Ethan Canin - A Doubter's Almanac

Then she whispered, “Oh, God, Dad. I am so sorry.”

On the floor lay a single, curved chip.

There was silence.

Biettermann said, “Well, Paulette, that didn’t work out quite the way you’d hoped, did it?”

“Fuck you, Earl.” She turned on him. “Get the fuck out of here!”

He raised his eyebrows.

My mother said, “Just stay away from my husband.”

“To which of us are you referring?” said Earl.

“To both of you.”

“Well, for one, Helena,” he replied, “he’s not your husband anymore.”

“Please,” said Cle. “Please, we came to help.”

Paulie wheeled. “To help ? You came to help ?”

“Yes. We did.”

“Well, you can help by getting the hell out. Both of you. I can’t believe you’re still here. You both disgust me!”

My mother stepped around the table then and pulled Paulie into her arms; then she turned and walked her into the kitchen. When Mom came back in, she was alone. She moved to the center of the room, picked up the broken piece, and laid it on the mantel. It was a crescent, as long and narrow as one of her fingers, still bearing both aspects of its curve.

She approached my father then, who’d fallen back asleep. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. She leaned down and shook his shoulder. “Milo.”

A rough snore.

“You never showed this to me, sweetheart.” She reached back and pulled the burlap sack toward her. “You showed her, but not me. If you’d loved me, you would have shown this to me.” She knelt beside him. “It’s extraordinary, Milo. It’s so beautiful.”

“Helena,” Cle said clearly from across the room. “He did love you.”

“No, he didn’t. I know he never did.”

“Yes, yes. He did. He loved you. He loved his children. He loved all of you.”

Paulie appeared in the doorway. “He never loved anybody.”

“He did,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” said Cle. “Hans is right. He loved you, Helena. He loved you, Paulie. He loved you, Hans. He loved all of you.”

“How could you even say that?” said my sister.

“Because he told me.”

My mother flinched.

I stepped across and stood next to her. She was still on her knees alongside Dad, but she drew back her shoulders and said, “All I know is that he never told any of us that.”

“He never told anyone anything,” Cle said. “That’s just how he was.”

“Then why did he tell you ?”

“Because he didn’t really care about me, Helena.” She crossed the room, tucking at bits of her hair that had unwound, and when she reached my mother she held out her hands. To my surprise, my mother took them. Without a word then, Cle pulled her gently to standing. She pressed Mom’s fingers to her lips and for several moments just held them there.

—

AT THE REAR of the hotel room, Biettermann looked up. “It was good of you to come,” he said. He was sitting in front of the veined mirror, working a cuff link into his sleeve. “Things got out of hand yesterday. I’m sorry it happened.”

“Yes, they did.”

“I imagine it’s the last time I’ll speak to you — to any of you, probably — but that wasn’t my intent. I was here for other reasons. I wanted to say — well, I did want to say goodbye to your dad.” He nodded at me. “Things got away from us. I’ve always been a competitor, and so has he. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“I know that.”

“My wife and I are going home this afternoon.”

“I’m aware of that, too.”

The room was the best in the hotel, but the air conditioner was rattling against the wall. He slapped it with his hand. Without turning, he said, “Those pills won’t be enough, you know.”

“Which pills?”

“The ones the doctor gave him. What that doctor prescribed is pretty much baby aspirin.”

“Well, they’ve worked so far. And he uses something else at night.”

He turned from the wall and rolled to the desk. “Well, that won’t work forever, either. Not when you need it to, anyway. My wife showed me what you’re giving him.” He pulled at his sleeve, still finishing the cuff link. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Okay.”

“Look,” he said, “obviously I’m judicious. I run one of the most profitable divisions in the house. I can’t be careless.”

“And?”

He rolled closer now, shaking out his sleeve. “And the pain’s taught me something, you know? Have you ever been in pain like that? Not everyone can bear it. But if you’re strong, it eventually just makes you stronger.” He held up his wrists. “That’s what I’ve learned. The stuff they tell you is bullshit. If you’re disciplined, you can keep control of anything. That’s the only truth.” He tilted his chair backward and held it there until his forearms shook. Then he let it down. “Yes, to answer your question, I’m in a lot of pain. You’ve never experienced anything like it. And I hope you never do.”

“So what did you want to tell me?”

He rolled to the mini-fridge then and opened the door. “You have to keep it cold,” he said. When he returned he was holding the silver cigarette case in his hand. He leaned forward and gave it to me. “This is for your father, Hans.”

—

WHEN I CAME down the stairs that night, he was snoring softly. He’d kicked off part of his sheet, so I lifted it and folded it in around his legs. I wasn’t sure he needed his medicine, but I went about preparing a dose anyway, moving quietly and standing at the window so I could use the light of the moon. Through the screens, the lake looked calm, but I could hear it chiming against the pebbles.

“Why am I still here?”

I looked back. I wasn’t even sure he was awake.

I waited a moment.

“Hans?”

“Because you’re strong, Dad.”

A silence.

“You know,” he said, “I used to wonder whether I’d be scared.”

I switched on the lantern and set it at his feet. I could see his belly now, pushing up the sheet. “Well,” I said, “ are you?”

“Yes.”

I pulled the chair closer and took his hand.

“I can’t hold anything even. It all falls through. I never know why or when.” He lifted one leg, moved it an inch, and set it down. Then he lifted the other. I realized he was trying to roll onto his side so that I could give him his shot. But when I leaned down to help, he shook his head. “I’ll do it.”

Slowly, he shifted his pelvis. One leg moved a little, then the other. The cast stayed against the wall, and finally, with his good hand, he reached out and brought it close to his side. “But first,” he said, “a little ballet.”

I let out a small laugh.

He smiled. “Your kids are fine,” he said.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“They’re not the usual.”

“I appreciate it.”

I realized he was trying to catch his breath, so I sat there quietly. After a time, he said, “Women are the suns, you know. Men are just the moons.”

Then his eyes closed. I pulled the blanket over him, and he snored. “All that fucking work,” he said suddenly.

The small muscles at the rim of his mouth were quivering. I had that feeling again that I was seeing him in another piece of time. But he was going backward now. Somewhere in the universe, maybe, he was a young man again.

“What did you want to know?” he said, waking. He turned toward me and winced.

“I have your shot.”

He thought about it. Then he mumbled, “Okay.”

I rolled him over the rest of the way.

“Do you want my advice, Hans?”

“Of course I do.” I slid in the needle.