Losing shepherd, p.1
Losing Shepherd, page 1
LOSING SHEPHERD
LOSING
SHEPHERD
A Novel
PAUL HEADRICK
© 2022, Paul Headrick
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Doowah Design.
Photo of Paul Headrick by Jim Friesen.
This book was printed on Ancient Forest Friendly paper.
Printed and bound in Canada by Hignell Book Printing Inc.
Acknowledgments
Many talented people gave me valuable advice as I wrote Losing Shepherd. My thanks to Jerry Cayford, Mark Cochrane, Jim Friesen, Katherine Headrick, David Jones, Shaena Lambert, Mary Novik, Ros Oberlin, George Potvin, and the Sea of Cortez Writing Group. I’m grateful to Karen Haughian of Signature Editions for her incisive editing. Heather Burt read and commented on countless drafts, and I’m deeply indebted to her for her wisdom and continuing support.
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Losing Shepherd / Paul Headrick.
Names: Headrick, Paul, 1957- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210327545 |
Canadiana (ebook) 20210327553 |
ISBN 9781773240961 (softcover) |
ISBN 9781773240978 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8615.E245 L68 2021 |
DDC C813/.6—dc23
Signature Editions
P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7
www.signature-editions.com
For Jerry
I
MARCEL’S WAY
1
“Here’s the traitor Gordon Bridge buckling his youngest son into his car seat.”
“Here’s the hypocrite Gordon Bridge taking his parents to the symphony.”
“Here’s the bastard Gordon Bridge making love with his wife.”
For months this contemptuous inner voice accused me. Over time the volume diminished, then the program grew silent for stretches, but the commentary would reassert itself unpredictably, start me moaning, head in hands. What must other parents have thought, standing beside me while waiting for the end-of-day bell, or Leo and Gavin themselves, looking up from their play?
I’d made a mistake. I reviewed The Stendhal Effect, Taylor’s new book. Because our relationship itself was famous—the two young novelists, literary stars, friends since childhood—and because I criticized, I got plenty of attention. You remember. The review splashed the Globe book section, blasted around the internet, and for months dominated discussion in our nation’s snug, sensation-hungry literary world.
I had kept it a secret from him, to surprise him, and he was surprised.
“What were you thinking?”
Indeed. I knew, the moment after he asked the question, or I felt the weight of the knowledge—like the weight of a big meal that still needed digesting. It didn’t take long after I’d hung up the phone to know exactly—just an hour or so of moving around my study, looking in on the boys and then going back to the study, picking up the book, putting it down. Finally, I flipped through the pages, reading a bit. It was better than Heart City, which was very fine, but still a first novel. Also a step further from An Earlier Encounter (and no, I haven’t forgotten that Encounter won the Giller and made the Booker short list).
I had panned a masterpiece.
Such self-deception. I had manufactured flaws that didn’t exist, I’d invented subtle literary, even moral, failings, and I’d been so stupidly enthused by my project that I hadn’t acknowledged to myself what I was doing.
I held the book in my hands. Stared at it.
I’d been showing off our friendship. Look, everybody. Observe how I can discern the subtle problems to which others will be blind. Behold, oh behold, the strength of our connection, the power of our love, and our respect for literature: enough strength, power, and respect for one to assimilate from the other such cold, public scrutiny. Readers would know that Taylor expected nothing less from me and that my analysis formed the hard stuff of real friendship.
For several days it satisfied me to be ashamed of my attention-seeking. Then, I dropped a glass. I tripped. I tugged harder than necessary at Leo’s jammed jacket zipper and saw fear in him. The realization I’d been trying to refuse emerged through these ugly little signs: the shameful truth so quickly settled on appealed to me because I could face it more easily than another, deeper truth, much more painful. My story that I’d merely been grandstanding amounted to still another self-serving lie.
The Stendhal Effect didn’t die, my review didn’t kill it, but of course I established a context that influenced other reviewers. Sales stalled. Face it, that result was predictable, and I’d ignored it. I’d tried to damage Taylor. I’d always recognized the competitiveness between us, but what accounted for this urge to wound? For how long had this sickening aggression been building in me?
2
“There’s simply no way to avoid it. Look at any story you’ve enjoyed. You’ll see. Stories have conflicts. They must.”
Taylor and I sat at the back of our grade nine English class, opposite corners. A guest author, Pamela Henderson, provided a holiday from our painful, laboured study of Romeo and Juliet with a pitch for a student short story contest.
“Those conflicts raise questions. That’s why a story makes you want to keep reading. You want to answer those questions.”
She’d published a collection and a novel, but we’d never heard of her and she didn’t impress, at first. Then, unexpectedly, her wheedling tone had dropped down, deepened into authority. She wrapped up her presentation with suggestions—commands.
“Those questions better lead to answers. They just have to, or you haven’t got a story at all. It can be a surprise. It can be simple or complicated. But it’s got to have answers.”
I knew the formula already, yet, put so starkly: a revelation. I heard a buzzing in my ears, felt an unsettling energy, a rippling in me. I looked across the room at Taylor. He’d turned away from me to face the window. He was rapping his pen on his notebook.
