The Western Light (18 page)

Is Goodness the Same Thing as
Keeping Your Bedroom Tidy?

 

In the Shulman library, Ben showed me the legal book that listed the eight levels of giving, which the scholar Maimonides had written into Jewish law. I copied them down on a sheet of foolscap. Later, alone in my bedroom, I scribbled in
M.B.'s Book of True Facts: Dr. Shulman said that John Pilkie performed a charitable act when he rescued me from the Bug House boys. Then I added: So maybe John is a little bit good. But goodness is confusing. My father puts the needs of his patients before himself, and he does it over and over again. Is my father good if he's looking after other people because his mother told him that a man his size could go around killing them? And are you good if you're only doing good deeds because it's expected of you? Aren't you fooling yourself? What if being good is a habit, like keeping your bedroom tidy?

I copied out the eight levels of giving into
M.B.'s Book of True Facts
, going from the least good to the most good:

As I was finishing number one, Sal poked her head into my room. “What on earth are you doing, Mouse?”

“Writing down a Jewish law,” I replied. “Dr. Shulman says the Jews thought up the golden rule before we did. This proves the Hebrew faith is older and smarter than the Christian religion.”

“Listen, Lady Jane. I never said Jews aren't clever.”

“Well, you didn't come right out and say it. But you called them ‘kikes.'”

Sal's face turned red. “You won't tell your father that, eh?” She looked nervous. I shook my head. Then she swore that she wasn't prejudiced. But I suspected her of prejudice all the same.

30

FIVE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, SAL AND I STOOD AT THE LIVING room window watching a snowstorm.

“It's going to be an icebox winter,” Sal said morosely.

“What's an icebox winter?” Little Louie yelled from the kitchen where she was typing up a newspaper story.

“Everybody knows what an icebox winter is,” Sal snapped.

“It feels like you're locked up in a fridge.”

I didn't see it like Sal. After all, there's nothing more reassuring than watching a blizzard from inside a warm house. For one thing, the falling snow is so soft and quiet you know it can't hurt you as it eddies this way and that in front of the glass or cascades from the branches of the cedars after the wind shakes the branches. The snow brings a bittersweet lonely feeling, too: that you are on your own in your winter life.

As I stood watching the snow, Sal and I listened for my father's Oldsmobile in the muffled sounds of cars passing on the road. The snowbanks had grown so high we couldn't see them go by. Not that there were many to see because who, except my father, would go out on such a wild night? He had promised to come home early to watch the Toronto Maple Leafs play the Montreal Canadiens on our black-and-white Zenith television. Now there was no sign of him. But somebody was coming down the road. The figure struggled through the drifts, its face hidden behind a scarf. The figure turned up our unshovelled driveway and started to wade through the snow to our back door. At the same moment, Morley drove up and parked his car on the street. The figure hailed my father climbing out of his Oldsmobile, and they stood outside talking, the ghostly snow swirling around their bundled up shapes.

“For the love of God,” Sal cried flinging open the back door. “Get in out of the storm.”

They hurried into our kitchen, stamping the snow off their galoshes while the spaniels barked wildly.

“Why, it's you, Mary,” Mrs. Pilkie said, unwrapping the scarf from her face. “John has been telling me all about you.”

“He has?”

“You bet. He says you're learning to skate this winter.”

Pleased, I rushed over to tell my father about John promising to make me a hockey rink. I wanted to hear his response. But something stopped me. The something that always stopped Morley and me from having a real conversation.

Morley cuffed my cheek. “Are our boys winning, Mary?”

“The score is two nothing for the Canadiens,” I replied, shaking my head sadly.

Morley smacked his newspaper against the kitchen table. “What's the matter with those bums?”

“You know what happens if you get excited, Doc Bradford,” Sal said.

“Get excited?” Mrs. Pilkie laughed. “Who doesn't get excited when he watches the Leafs?”

“Doc Bradford gets more excited than most,” Sal answered.

My father poured himself a cup of coffee, pretending not to hear. “So Georgie, are you ready for your insulin shot?” he asked.

