“Can’t even catch a breeze off the lake, it’s so close in here,” one of them would say, fanning her plump, red face.
Another would be bound to reply, “It’s a hothouse in here, it is.” And then, leaning conspiratorially in, although the volume of her voice wouldn’t change a bit, she’d add, “And what about the odour, hmm?” then sit back, tsking between her teeth. This despite the fact that his mother had done nothing but scour and clean since she’d heard of the impending visit. If you asked the boy, he’d tell you he was sick with the smell of ammonia and disinfectant.
Each of the Aunties would have her thick torso encased in a pastel-coloured suit – a uniform involving a skirt, a jacket, a perfumed silk blouse and an ornate golden brooch, all topped off with a perfectly matched hat that often included a small, finely woven net veil. Pristine white gloves polished the outfit off. The physiques of the women, combined with the suits and hats, were all so similar in shape, texture and tone as to render one aunt hopelessly indistinguishable from another.
On the occasion of the Aunties and Gran’s visit to his house, the boy knew that three things would happen. First, he’d be paraded into the living room to be asked such questions as “Do you say your prayers now, do you?” and “Are you a good lad?” to which there was no possible answer but “Yes’m.” During these inquisitions, the boy would do his best to focus on the brilliantly patterned carpet of the living room, concentrating on moving his eyes rhythmically up, down and around the black curlicues, memorizing their shapes and graceful movements. The living room was where he and his brothers and sisters were not allowed, these visits and Christmas being the two exceptions to the rule.
During these sessions, each of the children would be interrogated and then a judgement cast upon them like a blessing or a curse before the child was mercifully dismissed. His older brother, the eldest boy and therefore the favourite, received the highest blessing possible, as was to be expected. “Well, he’s no Einstein, but he’ll do, won’t he, Mum?” one of the Aunties would shout across the room at the Gran, who would scowl in response. Then the boy, quite inferior to his brother, as he had naturally been led to believe, usually received a mixed review, garnering such responses as, “That one, he’s a black sheep, now isn’t he?”
“Sure he is, now,” the others would concur. After he was permitted to step off the holy shrine of the carpet, the Aunties’ words would resonate, giving the boy cause to wonder about his “look,” which he had been told, in times past, was “dark.” He’d imagine the natives pictured in his brother’s schoolbooks, half naked and dancing with spears, and become afraid that this was where he was headed (for he knew from the words of the priest that these were HEATHENS and so, sadly, would not be going to heaven). Sometimes, in bed at night, he had to cry – silently, so as not to wake his brothers, one on either side, lest they call him a sissy and clobber him for it – because he was sad about the idea of maybe not going to heaven, where Jesus would surely be. He also took to looking up “sheep” in his father’s set of encyclopaedias, wondering how his demeanour or look could lead anyone to mistake him for one of those stupid animals. These sorts of worries might preoccupy his little mind for several days after each visit before finally giving way to less troublesome thoughts.
Even though the meats and cheeses and cakes and biscuits and bottles of currant juice would be brought into the house and laid out on the table in such a manner as to make his small, tight stomach rumble and groan, the boy knew as sure as it was Sunday that those same meats and cheeses and so on would be packed up into the boxes again and hustled out to the car to go back from where they came – along with the Aunties and the Gran, of course. This was the second thing he knew for sure – that the food would drive him mad with desire and that despite this, he’d not be able to steal even a single scrap. He knew he’d see the chubby pink fingers of his Aunts popping bits of Sunday ham, creamy orange cheese, and glistening Irish sausages between their thick lips, and it would be all he could do to keep from begging for a taste. He tried to, but couldn’t, remember the last time his family had meat on the table, even on a Sunday.
All that food, more than their whole family would see in a week, in and out of the house, without even a nibble to be gotten by himself or his siblings. He also did not know it then, but would in coming years, that his mother, although she served the food to her in-laws, refused to touch a morsel of it herself, even though her stomach too knotted in anticipation as she set out the feast. As long as her children were not welcome to eat, she would not bring herself to do so either. When he was older, at least eleven, the boy would think this was the reason behind his father’s words, “Your mother’s a saint, that she is.”
The other person who would not eat at these gatherings was the old Gran. Her role was to sit propped in the large wing-backed chair in the corner, covered with the plaid wool blanket that accompanied her everywhere and gave off a smell like damp dogs and farts, and clutch a narrow glass of amber liquid in her bony claw. The boy was terrified of the Gran, because she never talked except to shout “More!” at his mom, who refilled the tumbler from time to time. He could vaguely recall a time past when he was taken to the old woman’s house for a visit. Before they left to return home, his mother had tucked the old woman into her covers with a bottle of Southern Comfort clutched tight to her bony chest, where it remained lodged between her deflated breasts.
