by Cathi Bond
Aunt Anne looked at me. “Your father isn’t up to it, so I thought you’d like to help.”
“Where is he?”
“Maybe this,” Aunt Anne said, selecting a good navy Sunday suit.
“No.” I walked into the closet, towards the formal wear.
The blue suit wouldn’t do. I reached out and selected the gold dress Mom had bought especially for a New Year’s Eve party that she never attended. We’d driven into Toronto to Eaton’s in the early fall and I’d helped her pick it out. The saleslady said that Mom was as pretty as any model. Mom said she didn’t think so.
“And just as slim,” the saleslady added.
Why hadn’t I noticed how much weight she’d lost? If I’d noticed, maybe I could have done something to stop it.
“Do you have any shoes?” Mom asked. While the saleslady rushed out, Mom asked me what I thought.
“Do you think it’s too showy?”
“I think you look beautiful.” And she did. The golden satin shimmered as Mom slowly turned on top of a round pedestal that rested in front of the dressing room mirror. The saleslady returned with a pair of golden shoes and a matching evening bag. Mom put them on, walking down the corridor of mirrors, turning to examine her silhouette from afar.
“I’ll take it,” she said. When the saleslady turned away, Mom took a look at the price tag, grimaced and, giving me one of our secret smiles, added, “Your father will kill me.”
“She liked this,” I said, thrusting the gold dress at Aunt Anne.
“It’s much too good to be buried in,” she said. “It’s still got the price tag. No, we’ll give this to charity. Help me pick out something else.”
“No!” I said. “This is what she wanted! She would want to wear this!” Aunt Anne was about to give me a lecture about sassing back, but for some reason she stopped. The gold shoes sparkled. I snatched them up, handing them to her.
“And with these,” I added. “I want her buried in her new shoes.”
The funeral clothes were ready and we were all packed to go to Granddad’s, but Dad still hadn’t returned.
Aunt Anne told Ruth she was going to take us up to the farm. “When you hear from him, tell him where we’ve gone.” Ruth and Aunt Anne had been whispering in the kitchen about how arrangements needed to be made, but Dad was missing.
“Where’s Daddy?” Tedder asked, pulling me by the sleeve.
“I don’t know,” I replied, yanking my arm away. “Stop asking.”
Frank and Tedder had been pestering me about Dad all day, and the longer he was gone the more irritated I became. I didn’t know where he went. Tedder turned away and wandered off. I felt awful. He was only a little boy.
“I’m sorry, Tedder,” I said, going after him. “Dad just needs a little time on his own is all. You know how you feel after you cut your knee.”
Tedder nodded. “You need time to cry. And then a Band-Aid.”
“That’s right,” I said. “We’re going to go to Granddad’s house.”
“Will Buster be there?”
“I’ll make sure Granddad ties him up nice and tight.”
Tedder took my hand as Aunt Anne picked up Mom’s white Samsonite suitcase. “Have you kids got your good clothes?”
We all nodded.
“We better leave Dad a note,” Frank said. “In case he wonders where we are.”
“I already did,” Aunt Anne replied. Of course she did. “Now let’s get going.”
We walked into the farmhouse foyer, but everything was still.
“Where’s Granddad?” Tedder asked, undoubtedly worried about getting his pinch.
The living and dining rooms were empty, but we finally found the whole family sitting in the kitchen, even the men. The only ones missing were Dad and Granddad. The women silently prepared salads and sandwiches for fellowship after the funeral. When we entered they all rose.
One of the twins said she was sorry and suddenly burst into tears. Her mother passed her a handkerchief and told her that crying didn’t help. I was afraid to start in case I never stopped.
Hugh swept Tedder up in his arms and onto his shoulders. “Do you want to go for a ride?” He turned to the other boys. “Let’s go check on the cattle.”
Happy to escape the death house, the boys nearly ran out of the kitchen.
Aunt Anne sat down, turning to the adults. “They did everything they could.”
Who were “they” and what did they do?
