It began simply enough. I did not want drivers to abuse or mistreat or disrespect pedestrians. If someone's car would wind up straddling half or more of the crosswalk, and there was space behind them to back up I would stop, glare indignantly at the driver and righteously signal to them to back up, especially if there were more than three people besides your humble scribe trying to get across. The reaction from drivers has been understandably mixed. Some are actually good about it, others are well, a name for a certain apparatus of feminine hygiene.
Then there are the idiots who walk ahead of me smoking on the sidewalks and I have to either cross the street or run ahead of them or if they're still able to walk faster than me despite what they're doing to their lungs, I just wait till they're further ahead and no longer a threat. And those who smoke in the doorway of my building, ever since that goddamn liquor store opened next door. One fine summer day a very handsome young man, perhaps not yet thirty, with wavy blond hair and film star looks and fashion sense stood beguilingly in our doorway, resplendent in his white cotton shirt, sucking away on a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping him alive. As I entered my building I asked him politely not to smoke in our doorway, explaining that some of our tenants have health challenges. He looked at me and his handsome face quickly morphed into that of gargoyle as he replied, "Fuck off." Then my inner-dad went full tilt: "Listen here, I am old enough to be your father and you treat me with respect." He tried to argue and I said "Just get your sorry ass away from here and smoke somewhere else." He did leave with his friend for whom he had been waiting carrying a bottle of who knows what in a brown paper bag.
Never mind about all the idiots misusing the sidewalk on bicycles and skateboards, drivers texting or talking on their phones, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Eventually I just got so sick of it that now I just usually keep my mouth shut. Not always. If someone is being a nuisance to me and a danger to others I will still speak up even if I do get sworn at. But I am not everyone's dad and I think that now that I'm in my late fifties I would rather walk with more tranquility and just try to set a good example. I do want to age well, you know, and especially I would like to live long enough to be able to age well.
And now, speaking of inner-dads, here is a short story for you:
BLUE MORPHO
The weather was still nice, warm and sunny, and Michael wanted to squeeze as much enjoyment as possible from this waning September day. He often went hiking alone in the forest on his days off. Only in the presence of trees growing silently together did he ever truly feel at one with everything. Following a longer than usual hike in the woods he was downtown again waiting to cross the street. His legs felt sore and his left knee was just starting to ache. He had probably overdone it. He resented these little reminders that he was no longer young. The walk signal came on. Before he could set foot off the curb there he was in his van, cutting him off while talking on his cell phone, evidently oblivious to the pedestrians and other drivers whose lives he was endangering. Michael was going to let it go, then thought, why give this young little dork the advantage? In his righteous fury he slapped the back fender of the van.
He was a half block along on the other side when he felt something pull violently at his backpack and there he was. He was young, perhaps twenty-six, slim but not skinny, with longish straight brown hair sticking out from under a baseball cap and a face that would have looked handsome but for the rattish point to his nose. Now his features were all twisted in rage as he threatened to punch Michael for vandalizing his van.
“I didn’t vandalize your van. Now get off the phone and drive.” Michael wasn’t feeling calm at the time, and he would not yield to his bullying as he kept walking astride of him trying to trip him. He withstood him. The young man threatened to push him through the window. Michael replied that he was old enough to be his father and he ought to show him respect. He left and Michael, having left his cell phone at home, went for the nearest pay phone that was inside the community centre nearby. He picked up the receiver and was just about to call the police, then decided this would be futile, reconnected the phone and walked out.
Michael looked for a place to sit, quietly, away from crowds and noise so that he could collect himself. This had never happened to him before in his fifty years. Not since junior high school had he been physically assaulted and that was in the only schoolyard fight he had ever found himself in. He had come out the reluctant victor, having knocked his opponent to the ground with a single punch. He was in grade eight. The other boy was a year older, a notorious bully. Michael was suspended from classes for a week by the outraged principal, whom he learned years later, was the bully’s uncle; the other boy, not seriously injured, never bothered anyone again. It had been for Michael a challenge to live down what he perceived to be the unmerited popularity that this had gained him.
