Authors: Richard Ford
Partreau, which we later drove past, was altogether gone. Even the elevator husk. It was as if a great vengeful engine had come through and plowed it under and salted the earth. I drove us out into the wheat fields—the crop thick and undulant. The sky was high and clear blue, the hot wind gusting and dusty and dotted with snapping grasshoppers. Hawks patrolled, lazing in the great warm dome or sitting sentry in a single tree, here and there. I didn’t say so, but I drove us—to the extent memory could lead me—near to the place we buried the Americans. It’s odd how a piece of ground can hold so little of its meaning; though that’s lucky, since for it to do so would make places sacred but impenetrable, whereas they’re otherwise neither. Instead, it all becomes part of our complex mind to which (if we’re lucky) we can finally assent. The great fields of grain swayed and hissed and shifted colors and bent and lay back against the wind where we stopped our car. I got out and breathed in the rich odors of dust and wheat and something vaguely spoiled—a thin seam only. The Americans lay under their ground, as they would’ve by now, even had they lived on longer. I stood, hands in my trouser pockets, toes in the dust, and tried to make it all signify, be revelatory, as if I needed that. But I couldn’t. So I walked back to the car, my wife waiting in the heat, watching me curiously. We turned back toward the west and the distant, invisible mountains and left that place forever, once again.
L
AST FALL, BEFORE MY SISTER DIED, I WENT TO
visit her in the Twin Cities. It is only an hour’s flight from Detroit Metro, which we all use as if it were ours. I hadn’t known she was there. In planning a party for my retirement, my students “looked me up” on the computer to find out what they could—something embarrassing or touching; someone who might’ve been looking for me; an old girlfriend, an army buddy, a police warrant. You can’t keep much a secret anymore (though I’ve done better than most). They found a “looking for” message “posted” on some site. It merely said, “Looking for a Dell Parsons. A teacher. Possibly living in Canada. His sister is ill and would like to be in contact. Time is a consideration. Bev Parsons.” A phone number was given.
It was a powerful shock to me to see my father’s name on the sheet of paper the students rather solemnly handed me, wanting me to know they’d had lighter-hearted intentions, but obviously understanding I should see this.
I had never seen my father again, or my mother, once they went away to prison. The day in the Great Falls jail was the last time. There were letters—one or two from Mildred—that found their way to me. One telling me, also shockingly, that my mother had committed suicide in the North Dakota prison for women. (I was by then at St. Paul’s High School, in Winnipeg, and can’t remember much of what I felt.) But there was never anything from him once his prison term was over—if he survived it. I concluded he must’ve felt I was better off wherever I was, and nothing could be gained by revisiting a life that was over long ago. Which I came to believe was true, though it was not that I forgot him. In a previous visit with Berner, in the town of Reno, Nevada, in 1978, she’d told me she believed she’d recognized our father in a service station casino in Jackpot, Nevada, perched on a stool, feeding quarters into a slot machine with what Berner said was a “Mexican girl” sitting beside him. He’d had a mustache. She admitted she sometimes confused this sighting with a man she’d seen in a bar in Baker, Oregon, and who had been alone. “But either way he was still handsome,” she said. “I didn’t speak to him.” Berner was a drinker and such stories from her were not unusual.
But the thought that my father—at age ninety—could be at my sister’s side, seeing her through a bad time, and seeking me out in the world to ask assistance, was tantamount, and surprisingly, to feeling my whole life was not only under assault but in jeopardy of never even having been lived. They were all still there, waiting for me, numinous, obstinate, staring, unerasable. It made me realize how much I’d wanted to erase them, how much my happiness was pinioned to their being gone.
Berner and I had seen each other only three times in the fifty years. These elliptical family relations are possibly more typical in America. I can’t generalize about Canada and Canadians—feeling that I am barely one of them. But we saw a lot of my wife’s parents before they died. We still see a good deal of her sister, in Barrie. Canadians and Americans, however, are alike in so many ways, it’s probably an unfair distinction to insist on.
