Arrival — Hindsight, Chapter 5, Part 1

The slam of a car door brought Bill back to the present

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Hindsight by Neil Shooter (photo by author)

May 2024.

The slam of a car door brought Bill back to the present. He hauled himself off the couch and into the kitchen, and peered through the window at the dirty brown world of spring.

A little blue car. A young man. Already at the porch. The doorbell rang.

“What the hell?” He was only steps from the front door himself, and opened it, but kept the screen door closed. It would offer some protection.

The kid was wearing a black, face-hugging mask over his nose and mouth. He pulled one of the ear loops off, letting the mask dangle from the other ear. “Hi Uncle Will, it’s—”

“Brian? Jesus! You’re all grown up!”

“It’s been a long time ….”

“Yes.”

“Half a lifetime, Uncle Will.”

“Call me Bill.”

The kid’s brow scrunched, but he had the good sense not to say anything about it.

“What can I do for you, Brian?” Bill’s arms folded, as he stood there like the guardian of his threshold.

Brian seemed to realize something. “I’m negative, Uncle Bill. Three times.” He held up his phone to the screen door, showing a series of numbers.

Bill read it carefully. It did seem legit at first glance. “I’ve been isolating. You may as well come in.” Not the warmest welcome, but not bad under the circumstances.

“Thanks.” Brian kicked the mud and one of last fall’s decaying leaves from his boots, and gratefully sank to the bench by the door to take them off.

“Cup of tea?” Bill figured he should try to take control of the situation.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Come sit at the kitchen table—we’ll watch the kettle boil.”

“Okay.” Brian stepped through, and pulled out a chair.

Bill could see the boy, still.

Brian happened to glance over at the fridge. “You have my photo! From like Grade 5!”

“Last one I was given.”

“And it’s still on your fridge?”

Bill shrugged. “Nothing to replace it with.” He sat down at the kitchen table, facing his nephew. “I never thought you’d come.”

“Oh?”

“I just figured that you’d hear some things from your mother and not ever want to see me. Or maybe that if you came you’d punch me out, by way of introduction.”

“I did. Hear some things, I mean.”

Bill sighed. “What did she say?”

“A lot of things.”

“Hmmm. That’s your mother. So did you come to punch me out?”

“Thought we’d have tea first?” Brian smiled, and glanced over Bill’s shoulder at the kettle.

Bill scrambled to his feet, and poured the hot water, rattling the teaspoons in the cups. “She didn’t raise you to hate me? For what she said I’d done to her?”

“She tried. She used to call you Uncle Ebenezer.”

“Well, to my face she called me a ‘miserable old miser’, which is a bit redundant now that I think about it, so I guess she found time to come up with more snappy insults.”

Brian snorted. “She said that you hated her, that you liked seeing her suffer, that you were jealous of her life.”

Bill laughed, and immediately felt bad about it, considering her son was sitting before him now.

Brian blushed a little. “But she said so many things. So many stories, all different. They kept changing. I guess they couldn’t all be true.”

Bill sat with his memories for a moment. “She used to think about jealousy a lot, for some reason. She told me I was jealous that she could have children, when Juss and I were ‘clearly frigid or impotent’. That was ... a LOT. She accused me of so many things. And now? I think most of them were things she felt about herself, that she projected onto me to make herself feel better.”

Bill sighed. What should he say? What should he NOT say? “Your mother told so many stories, sometimes she’d forget which version she’d told you. And then try to distract you with bluster, or an accusation. I remember it all too well. I tried to help her, you know, meaningfully. No one likes tough love, apparently. I tried to help her find a new path. But as soon as I wasn’t the cash cow, I became the problem, the enemy. And, oh, the things she said to me after that.” Bill laughed again, remembering the audacity of some of those things. “So, buddy, nothing she told you about me can possibly hurt me more than she already hurt me in person, to my face. You can say anything you like, as long as it’s the truth. I’ll always respect you if you do that, no matter what.”

