The Western Light Read online

  Alas, I had no cash to lease a rig so I am back at canalling again, dragging a stone boat stacked with oil barrels fifteen miles through the swamp to the Wyoming railroad station. In answer to your question, I am too busy to find Father, although I have heard that a man with Father’s name was living at Maxwell, a Utopian Community on Lake Huron, near Port Sarnia. When I strike oil, I will build a big, warm house in Petrolia and bring Father home. No relative of mine, be he named “Vidal” or “Davenport” shall find himself in need of food and shelter as long as I live.

  I remain your faithful nephew,

  Mac

  I finished the letter as Sal called us for lunch.

  “It’s sad, isn’t it?” Little Louie said, tucking the letters away. “The way Old Mac wanted to find his father?”

  “Well, he found his father and struck it rich.”

  “Oh, is that what you think?” Little Louie asked.

  “Big Louie told me Old Mac had his cake and ate it too. She says he crawled out of the sea mud and discovered gold in the muck he sprang from.”

  “Mom should have been a poet.” Little Louie started to laugh. “She has a way of putting things.”

  DOWNSTAIRS, SAL HAD SET OUT a platter of egg salad sandwiches and brightly red, green, and yellow Jell-O desserts, which quivered in their bowls when we sat down.

  “I hear you told Mary that Old Mac found his father,” Little Louie said.

  “Yes, he did; and that’s enough out of you, Dearie. Father had a bad start in life, but he turned things around for himself. He was a great hero, a man for his time.”

  “Spare us the sermon, Mom,” Little Louie said, rolling her eyes at me. I smiled timidly back. I hated getting caught between them.

  “Old Mac’s letters are historical relics. You’ll see, Louisa,” my grandmother retorted. “One day, they’ll be enshrined in a museum.”

  Beside me, my aunt drew a noisy breath, and the three of us concentrated on finishing our Jell-O. It was true that Big Louie believed in continuity the way other people worshipped God, even though none of the Vidals had taken church seriously since my great-grandfather. My grandmother was fond of telling us that the tiny sea creatures in ancient Lake Michigan were the missing link in our family history. The story of the primeval fish was a Biblical parable as far as she was concerned.

  According to my grandmother, over six hundred million years ago, when the planet was just four billion years old, these poor martyred sea creatures died for the Vidals and their tiny carcasses dropped to the bottom of the ancient lake. Two hundred million years later, the shellfish were crushed by Beekmantown limestone pressing down on the sea floor. And fifty thousand years later, the glaciers dumped clay sediments that pushed our shellfish deeper into the earth, turning them into the black gold that gave Old Mac his fortune.

  Every time Big Louie told us this story, my aunt almost died laughing. Died laughing was one of the things that grown-ups said if they were having fun. Sometimes they said, “I laughed my head off.” But when kids like me said somebody laughed his head off, it usually meant he was laughing at our expense. And that was how my aunt laughed at my grandmother’s stories.

  “Do Old Mac’s letters mention the Pilkies?” I asked.

  “Now why would they do that?” my grandmother asked.

  “John Pilkie has relatives in Petrolia.”

  “I wouldn’t take his connection to Petrolia seriously if I were you,” Big Louie replied. “Put that man out of your head, Mary.”

  But I didn’t put him out of my head. Not then, or later. I imagined the thrill of showing him my great-grandfather’s letters. It amazed me that he and I had ancestors who drilled for oil in the same unlikely place, although I knew it wouldn’t be right to let somebody like him see our family papers.

  After lunch, I found myself having one of my useless conversations with Hindrance. Per usual, I tried not to listen, because Hindrance sounded like Sal blowing hot air.

  A Sobering Conversation with Hindrance

  Hindrance: John Pilkie is mean and cruel, Mouse, and you better watch out.

  Me: What if he didn’t mean to hurt his wife?

  Hindrance: He wanted her out of the way and he didn’t really like you either.

  Me: He does so, Hindrance.

  Hindrance: Who would like you? You’re short and skinny, and you walk like a duck.

  Me: That’s not fair. Besides Mr. Pilkie asked me about my great-grandfather.

  Hindrance: Listen to you! You’re all puffed up because somebody asked you about your stupid composition. Well, sucks like you get fooled sooner than you can say Jack Robinson. So you better watch out or you’ll get murdered too. See you later, alligator.

