Swing Low

by Miriam Toews

  Complete the following story:

  “It was February 10, 1888. The prairie wind howled over the snow waves outside our small log-mud house. It was Saturday, and there was going to be a social in town. I wondered how difficult that ten-mile journey was going to be, but I really wanted to go. Sarah would be there and …”

  One of my favourite assignments from the section “The Pioneering Experience in Western Canada After 1867 (Rural and Urban).” When I came up with it, I was only nineteen, fresh out of normal school and barely an adult myself. I changed the name from Elvira to Sarah and presto, an assignment my students can enjoy writing and I can enjoy reading. Of course, in grade six the girls were usually imagining that Sarah was their best friend and the boys that she was their older sister and that it wasn’t fair that Sarah could go to the social and they couldn’t. My students have provided me with more than a thousand versions of endings to this opening paragraph, the oddest having to do with a young woman named Sarah who poses by day as a Mennonite pioneer and by night as a wildly popular dancer and who makes a ten-mile trek to see her seem like two. Well, anyway … (Loud crash in corridor: nurse curses in Low German, Deusant! meaning “thousand,” as in a thousand curses. Shocking.)

  Of course not everything about teaching school was idyllic. I had the odd parent who would call me up in a rage if their child had failed a test or received a low mark, or if the child had been bullied and I had failed to notice. I’ve had a parent threaten to tar and feather me if I didn’t pass his daughter into the next grade, back in the days when students could be kept back. My living-room window has been shot at with a pellet gun. I had one mother who was furious about another student accidentally spilling ink on her son’s pants. She screamed into the telephone, in Low German, asking me why I didn’t teach my students to be more careful, what was I going to do about her son’s pants, and how would I make sure it never happened again. I assured her that I would remind my students to be more careful in the future, but she continued to holler. I told her I’d have my wife launder his pants (this was the fifties and I hadn’t used a washing machine ever. Still haven’t, mind you) but that wasn’t good enough either. I told her I’d reimburse her for her son’s pants, but nothing I said could appease her and she continued to scream at me over the phone. Finally I lost my cool. Elvira remembers this occasion as one of the few times I’ve defended myself, the other being with her brother Edward, who needed me to remind him that teachers work hard too, even if the pay isn’t spectacular. Anyway, I’d had enough with this irate mother and I interrupted her rant in a loud voice and said, in Low German: I don’t tell you how much salt to put on your potatoes and you don’t tell me how to teach school! And then I hung up!

  I can’t remember a time before or since that I’ve hung up on a person, although I’ve dearly wanted to. That was the end of the ink incident, thankfully. I do regret not having given her the money for a new pair of pants for her son, because I can see now that her rage was born from desperate poverty, and that for her, a recent Paraguayan Mennonite immigrant, the purchase of a new pair of pants would have been an enormous expense, and that if the pants, very likely the boy’s only pair, hadn’t been replaced, he would have worn them and felt humiliated by the stains. I can’t remember if he got a new pair or not, but I hope so, and I wish I had paid for them.

  six

  Declarations of love and regret: I have read this in a newspaper article re the unfortunate men and women on death row in the United States. The article quoted a prison warden who, with this sentence (fragment), described the typical last words of those condemned to die. The prison chaplain is also quoted. He says that most men and women on death row find God in their final months, as did the men in the fox trenches of wartime.

  Why do we wait, I wonder, until we’re caught? Do we mean it finally, that we believe? Or are we scared? If we believed, would we be scared? Is this what is meant by the fear of God? Are we saying please help me now and comfort me? I haven’t needed you till now but deusant! I’ve seen the error of my ways and perhaps I needed you all along but pretended not to and now I want to make up for it. It happens, doesn’t it, that we find ourselves praying in tense situations.

  And do we do the same with loved ones? With parents and children and brothers and sisters? Towards the end when things become clear … we do, don’t we? Declarations of love and regret. We’re no different, in the end, than the prisoners on death row, except that we feel we have lots of time for declarations later. I mean, I’m not alone, am I?

