5

Good day. Leafs shut out Beliveau. Twentyman Pulp & Paper up three-quarters of a point. Two swindles, three robberies, and a knifing in the morning paper, but not one Jewy-sounding name among the suspects. Bowels regular and firm.

‘It’s the Eskimo again.’

But no sooner had Miss Stainsby opened the door than Rory got a strong enough whiff of Atuk to make that remark redundant.

‘Can’t see him. No time.’ Rory dug generously into his pocket. ‘Here. But this is the last time. Tell him he must go back to the Bay. Toronto will only break his heart.’

The phone next; his unlisted number.

‘Ruby?’

That could only be his father. Panofsky. There were three children. Rory, Goldie, and Leo. You’d think Rory being the only successful one the old man might have a special feeling for him. No. He spent all his love on Leo.

‘Thanks for all that food.’

‘It’s nothing, Pop.’

‘So,’ Panofsky said snidely, ‘and how are things in the Hitler Youth Camp today?’

‘The children are fine, if that’s what you mean. And there’s nothing wrong with employing a German maid.’

Rory had hired Brunhilde and engaged only non-Jewish girls at the office in order to demonstrate that he was utterly free of prejudice. It was not, as one competitor sneered, that he found non-Jewish girls more respectful, more decorative. Wasn’t Rory an ardent Zionist? Neither was he, as Michele once said, afraid of Brunhilde. It’s true he paid her lavishly and didn’t object when her boy friends went into his liquor, but this was only because he wanted her to learn how liberal some Jews could be. Michele’s distaste for Brunhilde was easy to figure out. Michele couldn’t control the kids, Brunhilde could. Oh, my God, the kids! It was Brunhilde’s afternoon off and he had promised to take Garth to the park.

It was lovely, it was so soothing, in the park. I must do this more often, Rory thought, as Garth ran off to play and he opened his newspaper at Jean-Paul McEwen’s column. On the opposite page there was a photograph of Bette Dolan emerging from the pool to light the sabbath candles at Rabbi Glenn Seigal’s Temple. The much talked about Aquanaut Oneg Shabat; he had missed it. Stunning girl, Rory thought. But this reflection was abstract, an aesthetic judgement, not the least bit tinged with guilt or desire. Rory had never been unfaithful to Michele. Even during that dreadfully trying time, following the death of their first-born child, when she had cut him off for six months, he had still not cohabited with another woman. Not that he hadn’t had plenty of opportunities. At the time, in fact, he and Harry Snipes, then still a director, were largely responsible for casting the Twentyman Playhouse series. Many actresses, ambitious as they were luscious, arranged to come in for the last appointment of the day. ‘I’d do anything to get the part,’ more than one said. And Snipes, the boor, would take him aside and say, ‘It’s nooky time, man. Flip you for who gets the wet deck.’

No: not Rory. He understood Snipes’s sort. The eternal Don Juan, so immature that he had to prove himself again and again. Not Rory. He wasn’t, for the sake of a fleeting enjoyment, going to leave himself open to blackmail, disease, and possibly a broken home. Before auditioning girls late in the afternoon Rory choked off desire by masturbating. True, even though the series had been finished long since, the habit had somehow stuck with him. But at least he hadn’t ended up on the couch. Like Snipes. Rory could handle his own problems.

Funny. Rory hadn’t thought about the death of his first-born, Wayne, for a long time. He and Michele, ineffably happy today, had once been touched by tragedy. Fortunately this had only brought them closer together, but at the time … Wayne, their first-born, had got off to a bad start. He was underweight. The doctors prescribed vitamins and, as the Peels could well afford it, they administered triple the recommended daily dose. The child put on weight – lots of weight – until, finally, too healthy to live, he died.

Rory, glancing up from his newspaper, saw a cop standing at the edge of the path. His heart began to thump. Suddenly he realized that among all the kids, nurses, and grandmothers at the playground, there was only one grown man. Rory Peel. Why had he worn his grey suede shoes today? The cop began to move toward him. Oh, my God. Rory groped for a cigarette, was just about to light it, when he decided, no, it might make him look shifty. He looked up at the towering cop, his grin sickly.

‘Hi. Lovely day, isn’t it?’

‘Sure is.’

The cop began to walk on, but Rory stopped him.

‘Thought I’d take an afternoon off from the office.’

‘Playing hookey, eh?’

‘Ha, ha. Sure am.’

In Russia, if his father’s tales were to be believed, the cossacks were to be feared. In Canada, a cop was your pal. Christ; here he comes again.

‘That’s my kid over there. Garth. Cute little fella, isn’t he?’

‘Mm-hm.’

But the cop looked puzzled. He walked to the edge of the path, joined another cop, and began to whisper.

Wait. Rory noticed, for the first time, that he wasn’t the only man in the park after all. On a secluded bench under a tree a creamy-faced boy sat with a luscious girl. As Rory turned to look the couple broke apart, flustered. Smoochers. The girl appeared to be somewhat older than the boy … and the boy looked awfully familiar. Now where have I seen that face before? Rory must have been staring because, quite suddenly, the boy hid his face in his hands. He had begun to weep quietly.

The cops started down the path.

‘Garth, let’s go home now.’

‘No.’

‘Garth, I’m your dad. Now let’s go home, darling.’

‘Kiss my ass.’

‘If you come home now, right now, I’ll give you five dollars.’

‘Ten.’

‘O?.’

Kids are easy, Rory thought, taking Garth by the hand. The trick is to use pyschology.