| Author: |
Hugh MacDonald |
| Dated: |
Tuesday, July 24 2007 @ 11:25 AM EDT |
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1732 times |
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I listened as Margie spoke defiantly to our father. Shivering with fear, I covered my ears to shut out the sound, but I heard every word.
“No Daddy, Teddy wasn’t smoking, it was me,” Margie said.
“I smelled smoke offa him,” my father said.
“That’s because he walked into the room when I was smoking.”
I heard her shuffle across the floor when Da told her he wanted to smell her breath. Margie was only two years older than me, but she acted like an adult. She’d been protecting me for as long as I’d been able to get into trouble. Mama died when Margie was seven. I was five at the time. For the five years since Mama’s death, she protected me like a lioness guarding her cub. Now twelve, she washed clothes, made meals, and took care of me.
I’d been the one smoking, but Margie knew Da would beat me with the belt. He usually let her off with a slap or sometimes he’d just shout at her. Tonight was different.
“If you’re gonna be lying for him then maybe it’s time you got the same punishment. Drop em! Drop your pants!”
“Please Da, I won’t do it again,” Margie said.
The walls between my room and the living room were paper thin, separated by only sheet-rock. I heard him pull his belt from the loops of his pants. I was familiar with the distinctive sound of leather being pulled across cotton. Now I had to pee, as fear put an increased pressure on my bladder, but I waited until he made the snapping sound with the belt. Each time he folded it together, he would pull quickly, making that dreaded cracking noise. I knew he was
going to go through with it. My knees shook, as I called on all the courage I could muster and got
up from my bed.
“Pull down your goddamn pants, I told ya. If you were smoking, then you’re getting the belt,” Da said.
I listened to the muffled response as Margie agreed to do as she was told. It was my beating she was going to get. I didn’t mind a holler or a slap, but I couldn’t let her get the belt. As I opened the door, I saw she had the front of her pants open, ready to let them fall to the floor. I watched my father motion her toward the couch. He always had me bend over the arm of the couch with my rear end in the air. I couldn’t believe he was going to do the same to Margie.
“Drop your pants and bend over the couch. Do it now, damn it!”
I noticed he was flushed and clenching his hands. I hated him most times; now my hatred soared. I knew how painful the belt could be. I was amazed at the bravery Margie displayed.
“No Da, it was me!” I said, before Margie pulled down her pants. A look of relief crossed her face, quickly replaced by her protective look. Before she could speak I added, “Margie was just trying to protect me. It’s me that deserves the beating.” I pushed Margie gently aside and pulled my pants to my knees and bent over the arm of the couch.
“Join him,” Da said. I hadn’t considered he might also beat her. “If you’re gonna lie for him, then you get the belt too.”
Margie took her place beside me. She grabbed my hand as the belt began its downward stroke. Our shoulders banged together as the belt struck. Her eyes, though tear-filled, held a resolve that said, ‘this is the last time’ as she waited for the eight strokes to finish. With her pants adjusted in place, she helped me to my feet straightening my clothing as I cried.
“Are you happy now? Does it make you feel like a man ‘cause you can beat up two kids?” Margie said, flicking away her tears.
The slap to the face was expected, but the excessive force propelled her into the table. Her fingers tried to grab a hand-hold but only managed to grip the tablecloth which slid with her as she tumbled backward. She turned her head to one side as she fell, and a chair struck her above her right eye. Blood quickly flowed from the gash in her forehead. She lay motionless as blood pooled. It encircled her head, a grotesque halo.
*****
I looked at the sea of faces that came to learn from me. Some seemed secure in the course they’d charted; others appeared adrift on turbulent waters. I pushed the memory of Margie and my father back into the usually locked chamber of my mind and slid the deadbolt into place, slapping a padlock on the door for good measure. Several of the eighteen to twenty year old youth stared at me, probably wondering if I was lost in a typical professorial fog. Actually it was a distant memory, one which seemed to come unbidden more and more.
The mature students sat close to the front of the class, some of whom were older than me. Their desire to learn was evident in their attentive gaze. A couple of them said they had come to take an interesting course, whereas others mentioned they needed degrees for career advancement.
At thirty-five I didn’t feel particularly old, but my hair was thinning. The weight I’d gained last Christmas I still carried, and now it was September with another set of holiday’s looming: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. At this rate I would soon be like the old saying, ‘as broad as I am long.’
English 201 was part of the core requirement for all BA students. Retiring faculty and the need for replacements had all but secured tenure for me five years earlier. Right place, right time. A Master’s degree with a couple of publications in scholarly journals had gotten me the position. Now people with Master’s degrees need not apply. The few who did, taught part-time, and in many cases used it a as resume building experience. After a few years of teaching as lecturers most left for government jobs or tackled the PhD monster.
