Thief of reason, p.1
Thief of Reason, page 1
Copyright @ 2021 Judy J. Johnson
Iguana Books
720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303
Toronto, ON M5S 2R4
This is a novel of pure fiction. All characters’ names and identities, and most names of places and locations, are fictionalized.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Publisher: Meghan Behse
Editor: Amanda Feeney
Front cover design: Meghan Behse
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77180-471-4 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-77180-472-1 (epub)
This is the original electronic edition of Thief of Reason.
For my son, Marc Shandro, and my three Grandies:
Morgan Shandro
Aaron Shandro
Nicola Shandro
“Understanding the ‘other’ will pose the 21st century’s greatest social challenge.”
— Charles Taylor (1931–)
Chapter 1
I want to love him, but I can’t, Rick thought as he watched his father, 55-year-old Dick Wright, generously fill seven crystal wine glasses, then bow his head in prayer.
“In the name of Jesus Christ our Saviour, we give thanks for our blessings, especially family—my wife, Dorothy, my loyal brother, Harry, and his lovely wife, Rose, my charming daughter, Joy, and her partner, Al, and my…only son, Ricky. Amen.” Dick lifted his chin and looked at his wife of thirty years, raised his glass and said, “And a toast to you, my long-suffering wife. Thank you for bringing us together to enjoy another of your special Boxing Day feasts.”
“To Dorothy,” everyone proclaimed, hoisting their glasses and sipping traditional Beaujolais.
“Thank you,” Dorothy said, leaning across the maple dining room table and repositioning the platter of crown roast beside the large bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes, a gravy boat, and colourful vegetable serving dishes.
Rick pondered his father’s rare streak of largesse. Could it be? A tender-hearted moment? “Nice touch, Dad,” Rick offered, hoping his compliment would extend his father’s magnanimity.
Joy reached up and patted Dick’s shoulder. “Thanks, Dad. That was lovely,” then half winked at Rick and said, “Please pass the beets and sautéed mushrooms.”
Sporting a full white beard that suited his short, stocky stature and basketball belly, Harry gave a throaty “Ho, ho, ho,” and raised his glass. “Here’s to my lovely sister-in-law, Dorothy, who keeps the family ritual going and works magic with aging.”
“Hope I have Mom’s magic genetic mapping,” Rick joked, then tapped his temples. “Got a few grey hairs that make me look like an old man at twenty-eight. Then again, I am pushing thirty…no career, no wife, no children.”
Rick’s uncle winked and grinned at his nephew. “Get a move on, Ricky! You’re on the cusp of death and taxes.” Having had no children of his own, he had a special place in his heart for Rick, who, in turn, cherished his uncle’s unconditional acceptance and easy banter.
“Bloody taxes!” Dick proclaimed. “I’m sick of paying taxes and sending all those royalties to eastern Canada. Bloody Liberals don’t give a rat’s ass about our oil and gas industry.” As usual, Dick’s eyes were concentrated on his son, who was hoping against disaster that his father wouldn’t launch another harrowing, threadbare political argument.
Joy dared to intervene. “I don’t like taxes either, Dad, but without them, we’d lose universal access to public health care. Albertans would have to buy private insurance and those premiums would cost more than we currently pay in taxes.”
Rick pointed to Al and shouted across the table, “Hey, Al! You, me, hiking boots. Kananaskis. This summer, man. You game?”
“All in,” Al said through a mouthful of glazed carrots. “Five days off, end of June. Let’s tackle Mt. Kidd.”
Rick liked Al’s friendly, easygoing disposition. Just the kind of guy this family needs, he’d concluded shortly after his sister, Joy, had introduced him to the family three years ago.
Dick refilled his empty wine glass and topped up the others, most of which were a couple swallows short of full, then watched his brother lace his mound of food with a generous sprinkling of salt.
“Harry, salt’s bad for yer heart! We talked about that in the hospital, remember?” Dick shook his finger at the salt shaker. “Don’t kid yerself; that’s the leading cause of heart disease.”
