(1993) The Stone Diaries

by Carol Shields

  This is not how she imagined her middle years, but this is the way it will be.

  Something has occurred to her—something transparently simple, something she’s always known, it seems, but never articulated. Which is that the moment of death occurs while we’re still alive. Life marches right up to the wall of that final darkness, one extreme state of being butting against the other. Not even a breath separates them. Not even a blink of the eye. A person can go on and on tuned in to the daily music of food and work and weather and speech right up to the last minute, so that not a single thing gets lost.

  She is surprisingly heartened by this thought, and can’t help telling her mother how she feels.

  Her mother, Daisy Goodwill, is still alive inside her failing body. Up and down, good days, bad days. She’s doing as well as can be expected, that’s what everyone keeps saying. She could go on like this for years.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Death

  DAISY (GOODWILL) FLETT Peacefully, on —, in the month of — in the year 199— at Canary Palms Rest Home, Sarasota, Florida, after a long illness patiently borne.

  "Grandma" Flett was predeceased by her husband, Barker Flett, a respected Canadian authority on hybrid grains. She leaves to mourn her daughter Alice Goodwill-Spanner of Hampstead, England, daughter Joan and spouse Ross Taylor of Portland, Oregon, son Warren and wife Peggy of New York City, and grandniece Victoria and spouse Lewis Roy of Toronto. She was the adored grandmother of Benjamin, Judith, Rachel, Rain, Teller, Beth, Lissa, Jilly, and Emma (?), as well as the loving great-grandmother of Madeleine, Andrew, and Mordicai, and the great-aunt of twins Sophie and Hugh.

  A memorial service will be held at Canary Palms Chapel, 10:00. Flowers gratefully declined. Interment will follow at Long Key Cemetery.

  Flowers gratefully accepted in remembrance of DAISY GOODWILL FLETT who embraced as well as she was able most growing things gardens children balloons of memory though she feared greatly the encircling shadow of solitude and silence which she came to equate with her own life Daisy Daisy Give me your answer true Day’s eye, day’s eye The face in the mirror is you

  "It was in her bedside drawer. This little velvet box."

  "What is it? It looks like—"

  "That’s what it is. Fingernail clippings. Hers, I assume."

  "Christ."

  Flett, Daisy (née Goodwill), who, due to historical accident, due to carelessness, due to ignorance, due to lack of opportunity and courage, never once in her many years of life experienced the excitement and challenge of oil painting, skiing, sailing, nude bathing, emerald jewelry, cigarettes, oral sex, pierced ears, Swedish clogs, water beds, science fiction, pornographic movies, religious ecstasy, truffles, Kirsch, jalepeño peppers, Peking duck, Vienna, Moscow, Madrid, group therapy, body massage, hunger, distinguished honors, outraged condemnation, who never drove a car, never bought a lottery ticket, never, never (on the other hand)

  was struck on the face or body by another being, never once perched her reading glasses (with a sigh) in the crown of her hair, never (for fear of ridicule) investigated the possibilities of plastic surgery or yoga, never gave herself over to the kind of magazine article that tells you to be good to yourself, to believe in yourself and do things for yourself. Nor, though she knew she had been loved in her life, did she ever hear the words "I love you, Daisy" uttered aloud (such a simple phrase), and only during the long, thin, uneventful sleep that preceded her death did she have the wit (and leisure) to ponder the injustice of this.

  "A blessing," exclaims the noted Chekhov scholar Alice Goodwill Spanner when informed of her mother’s death.

  "My mother’s quality of life had been hovering at sub-zero for some time," remarks Warren Flett, musicologist for the Lower Manhattan Public Schools.

  "She was worn out," announces Joan Taylor, the unemployed soon-to-turn-fifty youngest daughter of the Flett family. "Her life wore her out and then her death wore her out."

  "She told me she was ready to go any time," murmurs the award-winning paleobotanist Victoria Louise Flett-Roy. "But is anyone ever really ready?"

  "She had this crazy kind of adjustable intelligence. She could hoist it into view when she wanted to."

  "Egregious. I heard her say that word once, egregious! It just rolled off her tongue."

  "And holy smokes. She used to say holy smokes."

  "Really?"

  "And like sometimes she wasn’t quite there. Knock, knock, anyone home?"

