Finding Again the World Read online

  And vaguely, yet more insistent than the screaming gulls, I could hear somewhere behind me, distantly, people shouting and a car-horn honking. And then I felt hands grasping my arms and voices talking. Voices talking. Gentling voices. Voices that talk to a frightened horse. And the voices said,

  “There we are. You’re all right now.”

  “You’ll be all right, boy.”

  “Steady now.”

  I felt cold water slop against my shirt as I stumbled.

  “Have you got him?” said a voice. And then another voice said, “Nothing to worry about, boy. We’ve got you safe.”

  And the hands, the hands and the voices, guided me back to the beach.

  ROBERT, STANDING

  The hot-water bottle bulgy in his lap, Robert pushed himself down the passage and into the bathroom. The wheels of his chair rippled over the uneven woodblock floor and squawked as he made the turn. A strong push with his right hand brought the chair round to face the washbasin. Gripping the edge of the basin with his right hand, he pulled the chair closer.

  Tipping the chair forward, he reached up and over the basin to open the bathroom cabinet. He took down the bottle of Dettol and stood it between the taps. Holding the hot-water bottle pressed against his chest with his left arm he unscrewed the stopper and then poured the urine down the sink.

  He ran the water for a few moments and then flopped the mouth of the hot-water bottle under the tap. When it was half full he held it pressed against the edge of the basin with his left hand while he poured in some Dettol so that it wouldn’t smell.

  He pushed against the basin and moved himself over to the bath. Leaning out from the chair, he turned on both taps. The bath was an old fashioned one his brother had bought from a demolition company, legs and claw feet, its enamel chipped away in spots leaving blue-black roughnesses. The original bath had been too low for him to get into without help.

  He took off his pyjama jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. He lifted himself with his good arm and worked the pyjama bottoms from under him, pushing them down his legs to wrinkle round his ankles. He sat naked in the canvas chair as the bathroom filled with steam.

  From his broad shoulders hung the single, paunchy mound of his chest and stomach. His left arm was stick thin, the wrist and hand twisted, fingers splayed. Below, both legs were thin and useless, the kneecaps rising like huge swellings. At the end of the wasted legs his feet sat like big boots on a rag puppet.

  He freed his feet from the folds of the pyjamas and then, jamming the wheelchair against the tub, worked himself forward to the edge of the blue canvas seat. Holding the pressure against the bath to try and stop the chair from being pushed away, he heaved up his bulk on the strength of his right arm. The chair tipping, sliding, he lurched sideways, straining upwards to lodge one buttock on the white enamel. The breath soughing in and out of him, he rested there for a moment, and then worked himself higher until he was sitting on the edge of the tub.

  Using both arms, he lifted up his right leg, hoisted it over the rim, and dumped it into the water. Then the left leg. He sat resting again, facing the wall.

  The skin of his back and buttocks was pitted with the scars of boils and sores, wounds which erupted again and again from the same chafed sites leaving scar tissue like soft scale.

  He shuffled himself along the edge of the bath to the curved end. His legs dragged out behind him. Then, getting a good grip with his hand, he allowed his buttocks to slide down. His quivering arm held for a moment and then his bulk fell, water slopping out onto the floor. The shock of the hot water stopped his breath. He lay motionless as the water surged up and down. When his breathing returned, he levered himself into a sitting position and hauled at his legs to straighten them out.

  Sweat was standing out on his forehead. A vein, a muscle, something in his neck was jerking. He lay back in the rising steam, his eyes closed, waiting for the pounding of his heart to slow. He could feel the water still lapping at the island of his stomach. He opened his eyes and stared up at the tiled wall. It was furred with gathering beads of moisture.

  Grey cement lines between the white spaces climbing, zigzags, verticals, building block lines, near the top edge a band of blue tiles, a single drop hung. Already impossibly heavy. Still on his desk. The weekly folder of playscripts from the CBC still lay on his desk. They’d have to be mailed off today or he’d have to pay for special delivery. But if he could finish reading the last play and write the four reports by eleven and then get the last three chapters of the novel read for the Gazette review—say twelve, twelve-thirty—he could get the carriage out and go to the drive-in on Decarie for lunch. The drop of water pulled others tributary and hung swelling. It broke suddenly into a meandering run. It was three days now since he’d been out. But if he went a bit later she wouldn’t be so busy. One-thirty. One-thirty might be better, when the cars had thinned out.

  As it checked, and paused, and changed direction to run again, it was leaving a clear trail shining down the tiles. One­thirty might be better. The soap slipped from his hand and he groped for it under his wasted thighs.

  Bringing his tray, the edge of the peasant blouse decorated with blue and pink stitched flowers. Leaning into the carriage, the blouse falling away, a tiny gold crucifix on a gold chain deep between her breasts. The drop of water gathered again and then streaked down below the edge of the tub and out of sight.

  “Are you going to be long, Bob?” yelled his brother.

  “Nearly finished,” he called back.

