Sanctuary Line (8 page)

My mother recalled her brother’s quietness on the journey back to Canada, how he turned his face toward the car window and the passing farms beyond it or the way he stood at the rail on the ferry and looked down at the frothing water. She remembered his expression as being almost adult in its preoccupation, a look she had seen on their father’s face when he had been worried about weather or the price of a bushel of apples, or even (because he was essentially a kind man) when he had been concerned about a neighbour who was sick or who had a problem that needed solving. Now this absorption was visible on her brother’s face and in his posture, and she was puzzled by this.

Two nights later, back on the north side of the lake and sleeping in her own familiar bed, she said she was awakened by the sound of men shouting. On her ceiling, a wash of orange and yellow was shifting and intensifying, draining down the wall. When she ran to kneel in front of the low window of her room, she could see cars and trucks, lit by an amber glow, already parked in the yard or coming up the lane, and although the barn was not visible from her room, she knew what had happened and who had made it happen. “And I also knew,” she told me, “why he had made it happen.”

The following morning, after the barn was gone and the fire was no longer dangerous enough to need constant attention, my grandfather took off his belt and whipped
poor Stanley, who had been hoping, my mother knew, for the balm of consolation. The boy had gone silently, without tears, to his room, had stayed there all day and night. The next morning, he had departed silently for school. She followed him, giving him the distance she sensed his pride might need, and wincing when he stiffened with pain. Neither the boy nor his father ever spoke about the incident, even when the burnt rubble that had once been the barn was being dragged away, but something had altered forever in their relationship. As if the punishment had distanced him enough to provide a clear view of the older man’s character, Stanley was able to see a flaw in his father – “A crack in the cup,” my mother said – and that flaw made his parent more human and, strangely, easier to love. Stanley’s grades improved after that and he lost his fear of his father. “It vanished completely,” my mother said. “Gone, as if it had never been there. And he could do anything he wanted after that, just stared my father down in the face of objections. There was this purposefulness about him, and I could see he was changing, becoming someone else.”

Years later, my mother’s American cousin, Sadie, now married to my Uncle Stan, would create a flourishing rose garden inside the remaining walls of the burned barn’s fieldstone foundations. Eventually, because it would not be needed for either storage or workhorses and was deemed to be unsuitable for conversion into housing for the labourers, the new barn, which had been built in the wake of
the fire, was pulled down. Aunt Sadie announced that she was pleased because to her mind the proportions of that building were all wrong and did nothing for the property. But what my mother remembered was how confident her brother had been on the ladder in the weeks following the fire when he and his father were working on the construction of that barn, without, as she said, a hint of tension between them.

Was this the moment then when my uncle’s charisma was born and began to grow? A quiet child, inclined to be plump, he became, as my mother described him, a handsome charmer in young adulthood. Every woman from five to fifty was drawn to him, and there were moments when he was seeing half a dozen girls at one time. Teachers sometimes boarded at the farm, and there was one, I believe, with whom he became physically involved, though the exact details of all that were never clear to my mother, who was most of the time a bit put off by the females who mooned around her favourite brother. Then came the summer when the beautiful and distant Sadie was sent from the other side of the lake in order to remove her from the influence of some undesirable whom she had taken a fancy to.

At first she was sulky and withdrawn, my mother recalled, barely leaving the room that Mandy and I would sleep in during our summers and that she, Sadie, shared with the girl who would later become my mother. If she noticed Stanley or his brother, Harold, or any of their
friends, she showed no signs of this. And perhaps it was this very indifference that caused my uncle to react to her so powerfully. When she had been at the farm barely a week, he stopped going to the dance pavilion on the weekends, and by the time two weeks had passed, it was difficult to persuade him to leave the farm for any reason, even if he was offered unlimited use of the car. As if Sadie’s presence in the house had brought back to him everything that had made him so uncertain and timid in his childhood, his former silence returned. Occasionally, however, he would break out of this into what my mother called “downright silliness,” joking and throwing his weight around until one parent or the other would tell him to stop. At mealtimes he either stared at Sadie or looked resolutely at his plate, his expression pained, angry.

My mother admitted that she had been jealous of Sadie at the time. Her American store-bought clothes, her perfect skin and hair, the movie magazines that were hers and that anyone had to ask permission to look at. She was envious as well of the effect she had on both of the brothers because Harold, too, was not immune to Sadie’s charms, though not as disturbed by them as Stanley. It would be Harold who would successfully tease their American cousin out of her sullenness, cause her to participate, usually by baiting her in a cheerful sort of way. “‘Went out last night to take a little round,’” he would sing. “‘I met my little Sadie and I blowed her down.’” Or he would call her Sadie Hawkins
in reference to the spinster who chased bachelors in the
L’il Abner
comic strip. “Well, Sadie Hawkins,” he would say at breakfast, “I can tell by the look of you that you’re after chasing me today. I’d better start running.”

This had a certain effect on my mother’s cousin, at least caused her to make eye contact, though in a truculent sort of way. It wasn’t until Harold threw a pailful of cold water through an open window while she was quietly doing the dinner dishes – “my parents expected her to help with various household chores,” said my mother – a splash of water meant to wake her up – that she fully responded, flinging the damp cloth against the screen and racketing out the door to chase him as he had predicted she would. Stan, who was coming out of the field with the family’s few remaining cows, witnessed the end of the chase, his brother and Sadie rolling together on the lawn. Her tanned legs kicking, her blonde hair tangled, his brother laughing as she beat her small wet fists against his chest.

