Days by moonlight Page 3

  smelling of sour carrots – the property delimited by fencing

  whose posts and struts were silverfish-grey.

  We didn’t see any dogs as we drove onto Mr. Brady’s land,

  but his first words to us were

  – Didn’t the dogs greet you?

  – Which dogs? asked Professor Bruno.

  – My dogs, of course, he answered.

  Mr. Brady was tall. His hair looked as if it had been dyed

  black. Recently dyed, I’d have said, because although he was in

  his sixties – his skin pale, the backs of his hands with faint spots

  on them – the hair on his head was an almost lustrous dark. In

  fact, Mr. Brady’s hair had something defiant about it, as if it were

  a wig meant to challenge your conceptions of him, whatever they

  might be.

  – It’s nice to meet you, he said. Can I get you some tea?

  Before we could say yes or no, he’d called his son into the room.

  – Two teas, Dougal! he said.

  27

  Dougal didn’t seem happy to be called away from what he’d

  been doing. He hesitated, then grumbled a few words I didn’t

  quite hear. But Mr. Brady repeated

  – Two teas for our guests, son.

  And Dougal – a man in his forties, judging by the look of

  him – went from the room and came almost immediately back

  with two cups of tea, as if he’d made them in anticipation of the

  asking. This efficiency wasn’t the most striking thing about him,

  though. Dougal was missing fingers on both of his hands. On

  one, half the thumb and the pinky were missing. On the other,

  the top of his ring finger was gone. Apropos of his son’s missing

  fingers, Mr. Brady said

  – That’s what it means to live on a farm. It’s a lazy man who

  still has all his fingers, is what I say.

  He held up his own hands so we could see the places where

  fingers – or parts of them – had been.

  – If the machines don’t get you, the dogs will, he said.

  Professor Bruno was impressed.

  – That’s nicely put, he said.

  – I’m quoting Virgil, said Mr. Brady. A free translation I made

  of ‘The Georgics.’

  As well as being John Skennen’s friend, Mr. Brady had been

  a poet in his own right.

  – I didn’t start out wanting to be a farmer, he said. That was

  my dad’s business. Me and John, we wanted to be in a rock ’n’

  roll band when we were kids. Then he started writing words for

  songs and, next thing you know, we’re reading Thomas Wyatt

  and all these guys who wrote madrigals. We were … what? Eleven?

  Twelve? But I can still remember some of them – Pastime with

  good company I love and shall until I die grudge who lust but none deny

  so God be pleased thus live will I …

  – That’s by Henry the Eighth! said Professor Bruno.

  – Yeah, I guess it might be, Mr. Brady answered, but I don’t

  remember the names as much as the poems. Strange, eh? For me,

  28

  poems are like people’s faces: I always remember faces even when

  I don’t remember names.

  – Was John always a good poet? asked Professor Bruno.

  – Oh, yeah. Always. But maybe that isn’t the way to put it.

  John could have been good at anything he wanted. But the poet

  thing came to him and he lived it from the moment it hit him. All

  his poems weren’t good but they were always poems, you know

  what I mean? I wrote poems as bad as his and maybe a few just as

  good, but the mask never fit me. Not that being a farmer really fits

  me, either. But I’m okay with how it doesn’t fit. You understand?

  I think Professor Bruno understood. He nodded and said

  yes. But I didn’t understand at all. Did John Skennen choose to

  be a poet or was he born a poet? I didn’t want to get in the way of

  two men talking poetry, but I was curious. So, I asked Mr. Brady

  what he’d meant.

  – It’s a hard thing to explain, he answered. John liked to say

  poetry chose him, and I know what he meant. But it was more

  like playing at something you’re good at. He was a natural.

  – But you said he was good at a lot of things, didn’t you?

  – Nice to be around people who pay attention, said Mr. Brady.

  But I’m not sure I can say it any other way. It’s got to do with

  destiny and if you believe certain people were made for certain

  things. John wasn’t any happier being a poet than he would have

  been anything else. He was born unhappy. But he accepted poetry

  was his destiny, so all this talk about whether he was any good

  had nothing to do with it, as far as he was concerned. Even if

  he’d been a bad poet, he was destined to be a poet and he knew

  it the way you know where your hands are in the dark. Do you

  believe you’re destined for something, son? If you do, I hope it’s

  something you’re good at.

  He held up his hand with the missing fingers.

  – Then again, he said, someone’s got to be the farmer with

  missing fingers, a dead wife, and an ungrateful son.

  From the kitchen, evidently listening, Dougal shouted

  29

  – I’m not ungrateful!

  – It’s a fascinating idea, said Professor Bruno. Did John

  believe in destiny?

  – Yes, he did, said Mr. Brady. That he did, for sure. He used

  to say he knew how he was going to die as clearly as how he was

  going to live.

  – You think he’s dead? asked Professor Bruno. No one’s ever

  told me for certain he was dead.

