The Carpenter Page 18

  They gave him a visitor’s pass. He felt them watching after he’d passed by. He hadn’t been in any state of mind to pull together his observations in the short time he’d spent here following Bud’s death, but he felt a revulsion towards the hospital, he suspected because of its institutional nature.

  It was in the hospital that he’d been interviewed about the accident by the police and by an investigator from the Ministry of Labour. His parole officer, Wade Larkin, had come for the interviews. It hadn’t taken long to clear Lee of any culpability but that hadn’t left him any more at ease. Clifton was in more trouble, and as his part in the investigation wore on, work had ceased.

  Lee took the elevator up to the third floor. Up here were a number of other terminally ill persons. Irene shared her room with an old woman named Mrs. Petrelli, who was dying from pancreatic cancer. She did not speak English and she became talkative only when her son came to visit in the early afternoons. The remainder of the time, she watched the TV in the corner of the room, soap operas or news broadcasts. Irene reported that Mrs. Petrelli had had night terrors on two occasions, had screamed until the nurse came. Mrs. Petrelli’s son said his mother was bombed in Italy as a teenager in the Second World War. Most of her family was killed.

  Irene was sitting up in bed wearing a nasal tube, her supper tray on a bed table in front of her. The meal was chicken and peas and it reminded Lee of the meals in prison. He sat down beside her. Under the bed, just at the edge of sight, was a catheter pouch full of urine.

  — Did Barry or Donna visit today? said Lee.

  — Barry said he would come by.

  The television chattered. Mrs. Petrelli moaned.

  — You shouldn’t have to share a room, said Lee.

  — It’s okay, son. Unless she has her nightmares.

  — You should have your own room. Goddammit.

  — Lee, now.

  He held up his finger.

  — Wait, Ma.

  Lee went out of the room and found the duty station, where a nurse wearing a cardigan over her scrubs was bent over a clipboard. Lee leaned on the edge of the desk. The nurse asked in a flat voice if she could help him.

  — I want my mother to have her own room.

  — To whom are you referring, sir?

  — Irene King.

  — Is there a problem?

  — She shares a room with a lady who doesn’t even speak English. My mother is real sick. She should be in a more comfortable way. She shouldn’t have to worry about sharing the TV with nobody or getting woke up in the night.

  — I hate to say but it’s not so quick a process. Bed space is always an issue.

  — Well, what can you do about that?

  — I can recommend a hospice or in-home care.

  — Something I’d have to pay for, in other words.

  — That’s correct. But I assure you, sir, the comfort of all patients here is very important to us.

  — She should have her own room.

  — It would be nice if this hospital was twice the size it is, I agree.

  Irene had been in the hospital since the last few days of November. Lee had gotten a call from Donna, relayed upstairs through Mr. Yoon. Later he’d heard the whole story from Pete, how Pete had come home late one night from work and found his grandmother on her knees in the bathroom. She was trying to cough quietly. There were bright spots of blood in the sink and in the toilet and on the floor.

  Dr. Vijay called it hemoptysis. Some of the cancerous blood vessels had burst in her lungs. The doctor did not think it was necessarily severe, and said it would likely subside on its own. But they needed to discuss a more aggressive treatment, he said. In the meantime, she was to be kept in the hospital.

  When Lee went back to the room, he saw that Barry had arrived. Barry had stopped to speak some words with Mrs. Petrelli, standing by her bed and holding one of her skinny hands.

  — Si chiamano figlio mio? Egli ha sposato un ebreo.

  — God bless you, said Barry, patting her hand.

  — Barry, said Lee.

  — Hey, Brother Lee.

  They went to Irene’s bed. She was looking out the window and her breathing sounded like dirt caught in the gears of a machine. Barry was about to speak but Lee spoke first: We’re looking at getting you your own room, Ma.

  — Lee, said Barry.

  — That’s what we’re going to do.

  — Well, said Barry.

