It was coming from the kitchen. I opened the kitchen door and my reaction was shock. All the relief that had filled me this night was washed away by what I saw.
She was hunched over the sink, the steel wool that is ordinarily saved for only the dirtiest, most heavily stained pots squeezed tightly in her joined fists. She was scouring mercilessly at a plate. A plate from which she no doubt thought Benji might have eaten.
In five years of living with Grandmother O’Toole, I’d never seen her hair in anything other than the bun that sat in the exact same place day after day atop her head. I’d never before seen her hair loose. It was longer than I could have imagined. It hung down to hide her face, much like a silver curtain swaying back and forth as she bore down on the plate to scrub it clean.
Next to her on the counter was a pile of plates and silverware and glasses she’d already cleaned. Another plate, this one broken, was beside the pile of dishes. Apparently, she’d leaned into it so heavily that, unable to withstand her weight or her anger, it had snapped in half. Although most times, this would have been a major catastrophe and cause for mourning and curses on her part, she didn’t even seem to notice, so fixated on sanitizing the kitchen was she.
She also didn’t notice, as she rasped at the plate with the steel wool, the water had lost all of its suds and now splashed haphazardly, leaving flecks and specks of bright pink on the sink and counter and cupboards as well as the floor. So fiercely did she want to rid the dishes of any trace of Benji, she was unaware she’d rubbed her knuckles bloody.
I reflected on how my feelings had changed toward Grandmother O’Toole. Up until recently, I’d been so afraid of her. Not only because of the beatings she’d dish out with her shoe, or because of the ambushes that only the northern Irish cane bell had brought to an end, but more so due to her words.
While her shoe could do no more than sting and leave bruises, and the cane most often caused only bumps, both of which faded unnoticed with time, the words she said had wormed their way deep inside of me.
Maybe Benji had been right during one of our conversations, that maybe the adage “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me” is more a wish than a fact. Maybe it was made up by a person who was very good with words and used the saying as a way to hide their true power. For yes, the sticks and shoes and the stones and canes can cause pain and damage, but it was indeed the words that were truly deadly.
When I was a young lad, Father used to read to me every night. One of the things that stuck with me was the author who wrote, “If you want to know a person’s true character, take note of the adjectives they use to describe other people.”
No amount of time could make me forget the venomous names Grandmother O’Toole constantly called me … and nearly everyone else. But now, as I watched the way her hatred caused her to bleed, I understood what Father’s author had been telling me. The names and vicious words weren’t a description of something in me, or in the Canadians or the Englishmen or the people from Buxton, they were merely a reflection of this tiny woman.
I knew as long as I could keep an eye on her, she would never again be able to harm me. I also knew I’d never see her grow in size again. I finally clearly saw her for the tiny, angry, pathetic, hate-filled wee person she truly is.
Not so long ago, there was a common practice called “bleeding,” wherein it was believed that sickness was caused by bad humours in the blood. It was thought the best way to cure an ill person was to cut them and allow some of the bad blood to escape. Barbers were trained to do this, which is why the barber pole is always red and white.
Perhaps Grandmother O’Toole’s bleeding knuckles would drain away some of the sickness of hatred that ran through her veins. But no, that was ridiculous. I knew as long as she lived, her hatred would as well.
I closed the kitchen door and went to bed.
I would lose not one more night’s sleep nor spend one moment more of worry and embarrassment for who she is.
I had no control over that.
I smiled and let my head sink into my pillow, content to know I am truly my mother and father’s child.
Two days after the doctor had done all he could and worked to make him as comfortable as possible, Mother, Father, and the mayor decided it would be best if the Madman of Piney Woods was brought to our home.
They thought the best place he could stay was Pay’s bedroom.
Before they brought him, Patience and Stubby were sent to Uncle June and Aunt Nina’s in Toronto. Mother and Father didn’t tell them, but the plan was that they’d wait there until the Madman got better.