“Okay then, let’s wrap it up. Read Beowulf, and let me know what it’s all about. I enjoyed your introductory assignments. They’re on the table by the door. Please pay close attention to my comments. They should help you with the new assignment. However, what I want this time is a five hundred word essay with proper grammar, and be sure to cite the works from which you have
drawn. I’ve stapled a handout to your assignments that details the proper structure of an essay. I don’t expect perfection, but if you follow the handout, I’m sure you’ll do fine. I’ll see you all on Monday. Have a good weekend. Oh, and unless there is an earthquake that registers six plus on the Richter Scale, I expect the assignment on Monday.”
The collective groan from the students brought a wry smile to my face. I had always hated having to do homework on weekends when I’d been in university, but it never stopped the profs from assigning it. With a class size of thirty-six, I got off lucky with only four stragglers seeking clarification about the topic. They reminded me of myself when I’d started out. I reassured them the assignment was worth only ten points and was part of the process to help them become better writers. When the door closed behind the last student, I found myself again thinking of Margie....
*****
“Get up Margie, get up now,” my father said, his voice breaking.
Margie didn’t move, but her eyes flickered behind closed lids, like she was dreaming. I watched my father lift her and lay her on the couch. The hands that had been so rough only minutes earlier were now tender as he wiped a cloth across her face. He cleaned the blood from her forehead, revealing a nasty gash. He made me hold the cloth firmly against the cut, as he hurried to get bandages from the bathroom medicine cabinet. His hands worked expertly to pull the three inch cut together, and the bandages he applied seemed to quell the bleeding.
He had been drinking more since Ma died, but since it was at home after work, few people in town knew he was an alcoholic. That was to change today. When Margie still hadn’t awakened after an hour, he loaded us into the car. He had me sit in the back and laid Margie’s head in my lap. He never spoke as we drove the five miles to the hospital, but he sighed several times, as if he was undergoing an inner turmoil.
“What happened then, eh, Mr. ah?” the doctor asked. My father had carried Margie into the waiting room and a nurse quickly provided a stretcher.
“Ferguson, Andrew Ferguson. She fell and hit her head,” my father said. He cast a look that told me to keep quiet.
At first the doctor was talkative, but after he examined Margie he became less so. He had
complimented my father on the good job of bandaging, and I listened in surprise as Da told him he’d been a medic in the army. The doctor turned Margie’s head to one side and noticed the palm print of a large hand on her cheek. The bruising left the full imprint of my father’s hand, each finger clearly outlined.
My father and I were asked to take a seat in the waiting room. I watched as the doctor spoke to a nurse, and she hurried off to make a phone call. Da took in the proceedings silently, sometimes rubbing his hand over his face like he was washing in a hurry. He chewed on one peppermint after another and waited.
I saw the Harriston police come in at the same time Da did. He drew in a breath and shot the doctor an angry look as the doctor walked with the police toward us. I sat on a plastic chair in the sterile waiting room and watched as the police took my father to a small room, closing the door behind them. The doctor took me in and let me sit in a chair beside Margie’s bed. He asked what had really happened, and as scared as I was of my father, I was more afraid of the doctor and the police.
“It’s my fault. I was smoking and Margie tried to take the blame for me,” I said and began to cry. “Da gave her the belt too, even after I told him it was me. He didn’t care. He said she was getting it for lying. He whipped us both with the belt, then Margie sauced him and he slapped her and knocked her into the table and she hit her head on the chair, and she hasn’t woken up since. Is she gonna be alright?” I asked, now sobbing.
“She should be fine, but we’re going to have to keep her in hospital for a little while. Where’s your mother?”
I told him she was dead; actually I said she was in heaven, because that was what Margie always told me.
“Is there another relative you could stay with, Teddy?” the doctor asked.
“Why? Can’t I go with my Dad?” I asked, now fearful of what was going to happen.
There was an orphanage outside of town, run by nuns, but I didn’t want to be separated from Margie and my Dad. I remembered I had a Grand Aunt Winnie, but I didn’t know her. I just knew she sent items of clothing every year at Christmas.
*****
I gathered my books and stood up from the desk remembering that Aunt Winnie had been a godsend. She had come to the hospital and taken me home that night. Her tenderness manifested by allowing a night light and staying by my side until I cried myself to sleep. Margie had to stay in hospital a few days until the doctor was sure she was okay. She awoke the next morning, informing the doctor she was a little fuzzy headed. Our father was told he was unfit to raise us, a combination of alcoholism and abuse meant that he no longer had custody of us.