  He could hear Jim in the kitchen now; the tap running, a pan on the gas-stove. He pushed himself higher and twisted round to reach the two towels on the chair behind him. He spread the first on the seat of his wheelchair so that he wouldn’t have to sit on wet canvas for hours. He draped the other down the inside curve of the bath and splashed water on it. He heaved himself up again on his right arm and grunted his way up the towel’s roughness until he was lodged on the rim of the bath.

  Jim rapped on the bathroom door and rushed in. He was wearing a dark suit and carrying a briefcase. “Sorry, Bob,” he said. “It’s half-past eight.” He wrenched on the cold tap and splashed water on his face.

  “Didn’t you sleep again?” he said.

  “Fair. I just woke up early.”

  Jim squeezed tooth paste onto his brush and leaned over the basin. When he had wiped his mouth, Robert said, “You’ve still got toothpaste on your moustache.”

  “Okay. See you tonight then. There’s some coffee for you in the kitchen.” He peered into the mirror again. “Nothing you want?”

  “No, I don’t think so, thanks.” Then he called after him, “Jim! Are you going to be late tonight?”

  “No. Usual.”

  “Shall I make supper?”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  The front door slammed shut. Robert sat on the edge of the bath.

  He struggled back into his chair and started to dry himself. When he touched his legs the flesh dented into white fingerprints which slowly faded up again to red.

  He wheeled himself over to the basin and waited for the water to run hot. He propped the small hand-mirror between the taps and reached down his razor and the can of foam. As he peered into the mirror his fingertips explored a nest of spots under the angle of his jaw.

  He put his hand into the water to test the heat and sat staring down into the basin. No scrubbing ever cleaned his calloused palm and fingers which were grimy with an ingrained dirt from the rubber wheels. He sat in the silence, staring. His hand looked disembodied, yellowish, like some strange creature in an aquarium.

  Before going back to his room, he dusted his buttocks and groin with Johnson’s Baby Powder.

  Sitting tailor fashion on his bed, he worked the socks onto his feet. Then pulling his legs apart, he stuffed his feet into his underpants. He got the pants up round his knees an
d then rolled onto his back to pull them up. He repeated the manoeuvre to get his trousers on. As he had decided on going out, he put on his new turtle-neck sweater. Then he rolled back into his chair again and wheeled himself over to face his desk.

  The empty apartment was shifting, settling into silence. He moved the folder of plays to one side and taking a large manila envelope from the middle drawer wrote:

  The Script Department,

  CBC,

  P.O. Box 500,

  Toronto.

  He found his mind drifting into the clock’s rhythm, speeding up and slowing down, emphasizing now this beat, now that. He could hear the faint twinge of cooling metal from the gas-stove in the kitchen. Outside on the street he could hear the rattle of tricycles, the faint shouts of children. If he looked up he would see the side wall of the next duplex and in the top left corner of the window part of a branch. The desk top was a sheen of light.

  The room behind him was familiar country, his own unchanging landscape. On top of the chest of drawers stood the photographs of his mother and father, ebony and silver frames. Beside them stood the small silver cup won long ago in his school days. On the end wall were the two rows of Hogarth prints—a complete set of The Rake’s Progress and three odd prints from Marriage a la Mode. By the fake fireplace and the green armchair were his record-player, tape-recorder, and the FM radio. And the rank and order of his books memorized, the colours of their bindings.

  Facing him on the desk were three shoeboxes. They were packed with file cards—the bones of his abandoned thesis for the University of Montreal. He was always intending to move the boxes and put them away but he never seemed to get round to it.

  The wild yapping of the upstairs dog aroused him. His eyes focused and he found that his pen had covered the envelope with doodling lines and squiggles. He quickly wheeled himself out to the front door. The mailman was just walking up the concrete ramp.

  “Hello!” said Robert. “How are you?”

  “Oh, fine. Just fine.”

  He handed Robert two letters.

  “Did you go away anywhere?” Robert asked.

  “No, I took it easy, you know. Did a few jobs round the house.”

  He smiled and started to walk away down the slope.

  “The man replacing you got everybody’s mail mixed up all the time,” called Robert.

  “Oh, these temporaries, they don’t care,” he said.

  “It must be hard getting back to it after a holiday,” Robert called. The mailman paused on the pavement and shrugged. “Oh, it gets kind of boring round the house,” he said. He hitched up his bag and walked on up the road. Robert sat in the open doorway and looked at the letters. One was a bill from Hydro-Quebec and the other contained a three cent voucher for New Luxol detergent.

  He backed his chair and closed the door. He knew it must be at least nine-thirty. Perhaps more coffee would help. He was just about to wheel himself into the kitchen when the dog started its frantic barking again. He sat in the hall waiting. It had to be somebody for upstairs. But then the bell rang. He waited for a few moments and then moved up to open the door. Two young women stood looking at him.

  “Good morning,” said one.

  “We’re messengers of the Lord,” said the other.

  “Well, you’d better come in, then,” said Robert.

  He ushered them into his room. “Do sit down,” he said, pointing to the armchair by the record-player. “I’ll just. . . .” He started to drag over a wooden kitchen chair.

  “Can I help you with that?” asked the younger one.

  “No, no. I can manage, thank you.”

