Across the Bridge - Mavis Gallant [14]
He’d had a father, of course – had him until he was eighteen, even though it was Raymond’s practice to grumble that he had been raised, badly, by women. His last memories of his father must surely have been Louis dying of emphysema, upright in the white-painted wicker chair, in blazing forbidden sunlight, mangling a forbidden cigar. The partially flagged backyard had no shade in it – just two yellow fringed umbrellas that filtered the blue of July and made it bilious. Louis could not sit in their bogus shadow, said it made him sweat. Behind the umbrellas was the kitchen entrance to a duplex dwelling of stucco and brick, late 1940s in style – a cube with varnished doors – at the northern end of Boulevard Pie IX. “Remember that your father owned his own home,” said Louis; also, “When we first moved up here, you could still see vacant lots. It depressed your mother. She wasn’t used to an open view.”
Where Raymond’s sandbox had been stood a granite bird-bath with three aluminum birds the size of pigeons perched on the rim – the gift from Louis’s firm when he had to take early retirement, because he was so ill. He already owned a gold watch. He told Raymond exactly where to find the watch in his desk – in which drawer. Raymond sat cross-legged on the grass and practiced flipping a vegetable knife; his mother had found and disposed of his commando dagger. His father could draw breath but had to pause before he spoke. Waiting for strength, he looked up at the sky, at a moon in sunlight, pale and transparent – a memory of dozens of other waning moons. (It was the summer of the moon walk. Raymond’s mother still mentions this, as though it had exerted a tidal influence on her affairs.)
The silent intermissions, his gaze upturned, made it seem as if Louis were seeking divine assistance. Actually, he knew everything he wished to say. So did Raymond. Raymond – even his aunt will not deny it – showed respect. He never once remarked, “I’ve heard this before,” or uttered the timeless, frantic snub of the young, “I know, I know, I know.”
His father said, “There have always been good jobs in Boston,” “Never forget your French, because it would break your mother’s heart,” “One of these days you’re going to have to cut your hair,” “Marry a Catholic, but not just any Catholic,” “With a name like Raymond Joseph Driscoll you can go anywhere in the world,” “That autograph album of mine is worth a fortune. Hang on to it. It will always get you out of a tight spot.”
In his lifetime Louis wrote to hockey players and film stars and local politicians, and quite often received an answer. Raymond as a child watched him cutting out the signature and pasting it in a deep-blue leather-bound book. Now that Raymond is settled in Florida, trying to build a career in the motel business, his whole life is a tight spot. He finds it hard to credit that the album is worth nothing. Unfortunately, it is so. Most of the signatures were facsimiles, or had been dashed off by a secretary. The few authentic autographs were of names too obscure to matter. The half dozen that Louis purchased from a specialized dealer on Peel Street, since driven out of business, were certified fakes. Louis kept “Joseph Stalin” and “Harry S Truman” in a locked drawer, telling Marie, his wife, that if Canada was ever occupied by one of the two great powers, or by both at once, she would be able to barter her way to safety.
Raymond had a thin mane of russet hair that covered his profile when he bent over to retrieve the knife. He wore circus-rodeo gear, silver and white. Louis couldn’t stand the sight of his son’s clothes; in his dying crankiness he gave some away. Raymond stored his favorite outfits at his aunt’s place. She lived in a second-story walkup, with front and back balconies, a long, cool hall, three bedrooms, on the west side of Parc Lafontaine. She was unmarried and did not need all that space; she enjoyed just walking from room to room. Louis spoke to Raymond in English, so that he would be able to make his way