Road Ends (5 page)

I remember he came to the house the day Henry died. Megan answered the door. Emily was in her bedroom and I was in my study. I heard Megan go upstairs, presumably to ask her mother if she wanted to see him, but she did not. She wanted to see no one, including me.

I am not a believer, as the Reverend knew very well. When he first arrived in Struan, fifteen years or so ago, and noticed that I was not a member of his congregation although Emily and the children were, he came to the house one evening to ask me why. I replied, quite courteously, I think, considering that it was none of his business, that I had no religious faith, whereupon he immediately set about trying to convert me, right there in my own living room. I had had a hard day at work and was not in the best of tempers, so it was a short discussion. Although polite on both sides.

So we both knew it was Emily he had come to comfort. I did not wish to speak to him or to any man—Henry had died in Emily’s arms less than two hours previously—but I felt obliged to invite him in and he felt obliged to accept. I offered him a chair and he sat down, and the very first thing he said was, “Your child is at peace in the arms of the Lord, Edward.”

I don’t know why the words caused me such pain. Or perhaps it wasn’t pain, perhaps it was rage. Henry was a squalling, fretful baby; I had felt almost nothing but irritation towards him while he was alive, which I knew was inexcusable with a child so ill. Now it was too late to make amends. Upstairs was my wife, utterly distraught, who had made it clear that she did not want me near her. And in walks a man who knows I am not a believer and tells me my child is at peace in the arms of the Lord.

I remember I had some trouble getting the words out and, when I managed, they came out through my teeth and with some force.

I said, “Have you any idea how
offensive
that sounds to someone who does not share your faith?”

I remember the pleasure I felt as his face went first white and then deep red. I remember the silence that followed as he searched for and failed to find anything to say. I loathed him at that moment almost as much as I loathed myself.

Why am I writing about this? First my father and now the once-Reverend James Thomas! Why am I reliving events dead and gone and beyond redemption? It’s my birthday. I should be thinking about something cheerful or at least interesting. I should be thinking about Rome.

The Pantheon. I will think about the Pantheon. That is worth dwelling on. Augustus dedicated it to the planetary gods—the dome represents the firmament. The opening at the top is called an
oculus
, from the Latin meaning “eye.” Apparently there are holes in the floor beneath it to allow rainwater to drain away. I doubt that would work here. Not with a snowfall like we’re having today. The whole building would simply fill up with snow. Lift up the dome and you’d find an igloo.

CHAPTER THREE

Struan, January 1969

He had turned the big winged armchair towards the window so that one of the wings shielded him from the rest of the room, which was why his father hadn’t noticed him when he’d stuck his head out of the study to roar at the others. The roaring didn’t bother Tom—in fact, it barely registered—but he’d automatically glanced up and as he was about to return to his paper a movement caught his eye: Adam, his youngest brother—no, second-youngest, as of a week ago—straightening up from a crouching position on the floor. He’d been playing with his Matchbox toys right outside the door of their father’s study and must have curled himself into a ball, arms over his head, to protect himself from the blast. Now he was unfurling.

Their eyes met. It had been many months since Tom had noticed much of anything that took place either within his family or outside it, but he couldn’t help noticing the anxiety in his younger brother’s eyes and it struck him that a kid that age shouldn’t be looking like that. Tom wondered vaguely how to reassure him. Make light of things, maybe. Turn their father’s temper into a joke.

Keeping his voice down so that their father wouldn’t hear, he said, “I reckon he was a little bit annoyed. Whaddya think?”

Adam nodded but didn’t look particularly reassured. Maybe he was too young for humour.

“He wasn’t mad at you, you know,” Tom said. Probably their father hadn’t even noticed him down there at his feet.

Another nod. Still not reassured.

Tom couldn’t think of anything else to say so he returned to his paper. He read
The Globe and Mail
cover to cover, world news to racing results, every day; it was fascinating, every word of it, and it took up almost all of his free time. He had a lot of free time nowadays, more than he wanted, but the number of jobs you could find in a place the size of Struan involving no contact with people was limited, and that was his chief requirement. At the moment he drove the town’s one and only snowplough, perched up high in the draughty, freezing cab, peering through the frosted windscreen, blinded by flying snow, terrified of mowing someone down. Once he’d pushed Paul Jackson’s snow-covered Buick twenty feet before he realized it wasn’t a snowdrift.

The job was shift work; he alternated with Marcel Bruchon, a farmer who augmented his income that way during the winter months. Marcel would be out there now, thundering down the main roads, snow flying off the blade of the plough like the wing of some gigantic bird, trying to get the roads cleared so people could get home from work. Marcel took the late shift and Tom took the early one, which suited him fine. He started at six in the morning, cleared the main roads—there weren’t many, Struan was a small town—then worked his way out to the side roads. Some days the snow fell so fast there was no way to keep up with it and the farmers and other out-of-towners had to resort to snowshoes or skis or just stay home. The only drawback of the job was that if there was no snow there was no work, but from November onwards that was rare.

