Blind Date at a Funeral

by Trevor Romain

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said quietly, not knowing what the hell else to say.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ he said bluntly. ‘Those memories are like hundreds of screaming ghosts in my head.’ He sighed. ‘I had to do terrible things,’ he began. Then stopped abruptly.

  He sat turning the box over in his hand.

  ‘My people are in Tzaneen, on a farm,’ he said. ‘I made this box for when I go home after I get out of the hospital. Ja. I am going to put all of those bliksemse old memories in this box and bury it in a special place on my oupa’s farm.’

  ‘That’s a good way to put the memories to rest,’ I said, attempting a smile.

  He nodded, still not looking up.

  He continued sanding the box with slow deliberate strokes. We did not speak again.

  A few hours later, the train stopped at the station in Pretoria.

  He grabbed his kit and got up. He turned on his way out and gave me a grim nod. I lifted my hand in recognition.

  I watched him as he slowly made his way along the platform to the exit.

  I was startled by the shrill sound of the conductor’s whistle.

  Some doves on the rafters above us were startled too, and they took off in a flutter of wings. I saw the Recce hesitate and watch a small white dove feather spiral lazily down through the sunbeams onto the platform.

  He bent down and picked up the feather. He gazed at it for a second, reflecting, and then put it in the box.

  And then he was gone.

  A Map of Heaven

  (Soundtrack: ‘Angel’ by Sarah McLachlan)

  ‘Brakes, brakes!’ he yelled.

  Oh my God!

  I jammed on the brakes and we came to a screeching, dust-swirling stop, right in front of a huge ant heap.

  I got such a fright I almost swerved into the mielie field.

  My grandpa leaned over and gently klapped me on the back of my head. ‘Avoid ant heaps,’ he said. ‘Now, carry on driving.’

  I was about fifteen years old and my grandpa was teaching me to drive on his farm near Vredefort in the Free State. The car was a huge grey Chevy with a full seat in the front. It was a tank and I could hardly see over the bloody dashboard.

  Every time we went to the farm, my grandpa took me driving in that grey bumbershoot of a car. And every time I hit a bump or came too close to an ant heap or was about to run over a chicken, he gave me a klap on the back of my head.

  ‘Avoid the chickens,’ he said. ‘Now, carry on driving.’

  One time I was so distracted by a bunch of meerkats sitting on an ant heap and laughing at me when I drove past them that I almost drove into the river.

  Klap.

  ‘Avoid the river,’ he said. ‘Now, carry on driving.’

  My grandpa was amazing. I often watched him giving the calves their injections. I couldn’t believe how strong he was. He just flipped the little calves over and zip-zip zap-zap, he gave them their shots, all the time speaking so nicely and sweetly to them. ‘It’s okay, my girlie,’ he’d say to the lowing little calf as he injected her. Then he would carefully massage the spot where he had injected the animal and set her back on her feet, waiting patiently as she steadied herself.

  A number of years ago, when I began my stint as a board member and subsequent board president of the American Childhood Cancer Organization, I started visiting kids at the cancer hospital in Austin, Texas, where I now live.

  At that time, I was known as the Doctor of Mischief. I spent hours and hours at the hospital, driving the kids crazy with jokes and stories and cartoon drawings.

  One day, I was visiting a young guy named Victor, who was about ten years old. He was putting up a hell of a fight after a harrowing bonemarrow transplant. We were drawing together in his hospital room when he suddenly turned to me and said, ‘What’s going to happen to me when I die?’

  Before I could say a word, his mom ran over to the bed and said, ‘You are not going to die, damn it! I told you.’

  Behind his mother’s back, the kid looked at me, shrugged, pulled a tongue and flashed a broad smile. He was a naughty little shit, I swear.

  A short while later, his mom left the room and I said to him, ‘You know, buddy, we’re all going to die one day?’

  ‘I know,’ he said, interrupting me. ‘She thinks I’m stupid. I know what’s going on. Hey, do you think there’s … like … a heaven up there?’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said, taken aback by his question.

