The Western Light (9 page)

Hindrance on Our Moral Nature

 

Hindrance: If I were you, I wouldn't take getting rescued by the hockey killer seriously, Mouse. People are either good or bad, and John Pilkie is bad.

Me: That's not true! People are good so their fathers will love them.

Hindrance: You may as well not have a father for all the time he gives you.

Me: You think so, Hindrance?

Hindrance: A girl without a father is like a town without streetlights. She can find her way but a lot of the time, she'll be groping in the dark.

A GIRL WITHOUT A FATHER is like a town without streetlights.
I kept thinking about what Hindrance said and wondered if it was true of Morley and me. It wasn't like my father had died on me. He was home three times a day; we ate lunch and dinner together. But he wouldn't have time to rescue me from the Bug House boys. He had more serious problems than saving me from a bunch of creeps bent on humiliating whatever girl crossed their path.

Or was it that I didn't count in Morley's eyes? Don't be a nincompoop, I scolded myself. You have to take Morley's love on faith. One day, you'll spring from Morley's noggin like the Greek goddess Athena. She, too, had a strong, absent father and she rushed out of Zeus's forehead, fully armoured, ready to take on the world.

14

MY FATHER WAS ALWAYS TELLING ME TO PUT MYSELF IN THE other person's shoes. “There, but for the grace of God,” he'd say if I complained about a problem like the Bug House boys. So I submit the following with a word to the wise, because Little Louie didn't understand I had sworn to Morley that I would try to see things through the other person's eyes. Being fair involved looking at things backwards, sideways, and upsidedown, so that you got to know the other person's point of view as well (or almost as well) as your own. Sometimes being fair meant you had to read letters that weren't addressed to you. After all, how else could a girl like me understand anything?

I found Little Louie's letter to the mysterious Max Falkowski a few days after John rescued me from the Bug House boys.

June 12, 1959
.

 

Dear Max:

 

In your last letter, you asked me to tell you about Madoc's Landing, and said you'd like to come up for a visit. Please don't. It would get me in hot water with Mom, who thinks you and I are out-of-touch. And besides, I don't want to see you. I got over being mad when you found out that Charlotte had lied about being pregnant. I even felt sorry about it and admired your gentlemanly instinct to give the child a name. And I also meant it when I said I would wait while you got a divorce. But then yesterday, Willie phoned and told me that Charlotte is expecting. Two months gone, according to my brother. This is the worst news I have heard for ages! First, you let yourself get trapped into something you didn't want because you couldn't control yourself. And then you seal the deal by making sure she really is pregnant. Why are you so hapless, Max?

If it's any comfort, you've ruined my life too. Mom is always reminding me that this hick town is full of nice old Victorian homes left over from its days as a lumber capital. As if I care about old houses. I'm stuck in a backwater where all the locals care about is hockey. I doubt if anybody has read a book here in years, let alone heard of something like socialized medicine. At least my sister's house is nice enough, with fireplaces downstairs and new mattresses from Simpsons. I can feel Alice's presence in its rooms, despite the fact she has been dead for a while. And I have my crippled niece, Mary for a friend. She is a self-sufficient little character who limps around in a white cowboy hat. Her father is one of those men who gives everything to his community and neglects his family while the housekeeper, Sal, is downright unfriendly. Mom says what Mary needs is a stepmother to look out for her interests. Can you guess what Mom is thinking? Rots-a-ruck, Mom! Dr. Bradford is way too old for me.

That's all I have to say. Don't you dare come up, Max. Please stop mailing me your books and magazine articles. What we had is over. I thought you understood when I explained why I wouldn't go all the way with you. If the choice were between a hamburger and a lobster dinner, I would rather wait until I can eat lobster every night.

 

Love, Louisa

Poor Little Louie. Max's wife pretended to be pregnant so she could trick him into marrying her and now the sneaky creature really was pregnant, and there was nothing my aunt could do about it. It was too unfair for words. And how terrible to want someone you couldn't have, although the world was full of such cases, like Sal admiring Morley, and getting the bully Sib Beaudry instead, and me longing for Morley's attention when sick people needed it more. Why couldn't we get what we wanted, like my great-grandfather, Old Mac? Now that was another confounding question. Were we designed to want too much? And, if we got what we wanted, why didn't it come in the right amount? Why couldn't the world hand out what we sought in exact measurements like the ingredients Sal used for baking my fave — angel food cake?