He supposed that this was his payback, some thirty-seven years later. Gladys his wife had always said, “What goes ‘round comes ‘round” and finding this saying to be trite and shopworn he had never quite believed her. He missed her, for her reassuring integrity, for her warmth, and for her stock of wisdom in cliches. She had been dead now less than six months and he still thought of her every day, and still dreaded the empty and lonely nights in bed without her. He eventually picked the park surrounded by quaint heritage homes as his refuge for recovery. This had been a favourite walk for Gladys and Michael on their rare days off, when they would promenade together, like old lovers from a small town in Latin America more than fifty years ago. They would dress, not necessarily in their finest clothes, but nicely and tastefully and his wife would gently hold onto her husband’s elbow as they walked the circumference of the little green square like a courting young couple promenading before the other villagers. It wasn’t far, just a few blocks away. There were no dogs running loose today. He had never cared for the liberties that the local dog owners took with this lovely piece of grass. There were signs up forbidding this ravage carrying warning of a two thousand dollar fine if disobeyed. But dog owners seemed to be only selectively literate. He liked dogs, but had always experienced a strong and acidic distaste for selfish and publicly irresponsible behaviour. Which is why he slapped that young moron’s van with the flat of his hand.
He sat on their favourite stone bench next to the faux-Renaissance fountain. On their rare days off together—Gladys had been a Legal Aid lawyer and Michael was still floor manager at a local supermarket—they would walk here together, sometimes on a spring or summer evening, occasionally on a Sunday afternoon, like a courtly couple of the old school. They would sit together quietly looking out at the green lawn, the romping and frolicking dogs, or listening for the birds in the adjacent gardens. During these hours Michael always felt as though they had been lifted together out of time. He felt transported into an earlier era and place, perhaps Italy in the fourteenth century, eavesdropping in the private garden where Boccaccio recited his tales of the Decameron to his captive and aristocratic audience as they sought refuge together from the Plague. Sometimes it seemed an earlier, ancient time, in Greece, Egypt or Crete; or to another time and place unknown and nonexistent, perhaps a palace garden of Lost Atlantis, or a gateway to the gods? A thick and golden silence would descend on them together and they would sit so still and silent, not holding hands, not touching, each alone together and together alone in this obscure hint of timeless, primeval and eternal splendour.
Gladys was fifteen years her husband’s senior. They had been married but six years when her cancer was diagnosed. For two years it spread silently throughout her body, arrested only briefly by aggressive interventions. She was on the verge of retirement when it finally took her. Twice a week now, Michael’s stepdaughter, Lucinda would phone or e-mail him. Sometimes she would visit him for dinner in the apartment—she always insisted on cooking, though her stepfather was a competent cook, and Michael submitted gracefully to her ministrations. This was for her a huge sacrifice since she also had her husband and teaching career to attend to. She always came to see him alone. Knowing that Gladys would never live to see her own grandchildren could still cause him to weep at times, even if Lucinda herself was already well over forty and not very likely to produce any heirs.
It was hard for him to settle as he tried to remain still on the stone bench. It felt cold, hard and a bit soiled. Possibly one of the off-leash dogs had peed on it. He caught himself muttering an obscene imprecation against selfish, lazy and stupid dog-owners, then decided that the bench was decently clean but for a white spot of birdshit next to him where Gladys would have been sitting. They had first met each other at a fund-raising dinner for Legal Aid that Michael had attended out of heartfelt gratitude for the help they had given his son, Jeff, who had been falsely charged on a drug deal. He was twenty-four now and doing volunteer work somewhere in Central America. He had been reluctant to leave his father this close after his wife’s death but Michael, a stoic to the bitter end, would not hear of it. He would not forgive himself for depriving his son of this much-needed experience. He also wanted to be left alone to grieve on his own, but for the ministrations of Lucinda, who would not leave him alone. Perhaps that she was not his blood kin was a factor here along with her being female, but her presence felt for him less threatening. He also knew that they shared a bitterness of grief together over the loss of Gladys that his own son would be always on the margins of.