  C.S. Lewis, one of my favourite writers, said that we read to know we’re not alone. I’m … There’s a person here. Person has left. Knows me, but I haven’t a clue who he is. Have lost train of thought. Wonder how I greeted him. Can only imagine. Forgot to count the beats.

  I have always wanted to write a book about the life of my friend Henry. He has had a fascinating life, as a young boy fleeing with the other Mennonites from the Russian soldiers, witnessing the death of his grandmother along the way, at the age of ten, making his way to Germany and finally to Canada. Today he is a jovial man who hates to lose at cards. Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it? One day, several years ago, he and I and our wives drove to the town of Souris. I asked him if he’d be brave enough to ride a bike across the Souris swinging bridge, the longest of its kind in North America. Of course, he said, but I don’t have a bike. I asked one of the local boys who was hanging around the bridge if Henry could borrow his bike and ride it across the bridge, which is only about two feet wide, quite bouncy, and fenced in with some flimsy rope. Sure, said the boy, and off went Henry! At the age of sixty-two! I enjoyed that man’s company. Am beginning to suspect he was here moments ago. That he was the visitor. Would explain why he came to mind. Hope he returns.

  All my life I have read biographies of famous men and women, mostly politicians and journalists, and these life stories help to give my own a little context, and also inspiration. They give me tips on living, goals to strive for, pitfalls to avoid, they teach me about life. I look up to these individuals. I suppose that sounds boyish but it’s the truth.

  We read to know we’re not alone. C.S. Lewis was a brilliant man in my opinion. He believed in God, he was a good writer, and a kind person by all accounts. One question I would have liked to ask him, however, is this: how does a man feel less alone when he can no longer read?

  Some faith in words, but not all. Where to turn when words stop making sense? The book on Henry won’t get written, after all, at least not by me. So what’s left? Declarations of love and regret? Arsenals of medication? Popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners?

  Lined paper, unlined paper, stiff recipe cards, notebooks, notepads, Post-its, paper, paper, paper. All blank. These were the gifts I gave my daughters and not much else, I’m afraid. I have neglected them horribly and it’s much too late now to make amends. They tell me in big block letters that I have not neglected them, that I have provided them with everything they could ever want in life, with holidays and riding lessons and music lessons and summer camp and new bicycles and a cottage at the lake and university and … They tell me I was a good father, but they of course are lying to me, trying to make me feel better. Oh no, I say, that’s not enough. Then they tell me I was no different from any father of my generation in this town. Fathers worked, they say, period, that’s how it was. They cite examples. Write it down, please, I ask them, and they do. (Needn’t be in big block letters, I don’t say.)

  I have pages and pages of YOU’RE A GOOD FATHER, A GOOD MAN, AND WE ARE PROUD OF YOU. THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT. WE LOVE YOU AND WE KNOW YOU LOVE US. Please write it down one more time, I ask them, and they do. I have vowed to be honest with daughters the next time I see them and break it to them that I’m able to decipher cursive.

  You should have seen my face light up when my daughter brought these notepads in to the hospital, along with a package of Bic ballpoint pens. I tried to write down what I thought were the pertinent points. I often asked her to repeat
them. First and foremost on my mind was when I was going to be reunited with Elvira. Soon, she said, very soon. And twenty seconds later I’d ask again. I wrote it all down as best I could. I reminded myself of phone calls I needed to make, questions I needed to ask, but towards the end I was going in circles. Towards the end I was going in circles. Towards the end I asked her to write it down for me.

