we got there, we were both happy to be out in the sun and away from the city. So, it’s possible I was distracted. But the town itself, the Stouffville part, was like any number of towns in the area. It had a Chinese restaurant and a business of some sort housed behind a red-brick facade. That’s about it. In trying to recall its streets, I find I’m not sure I haven’t got it confused with Concord or Nobleton. In fact, there are buildings in my memory of Stouffville that, I’m almost certain, belong elsewhere.
We were there so Professor Bruno could talk to John Skennen’s aunt, Moira Stephens, the last of Skennen’s relatives who’d known him when he was young. Her house was at the bottom of a street that ended in a cul-de-sac. The house wasn’t unusual – single storey, its front porch coming away, slightly, a few of the black tiles from its roof scattered on the front lawn – but it was painted light green. The colour shimmered and the smell of paint was strong. We were met at the door by a young woman whose hair was, in streaks, blue. She was tall and willowy. She didn’t smile, exactly, but she politely said
– What do youse want?
– Ah, said Professor Bruno. We’re here to speak to Mrs. Stephens about her nephew. I’m Professor Morgan Bruno and this is my travel companion, Alfred Homer.
– You’re from the university? said the woman. Good to see youse! I don’t think youse are going to get much out of Gram. She hasn’t been herself lately, eh? But it’s your own time youse are killing. Didn’t you say something about a few bucks for the inconvenience?
– You must be Roberta, Professor Bruno said. I’m happy to make a contribution to your well-being.
He gave her a ten-dollar bill. She folded the bill, tucked it into her brassiere, and led us to a living room where there was a fuzzy yellow sofa whose cushions had worn down in places so that, here and there, hernias of white foam came through. There were two wooden chairs facing the sofa and, beside the entrance to the room, a faux-elephant-foot umbrella holder that held an umbrella and what seemed to be a walking stick. The room had an interesting smell, unexpectedly herbal. It smelled of basil. After a longish while, Roberta led poor Mrs. Stephens in. I say ‘poor Mrs. Stephens’ not to be unkind but because the woman looked tired and it didn’t seem as if she wanted to be there. She was wearing a pink terry-cloth robe – strange, because it was almost as warm in the living room as it had been outside. Her grey hair, wet and sparse, must have been hastily done because you could still see the grooves the comb’s teeth had left in it. She had white bedroom slippers on her feet.
– She just got up, said Roberta.
For a while, it didn’t look like Mrs. Stephens would say anything. She frowned when Professor Bruno introduced himself. Then she stared at him when he asked questions about her nephew.
– When did you last see John? the professor asked. Did he ever talk to you about his poetry? Is it true that the last place anyone saw him was in Feversham?
Mrs. Stephens was provoked by the mention of Feversham. Her answer was almost a complaint.
– I don’t know anything about that, she said. No one’s supposed to know about that.
She moved her chair in Professor Bruno’s direction.
– Why do you want to know about it? she asked.
Inspired by her sudden interest, Professor Bruno was suddenly exuberant.
– I love your nephew’s work, he said. I’ve studied John’s poems for years. I think he may be our greatest poet. Our secret Akhmatova! Our hidden Hölderlin! It was time someone wrote a literary biography – more about the work than the man, but still … I’m looking for a few details from John’s life. Things to illuminate the poetry. I’ll leave the real biography to a real biographer.
Mrs. Stephens moved closer to him, her left shoulder raised to cushion her tilted head, but she didn’t say anything. So, Professor Bruno went on.
– John’s a wonderful poet, he said. I’m not saying he needs a biography so the poetry can be understood. His work’s clear as Waterford Crystal. But I think my work brings out facets of the poetry and illuminates some of the obscurities. Not all of them! A poem needs its obscurities!
Mrs. Stephens moved her chair closer, little by little, as if she didn’t have the strength to draw close at once. It seemed she wanted to hear Professor Bruno talk about her nephew. But then she inched her chair past him, pulled the umbrella (bright orange) out of the elephant’s foot, and hit him with it. The blow was a surprise. Mrs. Stephens moved so quickly for an older woman. She caught Professor Bruno on the cheek with the umbrella’s nib and drew blood. Before I could come to the professor’s rescue – before he could defend himself – the umbrella opened on its own, an angry frilled lizard, and Mrs. Stephens started to cry. The sound of her crying was strange: the bleating of a kid but softer and more lilting and with long pauses as she drew breath.
When she could manage to speak, she cried out
– Don’t you dare talk about him!
At these words, Roberta came in to see what was wrong. Finding her grandmother distraught, she tried to calm her. She wiped her grandmother’s face with a tea towel and said
– There, there, Gram!
And added
– I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with Uncle John.
– It’s too much, said her grandmother. Don’t you talk about him, either.
– I should of warned youse, said Roberta. Gram sometimes gets skittish.
She helped her quaking grandmother from the room, returning after a few minutes to say:
– She gets this way when she thinks about Uncle John, eh. Why don’t youse come back tomorrow? She’s not always like this. It’s just sometimes she’s sensitive about it, like no one’s supposed to say Uncle John’s name. She’s got a heart of gold. Give you her last clean undies, most days. But she doesn’t like to talk about certain things, poor Gram.
I thought it would be cruel to disturb Mrs. Stephens again, especially as she was sensitive about the one subject that interested Professor Bruno. But the professor, not wanting to disappoint Roberta, agreed to consider returning once we’d visited the other places on our itinerary. He held out a ten-dollar bill.
– Please take this for your troubles, he said.
Roberta refused.
– No, she said. We can’t take more till you get your first money’s worth. Come back when youse are done your rounds. Gram’ll be feeling better by then.
Professor Bruno wanted to go on to our next town straight away. He’d found the episode with Mrs. Stephens embarrassing and wanted to put it out of mind. But I stopped at the walk-in clinic in Stouffville for a bandage and disinfectant. Mrs. Stephens hadn’t done much damage, but there was blood on the professor’s cheek and I’d have felt terrible if his cut got infected.
As it turned out, going to the clinic was, inadvertently, one of the most helpful things we did, not because the professor was in danger but because a sympathetic attendant at the clinic, Karen Kelly by name, unexpectedly pointed us to new details about Mr. Skennen.
– Mrs. Stephens doesn’t know any more about John Skennen than I do, she said. I mean, maybe she did at one time, but the poor lady hasn’t been right in the head for years. I’m not surprised she stabbed you with an umbrella. But if you want to find out about John Skennen, you should talk to my mom. She went out with him in high school.
Professor Bruno was warily enthusiastic.
– This is wonderful, he said. A real find. And to think we have an umbrella to thank for it!
Ms. Kelly’s mother, Kathryn, was a surprising fount of information. She’d kept high school photos of John Skennen and seemed to remember every detail of their time together. And yet, there was little in what she remembered that you’d call remarkable. Mr. Skennen seemed to have been a normal young man, in the throes of first