  MAYBE HINDRANCE HAD A POINT. I felt flattered because a murderer listened to me talk about my school composition. What on earth was I thinking? I didn’t want him to know I was interested in him — although I was. Wasn’t everybody?

  9

  MADOC’S LANDING ABSORBED THE KILLERS LIKE WATER IN A PAIL absorbed a stone. But we didn’t see John Pilkie or the other prisoners on the hospital grounds during the two weeks before Easter. For one thing, they couldn’t wander around the hospital grounds like the harmless patients. Then Sal heard that John might go to the Anglican Church on Easter Sunday with his mother, who was a pot-licker (or Protestant) like us. In our kitchen, John had used the word “dogan” to describe himself. It meant Irish Catholic and I’d been surprised because “dogan” was usually said by a pot-licker with the word “bloody” or “damn” in front of it.

  Now none of that mattered. Mrs. Pilkie had asked Dr. Shulman to let John worship with the Anglicans so John, along with the hospital guards, was coming to our church for Easter Sunday. Light-headed with excitement, I put on my new felt skirt and starched blouse plus my white ankle socks. For the first time in months, it was a mild spring day so I could go outside without my long woolen stockings.

  WE DROVE TO CHURCH IN my mother’s old Ford station wagon. Morley was off on a call. Going to the eleven o’clock service wasn’t something required of the men in my family. As I struggled out of the backseat, my grandmother reached for my hand, and I politely shook my head. I didn’t want the Bug House kids calling me a suck who clung to her grandmother’s skirts. Luckily, the Bug House kids were still in Sunday School. So, one step at a time, I humped Hindrance up the stairs and into the church. As I took my seat in our pew, I spotted John standing near the vestry with two of the other prisoners. He carried his full-length raccoon coat over his arm and he had on the smartlooking striped chocolate-brown suit he had worn at the train station. Sib Beaudry and two other hospital guards stood nearby in the hospital uniform: a serge suit and bowtie that made them resemble the friendly baker in the Wonder Bread advertisement. The prisoners took off their hats and shrugged off their jackets. Then they sat down, clearing their throats and bowing their heads. The guards sat down, too. Mrs. Pilkie sat six rows behind them and something about the stiff way she held herself suggested she thought that everyone was watching her son. But neither the women, in their white gloves and Easter bonnets, nor their hatless men were looking at the killers. The same pride that lay behind our town’s attitude to the hospital kept them from gawking (i.e., mental patients were part of the landscape, like our drinking water, said to be as pure as an Arctic glacier, and the Great Bay that brought tourists up from the city).

  Fixing my eyes on John’s ducktail, I tried not to fidget. Up on the altar, Reverend Attridge strolled towards us in his purple Easter surplice. Hitching up the legs of his ballooning trousers, he stepped into the pulpit. “Why is Jesus a hero for our times?” Rev. Attridge cried. “Because Jesus put others before himself and he didn’t expect praise for his actions. We should all follow his example and serve others.” Rev. Attridge smiled down at the prisoners. “Now I want you to cast your minds over your own heroes. Perhaps for you it’s Gordie Howe of the Detroit Red Wings? Or Frank Mahovlich of the Toronto Maple Leafs?”

  Men and
women chuckled in the pews. Even the hospital guards were grinning. John had his back to me so I couldn’t see his reaction, but I wondered if he felt as surprised as I did. Nobody in my experience had compared Jesus to a hockey player. Then it came to me that Rev. Attridge had designed his sermon so John would appreciate it. He knew that John had played for the NHL so John was bound to be even more interested in hockey heroes than the people in Madoc’s Landing. My own heroes included the most famous hockey star of all, Rocket Richard of the Montreal Canadiens, although I didn’t bother mentioning how I felt about the Rocket because the English-speaking people in Madoc’s Landing were fans of players like Tim Horton from the Toronto Maple Leafs.

  My other heroes were Brébeuf, the Jesuit martyr who wore a necklace of red-hot axe heads. Then came my great-grandfather, who discovered oil and found his lost father, and finally, Morley, who put the needs of his patients before himself.

  “I won’t criticize you for being a fan of Gordie Howe, although I prefer Frank Mahovlich myself,” Rev. Attridge cried in his electrifying voice. “Mahovlich stays out of the penalty box, for one thing.”