Brian was quiet. Rosy-cheeked.

“I’m sorry. I guess that was a lot.”

“It’s okay. You’re just telling it like it is.”

“And I’ve had plenty of time to stew over it. Speaking of which ....” Bill got up to fish out the steeped tea bags, and brought milk and sugar to the table after the cups. “Don’t know how you like it.”

Brian shrugged. “Not sure. Don’t have tea often. More of a coffee drinker.”

“Sorry—should’ve asked. There’s instant—”

“No, no. I’m good.”

“Long habit. We always had tea.”

“How are you doing, Uncle Bill?” Brian fixed him with that stare, intent, searching for signs of—what? Imminent collapse? Sleepless nights? Alcoholism?

Bill knew what he was asking. “I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

“I get up every day. Somehow, the day is filled up with … something. And then the next morning I get up again. Easy.”

“I was there, you know. I don’t know if you could tell.”

Bill lowered his gaze. “I never looked. Not at the public condolences, the visitor log, the private messages. None of it. I’m sorry. I—just couldn’t. But thank you.”

“Tough having a funeral in lockdown.”

“Oh no, not at all. Much better. No one else there.”

Brian squinted at him.

“We had troubles in her family too. I don’t know if you know? Our friends are still in Toronto, if they’re still friends. Time and distance, right? No one travels much these days.”

“I didn’t know. Still ….”

“Still.”

Brian put two hefty spoons of sugar in his tea, and a good dash of milk. He stirred the hot cup for far too long.

“So what made you decide to come here today?” Bill thought that sometimes it was just better to cut to the chase.

Brian looked up. “Mum is … in the hospital.”

Bill was surprised. “Is she—?”

“Yes. She’s got it.”

“And you—”

“You’ve seen the negatives.”

“Is it … a bad case?”

“Yes. It’s bad.”

“She want me to come? Play nice? Bend the knee?”

“What?”

“Oh. It’s something a mad queen said once. I just mean—”

“Huh? No. She doesn’t know I’m here. She’s in ICU.”

Bill waited.

Brian took a deep breath. “And we were evicted.”

“Rent protections—”

“Expired in April.”

“But still. Isn’t it a bit quick—”

“She was too far behind in payments. I didn’t know.”

“So you need somewhere to stay.”

“Yes.”

“And you came to me.”

“I—Yes.”

Brian’s father was dead. He’d rolled over his fancy new pickup after a night out.

Bill said, “You know, I didn’t know about your dad until—”

“I get it. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

“Thing is, I went no contact with your mother for good reason, no matter what she’s told you.”

“And that’s why you didn’t know about Dad—”

“Yes, but that’s not it. Your mother was always getting into situations. And to get out of those situations she’d pull in whoever was convenient, and throw them at the problem. The strategy worked time and again. So if your mother wanted something, real bad, like, oh, money, for example, she’d do almost anything to get it. Is that what this is?”

“You think—”

“I don’t know you, Brian. But I know her. Maybe she’s tricked you or manipulated you in some way. What is she really after?”

“She’s really in ICU.”

“BGH?”

“Yes.”

“You have the room number? The bed number?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, Computer: call Belleville General Hospital.”

A ringing sound came from the kitchen speaker. When the call connected, a perfectly articulated voice asked how it could help. Will waved at Brian.

Brian said, “Room 317, please.”

Bill smiled that he was so polite to a hospital AI.

“William,” it said, “Your sister is currently sedated and not able to answer. Would you like to hear about her condition?” The hospital AI had instantaneously connected his request to his home AI’s credentials.

“Is it 23b?”

“Yes, William. I’m sorry to say it is.”

“Thank you for your help. That will be all. Goodbye.”

Bill was silent for a while. He examined the tea in his mug. “I’m sorry I had to do that. But I wasn’t being unreasonable or unfair by being suspicious of your mother.”

“I get it.”

“Your mother’s MO is ‘expect the unexpected’.”

“I get it. You haven’t had contact in ten years.”