  "Those clothes! She had this way of dressing so no one knew if she spent too little money or too much. Or if she was four years behind her fashion moment or twenty-four years."

  "Ha."

  "She was evasive."

  "Yes, but evasion can be a form of aggression."

  "Come again?"

  "You heard me."

  Bluebirds, Pioneer Girls in Service, GSA, Tudorettes, History Circle, Christian Endeavor, Alpha Zeta, Quarry Club, United Church Women, Mothers’ Union, The Arrowroots, Mutchmor Home and School Association, Ottawa Horticultural Society, Beautiful Glebe Committee, Carleton County Heart Fund, Rideau Luncheon Series, Ontario Seed Collective, Bay Ladies Craft Group, The Flowers.

  "No definitely, I do not want to have any of her body parts donated."

  "It was just a thought."

  "Everything about her was worn out anyway."

  "I just thought—"

  In Laving Memory of Daisy Goodwill Flett 1905–199—In Loving Memory of Daisy Goodwill Who in Sound Mind And without malice And Over the Objection of her Family Made the Decision After Prolonged Reflection After Torment With Misgivings With Difficulty With Apologies With Determination To Lie Alone in Death

  "She left you what?" Joan shouted over the telephone. (A bad transatlantic connection.)

  "Her trug," said Alice, grimacing.

  "What in God’s name is a trug?"

  "That old gardening basket of hers. That old mildewed thing with the huge hooped handle?"

  "I think I remember. Vaguely. But why?"

  "I don’t know. Same reason you got the silver asparagus server, I suppose."

  "Lordy."

  "And you know what Warren got."

  "No. What?"

  "Her old notes from college. And her essays. All hand-written.

  Pages and pages. A big cardboard carton of them."

  "She really kind of lost it at the end, didn’t she?"

  "Maybe just a joke?"

  "She wasn’t exactly one for jokes."

  "I don’t know about that."

  "Victoria has the lady’s-slippers."

  "Gawd, what’ll she do with those old things?"

  "She wanted them. At least she said she did."

  "Well everything else is in order. Her assets, and so on."

  "We can thank her accountant for that."

  "And her lawyer. Although he seems to have dipped in pretty deep himself."

  "What about Canary Palms!"

  "Oh boy!"

  "I feel guilty even talking about this. Even thinking about it."

  "So do I."

  "But I suppose everyone feels this way."

  "Of course they do."

  "So what can we do?"

  "Not one little thing."

  Seventy-four percent of American households spent at least a thousand dollars to improve or maintain their dwellings this year.

  It was on the radio, the news—or else I dreamed it. Tell me, why do I need to know such a thing? Is the mind sweetened by this useless pellet of knowledge? No. Not when you’re already at the stuffed, blunted end of life.

  Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?

  The Bridal Lingerie of Daisy Goodwill Hood, 1927

  2 three-piece bridal sets of crêpe-de-chine and Valenciennes lace with fine hand embroidery and drawn work, shell pink, ivory 12 slips 12 two-piece French sets, chemise and step-ins, peach, cream, blue, tea 6 night gowns 6 negligees, georgette and chantilly lace 2 robes, 1 wool tartan, 1 corded cotton 6 "Flaming Youth" brassier
es "Pansy" brassieres of silk jersey and mercerized cotton 3 camisoles in pink jap silk 2 Gossard Dancelette girdles of silk jersey with elastic side insets 12 pairs silk stockings 12 pairs cotton stockings 3 beach pajama suits, orange satin, copen blue, ochre 6 kimonos, black, blue, red granite, rose, peach, and mauve 2 Kellerman bathing suits (all wool), black, copen 1 knitted beach cape 1 bathing cap 6 aprons, assorted styles "I never knew she could embroider."

  "This is beautiful."

  "Are you sure she did it?"

  "There’s this tiny little daisy in the right-hand corner."

  "You’re right, there is."

  "A signature, sort of like."

  "Hey!"

  "The nurses were always saying how good-natured she was, a smile for everyone."

  "Except that time she broke her radio. Threw it on the floor."

  "It could have been an accident."

  "True."

  "What I can’t figure out is why she never told us about this first marriage of hers."

  "She must have known we’d find out after she was gone. I mean, the papers are all there. The marriage license and the report and everything."

  "Hoad! His name was Hoad."

  "Harold Hoad."

