All Saints

 

 

 

 

ALL SAINTS

 

stories

 

K. D. Miller

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BIBLIOASIS

WINDSOR, ON

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © K. D. Miller, 2014

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

 

FIRST EDITION

 

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

 

Miller, K. D. (Kathleen Daisy), 1951-, author

All Saints / written by K.D. Miller.

 

Short stories.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-927428-63-4 (pbk.).-ISBN 978-1-927428-64-1 (epub)

I. Title.

 

 

PS8576.I5392A45 2014 C813'.54 C2013-907290-X

C2013-907291-8

 

Edited by Dan Wells

Typeset by Chris Andrechek

Cover Designed by Kate Hargreaves

 

 

 

 

 

B
iblioasis acknowledges the ongoing financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Council for the Arts, Canadian Heritage, the Canada Book Fund; and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Arts Council.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For John Metcalf, with gratitude and love

 

 

 

 

 

 

Barney

 

 

 

 

 

Best thing you've ever done,
this room. Better than the deck out back, and that was pretty damned good. But this room? Leaps and bounds. Every time you come down here, every time you start pacing it off, something new comes to mind.

Take the walls. Case in point. First off, you figured beige. Kind of colour goes with anything. Never get tired of looking at it. But tell the truth. Didn't feel right. Felt more like something she'd go for and you'd just go along with. So you let it be. Didn't worry it. Didn't bring home a wad of beige paint chips and go nuts trying to see the difference. And sure enough, while you were busy sanding a cut end, it came to you. What you really wanted. Green. Kind of a khaki green. Shade that takes you back. Hardly seen it since the war. Made so much sense you damned near laughed out loud. And next thing, you did laugh. Because you thought, wainscoting. Well, why not? Not too small a room for that. Nice dark woodwork up to maybe waist height. Bit of moulding, stained the same. And topping that, the khaki green. Colour you and Barney were kitted out in, last time—

Ga-a-rth
?

Ah, Christ.

Ga-a-rth
?

Way she drags your name out. When she wants something.

You yell up that you're in the basement. Working. So she yells down that she needs a jar of this or a bottle of that from the shelf under the landing, and could you bring it with you when you come? Except that's not what she means. Oh no. She means right bloody now. But she won't say it. So when you do bring it with you once you're ready to come up, like she said, you'll get that pinched little, hurt little look that says,
Took your time, didn't you?

Yeah. You did. You will, too. Take your sweet time. Things to do down here. Barely got the joists laid for the floor. Still have to measure for the uprights. So you'll bring whatever it is with you when you come up. When you're damned good and ready.

What was it she wanted, anyway? Needs it that bad she can come down the steps herself.

Where were you? Khaki? Wainscoting? Joists? Floor! Hardwood, it's going to be. In that fancy criss-cross pattern. What's it called? Starts with P. Parkerhouse? No, that's buns. Damn. Tip of your tongue. Well, don't worry it. Just think about something else, and it'll come.

Way this whole thing came to you. Just when it looked like all you were allowed to think about was the sixtieth—hers and yours—coming up. All you had to look forward to, too. Not that you were exactly looking forward to it. More like it was coming at you. Her making her plans, all year long. On the phone to the kids, racking up the bill. Calling up the members of the wedding, them as are still alive. Hauling down the photo albums. Looking at the old snaps. Going,
remember, Garth? Remember?
Over and over.

And all of a sudden, you did. Not whatever she was pointing at, though. No, you remembered waiting with Barney. In the station. You were practically home by then, but you were staying a while with him till the train came that would take him the last leg of his own journey. His girl was waiting for him, just like yours was for you. All full of their plans. It was one of those times when you can't really start in talking about anything too big. It'll just get cut off. So you kept it small. Sports. Job prospects. But all the time, it was right on the tip of your tongue.
Barney? Would you stand up for me?

Train came and he was gone. Just as well, you figured. Family would have been up in arms about how you had to have your brother—your own brother, your only brother—as your best man. So there was your own and only brother on the day. Already half-cut. Damned near dropping the rings when he had to hand them to the rector to bless.

Remember, Garth? Remember?

