Most Anything You Please
Page 35
—No change since yesterday. We gave her a little shot of morphine for the pain, when we were washing and changing her this morning, she seemed a little uncomfortable.
Something for the pain. Does it even matter who comes to visit? Can she hear, or sense, anyone nearby? Audrey left an hour ago; Aunt Marilyn is coming in later. Between us all, Nanny Ellen hasn’t been alone since the stroke on Monday that left her unable to speak clearly or swallow.
I pull my chair in closer to the bed, take her thin hand. Such a cliché, to say that an old woman’s scrawny hand is claw-like, but that’s how it feels, all bone. Everything stripped bare. She’s like that all over, such a tiny little woman, even the white hair covering her scalp looking superfluous now. It’s all bone underneath, really, and the closer she comes to death the more clearly you can see that.
I only sing to her if no-one else is here. Weird. It’s not like I’m embarrassed; singing is what I do for a living, after all. But there’s a strange intimacy to it that makes it completely different from singing on a stage in front of a few hundred people.
I dig back deep in memory for the songs she sang when I was little. Nanny Audrey used to have the radio or records on most of the time, but in the spaces between, Nanny Ellen would sing hymns. Those were my lullabies, hymns from hymnbooks so old even the churches don’t use them anymore.
Someone will enter the pearly gates
By and by, by and by,
Taste of the glories that there await,
Shall you? Shall I?
Shall you? Shall I?
If you’d asked me at gunpoint, I don’t think I would have been able to recall the words of that hymn, but now, as I’m singing, one line follows the other.
A haunting tune and old, old words. As old as Nanny Ellen, probably. She is ninety-five, dying on the cusp of a new century, having lived through almost every year of the old one.
Now that I’m singing them over and over, the words of this hymn are actually kind of weird. Such confidence in the existence of heaven, pearly gates, streets of gold, and whatever. But so unsure about who’s going to end up there. Shall you? OK, well, you might not be certain about whether anyone else will make it to heaven. Where will you spend eternity, and all that. But why the Shall I? Shouldn’t you know, if you’re among the faithful, that those pearly gates will swing open for you?
***
Someone will gladly his cross lay down
By and by, by and by
Faithful approved shall receive a crown…
Lay this down, now. It’s getting heavy, carting it around all day.
The cart has Holloway’s painted on the side. Pulling it up Rankin Street, full of potato sacks. It’s heavy, after so long, and it must be nearly tea-time.
Johnny rides on top of the bags. He’ll be big enough to pull it someday. Will he? I want to lay it down now. He’s getting heavy. It’s getting heavy. Go inside and put my feet up. I’ve been all day behind this counter.
They brought Johnny to me the other day. He was small again, I could hold him in my lap like I used to. All wrapped in a blanket. I kissed the top of his little head. Another redhead, like my Wes when he was young.
Singing hymns in Sunday night meeting. Someone will enter the pearly gates. Over the edge of the hymnbook I see that redheaded boy, Wes Holloway, looking back at me, brazen as brass. Mother says don’t encourage him. He waits after church to walk me home.
***
The round skull so clearly visible beneath Nanny’s white wisps of hair, under the shining fragile skin. All bone underneath, and after this…what? Pearly gates? What would she say if I could ask her now—Shall you enter the pearly gates? Shall I?
—I shall, but I’m not so sure about you, Rachel.
But no, she wouldn’t say that. It wasn’t her way to be harsh in her judgement. She prayed and worried over all her wandering children, but she never condemned.
Ellen’s breaths are shallow, dry and fast. She could die any minute now. I ought to call one of the grown-ups: Audrey, or Aunt Treese. I’m thirty-four years old, I’m a mother myself now, and there’s still some little part of me looking for a grown-up to take care of things. Will it always be this way?
Each breath so light, it’s hard to guess when the last one might be. I switch to a different tune, another half-remembered hymn. Still leaning in to try to get close enough to Ellen’s ear, though there’s no hint that she can hear.
One thing to be grateful for: I brought John Henry in a few weeks ago, when she was still well enough to see him and smile. I held him in her lap, and she put her lips against his little head, his little wisps of ginger hair. He was a month old.
It was Larry’s idea to call him John Henry. His father’s name, my father’s name, and a song title to boot. It was perfect. I told Nanny Ellen the name and she repeated it with an approving nod.
—John. Johnny. She said it over and over, sounded so happy.
—She likes it because it’s a good, old-fashioned name, I told Larry. Melissa’s children are called Braedyn and Maddyson. She loves them but she never knew what to make of the names.