  They stayed for awhile. Barry talked about his sons, about Donna, about the Christmas outreach programs Galilee Pentecostal had organized. Meals for the infirm, a gift drive for the empty-handed. Lee sat with his face planted on his fist. He watched how Barry was solicitous in the telling. He badly wanted a cigarette.

  — It makes me proud, said Barry.

  Irene and Barry were both looking at him.

  — Say what?

  — I was saying it makes me proud, Lee. How you’ve been keeping your faith since the tragedy. You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.

  — You done well, son, said Irene.

  — I think maybe it’s time for a prayer, said Barry. He turned to Mrs. Petrelli and asked would she join them in prayer.

  — Chiamare l’infermiera. Io sono affamati.

  Barry took Mrs. Petrelli’s hand and he took Irene’s hand and he held them. Irene reached her other hand out to Lee and he took it in both of his own. Irene squeezed her eyes shut. Mrs. Petrelli gaped. Barry lowered his head.

  — The burdens that are put on us, there’s nothing that’s not intended to strengthen us in Your service.

  — Dear Jesus, said Irene.

  — The body gets weak but the soul gets stronger.

  There were tears collecting at the sides of Irene’s shuttered eyes. She whispered: Oh dear Jesus.

  Lee watched his mother, wondering what these words were doing for her. He thought about the Bible, he thought about some of the verses he’d learned, or at least some of what he’d heard chaplains saying-hope in hard times, deliverance in the face of death. They spoke of God as the high tower, God as shelter from the wicked, God as the shield, God as the sword, God as the one who would escort you up from your earthly pain to heaven, where you would be pain-free for the rest of eternity. All you had to do was have faith. But faith in what? In these words? Was his mother squeezing her eyes shut from the words alone? Because all Lee could hear were the words, and they’d never sounded so hollow.

  — Amen, said Barry.

  — Egli ha sposato un ebreo, said Mrs. Petrelli.

  Ten minutes later Lee stood to go. He kissed his mother’s forehead and smoothed back what remained of her hair. He went out and looked at the duty station, but the nurse was gone. Barry caught up with him at the elevator.

  — Brother Lee, thank you for coming. It means so much to her.

  — It would mean more if we got her into her own room.

  — Honestly, I was a little surprised when I heard you say it. I thought we agreed on the arrangements.

  — I agreed till I saw the room lately.

  — Bed space is a major issue here, Lee.

  — Don’t worry about that, Barry. I’ll find something to take care of it.

  Barry clasped his hands together and smiled tightly: Can we agree it’s something to discuss with Donna?

  — We can agree.

  — Good. Are we still seeing you for supper next Thursday?

  — I’ll be there. I’ll introduce you to my lady friend.

  — We’ll be happy to meet her, said Barry.

  — I’ll see you soon.

  — Lee, there’s one other thing.

  — What’s that?

  Barry pushed a pamphlet towards him.

  — It’s something to think about. Everybody is here to help, Brother Lee.

  Barry went back to Irene’s room and Lee got into the elevator. The pamphlet showed a drawing of a figure contemplating a bottle. It advertised Alcoholics Anonymous. The meeting was held weekly at the Ch
arles Grady Memorial Community Centre. Lee wondered if Barry had even noticed that part. Probably not. He managed a thin chuckle.

  He carried the pamphlet with him into the smoking section in the cafeteria. He had a smoke among the ill and the dying, the relatives, the attendants. He put the pamphlet on the table and took his leave.

  As he went outside, he thought of the call that faith was supposed to be, the call in your heart. He’d thought he’d heard it once or twice, perhaps, but now, everything that had gone before was doubtful. Everything, it seemed, was just words.

  The sun was going down, making long shadows of the gas pumps. Duane was finishing with a customer and Pete was in the store. He kept looking at the clock on the wall.

  — You seem like you’re in a hurry tonight, said Caroline. Big date?

  Pete shifted his feet.

  Caroline nodded: If it’s a date, you’ll have to tell us about it. Go take Duane a hot chocolate. Yes, you can have one too.

