Deafening (37 page)

But it had been a good winter for skating—at the school rinks in Belleville, and on the rink cleared on the Bay of Quinte here in Deseronto as well. Grania had been out skating several afternoons. One Saturday, she persuaded Kay to join her. To her surprise, Kay had agreed to come, and had even permitted herself to laugh. They had both laughed, and enjoyed themselves. For a fleeting moment, Kay’s eyes and cheeks had taken on the old secretive glow.

Grania smelled a new fire downstairs. This meant that Father was back from his office, a rare evening when he would be in the house. He continued to receive updated notices about what alcohol he was permitted to stock and how he was permitted to serve it, but business had been slow since Christmas. A worker he had recently hired had left for the war. The woman who worked part time doing ironing in the laundry had left, too; she moved to a factory because it paid higher wages.

The smell of burning wood was stronger now. Father would have turned on the lamp in the parlour so he could read in his corner chair. If he wanted company, the door would be open.

Grania decided to go downstairs to join him. When her hand touched the bedroom door, she felt the vibration, the
hit-hit
of the broken shutter clattering against the outside of the house. The wind had shifted and was blowing from land instead of from the bay.
Many nights, she had fallen asleep to the hit of the shutter, the pattern of her breathing taking up the whim and rhythm of the wind. Just as she reached the bottom stair and pushed aside the curtain, Mother came out of the kitchen, leafing through a cookbook as she, too, walked towards the parlour. Grania recognized the picture of the schooner on the brownish cover. Inside the cover were the words, “Eat fresh fish. Save the meat for our Fighting Men.”

Everything was war, even the cookbooks. This one had been sent a year ago by the Naval Service in Ottawa and had been used in the hotel kitchen ever since. A year ago, Mother could buy round steak for eighteen cents a pound. Tonight they’d eaten creamed canned salmon. Tomorrow, there might be salmon fritters or salmon loaf. Some hotel visitors did not like fish, though it had always been served on Fridays—several other days in the week now, too. She thought of the food at school:
fresh bread, fish on Fridays, as much milk as a child desires at every meal, no tea or coffee to pupils under twelve
.

Before she went to the parlour, Grania stopped to peek around the kitchen door. Patrick was at the table doing his homework, and she gave him a quick wave. Stay in school, she thought. Don’t run away to Kingston to sign up. If you go, you’ll break our hearts.

The paper train had arrived, as if to spite the storm. Father had carried some of the papers over from the hotel and was reading
The Mail and Empire
, his eyelid drooping so that he looked half-asleep as he read. Grania sat in an armchair across from Mother and began to sift through pages of the
Intelligencer
and the
Deseronto Post
. The “War in Review” was a regular feature she scanned every evening. She looked through the current list of complaints: the shortage of paper; the gasless Sunday; the meatless weekday; war flour; war bread; sugarless candy; more fish; at times, no coal. She was sick of war. Sick of papers filled with rumour, speculation, opinion, every word written by people who were themselves safe. War was a nightmare they were trapped inside. Yet some people in town—some who had no one in the war—managed to turn their backs and carry on.

She, too, wanted to turn her back, if only to get through each day. One recent letter she’d had from Jim had been like a document of dark history that had no connection with her at all; reading it made her realize more than ever how her own life was suspended. He had been gone for two and a half years, and the war showed no sign of being over. Every event reported was worse than the last—except Vimy Ridge, almost a year ago. That had been good news. A great Canadian victory. But rejoicing was bittersweet when thousands of boys went down. No one who lost a husband or son, a brother or father, was jumping for joy after Vimy—despite what was written in the papers.

Jim had been at Vimy. He had written about the mixed mood after the victory. The burial parties and stretcher bearers had followed the advancing troops and there was a good deal of sorrow, as well as elation, during those heady days.

The one flicker of spontaneity Grania had detected in the recent dark letter of Jim’s had been about finding a can of green beans.
Not like brown beans we always have
, he wrote, as if that had been the most exciting event of the week. In the same letter, he described the winter sky. When she read the letter, she felt that she could be sitting on a plank beside him in a farmer’s yard, looking up at sullen clouds and leaden light. But she would not have heard the sound.