“How are you doing, Uncle Harry?” Joy said, with strained cheerfulness. “Haven’t seen you since your bypass. Are you on the three Rs: rigid rehab routine?”
“Yep. Regular exercise and no second helpings,” Harry said, smiling and looking directly at Dick. “I’ve already taken off five pounds of blubber.”
“Stick with it,” Dick said. “I figure you’ve got at least thirty to go. Here’s the thing about exercise. Good for the heart, but—”
Joy covered her face with her hands and peeked between her fingers at Harry, who scowled at Dick and said, “Please, not another tirade. I’ve cut back on everything that’s bad for my heart and I’m working out on the torture equipment my darling wife bought me. Body bag included.”
Laughter lightened the air as Rose looked pensively at her husband and said, “Really, now. After your pretend version of morning exercises, you reward yourself with another coffee, loaded with cream and laced with sugar. I hate nagging, honey, but heart attacks are deadly serious and I’d like to keep you a while longer.” Vigorously massaging her hands and looking directly at her nephew, Rose said, “Ricky, have you been to our magnificent Central Library?”
“Masterpiece of architecture, isn’t it!” Rick said. “World class. I could spend a whole week hanging out there…reading, snacking, doing homework, or gazing at the panoramic view of Calgary’s bustling downtown.” Rick looked over at his mom. “Beats the community branch you took me and Joy to as kids, eh Mom?”
“Sure does,” Dorothy said, “but I’m grateful we haven’t lost our little neighbourhood one.”
“I remember how books were scattered all over the living room when the kids were young,” Rose said. “How they loved having stories read to them.”
Dick said, “Look, Rose, books are obsolete. Libraries are a waste of taxpayers’ money. Digital’s the only way to go.”
Rick gulped a mouthful of wine, looked over at his uncle and shrugged. “Looks like you’re fixin’ to say something, Uncle Harry.”
Harry tossed Rick a knowing glance. “How are classes shaping up for next semester?”
“Got the three courses I want…need to ace them all to get into grad school.”
“My money’s on you, Dr. Wright,” Harry said. “Then what?”
“Who knows? Short stories for magazines? An English prof?” He flippantly added, “The Man Booker Prize for literary fiction?”
In a deep, gravelly voice, Dick complained, “After wasting years bumming around Europe, you’re now a professional student. Full marks for dilly dallying.”
“Jeez, Dad! Why the snide comment?” Rick pinched his bottom lip and chastised himself for breaking his morning pledge. Hours ago, he’d paced the worn circles on his carpet and worried that his father, who’d been relatively civil during Joy’s Christmas Eve dinner and Dorothy’s turkey feast on Christmas Day, was surely overdue for pontification. If Dad dangles the bait, I won’t bite, he’d promised himself and Joy, who’d interrupted his pacing with a phone call. Not during happy hour. Not during dinner. Not during Christmas pudding and Irish coffee. Today, Dad wins.
According to that plan, Rick was hovering on the edge of a losing battle.
In the awkward silence that followed, everyone focused on their dinner as if they sensed Dick was about to offer another hefty helping of something more pungent than political acrimony, salt, and library books. Dick didn’t disappoint. He poked his fork at Harry. “Hey, little brother, why weren’t you and Rose at Christmas Eve mass this year?”
“Thought I told you we wouldn’t be there,” Harry said, reaching for one of Dorothy’s homemade dinner rolls.
Clutching his wine glass, Dick said, “Don’t tell me you’ve become the family’s infidel. A proud heretic.”
The only sound was the scrape of cutlery on dinner plates until Dick pushed his chest out and said, “Speak up, Harry! Say something for God’s sake.”
Harry gently nudged Rose and arched his eyebrows as if to encourage an answer.
Rose looked like she’d bitten into a chunk of mouldy potato. She gulped, glanced at Dick, and said, “This year, Christmas Eve was like none other—peaceful as the falling snowflakes.” She took a sip of wine. “Harry and I decided to honour our religious differences. Packed cheese and nuts along with cinnamon rolls and a thermos of hot chocolate and went snowshoeing in the Kananaskis.”