  ‘Do you think they give you a map when you get there?’ he said.

  ‘Huh?’ I said.

  ‘The place must be huge,’ he said. ‘How do you know where to go?’

  I laughed so hard I almost sprayed the coffee I was drinking out of my nose.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said. ‘If you die from this disease, while you’re still a kid, ask for my grandpa when you get up there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, laughing.

  I told him all about my late grandpa and what a wonderful, caring man he was and hopefully still is. I told him all about my driving on the farm and the ant heaps and how my grandpa would klap me upside the head. He laughed at all the stories I told about my grandpa.

  ‘Look for him when you get to heaven. He’ll get you checked in and get you a great room,’ I said.

  ‘But how will I find him?’ he asked. ‘There must be, like, millions of people up there.’

  I thought for a moment and then pictured my grandfather. In my mind I saw his face as clear as daylight.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, and I drew a quick picture of my grandpa in my journal. I tore out the page and gave it to him.

  ‘His name is Teddy Tanchel,’ I said. ‘Memorise that picture.’

  He looked at the drawing of my grandpa and said, ‘He looks real nice.’

  ‘Oh, he is the best,’ I said, putting my hand on my heart. ‘You’ll see.’

  The next time I came to visit Victor, the picture of my grandfather was up on the cork pinning board in his room next to all his get-well cards.

  When I teased him, as I often did, he would point threateningly to the picture of my grandfather and tell me he was going to tell my grandpa about it when he saw him.

  I’m very sad to say that cancer won the battle and Victor died about five months later.

  His mom asked me to deliver the eulogy at his funeral. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life.

  I arrived, only to discover that it was an open-casket ceremony. I had never seen a child in a coffin before and I did not want to see him like that. I avoided the casket and went into the church.

  They wheeled the coffin into the church and put it next to the pulpit. Open!

  The priest delivered his sermon and then called me up to do the eulogy. I did a humorous memorial based on Victor’s wicked sense of humour. I wanted to celebrate his life instead of mourning his death.

  We all laughed so hard and I managed not to look at the coffin the whole time.

  As I finished my speech I pointed to the coffin and said, ‘As he was dying, that little boy taught me so much about living …’ As I spoke, I accidentally glanced at the coffin.

  And I’m so glad I did.

  Victor was lying there with his hands resting on his chest. He looked so comfortable and at peace. He was dressed in a black tuxedo with a red bow tie. His head was bald from the chemotherapy. He had such a sweet, innocent, peaceful look on his face.

  In his coffin, surrounding his body, were all his childhood toys and a sea of flowers. His train set was in there. Also his baseball glove, hundreds of Legos and his blankie from when he was a baby.

  I smiled and mouthed goodbye to him as I walked past the coffin on the way back to my seat.

  And that’s when I saw the picture of my grandfather. He was holding it in his hand.

  Catch of the Day

  (Soundtrack: ‘Old Man’ by Neil Young)

  I was about six years old. My father took me fishing on the Vaal River near
my grandfather’s farm. It was spring and the leaves on the trees were a million shades of fresh green. We found a perfect spot under some willow trees on the riverbank.

  I snooped around the immediate area while my father set up. When I got back from my exploring I found everything ready. Two folding chairs were set up facing the lake. Two fishing rods were loaded and ready to go.

  My father cast my line for me and rested the fishing pole on a Y-shaped twig he’d cut from one of the trees. ‘Now don’t take your eye off that pole,’ he said. ‘The minute it moves, you grab it and jerk it like I showed you.’

  He threw in his own line and rested it on another Y-shaped stick. Then he opened the newspaper and settled back into his chair. Within thirteen seconds I was bored. I drew patterns on the sand around the chair with my shoes. Then I leaned far back on my chair and tried to see if I could see any stars in the deep-blue sky. I knew the stars were there somewhere. Suddenly I lost my balance and began falling backwards. I flailed with my arms, trying to keep my balance. It seemed to take forever. I hit the ground hard and winded myself. For a second I couldn’t move. I’m paralysed, I thought.