  He placed the chair and the two of them sat down. The older one smoothed her skirt carefully, pulling it down taut over her knees. Robert guessed she was in her late twenties. She had straight hair, cut short, and a pale, almost pasty face. She bent to take something from her briefcase.

  The younger one was prettier except that her hair was rigidly permed. She was wearing white ankle socks, a tartan skirt, and a blue blazer with brass buttons.

  “Well,” said the older one, “we’d like to talk with you for a few minutes if you can spare us the time?”

  “Sure,” said Robert. “Certainly.”

  “We’d like to talk about the Lord Jesus?”

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Robert. “Tea, coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He moved his wheelchair so that he could look at both of them at once.

  “We’re members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints?” said the younger one.

  “Commonly called ‘Mormons,’” said the other, pointing to a blue, paperback book she had taken from her briefcase. On the bookcover, a man in gold robes was blowing a trumpet. “After this book, The Book of Mormon.”

  “Yes,” said Robert. “Would you like some lemonade, perhaps?”

  “We should have introduced ourselves,” said the older one. “This is Miss Adetti and I’m Miss Stevens.”

  “Hardwick,” said Robert. “Robert Hardwick.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Hardwick, are you a member of a church?”

  “No, I don’t go to church,” said Robert.

  “Do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ?” asked Miss Stevens.

  “Not in any active way,” said Robert.

  “We’d like to present the Lord Jesus to you this morning, if you’ll let us?” said Miss Stevens.

  “By all means. . . .” said Robert.

  She fixed him with her eyes. “Mr. Hardwick. Why did the Lord Jesus come into the world?”

  “Allegedly to save it,” said Robert.

  “‘And he cometh into the world that he may save all men if they harken unto his voice; for behold, he suffereth the pains of all men, yea, the pains of every living creature . . .’” said Miss Stevens.

  “Second Book of Nephi. Chapter Nine. Verse twenty-one,” said Miss Adetti.

  ‘‘There are many misconceptions about the Mormon faith, Mr. Hardwick,’’ said Miss Stevens.

  “You mean wives and so on?” said Robert.

  “Some people say we aren’t even Christians and that The Book of Mormon is our Bible,” said Miss Stevens.

  “Which just isn’t true,” said Miss Adetti.

  “The Book of Mormon,” said Miss Stevens, “reinforces the Bible. It doesn’t replace it. It adds its witness to Christ’s word.”

  “‘Wherefore murmur ye,’” said Miss Adetti, “‘because that ye shall receive more of my word?’”

  “And again from Second Nephi,’’ said Miss Stevens. “‘And because my words shall hiss forth—many of the Gentiles shall say: A Bible! A Bible! We have got a Bible and there cannot be any more Bible.’”

  She paused and then said, “And what was the Lord God’s answer, Mr. Hardwick?”

  “‘O fools!’” said Miss Adetti.

  “Well, that certainly seems a reasonable point,” said Robert.

  Miss Stevens bent into her briefcase again and came out with a long cylinder. She took the cap off and pulled out an assortment of metal rods. Robert hauled his feet further in on the footplate and shifted his buttocks on the hard canvas. Miss Stevens did not shave her legs and he stared at the matted hair under her nylons.

  “The Book of Mormon,” she said—her fingers were building the rods into a sort of frame or easel—“was first given to the world in 1830. We’d like to tell you a little of the miraculous history of that book. I have here a visual aid. . . .” She stretched over and stood the easel thing on top of the record-player. Robert saw with sudden interest that her baggy blouse concealed absolutely enormous breasts.

  “But you see,” said Robert, “it’s not history that concerns me. Before we bother about history we ought to answer other questions. How do we know that the Lord God even exists?”

  �
�‘And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things,’” said Miss Adetti. “Moroni 10:4-5,” she added.

  “But I don’t know that the Holy Ghost exists,” said Robert.

  “I have known the Lord Jesus in my life, Mr. Hardwick,’’ said Miss Stevens.

  “But I haven’t,” said Robert.

  “You must have faith,” said Miss Adetti. “‘For the natural man is an enemy to God and has been from the fall of Adam, and will be, forever and ever, unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit.’ Mosiah 3:19-20.”

  “‘He who wishes to become a saint must become as a child,’” said Miss Stevens. “‘Submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even. . . .’”

  “But how,” interrupted Robert, “can you have faith in something you don’t believe in?”

  “There’s such a beautiful story in The Book of Alma,” said Miss Adetti, “that answers that very question. May I tell it to you?” Miss Stevens nodded.

  “‘Korihor said to Alma: If thou wilt show me a sign that I may be convinced that there is a God’—you see—the very question you asked us. ‘But Alma said unto him: Thou hast had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of all these thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator.’”

  She finished and there was a silence. Her face was flushed. The silence deepened. Robert nodded slowly. He bent and pushed his left foot forward on the footplate. He straightened up and looked at them.

  “Oh, Mr. Hardwick!” burst out Miss Stevens. “Let the Lord Jesus enter into your life!”

  “Let us say a prayer!” said Miss Adetti.