Although we stayed with Aunt Winnie, we were wards of the state while she applied for custody. Our father was allowed to visit once a week, provided Aunt Winnie was in the room. He had come a few times the first month, but Margie pulled away when he tried to hug her. After that he came only a few more times. The last visit, he’d been so drunk that he had fallen out of the car. Aunt Winnie told him to come back when he was sober or not to bother at all.
The last I’d heard, he’d lost his job and become a ward of the state also, collecting welfare and using it to drink. A short while later, the family home had been abandoned and someone said he lived like the other winos in town, sleeping in empty, derelict houses. I hadn’t witnessed his descent, but my impressions were that he either resided in a flop house, a shelter, or a graveyard.
The classroom, a barren void when the students weren’t present, had given me the only real pleasure in life. I was helping to mould young minds, as cliche as that sounded. Although I never committed to sharing my life and raising a family -- perhaps witnessing my father’s attempt at parenting had left its imprint -- I was happy Margie had been able to move forward and have both family and a career.
Margie’s son and daughter were a delight. The family dynamics were somewhat different, as the boy was the older of the two and not nearly as selfless with his younger sibling as Margie had been with me. But these were different times. Thank God I had been blessed with Margie. She spent her early years caring for me and was still like a mother hen. That she had become a nurse seemed so right. Her husband, also in the health care profession, was a patient and generous man.
Aunt Winnie had been in her fifties when we’d gone to live with her. Now well into her eighties, she still cared for me. Her money had become our money. She had been a teacher, rising to Principal before retiring. Her father left her well off, and she had never married. During a winter storm one year she told us her true love died during the war, and she never found anyone who could take his place.
The separation from our father became permanent, but not because Aunt Winnie discouraged us from visiting him. She had seen Margie lying in the hospital bed but never spoke against him. Her love for us was unconditional as a parent’s love should be.
Discipline was used to guide and instruct, not as punishment. We were never again subjected to the sound of leather being pulled through belt loops of cotton work pants or the feel of it lashing against our backsides.
Aunt Winnie was an educator who had worked at getting corporal punishment removed from the classroom. I was thankful the fear of the belt was removed. That’s not to say I didn’t get into the occasional hot water, but I would only be sent to my room to reflect on my behavior. She was a kind and caring woman, and grew more so over the years. Margie’s kids called her Grandma Winnie, which tickled her.
The walk back to my office at the other end of the university was mostly uphill, and if I hurried I became winded. I had never been athletic, but perhaps it was time to start an exercise regimen. Thirty-five was far too young to be thinking about my mortality, but every time my heart-beat pulsed in my neck, I felt vulnerable.
My father’s face came to mind, as a collage of visages: first the frightful one where he’d been holding the belt, then the one where he’d looked so sad when we were taken away, and finally the drunken one, which was the last image I had of him. I had been watching through the dining room window the day Aunt Winnie sent him away.
The light on my phone was flashing as I entered my office. Margie had left a message inviting me for supper because tonight was Aunt Winnie’s Ladies Auxiliary meeting. I quickly returned her call.
“Hi Margie,” I said, as she picked up the phone. “Thanks for the invite, but I think I’m
going to take a walk and grab a bite downtown. I want a rain cheque,” I added, because she could cook fantastic meals, and I didn’t want to be left out of any future offerings.
The university was about a half mile from the downtown area of Harriston and I made it to Freddie’s Fish and Chips in ten minutes. I liked this area of Harriston. It had a rustic feel, and the farther east you walked, the older the homes looked, but unfortunately the more run down they became. It was as if the town separated in the middle, with affluence going west and poverty claiming the east. Freddie’s fish was so good, it didn’t matter if he was a little east of the centre of town. The halibut was deep fried in a light batter, served with golden fries and homemade bread with butter. Malt and apple cider vinegars were available to enhance the already delectable treat. I would gain another fifty pounds if I ate there regularly.
After I finished the meal, I took a close inspection of my surroundings. Many of the clientele were working class, but I knew a significant number were below the poverty line.
Industries had closed down and others had left the area, leaving proud people with nowhere to
turn. The university and social services were the only places that witnessed an increase in clients.
The belief was that without an education you were stuck in Cape Breton, which was partly true. Sadly, I saw more kids attending university who didn’t have what it took
to make it through. Oh, most were intelligent enough, but the kids’ families couldn’t make up the student loan shortfalls. Those who made it through and didn’t leave the area were saddled with forty to sixty thousand dollars of debt, many of whom took minimum wage jobs and hoped the economy would change.
I heard someone whisper, “That’s Professor Ted Ferguson from the college.” Many in the area still referred to the university as ‘the college’ from the days when it was a junior college without degree granting status. I looked over at the person and smiled, then turned back to my meal.
