Five Legs Read online

  How on earth did it happen?

  Walking home, just after leaving that Susan girl, and a car . . . Fifteen feet she said.

  Fifteen! Good Lord.

  Fifteen. And then without stopping, it vanished. Never regained consciousness.

  A hit-and-run!

  That’s it Lucan, that’s it. Must have been under the influence don’t you know, must have been drinking not to have seen. And as for not stopping . . . well, that speaks for itself.

  Panic probably.

  Irresponsibility. A case of irresponsibility carried to its ­logical.

  Poor Susan. This will be distressing news for Rose.

  Carried to its logical conclusion Lucan, and thereby becoming a social, a socially destructive force don’t you know.

  Really seemed to hit it off, the two of them. Since the ­summer.

  Thought of that Lucan, thought of their friendship, of her living with you during Rose’s course. Not simply a student-staff relationship.

  No, not really. But.

  And what with you being his thesis supervisor. Well, we realize Lucan, you’ll be wanting to represent the university at his funeral on Saturday over in Stratford.

  Jesus! No. Way out. Not me, there must be someone, someone else. Haven’t been back since. Since. The slimy bastard. Led me right in up to the neck. Six years, the son-of-a-bitch. Thinly sighing and smiling into the phone.

  Lucan. Insistently. “Lucan, I’m calling.” From the stair’s top, insistently. Slow circles on circles.

  “What?” Oh boy! For my head and mercy’s sake don’t, don’t shout. To the hall, calmly, for chrissake.

  “Bring up the paper. I’ve been calling and calling.”

  “Sure.”

  “The review will be in it.”

  “Okay. Be right up.”

  Calmly move, and think calmly Lucan. Deliberately he walks, step by step to the door, grasps the paper’s edge poking in the letter slot. And pulls. Undue impetuosity is unwise. Most unwise on this morning of. Turning he surveys the entrance to their home. A pleasant hall. Successful combination of, of casual formality. Yes. Casual formality. The settee’s effective. Believe I’ll sit a moment to rest my limbs. Gather and conserve against the coming day, my strength. Aaah! Good quality. Pat-pat.

  He unfolds the morning paper noisily. Hmmn. Missing Boy Found. Hmmn. Police call off mammoth hunt. Four bone-chilling hours. Police chief Simon Lunt told 750 searchers. Three year old Ralph Thirkettle. Found. Sleeping peacefully at his aunt’s? Good Lord! And nobody checked? Good Lord. We used to live on Queen’s Avenue, explained Mrs. Thirkettle, but who ever would have thought Ralphie would go back. It’s all terribly embarrassing. Ha! I’ll bet. Ha! In the drifting bloody snow.

  Not nationalism but anti-Americanism, says industrialist. And so he better. Paranoia masquerading in the guise of chilly pride.

  Continued Hunt for Mystery Car

  Police Alert Body Shops

  Provincial police, searching for the gray coupe believed to have struck down and killed Mr. Martin Baillie late Monday night, have warned garage operators to be on the lookout for a damaged right front fender.

  The force of impact “Would most certainly have dented any normal fender” says Stratford Doctor Grant J. Small.

  They saw and marked his irresistible wound. Fifteen and then. But for chrissakes why in Stratford? Lucan troubled with the sadness of this fact. Why indeed. A malevolent thrust. That’s why. And sighing he gets to his feet. If one considers statistical probabilities it becomes immensely apparent he should have been born in Toronto. Or New York. One half our scattered peoples concentrated, cluttered there. From the hall, wind-fronted on the morning’s chill, he walks: not lack of sympathy (who would not weep?) but preservation. You’re right. Self-preservation. Or with his nails. Into the kitchen, where it’s warm. And the snow waxed now incarnadine. Jesus! He knows, thinly sighing in his bony nose, what it means and why I can’t. After what happened? Unthinkable. Absolutely bloody well can’t.

  He puts the morning paper between her iron pills and sugar bowl. First with the best in Ontario. Then two moist slices into the waiting toaster. In his hand slowly. Save me dear God from the fickle finger.