  I looked at my dad, hoping he’d rush over and comfort me, tell me it was all right and that he’d love me even though I was handicapped. And he’d give me things to prove it. But he didn’t move.

  He lowered his newspaper slowly. ‘Boytjie, you’ve got to be very quiet when you’re fishing,’ he said.

  Before he could lift the newspaper again, my line jerked so hard that it pulled the pole right off the stick and almost into the water. My father jumped up and grabbed the line. My back healed instantly and thanks to the marvels of nature, I was no longer a paraplegic. My father grabbed me by the collar and pulled me over towards him. ‘Here, reel it in,’ he said, excitedly. ‘It’s your first fish.’

  I was scared and elated. I grabbed the pole and clumsily reeled in the line. The line got tighter and tighter until it was almost impossible to reel any more. Then I jerked the pole back and suddenly the line gave. I thought I’d lost the fish, but I’d actually pulled it right out of the water. It landed at my feet, flipping and jumping as it gasped for air. I was horrified.

  ‘Good boy!’ yelled my father. ‘Now put your foot on it and let’s get rid of the hook.’

  The fish looked at me. I knew it was scared. I raised my foot and placed it gently on the fish’s body. The fish jerked away, then suddenly jumped towards me. I screamed and ran. My father grabbed the fish and brought it over to me. It was squirming in his hand. Mouth gaping. The hook had ripped through the inside of the fish’s mouth and was sticking out of its cheek. I took two steps back.

  ‘Let me show you,’ said my father, ripping the hook out of the fish’s mouth. My stomach turned. I wanted to be sick.

  He threw the fish into the ice chest and quickly closed the lid. ‘Well done,’ he said, sitting down and picking up the paper.

  My father smiled, but not his normal smile – this one was made up for me.

  He caught two more fish. One on his line and one on mine, which I refused to reel in.

  Soon after he caught the last fish, we packed up and got ready to go home. Before we left, nature called and my father disappeared into the bushes for a few minutes.

  Wanting to take another look at the fish, I opened the chest and peeked in. All three fish were lying on the bottom, their silver scales glinting in the late afternoon sun. I closed the chest and sat on it. I gazed out at the river. It was a crimson-tinted mirror in the setting sun. It was hard to believe that hundreds of fish were swimming around under that mirror. I wondered if our fish had brothers or sisters.

  I stood up, opened the chest again, grabbed one of the fish and ran down to the water’s edge. I threw the fish as far as I possibly could. I watched it tumble through the air and shatter the river as it broke the surface. Then I ran back, grabbed the other two fish and threw them into the water too.

  ‘What was that?’ said my father as he pushed through the bushes. I looked at the river without answering. He followed my gaze, his eyes finally resting on the three fish floating on the surface.

  He didn’t say anything.

  He picked up the chairs and fishing rods and walked towards the car. ‘Do me a favour, my boy,’ he said, over his shoulder, ‘please go and rinse the chest in the river.’

  I took the chest down to the water. I dipped it into the river and scooped up some water. I stood up. The fish were still floating on the surface. I picked up the chest and ran back up the bank towards my father. Just before we got to the trees, I turned and took one more look at the river.

  A sudden movement caught my eye. There was a ripple around the fish. I held my breath. Slowly, one of the fish rolled over and with a lazy flap of its fin disappeared under the surface. Within a few seconds the other fish followed. Then the ripples were gone and the lake became a mirror again.

  My dad came up behind me and rested his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘You okay?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied, on the verge of tears. ‘I kind of feel bad.’

  ‘Feel bad for those fish, huh?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I feel bad about disappointing you, Dad.’

  ‘Ag shame, boytjie. You didn’t disappoint me,’ he said, ruffling my hair. ‘I’m not that crazy about fishing myself. I actually hate taking the hook out of the fish’s mouth. Ugh.’