  The congregation laughed uproariously; everyone, that is, except Big Louie, who sat snoring softly between Little Louie and me while Rev. Attridge harped on his theme: “It’s fine to admire hockey players. They give themselves to a great sport. But their contribution isn’t as important as the contribution Jesus made. Why is Jesus so important? Because Jesus came to this earth so we would learn to give ourselves humbly to the task of helping others.”

  Beside me, Big Louie mumbled in a sleep-thick voice: “Oh, bugger off.”

  “Mom, you’re in church,” my aunt whispered. My grandmother jerked wide awake. Mortified, she looked around to see if anybody had heard, while my aunt and I giggled helplessly behind our gloved hands. Our attention seemed to waver for only a few minutes, but by the time we composed ourselves again, Rev. Attridge had come to the end of his sermon. “Blessed is he that considereth the poor,” he said, quoting from Psalm Forty-One. Then he added: “And blessed are those that provideth for the sick and needy. The Lord shall deliver them in times of trouble.” The congregation murmured, “Amen,” and Rev. Attridge stepped down from the pulpit.

  In his pew at the front of the church, John jumped to his feet. There were gasps and cries as he turned to face us. “I would like to invite the congregation to help these poor men sitting here.” He waved at the other two prisoners. “I’m asking you to consider the injustice of giving parole to hardened criminals and denying it to those of us who are recovering from mental illnesses. How many of you good Christians know we can’t have our cases reviewed?”

  The guard pulled John down, but not before he turned around and grinned at his mother. She smiled back, shrugging her shoulders, while men in the back pews started yelling for Rev. Attridge to throw John Pilkie out.

  “Now, now, gentlemen. Sit down, please!” Rev. Attridge shouted. “Let us pray for the lambs of God who have the misfortune to be in institutional care.”

  Looking up at Rev. Attridge, John Pilkie cried in a deep, confident voice: “Receive the Lamb of God to dwell in England’s green and pleasant bowers.”

  The men at the back of the church started yelling again, and then everybody was on his or her feet talking. I jumped up too, praying nobody would hurt John. From the front of the church, Rev. Attridge had to shout at people to sit down. Finally, everyone did. When the view cleared, I saw Sib Beaudry grab John by the collar and shove him roughly out the vestry door.

  ON THE WAY OUT OF church, a shaken Rev. Attridge pumped our hands. “Happy Easter, ladies!” he said. “What did you think of the hockey killer comparing himself to the Lamb of God?”

  “I don’t think he meant any harm by it,” Little Louie replied, lighting up a Sweet Cap. “He was quoting Blake.”

  “My daughter had some poems published in her high school year book,” my grandmother said proudly. Her eyes took in Little Louie’s big, pretty mouth and the messy blond bangs under my aunt’s bright blue veil. I was struck by the possessive look on my grandmother’s face. She acted as if she owned Little Louie the way Sal sometimes acted as if she owned me.

  “Now isn’t that something!” Rev. Attridge smiled at my aunt. “And how did you like my sermon?”

  “It was original, I guess,” Little Louie replied, blowing one of her large, jiggly smoke rings. I tried to bat it away before it floated into Rev. Attridge’s eyes. Too late. He coughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

  “I have a question,” I asked.

  “Mary, nothing about John Pilkie now,” my grandmother said.

  “What would your question be, Mary?” Rev. Attridge asked.

  “Jesus wants us to sacrifice ourselves for others, but what if being good hurts other people?”

  “Most people aren’t harmed by that sort of sacrifice.” Rev. Attridge winked at Big Louie as if they were sharing a joke. “They know that being good helps those around them so they accept it, Mary.”

  “Mary asks too many questions.” Big Louie said. She, too, knew I was referring to my father whose work schedule worried my grandmother and me. According to Big Louie, who enjoyed telling our family stories, my father sacrificed himself to others because my dead grandmother Phyllis Bradford told him boys were full of urges so dark and terrible she couldn’t utter their names. My dead grandmother had tested my father’s willpower by placing a plate of cookies in front of him. If he grabbed a cookie before she said he could, she smacked his palms with a leather strap. My father reached his full height of six-foot-six at fifteen, and when he told my grandmother he wanted to be a doctor, she said, “Thank the Lord, because a brute like you could go around killing them.” My father took his mother’s feelings inside himself and he fought her views every day of his life by shuffling with a sad, patient air towards whoever needed him. That was Big Louie’s opinion, anyway.