  Pete went to the coffee stand and mixed powdered hot chocolate and hot water into two Styrofoam cups. He sealed the cups with plastic lids and went outside. The air smelled of cold concrete. He gave one of the hot chocolates to Duane. Duane spat a wad of chewing tobacco into an empty pop can.

  — Thanks, said Duane. Feel like working, you dog-fucker?

  — Not really, said Pete.

  — I thought not. Hey, you know this guy?

  Duane was pointing. A Camaro was parked across the lot. Billy was coming towards them at a brisk pace.

  — What’s up? called Billy.

  Pete crossed the distance to meet Billy halfway.

  — What’s up? said Billy.

  — I don’t know. What’s up?

  — You tell me, you fucking traitor.

  Pete did not reply. The heat through the Styrofoam cup was creeping into his fingers. Billy’s face was pale and etched.

  — Where are you going tonight, Peter?

  — I guess you know already.

  — You fucking traitor.

  Billy’s voice was gaining an edge. He was so angry that tears had formed in his eyes. He knocked the hot chocolate out of Pete’s hand. It hit the ground and the lid burst off. The hot chocolate steamed on the dark pavement.

  — Say something, Peter.

  — I don’t know what to say. It just … doesn’t have anything to do with you.

  Billy pulled his fist back but then Duane swept between them, barrelled up against Billy, pushed him away. Billy kept calling Pete a fucking traitor. Pete happened to glance over at the store. Caroline was watching from the window. Duane walked Billy backwards, speaking to him all the while. There was no real fight in Billy anyway. There was only hurt etched on his face.

  — You’re a fucking traitor, Peter.

  A few feet farther on, Duane released Billy. Billy pushed Duane away and shook his shoulders. He pointed at Pete and said they were done. Then he slouched away in the direction of his car. Pete and Duane looked back at the gas pumps but no customers had come in the meantime.

  — You okay? said Duane.

  — I’m fine.

  Pete bent down and numbly retrieved the Styrofoam cup. They walked back and Pete dropped the cup in a garbage can. His hands were shaking and the image of Billy’s hurt face seemed to have been burned into his mind. If there’d been anything to do or say before, the opportunity was lost now.

  By this time Caroline had come outside. She came right up in front of Pete, not standing as tall as his chest.

  — You, mister, keep your personal shit away from here. I’m trying to run a business. Understand?

  — I’m sorry, said Pete.

  She went wordlessly back to the store.

  Duane leaned against one of the pumps. He looked amused. He said: A girl between buddies, I’m guessing.

  — Everything changed when I met her. I just wish he could have seen that at the time.

  Pete drove into town. He was stiff inside a brown tuxedo and dress shirt he’d rented. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he swung past Lee’s place first. For advice of some kind, perhaps? There was also a desire just to see the man, given the accident he’d survived a few weeks previous. But at Lee’s place, the windows were dark. That seemed to be the case lately. Maybe he was on one of his long, town-wide walks, hunched into his coat, smoking a cigarette. Pete drove on.

  The address Emily had given him was the house of her friend Samantha, who lived on Harding Crescent, up near the golf course. It was a nice part of town. Snow lay on lawns and rooftops and the tops of hedges. There was light in the windows of Samantha’s house. Pete parked behind another car. A corsage of small roses he’d purchased sat in a box on the passenger seat. He took it and got out of the car and crossed over to the porch.

  Samantha opened the door. He had a vague memory of her from the party at Nancy’s house in the fall-she’d spent the night conspiring in the kitchen. Samantha was wearing a purple formal gown and was heavily made up. She nodded, and she called out to Emily that Pete had arrived, but Emily had already appeared in the hallway.

  She looked coolly elegant, much as she had the first time he’d ever seen her, in the church when she’d played the piano. She was dressed in a pale satin dress, fitted in the bodice, bare across the shoulders. She was smiling as she came forward, and Pete felt his breath catch in his throat. She smelled like lilacs, and when she said hello there was peppermint schnapps on her breath.

  Pete held up the corsage. Emily told him to come in, that they’d go soon.