Sal quickly ushered me out of the kitchen. A moment later, Mrs. Pilkie hurried into our living room, rolling down the sleeve of her blouse. My father followed, his tired, deep-set eyes seeking out the television.

“Doc Bradford, with you behind us, I guess John and I have nothing to fear.” Mrs. Pilkie grinned at Sal and me. “Nobody will go against Doc Bradford, eh girls?”

“Oh, now, Georgie.” Morley coughed self-consciously.

“I wouldn't count my chickens if I was you,” Sal said.

Mrs. Pilkie ignored her. “Oh Lordie, you have a Zenith!” She plopped her weight into a stuffed armchair. “Mind if I watch?”

“Nobody's saying you can't.” Sal turned up the volume on the TV. “Even if you are Doc Bradford's patient.”

“Well, that's not all I am to Doc Bradford.” Mrs. Pilkie removed her dark glasses and rubbed her strange, milky-looking eyes. She'd never be able to take out a boy's appendix now.

“What are you talking about?” Sal asked.

“Doc Bradford and I have been through a lot together. That's why he's getting my boy a review of his case. He said so outside.”

Sal's mouth dropped open. It was true that Mrs. Pilkie had a special relationship with my father. Together they had done a miraculous thing: they had removed a small boy's appendix far away from the safety of a modern hospital, my father coaching Mrs. Pilkie through every step of the operation. But I wonder now about Mrs. Pilkie telling Sal that my father had vowed to help her. Did Morley really promise to get a review of John's case? Sal and I couldn't hear what they were saying to each other out on the driveway. Maybe my father made a vague promise about seeing what he could do for John and that was enough for Mrs. Pilkie to place hopes on Morley too large for anyone to fulfill.

In any case, Morley didn't contradict Mrs. Pilkie. Maybe he hadn't heard her boasting about his help. He sat stiff and white-faced on the sofa, his eyes on the television. The same mood of religious awe we felt at the Dollartown Arena was sweeping up my father in its grip. Sal and I felt it, too, as we sat down, turning our faces towards the screen. We were taking part in something more holy and serious than our daily lives in Madoc's Landing. On the ice, Leafs player Tim Horton had just knocked down Jean Beliveau of the Canadiens. “That Horton, eh?” Mrs. Pilkie said.

“Beliveau started it,” my father growled.

“No, Horton did,” Sal retorted, coming in with coffee and a plate of the butter tarts she had baked that morning. It was the only baking she did well, and the tarts were Morley's favourite.

“Oh, they're all roughnecks!” Mrs. Pilkie held up her cup for Sal's coffee.

By the blue line, the referee in the Montreal Forum was handing out a penalty to Horton. On the sofa, my father had started breathing heavily, a bad sign. He bit into one of Sal's tarts without looking at her.

“A thank you would be nice, Doc Bradford,” Sal said. “I baked them for you specially.”

Morley grunted. As the camera zoomed in on the referee's face, my father leapt to his feet. On the screen, the referee was escorting Horton off the ice.

“You no-good son-of-a-bitch! Beliveau started it!” He grabbed a second butter tart.

“Watch your language, Doc Bradford!” Sal cried. “And sit down! You're blocking our view.”

“I won't sit down. That goddamn ref has it coming.” Morley wound up like a baseball pitcher and the butter tart hit the television with a satisfying splat. Its juicy sauce slowly slipped down the glass. “You two-bit bum! You'll pay for that call!” My father threw another tart. Now large blurry smears of syrup and raisins covered most of the screen. We could no longer see the game.

His shouts brought Little Louie. Mrs. Pilkie was laughing, as if she'd seen men behaving like this before. My aunt looked aghast.

“Doc Bradford, that's enough,” Sal said. “It's bad for your blood pressure.” She nodded at me. I nodded back, although I hated sending my father outside during a game. But I went along, because Sal told me it kept my father from having a heart attack.

While my aunt and Mrs. Pilkie watched, Sal grabbed Morley by the arm and steered him like a resentful child into the kitchen where she made him put on his coat and hat. He didn't resist her, but he wasn't going to co-operate either. When Sal opened the back door and pushed him onto the kitchen porch, I wanted to stop her. But I couldn't make the words come.