When he got home to his condo, Gladys’ condo actually, he checked his cell for messages. He refused to carry it with him on his frequent hikes in the forest. As he suspected, four from work, even though it was his day off. There was also a message from Lucinda. The condominium was already paid-for when they got married. He had only the strata fees, property taxes and utility bills to keep up, guaranteeing him a substantial increase of disposable income. He didn’t really know what to do with the money that had fattened his bank balance, not to mention the generous top-up from Gladys’ death benefits and the other money he stood to inherit, once her will had been fully probated. Michael already gave regularly to Legal Aid, to a sister organization of pro-bono lawyers who did activism and advocacy for the marginalized and homeless and to the food bank. Thus he could assuage his conscience for earning his living off a corporation that throve on keeping food prices artificially high to maintain broad and wide profit margins. A union man, Michael had always veered strongly towards the left in his politics; having a tender and easily broken heart kept him also very empathic and highly vulnerable emotionally towards the needs of the less fortunate, particularly the homeless who begged on the streets and languished in overcrowded shelters.
He thought he should make something to eat though he didn’t feel exactly hungry. He reckoned he was still upset from the assault and that had just ripped away the thin skin that had formed over his wound from his wife’s death. He returned Lucinda’s call, who was not answering. “Hey, bright-eyes, it’s yer old stepdad. Returning your call. Stay well.” This was a joke between them, since there were but six years between them in age. She was more like a peer, a sister perhaps. Their relationship seemed so unique and hard to classify that he didn’t know what to call it. She was family, yet something else. She had been nagging him lately about meeting a new woman. Michael felt it was too soon, but he had already had a few offers. Having been devastatingly handsome as a young man, with his pale turquoise eyes, his thick dark eyebrows and his mat of silver-white hair he had matured into what is commonly called “striking.” He had never thought of himself as good-looking, and had always felt a certain shock, even resentment or betrayal, whenever anyone, female or male, would find him attractive. Even in his twenties he had felt too old for this kind of attention.
He checked the messages from work. As he suspected there was nothing important. A new stock clerk couldn’t find the new shipment of Heinz ketchup, then called him back to say that he knew where it was. The same boy called again about the shipment of Post Shreddies, then called again to say that he finally located it. He turned off the phone, then thought of Lucinda calling him back, and decided to leave it off anyway. He turned on his computer and sent her an e-mail. There was a message from Jeff:
“Hey Dad, it is raining buckets here right now thanks to the hurricane that just passed us by. The weather is otherwise okay, for rainy season, and since I’m up in the mountains it’s never too hot here. Sort of spring-like. We go hiking in the jungle every day. The wild life takes my breath away. The birds are especially beautiful, and especially the hummingbirds. They’re magical. They shine like emeralds, amethysts and sapphires, and they’re absolutely fearless. And you should see how they fly. Sure, we have hummingbirds here, but they’re tiny and drab little jobs and up here there are at least seven different species and that’s just in this area alone. In the whole country there are more than fifty. I saw a toucan yesterday, you know, the Froot Loops bird with the big colourful beak. They look even more bizarre seen live than on the cereal box. Every morning we’re woken by howler monkeys, which roar from the forest like treebound lions. Well, you get the idea. The people are very kind, hospitable. When we first arrived they were kind of shy and awkward but it only took a day or two to win their trust. They’re not used to getting this kind of help, being very self-reliant, but they don’t seem to mind these big white Gringos helping them rebuild their village. The landslides were devastating and they’re still in mourning from all the loss of life. I’ve attached a photo of one of the local butterflies. It’s called a Morpho, they’re everywhere, and they’re huge and they look more like slow lazy tropical birds as they flutter and float across the road. Anyways, I should be back by Thanksgiving. See ya.
