But to sell my house. The thought of it turns my heart to charcoal. I have lived here for fifty years. I know every crack and corner, every carpet ripple, every smell (Charlie’s workroom, the linen closet, the root cellar). How can I walk away from everything I’ve ever known?
I stop by St. Paul’s United to drop off my date squares, feeling guilty that I haven’t attended service for most of the summer. But it’s more spiritually depressing than uplifting to sit there among the half-empty pews.
“The United Church is dying,” Helen said with a slow shake of her head. “Every other religion is going strong as ever. Do you know why? The United religion is too liberal. You have to put the fear of God into people. That’s the only way to get them out of the house on a Sunday morning.”
Neither Charlie nor I were what you’d call religious people, but when John was old enough, we started taking him to St. Paul’s.
“He might as well learn one side of the coin,” Charlie said. “He’ll make up his own mind when he’s old enough.”
I thought the structure of church would be good for my son. I wanted him to understand that Christmas was more than presents, that Easter was more than bunnies and chocolate. I wanted to expose him to things that didn’t have price tags. Maybe I was being a hypocrite, because I never went to church before John was born. I believed in God but I didn’t think about him very much. That’s especially true these days. It’s funny because I always assumed that as you got older, you naturally became more religious. I attributed it to fear; a sort of spiritual insurance. But it doesn’t happen that way. At least, it hasn’t for me. The closer death gets, the less sense God makes.
John enjoyed church. He’d get up early on Sunday mornings to shine his shoes and pick out a tie. He had quite the collection at a young age, from what I remember. He’d sit between Charlie and me, fidgeting while the hymns were sung and the Scriptures read out loud. Then the minister would call the children to the front of the church and John would be the first one running down the aisle, even though I told him to always walk. After speaking with them about the importance of sharing or forgiveness or respect, the minister would send the children down to Sunday school in the basement. Even to this day, I can still see the happiness on John’s face when he passed by our pew. Sometimes he’d stop and pat my arm, as if reminding me not to worry. He’d only be a few steps away.
If only I had that same reassurance now.
When he turned seven, John joined the junior choir. I was so proud, watching him sing at the front of the church. Charlie was, too. I remember the soft smile on his face. There were only three boys amidst the rows of curly-headed girls, but John had one of the best voices. I could always hear its clarity through the cloud of the other children.
“That boy of yours is quite the charmer,” I remember a woman telling me once. “He’s going to be a heartbreaker one day.”
I had my fingers crossed that John might become a minister. It seemed like a natural fit for him. He was good with people, especially older women. They doted on him terribly.
Precious
. That’s the word I heard the most. “He’s just the most precious thing.”
I never left him alone with any of the older women and always made a point to pull him away if the conversation lingered too long or if the compliments became too many.
It’s not good to have his ego stroked like that
, I thought at the time.
Or to be around women so much
.
I’ve been remembering things lately. Small, random memories. I don’t know why. The other day, I thought about the time we hit that dog.
The three of us were on our way to a winter play day at the United Church Centre. John was in the back. I remember his boots pressing into my seat. I used to scold him about this.
“Your soles are filthy,” I’d say, and he’d drop his feet down, but it wouldn’t be long before I’d feel them again, like a burn on my back. Even then, we were always testing one another’s limits, seeing how far one of us could go before the other broke.
Charlie was driving. I remember feeling anxious about trees. A boy had been killed earlier that winter when his toboggan ran into the trunk of an evergreen. He was eight years old, the same age as John was at the time. I was saying something to Charlie about black ice when a dog appeared out of nowhere and darted onto the road. Charlie slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. I can still see the flash of brown. I can hear the tight squeal of the tires. Then the soft thud. I turned around to see a dog spinning in the centre of the road, as though it was performing a trick. Charlie pulled over and got out of the car. John was asking what had happened.
“Nothing,” I told him. “Stay seated.”
He didn’t listen, of course. He never did. He clambered up to look out the rear window. Charlie was slowly approaching the dog, which was now lying still. Its ears were brown and its belly as white as the snow that covered the front yards on either side of us. John started to cry.
