— I’m looking for Mr. Andrews, said Baddeley.
— He not heah, said the woman.
— Can you tell me where I could find him?
— He at hospital.
— At the Toronto Western?
— He at hospital.
The woman looked at him and he looked at her.
— Thank you, he said.
This little scene was repeated half a dozen times over the weeks that followed. Baddeley would knock — early in the morning, mostly, hoping to catch Andrews before he set off to find “inspiration.” The door would be partially opened, and he would be told that Mr. Andrews was “at hospital.” He would then go to the Toronto Western and wander the halls looking for Andrews.
Baddeley expected that, at some point, he would knock at the door and find Andrews at home. He was prepared to be patient. But as it happened, the next time he saw Avery Andrews Baddeley did not recognize the man. Andrews recognized him.
It was the evening of November 22nd and Baddeley was at the Toronto Western. He had walked about the wards with diminishing conviction. He’d been buttonholed by a number of insistently helpful nurses and he was on his way out when, as he passed through a waiting room, a man in a wheelchair caught his attention, held eye contact then signalled to him with the wave of a hand.
The man was bald, the freckles on his head “fresh”, as if splattered from a pen with beige ink. He was almost swallowed by his blue-striped pyjamas and, incongruously, a yellow cardigan. It was the cardigan, of course, that jogged something in Baddeley’s memory, so that he was thinking of Avery Andrews before he actually recognized the man. Andrews was unhealthily thin, cadaverous. His fingers were still elegant but the skin on his hand was almost translucent, the veins along the back of his hands a vivid blue. His eyes, which had always seemed recessed, now glimmered as though they were shining at the end of a dark tunnel.
Yes, this was Avery Andrews and, in a word, the man looked to be on his last legs.
— How strange to see you, Andrews said
or, rather, Andrews managed to say. No sooner were the words out than he began to cough, grimacing at each shudder of his chest, struggling to quell his body’s insubordination.
— How strange, he said again. I didn’t think you’d come. Please forgive me for how I behaved. I wasn’t myself.
Again Andrews began to cough. A nurse approached them. — Everything all right? she asked.
— Yes, said Andrews. This is my friend.
— Friend or not, said the nurse, I think it’s time you were back in your room.
Andrews held on to Baddeley’s wrist. His grip was not strong.
— It isn’t good for you to get excited, Mr. Andrews, but visiting hours are still on. You can go on talking in your room.
It was distressing to watch Avery Andrews as he was helped into his hospital bed. His limbs looked as though they might snap under the slightest pressure. It hurt to watch him stand up. (His body was so wasted it was easily supported by the sticks that were his legs.) More distressing still was the ginger hair on the back of his legs. Baddeley turned away until Andrews was tucked under the sheets and the nurse had asked if he wanted morphine and then, having inserted the drip, went off to other beds.
— I don’t have much time, said Andrews. I want to tell you something, before the morphine kicks in. I was like you, but not like you. When I went to see Margaret Laurence, she recognized me immediately. And she knew what I was. I loved fiction more than I loved people. I still do. When I pushed her from the ferry, it was because she wanted to die and because I knew her art would live on in me. I see, now, that you don’t love the art deeply enough, Alexander. You’re too attached to me personally. I should have known, when you left that manuscript in my living room.
— Did you read it? asked Baddeley.
— I read as much of it as I could, son. You have everything wrong. You made me sound deep and heroic, but I’m none of the things you admire. I’m nothing. What you really admire is the Master’s voice. For years, it’s all I wanted to hear, too, but now I’ve had enough. I wanted you to end my servitude, like I ended Margaret’s. I should have gotten to know you first. But I suppose things have worked out as they were meant to.
— What do you mean? asked Baddeley.
— You’ll seek Him out, now, won’t you?
— I don’t think so, said Baddeley. I was looking for you.
Andrews grew visibly upset, but the morphine had begun to work and it was as if his emotions were passing through a kind of screen.
— You must look for him, Andrews said. You must. I can’t leave until I know you will. He appears to any number of artists, but this identity of His is unique. This line is… our line is…
Anxious to calm the poor man, Baddeley said
— All right. I’ll look for him. I promise.
— But the thing to remember, said Andrews, the thing is… He’s not always Himself. After all these years, I think I’m entitled to say that. There have been times when I’m certain God is not sane. He says there’s no difference between sane and insane, but there is. You’ll feel the difference, and you’ll have to forgive Him. I don’t think He can help Himself.
— I’m sorry, said Baddeley. But I don’t know what you’re talking about.
— You’ll see things you don’t want to see. He can’t help it. Forgive Him or you’ll end up as unhappy as I was. As we’ve all been. Listen, I sold the house. I’m sorry. I thought you were gone for good. You’ll need somewhere to live…
Andrews was now visibly too drug-clouded to go on talking. He could not keep his eyes open. He had spent all his energy on their conversation.
— Come back tomorrow, he managed.
He then grasped at Baddeley’s arm, some important thing on his mind.
— I know…, he said. I know…
But he could not finish his thought. He fell back onto the bed, mumbling.
As Baddeley looked down at Andrews’ face, it occurred to him that, at the best of times, his relations with other people were tricky. Even so, this bond with Avery Andrews was baffling. He had sought Andrews out. He had discovered an unstable man. And now, the man was dying. Why should it be his duty to watch the gyroscope fall?
And yet, Baddeley felt compelled to return. He was fascinated by the spectacle of Andrews’ death, saddened that (so it seemed) he alone would be with Andrews in this most private of moments. As well, he felt a certain pride that he should have been chosen to be with Andrews at the end. The encounter would almost certainly inform the next draft of Time and Mr. Andrews, a book he swore he would finish, despite Andrews’ disappointing words.
The following morning, however, all was changed. At the reception desk, Baddeley was told that “Mr. Andrews” had died during the night. He had died peacefully, “in his sleep.”
— I see, said Baddeley. Thank you.
The nurse, struck that her words had been taken with such equanimity, said
— Would you like to see the body? I don’t think it’s been taken from the room yet.
Not knowing what else to say under the circumstances and feeling that the nurse was doing her best to grant him some sort of favour, Baddeley said “thank you” and was directed to room 88a, the room in which he’d last seen Andrews alive.
It would be difficult to exaggerate Baddeley’s confusion as he entered 88A. Without transition or warning, he found himself in the ward of Avery Andrews’ god. The windows looked back from Lake Ontario at the room in which Baddeley now stood. The perspective made him ill. There were four beds in the room. In each of the beds was what looked to be a brilliant approximation of the human: flesh tones perfect, the postures natural, the eyes glinting as if moistened by tear ducts. But the mannequins — there’s no other word for them — were all unmoving. One of them was in the image of Avery Andrews, another looked like Lucius Annaeus Seneca, and a third resembled Saint Teresa as Bernini had fashioned her: ecstatic.