The Love of a Good Woman

persistent smell of urine, in fact, which would have disgusted me on a woman but which seemed in his case not just forgivable but somehow an expression of ancient privilege. When I went into the bathroom after he had been there, it was like the lair of some mangy, still powerful beast.
    Chess said I was wasting my time baby-sitting Mr. Gorrie. The weather was clearing now, and the days were getting longer. The shops were putting up new displays, stirring out of their winter torpor. Everybody was more apt to be thinking of hiring. So I ought to be out now, seriously looking for a job. Mrs. Gorrie was paying me only forty cents an hour.
    “But I promised her,” I said.
    One day he said he had seen her getting off a bus. He saw her from his office window. And it wasn’t anywhere near St. Paul’s Hospital.
    I said, “She might have been on a break.”
    Chess said, “I never saw her out in the full light of day before. Jesus.”
    I suggested taking Mr. Gorrie for a walk in his wheelchair, nowthat the weather had improved. But he rejected the idea with some noises that made me certain there was something distasteful to him about being wheeled about in public—or maybe about being taken out by somebody like me, obviously hired to do the job.
    I had interrupted my reading of the paper to ask him this, and when I tried to continue he made a gesture and another noise, telling me he was tired of listening. I laid the paper down. He waved the good hand toward the pile of scrapbooks on the lower shelf of the table beside him. He made more noises. I can only describe these noises as grunts, snorts, hawkings, barks, mumbles. But by this time they sounded to me almost like words. They did sound like words. I heard them not only as peremptory statements and demands (“Don’t want to,” “Help me up,” “Let me see the time,” “I need a drink”) but as more complicated pronouncements: “Christ, why doesn’t that dog shut up?” or “Lot of hot air” (this after I’d read some speech or editorial in the paper).
    What I heard now was “Let’s see if there’s anything in here better than what’s in the paper.”
    I pulled the stack of scrapbooks off the shelf and settled with them on the floor by his feet. On the front covers were written, in large black crayoned letters, the dates of recent years. I flipped through 1952 and saw the cutout newspaper account of George VI’s funeral. Above it the crayon lettering. “Albert Frederick George. Born 1885. Died 1952.” The picture of the three queens in their mourning veils.
    On the next page a story about the Alaska Highway.
    “This is an interesting record,” I said. “Do you want me to help you start another book? You could choose what things you want me to cut out and paste in, and I’d do it.”
    His noise meant “Too much trouble” or “Why bother now?” or even “What a stupid idea.” He brushed aside King George VI, wished to see the dates on the other books. They weren’t what hewanted. He motioned toward the bookcase. I brought out another pile of scrapbooks. I understood that it was the book for one particular year that he was looking for, and I held each book up so that he could see the cover. Occasionally I flipped the pages open in spite of his rejection. I saw an article about the cougars on Vancouver Island and one about the death of a trapeze artist and another about a child who had lived though trapped in an avalanche. Back through the war years we went, back through the thirties, through the year I was born in, nearly a decade beyond that before he was satisfied. And gave the order. Look at this one. 1923.
    I started going through that one from the beginning.
    “January snowfall buries villages in—”
    That’s not it. Hurry up. Get on with it.
    I began to flip the pages.
    Slow down. Go easy. Slow down.
    I lifted the pages one by one without stopping to read anything till we reached the one he wanted.
    There. Read that.
    There was no picture or headline. The crayoned letters said,
“Vancouver Sun
, April 17, 1923.”
    “Cortes Island,” I read. “Okay?”
    Read it. Go on.
    C ORTES I SLAND . Early Sunday morning or sometime late Saturday night the home of Anson James Wild at the south end of the island was totally destroyed by fire. The house was at a long distance from any other dwelling or habitation and as a result the flames were not noticed by anyone living on the island. There are reports that a fire was spotted early Sunday