The Innocent. Lynne Golding

ballot?” Father asked.

      “They are going to run Treadgold.”

      “Treadgold,” Father said, relief evident in his tone. “That old coot?” I suppose Father thought he could easily beat the elderly gentleman.

      “Yes, Treadgold,” Mr. Handle confirmed. “But not just him.” Father had hoped for this addendum, but not the next. “Charters is going to run too, but on the understanding that he will serve the five-month term only. He plans to run as the Conservative candidate in the next provincial election, which he believes will be called in the spring of ’08. While that will create an opening early in the New Year, I am sorry to say, young man,” his remarks continued to be directed to Father, “that they want that vacancy filled by Billy-boy’s other brother-in-law—you, Jimmy-boy,” he said, turning to Uncle James.

      Uncle James said nothing, but Mr. Handle assumed, I suppose, that he would ultimately agree. Father was equally quiet and bowed his head. Mother, who had moved beside him, turned her attention fully to her husband and put one of her hands on one of his. Father yanked his away, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned his head up toward the ceiling. Everyone else remained focused on Mr. Handle, who continued.

      “If this is agreeable, Billy-boy, then your resignation will be tendered at tomorrow night’s regular town council meeting. Nominations will be open for a week, and the election will be held the week after that. In that regard, it is a condition that all the usual nomination formalities and niceties occur. To that end, in true Brampton fashion, you, Jimmy-boy,” he said, looking at Uncle James, “and each of Charters and three others will nominate each other to stand for mayor. Each of you will decline the nomination except Treadgold and Charters. If asked, Billy-boy, you will say that your motivation for leaving the town springs from Mrs. Turner’s declining health and her need for the drier air of the West.”

      “My wife has never been sick a day in her life,” Uncle William interjected. “Who would believe that explanation?”

      “The men would. They never notice things like that, and it is chiefly their opinion we are concerned with. The notion that you were impecunious was found to be incredulous.

      “Give me your word as a gentleman that you will go along with all of this, and you will get a proper send-off with ceremonies in your honour hosted by the town, and the local Liberals—of which you are a great supporter—will give you a grandfather clock.”

      “You do make it difficult for me to leave,” Uncle William said sarcastically.

      With that Mr. Handle left the house and I moved the last of the napkin rings to the sideboard.

      We Stephenses were a sorry lot as we walked home that night—though Ina, who was particularly close to our cousins Roy and Bill, was especially forlorn. Jim was dejected as well because the promised ride in the Russell had not transpired. Mother was sad because Father was sad. Father was the saddest of all. No one suggested that he pick up his step or brighten up.

Chapter 5

      New Year’s Day

      The mortification experienced by my father that tumultuous day in the summer of 1907 appeared to have entirely dissipated by early January six months later. Time had whiled away the humiliation he experienced at the town fathers’ rejection of him and the betrayal he felt at his brother-in-law’s rejection of the town. For most of his adult life, Father gained his self-esteem from his profession, and in those months he sought and received particular solace in it. One of Brampton’s three or fewer dentists for much of his career, Father was a well-known and—for the most part—well respected member of the Brampton community. The nickname “Doc” by which he was referred by nearly all Bramptonians is evidence of the dominant effect his career had on his entire life.

      It was a career for which he was well prepared. After graduating from high school with honours, Father worked for two years before pursuing a degree in dental science from the College of Dental Surgeons in Toronto. After taking the gold medal for the best practical work, he travelled to Philadelphia, where he obtained a second degree, this one in dental surgery. Once again he distinguished himself, graduating within the top five members of the 119-person class. Fortune then struck, as his return to Brampton coincided with the death of one of Brampton’s two dentists. Acquiring the long-established business, Father closed down the “dental parlour” of the late Dr. D. MacFarlane and moved the acquired patients and such of the equipment he desired to keep to the second floor of his father’s Queen Street building.

      To mark their son’s accomplishments, Jas and Selina presented him with a black-and-white twelve-by-eight-inch sign engraved “J.G. Stephens, D.D.S., R.C.D.S.” The sign was installed next to the small street-level door of their Queen Street building. When Father’s office was open for business, a small wooden sign hung just below it so indicating. Over the years, Father added a third sign. Owing to its intended temporary nature, this sign, usually somewhat askew, read “Please push firmly to open,” and then in smaller letters below, “and close tightly behind you.” The fact that there was never an occasion to remove this temporary sign was a clear indication of my father’s inability to use a planer on the swollen door and his failure to hire someone else to do so.

      Once the door was firmly pushed open and then tightly closed, Father’s patients were met by a dark, narrow staircase illuminated by two small wall sconces and whatever natural light penetrated the frosted glass in the transom above the street level door. Here the patients were also introduced to the mint-green walls that would surround them within the staircase and throughout Father’s offices. In all the years he occupied them, the colour of the walls never changed—only the extent to which they were marred by fingerprints of sticky-handed children, gashes and gouges made by the belongings moved up to and down from the second floor, and the general dirt and grime of the town caused in large part by the iron mills located behind the building.

      At the top of the stairs, the door to the right led to a small apartment. Straight ahead, the door bore a sign, identical to the black-and-white sign at street level. A bell announced the admission of people walking through that door and into Father’s windowless, multi-doored waiting room. Four chairs and a small sofa were arranged against the walls, two end tables and two coffee tables among them.

      No receptionist was there to greet patients. Instead, a framed rectangular sign affixed to the far wall directed patients to take a seat and wait until the dentist was available to see them. There were no prearranged appointments. Patients came to see the dentist when they had the need and the time, and the dentist saw them as he had the availability.

      In addition to the waiting room, Father’s offices were comprised of a treatment room, a lab, and a business office. The four rooms were laid out in a square with doors connecting each room near their confluence. Once, while Father stood on the street talking to a departing patient, I ran eight circuits through those connecting rooms. Eventually, Father’s roar ended my frolic. By that time my stomach was nauseous and my head reeling.

      After Father escorted a patient out of his treatment room, through the waiting room and to the door to the landing and stairway, he turned, greeted all assembled, inquired as to who was next, and based on that honour system, escorted that patient into the treatment room. I firmly believe that this was the part of his practice that Father enjoyed the most: standing in that room, surveying all who sat waiting to see him, all who believed that obtaining his services was worth the wait, the time required to be away from their own businesses, the time it took to travel from their farm into town, the time away from their schools or hearths or any other things that they might have liked or needed to do.

      An exception to the “first come, first served” rule was made in the case of children. Children were always seen at the first available opportunity. This custom led Father’s patients to believe he had a special fondness for children, but his motivation in seeing them early sprang from an entirely different direction. Father desired to have all children treated and removed from his offices before their cries distracted him or his patients and before their fidgeting caused havoc among the newspapers and other adornments in the waiting room.

      No matter the motivation, the practice made