As the old folks would say

by Hubert Furey

  The speaker seemed to weaken as he detected a look of displeasure on Dr. Reilly’s face.

  “This is not terribly convincing,” observed Dr. Reilly drily. “It’s like I’ve said all along. Religion warps the mind . . . tremendous traumatic effects . . .”

  “Sheer obsession,” snorted the company executive. “I thought you said he was mentally stable.”

  “Please go on,” insisted Dr. O’Dea, seeking to return the conversation to its original tone. “I find this very interesting. They actually believed they could somehow see him . . .”

  “Yes,” the speaker replied in her direction, detecting her professional interest. “They believed that this other world—this spirit world, if you will—was going on right around them. . . . That the people in this other world were very close and all you had to do was . . .”

  “Set up a seance and get a medium,” snorted the company executive.

  The company executive shrunk back in embarrassment as the group again turned with disapproving looks.

  The speaker continued, but his tone was awkward.

  “. . . was pray hard enough. He had picked up something about ‘crossing the chasm’ from one of those stories in the Bible, and he would use that phrase over and over. . . . ‘If Dad could only cross the chasm’ . . .”

  “So on this side,” interjected the priest, “one lives in a physical dimension, animated by a spiritual soul . . . then the soul moves at death to the spiritual dimension, kept from earthly communication by a chasm of some kind, as it is described biblically. That’s pretty traditional Church teaching.”

  The priest was illustrating by holding his hands parallel and moving them definitively first to the left, then to the right. The speaker responded eagerly, totally unperturbed by the mild condemnation.

  “That’s exactly how he used to talk. About a chasm of some kind. He was always praying for his father to ‘come across the chasm.’”

  “A fourth dimension.” Dr. Reilly sounded amused. “That’s really not a very innovative idea, you know, old man. That was in the comic books when I was a youngster. It’s still basically literature and imagination and not really very convincing.”

  His tone was one of a man who has suddenly lost interest in what up to now had been a rather good conversation, and was displeased to have been let down. The speaker turned in his direction, still unperturbed.

  “No. With Martin it wasn’t literature or imagination, or simple, shallow belief. He had thought about it continually, and was convinced, like his mother, that if he prayed and wished hard enough, it would happen one day, somewhere, sometime.”

  “So one night he saw his father, and has been talking about it ever since . . .”

  It was the company executive again. His tone seemed to be becoming more terse and rude. The public health nurse was just as dismissive as she shrugged her shoulders.

  “It could be simple wish-fulfillment. Put enough pressure on a mind, especially a sensitive religious mind, as his obviously was, and it will hallucinate . . .”

  “Yes,” the priest agreed. “In South America there are numerous stories of women who claim to see apparitions. . . . They cause terrible problems for the Church.”

  “Okay. So you cross this side by the process of death,” interjected Dr. O’Dea, still eager to listen. She was open to any knowledge or any new approach with which she could help her patients and had become totally engrossed in the narrative.

  Her brow furrowed as she pieced together the structure of the thinking painstakingly in her mind.

  “. . . that doesn’t prove you can cross in return. Let’s say you can go from the physical to the spiritual; it still doesn’t prove you can come back.”

  “Exactly as I said in the first place,” muttered Dr. Reilly.

  “Not as far as Martin was concerned,” James replied, ignoring the doctor’s comment. “Which brings me to my story.”

  “I thought that was the story.”

  The public health nurse looked bewildered.

  “To me it’s all bunk,” shrugged the company executive, turning abruptly away from the company in a final gesture of contempt. The public health nurse glowered at him and started to say something, but she changed her mind. Dr. O’Dea nodded encouragingly to the speaker.

  “Please go on. I’m anxious to hear the end.”

  “They don’t come back.” Dr. Reilly’s tone was emphatic, but he seemed to have directed the statement to himself. “But tell us the story. Anything is an improvement . . . and it looks like we’re going to be here for the day, anyway.”