Harry chuckled. “And a flask of hot rum.”
With a long, rumbling belch, Dick made it clear he’d heard enough, but Rose hadn’t finished.
“You might recall, Dick, that although I’m agnostic I am spiritual. The Church of Kananaskis, in all its breathtaking splendour, is my place of worship.”
Dick spoke to Rose, but his eyes were st ill on Rick. “C’mon, Rose, Kananaskis could never compete with the beauty of our church’s Christmas Eve mass. A good Catholic shows up. Gives thanks to our merciful Saviour.”
Rose drummed her fingers on the arms of her chair. “There’s a deep spiritual truth in the land of our majestic Rockies, especially in summer. Nature’s bountiful wildflowers, the aquamarine lakes and fascinating wildlife that roam the mountain valleys—they connect me to my God.” Rose raised her glass to Dick in what looked like an abortive toast, then took a quick slug of wine, opened her arms, looked up, and said, “Thank you, Kananaskis Country, for letting me be part of all that you are.”
“Hee-haw and yahoo!” Rick cheered, throwing his head back like a cowboy in the Calgary Stampede Parade. “Bravo, Aunt Rose! Love it—a prayer to the Church of Kananaskis!”
Dick’s resounding table thump rattled the silverware; broccoli florets bounced in their bowl. Dorothy’s red wine splashed onto the white linen tablecloth and slowly bled into its delicate weave. Looking at his son and making boxer jabs through a spray of spittle, Dick said, “Ricky! When it comes to religion you’re as ignorant as a toad, so I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut on every blessed word about it.”
“Stop trying to prove you’re saintlier…” Rick’s voice cracked, “and wiser than everyone else.”
Joy threw her napkin on her plate. “Ricky, you promised!"
Dick’s face reddened. “Goddammit, Ricky! After all I’ve sacrificed for you, this is the thanks I get? Give me some respect or get the hell outta here.” Dick dropped his fork on his plate and vigorously rubbed his forehead.
Rick’s eyes moistened as he stared at his food, hardly touched, and wondered whatever possessed him to wade into another religious argument, especially at Christmas. In the most controlled voice he could muster, he said, “I simply want us to make room for all points of view. If things get too heated, we’ll summon the good manners of our upbringing and agree to disagree.”
Dick’s voice trembled. “Might that be all from the genius in the family?”
Silence blared.
Rick studied his father’s frown line. Deep enough to plant carrots in. Or a fist. He forced an odd version of a smile at Harry and Rose. “My apologies,” he said. “Even though it’s Boxing Day, I shouldn’t put the gloves on.”
Harry shook his head from side to side. “No need to apologize.”
Dick’s eyes looked about to detonate. “Not so, Harry! An apology’s in order.”
Dorothy passed the broccoli to Harry and, in her sweetest tone of voice, said, “Second helpings are mandatory at Christmas.”
That’s Mom, Rick thought. Maintaining order in the face of madness.
Al, who usually refrained from commenting during disagreements in the Wright household, looked at Joy and said, “Family feuds like this have paramedics like me loading someone on a gurney.”
As if to calm his racing heart, Rick pressed one hand against his chest and turned toward his father who glared at him. Rick glared back. “I’ve been stretched too hard for too long. I appreciate my free rent and working part-time for you and Uncle Harry, but jeez, Dad, I’m tired of feeling like an outsider looking in…like I don’t belong in my own family. Tired of not being able to state my views without coming under your almighty wrath. Why does it have to be this way? Especially now, in front of everyone. At Christmas, for Chrissakes.”
Dick flung his hand toward Rick and yelled, “Enough!” He refilled his wine glass and siphoned off the top third.
Sensing that his father wouldn’t let up, Rick inhaled deeply, pushed his dinner plate forward and his chair back, then stood tall, as if subconsciously reminding people that he towered over everyone in the family, especially his father who was a good six inches shorter. He tugged at his shirt as if to make a formal address but froze when he caught the injured expression on his mother’s face.