Love, Jeff
He saw the attached photo of the sort of iridescent blue, shot with turquoise, green and violet, butterfly that would only exist in the tropics. He sent Lucinda a quick e-mail, explaining that his phone was turned off so she should e-mail him. Then he thought, “How stupid of me!” when he realized he could have given her the same message on her voice mail. He was likely confused from being upset. Perhaps he also really wanted to be alone and to be left alone for the entire evening. He went to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. What he really wanted was an omelette but was out of eggs. That would be easy to remedy. He had only to go to the store around the corner where he worked and buy eggs. He didn’t want to go out. He sat and stared at the computer monitor for a while. There were no other e-mails and he didn’t know what to search for on the Internet. He clicked back to his son’s e-mail and examined carefully the blue Morpho butterfly in the attached photo. He had never seen one of these before and had never visited that part of the world. Michael had never travelled outside of North America. He had seen a lot of Canada, up until Toronto, anyway, and visited Seattle a few times. He had always been too busy working, raising his son and making ends meet for the luxury of foreign travel. After his first wife, Jeff’s mother, had run off with a bike courier Michael was left with the sole task of parenthood. It was not easy and fortunately his own parents and a favourite aunt had been on hand for baby-sitting and childcare. While he dated sporadically, he could not find a woman suitable for marriage. He dreaded repeating his mistake with Karen and thus visiting further trauma upon himself and his son. They had done well. Jeff had managed to steer clear of any behaviour that could shame his father, and the incident about the drugs was quickly resolved once Gladys’ organization had come to the rescue.
Again he looked at his son’s e-mail. He couldn’t quite figure out what he was concealing. Jeff was a very able communicator who really didn’t usually know when to shut up or when to sign off an e-mail. He was always on hand with a barrage of personal insights, anecdotes, jokes, gossip, trivia and confessions that made him simultaneously endearing and infuriating. Perhaps Michael could overlook this because his son was gay, and so was given to the kind of loquacity that was usually ascribed to overly bright young women. But Jeff had always seemed to him to be too suitably masculine to be gay. He could be loud and macho, had won a few fights in school, and was very good with his hands. Neither had he known him to be fussy about his clothes or grooming though he kept himself clean. He was a highly skilled carpenter. Yet his keen intelligence combined with his sensitivity and his love for nature and humanity could at times overwhelm Michael with a near-intolerable tenderness towards his son. Michael had never been himself much of a talker, though not for want of having anything to say, nor for lack of intelligence. He had been to college, and to university, where he got his BA in political science and then decided he was happier working in a grocery store. It wasn’t long before he was given the management position and the responsibilities of shop steward. The work suited his personality. He liked food, he enjoyed the public, was meticulous about order, about quality. Michael was meticulous. It surprised him that in good conscience he had remained these last twenty-five years employed by a corporation whose politics he disagreed with and whose lack of ethics sometimes appalled him. Still it had helped him keep his son alive, and had enabled him to help put Jeff through university. He did not know how much longer he would continue working there. Once Jeff was living on his own and fully independent he might look at a career change, perhaps go back to university, work on his masters degree. He didn’t know.
The place was quiet without his son, whom he supposed was also his best friend. That his best friend would be simultaneously a gay young man and his son Michael found only now intriguing. Jeff’s sexual preference had never been a big deal to him. They had never actually talked about it. One day, fresh out of high school, Jeff asked his dad if he would like to meet his new boyfriend. Without winking or blinking Michael replied that he should bring him by for supper so he could meet his recently acquired Gladys as well. Gladys asked him once how he felt about it. Michael replied “he is my son” and changed the subject. He found that he liked Jeff’s boyfriend, although he found him just a little bit particular and swishy, who soon became a regular feature for Sunday dinners. He never slept over. Jeff had never so much as hinted about this. Michael still didn’t want to give it much thought, but as far as he knew they were still seeing each other.
