writes the exercises and the number of repetitions to be done on the calendar. Begin with walking your hand up the wall. Followed by arm bends. Then weighted arm bends. Soup can at first, then the little sandbags Dad borrows from the physio lab. Build up to curls and extensions, three sets of each. Muscles around breaks have been traumatized and tend to atrophy. Need restrengthening. Except for serious tears or trauma, you can get a muscle right back up to one hundred per cent. The body, says Dad, is a remarkable thing. And the ends of his collarbone, Jacob can feel it, they clasp like a good strong handshake, and Jacob goes back to helping out with wee jobs, mostly one-armers. Cleaning the toilet and the washroom sink, taking out the garbage. He figures out how to spin the bag with his hand and foot, then get the twist tie on before it unravels.
See that, Dad?
Aren’t you a marvel.
Sometimes when Dad looks at the sling it’s like he’s forgotten all about it, but then he remembers and his face folds and furrows. Except for the night hisses, though, he’s getting on okay. Even makes the tea before M*A*S*H or Monday Night Football. Imitates Howard Cosell and gives Jacob anatomy quizzes during commercials. How many valves has the heart, and what are their names?
Jacob chews his ginger crisp and says Four: tricuspid, pulmonary, mitral and aortic.
Bang on, Doc.
Jacob reads a lot about the heart these days. Its beat is controlled by the sino-atrial node, which is a real pacemaker, not the fake ones they have to put in if your SA node is dysfunctional. Imagine, Jacob thinks, if you could invent a brain pacemaker. It would take a genius like Tony Stark to make something like that. People could have a good laugh, the best medicine, more often. Especially Dad, because he can turn on a dime. One night, just after laughing all through M*A*S*H, they’re watching a documentary on JFK and Jacob says How ’bout a quiz, Dad? and Dad slashes the air with his hand and says Shut it.
They’ve seen shows like this a lot, and Jacob has to sit there and listen to Dad’s theories. It was fucken CIA, boy, in cahoots with the Mob and Castro. This time is no different, Dad is glued to the screen. Taps it tink tink as they slow-mo the film so much that you can see JFK’s brains spill like Chunky Soup into his wife’s lap. There, says Dad, when the president’s head whiplashes, you’re telling me that shot’s comin from behind?
They say it’s recoil, Dad.
No fucken way, kid. I’ve fired a rifle, seen what it can do. Trust me, boyo. That shot is from straight on, look, look at the brains and blood and bits of bone that spray over the boot of the car? Jesus. Dad falls back on the sofa, sips his Golden. Dour. A shameful day that was, son. Shameful. Him and his brother both, the bastards got.
Jacob feels sorry sometimes for JFK and for Jackie O with the blood on her dress but why does Dad when he was living in Scotland the day JFK got shot? One time he spent ages looking at photos in a special Playboy about presidential assassinations, and he even made drawings on graph paper. Vectors. Angles of inflection. Came up with a Plan, and the masterminds. Jack Ruby was the patsy, he says. Bloody decoy. We’re talking about American agencies, son, kill their own leaders. Fucken hell.
It’s good, Jacob thinks, to be groan up in Canada. Scottish guys like Dad go on and on about Caribbean immigrants and Culloden and JFK and Marilyn Monroe. And they get sad so fast. Dad’s got enough to be sad about. A brain pacemaker would be one of the best inventions ever.
But the morning after the JFK documentary, Dad’s forgotten all about a second gunman and the CIA, and kneels in front of Jacob. Sling off, shirt off. Arm feels like it was stuck on in place of his real one, and he has to think about keeping it straight or else it folds like a wing over his chest. Crook of his elbow feels like it’s made of tire, and the upper arm is thinner than his right one. But no pain. Just a little lump like a robin’s egg where the break calcified.
Jacob closes his eyes as Dad’s big thick thumb palpates around the lump, brushes over it, then presses on it. Jacob winces, but it doesn’t hurt, it just feels soft, and new.
Dad’s halitosis is bad today, but he’s scrubbed his hands like a doctor and they smell like Ivory. Dr. Smythe said follow-up X-rays might be a good idea considering the nature of the break, but Dad says his hands know bone. He’ll tell ol’ Doc how it’s healed.
And his fingertips feel a little cold, but Dad’s hands are cradles. Dad’s hands have held babies wet with womby goo. Dad’s hands have brought hearts back. Dad’s hands tried so hard – One and two and – but Jacob blinks the bits away because Dad isn’t remembering that now. Look at him smile when he says Cat’s arse, kid, this has healed beautifully.
Really?
Boyo, believe me, you are ready to run.
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