  When I was a boy I fell out of a crabapple tree and broke my arm. My mother had three words for me: Can you write? For some odd reason, I cherish that moment. I have never felt closer to her, before or since, except for maybe when she added “ice cubes” to what not to give the baby. Baby, now grown, due to arrive for visit soon. Will try to tell him what he wants to hear. He talks about Mother. He compares my reluctance to discuss my problems to Mother’s own inability to admit to her drinking problem. This comparison horrifies me. Mentally, I make a note of the differences between Mother and me. Oddly, I focus on this detail: that Mother once sold Elvira an old copy of her Reader’s Digest magazine for twenty-five cents after Elvira had expressed some interest in one of its articles. I recall how intensely ashamed I was of Mother’s pettiness. I tell myself that I am generous with money. There are, of course, more relevant differences, but I cannot seem to move away, in my mind, from this Reader’s Digest incident.

  My mother was an interesting woman. She attended church regularly, same pew, different hats, was always well dressed, disapproved of drinking, was an avowed teetotaller, wrote a gossip column called “Pot Pourri” for the town paper for more than forty years, and, from time to time, stole bottles of vanilla from Economy Foods and drank herself into a stupor. At various intervals the manager of Economy Foods would tally up the cost of all the bottles she had shoplifted and I would write him a cheque. This is a typical small-town agreement having to do with the preservation of dignity. Or it is a means of not rocking the boat, a lie. An arrangement available to those with money and status, and not to the general alcoholic public.

  When my father was alive and my mother had been drinking (she began at the age of seventeen), he would cry. He didn’t know what to do or where to turn. Mrs. I.Q. Unger, before she died, told me my father would sit at her kitchen table and cry like a baby, sick with grief over my mother’s drinking. Perhaps she should have been confronted by the manager, by the police, thrown in jail and publicly shamed. But that’s not how it was done. Over the years Elvira tried to get her to talk about her drinking. She tried to pinpoint some underlying problems that may have caused it. She tried to exorcise her demons. I, of course, said nothing. Elvira encouraged her to attend the local Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. But my mother refused to admit she drank. How many times did I let myself into her apartment to find her stumbling about, bruised and rambling? I’ve lost count.

  As I clean her up, wash the floor, fetch a new housedress from the closet, throw away the bottles, and disinfect her fresh cuts, I listen to her talk about my brother, Reg, who is very busy in the United States establishing a reputation that will, some day, give him the credentials he needs to take charge of mental health care in the province and, finally, to manage hospitals, like this one.

  And I listen to her talk about Diana, who is a missionary in Central America. My mother misses her children. And what will you do with your life, Melvin? she asks me as I gather up her soiled clothes and put them in a plastic bag, which I will give to Elvira to launder. I don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about it. Elvira talks about it, but I don’t talk about it.

  seven

  We are worried, my daughter said, we are worried about him. He is becoming more agitated, more confused, manic. Will you make sure he isn’t discharged? There’s nobody at the house. Mom is in the city, she can’t … she needs to rest. It’s very important that he stays here, although he will tell you he is fine and he will be convincing. Please don’t let him leave.

  You have our word.

  Words again. More words. I told them I would be fine and they believed me. I said the words and they believed me. They let me leave.

  Reg? Are you there? Aren’t you going to tell me it’s time to stop running and come home?

  December 28, 1956. Our wedding day, and night, but what a personal fiasco that was on my part. Too nervous, suffice to say, and Elvira as calm as you can please, eventually falling fast asleep while I fidgeted next to her, not believing my luck in one second and in the next furious with myself for my inability to perform. My wedding-night grade? A resounding F! But here’s a historic point of interest: our wedding night cost me eleven dollars. Naturally I have kept the receipt. And the room in the hotel in which our wedding photographs were taken is now a beautiful round cocktail lounge with a high marble ceiling and a live piano player.

  And now a leap: Elvira’s pregnancy. (You can rightly assume that I finally adjusted to my newfound marital status and became more assured of my conjugal responsibilities, of myself as husband.) Elvira became pregnant with our first daughter sometime — she would remember exactly when — in September, and it doesn’t surprise me that conception occurred in that month. I would have been feeling happiest and most relaxed, of course, because I would have only just embarked upon a new school year, and that was traditionally a time when my hopes and my energy level were high. Come to think of it, Elvira might have been feeling most relaxed at that time as well, with me safely out from underfoot as I had been all summer.

