The Big Why (29 page)

I got into the habit of writing letters and wrote many of them. I wrote to the
St John’s Mail and Advocate
. I wrote one for the
New York Evening Mail
. I wrote Rufus Weeks and Gerald Thayer in New York. I wrote to Judge Prowse too. I wrote the chief inspector in St John’s about his constable’s inquiries. I looked up the U.S. consul in St John’s and complained to him. I decided to write three letters every morning for a week. Twenty-one letters in all. There was a war on, but I spent my energy clarifying my indignity. I supported the mail effort. I sent a few rich letters to the New York papers. I suspected that my mail was being read, so I larded them with provocative claims. I wanted a German submarine to blow this tiny British enclave to smithereens.

It made me think, though. About spying. What it is to be a spy. I
was
a spy of sorts. My witnessing of this town. My paintings of it. My own family. They were not altogether flattering portraits. When you involve yourself in the private lives of others it can disenchant you with your world. But you do not speak of it, though you may be inspired by it. It’s true that some of the work betrayed a despair about my married life. And perhaps I had begun to lose my wife through this portrayal. You begin to paint a life that you have not openly admitted to, and those who love you suddenly see your secret life exposed. They realize what your undisclosed life is, and that youve been a spy all along.

I cut Rocky’s hair and I saved the clippings. Then we went down to the beach to watch the bonfire the boys had built. It was November fourth. A spark landed on Rocky’s finger and made him cry. We strolled back home, the bonfire licking light on all the darkness. I made an aristocratic moustache out of the clippings of Rocky’s hair. I carved a small gun of wood and painted it black. I put on what I thought of as my German shirt and I posed like the kaiser.

Kathleen, take my picture.

I’m not going to assist you.

Then give me your camera. Show me where your camera is. I bought you that camera.

She pointed to a drawer.

I decided to risk developing the film in St John’s. I wanted the Likeliness Shop to feel awkward. But when I went in the photographer, Mr Wilansky, was professional. He hunched over the prints with me. Look here, he said. Were you looking for the spoof.

I was trying my best, I said.

You see, the background is what gives it away: children on the floor, a blurred wife. I could have made you into a convincing German, he said. And pointed to his studio.

Youre a man of good taste.

Look after yourself, Mr Kent.

I sent the films to Rufus Weeks in New York and he was delighted. He forwarded an article that mocked the bigotry and stupidity of the people here. I had a supporter in New York! The writer, a man unknown to me, said it was obvious the police had it in for me. The writer quoted me as desiring to be shot or cleared.

I thought that all this would make them cower. That they would lick their wounds, see how mistaken they were, and retract and apologize.

Some hope.

I moved about applying stealth to situations while my wife made herself open to change. Most things change, though some things are constant. The glass confounds the moth, the net strangles the gill. Kathleen stayed in one place and picked things out of the air as they floated past. I was in the fields, chasing butterflies. Often I chased things to her. Rupert, for instance.

I dont think he even knew it. My wife was unaware of anything forming. Anything illicit. Let us be clear: nothing happened between them. But I saw a spark of the primrose. I saw the way the threads wound about them. Both too good and innocent for anything like seduction to be in the air. I saw that. I was the sinful agent. It was my suspicion that could have led them to badness, that planted the thought in their minds. Sometimes a sin arises against the good intentions of both parties. I believe in agents independent of our souls that travel about looking to cause wreckage.

I wrote a letter to the prime minister. I copied it to Judge Prowse. I told them of my plight. How a cultured man was being oppressed. I demanded an apology and an investigation. I did not want any more visits from stupid policemen.

I wrote to Rufus Weeks. Please keep me informed, I wrote, about the ties between government, industry, and the military. I am under scrutiny. My fondness for German culture, my pacifist stance, my atheism, even my vegetarianism are under assault.

When I came back from the post office, Constable Bishop was trying to persuade my wife to let him in.

Just one more thing, Mr Kent. You refused a shipping agent’s inquiry into a package?

I refused his curiosity. I know my rights under the postal system.

While it is not mandatory for Mr Browiny to look at the contents of every parcel, under the War Act he is allowed to use his discretion.

I preferred to not give him the lurid satisfaction of seeing the contents. It would tarnish them. I did not want his mug to see what I had made. It would have been like having to strip to my drawers.

I suppose a look around is out of the question.

That is the first sensible thing youve said.

I was innocent. I was falsely accused. I know I’ve been an asshole about many things, but to pervert the effort of my painting, to consider it an act of espionage, well, this disappointed me. It vexed me that something so symbolic of my resolve to be good was being considered evidence of my double life.

Fall turned to winter. I was furious and immobilized. I did not like going into town. When Emily came to help with the children I lost myself in my studio. Kathleen felt ill with the pregnancy. She did not feel sexual. Part of me did not mind this. I did not mind embracing the ascetic life. I wanted to focus on work. I wanted to train myself to defeat this suspicion of my motives. I felt it important not to back down. To back down was to admit that I was doing something wrong. Instead my pride rose up. I was reckless with pride. There is nothing worse than a proud stoic.

Then the snow came. Old Man Pomeroy in a red sleigh laughed, pulled by his little daughter, Grace. He had this laugh — on one hand it was nice, I wanted to support the laugh. But now the sounds of the harbour were aggravating me. To me it was a colonial laugh that I derided. I tried to turn it around, to make the laugh pure again, as I’m sure it was. It was the laugh of a man being pulled around in a red sleigh by a girl. I was corrupted, and a wave of resentment poured over the dike I had built. I walked into Brigus and bought a small can of red paint at Chafe’s. Bud Chafe served me, but he no longer joked with me. I was just money now. I walked back and took out one of my old brushes. I painted the chest and profile of an eagle on my studio door. It was a German eagle with a serious brow. Beneath this I wrote, in Gothic type,
BOMB SHOP
.