“It was just beyond their control,” she added.
What was beyond their control? How did a case of the mumps turn into something like this? I looked around the kitchen.
“Where’s Granddad?” I asked.
“He’s busy in his office,” Aunt Anne replied. “It’s best you leave him alone.”
I didn’t pay any attention and just walked out.
Granddad’s office was at the end of a long, oak-paneled hall. Its walls were covered with family photographs. There were framed photos of glossy cattle pinned with red ribbons proudly declaring Wilton Gillespie winner of the Royal Winter Fair. There were pictures of Granddad holding silver cups, as well as ones of Mom and her sisters, young girls no older than me, showing off their yearlings at the 4H club. There was even a photo of a bashful looking Granny as she cut the opening ribbon at the local fall fair. There they all were, all together –the whole family –only now the youngest was gone.
Granddad’s heavy oak door was shut, but a line of yellow light shone out from beneath, and I could hear the radio. The evening cattle futures were on. We were never to bother Granddad when the door was closed, but I had to see him.
He was sitting in his black leather desk chair, the one that spun around while he picked up one of the three black phones, barking out orders to ranchers in the west, making deals with meat packers in the east and talking to the railway men about schedules. Always on the go my Granddad, never still. There was always a man to talk to, a deal to make. Not tonight. Tonight he was collapsed in the chair, head in his hands, staring at something in his lap. I crossed the room. He hadn’t heard me. Mom’s university graduation photo rested in his lap. Granddad moaned low like an animal in pain. I reached out and touched him. His shoulders flew back and the photo fell.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked, furiously swiping the back of his hand across his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, backing up in fear.
“Where are the boys?” he asked, picking up the photo and placing it on the desk, face down.
“They’re out with the cattle.”
“Did your father bring you?”
I shook my head.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sit.”
I sat in the big wing chair opposite the desk while Granddad’s fingers drummed the back of Mom’s photograph.
“We’ve got to be strong.”
His fingers stopped. I thought my ears would pop.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.” But I didn’t. “Granddad?”
“What is it, Maddy?”
“What happened to Mom?”
He didn’t say a word. The cattle futures had given way to the crop report. Spring wheat was going to fetch a good price.
“There’s no point dwelling on that,” he said. “Now go and help –” He almost said, ‘Your mother.’ “Go and help your aunts.”
The house was black. Everyone had gone to bed. Aunt Anne put me in Mom’s old room. The clock ticked. I couldn’t sleep. The thoughts in my stomach scared me. I’d never had a nightmare this bad. There was nothing to compare it to. The feelings in my stomach were hot and prickly and they’d started to grow. I could feel them rolling through my body and into my bones. If the heat got into my head…I opened the window wide and lay down on the floor in my nightgown until I was so cold it hurt. The door opened. It was Aunt Anne. She’d come in to check on me.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “Let me get
you back into bed.”
Aunt Anne shut the window and buried me in a pile of blankets. The weight of them felt like earth. Tears hung on her lower eyelashes defying gravity, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She wouldn’t let the emotion take hold. This was what Granddad meant by being strong. We didn’t hug because it would have been too hard. It was best to push the pain aside. That horrible, hot, endless ache would sweep you away and make you crazy. There could be no talking about it and no thinking about it. Mom was dead, and she wasn’t coming back.
The moment Aunt Anne closed the door I pulled off all the blankets and opened the window again. I lay down on the floor and let the frigid air do its work, make me numb, preparing me to be strong for the funeral the next day.
I had just finished putting on the last dress Mom had made me when there was a knock at the door. I opened it. Dad stood there, shaking in his dark suit.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Driving.”
I took his hand. “It’s time to go.”
We walked down the hall. I looked over the banister. Frank stood at the bottom of the stairs with the rest of the relatives milling around the foyer, a slow moving sea of black. Aunt Anne was knotting Frank’s tie while Granddad stared out the window –his white hair a stark contrast to the darkness of the day. Dad stumbled. Heads turned as the relatives looked up at us, curious eyes darting like crows in the barn.