But there was something worse in my aunt's letter. The word “crippled.” Physical flaws were common then, so people were more inured to the sight of kids like me with limps or facial deformities. Today, these problems are mostly fixed by surgery, or physiotherapy, but nobody expected them to be cured when I was twelve. You could even argue that such flaws were less deplored because people were used to seeing others with them.

And I, too, expected to hear people talk frankly about my leg in a way that nobody would now.

But it was hurtful to think that my aunt would call me crippled. It made me feel like a tragic character in somebody else's family. And she'd never criticized Morley to my face for neglecting me. She was always careful to point out that my father had treated more serious polio cases than mine. I put the letter carefully back on Little Louie's desk, and tried not to think about Sal saying snoopers are always sorry they snooped.

15

ON THE FIRST DAY OF THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS, I ROSE AT SIX, and pulled out the first page of my composition about my great-grandfather. At the bottom of this page, I stenciled in the words:
MORE TO COME
. I stuck the page into an envelope and stencilled,
Dr. Morley Bradford: Personal
. I underlined
Personal
three times. Satisfied, I put on my Lone Ranger hat and headed for Morley's office, carrying the envelope.

Morley's office was at the far end of the hall, in the storage room with its shelves stacked with old shoes, tennis rackets, and leather-bound copies of
Boy's Own Annual
magazine. I wasn't allowed in it, on account of his ship-to-shore radio. Morley kept the radio on day and night in case a freighter called about bringing in a sick crewmember.

At the door of the storage room, I heard its familiar crackles of static and a voice said: “Can anyone hear me? Over.” I knew the sound would bring my father running so, as quickly as I could, I squeezed myself in behind my father's winter coat hanging from the window in a plastic cleaner's bag. Sure enough, Morley walked in a moment later. He sat down at his desk and put on his ship-to-shore earphones. His fingers, twice the length of mine, fiddled with the dials. Dr. Shulman's voice immediately filled the room.

“Are you there? Over.” When the static died away, my father said: “I'm here, Rob. Over.”

“I'm on my boat.” Dr. Shulman's voice broke up. “Pilkie has escaped. Over.”

“When?” Morley asked. “Over.”

“Last night. Over.”

“The poor bugger.”

“Damn it, Morley, speak up, over.”

“I said Pilkie wants attention for his case. Was anyone hurt? Over.”

“No. We found Sib Beaudry tied to a block of ice. Over.”

“A block of ice? Over.”

“Sib had some ice sent up to cool his soft drinks. He claims Pilkie pulled a knife on him. But we think Pilkie bluffed his way out with a piece of flatware. Over.” I grinned at the thought of Sib tied to a block of ice, but the sound of dog claws scratching the floor brought me up short. Joe began to bark while Mairzy, who couldn't see very well, circled my father's coat, sniffing my bare feet.

“Rob, I have to go,” my father said. “I'll run over today and calm everyone down.”

“Thanks, Morley. Over and out.”

My father shut off the radio and stood up. “Is that you in there?”

I stepped out of my hiding place holding out my envelope. “I have the composition ...”

“You mean you have a composition,” Morley replied.

“Well, I only have the first page of it.”

“Give it to me when you finish then,” he said.

“I promise. Will John get caught?”

“Hard to say. Listen, Mary. Don't mention Pilkie's knife to Sal or your aunt. Do you understand?”

“I promise.”

“Thatta girl.” He walked out, cuffing the side of my cheek with the back of his hand. Joe and Mairzy scrambled after him. Downstairs, in the kitchen, the radio announcer was talking about the hockey killer's “elopement,” the old-fashioned word the hospital used to describe a patient's escape. The announcer repeated the story of Sib tied to a block of ice. “I guess Pilkie thought his jailor needed cooling off,” he chortled. “Well folks, better bolt your doors tonight. We're not safe in our beds. The hockey killer is on the loose again!”

My aunt exclaimed: “Not safe in our beds! Sal, will you go and stay on the Beaudry farm?”

“I'll be safe here,” Sal said. “John won't tangle with Doc Bradford.”

I couldn't hear my aunt's answer and then someone, likely Sal, turned off the radio. I looked out the window, expecting to see people running screaming out of their homes. But there was no one on the street except the postman. And when I listened for the siren at the hospital, which sounded if a criminal escaped, the only noise was the rustling of the maples outside the storage room window.