Summer had been more of a problem, job-wise. The previous summer he’d started off working at the gas station, but people kept talking to him while he filled up their tanks and cleaned their windshields so he quit. Then he got a job working as a ranger for the Forestry Commission. He’d spent the days perched in a fire tower on the top of Mount Allen, binoculars glued to his eyes, searching for telltale wisps of smoke above the endless rolling sea of trees. In theory it should have suited him even better than the snowplough—not a soul for miles in any direction—but in practice it had turned out to be a mistake. There was too little thinking involved and he couldn’t read to distract himself, so his mind filled up with thoughts like lungs filling up with water till he could hardly breathe. At least with the snowplough you had to concentrate on the road. So he’d quit fire-watching too and got a job driving a logging truck, which had turned out to be just fine.

Something bumped into his shoe. Tom lowered his paper and saw that Adam was in the process of driving his battered fleet of Matchbox cars across the room and parking them at his feet. He must have felt Tom’s gaze because he looked up guiltily.

“It’s okay,” Tom said. “You can play with them here. Just don’t run into my feet.”

Adam nodded and moved the cars carefully around the corner of the chair. But Tom felt a stirring of irritation in his guts; unlike his father he normally had no difficulty blocking out his family but now that Adam had intruded on his privacy other things were intruding too. He could hear the thudding of Peter’s and Corey’s feet upstairs in their bedroom; there’d be a scuffle followed by a loud thump as one or other of them collided with a wall and then more scuffling. In the study his father blew his nose with an angry blast. Down beside the chair there was a tinny crash as Adam staged a pileup. It had been a mistake to talk to the kid.

Tom tossed the paper onto the floor and stood up. Outside it was dark already, although it was only half past three. The wind was picking up, hurling gusts of snow against the windows. His stomach felt agitated. Maybe there wasn’t enough in it, he thought. He’d had lunch at Harper’s after his shift but that was a good while ago.

He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared into it, then became aware that Adam had followed him and was standing by his left knee and staring into it too. Tom fought the urge to tell him to go away. Definitely it had been a mistake to talk to him. He had nothing against this particular brother—relative to the others he was a model of good behaviour—but he wanted to be left alone. His wish was to be invisible and he had the uneasy feeling Adam was starting to see him.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, trying half-heartedly to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Those anxious eyes again. A nod.

“What did Mum give you for lunch?” He never ate lunch at home himself. He had a bowl of cornflakes and a piece of toast first thing in the morning before setting out for the gas station where the snowplough was kept, and a hot beef sandwich with gravy and fries at Harper’s restaurant when he finished, regardless of the time of day. There were two half-width booths at the back of the restaurant, one of which was usually empty. If not, he’d spread his newspaper over the table in one of the larger booths to deter company. He’d made a point of never getting into conversation with either of the waitresses; apart from giving his order, which he no longer had to do as they both knew what it was, he didn’t have to say anything but thank you. The hot beef sandwiches were good, as were the fries, so in pretty much every way it beat eating with his family. In the evening he’d make himself a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of coffee. On Sundays Harper’s was closed, so on Sundays he lived on coffee and sandwiches.

“She was busy with the baby,” Adam whispered.

“You can talk normally,” Tom said irritably. “He can’t object to that. Didn’t you have any lunch, then?”

“Cornflakes,” Adam said, slightly louder. Then he added, “But the milk tasted funny.”

Tom took the milk bottle out of the refrigerator, sniffed it, walked over to the sink and poured it down the drain. He went back to the fridge. Inside was a packet of lard, an egg box with two eggs in it, one shrivelled carrot and a plate with a bowl inverted over it, which turned out to contain a highly suspect lump of meat. Tom dumped the meat into the garbage bag under the sink. The meat smelled bad and the garbage bag smelled worse; he quickly closed the cupboard door again. He looked around the kitchen for any further traces of food. The counter was cluttered with unwashed dishes and saucepans and old papers and half-empty glasses and cups and somebody’s shoes. The only food he could see was the box of cornflakes—empty, it turned out—and a jar of peanut butter so well scraped out there was nothing left but the smell. The bread bin was empty as Peter had so loudly observed.

Tom opened the food cupboard above the counter: one can of peas, two cans of Heinz baked beans, one of peaches, one of condensed milk, one of condensed mushroom soup, a carton of Minute Rice, a bag of flour, an open bag of sugar, a box of salt with a built-in spout, a jar of relish and a jar of dried-out mustard. He checked the cupboards under the counter: a box of Quaker Oats. That was it.

He opened the top cupboards again and took out the two cans of baked beans, then looked around for the can opener.

“It’s in the sink,” Adam said, whispering again.

Tom looked down at him. “You haven’t been using it, have you?”

Adam shook his head but he looked guilty.

“Well don’t,” Tom said. “It’s dangerous.”

“Okay.”

“How old are you, anyway?” Tom asked abruptly, because it somehow seemed relevant.

“Four and a half,” Adam said. He hauled up his shirt and scratched his belly. He didn’t smell too great, though not as bad as the garbage or the meat.

Tom thought suddenly, This place is going to hell.

He urgently wanted to get back to
The Globe and Mail
. He’d almost got to the obituaries, which were one of the best bits—all those people you’d never heard of and had now discovered just too late.

How long had it been since their mother had come downstairs and cooked a meal? Since before the baby arrived? He wasn’t sure he’d seen her at all for a couple of days, not even drifting about with the baby in her arms. Maybe there was something wrong with her. It couldn’t just be the new baby; she’d had babies before—eight of them, in fact—and he couldn’t remember the place falling apart with the others.