  The wind had risen, rattling the window with a new round of sleet pellets.

  “More than an improvement,” adjoined the younger man. “The story will be proof of sorts that . . . that you are wrong.”

  “Proof!” snorted the doctor. “How can a story like this be proof? It’s the blind following the blind . . . or the ludicrous following the ludicrous.”

  “Tell the story,” came the quiet authority of the government biologist.

  The speaker looked around the group and, satisfied that he had their attention sufficiently, began to narrate, in a clear, earnest voice.

  “As I have said, I became acquainted with Martin in university in St. John’s, and it was from St. John’s that we set out that afternoon in March to head for Square Harbour, a little outport across the Silver Mountain River, two miles beyond Isle au Glu. Jamie Osborne had an old house out there belonging to his father, who had moved to Sudbury when his sawmill went out of business in the ’50s.

  “He and his girlfriend, Marina, had planned to spend the weekend there, so they invited the three of us—me, Martin, and Bill Lawton—to spend the weekend with them. The boarding houses were getting a bit monotonous that time of year, and a weekend having a beer and listening to Bill Lawton play the guitar sounded like a good idea, so we took them up on it.

  “Martin didn’t seem too eager to come with us at first—he had come down with one of those cursed moods again—but Marina talked him around, and we agreed we would leave as soon as possible after the one o’clock class on Saturday . . . to get a head start on the bay road. I mean, that road is bad enough in summer. . . . Marina was worried about the weather forecast, too.

  “Although it was raining steady for three days, the weatherman was forecasting a change with snow—and we knew it would be no fun plowing snowdrifts in Jamie’s old ’56 Chev around the bay road. Like I said, Marina was worried, but the rest of us weren’t paying any attention to it, knowing enough about Newfoundland weather and Newfoundland weather forecasts, and the fact that very rarely did the two ever get along . . .”

  He stopped to let his group appreciate the humorous reference, but his listeners maintained an uninterrupted serious posture.

  “We didn’t get under way as early as we wanted—it was four o’clock and we were still packing—but it was still raining, so we weren’t particularly worried about the weather. But as we set out from the city, Martin, for some reason, seemed to become really afraid.

  “Granted, in the beginning he didn’t show much interest, but his spirits seemed to rise in the fun of getting ready—packing food for Bill Lawton was a party in itself. However, as we left St. John’s and headed out the bay road, he sunk back into his previous mood and seemed to become even more and more fearful, which was unusual. I mean, when he got into one of those moods, he would become as quiet as a mouse, and get really down, but I had never known him to exhibit fear.”

  “Perhaps with the weather forecast and the threatening weather conditions . . .” volunteered the government biologist.

  “Perhaps. But he had driven with Jamie before in bad weather and he had every confidence in him. Jamie had the reputation of being one of the best winter drivers around, and he always kept his car in top shape. . . . And he never dran
k when he was driving. That was his unstated rule. So there was nothing to fear on that score on anybody’s part. Besides, even the rain had stopped as we left the city, and like I said, nobody paid any attention to the weather forecast, anyway.”

  “Maybe he was just being Martin, if you know what I mean . . .” It was Dr. O’Dea volunteering this time.

  “That’s what we thought, but why he was so much in dread this time was beyond us completely, and we tried everything we could to shake him out of it. I mean, this time he was more than moody. He was eerie. He did eventually agree to go along with us, but his mind seemed to be somewhere else.”

  The speaker stopped to imbibe a long draft of beer, something he hadn’t done for some time.

  “We sat him between myself and Bill in the back, and Marina talked to him over the front seat. But nothing seemed to work. Martin just shrank farther within himself, shaking his head and retreating behind that vacant set stare which was his typical defence when being pressed in company.

  “Bill Lawton had no patience with him at all and would curse at him in his good-natured way—‘For the luvva. . . . Martin, lighten up, b’y. Put a smile on your face. I’ll pay for the stitches’—but all to no avail. Martin just continued to sit there, staring straight ahead, with as down a look on his face, sir, as you could get.