  Desperately there on the knees, mopping like crazy with their footsteps ringing closer and closer. Green beer, that’s what it was. Saint Patrick’s green bloody beer. Frantically mopping. Push it all under this bench. And the pickled eggs! Oh God it’s no use. If I could only disappear. Nimbly in behind one of these lockers, quickly, quickly for the sake of. Oh Jesus! Oh.

  Don’t look Julia. There’s no use lurking in there Mr. Crackell. We’ve seen you. And in front of your students! Have you no pride? No dignity? You must be mad.

  Fly! Oh fly poor miserable from the sullen.

  A most distressing thing has been reported to me Mister Crackell. Could irreparably harm the cause of those, who have earnestly toiled amongst the young to instil respect for the man of education.

  Terrible frigging scene that was! Good grief but I must. Consumed with atrabile, Lucan collapses gently into the kitchen chair.

  We can be very grateful. Miss Savage, a loyal member of our staff, has assured me she will be as silent as the grave. However. Discreetly his dry throat he cleared. Since, in your mind, our night classes do not aah, excite the same respect as, your university work. Well obviously. We have no.

  By images engulfed he sits long-staring at the clicking toaster. Alternative. But there must be! Someone. Oh for a snippet, a modicum of charity from this world; just a little Christian charity for my. Someone.

  Clicking. And slapping. From his bookcase a shadow, halving his face as he sat. Appreciate your reluctance, certainly I appreciate your reluctance Lucan, but you’re ignoring the significance of your emergence into brighter, better days. Out of the shadow as it were. You take that Lampman thing now, why you’re proving yourself a man to reckon with. Very interesting I’d say. A pretty good indication don’t you know, of just how far you’ve progressed with us since those troubled times. A source Lucan of great satisfaction. Very satisfying.

  My God I can see it all! The excesses of youth dear Heaven, with self respect unthinkingly abashed. Lucan liberally smoothes, hastily spreads the melting butter. Scrape-scrape. And now from shadowless acceptance you must return O rash and overbold, return once more among the sorrows of the town. Scrape. Still, that cheerless bitch, she had no. Watch out! Than brittle unbuttered crusts Lucan, there’s nothing worse. Watch out. Shameful.

  Good Lord, the draughts in this old house that cut about the ankles and whistle up my legs. A gradual emasculation and for sure. Day by day we wait. A smaller modern place first thing; will please her and they’re a hell of a lot more practical. Was a terrible frigging scene. Oh boy! They say it rises and it does. Right up the stairs and through the roof, leaving behind a dirty big vacuum for rough winter winds that come insistently, seeping in at the corners.

  And more comfortable too. The toast waits in a damp pile as he spoons powder into the cups. And Howell intimated, yes he did. To ensure full coffee flavour. He as much as told me. That was President Scott on the telephone Lucan: appears the Alumni Association is disturbed, disturbed by the trend in student dress. They feel it reflects somewhat unfavourably on the personality of our university, our public image don’t you know. Fondly smiling his small smile. And it’s the clothes Lucan, that make the university. Heh.

  Yes sir. Indeed. Ha.

  Actually they’re quite right I suppose. Heh-heh. Shadowed from snow-glare light his face, completely shadowed now. Shocked of course. Hadn’t heard you know, what happened to Baillie last night. A terrible thing, he said, who’s going down from your department? Crackell, I said, Lucan Crackell. Just the man, his very words Lucan, just the man. He’ll handle it well.

  Dull red the skeleton frame rises from the earth. Very satisfying Lucan, j
ust the man. And it will be. Virtually a new department.

  To show the parents Lucan. It is in the response of friends that mourners find solace. Intimations of immortality don’t you know. Furthermore, it’s through these, these difficult tasks that you grow with this university, eh? You understand my meaning Lucan. Be most unwise of you not to get along down there on Saturday. His small smile in shadow now. Completely.

  God, just what I need. Once and for all today to drown these dull protests. Beguiled by true coffee aroma he checks the breakfast tray. Think I’d feel better if. Yes. And the serviettes. Don’t want to be forgetting anything. Light glints darkly on circles turning in the cups. Turning in the loins, in. Rose.

  Balancing the tray at a careful angle, through the door and up the stairs he moves surrounded by the instant coffee smell. Struck down by a car, a spreading rose beneath his head, a flower on the snow. Who would not weep indeed? An onerous duty. And yet the very least when all is said, the very least I can do. But whoever would have thought.

