Days by moonlight Page 9

  never burned anything.

  – Shut up, said Massey Ferguson, nobody’s asking you. We

  know what you did.

  – I think you’ve got the wrong person, I said. This is Professor

  Bruno from the University of Toronto.

  – Oh, said Massey Ferguson, that changes everything. He’s

  from Toronto!

  Mr. Ferguson, tall and muscular, lunged at Professor Bruno

  and tried to pull him up by the lapels. I got up at once, reached

  behind me for my chair, and tried to bring it down on Mr.

  76

  Ferguson’s back. I’d never been in a bar fight. My reaction,

  desperate and almost instinctive, was inspired by movies I’d seen,

  movies in which chairs shatter on people’s backs. In the movies,

  it’s fluidly and easily done. So, one can imagine how astonished

  I was when I realized I hadn’t grabbed a chair, as I’d meant to,

  but, rather, a large and very unhappy owl.

  It’s understating it to say I found this moment astonishing.

  A number of things had to happen for me to grasp the bird.

  To begin with: when we came into the Moose, I mistook the owl

  at the bar for a clock. It was, in fact, a real owl perched beside a

  clock. My misapprehension had been a trick of the mind. But

  then, it’s so unusual to find birds indoors, my first thought would

  naturally have been that the thing was a statue or a stuffed spec-

  imen. As a result, I was not on the lookout for an owl.

  Then, while reaching for the back of my chair, I somehow

  managed to grasp the bird without looking at it.

  Moreover, I caught the bird’s legs at the exact moment it had

  extended them in order to land on the back of my chair!

  77

  The bird was almost certainly at ease with human beings, being

  the pub’s mascot. But I think it must have been as stunned as I

  was by the turn of events. It began to screech as soon as I caught

  it and flapped its wings about wildly. Incongruously, in the midst

  of its screeching and struggle, the expression on the owl’s face

  was not of panic but quizzical dismay: eyes wide open, furiously

  blinking. as if it were trying to understand what I was doing.

  I froze for a moment, holding the owl away from me as if it

  were a child having a temper tantrum. Then I let go and the owl

  flew up, its green siftings falling as it flew back to its place at the

  bar: near the picture of Charles and Camilla, beside the clock.

  There it preened, ruffling and unruffling its feathers, as if trying

  to recover its dignity.

  You’d have thought the Moose’s patrons would be offended

  and angry, having seen their mascot manhandled by a stranger.

  And, for a moment, they did seem to collectively consider how

  to react. The place was so quiet that the only words I heard were

  those sung by Gordon Lightfoot, the Canadian Railroad Trilogy

  playing for an nth time on an old jukebox.

  Massey Ferguson still had a grip on the professor’s lapel with

  one hand. His other hand had been raised to fend off the owl. But

  then Mr. Henderson returned from the washroom and the atmos-

  phere changed again. Mr. Henderson struck the young man’s

  head, as if slapping salmon from a stream. And, hands now up to

  protect his hat, Massey Ferguson meekly apologized: to Mr.

  Henderson, to Professor Bruno, to me, to everyone in the Moose.

  Mr. Henderson glared at the man but let him walk away.

  – Knob Grenville died last year! someone shouted.

  And all around us there was mumbling, the sound like a

  pack of feral mothers soothing a child. Without any of us asking

  for them, several pints of cider came to our table, and the

  Moose’s mood was once again light, the main topic of conver-

  sation being, once again, the moral superiority of Coulson’s

  Hill over Nobleton.

  78

  Feeling obliged to drink the cider that had been bought for

  us, I was soon light-headed. One of the last things I remember

  clearly was a friend of Mr. Henderson’s telling us about the

  origins of Coulson’s Hill. The man told us the same story I’d

  heard. But he added a detail. Though the town’s founder, George

  Coulson, had refused to excavate the last bit of ground on his

  property, George’s son, Edward, had dug up the hill as soon as

  his father died. So, it was Edward Coulson who discovered a

  seam of gold that brought him great wealth. In fact, the seam ran

  deep, through all the property of present-day Coulson’s Hill.

  Though they wore baseball caps and dressed like unsuccessful

  farmers, everyone with property in Coulson’s Hill was, according

  to Mr. Henderson’s friend, immensely wealthy.

  – I thought, said Professor Bruno, that the hill had been dug

  up and there was nothing there.

  – You’re from Nobleton, aren’t you? asked Mr. Henderson’s

  friend.

  – Near there, said Professor Bruno.

  – Well, there you go, said Mr. Henderson’s friend.

  After a bit more banter, Mr. Henderson and Professor Bruno

  finally began to talk about the subject they’d met to speak of:

  John Skennen. I heard fragments of their conversation, but by

  then I’d drunk too much and the last thing I remember before

  passing out was Professor Bruno admitting that, in the end, the

  place he’d come from, this dull patch of Ontario, was more myste-

  rious and threatening than he’d remembered.