  "Rhymes with toad. Give me strength."

  "But look at that picture, will you. He was—he looks like a movie star, silent movies I’m talking about. Gorgeous."

  "But why weren’t we told?"

  "Think about it. How could she talk about anything so—so perfectly awful."

  "I don’t get it. Was she embarrassed about it or what?"

  "This beautiful man fell out of a window. Her lover. Her brand new husband. Think if that happened to you. Would you want to talk about it?"

  "Probably she was just so, you know, broken up by it, she couldn’t bear to think about it, never mind talk about it. Imagine being on your honeymoon and—"

  "And at her age."

  "Repression. Sometimes repression’s a good thing. How else was she going to continue with her—?"

  "He looks handsomer than Dad."

  "And younger."

  "By a long shot."

  "Surely Dad must have known about—about him."

  "He must have. I mean, she may have been secretive, but—"

  "It gives me—"

  "What?"

  "Goose bumps."

  "What does? Thinking of Mr. Hoad falling on his head?"

  "No. Thinking of her. Her. All those years."

  "All those years—saying nothing."

  "She must have been reminded every year, on the anniversary of his—"

  "Remember how sometimes she’d just want to lie down on her bed in the middle of the day. Not sleeping, she’d just lie there looking at the ceiling."

  "Keeping it all in her head. Remembering."

  "I know."

  "Oh, God."

  Garden Club Luncheon, 1951

  Ham Rolls / Cheese Pinwheels Mixed Pickles Melon Balls and Seedless Grape Salad Jelly Tarts Assorted Cookies Coffee Tea

  I’m still here, inside the (powdery, splintery) bones, ankles, the sockets of my eyes, shoulder, hip, teeth, I’m still here, oh, oh.

  "If she’d lived in another age she might have been Ms. Green Thumb with her own TV show."

  "Prime time."

  "Somehow I can’t imagine it."

  "This mean old sentimental century. It smothered her. Like a curtain. The kind you can’t see through."

  "She could have divorced Dad."

  "For starters."

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "Why would you think that? I mean, the two of them were reasonably happy together, all things considered."

  "You honestly think so?"

  "Well, as happy as most."

  "Whatever happy means."

  "Tell me about it."

  "All I know is, the past is never past."

  "Is that supposed to be profound?"

  "Hmmmmm."

  Aunt Daisy’s Lemon Pudding 4 tbs butter 1 cup milk 1 cup white sugar 2 tbs flour 2 eggs separated juice and rind of 1 lemon Cream butter and sugar, add egg yolks beaten until thick and lemoncolored, stir in flour and milk, lemon juice and grated lemon rind. Beat egg whites until stiff but not dry. Fold egg whites into mixture. Bake twenty-five minutes in buttered baking dish set in pan of hot water.

  Moderate oven, 350 degrees.

  "Do you think her life would have been different if she’d been a man?"

  "Are you kidding!"

  "Just look at this bedjacket."

  "Looks brand new. Never worn, I’d guess."

  For Tuesday—1 can condensed milk 1 bunch celery carrots onions 1 pound butter 1 pound lard matches soap flakes 2 cans corned beef pork chops Phone Mr. M.

  new beater for Mixmaster Warren’s teeth post office drugstore, cough syrup, Box K juniper Now there’s a woman who made a terrific meatloaf, who knew how to repot a drooping rubber plant, who bid a smart no-trump hand, who wore a hat well, who looked after her personal hygiene, who wrote her thank-you notes promptly, who kept up, who went down, went down and down and down, who missed the point, the point of it all, but was, nevertheless, almost unfailingly courteous to others.

  "Remember Jay Dudley?"

  "Who?"

  "You know, that nerd who worked on the Ottawa Recorder. Jay Dudley his name was."

  "Oh, sure, I remember. Hand-woven neckties? Ceramic cufflinks?"

  "Do you think they ever, the two of them, do you think they ever—got together?"

  "Naw."

  "Too bad."