Mother and me had been keeping a vigil ever since. We would read to each other and wait for Father and the mayor to finish work before they came to sit with us.
On the second day after the Madman of Piney Woods was brought to us, Mother and me were sitting in the parlour when she said to me, “Benji, I want to talk to you about something.”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Do you know by not sending you to stay with Uncle June, your father and I are placing a lot of confidence and faith in you?”
“Really?”
“Yes. Life can be a pretty brutal experience, and we feel you are mature enough to cope with some of the rough parts of being alive.”
This was becoming more and more mysterious. I looked at Mother but kept my mouth closed. I didn’t want to commit myself to saying I understood what she was talking about. Plus, a good reporter learns to wait for people to finish their say.
“The doctor has said he doesn’t think Uncle Cooter’s going to live much longer. And as sad as that is, there are other things we have to take into consideration….”
She looked at me as if she needed some reassurance that I understood.
I nodded in a halfway way.
“I know my babies are not a superstitious lot, but I don’t want Patience and Stubby to know, if it does come down to that, and he passes away here …”
She put her book aside and said, “Benji, I wouldn’t want Patience to know he died in her bedroom. Am I clear, son?”
That only made good sense.
“Yes, Mother, I’ll take it to the grave with me.”
“That won’t be necessary. Just make sure you don’t slip up. I know you’ll keep your word.”
And I would.
* * *
On the third evening the Madman was in our house, the doctor clomp-clomp-clomped down the stairs.
Mother, Father, the mayor, and me looked up expectantly.
The doctor came into the parlour.
“He’s grown quite weak. An infection is trying to set up in his right lung. I think he’s close.”
The mayor covered his face and drew a ragged breath through his hands. Mother and Father hugged, and I looked on, not knowing what to do.
Doc said, “He’s asked to see all of you.”
The Madman had been coming in and out of consciousness for days and was making sense only half the time.
They all stood up.
I said, “I’ll wait down here.”
The doctor said, “He asked for you specifically.”
Mother said, “He asked for Benji?”
Doc said, “Yes. Well, he didn’t ask for him by name, but he said, ‘TooToo’s boy who knows the woods.’ ”
Mother said, “But, Doctor, is he …”
The doctor said, “He’s quite lucid.”
Why did he want to see me? I wished I had time to get a dictionary and look up lucid so I’d have some idea of what to expect when I went in that bedroom.
Mother reached her hand toward me. “Come, son.”
I followed them up the stairs. Father tapped lightly, then opened Pay’s bedroom door. Heavy curtains had been put over the windows. The usual smell of the room, flowers Pay would keep in a vase on her bedside table, had been replaced by a quiet, stale-air smell.
The Madman was a bunch of small shadowy lumps under the covers of Pay’s bed. He was sti
ll taking uncommonly long spells between each wheezed breath.
Father and I stood at the foot of the bed. The mayor sat on one side and took the Madman’s right hand while Mother sat on the other side of the bed and took his left hand. Father draped an arm around my shoulder. I hugged his waist.
The Madman looked at Mother and smiled.
He turned his head to the mayor. “I know it don’t make much sense. And it’s straight-up foolish and prideful. But I’m worried ’bout what you and TooToo here … is gonna have to say ’bout me at my graveside.”
The mayor patted his hand. “No need to be talking nonsense like that. Doc said, far as he can tell, all signs are pointing to you still being alive, and as long as you want to stay that way, it won’t change. Besides, might be some laws against us putting you in the ground afore you quit gabbing and cooled off proper.”
The Madman chuckled, then winced.
“That’s all well and good. But there’s some things I don’t need no doctor to tell me. Things I can feel. There’s a tiredness I ain’t got no desire to get rid of. Seems like it seeped right on into my marrow. Make me want to sleep deep. Make it so I truly don’t mind not waking back up. That’s where I’m at.”
He looked right at Mother.
“TooToo, that biggest boy of yourn. What’s his name?”