  When, at Christmastime, Elvira felt enough time had passed and the “danger period” was over, she decided she would share our happy news with the neighbours. The reaction of our next-door neighbour lady (“neighbour lady” is a term I’ve always been fond of) was: I’ve known you were pregnant for ages, Elvira, because you haven’t been opening your curtains first thing in the morning. Now that’s smalltown living! Elvira, of course, was vomiting first thing in the morning, while the curtains stayed shut for an extra ten minutes.

  When my second daughter, also conceived in that fresh, exciting month of September when real work resumed, was born, the neighbour ladies, this time all of them — not to mention the men and women I taught school with — knew almost immediately that Elvira had had her baby. How? Marjorie, a mere six-year-old, had gone to school resplendent in white knee socks and a white cotton dress, but missing the red and blue sash that was meant to go around the waist and be tied in a big festive bow at the back. Now who but a novice, somebody who had never dressed a child in his life, would forget an accessory as vital to an ensemble as a sash? And why was that incompetent fumbler dressing this child in the first place? Obviously the child’s mother was away, and where would she be? That’s right, in the hospital having another.

  It’s nearly impossible to break news in a small town. Some might say that’s part of a small town’s charm, and some might not.

  Just remembered something that might explain why, on top of everything else, I was so nervous on my wedding night. It has to do with the small fire that occurred earlier in the day at the church, during the part of the wedding ceremony where Elvira and I signed our names in the registry.

  As Elvira leaned over, next to a burning candelabra, pen in hand and all smiles, her veil, carelessly flung back by yours truly when the minister allowed us to kiss, grazed the tip of the candle and burst into flame.

  Before you could say Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Elvira’s friend Kathy had leapt from her position as maid of honour, yanked the fiery veil from Elvira’s head, flung it to the floor, and, as though participating in some tribal wedding ritual known only to Russian Mennonites, hiked up her skirts and lace roundabouts and stomped on the fire until every living ember had seen its last.

  Then — and at this point I was still scarcely aware of the events taking place — her sister Wilma turned and lit right out of the church, hightailing it all the way to her house on Ash Street (that’s not a joke), where she grabbed her own wedding veil from its storage box in the basement. Then, with seconds to go before the organist was scheduled to begin the “Wedding March” and E
lvira and I were to parade jubilantly down the aisle to our waiting hansom, she flew into the church, rammed the lacy thing onto Elvira’s bare head, and, as demurely as she could, stepped back into line, next to the best man, who looked like he was about to faint, and nodded at Elvira as if to say, Carry on, little sister, everything’s under control.

  Elvira thought it was a terribly funny thing to have happen at a wedding, but I did not. I was of the school that believed weddings were not a time for terribly funny things, and I blamed myself for not taking better care of my new bride. If I had known better, I would have arranged the registry and the candelabra differently. For years after I would imagine safer arrangements of these items and conjure up in my mind more appropriate endings to the wedding we had rehearsed, at my insistence, so many times. Elvira, after only ten minutes or so into our first rehearsal, clapped her hands together, grabbed her coat, and said, Well, that’ll be great, let’s go!

  That fire bothered me more than I ever let on, and as Elvira recounted the tale, in all its hilarious detail, to whoever would listen, I would sit quietly, smiling at intervals and waiting for it to be over. I couldn’t quite stop believing that somehow it was my failure, even though Elvira would have thought it was ridiculous for me to think so.

  eight

  Have just eaten lunch while listening to a conversation two nurses were having in the hallway outside my room re Hercules. He will soon be going home is the gist of it. I will miss him. Nurse asked me casually, What are you writing? My answer: What am I writing? Almost made the mistake of drinking a container of tube-feeding liquid left out on my tray, bound for another room. Thought it was a box of Boost.