Two days later Stanley enlisted, walking the thirty miles to the Canadian Forces Base at Windsor. He spoke to no one, told no one where he was going. “Just disappeared in the night,” was the way my mother put it. It was the early 1960s, there was no war, at least not one that involved our country, so there was nothing romantic or heroic about this gesture and, when they were finally informed, his parents saw his sudden departure as a practical employment decision rather than an act of desperation. Sadie, on
the other hand, having paid next to no attention to Stanley when he was present, became almost immediately obsessed by his absence. This, after all, took place at a time when young men in her own country were departing in significant numbers for the war in Vietnam. He was subsequently posted to Maritime Command in Halifax on Canada’s East Coast, training, he suggested, as some kind of engineer. He would be there for four years.

As soon as she had an address Sadie began to write letters to him, an activity she continued until the end of his service. These letters remain in the house, and I confess that I have read some of them. Being a chronicle of how her high schooling was unfolding and later of the design courses she was taking at the college of interior decoration, there was nothing in them that could be confused with romance. But it would have been the fact of those letters, arriving punctually, first at Windsor Army Base in Ontario, and then later at cfb Halifax, Nova Scotia, that would have made a man with Stanley’s imagination invent the affection that, as far as I could tell, was not really in them. Later he would inform my mother that he had slept with those letters under his pillow and had kept one or two close to his heart when he worked on the ships that I was later to learn he never sailed on. Those letters signed
Love, your cousin Sadie
. Those prosaic letters, and a glimpse of her rolling on the lawn with his prosaic brother, her connection to the ordinary, reinstated his confidence. When he strutted home
again, miraculously mature and ready to take over the farm, it was her to whom he was returning, and he began, almost immediately, to make frequent trips to the other side of the lake. They were married three months later.

“He still in uniform, she in a perfectly designed white satin dress,” my mother told me as she fumbled in a drawer searching for the wedding photo. “I know it is here somewhere,” she said, moving her hand through letters and cards and some old snapshots of me as a child. I allowed her to do this even though I knew the picture was still in this house and not in her room at The Golden Field. My uncle’s marriage had collapsed. No use looking for it anywhere.

When I tell you this story now, it does nothing but confirm my belief in the arbitrariness and frailty of the way human families are engendered; how pivotal, for example, the forgotten “undesirable” young American boy or a pailful of water thrown through the window are to the establishment of the seemingly stable world that I myself walked into each summer as a child. What, I often wonder, would have taken place if my uncle had not decided to join the Armed Forces? Even though his enlistment, looked at in the cold light of day, was mundane, and the activities attached to it – he was, it turns out, a riveter – boring and endlessly repetitive, it determined almost everything that
would later happen in the family. It was just a simple departure: there was no glorious cause to espouse, no sacrifice to make. But perhaps you feel differently than I do about causes and sacrifice, being so fully involved at this time in a cause more mysterious and deadly than anything I have ever encountered.

Mandy, to my knowledge, never thought much about her father’s stint in the peacetime military, though of course she knew it had taken place. There was that wedding photo, after all: a man in uniform marrying a woman who could not pay any attention to him until he disappeared.

What we are drawn to and what we turn away from are equal, I think, in their power over our bodies and our minds and seem, to me at least, to be equally determining of what becomes of us. A farm boy evolving into a soldier causes a girl to turn the light of her attention from one brother to another. He moves away from her, then she moves toward him, and the whole summer world as I would come to know it is seeded in those shifts of mood and location. A young Mexican in a foreign country panics in the face of violence butting up against adult fear, and he and passion are removed forever from my life. Thrown off course by a sudden shift of the wind, a butterfly will never reach its intended destination. It will die in flight, without mating, and the exquisite possibilities it carries in its cells and in the thrall of its migration will simply never come to pass.

A few nights ago the Coast Guard’s airborne search-and-rescue team was conducting training exercises about a mile offshore. Large, cadmium-orange discs, designed to illuminate a sizable expanse of open water, floated slowly down toward the lake, causing parallel gold paths to appear on the lake’s skin as if there were a series of autumn moons reflecting there. Were it not for the slowness of their descent, these ovals would seem almost celebratory: a variant of fireworks.
Feu d’artifice
, as the French would say. Artificial fire.

Fire has always been a part of our family’s story – there was that barn my uncle burned, of course – but it was a significant factor in the settlement of this flat, prairie-like landscape, here in the southern part of the province as well. My uncle said that the earliest settlers, our own great-greats among them, were so overwhelmed by the sheer number of hardwood trees, and the tremendous size of those trees, that rather than continue to cut them down themselves, or hire choppers, they set acres of forest on fire. As far away as the then small settlement of Chicago across the lake,
people apparently saw the glow in the northern sky and knew it was the burning of Essex County. My mother often talks about seeing an orange stain in the night sky in the 1960s and being told that Detroit had been set on fire in the midst of civil unrest. And Mandy, poor Mandy, would never fully recover from the “friendly fire” that had dropped from an American war plane on a platoon of recently arrived Canadian troops in Afghanistan, killing six of her colleagues.

Certainly, the nighttime exercises I witnessed the other evening were not as charged with meaning as those I have just mentioned, and yet how sad and stately the orbs of light seemed. Their appearance was like a rehearsal of tragedy with just a hint of possible redemption trembling at the edge. They have nothing to do with migration, of course, but I couldn’t help but think of the weaker monarchs that, exhausted by the effort of crossing the lake, are drawn down from the sky and into the waves. And I couldn’t help but think of Mandy either, Mandy and her father.