  Black Beauty, Anne of Green Gables, Freckles, Twice Told Tales, Beautiful Joe, Mill on the Floss, Pocahontas, Elizabeth and Her German Garden, Helen’s Babies, Our Mutual Friend, Nellie’s Memories, Jane Eyre, The Unification of Italy, Beowulf, The Romantic Poets, In His Steps, Wild Geese, Gone With the Wind, Claudia, The First Six Years, Grapes of Wrath, Forever Amber, The Egg and I, Cheaper by the Dozen, Lust for Life, The Web and the Rock, The Skutari Saga, A Brief History of the Orkney Isles, Chekhov’s Daughter, The Edible Woman, The Good Earth (large print edition), Murder in the Meantime (large print edition, half finished).

  "What do you mean you don’t think anyone’s ever ready?"

  "Christ, I’m ready right this minute."

  "That’s because you’re feeling depressed about not having a job. You’re not really ready at all. And I’ll bet you she wasn’t either."

  "I don’t know."

  "Did you ever get a chance to talk to her about, you know—"

  "Death? You couldn’t talk to her about things like that."

  "She’d change the subject."

  "She’d put on the baffled schoolgirl look."

  "Blink her eyes."

  "Her mouth in a little round circle."

  "Her eyebrows."

  "When it comes right down to it, I freeze, too, at the thought of dying."

  "It runs in the family."

  "Our genes are pure granite."

  "Little pellets."

  "Hailstones."

  "I do remember that once she said she liked pansies at a funeral. Not those dumb pansies with faces. What she liked were the absolutely pure purple ones, those deep, deep velvety petals.

  That’s the only thing I can remember her saying apropos to death."

  "She just let her life happen to her."

  "Well, why the hell not?"

  "It was like—"

  "Like?"

  "Like she was always going after some stray little thought with a needle and thread."

  "Afraid to look inside herself. In case there was nothing there."

  "Isn’t that what Buddhists try so hard to get to?"

  "The Buddhists?"

  "Wanting to arrive at a state of nothingness?"

  "Really?"

  "What an awful thought."

  "Why?"

  "I don’t know. I mean, nothing isn’t, you know, much."

  "Nothing’s nothing."

  "Amen."

/>   Must Do’s—Long Term summer curtains furs in storage touch up back steps, fence re-block wintry hats lavender—restock spray porch furniture Stretch?

  Behind stove, under ice box cheque for Mr. M.

  gas moth balls magazines to thrift shop furnace piano poison lamp fixtures Colic, chicken pox, measles, bronchial pneumonia, allergies, influenza, menstrual cramps, eczema, cystitis, childbirth, blood pressure, menopause, depression, angina, blocked arteries, broken bones, coronary bypass, kidney failure, cancer, bladder infection, stroke, bed sores, ulcerated leg, incontinence, stroke, memory loss, failing eyesight, inappropriate response, speech deficiency, depression, stroke, stroke.

  Daisy Goodwill, in her final illness, the illness she is reputed to have borne with such patience, was left with only her death to contemplate—and she approached it with all the concerted weakness and failure of her body. Somewhere in the course of those final dreaming weeks, there had occurred a shifting of the tide. It arrived suddenly during one of her frequent comatose periods.

  She entered sleep, as through a tunnel, still groping in the past, breathing in like a species of inferior oxygen the real and imagined episodes of her life, and then a kind of exhaustion took over, or perhaps boredom—in any case a rapid fading of color and of line, and a failure of the mechanism that had previously called up the earlier scenes. What pressed on her eyelids, instead, was a series of mutable transparencies gesturing not backward in time but forward—forward toward her own death. You might say that she breathed it into existence, then fell in love with it.

  Her initial vision was theatrical, the usual pastel coffin, droning scripture, and shuddering pipe organ—all the stirred confetti of grief floating loose in a vividly inhabited room, loud with trashy weeping and tribute. But this was preposterous.

  The brilliant room collapses, leaving a solid block of darkness.

  Only her body survives, and the problem of what to do with it. It has not turned to dust. A bright, droll, clarifying knowledge comes over her at the thought of her limbs and organs transformed to biblical dust or even funereal ashes. Laughable.

  Stone is how she finally sees herself, her living cells replaced by the insentience of mineral deposition. It’s easy enough to let it claim her. She lies, in her last dreams, flat on her back on a thick slab, as hugely imposing as the bishops and saints she’d seen years earlier in the great pink cathedral of Kirkwall. It wasn’t good enough for them, and it isn’t for her either, but the image is, at the very least, contained; she loves it, in fact, and feels herself merge with, and become, finally, the still body of her dead mother.