  “The only time when he showed any appreciation for our concern was when Jamie suggested out loud that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea and that maybe we should turn back. At that point, Martin seemed to come out of himself, reassuring us that he was fine now and that we should go on.”

  The speaker adjusted his position, smiling softly as he relaxed with the memory.

  “Well, it didn’t take long to get back to jokes and fun once we felt Martin was part of us again. After all, we were young and foolish, without a care in the world. Exams were coming up, but they were still a week away, and besides, like I said, this was the weekend. We were a good group and we always had fun together, but it didn’t take long for things to change.”

  “Martin?” interjected Dr. O’Dea.

  “No, the weather,” replied the speaker, with a wry look on his face. “We were driving along, everybody except Jamie with a beer bottle in his hand, singing all kinds of old songs, not paying much attention to what was going on in the world around us . . .

  “We hadn’t noticed the dead stillness in the air or the little flicks of hail popping off the windshield and the bonnet of the car. That should have warned us that she was chopping off—that the temperature was dropping off really fast—rain turning to ice and snow.”

  He had spoken in Dr. O’Dea’s direction when he had noticed she had a puzzled look on her face.

  “When we left Croucher, just as we climbed onto the Mizzen Barrens,”—he talked as if his listeners were familiar with the route he was following in his mind—“you know where the track runs along the old abandoned talc mine, the storm hit us. And folks, she was a doozy. As the old people used to say, she socked in pretty fast.

  “That’s really high, open country out there, and the northeast wind just blew straight in off the bay, burying us in nothing less than a howling blizzard. To quote my uncle Jim Cassidy, the weatherman had told us we were going to have a ‘starm,’ he just never told us what kind of ‘starm.’”

  “Why didn’t you just wait it out, or turn around and go back to the place you had left . . . Croucher?” asked the public health nurse.

  “We debated that,” the speaker replied, “but we felt we had no choice but go on. To stop and try to turn around might mean getting stuck right there on the barrens—and the Mizzen Barrens was no place to be stuck in a snowstorm.

  “There wasn’t a house or a cabin the entire twelve-mile stretch, and you might as well be stuck on Baffin Island. Tom Morey got caught like that three years before, and his wife and youngster almost died from exposure. Being young—and stupid—we felt safe so long as we were plowing through.

  “Like I said, Jamie was the best kind of driver, and the heavy Chev was pushing her way through the drifts well enough. Besides, we knew—if we could keep going—that it wouldn’t be long before we were across the Barrens and going down the other side into the lun—the shelter—of the Silver Mountain River valley.

  “We figured if we made it to the bridge, we were safe. The grade slopes downward on the lee side of the barrens—there was less chance of getting stuck—and if we did get stuck on the sloping side of the Barrens, we could survive it. Like I said, we would be more sheltered, we were rigged for the weather, and if we had to walk to Isle au Glu, it wasn’t that far. Visibility hadn’t gotten any worse, and we knew we were close to the black cliff of the Cut, which was the end of the Barrens and the beginning of the grade down to the bridge.”

  He stopped as if he were mentally peering into the distance.

  “So we plowed along, trying to help out Jamie as best we could by peering through the blinding swirls of snow, keeping an eye on the sides of the road, especially when we approached the Cut, which we knew would be really bad. By this time it was coming on dark, and we were the only car on the road in that howling frenzy—everybody else had better sense.

  “There were no lights of any kind, and, like I said, there were no houses or cabins. Certainly, if there were, it wouldn’t have made any difference, since the storm had knocked out the power all along the coast and the houses would be in darkness, anyway.”

  “But you didn’t get stuck?” There was a worrisome tone in Dr. O’Dea’s voice.

