runner beans, inadequately sealed, insufficiently heated – the same beans that had been standing in their pretty glass jar for the last two months, as purely green and sweet as innocence itself.
Dot Weller is fifty-six now, and her husband Stu fifty-eight. Stu’s parents died in their mid-fifties, his mother from the botulism, and his father, two years later, from rage – though the death notice specified a massive stroke. His rage, closer to biblical wrath, had bloomed into existence on that terrible Sunday when his wife fell dead on the hearth rug, poisoned by her stupid imbecile of a daughter-in-law. Murder was the word Dad Weller used. Even, deliberate murder. He said as much to the reporter from the Manchester Evening News who sent a photographer to take a picture of the Wellers’ garden, catching in one corner the dark row of beans that had been the agent of evil. There was no reasoning with him, although he’d been all his life a reasonable man. His world had been cleft in two by calamity, and he refused to put down the finger of blame.
In the end that blaming finger drove Stu straight to the immigration office in Stockport, and soon after he brought his pregnant wife and child to Canada where, in fact, thousands of other English workers headed in the late forties. There were factory jobs to be had in Winnipeg. It was possible to aspire to a house and garden of one’s own, to buy a car in time, a washing machine, a refrigerator, to make a better life for the kids. And to escape the sourness of ugly scenes and family angers. When news came that the old man had died of a stroke, Stu didn’t trouble himself to go home for the funeral.
Larry knows the poison episode in all its tragic rhythms and reverberations. This is what it’s like to grow up with a bad chapter of someone else’s story, in the toxic glow of someone else’s guilt, a guilt that became a rooted sorrow. He’s had his fingers in the mouth of his mother’s sick grief and now it’s his; every crease and fold belong to him. He knows about the offered cup of tea and the hot-water bottle; his ears can hear the precise sound of the body thudding on the hearth rug; he sees the inky photograph in the newspaper and its headline: “Bolton Woman Poisons Mother-in-Law.” All this has entered the doors and windows of his childhood, without his really noticing. It was simply – there. Like the oxygen he breathed. Like a banked fire. And he can imagine even his mother’s most covert thoughts, that which could never be said: thank God little Midge refused the beans. And even: thank God I passed them up myself.
And for Larry, who was born just two months after his parents settled in Winnipeg, the flight from the home country has the flavor of Old Testament exodus. He finds it hard to believe. He looks at his solid, slow-moving parents and tries to imagine the force that urged them to gather up their possessions and voyage, sight unseen, to a new country. They were eight days on a rusty Greek liner, then three days by train to Manitoba. Dot Weller was sick every mile of the way, and she must have looked back over her shoulder more than once and wondered what she’d left behind and why. Catastrophe drove them out, catastrophe coupled with guilt that was cut like an incision on his mother’s brain. How were they to survive in the heat of a parent’s punishing anger?
When Larry thinks about his folks, this is the piece of their life he can never quite take in: that his father, out of love, out of the wish to protect his wife, would uproot himself, and turn his back on a guaranteed job, a snug house, his weekly gin and tonic, and all that was familiar, that he might have elected freedom or forgetfulness, but instead chose to witness his wife’s plodding, painful, affectless search for that thing that would pass as forgiveness. Larry glimpses something heroic at the heart of his obstinate and embarrassing father, who rescued his young wife, who stood by her. Stu Weller is a man who, without a gobbet of doubt, believes in bringing back the death penalty. He rattles on about welfare bums, and sometimes refers to blacks as nig-nogs, and maintains, somewhat illogically, that queers ought to be sterilized, the whole lot of them. Which is why it surprises Larry that his father has committed so manly and self-sacrificing an act, and he asks himself whether he could do the same for his wife Dorrie. Probably not. He admits his love will never be as pure as his father’s, and certainly not as good as the scripted golden love in his head.
Not that his parents, Stu and Dot, managed to blot out all recollection of the tragedy, far from it. Anything, even after all these years, will trip a switch in Dot’s head: the mention of Bolton, of food poisoning, of home preserving, of sponge cake, a reference to mothers-in-law, to hearth rugs, the specter of sudden death, the word beans – above all, the word beans, a substance banned from the Weller household and never, never spoken of. In all Larry’s thirty years he has not once tasted that treasonous vegetable.
Stu Weller loves his job. For thirty years now he’s worked as an upholsterer for a custom coach company in south Winnipeg, the largest of its kind in North America. He left school at fourteen, as soon as he legally could, and went straight on to the railways where he learned his trade. Right away he took to it, and it’s served him well. Switching from trains to buses, when coming to Canada, was easier than falling off a log, and he’s worked on some real beauties. A custom coach is a handmade object, that’s something most people don’t appreciate. You take a few basic sheets of metal, cut them, bend them, twist them, apply bracing and rivets, and there you’ve got something entirely different. Everything but the motor is built right on the Air-Rider factory floor, even the fuel tanks, even the decorative touches, which is where Stu Weller comes in.
It’s a fact that some of North America’s biggest and brightest names in the entertainment industry have ordered customized vehicles from Air-Rider, wondrous rolling homes and offices with white carpeting on the walls and Italian marble for flooring. A country-and-western singer – after a beer or two Stu Weller will drop the odd hint about who exactly this singer is – custom ordered a model with a bathroom floor that dropped open, bingo, to reveal a hot tub where the luggage compartment generally goes. A cool half-million dollars for that package. This same coach possessed a full kitchen with oak inlay cupboards and a hidden berth for the traveling cook. Last year Stu did the upholstery for a hospital coach, a traveling clinic for rural areas, and now he’s working on a coach for relocating prisoners, each seat transformed into a separate little jail cell with bars going right up to the ceiling. Slash-proof vinyl is what he’s installing at the moment, and the barest minimum of padding. Every order brings a new challenge. The floor supervisor always takes him aside and says, “Look, Stu, you’re the one with the experience. We need to have your particular expertise on this design.”
On weekends Stu Weller naps or creeps around the house, waiting for Monday morning to come. His hands understand the secrets of foam and spring and frame, how to make the under-structure invisible and at the same time strong. There’s a wide range of fabrics at his disposal, your velvets, your brocades, your suedes and leathers. For the president of an American television network he covered the coach walls with a shimmering mauve satin, and received a personal handwritten letter of thanks and appreciation. Next in the works is a special chapel coach for a well-known TV evangelist, and Stu’s planning to go heavy on plum-colored velour and white leather for the doors that separate the public part of the unit from the private. He’s learned that people are willing to spend money for quality; they want the best materials and they’re looking for top-notch workmanship. Over the years he’s been offered jobs in a number of Winnipeg’s better upholstery houses, but he’s never considered them for a minute. He knows the custom coach business inside and out, and can’t imagine working all day on mere furniture, on simple sofas or chairs.
Of course, he’s not above a weekend project at home. The breakfast nook in the kitchen, built in the early seventies, is his own design, a curving red vinyl bench with bright brass tacking. Smart, modern, comfortable. And last summer he took apart the living-room couch, reglued the frame and reupholstered it in a midnight-blue textured nylon. Visitors to the house think they’re seeing a brand-new piece of furniture. His wedding gift to Larry and Dorrie was a trip to England plus a first-class upholstery job on an old Hide-a-bed Larry had picked up at a garage sale. It looks good, too, done up in one of those abstract prints that’re all the rage now, and it’s Scotchguarded so that when Dorrie leaves one of Ryan’s messed diapers lying around, as she tends to do, there’s not too much damage.