“Look, I cut her off for my own wellbeing, for my own sense of sanity and serenity. I regret that it came to that, I really do. But it DID come to that. And I don’t regret doing what needed to be done. I regret being cut off from you -- I knew you wouldn’t understand, but how could you, being a kid, being raised by her, with her twisted perception of things? I’m sorry, kid, but you were kind of collateral damage.”

Brian nodded. “I get it.”

They sipped their teas.

After some minutes, Brian took a deep breath. “So, I have the negative tests, and I’ve been quarantined otherwise. I’m in the clear.”

Bill didn’t say anything.

Brian forged onwards. “You’re the only family I’ve got. I understand, kind of, your feelings about Mom. But I didn’t do what she did. I didn’t do anything. I—”

“Save the speech,” Bill said, sadly. “You’re gentler than your mother. I know you can get yourself on the Registry and find a housing placement somewhere. But you can stay here for a bit. If you’ll help me out in the garden.”

“Sure. I don’t know anything about gardens though.”

“Not surprising. Your mom could never be bothered with them. Just listen to what I say, and we’ll get along just fine.”

“Thank you, Uncle Bill. I promise you, if this doesn’t work out, I’ll put myself on the Registry, no hard feelings.”

“Okay. You have any stuff?”

“In the car.”

Bill nodded. Brian dashed outside, and Bill watched him rummage through various bags and bring only one of them back in with him.

“You can have the guest room,” Bill said, leading him down the hall. “Didn’t get much use, anyway.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bill.”

“This is Juss’s art room. Don’t touch anything in there. And this’ll be your room. And that’s your bathroom. Mine’s en suite.”

“Nice.”

“Put your bag down. I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

*

Bill reached up and lifted the reel mower off the garage wall. “Not used this since last May,” he said, with a grunt.

Brian glanced over at the John Deere, a question on his face.

“Yes,” Bill said. “We could. But I’d rather not have to go get gas right now. We’ll need that sooner or later anyway, when the stalks dry out, and the dandelions have worked through their season.”

Brian nodded at the simple machine. A frame. A set of blades. Human powered. “Isn’t it a lot of work?”

Bill laughed. “Yeah, it’s a great workout. Your abs will pop.”

“I don’t have any abs.” Brian wasn’t fat, by any stretch, but also didn’t seem very active.

“You will do. And with all the May showers, the both of us working on it should manage an acre of grass much better than me trying to do it alone. The key is to focus on a certain area. Build momentum if the grass is short enough. Over the septic, it grows so fast, we’ll have to do it every few days. And back and forth works better in the longer grass, and when things start to dry out.”

“Back and forth?”

“With your shoulders. A bit like a rowing machine. You’re going to be in the best shape you’ve ever been.”

“Can’t wait.”

“You’ll be exhausted for a week or two. But it ends up feeling like a kind of dance, you know?”

“Sure.” Brian didn’t look convinced.

“Come on, let me show you.”

*

Bill crouched next to Hilda, one of the new chicks.

“You’re probably a girl, aren’t you?” Her comb was small, and nutty. She had red-brown neck and shoulder feathers, fading into a darker plumage on her body and wings. She had black feet, with brown feathers, and a fifth toe. She was the friendliest and most inquisitive of this year’s hatches, and about six weeks old.

“You look just like your mom. Do you know Greta is your mommy? Do you? I bet you don’t. You look more like your grandmother though, don’t you think? Ringo? Where’s Ringo? I don’t see her, do you?” And echoes of Miranda, as well. Oh, the years of chickens. “It’s dizzying, isn’t it, Hilda? All these years. All these—”

The gravel crunched as Brian approached. “Are you talking to chickens?”

“Yes. It’s good for them to be familiar with my voice. I’m not crazy.”

Brian chuckled. “Okay. That chicken likes you.”

“She likes the food in my hand, mainly. But yes, she’s a keeper, so far.”

“How do you know she’s a girl?”

Bill laughed.

