by K. D. Miller
“Have you ever told anybody else that you weren’t really sick?”
Pete shakes his head.
Simon pushes the pad and pen across the desk. After a long moment, Pete picks up the pen and writes, Brian Bellingham.
“Lord, we beseech thee,” Simon reads again from the prayer book, “look with compassion upon those who are now in sorrow and affliction; comfort them with thy gracious consolations; make them know that all things work together for good. Give rest to thy servants, where sorrow and pain are no more. We pray to thee for those whom we love but see no longer.”
He puts the prayer book aside and pulls the list of names back toward him. “Sharon Fulton. Andrew Stenkowski … ” He reads the whole list, ending with “Sammy Goldsmith.” Then he looks up at Pete. Would you like to say this last one?”
Pete nods. Says, “Brian.” His mouth is dry. He clears his throat. “Bellingham.”
Simon puts the list of names in the bowl along with the report card and letters. He did not reread Alice’s correspondence prior to this meeting. He has her last words to him memorized. By allowing me this last missive, Simon, you are, so to speak, placing the ball in your own court. Another way of expressing it would be that you are placing yourself in my debt. For you will always owe me a letter. And I will never cease to wait for one. You engaged with me, Simon. And as long as I live, you will never be able to fully disengage from me.
He rummages in his desk drawer for a book of matches, strikes one and touches the flame to the corner of a letter. “Should maybe have scrunched things up a bit,” he says. “Made some air spaces.” But the paper blackens and catches, then spreads its flame to the rest.
He reads aloud again from the prayer book, “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to receive unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed: we therefore commit her body to be consumed by fire.” He and Pete sit breathing the last of the smoke, watching the mass burn down.
When nothing but ash remains, Simon says, “There’s a tiny old graveyard out back of the church. Bring your prayer book And don’t forget your coat. Oops. Flashlight. I’m a fine one to talk.” He rummages in his desk.
They leave the office, go back down the steps and out into the dark. The air smells damp. Pete can just make out the shapes of small white gravestones tilting at different angles.
Simon puts the bowl on the ground, trains the flashlight on his prayer book and reads, “We commit her ashes to their resting place; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
He hands the flashlight to Pete, who reads, “Rest eternal grant unto her, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon her.”
Simon picks the bowl back up. Offers it to Pete, who takes a pinch of ash and scatters it into the dark. Simon scatters some, then Pete. They take turns until it’s gone. Then Simon upends the bowl and taps it gently. Pete turns the flashlight off. They stand side by side in the dark and the silence.
Lines from a poem go through Simon’s mind—The grave’s a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace. He feels again that odd compulsion to take Pete in his arms.
Pete is trying to remember if he and Brian ever hugged each other or kissed, the way little boys sometimes do. He is very aware of Simon beside him. His height. The way his own face would just fit against the priest’s shoulder.
“And here comes the rain,” Simon says, looking up. Pete looks up too, feeling the cold drops on his face. He raises his hand to wipe them away, then lowers it. He just stands, eyes closed. Letting it come.
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank Biblioasis, The New Quarterly, The Porcupine’s Quill and Thomas Allen Publishers for recommending this collection of stories for Ontario Arts Council Writers’ Reserve grants. I am also grateful to the Ontario Arts Council for a Works In Progress grant.
Many thanks to the friends and colleagues who read the book in manuscript form: Kim Aubrey, Mike Barnes, Elaine Batcher, Mary Borsky, Melinda Burns, Andrew Leith Macrae and Richard Tanner. Finally, I owe much to Dan Wells and John Metcalf of Biblioasis, for their good faith and good humour.
About the Author
Photo: Andrew Leith Macrae
K.D. Miller is the author of three previous short story collections, Give Me Your Answer, A Litany in Time of Plague, and The Other Voice, as well as an essay collection (Holy Writ) and a novel (Brown Dwarf ). Her work has twice been collected in The Journey Prize Anthology and Best Canadian Stories, and she has been nominated for a National Magazine Award for Fiction. She lives and writes in Toronto.