Guy Vanderhaeghe - Homesick

Daniel’s need to purge himself of his bad news made him rude and abrupt. No sooner had his grandfather reached the truck than Daniel lunged forward at him, desperately shouting, “I can’t go. Forget it. There’s no way I can go. Just forget this trip, okay?” But his words were drowned in the roar of the wind, scattered harmless down the street.

“What?” shouted back Alec. “What?” He went to cup his hand behind his ear but when it came up full of artificial flowers, confounded he had to let it fall back down to his side. He leaned forward and tried to tip his head to better catch what his grandson had to say. When he did, the wind curled up his hat brim and the fedora shuddered, threatening to take flight.

“I can’t go on any trip with you!” cried Daniel, going up on tiptoe so that he was shouting directly into his grandfather’s face. Still, his grandfather couldn’t grasp what he said. The old man shook his head and gestured impatiently toward the truck, waving the bouquet. “You’ll have to get out of this wind! I can’t make out a goddamn thing you say!” he bellowed, jerking open the passenger door and clambering into the cab. Daniel was left no alternative except to crawl in on the driver’s side, where he didn’t want to be. He slammed the door and sat clenching the steering wheel while the old man fussily arranged the gaudy, showy abundance of the bouquet on the seat beside him. What was he doing with pretend flowers? Could it be that the old fart was angling to pay a visit to some woman? Daniel found the notion pretty disgusting. Yet he knew it was possible. One of Pooch Gardiner’s admirers had been nearly as old as his grandfather. Old Softy was Lyle’s nickname for him.

It seemed to have slipped his grandfather’s mind that Daniel had something to say to him. He was lost in sorting through his flowers, examining them for damage and carefully setting aside any whose petals had been torn by the wind.

“I can’t go on any trip with you,” said Daniel. His voice, pitched to overcome wind, was much too loud for the small space and quiet of the cab. “I just can’t,” he added, dropping his voice.

Monkman did not lift his eyes from the flowers. Only a pause in the sorting signalled he had heard his grandson. A white carnation hung still in his fingers. He twirled the stem and the bloom spun. “We aren’t going too far,” he said.

Daniel, his eyes fastened on the dizzy blur of spinning white, was tempted to say, We aren’t going anywhere. Instead, he asked, “How far is not too far?”

“A hundred and ten, maybe a hundred and twenty miles one way.”

“On the highway?”

“On the highway,” confirmed Alec quietly. He glanced up at the boy for the first time.

The undisguised, naked eagerness Daniel encountered in his grandfather’s face caused him to lower his eyes. “I can’t drive on the highway without a licence,” he said. “The police would arrest us.”

His grandfather’s failure to agree, his silence, condemned Daniel. Guiltily, the boy could feel Alec’s eyes crawling up the back of his neck. He struck out angrily. “Where do you get such a goddamn stupid idea! Expecting I could drive you so far! I couldn’t manage it. I’d likely kill us and somebody else too! You’ve got no business asking me to do it! What got into you? You ought to know better. You want to get us both into serious trouble?”

The only reply to this outburst was the dry stirring and rustling of paper. Daniel threw a furtive, sidelong look in the old man’s direction and discovered that he was gathering all the artificial flowers into his lap. They lay in a profuse, tangled heap across his thighs, a drift of blossoms banked against the bulge of his belly.

Alec, when he detected Daniel spying on him, said with dignity, “You promised.”

“I thought it was a joke. Honest I did.”

“You promised, and I got nobody else to take me.”

“There’s always Stutz,” suggested the boy.

“Stutz,” said his grandfather, scorn surfacing in his voice. “Stutz’s kept busy acting as banker and handyman to your mother. He’s got no time for me. No, I’ll leave Stutz to the kind of company he prefers.”

His stubbornness only succeeded in exasperating Daniel. “I don’t get it,” he said sharply “Where is it that you’ve got to go all of a sudden? What is it you’ve got to see? And what’re you doing with those stupid-looking flowers? Who are they for? You got a ladyfriend or something?”

“Earl,” said Alec. “The flowers are for Earl.”

Daniel’s surprise at this answer drove any other questions out of his head for the moment. In the ensuing silence he became aware of the ferocity of the wind’s assault upon the truck – he could feel it rocking and jarring beneath him. The sloppy swaying of the chassis and the intense, fixed gaze of his grandfather through the windshield produced a queer sensation in the boy; he fell prey to the illusion that the truck was actually travelling down a road he could not see, a road hidden from him but clear and plain to his grandfather’s staring eyes.

Unable to understand what he had been told, Daniel asked, doubtfully, “Earl? Do you mean to say you want to take these flowers to Earl?”

“Yes,” said Alec. His eyes remained trained down the long, straight street. “That’s right. To Earl.”

Daniel was confused. He tried to remember how his grandfather had answered his last questions as to Uncle Earl’s whereabouts. Finding his Uncle Earl’s name scratched on the yellow wall had made Daniel curious about him. He had wondered if it wasn’t possible that the two of them, uncle and nephew, might not share some profound family resemblance. Daniel could recognize little of himself in either his mother or grandfather, and the desire to find himself in another was strong. For a time he had been full of questions about Earl, questions that his grandfather seemed to wish to avoid answering. The last thing he had learned about Earl was that he was in the States, working on an oil-drilling rig. That was what his grandfather had told him.

“So Earl’s back?” Daniel inquired innocently. “Back in Canada?”

The old man’s head snapped furiously around.

“Back?” His voice was grating, harsh. “What the fuck are you talking about? What the fuck are you talking about – back? Earl’s dead. He’s dead.”

It sounded like an accusation. As if his grandfather was accusing him , Daniel, of murdering Earl. But what he was saying had to be wrong. “Dead?” said Daniel. “He can’t be dead.” Then a possibility struck him. “Has there been an accident? Tell me, did Uncle Earl have an accident on his drilling rig?”

“He’s been dead since July 21, 1948,” said the old man in a dull voice, spent now of its earlier fury, earlier passion.

“What’re you talking about, dead since then?” demanded Daniel fearfully. Was his grandfather really crazy? “Not Earl. You don’t mean Earl. You’ve mixed him up with somebody else. Maybe somebody whose name sounds like his. Talk sense. Think. Just a couple of months ago you said he was working in the States. That’s what you told me, didn’t you? Well, didn’t you?”

“It was July 21, 1948 Earl died,” said his grandfather wearily. “Died in that goddamn hospital full of nurses and doctors and not one of them – not one – ever did him an ounce of good. I should have kept him at home for all the good was ever done him there.”

“But that can’t be!” Daniel objected, incredulous. “That was twelve years ago. Twelve years? I mean -” he fumbled, attempting to express himself, “I mean people aren’t dead twelve years and nobody knows.”

“Stutz knows. I know. Now you do, too.”

But Daniel didn’t want to know. Not this. “It’s crazy what you’re saying. How could Mom not know? His own sister. His own sister would have to know. She’d have to know.”