It was too convenient for him to go to the store where he worked to buy eggs for his supper. When he was courting Gladys she had chimed with that bright, bordering on Pollyanna, cheeriness that once they were married Michael could walk to work. He still didn’t know how he felt about this. Fortunately staff didn’t pester him much. He did end up reminding another new employee about being more observant about rotating stock in the produce section, especially bananas. The dairy manager he had to remind to check regularly for broken eggs, since the first carton he opened contained two cracked specimens. That said he got out quickly, carrying the eggs along with the brick of extra-old cheddar he’d bought in his backpack, since he hated wasting plastic bags, or plastic anything. As he was waiting for the light to change there was a sudden and sickening crash and he saw what appeared to be a human being hurtling through the windshield of his van and onto the pavement near the curb he was standing on. The van he had been thrown from stood paralyzed in mid left-hand turn, a looming eighteen-wheeler truck wore its back end as though it were a tapa that it was dining on. The driver of the eighteen wheeler had somehow escaped unscathed and was sauntering over to the bloodied and writhing victim. Michael was just slowly turning him on his side into the recovery position when the other driver said, “Just called 911. Ambulance coming.” It was then that Michael noticed the cell phone lying near the dying young man. Then he saw the cap that had been flung off to the other side, and he recognized immediately the young man who had assaulted him this afternoon. Soon the strident pealing of sirens filled the air and an ambulance with a fire truck appeared and stopped, lights flashing and casting red and white shadows on the crowd that had gathered. The young man had looked up at Michael once, peering through the blood that covered his face. His eyes widened in recognition, then closed as he lost consciousness. As two paramedics attended to him, and police arrived to question the other driver Michael realized that here he had outlived his usefulness.
When he arrived home he put the eggs and cheese in the fridge. He felt in no condition to cook anything, much less eat. He went straight to the computer where he looked again at his son’s e-mail. He had just sent him a second missive. He began to read it, then switched back to the first e-mail to look at the picture of the blue butterfly. Even on the monitor screen Michael had never recalled seeing anything so beautiful, so wonderfully blue. He stared at the image, as though to draw nourishment from it. He felt hungry, relented from fasting and made his cheese omelette. It suddenly occurred to him, just as he was getting a plate from the cupboard that he should look at his shoes. The left of his brown walking shoes had blood on it, just a spot. He left the plate on the counter and got out a cloth and some spray-cleaner. He looked for a while at the red streak on the white rag. As though to silence the blood before it could begin to scream out against him he shoved it into a plastic bag which he bundled and tied with care and precision before depositing it in the garbage. For a long time he held and scrubbed his hands with soap under the running water in the bathroom sink. The omelette was already getting cold once he started eating it. He didn’t care, he felt so hungry, and suddenly very tired. Sitting down in front of the TV he saw that the late news was already on. Where had the time gone this evening? The accident he had just witnessed was announced, along with the death on arrival of the young man who had attacked him from behind today. More than ever, Michael missed his wife. Usually he did start to think about her this time of night, but now it was almost unbearable. He was suddenly craving alcohol. There was nothing in the house, not even a single bottle of beer. He didn’t want to go out, and it was too late to phone Lucinda. What could she do anyway? He would call her tomorrow. Then it occurred to him that he had not remembered to turn his phone back on. He grabbed it off the coffee table. There was a message from his stepdaughter, nothing more earth shattering than an invitation to brunch next Sunday. He might send her an e-mail.
At the computer he read his son’s e-mail:
“Hi there, again Dad. I’d might as well ‘fess-up. I’m sorry I didn’t mention anything to you about this earlier, but I wanted to surprise you. Well, here’s the surprise. I just had dinner with my mother, your ex-wife Karen. Hello? Still there? She’s here vacationing with her husband and two sons. Did you know she’s living in France now? She’s still with that bike-courier she took off with. It turns out he’s a champion racing cyclist and has several times won the Tour de France and other major bike races. Now he has a plum job with the UN, if you can believe it! His name’s Marcel. Their two boys are age twelve and fourteen and their names, respectively, are Bernard and Olivier, and of course they are being raised as proper little Frenchmen! They live in the south, in Provence and of course I’ve been invited to visit them there. She tracked me down six months ago on the Internet and this is our first face-to-face meeting. Honestly, Dad, I hope you’re okay about this. I didn’t mean to do everything behind your back like this, but I honestly didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t know how I felt even. I think I was pretty angry at her for a while, but now, I don’t know how to say this, but it’s so damn good to see her. I have only a sketchy recall of her. Dad, she’s beautiful! And happy! And radiant. She works for the same UN organization as Marcel and this means they travel a lot. They expect to be in Vancouver sometime next year and she would like to see you, if you’re willing. In fact, if you want, I can send you her e-mail address. She seems really stoked about contacting you. Well, that’s all for now. It’s after midnight here and it’s raining hard outside. I think I’m the only one still up in the compound. Tomorrow I’m going hiking with Karen, Marcel and their boys. It’s going to be like becoming part of a new family, I think. I’m too excited to sleep, but that’s okay. I brought lots to read on this trip. Let me know how you are. You’re on my mind a lot today for some reason. Hope everything’s okay.
