Rush Home Road (34 page)

The first time, their wedding night, Mose had been tentative and it was over nearly before it began. He told his new bride he knew, or at least he reckoned, because of what happened in Rusholme, that part of their marriage—he'd cleared his throat and said, “the loving part”—would be difficult for her. He told her he thought it best to get it over and done with, and said he'd always understand if she'd just like her back scratched instead. Addy knew that Mose had never been with a woman and that he was unsure and
afraid himself. She'd lain awake for some time listening to his kitteny snore, then moved her hand to his hard stomach and caressed him with her fingernails until she felt him wake and swell once more. Then she stroked him with a firmer touch, and when she thought he might burst she stopped and asked, “Feel good, Mose?”

He murmured something that sounded like yes and held his breath when she climbed atop him and brought him inside her. Mose would never have to know the extent of her experience, as witness or participant, but Addy would make sure he understood that her desire, and his own, could tether them to each other. She wanted him to know that the loving part was an important part of their marriage. She knew Mose would learn what to do soon enough.

Mose did learn what to do, and not just what to do but exactly when to do it, and that part of their marriage, Addy thought often, was the only part she had faith in. For Mose was home so seldom that, except for the intimate way in which she recognized his body, he was like a stranger each time he returned. Addy knew none of his fellow porters, had no faces for the names and no imagination for his stories. And though she tried, she could not feel so indignant as he about the working conditions of his fellows, or fully understand his passion for the Brotherhood. But when they moved into each other's arms, sharing mouth and skin and scent and fluid, he was Mose, her good husband, and she was so glad he was finally home.

The pillows had been the doctor's suggestion but of course Addy could not tell Mose. Soon as he'd risen from the bed she pulled the pillows from near the headboard and crammed them under her behind. Mose had laughed and waited for an explanation.

“My back aches from hefting that sack of potatoes from the market,” she said, and that was that. Addy lay still with her hindquarters raised up, letting gravity do its chore as the doctor advised, listening to Billie downstairs, weeping with the willow and all the men who'd done her wrong.

It was the next morning, over fresh eggs and biscuits, with the accompaniment of Louis Armstrong on jazz trumpet, that Mose told Addy he'd be leaving a day early this trip. He was heading up to a meeting in Toronto, then off to Vancouver, back to Montreal, out East, then home again in four weeks. Addy was beyond hurt and angry, for this wasn't the first time he'd left early. “Why can't you miss a meeting? Why can't you miss just one precious meeting?”

“Because I can't. Because I won't. Because my job is important. Because the Brotherhood is important. Asa Randolph, that American labour activist I told you about, he's coming to Canada to meet with Arthur Blanchette and a few other men and I'm proud to be a part of that.”

“I hate the Brotherhood.”

“How many times have I told you, with a union representing us we're all gonna make a lot more money. My job'll be safe. You're acting like a baby, Adelaide.”

“I don't care. I hate it. And I hate that train.”

“Don't let anyone else hear you talk like that. You have any idea how lucky I am to have work? Do you ever read the newspaper, Woman? Do you understand there's a depression?”

Addy didn't tell Mose that her true reason for being troubled was she feared if he left a day early this time, it would be
the
day she was the ripest,
the
day they were most likely to make a child. “I know there's a depression, Mose. I
do
read the newspaper. I just don't understand why this one time you can't stay home with me and miss your meeting and say
I'm
the important one.”

“And I don't understand why we can't move to Montreal like we talked about so I can see you more.”

“On your way from here to there? A few hours? A day?”

“That's what you're crossing me over now, isn't it, Adelaide? A day?”

“I don't want to live in Montreal all by myself, Mose. Chatham is my home. I got Nora Lemoine here, and Hamond and the boys, and Mrs. Yardley, and the Baldwins. I don't know what I'd do without all them. That's my family.”

“I'm your husband.”

“And you expect I'm just gonna sit there in Montreal where I can't even understand the language, waiting and waiting for my husband?”

“I'm tired of arguing, Addy.”