“You stay outside 'til I say otherwise,” Sal told him.

He dropped his eyes and said, “Mmm-hmm.” I wasn't allowed to interfere. He and Sal had worked out a system. He had to wait out the game in the garage, warming himself with the space heater that was used to start the Oldsmobile on cold winter mornings. Sal and Morley's system didn't allow conversation. They used hand signals to communicate the score. The index finger on Sal's right hand meant a Leaf goal and her left index finger meant a goal by the other team.

After the Montreal Canadiens scored the next goal, Sal told me to put on my winter coat and tell my father. He sat waiting on an old lawn chair wearing his dove-grey fedora and dark winter coat. A plaid scarf was wrapped around his neck. How could he sit there with nothing except a space heater warming his toes? The air inside the garage froze me to the bone.

Shouldn't I spring him from his exile? And how would I go about it? I didn't have many options although I could always try scolding him in Sal's sternest shaming voice.
This is ridiculous behaviour for a grown man. Come inside before you catch your death of cold!
Would he come back if I pointed out that no sport, even hockey, was worth suffering over? But I already knew my father thought hockey was worth it. So I cleared my throat. Morley looked up hopefully; clouds of steam floated out of his mouth while I shook my head and held up the index finger on my left hand. The steamy clouds of his breath suddenly grew bigger and more dramatic.

That night, I held up my left index finger five more times inside the garage. My father's reaction never changed. Each time, he stared at me in disbelief, clouds of his breath billowing from his mouth. Each time, I waited for him to slump over, dead in his lawn chair. But nothing of the sort happened. And when I came back with news of another Montreal goal, he was still sitting upright wearing an expectant look as if he couldn't help hoping I was bringing good news.

No good news came. By the end of the game, the final tally was eight fingers on my left hand (for Montreal) and two fingers on my right (for the Leafs). George Armstrong, the gentlemanly Leaf captain, had a misconduct penalty for arguing a call, and the referee had handed out penalties to every player except the goalies. Sal put my father to bed with a hot water bottle and his electric blanket turned on high. Still in high spirits, Mrs. Pilkie kissed me goodbye. I watched her leave, and then I stared for a long while at the snow falling in the yellow glow of the street lamps.

THE NEXT DAY, MY AUNT and I packed our bags for our Christmas holiday. Morley drove us through the snowy streets to the train station. We said our goodbyes inside the freezing car, our breath fogging the windshield.

“Will you come down for Christmas?”

“I'll have to see, Mary.” He helped my aunt and me out with our luggage. We walked over to the platform where the conductor stood, waiting to put us on the train. When my father was sure we were in good hands, he honked goodbye, and his red taillights slowly disappeared down the road. Did I mention the hopeless mood I fell into when Morley didn't come on my holidays? The hot, achy feeling was too embarrassing for words. I tried to push it down before Hindrance whispered,
See, Mouse, I told you. Morley doesn't waste time on pipsqueaks
.

31

ON THE TRAIN, I MADE A LIST OF THE REASONS I BELIEVED IN John. There was no point holding back now.

The Case for John Pilkie

• 1. Morley believes a concussion made John kill his wife and baby girl, and so do I. (It's a just a crying shame John didn't use his concussion for an alibi.)
  

• 2. The people who believe he's a killer (like Sal and Sib) are prejudiced. Sal wanted to marry him but he chose somebody else and Sib is jealous because Sal used to be engaged to John.
  

• 3. And there's another reason. Grown-up truth is different from plain truth because grown-up truth feels intimidating, like the way Morley looks in his white operating gown instead of the bright orange Bermuda shorts that Big Louie gave him for his birthday. There are so many interpretations of truth, after all. There's the stuff you read in old books and songs and newspaper stories pasted in my scrapbook, and long-ago epistles such as my great-grandfather's letters. And then there are the loving things we write on greeting cards and the dumb things we say to each other without thinking. So no matter what the newspapers report, John's truth will be different from what other people tell me.
  

• 4. The last reason isn't obvious. John is always nice to Ben and me. If he is as bad as Dr. Torval says, I would like him anyway because when he is kind, he is kinder than anybody else.