“What’s wrong with the dog?”
“It’s sleeping.” The stupid things parents say.
“Daddy hit it.”
“He didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
“Daddy is a murderer.”
“John, don’t say that.”
Charlie crouched down beside the dog. His hand hovered a few inches over its side. There was a look of hopeless loss on his face that I’d see again years later, but that loss would be one that neither of us would recover from. He came back towards the car and opened the trunk. I rolled down the window.
“You’re not putting it in there, are you?” There was a casserole. The toboggan. A Thermos of hot chocolate.
“I’m getting a blanket.”
The open trunk blocked the scene momentarily. John turned back to me, his face as red as the scarf around his neck.
“Daddy killed a dog!”
“Please, John.”
We should’ve turned around and gone home, but Charlie insisted we continue on.
“We’re halfway there,” he said.
I could see that he was shaken, so I didn’t argue. Instead, I passed John a box of tissues. He didn’t say another word until we were sitting in the dining hall, eating dinner.
“You hit the dog on purpose,” John said, and Charlie got up from the table and walked over to the windows. He stood there for some time, staring out at the white hills and the children sliding down, before returning to us. His eyes were pink. He quietly announced it was time for us to leave and started gathering our dishes.
Charlie brought this up a few years after John had died. The two of us were sitting in the living room, watching television. He asked if I remembered the day he had hit the dog.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why didn’t he believe it was an accident?” Charlie asked, his gaze never leaving the TV. “He thought I hit it on purpose.”
“He was young. And upset.”
I watched the reflection of the TV in Charlie’s eyeglasses, twin mirrors of a flipped world, frightened by the realization of how haunted he was, and would continue to be, during all those empty years in our post-John world. I’d done my best to protect my husband from his son. And my son from his father. That was how I saw my role. That was how I believed things worked.
Funny.
Turns out I was the only one they needed protection from.
When I step into the St. Paul’s kitchen, I see Arlene Disdale and a few others from the social committee, prepping sandwiches for the luncheon.
“Joyce Sparks,” she announces, tossing a tea towel over her shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Oh?”
“My bridge club is looking for a new person.” She lowers her voice. “You know. Louise.”
There’s a fine line of hair above her top lip. Wasp legs.
“The club gets together on Wednesday nights. You already know Shirley and Bev. We all take turns hosting. The next meeting is at Shirley’s. You know where she lives, right? In the north end? I don’t mind picking you up. How about six-thirty?”
“I’m not much of a card person,” I say. She’s bullying me into it. I don’t like Arlene, let alone bridge. “I don’t even know how to play.”
“It’s very easy. I’ll teach you.” She takes another step closer. “We’re not competitive. Well, Shirley can be a sore loser, but she gets over it quickly. I’ll call you later this week.”
I exit through the kitchen door, a dark cloud over my head. All I had to say was, “Thank you, Arlene. I’m not interested.” Now I’ve somehow managed to trap myself. Again. Between my loose stool and Arlene, this day hasn’t gotten off to a good start. I head to the Clip N’ Curl for my appointment.
My hairdresser, Connie, informs me she has a mole on her back. “I’m convinced it’s cancerous. My brother tells me I’m a … what’s the word?” She stares at the mirror with a twisted expression. “Not hippopotamus.”
“Hypochondriac,” I say, surprising myself.
“That’s the one.” She snaps her fingers and I wonder how anyone can keep her nails that long. Connie’s are at least two inches. I once bought fake nails for a wedding on Charlie’s side. Everything was fine until I went to the bathroom. Three of them landed in the toilet when I pulled my pantyhose up.
“Did you see the moon last night?” I ask.
Connie presses a hand against her cheek. “Wasn’t that something? Nothing like a full moon to get me feeling all romantic again. Isn’t it a shame, Joyce? Here we are, two vital, passionate women and not a man in sight. They’re all married or dead.”