  79

  3

  THREE HAMLETS:

  SCHOMBERG, NEW

  TECUMSETH, MARSVILLE

  Though I brushed my teeth a number of times, I couldn’t lose

  the taste of brass. I’m almost certain this was down to the

  cider I’d drunk the night before. All morning, I was reminded of

  “amber mole.’

  My mother and Anne were on my mind, too. I couldn’t think

  why, until I remembered that I’d heard Gordon Lightfoot’s voice:

  the voice of my mother’s favourite singer. (“Black Day in July” is

  the first song I remember hearing.) It had been a surprise to

  discover, when we first moved in together, that Anne, too, loved

  Lightfoot’s songs.

  – Why not listen to something modern? I’d say. I hear Glenn

  Miller just dropped some hot wax!

  Which had been my way of teasing her and which, on reflec-

  tion, I regret. How uncivil I was, in those days when I took her

  for granted.

  I seemed to be the only one suffering from our time at the

  Moose. Professor Bruno hadn’t drunk alcohol, of course. But Mr.

  Henderson, who’d drunk more than I did, was in a good mood at

  breakfast. He boiled eggs for the three of us – the sulphuric

  aroma unfortunately reminding me of his flatulence – along with

  thick slices of a dark rye as dense as polished felt.

  An unhappy coincidence: as he made breakfast, Mr. Hender-

  son suddenly started singing “Summer Side of Life.” He hoarsely

  whispered the words, which I recognized immediately. The song

  – more Lightfoot – was Anne’s favourite and, as if a curtain had

  been drawn aside, my feelings for her flooded in, so it was all I<
br />
  could do to eat breakfast and listen to the professor and Mr.

  Henderson talk.

  The two men had grown close. They now spoke as if they’d

  been intimates for years, as opposed to the acquaintances they’d

  seemed the day before. Mr. Henderson was in his bathrobe, on

  which white clouds were depicted against a light grey background.

  His hair was neatly combed but he’d parted it down the middle

  and it made him look like a muskox. Professor Bruno was in a

  clean pair of pyjamas: white cotton with a single breast pocket

  over which there was a crest from the University of Toronto. As

  they ate, they talked about small towns. They went on about

  Stephen Leacock. They rhapsodized about Algonquin Park “in

  the seventies.’ They recalled the devastation of Hurricane Hazel.

  They spoke of so many old things, I began to wonder if we’d

  make Feversham, an hour or so away, before nightfall.

  The professor must have caught my impatience, but he picked

  up on my sadness as well.

  – Do you know, he said, I think Alfie’s unhappy. What is it, son?

  I thought about hiding my feelings, not wanting to trouble

  their good spirits with my heartbreak. But Mr. Henderson said

  – The young man’s in love, Morgan.

  Struck by his sensitivity, I thought it would have been dishon-

  ourable to lie. So, I said yes and told them how difficult it had

  been for me to be left by a woman I loved. I told them my story as

  plainly as I could, so we wouldn’t have to dwell on it.

  82

  – Ah, said Professor Bruno, we’ve all been there, son. I

  couldn’t eat for a year when my wife left me. These things are

  painful, but they help us live, if we survive them. I’m only sorry

  you’ve had to go through this now. We’ve had such wonderful

  weather, if you know what I mean.

  I knew what the professor meant and I understood his reac-

  tion. Mr. Henderson, though …

  As I spoke about my heartbreak, Mr. Henderson held his

  teacup immobile before him, the porcelain vessel like a dollhouse

  cup between his thick thumb and index finger. When I finished

  speaking, he was overcome by emotion. He began to cry. It made

  for an odd sight: a muskox in pyjamas, sitting quietly as his tears

  fell, riveted by his own emotions.

  Thinking himself responsible for his friend’s distress, Profes-

  sor Bruno apologized.

  – I shouldn’t have brought my heartbreak up, he said. I’m

  sorry to have upset you!

  – No, no, said Mr. Henderson, it’s got nothing to do with

  you, Morgan. I can usually talk about heartbreak without a fuss.

  But you two made me think about John, and then Alfred made

  me think about John and Carson. It’s the damnedest thing crying

  about other people’s affairs, but I can’t help myself.

  There was a moment of silence before Professor Bruno’s

  curiosity got the better of him.

  – You don’t have to talk about this if you’d rather not, Henny.

  But did you say “Carson”? Is that a friend of John’s?

  – You could say that, answered Mr. Henderson. She was the

  love of his life. But, you know, it’s not their story that gets me.

  It’s the witch’s.

  – Which witches? asked Professor Bruno.

  Mr. Henderson sighed.

  – It’s a long story, he said, but John’s in it, so you might be

  interested.

  John Skennen had had a hand in the burning of Coulson’s

  83

  Hill’s post office. He, like his friend Bob Grenville, had been

  involved with women from Coulson’s Hill. In fact, he’d fallen in

  love with a woman named Carson Michaels, herself a poet and,

  reputedly, the most beautiful woman in Southern Ontario. Not

  that Coulson’s Hill could entirely claim her. Michaels had been

  born in Schomberg, that most mysterious of towns. But she’d

  come to Coulson’s Hill, an already lovely twenty-one-year-old,

  dark-skinned, of Antiguan descent.