  – Oh, said Mr. Brady. I know John’s dead the same way you

  know when someone’s left a room. You can’t be as close as we

  were without there being some kind of connection. I’ll tell you

  what, I even know the minute he died. It was in the days when

  my wife was still alive and she was in the kitchen cooking. And I

  was in the living room here, watching tv. I can even tell you

  what I was watching: Kojak, the show with buddy who’s like a cue

  ball. And all of a sudden Marjory says, “Answer the door!” Now

  why in the heck am I going to answer the door when there’s no

  one there? I’m right near the door. She’s all the way in the kitchen.

  There’s no point me getting up. But she says it again – “Answer

  the door!” – and I’m thinking, “Well, maybe I was listening to

  Kojak a little too loud.” You understand? So, I get up and open

  the door. And it’s like I thought, no one there. I was about to

  curse the old lady when I turn around and right where I was

  sitting – that’s where John’s sitting. I just assumed he and Marjory

  were playing a game on me. So, I start talking to him like it’s no

  big deal. I haven’t seen him for years, but I’m not going to be the

  one that cracks. But he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there

  looking at me. And I’m getting kind of irritated, but at the same

  time I know something’s wrong. Then he looks at me and points

  to his watch. And I can see it’s nine-twenty. Makes the hairs on

  my arm stand up, just remembering.

  Mr. Brady pulled up his sleeve and, from where I was sitting

  – a few
feet away – I could see the hairs on his arm standing up

  on goosebumps.

  30

  – What happened then? Professor Bruno asked.

  – I don’t know, Mr. Brady answered. The dogs started barking.

  I must have looked away for a second. When I looked back, John

  wasn’t there anymore.

  – But how do you know that’s the moment he died? the

  professor asked.

  – Well, I’ll tell you. When we were kids we were both a little

  obsessed with death – the way kids are – and we both swore

  that whoever died first, he’d come back and tell the other what

  death was like. I guess the dogs must have interrupted him, but I

  knew what John meant when he showed me the time. It wasn’t

  something I could get wrong.

  – But am I right, the professor asked, that he disappeared?

  – You’re very right, said Mr. Brady. But I hope you’re not

  looking for him.

  – Why?, I asked.

  Mr. Brady smiled.

  – It’s bad luck, he said. Listen, people around here believe all

  sorts of things. When John died, he just disappeared. So, you

  can imagine the rumours. For a while there, it was so bad you

  couldn’t read poetry in Simcoe County without someone making

  the sign of the cross if they heard you. To ward off the devil. It

  was mostly in fun, but John’s become a bad omen.

  – We’re not looking for him, Professor Bruno said. Heavens,

  I don’t know what I’d do if we found him. I’m interested in his

  poetry. I’m a critic, mostly. I only want a few biographical details.

  Enough for human interest. And it’s more difficult to get those if

  the subject’s around. So, no, we’re not looking for him.

  – John used some of his life in his poems, said Mr. Brady. A

  bio’s not useless. But the important thing was always the poetry.

  Listen, I’m glad there’s interest in his work. I thought poetry’d

  died out. The young don’t know enough about it to keep the

  traditions alive.

  31

  These last words seemed to have been said pointedly. I thought

  Mr. Brady was talking about my generation when he mentioned

  the young. And I was about to say he was right, when I noticed

  Dougal had come into the room and it occurred to me that Mr.

  Brady’s words – though they were directed at “the young” – were

  likely meant for his son. Dougal must have thought so, too,

  because he said

  – Stop saying that! Just because we write differently doesn’t

  mean we don’t know the traditions. You’re so proud of your

  stupid stuff: The cow, the old cow, she is dead; it sleeps well, the hornèd

  head! To hell with that. I know as much about poetry as you!

  – Oh? What poetry do you know? Mr. Brady asked. Teach me.

  Dougal sneered.

  – Roses are red, violets are blue. You wretched bastard, fuck you!

  – There, said Mr. Brady. You just proved my point. Your insult

  doesn’t even scan.

  Father and son were suddenly angry, both of them red-faced.

  We had come at the wrong time, the professor and I. We’d

  interrupted an argument that now flared up again. Our visit was

  like the time between a match being struck and its cap catching

  fire. Professor Bruno must have thought so, too. We stood up at

  the same moment.

  – You should apologize, Mr. Brady said to Dougal. You

  wouldn’t want these people thinking you were raised in a barn.

  – Why should I apologize for you being a bastard? Dougal

  answered.

  I thought then that it would be polite to leave father and son

  to work things out. I couldn’t imagine speaking to my father as

  Dougal had spoken to his, but neither could I imagine my father

  expressing such scorn for me. I excused myself and went out the

  front door. I assumed Professor Bruno was right behind me. But

  I was wrong.