I couldn’t finish my dinner that night. What had happened to my adolescent boy’s appetite? I still remember my puzzlement, gravy poured over the second helping of roast and potatoes, as always, but my hunger gone.
I managed one bite, another, and stopped. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken any more. I’m actually not that hungry.”
“Gordon?”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Sorry. Yes. I’m fine.”
“You can have it later.”
As he took a sip of wine Dad gave me a look of concern. Mum covered my plate in plastic wrap, not looking down at the task, not at me. Gaze nowhere, an evident bit of frustration wrestled with a will to tolerate, and she put the plate in the fridge. I retreated upstairs to my bedroom desk.
My first attempt is a bank robbery. I can recover a lot but not the impulse behind this initial entry in the juvenilia. You can see the conflict, though. The robber wants the bank’s money; the bank doesn’t want him to have it. And the questions. Will he get the cash? Will the bank stop him? Well. There’s certainly a story here. Blue ballpoint, yellow lined pad—story to write.
The initial pages set out the bank’s architecture, the position of the reception desk, style of windows, the robber, his size, posture, clothing. A few hours, much crossing out—I’m pleased with my seriousness and care. I’m pleased with my certain knowledge that Taylor, my best friend now for an entire year, is intent over his own manuscript. My friend, writing.
Compose a sentence. Read it. Look up, out at the backyard: it’s not Paris, New York, not even Toronto, just my Vancouver, green lawn, beyond it the community centre and the sprawled playing fields of Douglas Park. Resist self-consciousness, nothing to be embarrassed about—I’m a writer. At last: arrival and entrance. I think about my next word as the wind stirs the dark leaves of the apple tree. Taylor and I are writers.
That literary feeling, entirely justified, most so on the second read-through: recognize my failure, that’s okay, don’t crumple the paper, please not that cliché. Just fold once and slip into the basket for recycling, a nod of approval for Taylor, undoubtedly rigorous, self-critical, just like me.
I close my bedroom door. No disturbance threatens, and even when Mum and Dad come upstairs after watching The National, if they glance my way they’ll just walk on, say good night in passing. They’ll think I’m doing my homework late. But I want the door closed.
The robber passes the teller a note. There, you see? Begin with the conflict. “I have a gun.” The reader can fill in: is the bank sleek and modern, is it old stone dignity? Who cares? Nobody. Not with a loaded gun pointing at the second paragraph.
I know I’ve made better, keep my head down, a little light-headed, and push on.
Then, mouth dry, cold, I shift in my chair, and the robber waits, nervousness intensifying, second by second. Ass sore, hard chair, never bothered me before. Taylor? Are you suffering this way?
Ignore my discomfort and write on. The teller is moving too slowly. He’s pressed a silent alarm button somewhere, must have.
Now it’s my skin, it’s papery dry, ready to tear, and I take the pages in my hands and stand. I’ll read out loud, proclaim to the window view, Douglas Park out there beyond the fence, but my body shakes. I m weak, spinning and fevered.
On time, Dad, knocked, drawn as he passed by the unprecedented closed door.
“Gordon? Are you okay?”
“I’m sick.”
Dad brought me aspirin and a glass of water. Mum said, “I should’ve realized when you wouldn’t finish your food. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
She glanced down, the beginning pages of my story on the desk, then she turned to me, and something lit up for a moment, a shimmer of possibility. But she turned back, put out the light, and left.
I closed my eyes and drifted, an image persisting: Mum’s face as she reached for the light switch, serious about something—furrowed brow, drawn-in lips.
I felt fine in the morning, even better than fine, refreshed and cool, a bizarre recovery. At breakfast, when Mum offered that I could stay home from school, I declined. Again with her lips—I hadn’t seen her take that expression before, couldn’t read it.
“Twelve-hour flu,” said Dad.
I felt my discipline, pulling my bike out of the basement and riding down the lane. Staying home to write would’ve been cheating. On arrival in homeroom I nodded at Taylor and took my seat beside him. He nodded back. We understood, and nothing needed to be said. Carry on as normal, POWs planning a break; don’t let on.
That night I finished a draft, and the next night I polished and tinkered, grew bored, a bad sign. A dead story.
Such failure. Who was I, after all? What could I become? An entire future, an identity, first offered and now denied to me. The illness of the night before was nothing to this ... this judgment passed.
The next morning, Taylor came into homeroom a few minutes late, red-eyed, panic-stricken; he too had failed, and he was looking to me for assurance.
I knew right away, just seeing him so obviously confessing his struggle, that I could try again; I wasn’t beaten. After he’d slumped into his desk, he glanced over, and I nodded at him. I rested my forearms on my desk and clenched my fists, and he did the same, a two-fisted kid’s vow to go on.
The promise fulfilled that night: a woman plans to leave her dull and selfish husband. Will she?
Taylor and I avoided each other, just the homeroom nod in the morning.
She does, she leaves him. It’s an adult story. I like it but it’s not right in my kid’s handwriting.
