Days by Moonlight. Andre Alexis

didn’t seem happy to be called away from what he’d been doing. He hesitated, then grumbled a few words I didn’t quite hear. But Mr. Brady repeated

      – Two teas for our guests, son.

      And Dougal – a man in his forties, judging by the look of him – went from the room and came almost immediately back with two cups of tea, as if he’d made them in anticipation of the asking. This efficiency wasn’t the most striking thing about him, though. Dougal was missing fingers on both of his hands. On one, half the thumb and the pinky were missing. On the other, the top of his ring finger was gone. Apropos of his son’s missing fingers, Mr. Brady said

      – That’s what it means to live on a farm. It’s a lazy man who still has all his fingers, is what I say.

      He held up his own hands so we could see the places where fingers – or parts of them – had been.

      – If the machines don’t get you, the dogs will, he said.

      Professor Bruno was impressed.

      – That’s nicely put, he said.

      – I’m quoting Virgil, said Mr. Brady. A free translation I made of ‘The Georgics.’

      As well as being John Skennen’s friend, Mr. Brady had been a poet in his own right.

      – I didn’t start out wanting to be a farmer, he said. That was my dad’s business. Me and John, we wanted to be in a rock ’n’ roll band when we were kids. Then he started writing words for songs and, next thing you know, we’re reading Thomas Wyatt and all these guys who wrote madrigals. We were … what? Eleven? Twelve? But I can still remember some of them – Pastime with good company I love and shall until I die grudge who lust but none deny so God be pleased thus live will I …

      – That’s by Henry the Eighth! said Professor Bruno.

      – Yeah, I guess it might be, Mr. Brady answered, but I don’t remember the names as much as the poems. Strange, eh? For me, poems are like people’s faces: I always remember faces even when I don’t remember names.

      – Was John always a good poet? asked Professor Bruno.

      – Oh, yeah. Always. But maybe that isn’t the way to put it. John could have been good at anything he wanted. But the poet thing came to him and he lived it from the moment it hit him. All his poems weren’t good but they were always poems, you know what I mean? I wrote poems as bad as his and maybe a few just as good, but the mask never fit me. Not that being a farmer really fits me, either. But I’m okay with how it doesn’t fit. You understand?

      I think Professor Bruno understood. He nodded and said yes. But I didn’t understand at all. Did John Skennen choose to be a poet or was he born a poet? I didn’t want to get in the way of two men talking poetry, but I was curious. So, I asked Mr. Brady what he’d meant.

      – It’s a hard thing to explain, he answered. John liked to say poetry chose him, and I know what he meant. But it was more like playing at something you’re good at. He was a natural.

      – But you said he was good at a lot of things, didn’t you?

      – Nice to be around people who pay attention, said Mr. Brady. But I’m not sure I can say it any other way. It’s got to do with destiny and if you believe certain people were made for certain things. John wasn’t any happier being a poet than he would have been anything else. He was born unhappy. But he accepted poetry was his destiny, so all this talk about whether he was any good had nothing to do with it, as far as he was concerned. Even if he’d been a bad poet, he was destined to be a poet and he knew it the way you know where your hands are in the dark. Do you believe you’re destined for something, son? If you do, I hope it’s something you’re good at.

      He held up his hand with the missing fingers.

      – Then again, he said, someone’s got to be the farmer with missing fingers, a dead wife, and an ungrateful son.

      From the kitchen, evidently listening, Dougal shouted

      – I’m not ungrateful!

      – It’s a fascinating idea, said Professor Bruno. Did John believe in destiny?

      – Yes, he did, said Mr. Brady. That he did, for sure. He used to say he knew how he was going to die as clearly as how he was going to live.

      – You think he’s dead? asked Professor Bruno. No one’s ever told me for certain he was dead.

      – Oh, said Mr. Brady. I know John’s dead the same way you know when someone’s left a room. You can’t be as close as we were without there being some kind of connection. I’ll tell you what, I even know the minute he died. It was in the days when my wife was still alive and she was in the kitchen cooking. And I was in the living room here, watching TV. I can even tell you what I was watching: Kojak, the show with buddy who’s like a cue ball. And all of a sudden Marjory says, ‘Answer the door!’ Now why in the heck am I going to answer the door when there’s no one there? I’m right near the door. She’s all the way in the kitchen. There’s no point me getting up. But she says it again – ‘Answer the door!’ – and I’m thinking, ‘Well, maybe I was listening to Kojak a little too loud.’ You understand? So, I get up and open the door. And it’s like I thought, no one there. I was about to curse the old lady when I turn around and right where I was sitting – that’s where John’s sitting. I just assumed he and Marjory were playing a game on me. So, I start talking to him like it’s no big deal. I haven’t seen him for years, but I’m not going to be the one that cracks. But he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there looking at me. And I’m getting kind of irritated, but at the same time I know something’s wrong. Then he looks at me and points to his watch. And I can see it’s nine-twenty. Makes the hairs on my arm stand up, just remembering.

      Mr. Brady pulled up his sleeve and, from where I was sitting – a few feet away – I could see the hairs on his arm standing up on goosebumps.

      – What happened then? Professor Bruno asked.

      – I don’t know, Mr. Brady answered. The dogs started barking. I must have looked away for a second. When I looked back, John wasn’t there anymore.

      – But how do you know that’s the moment he died? the professor asked.

      – Well, I’ll tell you. When we were kids we were both a little obsessed with death – the way kids are – and we both swore that whoever died first, he’d come back and tell the other what death was like. I guess the dogs must have interrupted him, but I knew what John meant when he showed me the time. It wasn’t something I could get wrong.

      – But am I right, the professor asked, that he disappeared?

      – You’re very right, said Mr. Brady. But I hope you’re not looking for him.

      – Why?, I asked.

      Mr. Brady smiled.

      – It’s bad luck, he said. Listen, people around here believe all sorts of things. When John died, he just disappeared. So, you can imagine the rumours. For a while there, it was so bad you couldn’t read poetry in Simcoe County without someone making the sign of the cross if they heard you. To ward off the devil. It was mostly in fun, but John’s become a bad omen.

      – We’re not looking for him, Professor Bruno said. Heavens, I don’t know what I’d do if we found him. I’m interested in his poetry. I’m a critic, mostly. I only want a few biographical details. Enough for human interest. And it’s more difficult to get those if the subject’s around. So, no, we’re not looking for him.

      – John used some of his life in his poems, said Mr. Brady. A bio’s not useless. But the important thing was always the poetry. Listen, I’m glad there’s interest in his work. I thought poetry’d died out. The young don’t know enough about it to keep the traditions alive.

      These last words seemed to have been said pointedly. I thought Mr. Brady was talking about my generation when he mentioned the young. And I was about