  Tough worker ants intrude with spitting laughter in the sun, a wrenching of the earth, a scar and then bare girders with pale stones precisely clad. But from that echoing shell next fall will come a new department, of an equal size, and still there’s no official word. Although. Be most unwise, he said. You’re just the man.

  Be going down myself Lucan but some people from C.B.C. have arranged to tape something of mine. Shrugging his shoulders. Oh it’s not much you know, a little talk about a dog I had. In my youth. The Charm of Doctor Johnson, The Charm of Samuel Pepys and is at present working on The Charm of William Blake. His modest voice trailed thinly off as he squared the papers on his desk. Thank you Lucan, thank you. Nothing much, modest little books and yet . . . I flatter myself.

  He pauses in the upper landing’s warmth, inhales and quickly checks again the morning tray, inhales once more real instant coffee smells and then emboldened, marches into the room. She’s a good looking woman alright. Her jawline hard across my face, her warm breath breathing in my ear. Dear God, Thy. Come on now Lucan! To be thinking. On this day of lurking traumas and in your condition . . . “Would you like a cup of coffee Mrs. Crackell?”

  “Yes please. I would.” Smoothing flat the covers on her thighs, her mortal loins. “I’m sorry I was so, so short just now Lucan, but. Oh that smells wonderful!”

  “It does, doesn’t it.”

  “I know you were only joking, but I feel so awful and everything.”

  “Sure, I know.” In her grey eyes the troubled sleep. “It’s alright.” Lucan takes the cup. “Were pretty late and . . .”

  “No it’s not alright Lucan. It’s not fair to you.” Her teeth tearing delicately worry loose a piece of toast. “I mean, it upsets you too, I know, and still I act as if you didn’t care at all.”

  “No you don’t princess; and anyway you weren’t . . .”

  “Yes I was. And I feel just terrible darling.” Her hand contritely reaches to hold, her dry hand squeezes. Jesus, I wish she. “I just don’t know what’s the matter Lucan.”

  “Look, there’s nothing the matter love: it’s an uncertain time for us both, that’s all.” Poised and bravely. “What’s the review like?”

  “And being mean like that makes me feel even worse.” Turning one by one the flimsy sheets. “But I can’t seem to help myself.”

  “Last page of section one, I think.” She turns the pages, searches expectantly and reads. Softly her small mouth pouts, tightens as she reads, she murmurs, smiles and then assumes a frown. “Not so good?”

  “Oh it’s alright, I guess.” Thoughtfully chewing on her toast. “But God, I don’t know why they keep him on or anything. Listen.” And shaking out the paper’s folds she clears her throat. “Remember what he said about Godot? He really raved, and it was perfectly obvious he didn’t understand a thing. But listen to this. I mean, it’s so stupid.” And clearing her throat again she begins.

  Listening, Lucan takes another piece of toast and gently chews. And nods. Could do as well myself and there was a time when. Interested in your work. And a book review here and there, but nothing more. A finer kind of prose if I do say so, and certainly more knowledgeable. Hmmph! Yet when my letter was published she fell upon me for a pedantic wretch. A stab in the back and what’s more, an awfully selfish thing to do. And as Blair said, your academic interpretation was probably alright in the classroom, but for the theatre, the living theatre . . . and anyway it was a terribly successful production. Everybody said so. Hmmph. Oh well, it’s a dark and irrevocable world down there. Not up to the standard, her voice precisely reads, of their fabulously successful Paint Your Wagon. But certainly we are more than fortunate. Humorously moving her lips, scornfully. In getting one truly great show a year from an amateur company. “An amateur company Lucan! Blair’s professional, so’s Mervin and for that matter make-up’s not amateur anymore, even if we’re not being paid.” She leans against the pillows, pouting in small anger. “And people will believe him too, no matter what they think.”

  “That’s not strictly true Rose, and anyway he only means . . .”

  “The actors, if you ask me, they’re the only amateurs in this theatre. But that’s all anyone cares about anyway. People talking on a stage.”

  “Now Rose.”

  “It’s true. And anyway Wagon was the star show, with imported talent and everything.” Frowning with exasperation, she shrugs her shoulders angrily.