  “Would you like to come in for a glass of sherry?” Rev. Attridge asked, nodding towards the refectory.

  “No, thank you.” My grandmother gripped my arm. “Dr. Bradford will be coming home soon from the hospital. Goodbye, Reverend Attridge.” I followed my aunt and grandmother over to our Ford station wagon, keeping my eye out for John. All around us, churchgoers were talking in high, excited voices. It struck me that John was going to change our town. Of course, I didn’t know how right I would be. My premonition sprung from my childish love of the dark excitement that goes with somebody like John Pilkie who breaks the rules. They are living large, as people say now. I wasn’t making a mountain out of a molehill, as Sal often told me. I was recognizing that mountains exist, and if we go up them and down the other side, we are never the same again.

  10

  SAL WAS WAITING FOR ME WITH THE TRICYCLE THAT MORLEY had ordered from a New York department store. Its two back wheels were larger than the single front wheel, and it was chain-driven, so the rider was obliged to pedal in a downward motion. As soon as we climbed out of the station wagon, she wheeled it towards us, tossing her thick hair and fixing me with her round Irish eyes. “Sal, you know how I feel about that thing,” my grandmother said and looked over at Little Louie for help. My aunt frowned. “Mom thinks too much exercise is bad for Mary,” Little Louie replied.

  Sal ignored them. She pulled two long linen scarves out of her pocket and waved them authoritatively as if only she, the ex-nurse, knew what was good for me. I glanced apprehensively at the bike and then down our long, sloping driveway. The snow had melted from the asphalt, although the breeze from the Bay still felt wintry. “Mary, you promised Doc Bradford,” Sal said in her sternest shaming voice, and when I went over and stood beside Sal, Big Louie didn’t protest. She muttered while Sal helped me take off my Boston brace and tied my feet to the pedals using a method from one of Morley’s medical textbooks: start with ascending turns at the upper end of the scarf and descending turns at the lower end and then tie both ends with a square knot. When she was done, Sal let out a holler because M
orley’s green convertible was coming along Whitefish Road. He had put down the top, and the wind was blowing his iron-grey hair back from his handsome head. “Doc Bradford! Watch Mary!” Sal yelled and gave me a hefty push. Usually, she let me start down the incline myself, but Sal was showing off for Morley. She pushed too hard.

  My legs started going round faster and faster. My feet were tied to the pedals. I couldn’t stop if I tried. Out on the road, Morley waved from behind the windshield of his car. I didn’t dare wave myself. My legs were already aching, and it took all my strength to hold onto the handlebars. Halfway down the incline, the bike began to wobble. Closing my eyes, I whispered, “One for the mouse, one for the crow, one to rot, one to grow.” It’s what Old Man Beaudry chanted as he threw his corn seeds. I only said it when I was scared, because Sal claimed it worked for the Beaudry corn. When I opened my eyes again, Morley was getting out of the car with our springer spaniels. “Stop pedalling, Mary!” he yelled as Joe and Mairzy charged my bike. As if I had a choice. I turned the handlebars to avoid the spaniels, but the bike’s front wheel lifted up on a ridge where the driveway met the sidewalk. My feet came free of Sal’s scarves and I fell so hard the icy pavement scraped my knees. My aunt and my grandmother rushed over while Sal stood back, gawking. Pushing away the spaniels, Morley crouched down to examine my legs. “Nothing broken.” He pulled down my skirt. “It’s not that it doesn’t hurt, Mary. It’s that you don’t mind if it hurts. Pretend you’re tossing the pain away.” He reached towards his own knee and made a fumbling gesture as if he was tossing something into the air. “Like this. You’ll see. The pain will stop.”

  “Morley, for heaven’s sake,” my grandmother exclaimed.

  “Mary needs to exercise.” Morley stood up slowly. “She could be in an iron lung like hundreds of other polio victims.”

  The phone rang in our kitchen. “Morley, that’ll be for you,” Sal said. Morley yawned and trudged up the driveway, Joe and Mairzy rushing after him.