It was just as drab outside. The world shrank as clouds of fog floated down, engulfing the fields, then the silo and finally everything beyond the cars. The boys and I waited beside the Oldsmobile. Granddad and Dad stood next to the long black hearse having a serious conversation. Uncles and aunts were already loaded in the hearse, and the cousins had been loaded into matching black Lincolns. Granddad kept gesturing towards the hearse, but Dad shook his head no. Finally he placed his hand on Dad’s shoulder, but Dad shrugged it off and walked back to our car. He opened the back door and the boys slid in. I was confused.
“Aren’t we going with Granddad?” Aunt Anne had told me we’d be travelling with Mom’s body. That was the way things were done.
“We’re going to take our own car,” Dad replied, turning over the engine. “That’s the way I want it.”
I climbed in beside Tedder. The hearse went first, followed by the line of Lincolns and finally our Oldsmobile. Staring up at Granny’s giant spruces, I wondered if she and Mom were together watching. Tedder took my hand as we followed the black cars into the fog.
Even though it was only about twenty yards ahead, the fog made it hard to see the tail lights of the last Lincoln, just the odd flicker of red to let us know we were on track. It didn’t really matter –Dad could have found his way to the church blindfolded. That was where he and Mom had been married and where we’d been baptized. He admired the minister and loved debating scripture with him. The Oldsmobile slowed down and Dad flicked on his indicator.
“You’re going the wrong way,” I said as the car swung left into the fog. Tedder squeezed my fingers.
“You should never rush a left turn,” Tedder whispered.
“Be quiet,” Frank said, never once taking his eyes off the back of Dad’s head.
“Where are we going?” I asked, but Dad didn’t reply.
The Oldsmobile picked up speed, bouncing along the gravel side road. We were flying blind, but it felt as if we were travelling up, up into the sky. The boys were silent. Then Dad started to cry. Could he see the road through the tears? We struck a pothole and the Oldsmobile bucked, pulling hard towards the left. Tedder’s fingers dug into my wrist and we both held our breath. Another car could be coming and we’d never see it. We’d be wiped out in a crash. Maybe Mom was waiting. We could go to heaven as a family and maybe Dad was trying to take us there.
The Oldsmobile pulled out of the fog and into the sunlight. We were near the peak of a giant hill. Countryside rolled away on all sides like swells in the ocean. The spire of the church poked through the sea of fog below. I knew where we were. This was the place Mom told me about –her idea of heaven –the place where Dad proposed.
Dad stopped the car, got out and sat in the back. We all squeezed together to make room, but he didn’t turn to face us. Instead he left the door wide open, staring at the fields and sky.
“I’ve got to put my feet on the ground,” he said, his good black shoes rooted in the snow. He wasn’t wearing galoshes.
The fog crawled up the hill towards the car, but the church spire still stood like a beacon. All of our relatives were down there and we weren’t. The funeral must have started. None of us said a word. We sat there like the three monkeys: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
“You don’t want to go the funeral, do you,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. Dad was crying. The car was cold. We all shivered but didn’t dare ask for heat. My little brothers looked up at me. I was the oldest, but I didn’t want to make things worse. Tedder didn’t understand, but Frank’s expression said it all. Everything was my fault and now I couldn’t even get us to the funeral.
“Mom would rather you remember her the way she was,” Dad said. “Don’t you think so?”
“I guess,” I replied.
If Frank had a gun he would have shot me.
“Good,” Dad said. “We made a good decision.”
What kind of a decision was that? We hadn’t known she was dying and now we didn’t get to go to her funeral. Dad got up and walked down the hill into the field. The fog swirled around his legs as he slowly disappeared.
“Where’s Daddy going?” Tedder asked.
“He’ll be back,” Frank said. “We just have to wait.”
And so we watched as Dad walked the foggy field, vanishing and then reappearing, while everyone else said goodbye to our mother.
We didn’t even go to the burial. Dad drove us back to Granddad’s house instead.