  In make-up since high-school with ample opportunity to act. Hart House. Her summer at Stratford. Not just jealous then. Lucan watches his wife’s face, he watches and listens as she reads. Must be pretty hard to work with. Extroverts in an unreal world, fashioning pride out of ego; building ego on the sounds of acclamation. Beguiled by Okinawa charm and Okinawa brandy, goes on her voice, the industry of American civilization founders upon the island’s simplicity. She’s right good Lord, what crap he writes! The patient hours of experience, her understanding slowly won and then last summer’s teaching. Very successful Lucan, a credit to you both. A credit to you both. A summer’s school of drama. To you both Lucan, she knows her business and we were pleased to have her on staff. And Susan, the brightest of them all was obviously impressed. Doctor Crackell, offering her thin hand, I’ve so enjoyed this summer, I really have. It’s been simply wonderful. Her hair whorled softly, sun-bleached about her face, her flesh-pink ears and golden throat. And I’m looking forward to coming back this winter and working on Teahouse with Mrs. Crackell. Really I am.

  About his head dark-spreading seeps the flower of her youth. It hardens on the frozen earth.

  It’s all crap, it bloody well is! From the tilted cup he draws coffee into his mouth for strength and rolls it slowly outside his teeth before swallowing. Could I but . . .

  They scar the earth, they wrench and tear with iron claws. And then they build.

  A cigarette. Yes. Risk one, need one now the void is full and my poor old mouth’s no longer foul. Selecting a cigarette from the pack beside their bed he holds it with dry lips. Out of the shadow as it were. And strikes a match.

  Although slow in getting started, there is still plenty of humour. The author . . . Who cares for chrissakes! Who bloody well cares? Teahouse provides amusing fare. Jesus. Arrgh! He roughly coughs an arid cough. And coughs again. Whoops, my toast and coffee! Have you no. My poor and blessed suffering head! Oh God. Take care. And the morning’s grey light breathes on the room.

  On thinking back, he’d always known that youth’s despair has nothing concrete to suggest, is negative alone. They were right. Every one of them. To its logical. And yet I . . .

  Singing I have danced about a runty hydrant. Here we go round. Drunk with useless joy I have danced night from the open streets, from eaves and branches, from between tomb homes at five o’clock in the morning. Here we go round and round.

  And then that bitch Miss Savage, that . . .

&n
bsp; But of course it wasn’t her, it wasn’t that shocking drunken scene but common sense, the maturation of perception that’s made the change. A therapeutic shock perhaps, a. Nevertheless. Just the man. Hmmn. To reckon with.

  Excellent Lucan. And smiling from his window, prospect of the still-new college (Crackell’s castle I have heard them say), he will congratulate me on behalf of my staff on campus. It is a thrill Lucan, a real thrill and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Truly a remarkable job. This university is becoming international in stature, getting its name on the map . . .

  Oh boy, that’s all I want. Just a chance to get a crack at the administrative side. Boyoboy!

  Gone at last is the unthought passion, a long time gone is the fool. And thank God for it. I’m no Peter Pan whatsoever and wouldn’t walk again in the wind, no not for my life lived over.

  Name on the map. And Lucan, the stimulus to enrolment! Old dynamo, you-can’t-keep-a-good-man-down Lucan Crackell has made this college what it is today. Oh boy. At my desk in the clearness of evening I have sat, a lonely but impressive figure, and practised the hiring and firing in preparation. Oh I know what you think, but I don’t want him and my voice was always strong and sure. No. No. And the curriculum. Aah! I’ve made such changes!

  “Rose, I find this too depressing altogether. And anyway I have to get dressed.” He puts the cup decisively beside the bed, he rises and slaps his thighs. Decisively. “A job to be done Rose, a miserable job, nevertheless a job to be done and there’s a lot at stake.” Pale eyes watch him above the paper. Can’t calmly listen in this room’s grey light, can’t rest and listen. You understand. While at our backs the morning. “The man’s a fool.” Gently he smiles. He turns towards the cupboard and his suit. The waistcoat elegant, snug about his chest. Nothing like it. Immaculate indeed. I’ll move with dignity, a fine dark figure through their lives. “I wonder what she’ll do?”

  “Who?”