At times, the ground shudders beneath our boots. The air vibrates. Sometimes there is a whistling noise before an explosion. And then, all is silent
.

Those sentences had not been censored.

Mamo came in and adjusted her rocker near the fireplace. Her eyes looked tired—her old eyes. She wore spectacles ordered from Mr. Eaton, but she was not able to read as much as she used to. Grania could not remember the last time the four of them had sat together like this in the parlour. And Carlow, too, was present, asleep near Father’s chair.

Some people never used their parlours—not Aunt Maggie and Uncle Am, except when her uncle climbed the ladder to oil the tower
clock or adjust its hands. Not Bompa Jack, at the farm. Bompa Jack’s parlour had two doors, but the doors were kept curtained and closed. The last time they were open was for Great-Aunt Martha’s wake. Here at home, the parlour was used all the time. Often by Mamo, sometimes by Mother, sometimes by Grania. When Father was in the house, it meant that Bernard was looking after things next door.

If only Bernard would speak to Kay. If
he
didn’t, someone else would. Bernard was kind-hearted. The home-stayer. And Father was pleased that Bernard liked the hotel business and planned to stick with it. The temperance laws were not going to last forever.

The only person missing from home this evening was Tress. Grania tried to think of what Tress and Kenan might be doing on a snowy evening like this in their tiny house. Tress had revealed little about how they were managing. Kenan was adjusting, the family said to one another. He did not go out. He and Tress were getting used to
the changes
.

Mamo visited every Sunday when the weather and the footing allowed, walking slowly because of her arthritis, sitting with Kenan for an hour in the afternoon, talking to him about family news. But Kenan never replied. Kenan’s uncle had come once, but stood awkwardly beside Kenan’s chair and left shortly afterwards, telling Tress to send for him if she needed help. When Grania visited, she and Tress spoke and signed. If Kenan was in the room, he watched and listened, but he did not join in.

The only thing Tress had told Grania was something Grania had not expected to hear—nor could she have imagined. When she was told, she wanted to take Tress in her arms and protect her. But Tress had told her in a controlled way, watching her face to see her reaction. Kenan must not be blamed.

“His arm swings like a missile,” Tress said. “The dead arm hits. He has no control over it.”

Grania saw the bruise the day Tress told her this, an ugly swelling on Tress’s side. She had put her hand on Tress’s skin. She thought
of Kenan rolling over in their bed, the iron weight of the arm that was left behind. Or when he tried to lie down, the arm swinging forward. Kenan, who wouldn’t hurt anyone.

It had become apparent, too, that he suffered terrible pain, especially in his hand. The pain in the dead hand seemed, at times, to be unbearable. During the day, the hand was shoved deep into his pocket to keep the arm from swinging uselessly as he walked from room to room in the house.

But the worst thing of all was that he remained silent. Dr. Clark visited and revisited and said that in spite of the severe injuries to his face, Kenan’s throat was undamaged. Vocal cords, tongue, larynx, pharynx—all were intact. “Give him time,” Dr. Clark advised. “Gradually, he’ll resume a normal life.” Kenan accepted the Veronal prescribed by Dr. Clark, but he refused all visitors except the family. His silence had spread like a fog through the small house, and now the fog had encompassed Tress.

Grania had found herself saying to Tress, during one of her visits, “Let me try. I’ll come and talk to him alone.” But she had no idea how she would do this. She had studied home nursing; she had worked at the school hospital. But she had never dealt with anything like this. She was relieved when Tress’s lips replied, somewhat pinched, somewhat forced, “What can you do that I haven’t tried?” Tress was practised at pushing things out of her mind; Grania knew that very well.
I tell my brain to stop thinking
, she used to say when they were children.
And then I go to sleep
. But Tress did not look rested now. Tress looked as if she were not sleeping these days, at all.

A shadow slid across the parlour and Grania looked up. Grew, the barber, had somehow come into the room without her seeing him and now he stood beside her chair, his presence breaking into her thoughts. He must have entered from the hall. Who had let him in
out of the storm when they were all here? Patrick? No, she saw surprise on the faces around her. The door was never locked. Grew had known this and, unannounced, had walked in.