And this led to the third thing that the boy knew – that at some point during the visit, he would be pressed to approach the old Gran, with her smelly blanket and festering breath, and plant a kiss on her withered cheek. “Stop lurking around that doorway now, and come say a proper hello to your Granny,” one of the Aunties would inevitably command, and the boy would be obliged once again to lay his freshly polished second-hand shoes on the good carpet and make his way to the chair in the far corner. The expanse between him and the old woman would seem to grow once he stepped onto the carpet, as though magic had infused the room with a shape-shifting expanding floor like something he might read about in one of his brother’s comic books. In the eternity it took him to cross the room, the boy would try not to think about what he was expected to do once he arrived. He would keep his eyes cast down, monitoring the progress of his small steps across the wilderness of carpet, afraid to look up lest the old woman cast an evil milky eye upon him and command him to do something even more hideous than what was already expected.
Upon finally arriving, the boy would lift his barely dry eyes as far as the old crone’s gnarly fingers, clasped in their death grip around the slender glass, and wait. Eventually, one of the Aunts would throw out a prompt like a barb: “Go on then. Give your Granny a kiss.” The boy, not tall enough to reach the Granny’s cheek without serious effort, would have to stand on tiptoes and lean deep into the farty odour, grasping the arm of the chair for balance until his baby-plump lips grazed the folds of her cheek, after which he would release himself from his contortions to land back on the flats of his feet and hustle from the room, sneakily wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
These were the things he knew, but it didn’t stop him from wishing for something to change.
Standing at the window, waiting for his eyes to dry, the boy saw the car pull up the road and park in front of the house. His mother flew to the front door, smacking him lightly on the back of the head as she passed. “Stop daydreaming, will you? Come and say hello to your Aunties, for heaven’s sake.” The boy had to stay an extra moment to allow his eyes to dry out again. Then he trundled over the doorstep in hopeful expectation. Maybe this time, things would be different.
And just as he was brightly optimistic for something new, he saw that already his wish was coming true, for the Aunties had opened the rear door of the car and were working bodily to haul the old woman from the back seat. Her head flopped from shoulder to shoulder as the Aunties struggled, bumping one another and mashing each other’s toes underfoot in the manner of a sideshow. “Ah, no,” he hear
d one of the Aunties, the one in pink, say to his mother. “She’s only a bit wilted from the heat. Let’s get her indoors, and I’m sure she’ll be fine,” although it was clear, even to the boy, that she was less than fine.
The Aunties and his mommy worked to get the Granny’s limp legs out of the car and to get her to the edge of the seat. As they did, the old woman tumbled forward as though pitched and landed with a thud on the gravel lane at their feet. His mother let out a small cry, but the Aunties seemed unable to respond. Instead, they avoided looking at the crumpled body in front of them and passed a linen handkerchief amongst themselves, dabbing drops of perspiration from tops of lips and napes of necks.
One of the Aunties turned and saw the boy in the doorway. “What’re you gawking at, you little sod? Go on.” She flicked her hankie at him as if he were an annoying bug. He slunk back into the shadow of the door but went no further. He heard the voices of the Aunties whispering all at once, which made it especially hard to understand what was being said. He imagined they were picking up the Gran and propping her in the car, but he dared not peek around the doorway for fear of being scolded again.
When he did finally look, he saw the Granny in the same spot on the ground, motionless, one of the Aunties fanning her with the handkerchief. His mom was walking toward the side of the house. He ran through the house to the kitchen door, opened it quietly and slipped out. Staying in the shadows, he watched while she went to the neighbour’s house and rapped on the side door. He wondered what she could possibly want from the old bachelor. He observed them talk for a moment; the man pointed in the direction of his sheds, nodded a curt goodbye and closed his door. His mom went to the sheds and soon emerged with an enormous wheelbarrow balanced on a tipsy front wheel. Her skinny arms had a time of keeping the contraption in line.
Not for one moment had the boy imagined what would happen after his mom wrestled the wheelbarrow back to the front of the house and parked it next to the car. He was about to emerge from his hiding spot behind the short wall that separated their property from their neighbours when the Aunties began to haul the Gran’s limp body into the barrow. They spent considerable time wrestling with non-compliant limbs that, with a mind of their own, pitched themselves over the sides of the wheelbarrow one after another.
Finally, all the limbs were contained. The Aunties sent his mommy away again, but the boy could not take his eyes from the sight of the Granny’s body folded into the wheelbarrow. Soon, his mother returned with an old rope from the back shed, and together with the Aunties, they tied it carefully over the load. Once the rope had been secured to the Aunties’ satisfaction, the boy’s mouth fell agape as he understood that their intention was to wheel the barrow and its load into the house. But not before an argument ensued as to who would do the actual pushing. As the deliberations took place, the Aunties were seen to pass the linen handkerchief from gloved hand to gloved hand; the boy noticed this time that it was not offered to his mother, who, unlike the Aunties, was wearing a flowered cotton dress and no gloves.
Finally, it was the Auntie in the peach-coloured suit who grimaced and, with a resolve worthy of Job, took the wooden handles in her grasp and lifted the load. Immediately, the wheelbarrow tipped sharply to one side and the boy was sure the Gran would tumble out and potentially begin an uneven roll down the dusty hill, gradually picking up steam. Instead, the other Aunties and his mom rushed to steady the wheelbarrow, one flanking each side while the other assisted with the handles. And so they proceeded up the walk to the house to navigate the doorstep. From his hiding spot, the boy lost sight of them as they entered the house, but he could hear them bickering before peach Auntie exclaimed, “For the love of God, will you just let me do it?” Their voices got slightly fainter as they receded further into the house. He imagined them perching the old woman on her chair in the living room, perhaps even tying her in with the rope.