I asked for a typewriter, but Dad brought home a discarded IBM XT and a printer from his office. “One of us is going to have to figure out how to use these things. Typewriters are doomed.”
A few days along, I’d grasped enough word processing to produce a document, and with the adult story finally in my hands, the next step was clear: no cover, no staple, just the loose pages. I walked down the hall to Mum’s study, home to her labours as a literary reviewer.
I have buried a memory, probably, of an original transgression. Toddler me trotted into the study and drew a response, sharp and clear—do not interrupt. I can imagine but I can’t remember. But I had to have learned, early on, that if I needed her attention, I stopped in the doorway and waited. I wouldn’t wait long, but sometimes she’d remain still, hands on the keys, mid-sentence, I presumed, and then she’d type, perhaps as much as a paragraph, before turning to me, confident that what she’d hear would be important.
Mum was a statue. I realized that from my room I’d heard her typing and that she’d stopped as I eased down the hallway.
Only her desk lamp was on. She sat with her hands in her lap, gaze still focused on the paper in the Selectric. Her desk faced the wall to my right, and the lamp cast her shadow large on the wall behind her, to my left. Directly across from me the window looked out on the house next door, and, though night had come, Mum had not drawn the curtains; I could see the darkness and my own reflection.
The light from the lamp on my mother’s face, the darkness behind her, her stillness, her gaze resting on the paper in front of her, and her beauty: I hadn’t noticed before that my mother was beautiful. Other people must respond to the fall of her thick, dark blonde hair to her shoulders, her composure, the confidence she projected, tall and slim. Her profile was sharp but also graceful, and her skin glowed in the reading light. For the first time I could bring to consciousness a quality of admiration in glances from classmates’ parents when I was younger, when she would pick me up after school.
It wasn’t disturbing to see her this way, just distancing. I looked down at my story and back at her. Still she hadn’t moved.
It was important. She would be glad. She’d want to read it.
I could hear her breathing. Her shoulders rose and fell.
She straightened in her seat but didn’t turn, and she placed her hands on the keys, and then she removed them.
I understood. Something in the long curve of her back finally told it: Gordon, my son, your story simply isn’t good enough.
A woman leaves her husband. It could be fine in all sorts of ways, but I was fourteen years old, and it wouldn’t be fine in the way it needed to be. The obvious imitation of my then great love, F. Scott Fitzgerald, would be charming and precocious. Horrible.
Okay. The deadline remained months away. Write another one.
I had no doubt, trying to fall asleep after her silent refusal, that I could create better. Inspiration would visit me and I’d think of a new idea while easing into my dreams. When inspiration didn’t come I tossed and turned, I thrashed about and tried to call it the creative process. How unhappy I was. How impatient to be older, smarter, and a real writer.
I know now about the other feelings I couldn’t name and acknowledge. My resentment. Hers too. Mine, that the story needed to be good enough to warrant an interruption, a claim on her. Couldn’t it just be … I’m your son; be interested? Hers, a bit trickier, not so easy to get at, or not without making her look very bad, because isn’t it rather bad, for a mother to resent her son for suggesting, just by the particular sound of his feet on the hall runner, the rustle of a few pages, the obvious writing going on for days and the serious child’s engagement, purpose—isn’t it very bad to resent him for suggesting that something other than simple, clear honesty could be called for?
Encouragement. What would be so hard about a little encouragement, Mum? Why resent your child’s desire?
Sleep came, but only after an effort of will, a turning of my mind and a decision, or recognition: the encouragement I’d need would come from Taylor.
3
Soon, Taylor and I grew less self-conscious with each other and returned to our usual ways. I didn’t ask him and he didn’t ask me, but we knew. It was good for our writing to become part of normal life. I put off the next step, with the deadline distant still, sensing that some calm should develop before I tried again. I assumed that Taylor, too, had flamed out and then taken time to gather himself, though I never did confirm.
My third effort: a boy in high school yearns to ask a girl out, makes elaborate plans to do so, and finds a way to forgive himself when he chickens out. Fitzgerald is still in there, but now it’s right. The story should aspire in just the way its young protagonist does.
Once or twice in my childhood I made a decision that, so many years later, I still applaud myself for. I decided to act as though surface and reality were one, as though the disturbing depths hid nothing of importance, disturbed not at all, didn’t exist. Me at dinner: “There’s a big short story contest at school. Actually, the whole province. I’ve written a story for it. Would you like to read it?”
“Love to!” said Dad.
“Certainly,” said Mum.
Dad dropped by my room later that night. In the instant before he spoke I looked at him as I had at my mother those nights some weeks before, seeing him for the first time as others would. Of course, I knew that he was bald. I could have told you he had a dark beard that he tugged on when he was tense and that his forehead glowed a bit when he grew cheerful with a couple of glasses of wine, as it glowed right then. He wasn’t homely, certainly. Approachable. His shoulders were sloped. If I wanted a character in a story who looked friendly, unintimidating but not insecure, I could describe him.
“What a great story!”