Dorothy pleaded, “Ricky, please relax and finish your dinner. Like you said, it’s Christmas.”
“I’m truly sorry, Mom, but there’s no way out but down to my room. Thank you for making this delicious meal.”
Dick punched his right fist into his left palm. “Listen to your mother! Sit down and eat!”
Rose propped her elbows on the table and rubbed her eyes as if trying to erase the tumultuous scene, and Harry looked like he’d just passed a small kidney stone. Al stared in disbelief at Joy, now feasting in sensuous oblivion and intermittently clucking her tongue as if she were calling the chickens home to roost.
Nodding ruefully to each family member except his father, Rick left the table and descended the stairs to his basement suite where he stepped inside and stood motionless at the entrance, lit only by a street light that shone through a sizeable basement window. The kitchen, dining, living room, and study nook blended together in a large, angular room that once looked welcoming and homey, but now looked cold and dingy. Rick grabbed his novel, which late last night he’d struggled to put down. He read the same paragraph three times. Thinking booze would mellow his mood, he tossed the novel aside, twisted the cap off a beer, and dimmed the lights. How many fathers in this city ruined today’s family dinner? What stitched their obnoxious behaviour into the fabric of their being? Genes? Parenting? Childhood trauma? Drugs?
Rick traced the same old carpet circles he’d trampled on earlier and continued his quest for answers: How many sons ruined today’s family dinner? Why am I so bent on proving Dad wrong? So fuckin’ obstinate? Can’t get out of my own way. Should go upstairs and apologize. He mulled that idea over, then said aloud, “Can’t. Won’t.” Putting his hands together in a sloppy prayer to the God he didn’t believe in, he begged, “It’s been a long time, but please God, if there’s any chance you’re out there, help me and Dad find a way to heal our hurt.”
Twice, the upstairs front door firmly closed. Nine o’clock and everyone’s gone, Rick thought. Even Joy and Al left earlier than usual. Dad will go to bed soon, and I’ll go up and help Mom with the dishes. He flopped back down on the sofa and journeyed into his favourite painting that hung above his desk—a lone, scraggly tree stood at the side of a long, barren highway that narrowed and vanished into snow-capped mountains that poked holes in a melancholy sky.
Suddenly, heavy thuds grew louder until the basement door burst open and slammed into the wall behind—doorknob lost in the drywall. Dick’s face, sweaty and coloured by rage, burned like an asteroid plunging through the stratosphere. “YOU make my blood boil! Correcting me in front of everyone! Cursing Jesus Christ our Saviour!”
Rick stepped closer to his father and braced himself for unfinished invective.
Dick’s hands sliced through chunks of air as he emphasized each word. “In this house, I call the shots!”
Something inside Rick snapped and before he could stop himself, he shrieked, “Shove it up sideways!” then turned and started walking away.
Dick grabbed the heavy broom that Rick used to sweep the walks and slammed it into his son’s back.
Rick screamed as he spun around and caught the edge of the kitchen table. “What the fuck!” He lunged at his father, who raised his arms to shield himself and yelled, “Don’t you touch—” but before he could finish his sentence, Rick pinned his dad’s shoulders against the wall and pushed his face within inches of his fiery eyes and hot breath.
Like a llama flaunting dominance over a lower-ranked male, Dick spat in his son’s face.
Enraged, Rick wrestled his father to the floor, rammed his right knee into his chest, and held his shoulders to the carpet. With rhythmic, unrestrained punches, he dragged out every word, “Give me some respect, goddammit!” He pounded Dick’s face until his nose and mouth oozed blood. Until his dazed eyes closed, his arms dropped to the floor, and his legs stopped flailing about.
Physically and emotionally drained, Rick stared down at his father, now reduced to a speechless, motionless old man. “Why do you hate me, Dad? Why?” His voice quivered. “I can’t take it anymore.” His heart throbbed, his hands shook, and his mind went blank. Scarcely stopping to think, he jumped up, grabbed his winter jacket and key ring, then flew up the stairs and out the back door.