“And what about driving, Mose? You promised you'd
teach me how to drive. How am I ever gonna learn when you're never home?”

The music had been turned off downstairs and Addy knew it was because Mrs. Baldwin liked to listen in. She lowered her voice. “Just this once, Mose?”

Mose shook his head as he reached for another biscuit. Addy knew, as she'd always known, that she could not fight her husband's conscience. Addy also knew that at least some of Mose's passion came from his denial of the obvious. His skin was white, his hair was fair, his eyes were green, and few people might have guessed his mother was Negro. And few people might have guessed he thought of himself as Negro. Addy knew Mose felt betrayed by his pale skin and all the more driven to fight the cause of social injustice. Addy knew all of this because Addy knew Mose. They never talked about such things though, for Addy understood how deeply it would wound her husband if she ever let on she thought he was different.

The red-foil-wrapped present sat untouched on the dresser. Even though Addy was annoyed, she found the will to pull Mose back to her bed not once but twice that day, and three times the next. By the following evening, as Mose was preparing his things for his departure, he'd looked at his wife with deep concern and said, “Your back hurt again?”

“It'll be fine, Mose,” Addy'd said, her hips hoisted up on the pillows.

“But except for cooking, eating, and loving, you been laying like that since I came home.”

“Be fine, Mose. Just I shouldn't be so ambitious in carrying home my groceries is all. You sure you have to go?”

After Mose left, Addy remembered the present on the dresser and went to open it. The salt'n'pepper shakers were in the shape of two entwined dolphins. If you were to use the thing for its practical purpose, just the one shake would give you all the seasoning you needed. She set it on a nearby shelf with the others and thought,
Mose.

Addy had marked the days on a calendar with a soft pencil. When it was time for her moon to come on she'd woken breathless two mornings in a row, having dreamt she was choking on apple seeds. She prayed not to feel the dull ache in her pelvis that said there'd be blood. Be a baby, she begged. Be a baby. But the ache came, and the blood came, and the tears as they always did now. Dutifully, she counted the days again and watched for the signs again and she waited, waited for Mose.

There was knocking at the door, or rather pounding, and the sound of it chilled Addy, for something was wrong. It was Mrs. Yardley standing there on the landing, her fat baby boy on her hip, her eyes bulging and bloodshot from the effort of dragging her own weight and his up the two flights of stairs.

“There's a telephone call for you, Addy,” she said, looking worried. “I couldn't tell who. A man. Line's not very clear.”

Addy flew down the stairs, rushed through Mrs. Yardley's open door, and set the telephone to her ear. She
was expecting to hear her husband's voice and was surprised to find an old man at the other end of the line. She held her breath, waiting to hear the worst, for it was only a death, or near death, that would have necessitated a telephone call. She heard her name. “Addy?”

“Yes.”

“It's Mama.”

For a moment Addy had no picture in her mind and could only wonder, Whose Mama?
My
Mama?

“Addy?”

“Yes.”

“I have to go.”

“Yes,” Addy said, but she was thinking, Who is this? Go where?

“I'm in Montreal now but I'll get to Halifax sometime tomorrow and I guess best I can hope for is she can hang on till I…”

“Mose?”

There was no answer. Addy thought the line had gone dead until she heard a short breath and a sniff. “Oh, Mose.”

“I wish you got a chance to meet her. She would have liked you.”

“Oh, Mose, I wish that too. Tell her so, won't you?”

“I'll tell her.”

“And say how I love you and how I'll be looking out for you so.”

“She knows. Addy? Are you still there, Addy?”

“I'm here.”

“I won't have time to get to Chatham at all.”

Addy had wanted to say “You have to” but said instead, “I know, Mose. I know.”

Though she couldn't remember bending her knees or shifting her weight or when the tears came to her eyes, Addy realized she was sitting on Mrs. Yardley's velveteen chaise, crying soundlessly. Mrs. Yardley was sitting beside her, grasping her hand. Addy put the receiver down and fell against her friend, sharing the woman's ample chest with her big baby boy.