The loss of industries meant many formerly well-paid people were now out of work, which in turn caused the smaller shops and corner stores to downsize or close. The local social services office doubled in size, where they would dole out a meagre amount to the needy. Food banks and soup kitchens were no longer used by just a few. The daily need grew at a rate that had become unmanageable for the local benevolent societies.
I left a hefty tip and walked outside. Turning right, I walked east toward the food bank and within a few minutes I saw a change in the homes, many of which had been company homes when the coal and steel industries had been booming. Wooden shingles were scarred from severe weather and the lack of paint. I felt ashamed and self conscious as I continued east. I’d read so many novels about the poverty of the industrial age in Britain, and taught classes on those very books. Oliver Twist’s London came to mind, as I continued along Main Street, a century later and a continent away. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the homes. Crop pits and open strip mining, that tortured the land, had filled the void left by corporations abandoning underground mining operations. I knew we’d burned coal when I’d lived with my father, but those memories were a lifetime ago.
As I neared Windsor and Main, I reached the outskirts of town. Here the run down houses turned to ramshackle shacks, with boarded up windows in homes inhabited by the abject poor. A hostel with a huge cross atop the building flashed vacancy, no vacancy, simultaneously. Posters announcing ‘The Good Shepherd Soup Kitchen is open twenty-four hours daily’ were plastered on the hostel’s walls. This was not a part of Harriston I was familiar with. Had Aunt Winnie purposely shielded me from the harsh reality or was she as unaware as I? To think these two extremes existed in Harriston was almost too difficult to fathom. Was this the place people spoke of when they discussed the poverty of the Maritimes?
What the hell was I doing here? Looking for my father? How could he live in such squalor? Was he even alive? Years of hard drinking may have already killed him off, buried in a pauper’s grave in the county’s graveyard. Why did I care? What was drawing me to find a man who’d beaten and abandoned me?
Several men stood by a dumpster, huddled together to keep warm and also to keep the bottle they were passing out of sight. As I neared them, one man hid the bottle in a deep pocket of his threadbare overcoat. They eyed me suspiciously as I approached, but held their ground.
“I’m looking for Andrew Ferguson. Do any of you know where I can find him?” I half expected one of the men to be him, but the man with deep pockets and sunken eyes pointed to the soup kitchen.
“You’ll find him at the Kitchen,” the man said, and pulled the bottle from his coat. “Wanna drink, buddy?” he asked.
Repulsed by the thought of sharing the bottle, I shook my head.“Thanks, anyway,” I said, not wanting to offend him.
The Kitchen was well lit and five patrons sat at stools and a woman sat in a booth. It was an old restaurant, the interior something from a fifties movie. It looked like a diner and in fact still was, only now there was no charge. An
old jukebox played songs from yesterday.
The stool groaned, accepting my weight, as I took a seat at the counter. I chose a corner seat which enabled me to look into the faces of the men who sat there. The first two were much too old. I knew alcohol could age someone, but these two men looked mid to late seventies, and my father was only in his late fifties. The next two men were Asian, and the one staring straight ahead was about my age.
“What’ll you have?” a voice, familiar but forgotten, asked.
I looked into my father’s eyes, and there seemed to be an instant recognition by both of us. He was clean shaven, wearing a white tee shirt, a tattoo bearing my mother’s name adorning his forearm. I looked like a younger version of him. I was glad to see his hair had stopped receding, which hopefully meant I wouldn’t go completely bald.
The place looked clean. I saw pots of coffee brewing behind him and said, “Coffee would be nice. Black.”
His hand shook a little as he filled the cup. A tentative smile hid behind a questioning look. I knew he was waiting for me to speak first. I continued to stare at him until he finally looked away. I couldn’t believe he’d look so good after all these years.
“I’ve been thinking about you lately, wondering how you are,” I said and lifted the cup to my lips. It was strong and bitter, but somehow good, appropriate. It seemed to suit the environment.
“I’m doing fine," he answered, then added, with a slight hesitation, "son.”
Although I hadn’t asked, he told me he’d been clean and sober for ten years and had been
working the soup kitchen for eight years, managing it for the last five.
“I know you’re teaching at the college, and from what I hear doing quite well. Margie’s a nurse. Seems right the way she cared for you. I almost called a bunch of times, but I know I didn’t have the right. I lost those rights a long time ago, but I never stopped loving you two. I sure had a strange way of showing it, didn’t I?”
We talked for close to an hour and I found I didn’t hate him. I didn’t know him, but I was willing to give him a chance if he wanted one. I couldn’t speak for Margie, but I would tell her about our meeting.
The air seemed a little fresher as I walked at a brisk pace back the way I’d come. I was going to spend a few hours behind the counter tomorrow dishing up food and getting to know my father. Perhaps it could be the start of new memories, of a better time remembered.
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Melissa
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Melissa MacLeod