Read Online A Good Death by Gil Courtemanche - Free Book Online

sick, of that I’m sure. He was the kind of man who would never allow such weakness. That was the way things were. People around him were his principal subjects for conversation. He was the only one of us who never spoke about being sick.
    “Grandpa!” Santa calls from the family room.
    “No… more… presents… No… need…”
    Which is what we ourselves have been thinking, more or less privately, for two Christmases now, each of us wondering what we could give him that wouldn’t cause him pain. Some of us fell back on clothing, which he liked and accepted with big, toothless grins, the toothlessness not seeming to bother him much, as though having no teeth were the most normal thing in the world. But we noticed that he almost never wore any of the new clothes, and that my mother has stopped urging him to try them on. He seems content enough to await death with one pair of pants and one shirt, no need for more than one of each item of clothing.
    William, who is also called Sam, our Santa Claus for the evening, comes into the living-room-turned-bedroom.
    “Too… loud… they’re… talking… too… loud.”
    A checked shirt, made from soft, smooth cotton. It was both muted and quite remarkable at the same time, like the clothes he used to wear when I hung back from him for fear of being noticed. Let me explain. In his Bermuda shorts and sandals he stood out in the supermarket aisles, no question, but the colours he preferred were always beige, or light brown, or soft reds, and these were much more of a whole, more muted, as I said, than the bright red ties and yellow shirts sported by the other, normal parents, or the checked pants that came along a few years later. It wasn’t until I began hanging around with famous painters and other artistic types that I understood that my father didn’t dress the way he did to attract attention to himself—if he had, he would have worn garish colours or the latest avant-garde styles. He simply dressed to be comfortable. As I write these words I wonder if he knew that people looked at him and his outfits with such distaste. Probably not, or he would have been mortified. I also wonder what form his pride took? That of a society man who simply wanted to stand out among equals, or the other kind, an individual who craved the freedom to be unique? Or yet another kind, a megalomaniac who wished to dominate, and whose actions required no excuse or even explanation? I think his is the perfect example of the pride of a man of his generation. I am what I am. Period.
    Three Christmases ago he would have put this shirt on, its design and colours so perfectly matching his taste.
    “Don’t you want to try it on? It’s the kind you always liked to wear when we went camping.”
    I mention camping because it’s one of the few subjects that still interests him and sometimes gets him to brighten up, maybe say a few complete sentences. Mushrooms, travelling or rocks might also squeeze a few words from him when things are quiet, away from the relentless clamour of our family get-togethers. And since we’re alone in his room with the background noise not much of an obstacle to conversation, I take the chance. He doesn’t deign to respond, merely turns away and mutters to himself.
    As I hold out the shirt to him I realize I’ve never seen him kiss my mother. Ten children, and not a kiss, not even on their anniversary. Dad, when you were making babies, my brothers and sisters, did you kiss Mother?
    “Dad, the shirt is a present from… it’s the kind of shirt you’ve always liked.”
    “Three… shirts… have… three… Enough.”
    If I were speaking to a child I would tell him to stop sulking, he’s not a baby any more and he’s making everyone feel uncomfortable.
    “Stop sulking, Dad, you’re not a child, after all.”
    He doesn’t say anything. He looks off into space, or maybe at the piano. I don’t give in to him. “Dad,” I say. He mumbles something. Sam and I are