Ethan Canin - A Doubter's Almanac

The cherry orchards across the lake turned from white to green. In the mornings and evenings, I built a fire in the small hearth whose walls were black with soot; then soon, I was building one only in the mornings. Puffs of warm air arrived from the south like trumpet blasts ahead of an army. Geese crossed overhead. At the bench along the dock, Dad and Cle sat watching them.

Right before lunch each day, Dad and I would go down to the water together. Cle would use the time to drive into town for groceries. This was my hour with him. We’d sit on the dock or walk on the paths. I have to say, the days took on a malleability that I’d almost forgotten. The geese. The mergansers. The minks, scrabbling in the crags on sunny mornings. For a time, I called the office every day; but after a while, I just stopped.

Our dinners were quiet — the two of them sitting beside each other the way they did on the dock, but with me at the head of the table now, passing the food. Dad was eating, which pleased Dr. Gandapur. He could finish a whole steak. And though in the afternoons he still grew tired, his nap always seemed to revive him, and in the evenings he grew alert. There was the long, ruddy light. The sharpness of the cedars against the water. He would rise on the new sofa and look from Cle’s face to mine.

—

ONE MORNING, I watched Dad dress himself. I could see that he was feeling good. Pressed slacks from the closet. A sweater from the drawer. The polished wing tips. Standing at the mirror, he combed his hair carefully and splashed cologne onto his collar.

When he noticed me watching he said, “Will you smell this?” He stepped forward. “What’s happened to it?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“I’m only asking you what the cologne smells like.” He pulled the collar toward me.

“It smells like lime, Dad. Same as it always has.”

“What?” He sniffed the cloth. “It stinks. Don’t you smell that? It’s gone putrid.”

“What? No, I don’t. It smells the same.”

He stepped away. In front of the mirror he busied himself with his cuffs, then leaned forward to examine the stubble on his neck. I could see that he was actually trying to smell his collar again. After a time, he said, “Isn’t it amazing?”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know what’s happening to me.”

—

HE BEGAN GROOMING himself like that every day now — like a dandy. The shined shoes. The combed hair. Sometimes he’d put on his old black Princeton jacket with its oiled leather sleeves. It had always been small for him, but now it fit. Cle pinned the cuffs so that they wouldn’t hang over his hands. He wore it during the string of cool mornings that arrived midway through the month. The zipper halfway closed, the collar turned up against his neck. She would take his arm: together they would make their way down to the water.

He seemed to be entering the first turns of a maze.

It was hard to know why some days were better than others. In the mornings, he’d walk with her, his step a pace or two ahead. A glance over his shoulder, as though if she stumbled on the path he might still help her. Their spot was the bench at the tip of the dock. A couple of the boards halfway out had cracked, and he’d step past them, then reach back for her hand. His daily gentility. She would take his thin arm and step over. Then they would continue out to the end.

There’s a moment I remember so clearly from that time. One of my father’s spells of energy. A clear morning. A coat of dew. He and Cle making their way along the dampened boards. At the gap, she takes his elbow. Then the rest of the way out to the spalted bench, arm in arm. His bony fingers. Her pale knees. Her face turned to his.

I was washing the breakfast dishes. My mother’s old chore.

Then: a small movement. A quick, upward tilt of her chin.

And suddenly they’re kissing. Her hand comes up and touches his neck.

—

EMMY PICKED UP the phone saying, “Daddy!” She was packing her own lunch for school. She told me about a pyramid she’d built the night before from matchboxes. The number of boxes on each level was determined by a Lucas sequence. Did I know what a Lucas sequence was? I did. She recited the function anyway. She informed me that the Lucas numbers were only one example of a Lucas sequence. I told her I was proud of her. Of course, I was also touched with dread.

I asked her how everybody was getting along. She said, “I don’t know, just a minute.” She got off the line. Now Niels came on. He asked me how I was doing. He asked about his grandfather. He asked about the lady who was with us. He told me that Emmy was misbehaving a little bit, but only at bedtime, and that he missed me, although not so badly that he wanted me to come home. If I needed to stay with Grandpa, that was fine. He said he would understand. He would understand. He said he imagined I loved my own father the way he and Emmy loved me. I told him that this was really kind of him to consider. I told him that I loved him very much, too. He said that Mom was good and New York was fine. He’d already made himself a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich for school. If Mom asked him to, he would make one for Emmy. She had a book report due that day. “Social studies,” he said, lowering his voice. “Not a good subject for her.” I told him she’d already made her own lunch. Then he said goodbye and went downstairs to load his backpack.

Audra came on. She asked me how I was. I told her. I asked her how she was. She told me about a fundraiser at the kids’ school and about a contractor down the block who’d been sandblasting a brownstone that belonged to a sheikh. She told me about a weekend playdate she’d arranged for Emmy with a new girl from the neighborhood.

When she finished, I said, “So, how’s Mom doing?”

“Oh, she’s good. She’s really good. She seems to have a lot of energy. She’s gone out to visit Paulie.”

“Oh, I didn’t know they were doing that.”

“It was your sister’s idea. I guess she figured she’d get to spend some time with her while you weren’t here.” Then she added, “Actually, I think it’s good for both of them.”

As she talked, Dad appeared through the window and turned down the path toward the lake. A moment later, Cle came down behind him. When she arrived at the turn in the path, he reached back for her arm.

“So, how’s Mom doing?” I asked.

There was a pause.

“Are you all right?” asked Audra.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“Because you just asked me that,” she said.

DAD’S HAND SHOOK, but he pulled the knife along the grain, canting his wrist so that the shaving curled away into his palm. I sat down beside him. “What are you making?”

“A whistle,” he said. He held it out. “It’s for your son. Here, blow.”

It made two tones, one high and one low.

“Two frequencies,” he said. “I learned that when I was Niels’s age. I used to whittle things like this in the woods. Spent all my days out there by myself. Does he like that kind of thing?”

“Niels loves the woods.”

Dad didn’t look up. From his pocket he pulled a narrower blade and began slotting the end. He wedged out a chip and squared the opening. “I meant being alone,” he said.

“No. Not really. He’s the social one.”

“Does he know where he is?”

I looked out at the water. “He can’t do any of that, Dad. But Emmy can. I’m afraid she has all of it.”

“You’re right to be afraid, then.” With the flat of the knife, he smoothed the barrel, keeping the blade parallel to the wood. “Well, he should enjoy this anyway,” he said and blew another note.