“What did I say?”

“You sound like me, a few years ago. Short answer—you get to know the signs. If you stick around long enough, you’ll figure it out.”

“Sick of me already?” There was lightness in Brian’s voice, but also a note of wariness.

“Not yet.” Bill smiled over his shoulder. “How’d you like mowing the Victorian way?”

“It’s great. Just great.”

“I’ll do a bit later. Are you beat?”

“Pretty much.”

“We have to keep on top of it, as much as we can. If it gets ahead of us, and we use up the gas, and then there’s a shortage—well, we’ll be screwed.”

Brian nodded. He surely understood all about that.

“I’ll do some in a while. Leave the mower in the shade somewhere.”

“Okay.” Brian didn’t go anywhere. “How many chickens do you have?”

“Right now? About forty, I guess? Including the chicks.”

“Isn’t that a lot?”

“These chickens kept me and—me and Juss—alive the last few years. Through the ups and downs, you know? The shortages and the cancelled orders. Eggs every day.”

“Sounds monotonous.”

“If it’s all you’ve got, you’re grateful for it.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean—”

“Half of these are new chicks. We keep about fifteen hens to overwinter, and maybe as many as five roosters. And harvest the rest.”

“You mean, kill them?”

“CULL them. Process them. You eat chicken, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“And don’t you know anyone who’s had chickens the last few years?”

“Not in Belleville.”

“Right. I guess not. Bylaws.”

“And apartment buildings. I know a few people who had tomato plants, but that’s about it.”

“Right. Well, look at it this way. If I cull twenty chickens, that means I have maybe fifty meals for two people. It’s the kind of thing that gets a person through the winter.”

“Didn’t you used to be an accountant?” Brian sounded confused.

“Before. Before moving out here. Before corona. Before …. Before. Life is change. Right?” He sighed, and stood up. He’d crouched for long enough, and Hilda had stopped paying attention to him anyway. “That’s forty breasts, forty drumsticks, forty thighs, forty wings, forty feet—”

“Feet?”

“Yeah. They’re a Chinese delicacy, you know.”

“You’re not Chinese.”

“I noticed. But you have a chicken, you make the most of it. You honour its life by using every scrap of it. Heart, liver, tongue, gizzards, blood, even the feathers.”

“Seriously?”

“What? Which part? The feathers? Sanitized, they can be used for crafts, like dusters. Or stuffing for pillows. Heard of Eider down? Well chickens have fluffy bits too. And the blood? You’ve heard of blood meal? No? It’s a kind of fertilizer. Bones make soup. Meat makes protein. It’s way more sustainable than the old hatcheries.”

“Sure. You’re not gonna make me do it, are you?”

“I’m not gonna make you do anything. But anyway, I’ll do the young roosters in July, probably, and then take stock of hens in September. So if you’re still around, maybe you’ll help me?”

“We’ll see.”

Bill shrugged. “We should do something. We’re running out of time.”

“We are?”

“Black flies. They’ll be here in a week, two max, and I want to get as much done as we can before then. I’ve got potatoes to put in the ground, and you’ve seen the seedlings still in the living room. Most of them have to go in right now.”

“What about frost?”

“It’s possible. I’ve been trying to acclimatize things though.”

“The ones on the balcony?”

“Yes. Other things like melons and such will have to wait until June.”

“Sure. What do we need to do then?”

“Let’s go down to the patch, and I’ll show you. Right after I’ve checked for eggs.”

*

Bill backed out of the front door precariously with two cups of tea.

“Here you go. Did I do it right?”

“It’s great, thanks.”

Bill settled into the red chair beside Brian.

The sun soaked into him, and the house sheltered them from the breeze, making it feel like summer rather than spring. But it was only spring, and all the growth there was was still small, delicate, and full of potential.

“I love this time of year,” Bill said.

“Yeah?”

“I love being outside. The house is like a prison in the winter. I guess you get used to that part, but the sun, the green, the warm air, it just livens the soul. We—” Bill stopped abruptly, and sipped his tea.

