Natural Order (24 page)

I promise to call her the minute he leaves. When I return to the kitchen, two more cookies are gone. There’s a scattering of crumbs on the table.

“I’m sorry about that,” I say, uncertain if I should offer him more to eat. “Where were we?”

He shifts in his chair and the wood cracks. “I want to do something for Fred. Here, in Balsden. He needs to be properly commemorated in his hometown.”

“You mean a funeral?”

“Nothing as sombre as that. Fred would never approve. More like a party with his friends.”

I don’t know what to say. There aren’t many people left who’d remember who Fred was, let alone want to attend a memorial for him. And I’m not even sure he had many friends in the first place.

“It’s only fair,” Walter says, and I notice a shine in his eyes. “Fred had something taken from him. His dignity. He deserves to get that back.”

I reach for the box of tissues on the shelf behind me and pass it to him.

“It was cancer that took him,” he says before blowing his nose. I can’t help but feel sorry for him.

“I lost my husband to cancer,” I say.

“And your son, too.”

“Yes.”

“Fred had a brain tumour. We were out for our usual morning walk one day when all of a sudden, he starts talking gibberish. The doctor thought it was a stroke. Things were fine for a while. He got some of his speech back, but not all of it. A few weeks later, he couldn’t move his right arm. A week after that, there were problems with his vision. When his leg went, I called the ambulance. The spectacle humiliated him. Those flashing lights in the driveway, all the neighbours watching. I still hate myself for that. I could have driven him. But I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

“Once the doctors realized there was a tumour growing inside his brain, they removed some of the fluid around it to ease the pressure and to help bring back some of his motor skills. I remember walking into his hospital room after the surgery and there he was, sitting at his bedside table, his chin resting in his cupped hand so matter-of-factly. He could speak, too. Not more than a few words, but it was something. And he could move. To anyone else, it would have seemed he was getting better. But I knew. And he knew, as well. We were in the eye of the storm. I’d give anything to have that moment back again.”

I pull another tissue from the box, this one for my own eyes. John and Charlie hover behind me. I’ve never forgotten a single detail of their demise. Not one.

“It wasn’t long before the fluid came back,” Walter says. “Everything happened so fast. I’m not sure I was any use to him.” He presses the tissue against an eye. “He died while I was at home. He was alone at the end. I’ve never forgiven myself.”

I get up from the table again. “Would you like a coffee? I should warn you, it’s always too strong or too weak. I need a new coffee maker.”

“My taste buds are shot. You could use a dirty sock as a filter and I’d be none the wiser.”

After I pour him a cup, I clear my throat. “About this memorial …”

“I don’t have grandiose expectations, Joyce. Just some crustless sandwiches. Lemonade. Teacups. Something quaint and small-town.”

“Balsden is hardly small-town, Mr. Clarke.”

“How many shopping malls do you have?”

“One.”

“It’s small-town.”

I put my annoyance aside and try to think of a possible venue for him. “The Holiday Inn puts on a good brunch with live jazz on Sundays. You might consider that. There’s also Smiley’s, if you’re looking for something outdoors.”

“It would be so nice to meet some people who knew Fred back in the day.”

“That restaurant downtown is supposed to be good. What’s it called again?”

“I’m sure there are lots of stories people could share.”

“Cedarwood Grill.”

“Having your help would mean so much.”

My head tilts. “Pardon?”

His eyes grow large. “You don’t expect me to do this on my own. How will I know whom to invite?”

“You want me to help?”

“Of course. You knew him, after all.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

My mouth opens and closes, opens and closes as I try to think of an excuse that doesn’t sound like an excuse. “I’m going on a bus trip to Turkeyville. And I have to start packing. I’m moving. Into my sister’s place. She has an apartment in her basement.”

“And leave your butterflies?”

“I can’t manage this house anymore. The winters are so hard. I’d be happy to help you if things were different. I hope you understand.”

He gives me a tight nod but says nothing.

“Can I get you more coffee?”