That moment, her kissing the baby’s head, comes back again as I kiss her wispy white hair. I see how alike they are: skin light as onion-skin paper over the bone beneath, though John Henry’s skin is like smooth silk and Nanny Ellen’s is creased with a thousand wrinkles.
They’re the same because neither of them can talk, each is full of experience, past or future, that they can’t put into words. I hold John Henry and I think, All of life, folded up inside that little head, waiting to unfold. Everything he’ll ever do—first argument, first day at school, first kiss, first heartbreak.
And it’s the same here, the same and the opposite. All her life lived already. Love and marriage, children born and dying, a corner shop, a day’s work, prayers and tears. Folded away, tucked back inside where she can never speak about it again. All of life, folded up and put away so small.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
John Newton, “Amazing Grace” (1779). Hank Williams, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” (MGM, 1949). Willie Nelson, “Crazy” (1961) performed by Patsy Cline on Showcase (Decca, 1961). G.W. Hunt, “Old Brown’s Daughter” (circa 1878). Bob Willis and His Playboys, “New San Antonio Rose” (Okeh, 1940). Jerry Leiber and Mark Stoller, “Hound Dog” (1952) performed by Elvis Presley (RCA, 1956). Bobby Newcomb, “Sweet Forget Me Not” (1877). Merle Haggard, “Mama Tried,” from Mama Tried (Capitol, 1968). Marty Robbins, “El Paso” from Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs (Columbia, 1959). Mark Walker, “The Star of Logy Bay” (circa 1900). James McGranahan, “Shall You? Shall I?” (1887).
Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologizes for any errors or omissions in the above list and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I grew up in, and still live in, Rabbittown, the network of rabbit-warren-like streets in the centre of St. John’s where this novel takes place (yes, I’ve heard all three of the explanations Audrey gives Doris for the name of the neighbourhood, and I believe all three are equally likely to be correct). Over the years, I’ve discussed with many friends the fact that, when we were growing up in the 1970s, there was a family-owned convenience store on every corner, most of which have since disappeared. Most Anything You Please is the novel that grew out of those memories and conversations.
The Holloway family in this book is engaged in two pursuits I’ve never followed, but have been an enthusiastic consumer of: running a corner shop and making music. Many thanks to all the friends and readers who shared with me their memories of owning, working in, or shopping at corner stores, both in St. John’s and in other places. Thanks also to Chris Dreidzic and Paul Kinsman for a
nswering some questions and checking details about the local music scene and the business of performing. For answering my questions about Frankie Junior’s contribution to the family business, I am grateful to Inspector Paul Woodruff and Superintendent Marlene Jesso of the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary.
If you’re as obsessive a fan of Hank Williams, Senior, as Audrey is, you’ll note that Audrey hears Hank performing “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” at the Hayride in August 1948, more than a year before he released the song. I allowed myself this small historical inaccuracy on the grounds that it’s possible a musician might choose to perform a song live before recording it, though there’s no record that Hank did perform this song at that time, and I think it’s unlikely he did. I hope readers will allow me a little leeway with history here. And while I’m talking about Hank Williams, I’d like to take a moment to thank the person who uploaded the entire audio recording of his funeral to YouTube. The Internet age is truly a wonderful time to be writing historical fiction.
As always, I have nothing but gratitude to my family—Jason, Chris, and Emma—for their love and support. To my dad, Don Morgan, and my aunt, Bernice Morgan, not only for the love and support but for reading an early version of the manuscript and sharing memories of St. John’s in the 1940s and 1950s. To Tina Chaulk and Jennifer Morgan for reading and offering critiques, and to them and the rest of the Strident women—Nat, Lori, and Christine—for always being there, making me laugh, and providing my real-life and online growlery.
One final note: sad as I am about the decline of corner stores, I am equally happy that this era has seen the rise of the neighbourhood coffee shop. (We still need one in Rabbittown). A hearty thanks to the staff of all the coffee shops in which I have written pieces of this book. Your service to the arts community has not gone unnoticed; we salute you.
ALSO BY TRUDY J. MORGAN-COLE
By the
Rivers of Brooklyn
That Forgetful Shore
A Sudden Sun
AUTHOR PHOTO: EMMA COLE
TRUDY J. MORGAN-COLE is a writer and teacher who lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland. Her previous books include By the Rivers of Brooklyn (2009), That Forgetful Shore (2011), and A Sudden Sun (2014).