I’d always felt I
should
see more of my sister, and if you’d asked me I’d have said I was that kind of brother. But it simply hadn’t happened. Her life turned out to be different from mine. I have had one wife and been a high school teacher and sponsor of chess clubs through my entire working years. Berner had had at least three husbands and unfortunately seemed able to please herself only on the margins of conventional life. I lost track of most of it. She was a hippie until that played out. Then the wife of a policeman, who treated her badly. Then a failed late-in-life college student. Then a waitress in a casino. Then a waitress in a restaurant. Then a nurse’s assistant in a hospice. Another husband was a motorcycle mechanic in Grass Valley, California. No children were involved. And there was more that made her life seem not a good one, though she never said that.
When we visited her in Reno, she was with a man named Wynne Reuther, who said he was related to Walter Reuther. They were both drunk. We ate dinner in a rathskeller place at a casino. Berner, whose freckled skin was puffy and her flat facial features exaggerated, had acquired a sneering, raspy laugh that revealed too much of her tongue. Her narrow gray-green eyes were hawkish and cold. She treated my wife sarcastically and didn’t seem to remember or to take in that we were Canadians. She possessed the same wrangling strangeness that always fascinated me—her “hauteur” our father called it. When we were children, we were always two sides of one coin. But now, at dinner, talking noisily over this Reuther fellow, she seemed to me just another extra human being, in spite of mannerisms and hand gestures and an occasional ghostly “set” to her features that I recognized. Eventually she said that I—not Clare—talked like a Canadian. Which didn’t bother me. She said Canada was “nondescript,” which annoyed Clare. She finally said to me that I’d left my country behind to fend for itself. After that I had a displaced argument with Wynne Reuther—something about Iran—which cut the evening short. The last thing Berner said to me, as we stood in the dark, sweltering, desert car park—Interstate 80 full with its burden of trucks banging above us in the orange sodium lights and the bright casino glow—was: “You gave up a lot. I just hope you know that.” She knew nothing about what she was saying. She’d drunk too much and was bitter about the “substitute life” she’d led instead of the better one she should’ve led if it had all worked out properly—our parents, etc. Of course, she was right. I
had
given up a great deal, as Mildred told me I’d need to. Only I was satisfied about it and about what I’d gotten in return. “It’s so odd what makes people different,” Clare said, almost whimsically, when we were in the car and all of that was behind us. “Nature doesn’t rhyme her children,” I said, happy to remember the line of Emerson’s, and to have a place for it to fit perfectly. Though what I felt that night was impermanent, incomplete, and sad. I thought it was possible I’d never see Berner again.
I ARRANGED TO MEET HER
at the Comfort Inn that is by the huge mall near the airport in the Twin Cities. There was a polite disagreement on the phone over who would come to see who, and once that was settled, whether I would drive to her house in a rental car or she would drive to get me.
“I have to be able to go home when I get tired,” she said on the line to Windsor, her voice sounding worn but positive—as if I wouldn’t be able to take her home when she was ready. She had a small, harsh cough and sounded hoarse. “I’m doing my chemo on Tuesdays,” she said, “so I wear out fast.”
“Is Dad there?” I said. “Bev Parsons” was stitched into my brain. I didn’t want to see him. But if he was alive and looking after her, I didn’t very well see how I could deny it.
“Dad?” Berner sounded incredulous. “
Our
dad?”
“Bev Parsons,” I said.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” she said. “I forgot. No. I finally decided to jettison my old awful name. Berner.” She said it ruefully. “All those years with that being me. Like bad luck. His name seemed better for me. I always envied it. I could keep my luggage—if I had any.”
“I always liked your name,” I said. “I thought it was distinctive.”
“Good. Then you take it. It’s unoccupied. I’ll will it to you.” She laughed again.
“How sick are you?” Suddenly, because of the telephone, and not being face-to-face, it was as if we were not young, but adults who could ask such questions. Twins of another, better kind.
“Oh my,” she said. “I’m just taking chemo for something to do. I’ve got two months. Maybe. A lymphoma you wouldn’t want. Really.” She breathed audibly into the receiver. A sigh. She’d always sighed, though never resignedly.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And we were back being near strangers. Of course, I meant it.
“Well, me too,” she said and seemed in good spirits. “The cure’s all that really hurts. And the cure’s not even a cure. You’d better come on, though. Okay? I want to see you. And give you something.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come next weekend.”
“Are you still Mr. Teacher?” she asked.
“Still till June,” I said. “Then I retire.”