  ‘Ugh,’ I repeated.

  He put his arm around me and we walked back to the car together.

  Emotional Constipation

  (Soundtrack: ‘Breaking Up Is Hard to Do’ by Neil Sedaka)

  I was eighteen years old at the time. It was a rainy night and I broke up with her right outside Charlie C’s steakhouse in Orange Grove.

  I told her I wanted to do my compulsory army stint without having to worry about someone at home. To be honest, I was such a coward. I didn’t have the guts to tell her that even though she was really pretty, I did not seem to connect with her on a heart level. My dad said I was suffering from Emotional Constipation. I did not know what he meant. I still don’t.

  I really liked her though. I remember the hours I spent watching her sun­ bathing from next door, through the small window in my friend’s basement.

  She’d be sitting on her beach towel on the back lawn, listening to LM Radio on her transistor wireless.

  The window was high up and we’d jump and pull ourselves up to it. I’d almost die as I clung to the windowsill, watching her rub suntan oil on her legs. I’d watch until my knuckles turned white and I just couldn’t hold on any more. Then I’d drop to the basement floor, swing my arms around until the circulation returned, and then pull myself up to the window again.

  I really liked her. It took ages for me to talk her into going to a movie with me.

  It must have been the thrill of the chase, because after dating for a few months, I broke up with her.

  Just like that!

  Love is a strange thing. I think I was more in love with the idea of being in love than feeling actual love itself.

  She moved away a few months after that and I eventually moved to the United States.

  I never saw her again.

  Not until a visit to South Africa twenty-nine years later.

  It was a Sunday morning and I was having coffee just down the road from where I’d ditched her. I recognised her immediately. She was the same. Just older.

  My stomach tightened and I got a little light-headed. Just like I used to at the basement window. I kept my head down in case she recognised me.

  I sneaked a look around for the waiter. I needed my bill. Time to get out of there. I was embarrassed. I actually felt bad about what I had done.

  She folded her newspaper.

  I dropped my head even lower.

  She stood up and slowly put on her coat. Too slowly. Then she picked up her purse.

  I studied the foam in the bottom of my mug.

  She paid the waitress. Then
she headed towards the door. And me.

  I peered even closer at the foam in the bottom of my cup. I wondered if you could read foam like some people read tea leaves.

  Her legs appeared in the top left-hand corner of my field of vision and disappeared as she walked by.

  I closed my eyes. Waited for a few seconds in my own darkness. Then opened them again.

  Oh crap. The shoes were back.

  I looked up.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ she said, smiling, as though I had never broken her heart.

  I braced myself for the onslaught.

  ‘My God, you haven’t changed a bit,’ she said, still smiling. ‘I can’t believe it’s you. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Ag, I’m doing lekker,’ I said. ‘I can’t complain. I live in the United States now. In Austin, Texas.’

  ‘I heard,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been away for quite a long time.’

  She smiled.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ I asked.

  ‘I own a little shop in Malvern,’ she said. ‘Antiques. You know. That kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘I’m still writing silly little stories,’ I said.

  ‘Ja, I know. I’ve read some of the stories you’ve posted.’

  She sat down, reached out and took my hand. I was in luck. She had a wedding ring on and apparently she’d forgotten what an a-hole I had been.

  I smiled. Sat back in my seat and shook my head. My ego peeked out from behind my brain and was about to make itself available for stroking when she hesitated and cocked her head.

  My heart stopped.

  A cocked head, that slight tilt to the left. That’s always a bad sign in my books. She was going to let me have it. I just knew it.

  My ego scuttled back into the darkness, leaving me to face the music alone.

  ‘I’m cross with you,’ she said, looking me dead in the eye.

  I shrugged my shoulders. There was nothing else to do. I was guilty.

  ‘The girl in that story,’ she said. ‘The one you ditched outside Charlie C’s. That was me, right?’