He covers his mug with his hand and tells me he’s fine. “I should be on my way. I’ve had a very long day. I’m sure you can relate. Thank you for the coffee. And the cookies.”

I walk him to the door and remind him not to forget his zucchini. “When are you heading home?”

“Tomorrow, I guess,” he says.

“What about the memorial?”

“What about it? My expectations were too high. Serves me right. I’ll head out in the morning.”

“It’s a lonely journey back to Miami driving all on your own.”

“All journeys are lonely, Joyce.” He steps out onto the porch and turns around. “Thank you for your hospitality. Fred had kind things to say about you.”

“He did?”

“He told me you could have been the girl he ended up with if he’d been less honest about himself.”

“I hope your move goes well.”

I watch him walk down the driveway, zucchini in hand. I wave when he pulls into the driveway to turn around, but he doesn’t wave back.

I can’t call Fern and go through everything. Not now. I gather up the coffee cups and dump their remains down the sink. I’ve got no time for anything, let alone to help a complete stranger organize a memorial for someone I last spoke to fifty years ago. I take two Aspirin and go to my bedroom. The coverlet is cool to the touch and I lie down. I’m stiff, inflexible as plastic. All I can hope for is sleep. I turn onto my side and stare at a blue patch of wall until my eyelids grow heavy.

My son never lived at home again. A few months after graduating, he got a job as a station chef at a private club in Toronto.

“It’s where the rich people hang out,” he told me. “I’ll be cooking for millionaires.”

He was excited, naturally. I tried to be excited for him in return.

“What do millionaires eat?” I asked.

“Anything they want.”

“They’re paying you well?”

“More than I’d make at the Sears restaurant in Balsden.”

He was taking the bus to Toronto the following weekend to look for an apartment.

“Angela lives there now. Remember her?”

Yes, I remembered. My frenzied call the morning of his disappearance. Did she ever tell him? Did he have any idea about the wretched things his mother had done over the years in the name of protecting him?

“She’s married now to a lawyer. He’s a member of the club. That’s how I found out about the job. They’re trying to recruit younger members, so they want to mix things up a bit. Update the menu. Apparently, they’ve been serving jellied beef consommé for years. Can you imagine? She’s meeting me at the bus station and we’re going to look at a few apartments.”

At least he knew someone in the city.

Later that evening, I looked down at the mushy casserole on my plate and thought about the time John had come home to cook dinner for Charlie and me. I knew that he was desperate to please us, to show us what he was learning in school. There was a chilled soup with a design as intricate as Chinese letters etched in the surface. A chicken breast stuffed with asparagus and cheese in a cream sauce. Potatoes whipped so mercilessly, they seemed more like clouds than food. Charlie had never been a fan of rich foods. He often suffered from indigestion. I watched him slide tiny pieces past his lips, trying to disguise his distaste. When John set out a pecan tart on the table, I was certain Charlie was going to faint.

“My goodness,” I said. “How do you eat like this and not explode?”

“This isn’t everyday dining,” John said hastily. He must’ve been disappointed by the leftovers on Charlie’s plate but said nothing.

“We’ll have to go and visit him,” Charlie said when I told him about John’s new job.

“It’s a private club,” I said. “They don’t let people like us inside.”

“What if we wore our good overalls?”

John found a small one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a complex in what he referred to as “midtown.” The grounds were well cared for, he said, and there was a fountain. His apartment faced the opposite direction, though, and overlooked the subway tracks. I couldn’t imagine having to live with that constant racket.

“You’ll never be able to open your window.”

“I won’t notice after a while,” he said.

We rented a van and moved him on a bright October morning. He didn’t have much: a sofa, a mattress and a dozen or so boxes. I wanted to give him our old kitchen table and chair set, but there wasn’t room in the van. We’d have to bring it down another time. The apartment was clean but small. I listened to the trains rattle by every few minutes as I unpacked the boxes of newspaper-wrapped dishes and copper-bottomed pans and jars of spices labelled with names I’d never heard before. After lunch, we drove downtown past the building where John would be working. It was stately, with a turquoise eavestrough and ornate white bars on the windows—exactly the sort of place I imagined where rich people made small talk and nibbled on hors d’oeuvres no bigger than quarters. This would be my son’s world now. He’d be associating with people on a very different social level from his father and me.