“He’s right here at the foot of the bed, Uncle Cooter. His name is Benjamin.”
A warmth washed over me as Mother, Father, and the mayor looked at me with just as many questions in their eyes as I had in mine.
The Madman said, “At first, when I knowed what was happening, I wanted to break the necks of him and that little white boy for not letting me just pass quiet in the forest.”
He laughed softly. “I gots to say, though, there ain’t nothing that’ll convince you you’s dead more than coming to and seeing some bright-red little white boy weeping and wailing right on top of you. I think them was the most confused minutes I ever spent in my life.
“After I thought on it whilst laying here, I sees I was wrong, I owes them two. By tracking me down and bringing me here, they give me the chance to get some things straight afore I crosses over.
“Yessir, I ’preciate them boys and what they done. Whilst I was laying out in the woods afore they found me, the only regret I had was that there was some things I shoulda said. There was some folk what I owed thanks to, some friends what needed to be clear on how I feel ’bout ’em. An’ n’em boys give me the chance to do it afore I dies.”
The mayor protested, his voice weak, “Now, listen here, that’s enough talk about –”
The Madman cut him off.
“Please. Please. All I’m asking for is to get some words in and for some last requests to get filled. Can’t you give me that?”
The mayor paused, then said, “Fine, you stubborn hard-head old man. What is it you want?”
The Madman said, “Look, we gotta be honest. Ain’t nothing peaceful ’bout dying … with a hole blowed in your back. I know a restful death in bed at a old age … ain’t what’s been writ for me. But I needs you to say that’s how y’all’s gonna act. Y’all’s got to believe me when I say I’m peaceful.”
He looked at Mother and Father, then me. They nodded, so I did too.
He turned to the mayor, who slowly shook his head.
The Madman said, “TooToo, you gonna have to convince him I’m at peace, I’m at long last at peace.”
He smiled at the mayor.
“Look at him. Old as he is, he still fra-gile. That ain’t never gonna change. He a good man, yessir … he gunn come ’round. And, TooToo, you’s close to the roots; you’s half-blood African. You comes from strength. Even if he don’t wanna do it, I’m-a need you to hold his feet to the fire till he do. Don’t let him mourn too long or hard.”
Mother said, “I’m giving you my word I’ll do that, Uncle Cooter. Just let me know how you want your service conducted.”
“Ooh, child, I don’t want nothing fancy as no service. I just wants a few special folk saying g’bye to ease me over.”
Tears ran down the mayor’s cheeks.
The Madman squeezed his hand. “Don’t cry, my friend. All I wants is for the three of you to say something what will … give me a good introduction to the folk on the other side.”
He lifted his head slightly from the pillow and looked right at me.
“Benjamin?”
I couldn’t help it, I held Father tighter.
Father nudged me.
“Yes, sir?”
“Like I tolt you, I always seent myself in you. In the way you know and respect them woods. Elijah done tolt me how hard you’s working at being a reporter and all and that’s good. You needs to take care your business.”
His head dropped back into the dented pillow.
“You gotta be careful, boy. Life ain’t fair; it ain’t got no conscience ’bout letting one bad choice you make as a child be the thing what colour every waking minute you has thereafter. You gotta remember to treat each moment and each person as precious, treat ’em all with the same respect I seent you treating them woods.”
“Yes, sir.”
He chuckled and winced again and said to Mother, “See how I was right when I said he just like me? I could see them words going in his right ear and whistling out the left! But the boy smarter than me. Who know, maybe it’s gonna stick.”
He looked back at me.
“I wants you to choose where I’s to be put to rest. And to say something ’bout how I loved that forest. Don’t no one else in these parts but you and me know that feeling. I wants you to give my thanks ’bout that. ’Bout the good years it give me. You ain’t got to do it at my graveside. Just go out in the woods. In the sunshine. You gonna know what to do, listen to the forest.”
“I will, sir.”