All at once, the boy wondered about the food. In the excitement, the food hadn’t been brought into the house and was still sitting in the car. The door of the car remained open, forgotten. Cautiously, he approached the car, where he could see boxes of food stacked neatly on the back seat. He was certain there would be more in the trunk. The box nearest the open door beckoned; he imagined a fat pink ham inside, wrapped in paper and marbled with bits of glistening pork fat. The temptation was too much for him, and he laid a small foot on the edge of the car’s doorframe. He couldn’t bring himself to look over his shoulder to check if anyone was watching – his ears rang with fear and anticipation. He grabbed the top box from the pile and stepped backwards out of the car with the prize cradled in his arms. It was heavy and difficult for him to balance. Just as he considered bolting down the roadway to hide in the ravine with his treasure, one of the Aunties appeared on the doorstep.
“Be careful, lad – bring them boxes in, will you now. Come on, hurry up!”
So the boy was forced to bring the food in from the car, his small arms rubbery and worn out by the time the last box was placed on the table.
When he looked into the living room, he found that the Gran had not been placed in her chair as he had expected. Instead, the Aunties, his mom, and the empty wheelbarrow filled the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. He wondered what that could mean. The women were arguing, and the boy decided to sneak away before he was noticed.
He returned to the kitchen, where his brothers and sisters had appeared as if alerted by a silent alarm. They poked about in the food boxes now so cavalierly abandoned by the adults. His oldest brother removed a small, foil-wrapped cooked chicken and tucked it beneath his sweater. His sister, the one his dad locked in her room at night for being too wild, carefully slid a small block of cheese and a small, hard-shelled loaf of bread inside the sleeves of her blouse. Without a word, they all disappeared from the kitchen through the side door, as if a silent signal had been sounded to which the boy alone was deaf.
The argument in the hall went on for some time, and the boy was able to lift the corner of a box several times and sneak a pinch of ham from a cooked shank. Finally, his mother came through the kitchen and headed for the side door, her face drawn and tight. She passed the boy, seemed not to notice him, but then absently issued a command to “Go outside and play now. You stay out from underfoot. Kinisitohten nâ?” Then she was gone. He waited a moment, torn between the food, the unfolding drama in the hallway, and a mix of curiosity and fear that his mother was leaving him behind forever. Her slipping the Cree word into her sentence alarmed him, something she usually did only in secret, when they were alone. He knew, without being told, that it was forbidden. He followed her out the door but saw that she was only retrieving sheets off the line, so he ducked back inside.
His mother took the clean linen to the hallway, and the Aunties murmured with satisfaction. The boy remained in the kitchen, stealing ham from the box until he heard them returning to the main part of the house. Peach Auntie expertly rolled the empty wheelbarrow through the front door, down the walk and onto the road, where she parked it. The Aunties and his mom followed.
Curious where the Gran was, the boy approached the now quiet hallway. Something about the house in midday, with its dim light and unusual silence, made the boy feel as if he were trespassing, as if he were entering a forbidden place. His shoes made no sound on the hallway carpet. He looked into his mommy and daddy’s bedroom, with its drawn drapes and large, heavy dressers, but there was nothing out of place. The two rooms at the end of the hall were the boys’ room and the girls’ room. The door to the girls’ room was open, and all was as it should be. The door to the bedroom that he shared with his brothers, all three of them in the one large bed, was closed tight. The boy approached the room with dread. Still, he forced his small legs to advance toward the door, watched as his hand reached out and turned the knob and let his fingertips give a small push so that the door swung slowly open.
The Granny lay in the centre of the big bed, in the spot that was his, with her head on his very own
pillow. Her moist eye glistened in the shadows, and she watched him silently.
She was here to stay. He knew this suddenly. He also knew that the boys’ room, and his place in it, would never be the same. Even his older brother’s coveted pile of comic books, sitting in their off-limits place on the centre shelf, seemed defenseless and inconsequential in the presence of the Granny. Even though he knew the Aunties were outside in the yard, the boy couldn’t help but feel their heavy presence, like a dreadful shadow, hovering in the boys’ room.
A scratchy noise in the back of Gran’s throat brought him to his senses. She spoke to him in a voice both demanding and delicate. “Come over here, boy. Give us a kiss,” she said, her one watery eye firmly pinning him into place. He made a small choking sound, and the Gran repeated, “Give us a kiss.”
oldest sons
Your house is filled with his artwork. Every week, you dust family pictures from which he smiles at you, genuine and not cynical. In the photos he looks like a little boy, grinning, showing his teeth. You don’t even know what he looks like now, but you’ve heard he’s gotten very thin as he tries out one new diet after another. You’ve heard he’s gone from kosher (none of you are Jewish), to vegetarian, to organic-fooditarian, to raw-fooditarian. Also, that he’s let his hair grow into long curls. That he wants to start a commune out in BC, far from his prairie upbringing in a small Saskatchewan city. Another world, Vancouver.
Just Pretending Page 8