“There’s a racquetball court in the basement,” John said. “And seven fireplaces. Did I tell you the Eaton family comes here?”

I looked out the car window at the blur of faces, wishing I could be happier for him. Why couldn’t this new job, this new apartment, this new city be the most wonderful thing to happen to him?

Back at the apartment, we finished most of the unpacking. John told me to leave the boxes marked “Bedroom.”

“I’ll take care of those,” he said.

Charlie and John went to the grocery store to stock up on a few things. By then I’d finished all the other boxes. I walked around the apartment for a final inspection. The boxes in the bedroom were pushed into the corner. There were only a few of them, along with three garbage bags, which I assumed contained his clothes. I started with the bags first, and carefully folded his undershirts and underwear into neat little squares. After those were done, I looked down at the boxes. One in particular caught my eye. It was bound with silver duct tape, not clear tape like the others. I nibbled the inside of my cheek.

I knelt down and carefully peeled back the strap of tape from the top of the box. Inside, there were cookbooks. There was also a black travel bag with toiletries inside. Beneath that, a set of pillowcases. And beneath the pillowcases, magazines.

There were a half-dozen of them. Muscle magazines. I felt nauseous as I picked up one called
Male Pix
. The cover featured a young man in a skimpy bathing suit. I flipped past page after page of scantily clad men in various poses, each one wearing an expression between sultriness and stupidity. This excited him? This parade of male sexuality? My hand went to my mouth, revulsion running quickly up my throat.

I was ashamed that my own fingerprints were now on those pages. I put everything back in its place: the magazines, pillowcases, travel bag, books. I pulled the tape back over the flap so that it looked untouched. He’d never know the difference. But then I pulled back the tape again and left it dangling down the side of the box, an upside-down question mark.

I hurried Charlie out the door as soon as he and John got back. I said something about driving at night. Nerves. I had things to do in the morning. My lips grazed the side of my son’s cheek and in that moment, even I felt the coldness emanating from me.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Charlie said as we drove back in darkness, save for the glow of the van’s dashboard. I imagined the road before us was a conveyor belt, pulling us back to the safety of home.

“Am I?” I said, knowing full well he was right. I’d barely said a word since we left John’s apartment.

“You’re nervous for him.” Not a question from Charlie this time. A statement of fact.

“In some ways.”

“What ways?”

I was expecting one of his usual responses:
Don’t worry. There’s only so much you can control in life, Joyce. Everything will
work out in the end. Have a little faith in him
. I glanced over, although I couldn’t make out Charlie’s expression in the dark. How much did he know? He must’ve noticed things over the years—behaviour that would’ve caused him to question John. He would’ve compared his son to other boys as I had done and noticed the glaring discrepancies.

What ways?

Charlie, I wondered, what would you say if I told you? What would you think if I unloaded everything into this cargo van?

Things had gotten better between Charlie and me. We’d sunk into our routines in John’s absence. We started enjoying one another’s company in a way that was both new and familiar at the same time. The other night, we’d made love on the living room sofa. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done something so spontaneous. And his retirement wasn’t that far off anymore. We talked about going to Hawaii next year with Helen and Dickie. And a trip out West to visit his sister. There were things he was looking forward to.

I took a deep breath. “You know me,” I said. “Always worrying.”

I felt his hand brush my thigh, his way of telling me that everything would work out.

A noise. My eyes flutter behind my lids. My hands are numb and curled up against my chest. The telephone. My eyes open to fog. I blink a few times and the fog lifts. The red numbers of my clock come into focus. It’s 3:03 p.m. I’ve been asleep for an hour. My mouth feels frozen. The phone rings again and I fumble for it.

“Joyce.”

It’s Mrs. Pender.

“Hello? Joyce, is that you?”

I prop myself up on an elbow. “I have nothing to—”