We spent the Christmas season alone. We had the children. We snowshoed and tobogganed and on Christmas day we visited the Bartletts. We were surprised that they were having a party. We’re going to blow the pudding out of the pot, Bartlett said. He took the shotgun to the door and fired it off when the figgy duff came out of the oven. George Browiny played chin music. He made up these words, and he hummed while the children danced in the inside room. My children dancing with the other children. Then a crowd of mummers came in, one riding a hobby horse. The snock of the cloth horse’s jaws — it had iron nails for teeth.

Come in, Bartlett said, and get yourself a plate of gear.

We had to guess the mummers, as the men were dressed in women’s clothes and the women wore bed sheets and gauze over their faces. They spoke by inhaling, aspirating their words. There was a tot of rum when they were all guessed — Marten Edwards and Carmel Lahey and Emily Edwards and Bud Chafe and Rose Foley. Bud Chafe had an accordion. Give us a fiddle, Bartlett said. And Bud Chafe started up the accordion and Rose Foley sang.

We ate and the children chased the cat and Eleanor told them not to cram it. There was a big feed of salt beef and cabbage and turnip and pease pudding. Then Bob Bartlett walked us home and came in for a drink. He laughed at my German eagle. You know, he said, where the name Brigus comes from?

I did not.

They say it’s from the French for
brigues
. Which means intrigue. Let me know if youre forming a cabal, I might join.

We had a drink as Kathleen put the children to bed. Youre as stubborn, he said, as a log.

I no longer feel welcome, I said, in town.

He took a drink. Queer taste, he said.

It’s Jagermeister. A fine German liquor sent as a Christmas joke by my good friend Gerald Thayer in New York.

I’ve met him.

Of course you have.

Your wife’s cousin.

I nodded and he drank it off.

It’s good not to marry too far, he said.

Yes, you should know who youre marrying. Their people.

Was the bottle tampered?

Opened, yes, by our good man the shipping agent.

I’ll have a stain more, he said. To George Browiny.

We drank it all. He stayed and we drank everything. Kathleen went to bed and then we followed. I woke up with Bob Bartlett in my bed. He was nuzzled into me. Kathleen on the other side. He was an elegant sleeper, a man used to close quarters. I got up and let them sleep together. I looked out at the new snow over Brigus. I walked down to the brook for water. On the way back I noticed, in front of the house, a slight white mound. Like beaten egg white. And then a cracking through of the white, of yellow fur on the black guard hairs like butterscotch, and a dog breaking out of the meringue to hunch and shake the snow off his shoulders. Tom’s three-legged dog.

Come here Smoky boy.

He bounded over gleefully, he hurled himself against my knees.

Abandoned, are you?

I went back inside and made coffee. Then I brought the coffee upstairs. The two of them, back to back. I liked it.

New Year’s Eve was our wedding anniversary, six years. And in the early new year I decided to write Jenny Starling. We were out of money. I thought that the money we’d given Jenny, to raise George, a portion could be returned. Now that he was dead. I wrote this letter. A month later I wrote again. I asked, more officially, that the money I had given towards our child’s support be sent to us. Jenny wrote back. She was agreeable to this, but her husband, Luis, was not. She was back with Luis Starling. As if he needed the money. So I got a Boston lawyer, and went there myself to attend the trial. This may sound a little mean, but we were broke and I felt Jenny wasnt hurting.

Luis Starling did not like me. In his eyes I had had an affair with his wife. They were estranged then but not divorced. They were off and on and I had come between them. For Luis, the money we’d given Jenny was compensation for his grief. And now, with the death of George, he felt astonished that I should be sniffing at the perimeter, looking for reimbursement.

I visited the grave of my son. I had never seen him. Kathleen had refused it — when he’s older, she said. When we have to introduce him to his other family. And perhaps that is part of the guilt Kathleen had about his death. The cemetery was pretty. Jenny had made a triangular headstone with a roof, so you could put a candle in there. Your grandfather, George, died of typhoid on a ship at sea. I was not much older than you. The captain telegraphed to ask permission to bury him. Your grandmother refused it. To be buried in water. If you must, cremate him. Return his ashes.

After the verdict, in my favour — a portion of the total — I visited Gerald in New York. It was two in the morning. I was flush with money.

I said this to Gerald as we walked to the bar: The weather is mild.

His eyes slid over, under his straw boater. He delivered a punch to the ribs.

Gerald: We’re not gonna start describing the weather, are we?

We had a drink in a bar called the Aloha Room. It was a favourite of Gerald’s, with red swag lamps, a peacock feather in a vase. We lifted a glass to my dead son. The candles were lit with a blowtorch and the paintings had unnecessary texture. As soon as we sat down the table next to us left.

Me: We clear rooms, you and I.

Gerald, eyeing the waitress: I can give her five dollars and she’ll —

Me: They’ll kick us out.

Gerald: The Aloha Room is not gonna tell you to leave. That’s a sunny joke. Works well outdoors, but not in a room.

Me: The alcohol room.

So what about Jenny?

We’ve discussed this.

We have?

At the Green Dolphin. She’s holding a riding crop and wearing a Roosevelt mask.

Gerald: It takes too much effort to say the word
effortlessly
.

Me: The word
inexhaustible
exhausts me.

Gerald: I avoid words that end in an apostrophe. That a word should be owned by a word to come. Have I said I’m at odds with nature? Annuals, for instance. Now that’s an aggressive stance towards civilization.