TWO HOURS LATER, MY AUNT and I said goodbye to Morley on the back steps.

“Will you come to Petrolia tomorrow?” I asked my father. He had on his Other Worldly Stare (i.e., the raised eyebrows that expressed surprise and bewilderment). Sal claimed Morley looked like that when somebody was dying and he was trying to figure out how to save his patient's life.

“I'll have to see, Mary.”

“Will you phone me in Petrolia?”

He nodded, but I knew he would forget. Per usual, Morley often forgot what I asked him. Per usual, Morley was Morley. It didn't matter. I was on my holidays and John was roaming scot-free in the hills of Brebeuf County.

“Morley, do you think we will get through the road block?” my aunt asked.

“Chief Doucette will let you through. Just don't pick up any hitchhikers. It might be Pilkie in disguise.”

“That's not funny,” my aunt said as she slipped into the front seat of our Ford station wagon. She put
The Face of War
by Martha Gellhorn on the floor near her feet and rolled down the window. Her purse, bulging with Old Mac's letters, rested against her hip.

“Goodbye, Morley,” my aunt called.

“Drive safely,” my father answered. He looked sad, standing on the back steps by himself. I felt sad, too. We were abandoning Morley, although the truth was he wouldn't put his work aside and come with us the way I wanted.

“Morley doesn't want us to go,” I told my aunt.

She laughed. “Mary, other children don't call their parents by their first names! Do you know that?” She stuck her head out the car window without waiting for my answer. “Shall I tell Mom that you'll join us in a day or two?” my aunt called.

Morley, do what she says. Please come.

My father regarded us impassively.

“Of course, you never took any interest in Alice's family,” my aunt said under her breath. Morley frowned as if he had heard Little Louie. Or was he frowning at Sal, who had come out onto the back porch, a look of expectation on her face? “Never mind. I'll tell Big Louie you were busy,” my aunt said. She tossed her yellow hair and rolled up the window, shutting out Morley and Sal. We were off and I kept turning around to wave at my father who didn't move from his position on the back steps. When we were all the way down Whitefish Road, he raised his hand and waved back. Then he put his hand on Sal's shoulder and they went inside.

MY AUNT AND I RAN into the roadblock set up to catch John by the south entrance to the Ontario Psychiatric Hospital. Little Louie rolled down her window and smiled at Chief Doucette, who stood by his squad car talking to drivers going in and out of the gates. He strolled over and peeked in, slinging his arm above the car door. “Going for a spin, Miss?”

My aunt drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I'm Mary Bradford's aunt and I'm taking my niece to see her grandmother in Petrolia.”

“Pretty gals like you and Mary should be safe from Pilkie down there.” He winked at my aunt. She sighed. Men like Chief Doucette got on her nerves.

“I hope so,” she said. “Do you have any idea where Pilkie is?”

“We heard a rumour he's hiding in a barn near Lafontaine.” Chief Doucette waved towards the leafy hill on the other side of the harbour. “Or he could still be on the grounds. You never know with him.”

“That's what I don't like,” my aunt replied.

“He's crazy like a fox, eh?” Chief Doucette tapped the hood of our station wagon, dismissing us. My aunt drove off, hands gripping the wheel.

THE ROAD OUT OF BREBEUF County was an unpaved, meandering cow path. A local reeve had designated it a highway in the hopes of encouraging tourists. In the summer, dust from the gravel floated up through the floorboards and engines overheated if the temperature rose above seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. It was already baking hot in the station wagon, even though my aunt had rolled down all the windows. On the car radio the announcer was talking about Ingemar Johansson who had floored heavyweight champion Floyd Patterson in the third round.

Suddenly, John's name popped up. The announcer said John had told one of the patients at the psychiatric hospital that he was going south to Windsor, where he used to live. My aunt gasped. Windsor is close to Petrolia. When the announcer mentioned the murder of his wife and child, my aunt switched the radio off.

“What if he's going to Petrolia instead of Windsor?”

“Don't talk like that, huh? Do you want me to jump out of my skin?”

“I don't think he'd hurt us.”

“That's what you think. Why don't you listen to some music and let me concentrate on driving?”

My aunt turned the radio on. She flipped the dial past the station playing a crooner ballad by Johnny Mathis and turned to CHUM, which was spinning Elvis Presley's top ten hit, “A Fool Such as I.” Then she turned up the volume as loud as it could go and we sang along.