I’d never get married again. A second chance isn’t in the cards for someone like me. I don’t deserve happiness. Besides, those last years with Charlie—when the cancer bit down and wouldn’t let go—still haunt me. I’ll never get over the horror of watching him fall apart, piece by piece; how he clung to me and sobbed when the results of his biopsy came in. I was all he had left in the world. I pressed his head against my breast, terrified of what was to come. He would die. I could do nothing but watch. And then, I would be alone. I wanted to die with Charlie. I wanted his cancer to seep into my body. I didn’t want to face life without my son and husband. I didn’t think I’d be able to cope, to even get out of bed every morning. I’ve since come to understand that getting out of bed every morning is punishment for what I’ve done; for what I destroyed between Charlie and John.
Charlie wasn’t sure how to react to John’s interest in the junior choir. He could hardly criticize his son for doing something as noble as praising God every Sunday morning. And yet, while he sat beside me, he wouldn’t stop fidgeting when John and the rest of the choir performed their songs. I’d press my hand on his thigh in an effort to keep him still, but he wouldn’t settle out. He’d cough and glance at the other faces in the pews around us. What was he looking for? I wondered. Their approval? Couldn’t he find happiness in his son’s happiness? I became annoyed with what I sensed was his discomfort—and disapproval—of his son.
“You’re not pushing him, are you?” Charlie asked me once. “He shouldn’t be made to sing if he doesn’t want to.”
“He wanted to do it,” I said. “And I don’t push John into anything.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“At least I’m encouraging him. You hardly ever compliment him.”
“That’s not true.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being outgoing, Charlie. There’s nothing wrong with singing.”
“I never said there was. Stop putting words in my mouth.”
Charlie was still smarting from his Little League loss. We’d tried for two years to keep John interested, but he hated playing baseball. Charlie bought him a new glove and a Louisville Slugger bat with an orange handle.
“I’m afraid of the ball,” John had confessed to me once. “What if it hits me in the face and then I have to go to the hospital and have an operation?”
“The ball won’t hit you if you practise catching it,” I pointed out, but my words were useless. I knew my son. The more we encouraged, the more he resisted. I’d sit on the bleachers and look at the misery on his eight-year-old face in right field, his glove hanging grotesquely at his side like a monster’s hand, and wonder how much it was worth in the end. I’d have to clamp my arms around my legs and fight the urge to run out onto the field and rescue him.
But I couldn’t do that. I’d made a promise to myself to always protect my son. To help him. To keep him on a path towards happiness. Charlie wouldn’t have understood this if I’d spoken to him. He didn’t know what I knew. He couldn’t see the darker side of things that I did. He didn’t know what was at stake.
It was Charlie who finally pulled the plug on baseball. I don’t think he could bear to watch John suffer through it anymore, although that wasn’t the reason he gave me.
“It’s too expensive,” he said one night while we lay in bed. “There’s no point spending the money if he’s not willing to put up the effort.”
“He’s tried, Charlie,” I said, hoping to hide the relief in my voice. John would be over the moon when I told him. “It’s just not his thing. We’ll get him involved in something else. Soccer, maybe. Or swimming.”
“He hates the water.”
“He likes drawing. We could sign him up for art classes.”
Charlie was silent. I looked over at him. His jaw was peppered with stubble. I noted the tiny beginnings of lines around his eyes. We’d been married for almost ten years. I knew his favourite foods and the faint brown ring around his penis and that he was often constipated on account of shift work. I knew that he could spend hours listening to country music in the den and that he kept a childhood photograph of himself and his sister in his wallet and that he wrote his mother a letter every Saturday night, slipping a lined sheet beneath a blank one so that his words appeared as neatly as possible. But I didn’t know
him
. At least, not the way I thought husbands and wives were supposed to know each other.
“I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong,” he said after a while. “John always seems uncomfortable around me.”
“That’s not true,” I said, even though I noticed it as well. I didn’t understand. Charlie wasn’t an intimidating figure by any stretch, but it seemed that was how John saw him. There was an air of caution about John when he was around his father, as though he was taking the tentative first steps on an ice-covered pond.