  Also by reputation: Carson was modest and kind, but she

  was not a pushover. She suffered fools politely, but not for

  long. And she was extremely private. Though Carson had never

  been married, people thought of her as a Penelope waiting to

  meet Odysseus. In any case, she had a number of suitors, young

  men who congregated around the till at Lee’s Garage, where

  she worked.

  So, for practical reasons (the crowding around the till was

  bad for business) and for personal ones (she was exhausted by

  the consideration she felt obliged to show the people interested

  in her), Carson Michaels devised a question to ask of every

  suitor: what is the only object that makes me cry? She would

  ask the question three times. If a man or woman could not

  answer it by the third ask, they would find themself banished

  from Lee’s Garage.

  This was an efficient way to deal with the obviously smitten.

  The herd was quickly thinned out, with space at the cash register

  left for customers or for those who, not interested in Carson

  themselves, were amused by the fate of those who were. There

  may have been men and women discreetly attracted to Carson. If

  so, these were people who, by their discretion, saved themselves

  from the attentions of Lee. Because Lee – who owned the gas

  station, garage, and general store – had been Carson’s father’s

  closest friend and he took this banishing business seriously.

  Once banished, a suitor was fair game for Lee’s pit bulls – Frick

  and Frack – who were vicious at the best of times. Not to mention

  84

  that Lee himself, a giant man with a temper as bad as that of his

  dogs, took a sadistic pleasure in throwing people out of his estab-

  lishment. He didn’t care if they resisted or complied. What

  mattered was that the suitor – male or female – be thrown out

  and that they never return.

  As far as anyone could remember, there had only been one

  fatality. A man from Napanee had died of a heart attack while

  running away from Frick and Frack. He’d been older than the

  usual run of suitors and, though no one knew it, he’d had a

  deathly fear of dogs. That is, unforeseen circumstances combined

  to overburden his heart. His death, marked by a crucifix near

  one of the gas pumps, was spoken of in hushed tones by suitors,

  and it served as a warning.

  Whether the banished suitors were good people or not, worthy

  or not, Carson Michaels never allowed herself to learn. It wasn’t

  that she had no interest in them. She was a compassionate woman,

  but she couldn’t really understand their interest in her. None of

  them knew anything about her. They had no idea who she was.

  She was nothing more than an object of attention. That being so,

  Carson was satisfied that any suitor who could answer her ques-

  tion, any who could tell her what it was that made her weep, was

  worthy of her time, having devoted time to thinking about her –

  about who she was, about the things that had made her herself.

  News of a beautiful woman and her smi
tten (or dog-bitten)

  suitors quickly spread throughout Southern Ontario. John Sken-

  nen first heard about Carson Michaels while sitting in a bar in

  Sutton. A man at the table beside his began to cry, though he

  didn’t seem drunk: no slurred words, no spittle, no red face.

  What the man had were fresh stitches on his right hand and a

  crown of stitches above his left ankle. The stitches were the result

  of an encounter with Frick and Frack. It wasn’t the physical

  injuries that had moved him to tears – though, of course, he

  hoped feeling would eventually return to his right hand. No, it

  was his regret at not finding out what it was that made Carson

  85

  Michaels cry. His guesses had been: a lost teddy bear, a cup

  once used by her now-dead father, her first tube of lipstick.

  – You’d be surprised, he said, wiping his tears, how many

  people guessed those same things.

  How did he know this?

  Because Carson Michaels’s suitors, men and women, shared

  their stories and their guesses. This was in the days before subred-

  dit categories or easy internet access. There was, instead, a typed

  and handwritten list that, by the time it was copied for John

  Skennen, was fifty-five pages long. It was dauntingly (or obses-

  sively) well-organized. Guesses at what made Carson Michaels

  weep were alphabetically ordered from Adder (skin shed by) to

  Zest (of yuzu fruit).

  It seemed to the weeper in Sutton that this list – which he’d

  got only after he’d been chased from Lee’s – was both devastating

  and tantalizing. Tantalizing because the list was long and poten-

  tially helpful in what it eliminated. Devastating because there

  were so many things in the world, and each thing had, at very

  least, the potential to sadden Carson Michaels. The suitors could

  fill an encyclopedia with guesses and not scratch the surface.

  How could one not despair at the thought?

  On hearing of this “Venus from Coulson’s Hill,’ John Skennen

  was fascinated, but his fascination took the form of outrage. His

  sense of justice was offended. He resented the assumption that

  men could not resist a desirable woman. And, allowing his outrage

  to overtake his common sense, Skennen resolved to “deal with”

  the woman from Coulson’s Hill. He did not allow for the possi-

  bility that he would himself fall in love with Carson Michaels.