?”

Dieter was gobsmacked. “
What's a compost?
” Then Pete blew into the room and over to the fridge. “Another thing,” Dieter went on. “On Sunday night? Our affinity group meets here. Are you going to be here on Sunday night?”

“I'm not sure. Can I stay till Sunday?”

“If you want, but you should make yourself scarce around five.”

Pete fed himself a handful of granola, chasing it with milk from my carton. “Why?” he asked. “Maybe he'd like to join the group.”

Dieter looked at his watch. “We should get going.”

“If you weren't so busy keeping people
out
of the movement.”

Pascal: “Can I use the phone to make a long distance call? I'll pay for it.”

Pete said, “I wouldn't. The phone is tapped,” and Pascal goggled.

When I'd first heard about it last fall, I'd dismissed the phone tap as just another conspiracy theory (there were plenty of those; rumours of RCMP spies abounded). Now that the trial of the Squamish Five was in the news, I learned that the RCMP
had
been tapping that group's phone. That was how they knew who had bombed the pornographic video stores, how they found out about the cache of stolen dynamite in the mountains. Except, Pete's outburst at the Hyatt notwithstanding, we were nonviolent. On the other hand, we'd already started planning for a much more daring action, one that might, conceivably, give us trouble with our phone.

“Who needs a ride? Zed?” Pete asked.

I declined. I was skipping Russian.

After Pete got a street named after Kropotkin, I wanted a Chekhov Street, too, but by the time I'd formulated my case for his inclusion, we'd run out of streets. Rather than waste my thoughts, I used them for my second term paper in Russian Lit. Chekhov was a writer of his time. He wrote about a particular place (Russia) at a particular point in history (the end of the nineteenth century and a handful of years into the twentieth). So many of his stories feature sympathetic characters whose ideas would seem radical even today, like Misail in “My Life—A Provincial's Story,” or Liza in “A Case History,” or Nadya in “The Fiancée” who flees her bourgeois family and her cliché of a fiancé and escapes to St. Petersburg because her eyes have been opened and she wants to live. The miracle of literature is that the more particular the story, the more universal. I felt that those stories, set in that intensely political time, spoke for our time too, and I wrote more passionately about them than I had on any other topic, not so much because I had anything at stake in seeing Chekhov as a radical, but because after giving up on
Anna Karenina
I was eager to argue. I sensed only vaguely that this was so I wouldn't have to have a different, more painful argument with myself: should I, or should I not, tell Sonia how I felt?

Papers were due the last day of the semester, but I finished ahead of the deadline and read mine to Sonia through the grate. She thought it was wonderful and insisted I let Pete and Dieter read it too. Dieter praised my writing. He said I had a way with words. Pete said, “Fuck, Zed. We should have named a street after him.”

When I slid the paper across the table to Professor Kopanyev after class, he scooped it up and pressed it to his tweeded chest.

“I wrote about Chekhov again. I hope that's all right.”

“Of course, of course! He's greatest writer who ever lived.” He made a show of flourishing the loose-leaf pages and reading the title from arm's length, “Chekhov the Radical.” Oddly, his face seemed to collapse. He stood abruptly and started stacking his folders, placing my paper on top. Men are always occupying themselves with their facial hair in Russian novels—gathering it in their hands and sniffing it. Kopanyev looked like he was trying to rip his off his face.

The following week he turned up tardy as ever, twinkling as usual, books and folders in his arms. He leaned forward and dropped it all in a heap on the table. The books were part of a set, both with unillustrated manilla covers, and those of us who were also taking Russian leaned forward to read the Cyrillic titles—two volumes of Chekhov's letters. When Kopanyev finished tidying the mess, he announced that he himself had brought in a subject for discussion. “With apologies to Keith, who I'm sure was amply prepared and very much looking forward to guiding us through our conversation today.”

Halfway through the year, to everyone's surprise, Keith, the punk, had blurted that his name was actually
Teeth
. Too late. Kopanyev never remembered. Now Teeth's tactic was not even to reply to Keith.

Kopanyev took up one of the twin volumes, torn bits of paper stuck in its pages. “Excuse me,” he said, opening it. “I'm translating off top of my head. It's from letter to poet Pleshcheyev from Anton Chekhov written in—” He set the book down and frisked himself until he came up with a glasses case. “
1888
,” he read, once the glasses were installed. “
Those I am afraid of
, he writes,
are ones who look for tendencies between lines and want to put
me down definitely as liberal or conservative. I am not liberal or conservative,
not evolutionist, nor monk, nor careless about
—Excuse me.
Indifferent to
.
Indifferent to world. I would like to be free artist—
and that is all
. Those are Chekhov's own words. What do you say?”