I was in the billiard room throwing the enamel coloured balls across the table as hard as I could. Nobody was back yet. The blue ball bounced off the green felt bumper, flew up into the air and rolled across the wooden floor. Frank was outside pounding pucks into a net by the side of the barn. Tedder sat on the stoop in his snowsuit with Roo sitting beside him. I couldn’t tell if he was crying. The fog had finally lifted, but snow was drifting down. It was a dreary day. A lousy day. I couldn’t remember the last time it had been sunny. I knew I should be taking care of Tedder, but I couldn’t make myself move. My mind would say one thing, but my heart another. Dad was upstairs lying down. I knew for sure because I kept my eye on the car, and that was why I missed the Lincoln.
“Theodore!” Granddad roared.
I didn’t hear him arrive. Just saw the black car out in the drive after the shout. Frank dropped his hockey stick. Tedder was still sitting on the steps, his head tilted up, mouth open, staring as the aunts ran past him, up the stairs and across the veranda –black veils shrouding their faces. Hugh swooped Tedder up in his arms, carrying him out towards the barn. An uncle grabbed Frank by the arm, the two of them spinning like dancers in a half turn. I tore down the hall into the foyer.
“Where the hell are you?” Granddad yelled.
He stood there, white hair on end, wild, the black overcoat thrown open, red-faced with fury. I’d never seen Granddad so mad and I’d never heard the word “hell” before. Not in my family. The aunts flew in behind him.
“Dad!” they cried when they noticed me standing in the doorway.
Granddad grabbed the banister. “Where is your father?” he asked, his voice a bit softer at the sight of me. My mouth wouldn’t open.
“Where is he?” Granddad asked, a lot louder this time.
“We won’t have raised voices,” Aunt Anne shouted.
I was too scared to defy him and just pointed upstairs. Granddad was halfway up when Dad appeared at the top –hair a mess, jacket and tie askew.
“She was their mother,” Granddad said. “She was your wife!” he yelled, his finger pointin
g right at Dad. “What kind of a man are you?”
For a moment it was quiet and then Dad replied. “The children didn’t want to attend and I thought it was best.”
“You thought it was best?” Granddad yelled and was about to continue when the radio went on full blast.
An old big band song, the kind Mom and Dad used to dance to, filled the foyer. Aunt Anne was up the staircase by now, pinning Granddad against the oak-paneled walls with her bare hands, telling everyone to settle down. Dad came down the stairs, past Granddad and Aunt Anne and told me to pack my bag. It was time for us to go home. It was a miracle Granddad didn’t punch him.
The house was dark. I reached in and flicked on the overhead light. Dad carried Frank and Tedder up to bed. They’d fallen asleep in the car. I walked into the living room, dropping my coat on a chair. Ruth had dusted and vacuumed. The green broadloom was perfectly smooth. There was no evidence of the parade of women in pointy high heels tramping across the broadloom, bearing casseroles and sympathy. It was as if they’d never been there –a ghostly visitation.
I sat down on the sofa and turned on the television. Mobs of angry teenagers were picketing the White House demanding the President stop the war in Vietnam. Walter Cronkite said that never in the history of the United States had the youth led such a wave of protest. Someone set a straw doll of Richard Nixon on fire and the crowd roared as flames licked the sky. The news shifted to a local story about an arsonist in Buffalo. Where was Dad? He should have put the boys to bed by now.
Mom’s oak sewing box sat on the floor beside the sofa. She liked to relax doing embroidery when the old black and white movies were on and always said that she was “simply mad” about Clark Gable.
“But don’t tell your father,” she’d add.
I opened the box and looked inside. A starched, white pillowcase, clamped into a metal hoop, held a cluster of bright red roses with fine green stems. We’d been working on this together. It was another one of Mom’s attempts to get me interested in womanly skills.
“You have to be careful, Maddy,” she said, as I forced the red thread up through the starched cotton and drove it back down. “It’s a cross stitch. You have to bring the needle back down on the opposite side.”