  As I stepped out the door, the sun was bright and the air was

  clear. It was warm, but I felt a cool breeze. Not a squamish but

  32

  something like the opposite of a sirocco: a cool wind from the

  west. It was also quiet. So quiet that, as I walked to the car, I

  heard nothing. No wind, no call, no birdsong. Not even the three

  large white Argentine mastiffs that came up behind me.

  How impressive they were! Their movements were so coordi-

  nated, it was as if the three dogs were one. That I heard them at

  all, in the end, was their doing. One of them growled, low and

  menacing. And when, frightened, I turned to face them, they

  growled in a more suggestive way. I had two impressions simul-

  taneously: that the dogs were being cautious, lest Mr. Brady be

  alerted to their plans, and that I was being told to run. It was a

  strange moment, but I didn’t have much time to think about its

  strangeness. I had a second to consider whether I should try to

  pet one of them.

  Then the largest dog rushed me, biting my upper thigh so

  that, had I been even slightly better endowed, I’d have lost part

  of my penis. I was lucky in another way, too. Though the dog bit

  me and it hurt, the other dogs did not at first join the fray. They

  waited, I guess, to see the damage their companion could inflict.

  Also, I was bleeding but the dog had caught more of my pants

  than my flesh, so that a great swatch of fabric was torn away

  when it shook its head. I thought then that running was my best

  option. And despite my wounds, I did very well. I reached the

  car. If I’d had the keys to the car in my hand, I’m almost certain

  I’d have escaped further bites. I jumped onto the hood of the car,

  followed closely by the dog who’d bitten me, and there it bit me

  again, catching an expanse of my jacket before I slid off the hood

  and ran for the fences. This fired the other dogs up. All three

  now came after me and, in a manner of speaking, they lost their

  inhibitions, growling and snarling like they were out for blood.

  Which, to be fair, they got. One of them caught the leg of my

  pants, and I fell on ground covered by Queen Anne’s lace, the

  smell of it like carrots, of course, along with something indefinable

  but poisonous and alive.

  33

  Maybe because I thought I was about to die, I felt quite cheer-

  ful. Not that I wanted to die, but that I had been given a last look

  at a world I loved: the countryside I’d visited with my parents

  when my father gave his guest sermons at churches in the area.

  Everything around me was wonderful, from the raw blue sky to

  the dark earth I’d disturbed in falling, from the snarls of the dogs

  to the sensation of their breath on my skin. I was bitten on the

  arms and legs a few more times before I heard Mr. Brady call, as

  if from far away:

  – Laelaps! Chester! Melba! Leave it!

  I take it the dogs were well-trained because, at the sound of

  their names, they eventually stopped biting me. One of them

  held on to my arm awhile, as if caught with food in its mouth

  and, ashamed to be seen eating, was unsure whether to spit out

  what it had or go
on chewing. But they all retreated, running to

  Mr. Brady as if looking for some sort of reward.

  My pants and jacket were badly torn and I was bleeding, but

  I didn’t think I was in danger, reassured as I was by the reactions

  of the Bradys and Professor Bruno. None of them seemed at all

  concerned about my injuries. The first thing Dougal said as he

  helped me up from the ground was

  – You’re okay. It’s not that bad.

  And although I was in pain, I was grateful for his words. Mr.

  Brady then said

  – I don’t know what got into them. They’ve never done

  anything like this before.

  As if seconding Mr. Brady’s point, the three dogs sat up with

  their pink tongues lolling, looking amiable. Professor Bruno said

  – I’ve seen worse wounds than these, Alfie, but I guess you’d

  better change your clothes.

  – I think I should go to the hospital, I answered.

  – Why? asked Mr. Brady. You’ve only got a few scratches!

  I thought he might be worried that I was angry at him or his

  dogs, so I said it was only a precaution.

  34

  – I suppose caution’s a good idea, said Mr. Brady, but you

  couldn’t get me into one of the hospitals around here if I wasn’t

  dying. I don’t trust them.

  I thanked him for the warning, but I clung to the idea of having

  my wounds tended. And, after hasty farewells, we were off, Profes-

  sor Bruno and I, on one of the most uncertain rides I’ve ever taken.

  I was uncomfortable in my wet clothes. In places, my shirt

  and pants clung to me like a second skin. I was in pain because

  some of the dogs’ bites had been deep and burned when I moved,

  as if the saliva were a toxin. Then, too, I felt light-headed and I

  forgot to ask directions to the nearest hospital. I should not have

  been driving. But, maybe because I was in shock, I’d accepted

  the idea that I wasn’t badly hurt and, besides, Professor Bruno

  could not drive. So, it was up to me, in any case.

  Professor Bruno must have realized that I was not in a proper

  state of mind when I (unintentionally) ran through my first stop

  sign. It seems I ran through a number of them, and the professor

  was amused by this afterwards, but at the time it must have been

  harrowing. He sat beside me with a crooked smile on his face,

  his briefcase in his arms like a flotation device. Also, while trying

  to stay calm or trying to keep me calm, he began to tell me about