He felt Brian’s glance.

“Uncle Bill?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You were saying?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmmm.”

Brian didn’t push, but obviously didn’t believe it was nothing.

Bill took a deep breath. “Just that we—me and Juss—used to love sitting here in the afternoons. In the summer, you and I will be able to sit under the trees, those two maples on the slope there, and get the breeze, the shade, and the view. Nothing beats it.”

Bill subsided into silence. It was too close. Too much. He didn’t want to think too much.

Brian said softly, “You miss her?”

Bill nodded, but didn’t speak for some time. “You know, you should probably park further down, next to the chicken fence. There could still be a delivery of propane, and you don’t want to be in the way. And if you’re far enough down, I can still back out of the garage and turn behind you. Okay?”

“Sure.”

The silence stretched.

Brian broke it. “You follow the news?”

“Not much. Exhausting. Everything going to shit.”

“Hmmm.”

“Why? Anything I should know about?”

“You probably know the main topics.”

“I expect so. Coronaviruses. Vaccines. Lockdowns. Numbers. Political crises. Protests. Shortages. What did I miss?”

Brian laughed. “That pretty much covers it.”

“You see the eclipse last month? Belleville was in totality, right?

“Too cloudy to see much. You?”

“Like some storm passing too fast across the southern view, just some ominous shadow in the clouds. Completely underwhelming.” After a few beats of silence, Bill asked, “You like music?”

“Sure.”

“What kind?”

“Dunno. All kinds really. Some of all kinds? Skif. Trap. Rockle. Hip-Rok. You?”

“I don’t even know what all that means.”

Brian laughed. “Uh, some guitars, some beats, some rapping?”

“Okay. I guess I stuck with the kind of stuff I grew up with. Oldies from the 80s and 90s. But music is medicine, and words have magic, don’t you think?”

“I never thought of it that way. Sure.”

“The way I see it, the world is so full of shit, I don’t need to listen to songs about shit too, you know? I need my music to lift me up, and make me feel better.”

“That’s why it’s medicine?”

“Soul medicine. Yes. Lyrics are like mantras. They help you to believe. To get motivated into action. To let things go. They lift you up. They give you sunshine on a rainy day.” And remind you of the power of love. And keep your heart beating. And give you the strength to carry on. And remind me of all that you’ve given me.

Bill swallowed, hard.

Brian changed the subject. “You hear the President is talking about postponing the election in November?”

Bill looked up, and, with gratitude, realized what Brian was doing. “They won’t let her get away with that, surely?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Is it any more serious than last time? Maybe. Maybe not. They didn’t postpone the election in the FIRST civil war, so why now, when the second one seems just about to start?”

“This is all because the Cold War ended,” Bill said.

“Huh?”

“When the Soviets were the enemy, Americans found it easier to work together against a common enemy. When the Soviets collapsed, what was left? The other political party became the boogeyman. And this hyper-partisanship is the result.”

“Because of the Soviets?”

“Because of everything that had gone before. Everything’s connected. Nothing’s simple. And now there are two competing ideologies, each removed from factual reality, even if one is perhaps more so than the other, and, for the Americans at least, their future will be determined by whichever one becomes the single winning narrative. I guess that’s always been the way. War isn’t just about armies, it’s about ideas, ideologies, world views. The truths we hold most dear.”

“You said you don’t follow the news ….”

“I don’t. Not since—I guess—’21? Things just kept going round and round. It was dizzying. Exhausting. I guess not much has changed then?”

“Not much. Some of the specifics, I guess. The figureheads.”

“The world is careening toward so many disasters, it’s kind of a race to see which one hits first.”

“Huh. I guess so. And out in front we have war, pestilence, famine, plague, and flood.”

Bill considered. “Sounds about right. Plague ought to be tired out by now, though.”

“Yeah, give someone else a chance, right?”

They laughed, and one of the young roosters crowed under the black maple.

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