  “No, we didn’t,” the speaker replied. “We got through the Cut no problem—it wasn’t as bad as we thought it was going to be—and we became more relieved as the car dipped downwards to the lower levels of the river valley. It was still a blinding snowstorm, but somehow we felt safer as we descended to the lower country. Even if we were trapped there, we could wait it out in the car, and not be exposed to the deadly, colder winds of the upper barrens.

  “The car seemed to move faster, as if it were in tune with our new mood. Maybe we would get to Square Harbour after all. Sprays of snow spewed left and right as Jamie navigated the sweeping curve that led to the bridge—he knew the road like the back of his hand—trying to make up a little of the time we had lost on the Barrens.”

  Here the speaker injected a cautionary tone, as his face assumed a serious, almost sombre expression.

  “You had to be careful approaching the bridge, even in summer, since the road curved so sharply to avoid the cliff that the bridge always suddenly appears out of nowhere, even when you are expecting it. I mean, you know how they built stuff in those days. Just like that you’re past the cliff, over the rise, and bang—you’re on the bridge.

  “Marina had always been really nervous about crossing the bridge—it was one of those old narrow ones built in the ’20s—and we knew that, and we started singing a bunch of old stuff again so her mind wouldn’t be on crossing . . .”

  “Yes, once you were across the bridge, you were getting closer to Square Harbour . . .” observed Dr. O’Dea, mentally calculating the distance.

  “Yes, and we were all anxious to get there. Jamie was keeping the car in second, plowing through the snow, braking her just enough to keep from sliding off the curve along the cliff, but keeping her fast enough to be able to take the rise before we hit the bridge.

  “With that storm, he knew that snow would be built up on the bridge, so once over the rise, he would have to speed up so he wouldn’t get stuck on the bridge itself. I mean, Marina was petrified enough just going across that bridge; if she got stuck on it in the middle of a snowstorm, she’d simply go berserk.”

  Here the younger man paused, as if he were forming a mental picture.

  “Now, if you can picture this. We’re going a bit slow around the curve along the face of the cliff so we won’t slide off into the ditch. We sidled a bit, bu
t the blackness of the rock face eased by harmlessly enough . . .

  “Jamie lines her up, right ready to give her the gas to pop over the rise to the bridge, with no way to stop or slow down once we crested the top, with the bridge and the river just feet away . . .

  “Like I say, Jamie was right ready to nail her, sir, into the rise, barrel her over the top and straight through the bridge to the other side . . . when Martin screamed.”

  Looks ranging from irritation to shock greeted the unexpected break in the narrative.

  “He finally cracked,” muttered the company executive. He hadn’t intended the remark to be heard, and he fidgeted in an embarrassed manner. James continued as if he weren’t interrupted.

  “I mean scream, sir, like you’ve never heard a scream. He screamed this wicked, loud, vicious ‘Stop the car! For God’s sake, stop the car! For God’s sake, stop the car . . . !’”

  The speaker leaned forward, right into the centre of the group.

  “Now you can imagine the effect this had on us, sitting in that car, tight as drums in the middle of a howling storm, eyes burned raw from the strain of peering into the dark and the snow, nerves strung out like piano wire from going through the storm . . .

  “. . . Imagine that scene, ladies and gentlemen . . . when Martin screams. He hadn’t spoken a word all through the storm. Just sat there, locked within himself. And just like that, just like it seemed we were all going to crack under the strain . . . and he screams; this nerve-wracking, soul-wrenching scream that explodes in the car like . . . well . . . like a stick of dynamite or something . . .”

  At this point the speaker leaned back.

  “Of course, when Martin screamed ‘Stop the car,’ that’s exactly what happened. The car stopped. Jamie got such a start that he put both feet on the brake at the same time and stalled her dead—standard transmission, you know—smacko in the snowdrift.

  “If there had been ice on the road, we would have gone halfway across the Avalon Peninsula out in the woods. Marina smacked the side of her head on the windshield. Bill Lawton and myself, sitting as we were up toward the front seat looking, were pitched forward.