How could you not? Say goodbye to your best friend, say hello to your wife. Hardly time to get out of uniform and into a suit.

Ah, but she's looking forward to it. It's all for the women, these things. Weddings. Marriage, even. Start of everything, for her, that walk down the aisle.

Going to be an announcement in church on Sunday.
Sixty years ago today, right here in All Saints.
Christ, will we have to get up on our feet? Get clapped for? Bad enough the cake in the parish hall afterwards, and having to hang around and smile and crack jokes and pretend to give advice. People congratulating you, like you've just climbed Everest. Dug down to China, feels more like. And all the time, just wanting to get back down here. Strip off the glad rags. Get to work on the room.

You did put your foot down about having the bloody rings blessed all over again. What, you said, the warranty's run out? Batteries need recharging? She sulked a bit. But you'd given in about the announcement and the cake, so she couldn't complain.

You've given in about a few things, over the years. And that's what came to you, when she was going through the wedding album with her
remember, remember
. Almost said it out loud. Be hell to pay if you had. But it came to you. How you'd spent sixty years doing something else. Talking about something else. Thinking about something else.

Maybe once a year or so, you'd give Barney a thought. Around Armistice. Veterans. Remembrance. Whatever they call it now. Wonder how he's doing. If he's sometimes maybe thinking back at you.

Who was his girl again? Shirley? Barney and Shirley. Sounds right. And where did they settle? Grimsby? Think he said they were aiming for Grimsby. Not so far from here. Nice little junket, it could have been. Once a year or so. Not so as to be in each others' pockets. But once a year would have been all right.
Off to see Barney and Shirley for the day
. Or
, Like you to meet Barney and Shirley, in for the day from Grimsby. Barney and I go back, you know. In the war together, weren't we? Got some stories, don't we?

Shit. Was it Grimsby? And was his girl Shirley?

You say you'll stay in touch. Still in your fatigues, at the station, your duffel over your shoulder. Shaking hands. Hard. Looking into each others' eyes. Then away. You say you'll write. You say you'll get together.

What the hell is the name of that criss-cross hardwood pattern? Not going to come to you after all. Going to drive you nuts, all bloody day. Porterhouse? No, that's steak.

She'd know. Upstairs. Waiting for her jar of this or her bottle of that. But damned if you'll ask her. She hates the room. Says it's a waste of time. Kill yourself down there, she says. Man your age. Lugging two-by-fours. Hammering nails.

We can rent it out, you keep saying.

To who, she says.

Make some extra money, you say.

For what, she says. We're old, Garth. The mortgage was paid years ago. We don't need extra money. And we don't need an extra room. Who on earth are you building it for? The kids are grown and gone. The grandkids won't even be coming here. Not to stay, anyway. Nobody's coming here. What we need is to start thinking about selling this place.

Right, you say. And when we do, the room will increase the value.

There. That's your trump card. Stops her noise for a while. For all it's a lie.

Parquet! There. See? Just think about something else. Parquet. That's what it's called. And you can get it in squares now. Tack them down onto the plywood underlay. Make a parquet floor. Square by square. For Barney. Hell with selling the house. Hell with her.
Could you lift this and could you reach that and just look at the spot on your nice clean shirt and when am I going to get a new washer-dryer and and and
. And talk? Jesus. Not like she's trying to tell you anything. Not like she's got something to say. More like her heart's in her tongue and if she ever stops for one blessed minute that'll be it.

Not that you and Barney didn't talk. Probably talked more to Barney than you've ever talked to anybody. In your life. Those weeks before you got sent over. And then once you were in the thick of it. When every word might be your last, so you made it a good one.

It wasn't just noise, though. Just talk to fill the nothing. The words—if you added up the words, they wouldn't come to much. Not yours, anyway. But Barney? He could ask you a question—
You ever get up real early, Garth, and see a lake like glass before the first wind's ruffled it, and the reflection of the far trees so perfect you don't know which is water and which is sky, and it makes you wonder if you've been upside down all your life?
If things were quiet, it would sound like the damnedest fool question you'd ever heard. But then all the hell would start up. And at the end of it, when you were just getting used to not being dead, you'd find that question still in your mind, and it would be the only thing in the whole universe that made any sense. So you'd say,
Yeah. I've seen that. Once or twice.
And Barney would smile like he'd known all along you had, like that question was the one he'd been saving up just for you. Like the two of you hadn't just come close to being blown to bits, and that lake was right there in front of you both, in the early morning, with the first wind yet to ruffle the surface. And soon—

Ga-a-rth?