“Poor Mose,” Mrs. Yardley said, sniffing. “And his poor, poor mother.” Addy wasn't crying for Mose's mother though, and she wasn't even crying for Mose. She was crying for her baby yet to be conceived and because it would be another whole month before Mose could even try to sow his seed.

As when the sky turns black and a storm is certain but passes with nary a drop, Mose's mother did not die that day or the next day or even the next week. Her son by her side, she clung to her sickly life and would elude death for years to come. Mose would tell Addy later that the doctor had been shocked by her sudden recovery. An hour after her son's arrival she had been able to choke down some hot soup, and by the third day of his stay she'd been pleased to save his dear young wife the trouble of darning his socks. She'd even insisted on getting out of her bed before Mose was to leave, to make him his favourite meal. The woman
nearly danced the jitterbug when Mose confided that although Addy was a wonderful cook she never could get rice so soft and fluffy as his Mama did.

Someone was at her door and it was the second time in a day there'd been pounding. Addy prepared herself to run down the stairs and hear Mose's old man's voice on the telephone again but it wasn't Mrs. Yardley at the door. It was Simon Ferguson standing there on the third-floor landing, looking like he'd just run to the lake and back. Simon had often turned to her for comfort in the years since Mary Alice died. He was holding in tears, Addy could see, and since it wasn't the first time he'd shown up at her door this way, she reckoned he'd had another argument with his young sweetheart. She thought the time was right to advise Simon, who was like a son, that he ought to bid that never-satisfied young lady farewell.

“Simon Ferguson, did you and that silly girl have another spat?”

Simon didn't have the breath to speak.

“What is it? What's wrong? Come on, tell Addy.”

Simon swallowed and said, “It's Nana.”

Addy grabbed her coat and together they raced down the stairs, out the door, up William Street, and down Murray, racing toward Nora's old house. On the lawn, a huge black crow dug for treasure under the soggy autumn leaves. The crow didn't flap and fly away when Simon and Addy approached, but looked up and gawked at them, like the way people stare when they see another in despair.

Hamond was on the sofa in the sitting room with his head in his hands. Samuel was turned toward the window, sobbing shamelessly. Simon needed courage to speak. He reached for Addy's hand and squeezed before he asked his father, “What the doctor say?”

Hamond looked up from his hands. Addy would wonder later about balance, the question of balance, the balance of life, for Mose's mother did not die that night, but Nora Lemoine did.

The crow outside cawed just then, more a scream than a caw, and Addy knew that although the sound was coming from the bird's throat, it had originated in her own. Nora could not be gone. Nora, whom was never sick. Nora, whom she'd seen just that morning. Nora? Addy'd hear some of the details of what happened from Hamond. Later, Simon would tearfully confess the truth.

Nora'd come home from a visit to a friend's and decided to bake a few pumpkin pies for Hamond and the boys. She asked Simon, who'd been living with her for the past year, to heft the pumpkin from the counter to the table and clean it out but save the seeds for roasting. She'd been annoyed with Simon, the way he handled the carving knife, and felt sure he'd slice off a finger in his carelessness and haste. She'd taken the knife back, finished the job herself, and was separating the seeds from the thick sticky pulp when she stopped, feeling strange. She grasped the edge of the table. The pumpkin fell on its side, spilling juice, pulp, and seeds onto the floor. Truly cross now, she told Simon
get out of her kitchen, which he did and was glad to. Nora got a soapy rag and eased herself down onto the floor.

While she was there on her hands and knees, Nora thought to give the rest of the floor a once-over too and scrubbed what looked like a black tar stain for a full four minutes before a kicked-in-the-chest pain took her breath. She called for her grandson then, and in a decision that would alter the rest of his life, Simon did not come.

Simon had gone to his room and shut the door. It would be easy enough, he thought, to say he hadn't heard his Grandmother if she barged in and confronted him. Otherwise, he thought, she can do whatever it is she wants done herself. Nora called again and again and after a few moments she called once more, but Simon truly couldn't hear the last time, for her voice was so weak it was barely a whisper.