“I’ll have to miss your graduation, I guess.” She laughed the harsh sneering laugh I remembered from the last time, when she’d told me I’d given up a lot.
“SHE JUST WANTS
to see if you’ll come.” Clare shook her head resolutely. She was helping me pack a small bag. I intended only to be there a day and a night. “And, of course, you will.”
I said, “If your sister was sick and dying, you’d go.” Our house on Monmouth Street sits beside a small park and has vestigial elms, front and side. Both were in clamorous gold display. It was October, the time you live for at our latitude.
“I would,” she said, and patted me on my shoulder and kissed my cheek. “I love you,” she added. “Whatever she wants, you give it to her.”
“She doesn’t want any more than my coming,” I said. “She wants to give me something.”
“We’ll see,” she said. My wife is a chartered accountant and tends to see the world beyond her small circle of intimates and close family as a dedicated negotiation, pro versus con, profit versus loss, give versus receive—though not evil versus good. These views have not left her cynical—only skeptical. In her heart she’s generous. “You’ll get whatever’s coming to you, whatever it is,” she said. “Tell her I send her warm wishes—if she remembers me.”
“She does,” I said. “She’ll appreciate that. I’ll tell her.”
IT WAS COLD
in Minneapolis, a city I have always liked from afar for what seems to be its down-to-size, polished and sturdy optimism. We occasionally routed ourselves through there on the way to Clare’s mother’s in Portage la Prairie, taking the ferry across the lake to Wisconsin.
I was outside the Comfort Inn in my overcoat, looking up to a few squads of hurrying southerly ducks, when Berner drove up in a dented blue Probe, rust adhesions scabbed around its wheel wells and across its hood and roof. She rolled down her window. “Hey, big boy. Got time for a quickie? A quickie’s all I’ve got.” She looked terrible. Her face, smiling up through the window, was mustard color. The puffiness from thirty years ago was gone, as was the girlish down on her jaw. Her eyes looked played out behind a pair of oversize red-frame glasses—the kind older women wear to look younger. She was thin—almost as when we’d been young. She looked like an elderly woman whose teeth were large for her mouth. Her flat face appeared to have fewer freckles because of her makeup. Her once frizzy hair was gray and sparse.
“I just have to drive back by the house,” she said, once we were going. “It’s not far. I forgot my oxy-whatever. Then I thought we’d go to Applebee’s. I’m comfortable there. You know?”
“Wonderful,” I said. She wore a clear shunt taped on top of her right hand—for her chemo. Everything she did was requiring a large effort and difficulty—including seeing me. Her car was a jumble inside. A dirty green chenille bedspread covering the bucket seats. The radio was taken out. A strip of duct tape was patched over a gouge in the dashboard vinyl. The back seat held a tire and some jack equipment. Berner had on a long quilted purple coat that wasn’t new, and white furry boots. She gave off a pronounced hospital smell—rubbing alcohol and something sweet. She was clearly very sick, as she’d said.
“I’ll take my pill once we’ve eaten.” She was negotiating Saturday morning surface-road traffic near the mall. “I’ll have thirty good minutes. Then I’ll have to get home. Get you back to the hotel. Or else I’ll start driving backwards and upside down. I’m an addict now. I never was before. It’s cured my allergies. That’s pretty good.” She smiled. “Did you recognize me? Yellow’s my new fall shade. It’s ’cause my liver’s snafu’d. That’s what’s going to escort me out, I guess. It’s supposedly okay.”
“I recognized you,” I said. I didn’t wish to seem sober sided if she wasn’t. “Is there anything I can do?”
“This.” She leaned back in her seat as if something in her middle had bitten her. She breathed in deeply, then out deeply. “Unless you want to teach me math. I thought it’d be good to learn math again before I died. I used to be good at it, remember? It’s all different now. Dying must make you thirst for knowledge. As well as other things.” She smiled. “I’ve missed you. Sometimes.”
“I remember,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”
“Of course, you
have
a memory. I can’t seem to find mine.” She turned and looked at me seriously as if I’d said something I hadn’t. Her look was meant to represent warmth toward me. To welcome me and make me know she missed me. “I remember
you
, though,” she said and raised her chin in a way that was like our father more than her. It was a gesture of mine, as well. I experienced a sudden pang of longing then—to be young, for all of life to have been a dream I would wake from on a train to Seattle.