What! What! What! You're down here! Working! And whatever she needs she can come get it for herself!

Silence. Oh, right. You know how it's going to be now, once you do go up. She'll put your lunch down in front of you without a word, then sit across the table from you not eating. Not talking. For once. And you'll try. Try a little joke. Call her one of the old names. Say, How about supper down at the Legion tonight? Save cooking? No dishes? Still nothing. So finally you'll say, All right, what is it then? And she'll be all tears, blubbering on about the jar of pickles or whatever the hell it was that you wouldn't bring up. Except it's not the jar of pickles. It's never the bloody jar of pickles.

Makes you wonder how the human race ever managed to get a toehold.

Things you can't tell a woman. A woman's forever waiting for you to come back home. From the war. From the job. Sees you off in the morning. Thinks you're the same man at the end of the day. Can just get on with the plan. Like the day never happened. But every day takes something away from you. Or hands you something to take, whether you want it or not.

And then there are the things you see. Can't talk about them either. Like remembering a dream, some of them all in flashes, like lightning. And thunder—worse than any you've ever known. But not thunder. Guns. Men. No. Boys, most of them. Just boys. Cold. Scared. That's what you tell yourself after. About what you see in that one flash. Think you see. Two of them. One holding the other because he can't stop his noise. Unbuttoning his tunic. Giving the kid the nipple, hair and all. And after, it's like you did it. Except you didn't. Or it's like it happened to you. Except it didn't. All you know is you can sleep. Sleep like a baby. First time in—

Shutters. God, yes. Just came to you. Shutters. For the window. Stained to match the wainscoting. Not curtains. No. Not bloody curtains. Shutters that he can fold open, if he likes, or pull closed. With little visors so he can adjust the light. You're starting to see it. Really see it. Bed over there. Dresser up against the other wall. Desk in the corner. Shelves. Oh, you'll be fine, Barney. I'll look after you. You'll see. You'll see.

Which of us said that?
I'll look after you
.
You'll see. You'll see.
Was it you? Or him? It got said. One way or the other. Sixty years ago. Could have been yesterday.

Not that you were. You and Barney. No. Not like that. You'd both been engaged to be married when you were sent over. And you and her. You already had. Twice. And it had been all right. It had been fine. For you. Maybe for her too. But she would never say, and you don't ask a girl about a thing like that. Not the kind of girl you'd think of marrying.

You were pretty sure Barney had, too. With Shirley. He hinted as much, once or twice. But you don't come out and ask a man about a thing like that either. Not even your best friend. Not even in hell.

Better go up soon. Face the music. Maybe ask her about the grandkids. Any of them coming on Sunday? She told you, but it's hard to keep them straight, where they are, what they're doing. Well, just ask her again. Break the ice. Can always get her talking about the grandkids.

Wonder if Barney has any. Grandpa Barney. Grandpa Garth. Strange, that. Can't get used to it, for all the youngest is in high school and the oldest going to be married. Could never get used to being Dad, either. Or even Garth, the way she says it. Wake up in the middle of the night and wonder where your boots had got to. Reach for your rifle, and there's your wife.

You get lodged. Things take. You're here, but you're still over there. And nobody can know what that's like, unless they were with you at the time. Unless there's a part of them that never quite made it home, either.

Parquet floor. And wainscoting.
My God, Garth
, he'll say, once he's dropped his kit bag on the bed and taken his first look round.
You wainscoted the walls!
And you'll kind of smile down at your feet, like it's nothing. And just when you're wondering when he'll notice the shutters, he'll say,
Shutters!
And he'll try them out, folding them back, working the levers. And all the time you'll be keeping it small, just shrugging and saying something like, well, you guess you'll let him alone to get settled in. And maybe in a little while—