He pressed his lips to Mother’s hand. Mother wiped at the tears pooling in his eyes.
“TooToo, our future, our hope, you know how special you been to all of us. Ain’t no little girl been loved more than we loved you. I’m so sorry ’bout how things come to pass. I’d-a done more if I coulda, but sometime –”
Mother said, “Hush now. You’ll always be my dear uncle. You’ve never shown me anything but love and I feel the same way about you.”
He said, “Yes, TooToo, I always have. Could you say a word or two ’bout how I didn’t never hurt no one, that … I didn’t even understand what –”
Mother said, “What’s all this, Uncle Cooter? You don’t need to say another word. I’ll celebrate your kind spirit and gentle nature. You let me say what I have to say about you. My heart will lead me to the right words. I’ll tell about how much we prayed you’d get comfortable enough to come back and live with us, about how much we loved you. I only wish you could hear what I and so many other people in Buxton will have to say about you.”
He sighed. “Another coupla things I want. Bury me quick. In a canvas shroud. I don’t want nothing slowing me returning to the woods.
“You got to promise me. TooToo, you won’t let ’em put my corpse to lay staring up at the ceiling of some church, neither. I seent some n’em funerals they calls celebrations, where the body’s propped up there. Maybe it’s just me, but I always found it a little hard to celebrate when one of the folks in the room is dead. Always thought that ain’t no celebration, that’s bee-zarre.”
Mother said, “I promise I’ll take care of all that, Uncle Cooter, don’t you worry. I’m praying there’s no need for it, but I’m going to see you get your wishes. You just rest easy knowing that’s as good as taken care of.”
He turned his head to the mayor. He brought their clasped hands to his cheek. They stayed that way for the longest, before the Madman said, “And you. My oldest friend. I been feeling different for the last coupla years. Been thinking ’bout easing myself back into Buxton.”
The mayor said, “I know, I know.”
“But I played my cards too late; it wasn’t meant to be. ’Bout th
e only thing I feel cheated out of by leaving now is that you and me ain’t gonna have time to talk ’bout our growing up like brothers. We ain’t gonna have no chance to sit and remember.
“I gotta tell you, them memories been the same as friends to me in times when I felt low. Or lonely. Or scairt.”
He chuckled softly. “Which was pretty much all the time. Thank you, my dear brother, thank you for them memories.”
The mayor sobbed, “I coulda done more. I shoulda done more.”
The Madman smiled and said, “Uh-uh, none of that. You’s a old man now; you shoulda got all that fra-gileness out your system long ago.”
“Now, Timothy, Benjamin, Hope …”
For some reason, it was startling to hear him say Mother’s given name.
“… if y’all’ll excuse us, I know this ain’t something he’s looking forward to …” – he cupped the mayor’s chin and lifted his face – “but I’m ’bout to go home … and you and I needs to talk alone, Elijah.”
The mayor looked into his friend’s eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded.
“Yes, Cooter, we do. We waited too long.”
I followed my parents’ lead. We each kissed the Madman’s forehead, then the mayor’s. We closed the door behind us and left the old friends to make their peace and say their good-byes.
* * *
Two hours passed before the mayor opened the bedroom door.
We knew.
He was crying.
He said in a soft voice, “He’s gone.”
Mother stood and wrapped her arms around him. Father joined them and so did I.
Through tears the mayor said, “The only other thing he wants when we bury him … was a baby to be there. Didn’t matter who, just wanted the fresh life of a Buxton babe to be there.”
Father said, “Where you suppose he wanted to be buried, Benji?”
Without thinking, I said, “I know.”
There was a small clearing north of our home where three deer trails crossed. It was a spot ringed by towering oaks, a sixty-foot-round spot where the giant trees had decided not to grow, like they were guarding the circle, like they were waiting. The place had a calmness to it. It was somewhere I’d stretched out and rested before. I’d even fallen asleep there.
The Madman of Piney Woods Page 21