He was wearing a long wool coat, a cap and a dark green scarf. His overshoes must have been left at the door; his shoes were dry. An odour of whisky wafted from his clothes. He has a private supply, Grania thought. Never mind the Temperance Act. She thought of Father then, going out in the evenings. Father and Grew together. Now it made sense. Was that why Grew had come?

Grew took off the heavy coat, removed the cap, held the coat over one arm and the cap in his opposite hand. His face looked a hundred years old.

Father made a sudden move, an attempt to intercept, as if he had done this countless times before. Carlow pushed himself up from his front paws and watched. Grew staggered and then straightened, and made himself rigidly tall. He seemed to be using every one of his muscles to hold himself upright. He leaned forward, tried to place the coat on an empty chair, missed his footing and ran four or five steps across the room.
Things that move…
He was so drunk, Grania wasn’t sure he had seen Father, who, startled, had taken a few running steps alongside. Grew couldn’t see any of them; Grew was looking inside. She sat upright in her chair, tensed—as were Mother and Mamo in theirs.

“Come on, Grew.” She read her father’s lips. “I’ll take you home.”

“No,” said Grew. “No.”

It was at this moment that he seemed to notice, with some surprise, that the cap was still in his hand and the green scarf around his neck. One hand plucked at the scarf until it slid off and dropped where he stood. The cap fell on top of it. Father bent forward to pick these up and Grew took advantage of the moment to hurry towards the corner, where he slumped quickly onto the round stool in front of the piano. Because the stool had been wound low, Grew’s knees popped up, and this made his height seem ridiculous.

His upper body began to sway. He tilted forward over the keyboard and then, far back; for a moment it looked as if he might fall off the stool. His hands were stretched in both directions; the notes must be falling out of his fingers. Mother and Mamo were staring as if he were a home invader they had never known or met. Grania did not know what he was playing, but his right foot pumped one of the pedals and the music crossed the hardwood floor and entered her feet. The sound that entered her was ragged, like the shaking down of coals. It vibrated against her arms as she gripped the wooden panels of her chair.
There is something amiss, something amiss
.

Mamo stared hard at the scarf over Father’s arm. Grew’s hands were rising and falling against the keys and Grania wanted to slam her own hands into something to make him stop. But she sat frozen like the others, as if the four—five now, Patrick was in the doorway—had been handed tickets and must see the performance to its terrible end.

Only Grania’s eyes had seen the descent of the folded strip of paper as it had fluttered from Grew’s bony hand when he first bumped down on the stool. The paper was resting now, almost hidden, on one knee; it jiggled precariously while his foot continued to pump the pedal. The paper was narrow.
TELEGRAM.
She didn’t have to see the words to know its message:
Deeply regret inform you Pte Richard Grew officially reported killed in action
.

Only son of.

Now they all knew. Mother’s mouth was open—was she wailing? Carlow was scrambling back and forth to the doorway in the hall. Grew’s hands were propped unmoving on the keys and then he stood to full height. Father, still holding the cap and scarf, was saying, “I am sorry, Grew. I am truly sorry.” And then he swore. “Damn,” he said. “Goddamn the war.”

Grania’s legs were trembling, her arms too. She pressed one hand into the other to force them both to stillness.
Richard is coming home to be a barber like his father
. No, Richard won’t be coming home. She forced herself to look at Grew’s face and then she stood
and walked to his side. Unbidden, unwanted in the midst of the terrible grief that now filled the room, a line from her
Sunday
book erupted inside her head.

He rushed to the woodshed and wept as though his heart would break
.

She knew the whites of her eyes were as red as if miniature blood vessels had burst without warning around her pupils. She had no tears. She felt Grew’s sagging shoulder beneath her hand. At least, she thought, angrily, he won’t have to stand in that anxious cluster of people outside the windows of the newspaper office after every battle. He won’t have to do that any more.

When dispatches came in, the lists were posted on boards outside:
Missing, Wounded, Prisoners of War, Burials, Gas Burns, Transferred to hospital, Removed to England, Died, Killed in action
.