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Authors: Linden Macintyre
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gravel road. Then before me was a large split-level house with two cars and a half-ton in front. A dog roared. A door opened. I waved from where I sat then drove forward. There were small fields on either side of the lane, their corners invaded by stumpy spruce trees. Probably vast meadows once upon a time, now shrunken by the creeping forest.
And I suddenly remembered, vividly, the heap of fresh earth, dead flowers scattered. Now there was just Effie and me and our father standing on the side of a narrow road that skirted a shabby section of the city. The vast chaotic steel mill belched smoke and ash and a fine red dust.
“This is where she’ll always be,” he said. “Remember, when you’re bigger. You’ll always know you’ll find her near the smoke.”
Effie was clutching a shabby doll, her expression sombre.
“And over there,” he said, pointing, “that’ll be your grandma.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she from here?”
“No.”
“Where, then?”
“Hawthorne.”
“Where’s that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The house was relatively modern. Beyond it, a barn leaned perilously, a stout beam propped against one wall to prevent complete collapse. What appeared to be the hull of a new boat rose optimistically nearby, swaddled in tarpaulin.
Danny Ban descended from a high deck at the front of the house. He was moving carefully, one hand gripping the railing. The wary dog stayed close to him.
“The MS is an awful friggin’ nuisance,” he announced.
“You have MS?” I said, surprised.
“Yeeeees,” he said impatiently. “But there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it except take it cool. Live quiet. A big change for me.” And he laughed. “Glad you came by.”
“My first time. Actually, there might have been a family connection here.”
“Oh?”
“My grandmother.”
“And what would her name have been?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.”
“I see.” He looked away for a while. Then, to break the unexpected silence, he said, “Come on. Let me show you something.” And he led me toward the new boat.
He bought the fibreglass hull on the mainland, he said. He and the boy were building the cab, finishing the interior themselves.
“Gonna be like a yacht. Nothing but the best of wood and fittings. Nothing wrong with a little comfort while you work.”
Inside the house I met his wife, Jessie. “I know you from church,” she said. “You’ve filled in once or twice for Father Mullins.”
“I was telling her how I met you at the harbour that morning,” Danny said.
“I guess you’re into boats,” said Jessie.
“Not really,” I said, and laughed.
They’d met in Toronto, where he worked during the sixties. She’d been a secretary. He took hard jobs in warehouses, pick and shovel on construction sites, digging ditches. Thought he’d moved up in the world when he landed work at the Glidden paint factory. Slavery instead. But then he got into the iron-workers’ union and started making decent money. Worked on the TD Centre. The CN Tower. A natural-born rigger, they all said. He was fearless in high places. But when he heard there was an old fellow selling out his fishing gear back east, boat and licences, he decided to come home. Bought everything from old Gillis in Hawthorne. His ticket back.
Everything was tickety-boo for more than twenty years. The young fellow’s arrival was the icing on the cake. Then, just as things seemed perfect, they turned sour. “Isn’t that always the way?” he said.
Jessie left us with our tea and biscuits while he was explaining his illness to me, how he’d felt a sudden loss of energy a few years earlier but regarded it as aging until one morning he woke up and couldn’t see.
“Stone blind,” he said. “I nearly had a shit hemorrhage, pardon my French. It was in Halifax they gave me the news. It was kind of a relief. The blindness was temporary. The MS
And I suddenly remembered, vividly, the heap of fresh earth, dead flowers scattered. Now there was just Effie and me and our father standing on the side of a narrow road that skirted a shabby section of the city. The vast chaotic steel mill belched smoke and ash and a fine red dust.
“This is where she’ll always be,” he said. “Remember, when you’re bigger. You’ll always know you’ll find her near the smoke.”
Effie was clutching a shabby doll, her expression sombre.
“And over there,” he said, pointing, “that’ll be your grandma.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she from here?”
“No.”
“Where, then?”
“Hawthorne.”
“Where’s that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The house was relatively modern. Beyond it, a barn leaned perilously, a stout beam propped against one wall to prevent complete collapse. What appeared to be the hull of a new boat rose optimistically nearby, swaddled in tarpaulin.
Danny Ban descended from a high deck at the front of the house. He was moving carefully, one hand gripping the railing. The wary dog stayed close to him.
“The MS is an awful friggin’ nuisance,” he announced.
“You have MS?” I said, surprised.
“Yeeeees,” he said impatiently. “But there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it except take it cool. Live quiet. A big change for me.” And he laughed. “Glad you came by.”
“My first time. Actually, there might have been a family connection here.”
“Oh?”
“My grandmother.”
“And what would her name have been?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.”
“I see.” He looked away for a while. Then, to break the unexpected silence, he said, “Come on. Let me show you something.” And he led me toward the new boat.
He bought the fibreglass hull on the mainland, he said. He and the boy were building the cab, finishing the interior themselves.
“Gonna be like a yacht. Nothing but the best of wood and fittings. Nothing wrong with a little comfort while you work.”
Inside the house I met his wife, Jessie. “I know you from church,” she said. “You’ve filled in once or twice for Father Mullins.”
“I was telling her how I met you at the harbour that morning,” Danny said.
“I guess you’re into boats,” said Jessie.
“Not really,” I said, and laughed.
They’d met in Toronto, where he worked during the sixties. She’d been a secretary. He took hard jobs in warehouses, pick and shovel on construction sites, digging ditches. Thought he’d moved up in the world when he landed work at the Glidden paint factory. Slavery instead. But then he got into the iron-workers’ union and started making decent money. Worked on the TD Centre. The CN Tower. A natural-born rigger, they all said. He was fearless in high places. But when he heard there was an old fellow selling out his fishing gear back east, boat and licences, he decided to come home. Bought everything from old Gillis in Hawthorne. His ticket back.
Everything was tickety-boo for more than twenty years. The young fellow’s arrival was the icing on the cake. Then, just as things seemed perfect, they turned sour. “Isn’t that always the way?” he said.
Jessie left us with our tea and biscuits while he was explaining his illness to me, how he’d felt a sudden loss of energy a few years earlier but regarded it as aging until one morning he woke up and couldn’t see.
“Stone blind,” he said. “I nearly had a shit hemorrhage, pardon my French. It was in Halifax they gave me the news. It was kind of a relief. The blindness was temporary. The MS
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