| The thirtieth of
January in the year two thousand. My sister, Julie, is in town working with our
cousin Paul. Yesterday we, she and I, were sorting through Ted's storage space
in the bowels of his apartment building. Tennis Mansions on Tennis Crescent is
built on a slope so that though we walked down many stairs to the basement it
is only a few more steps down to the back alley. There are several garages off
the alley "under" the apartments. One simply houses a refuse skip for
the tenants garbage. The skip is half empty when I start hurling Ted's leavings
- and quite full as I finish. Into it goes a framed poster of Susan O'Grady's
that once hung on the bedroom wall. Julie and I never liked it. And here's a racy
little drawing that Ted had hanging in the bedroom that we're likewise pleased
to chuck. (There's also a racy Picasso print that somehow got damp, soiled, that
I've saved, though I don't know when it will ever see the light of day.). And
another picture, three baby chicks and bamboo from China, frame and all. Now some
boxes of sundries. "These," says Julie, "are boxes he packed up
when he left Stratford, and never unpacked. We could leave them for our children."
There is a nice self portrait of Zero Mostel's and the Coptic cloth Ted thought
was valuable - "He made me frame them," says Julie. "We should
price them." We debate what to do with them. "I'll hang them at my office,"
I suggest. "Ted would like that," says Julie.
There's
a box of "Willie the Squowse" remainders. "You can only take a
few. You'll give them away to homeless people," Julie quips. I wax defensively
that I gave a copy to Clive Smith at Nelvana. He loves it and is thinking of republishing
it. And another box of Willie remainders, the English version. (I open one now
to check that it is the English version. The first two copies are signed.) Willie
remainders are in the basement lock up. Love is a Long Shot and Don't You Know
Anybody Else (1) remainders are upstairs in Ted's
- now Bronwen's - apartment. People, some people came round for copies of Willie,
says Julie. Who could that be? me? the cousins? So Julie told Bronwen to put them
in the basement. In the
biography above, in chapter 19, I said, "One of the two stupidest things
I ever did to my father…" (2) The second
stupidity was as follows:
That last spring,
1995, Ted went into hospital with his lungs failing just when I was to assist
at a First Nation "vision-quest" fast, the same day. "Go,"
said Ted. He knew it was important to me.
Next
morning, at the camp, the fast, I went to tell the Elder that I had to drive into
town to see my father, who was ill, in hospital. "Good," said the Elder.
"I have an audition for a movie part. You can drive me."
In
the Toronto General Hospital, Ted was struggling for breath. Gabriel, Julie's
youngest, was keeping a grueling vigil. I told Ted that I had driven the Elder
into Toronto, and so could visit. It slipped my mind, at that moment, that it
was I who had decided to come into town to be with Ted.
Ted
felt, for a while, that I had abandoned him. Julie had to talk him round on that
every day phone call while he wrestled with death. Death is such a chore and Ted,
wrestled with it, wrangled with it for so long; coping in the manner of a child,
and a man. That's how he came to death. Brave, and frightened. For just one moment,
petulant, but in his self-collected moments, grateful for the miracle… (of
life).
What is the tone of the Ted I've drawn
for you here? The flavour of my Ted, my memory of my father, is warmth, is humour,
is sparkle, is concern…
My father was a
mountain; I'll say it again. Time to move out of the shade.
Back in the basement: Julie has already boxed all Ted's "public" works
for the National Archives. "I've copies," I say, "of all sorts
of stuff I used for the biography. It's mostly copies, but there's some original
stuff for the Archives."
"You have
to go through it all, through everything, and pull out the personal papers. I
wouldn't want the likes of Larry Hannant (3) getting
hold of his private letters."
Speaking
of the devil, I pull out of a box Hannant's first letter to Ted: "…how
much I've admired you and in particular Scalpel the Sword…" Into the
refuse.
And here's a file of Lucille Little's
letters. "Out they go," says Julie. (Oh, jeez. I'd keep them, but the
older sister rules.)
And here are three, no,
three and a half boxes of Secret of the World papers, drafts, notes, rewrites.
I am carrying a box of Secret of the World scripts to the dumpster. I'm wearing
some beautiful moccasin boots we've just found among his things. I heft the Secret
of the World into the skip and think, "This is Ted's epilogue."
Post
Script |