  Samantha was in the living room with her boyfriend, Doug. Doug’s tuxedo trousers were short by a full two inches, and he’d paired white sports socks with the brown leather shoes he was wearing. Doug and the girls finished the drinks they’d been working on and they all went out and got into Pete’s car and set off for Heron Heights. Doug pawed at Samantha in the back seat. She was slapping his hand and laughing. They passed a mickey of rum between them and offered it to Emily. She had a sip of it, made a face, and passed it back. The corsage was pinned over her breast. She was wearing snow boots, but had brought along a pair of high heels to wear at the dance. Pete kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

  They’d spent much of the past two weeks seeing each other. She’d called him at work one day, a little while after he’d seen her at the hospital. She’d admonished him for not calling her. The first two times they’d spent together, they barely touched. He’d not dared to put words to what might be happening. He avoided Billy entirely. Then, on a weekend afternoon, he and Emily had gone walking by the river and she’d stopped abruptly and said he’d better give her a kiss.

  In the car now, Emily asked Pete how work was. He answered briefly, agreeably. He didn’t say anything about Billy’s visit.

  They arrived at Heron Heights at a quarter past eight. Pete had only gone to a few dances at his old high school. He’d never gone to a formal.

  They got out of the car, Samantha and Doug in the lead. Emily looped her arm through Pete’s. She said: Do you think a Christmas formal is too much? I feel like I at least have to make an appearance.

  — We’ll have fun, said Pete. Will we see your other friends?

  — One or two of them. There’s been some drama.

  — Drama.

  — I don’t like drama. But if you’re a girl you can’t get away from it. I envy you. Boys don’t become dramatic. Boys just hit each other like cavemen when they get mad.

  They went into the school lobby. There was a national flag and a portrait of the Queen and a bulletin board. Music was coming through the doors to the auditorium. The students’ council had set up a reception table. A girl at the table greeted Emily and Samantha and Doug by name and asked Peter if he was Emily’s guest. She crossed their names off a list and told them to not forget about the photographer.

  The auditorium was dark, hot and half filled with young people uneasy in their fancy dress. Paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling. Some teacher chaperones policed the scene, pr
owling for booze. A local disc jockey had his equipment set up on the stage. He had stacks of LPs in milk crates and was just now drawing a record out of a sleeve. Nobody was dancing.

  People spoke to Emily and Samantha and Doug. Pete was introduced. They spent some time idling about in their foursome and Emily was never far away. Fingertips on Pete’s hand or a tug at the edge of his jacket. He wondered at it. She told him when a good song came on she wanted him to dance with her.

  After awhile, they went to a classroom where a photographer had set up his camera in front of a muted backdrop. Pete and Emily took up a position. The photographer came over and adjusted their pose, angled them towards each other. Pete’s free hand traced patterns on the small of Emily’s back. The photographer scooted back behind his camera and told them to smile their million-buck smiles.

  Emily murmured: Is this completely ridiculous?

  — It was your idea.

  She pushed her back against Pete’s fingers.

  The flashbulb went off and the photographer told them that was just great. Emily took Pete’s arm and they stepped away from the backdrop. Pete wondered vaguely what might become of the photograph.

  Back in the auditorium, the music was slower. Couples were pairing up to dance. They spied Doug and Samantha out on the floor, turning slowly. Doug looked half asleep.

  Emily led Pete out and they started to dance, and then over her shoulder Pete saw a small group of the people he’d wondered about. There was Nancy. Some other girls were with her. There was Roger. He was leaning against the edge of the stage. Beside him one of his mates was saying something into his ear. Roger had his head tilted the better to hear, and both he and his friend were looking at Pete. If Emily had seen any of them, she gave no sign of it.

  When the song ended, Emily and Pete headed back to the chairs at the edge of the room. Sweat and perfume and cologne hung in the air. Doug had disappeared somewhere but Samantha had come with them. She said she needed more rum, would Emily go with her to the bathroom.

  — Am I just going to leave Pete here? said Emily.

  — We’ll only be two minutes, said Samantha. Can you take care of yourself, Pete?

  — I’ll be fine, said Pete.