Love,
Your son,
Jeff.”
Michael clicked “reply”.
“Great to hear from you son. The butterfly looks beautiful. You say they’re pretty common down where you are? Great news about your mother. Give her my congratulations, and tell her to get in touch with me.
Your Dad”
He didn’t know what else to write. He hadn’t thought of saying anything about the young man who’d attacked him, or about witnessing his untimely death just over an hour ago. It was not that important. Certainly not to his son, whom he didn’t wish to upset. Michael had always felt protective of Jeff, never wanting to upset him, whom for many years he had deemed his only link to sanity. He was going to tell Lucinda. She would know what to say. He clicked “Compose” and began to type out an e-mail. Then he changed his mind and thought of writing his son another e-mail about his mother, but he didn’t know how to word it, how to start or finish it. He could not find words or even feelings to match them with. Karen had left in him a humongous void that not even his eight years with Gladys had been able to fill. And now Gladys was gone. His fingers felt paralyzed. He knew what it was. The blood of that young man was crying out to him. He knew this, but how could one know such a thing? Michael got up, went into the bathroom and put on a pair of latex gloves. Back in the kitchen he took out the bag of garbage from under the counter and fished out the plastic bag that contained the rag. Undoing the knot he had tied, he carefully extricated the blood-smeared rag, held it up like a national flag and looked at it. It was a small, vaguely horseshoe-shaped smear of red against the greyish white fabric. Still holding it with both hands he sat down on a kitchen chair.
“Look, I don’t know who your are,” he said. “What you did to me was stupid. What you were doing before I hit your goddamn truck was stupid. Talking on your fuckin’ cell like that and almost running people over. And you were probably on that goddamn thing again when that fat fucking truck rear-ended you. You weren’t even wearin’ yer fuckin’ seatbelt for Chrissake. Now look at you. All that’s left of you. A smear. One lousy smear. You could have got married, had kids, though I don’t know what sort of father you’d make. You’re dead now, kid. I don’t even know your name. You’re probably the same age as my son… I don’t even know your name.”
He remained seated, staring for a while longer at the stained rag. He got up, put it in the kitchen sink and rinsed it and wrung it out till most of the blood was gone. He looked down at the drain at the bottom of the sink. Michael rinsed and disinfected the sink, threw the gloves and the rag in the garbage and returned to the computer. To Lucinda his stepdaughter he typed, “I don’t know how or why, but I think I might have committed a murder today.” He didn’t know what else to write. He clicked “Send”, then returned to the image of the Blue Morpho butterfly…
He must have been sleeping there for more than two hours in front of his computer. Taking a final long look at the blue butterfly on his screen, he logged off his computer, turned out the light and went straight to bed. He didn’t feel very tired, and would probably have a dreadful time settling down to sleep, but he could lie there awake in the dark wondering whatever was he going to do with himself now? He was alone again. He didn’t think he would remarry. His son would be back soon, but within a year or two living on his own. He might change jobs. He might go back to school. Maybe travel? Perhaps to that country in Central America where Jeff was helping a village to restore itself again, where he might see for himself those incredible butterflies that he might never be able to erase from his mind. He turned over in his bed, closed his eyes, and without knowing or intending to, drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.
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