Death in Brunswick

by Boyd Oxlade

She reached over to the table again, for her sleeping pills.

  Only three left? She was puzzled. Still, her memory wasn’t very good these days…

  She took a pill and turned out the light.

  As the drowsiness came, she thought, as she often did, of her heart attack. With the pill doing its work she could think about that time without horror.

  She had been to her brother John’s for dinner and her daughter had worried her all night, snapping and baiting her son-in-law. They hadn’t been happy together for some time.

  She had smoked too much and yes, she supposed she had had too much wine. She felt ill and they went home early. When she had got home she had been sick. But not just once…terrible bouts of vomiting till she had groaned like an animal. She remembered with shame how she had been sick over her daughter’s hands as they held a bowl.

  Then the bad pain started…like…like…she knew it was stupid but it felt just like someone was trying to squeeze a tennis ball through a narrow pipe in her chest; at every push, the pain grew worse.

  Then the ambulance had arrived. The men called her ‘darling’ and carried her down the stairs, flopping like an old doll.

  Then the oxygen and the needles and she knew she wasn’t going to die just yet…And it was funny, but it was only then that she could pray properly. It all seemed like years ago…but it wasn’t.

  She turned her head and looked at the luminous crucifix on the wall; her son-in-law had given it to her.

  ‘Such bad taste, but he’s a good man—I’m sorry, our Lord, but I can’t pray to you tonight. I don’t feel I know you.’ Anyway, she thought, her inhibitions weakened by the sleeping pill, you probably worried your mother too!

  *

  At ten the next morning, Mrs Fitzgerald was putting on her face for Mass. She squinted shortsightedly into the steamy mirror and wiped it with an annoyed gesture. Really, this bathroom is a disgrace. Still it’s better than when I came.

  She had put up a new shower curtain and cleaned the crust of ages from the bath, but it was still squalid.

  She smoothed a thick layer of liquid make-up over her nose and cheeks and down over her chins. Dear, I am getting stout again. But I do look better.

  After the heart attack her flesh had melted away alarmingly, leaving the skin hanging in ugly folds.

  She put on her lipstick. What a pretty mouth I had…It was so soft.

  Now her lips seemed to have shrunk and thinned; this puzzled her since she still had all her own teeth. I must get that boy to the dentist.

  Powdering her face vigorously, she looked at her reflection. Nothing the matter with that!

  She fluffed up her thin hair, sprayed it and put on her dressing gown.

  Going through the kitchen, on her way to dress, she lit a cigarette. Where’s that boy?

  ‘Time to get up dear…we’ll be late.’

  There was silence from Carl’s room; she knocked briskly and went into her bedroom.

  Opening her underwear drawer, she considered and then took out her best long-line corset. Puffing a little, she eased it on…how it did hurt! Grunting as she pulled it up, her eyes caught the mild, compassionate gaze from the bedside table.

  I can’t very well offer this up, now can I? It’s very uncomfortable—still, I don’t want the boy to be ashamed of his old mother.

  She rearranged herself in the lycra and pulled on her support stockings. She caught sight of her back view in the wardrobe mirror.

  Oh dear, I do look a figure of fun. Still, with a nice frock…it’s not every day your son takes you to church. After all these years!

  She put on a grey silk dress, her pearls, and a pair of very high heels. Tottering a little, she went out to wake Carl.

  She knocked on his door again.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, all right Mother, I’m up, I won’t be long.’

  She sat down in the living room and looked around with some satisfaction; the curtains were clean and the furniture polished. There was a vase of fresh flowers on a stereo speaker. A new rug covered the grimy sea-grass.

  That boy really needs me. She thought of the previous night. He was rather sweet, just like when he was a little boy. What nightmares he had then—how he used to cry! He still needs a cuddle, even at his age…

  Simple happiness filled her.

  And now he’s coming to church. If only he’d hurry—I’ll get him going!

  She smiled to herself and slipped a cassette into the stereo: Mahler’s Fifth.

  As the trumpets swelled, Carl flung open his bedroom door.

  ‘Oh Mother! For Christ’s sake! You know I can’t bear that crap.’

  He was wearing his blue shirt and narrow dark tie, and his grey trousers.

  ‘Well, it did hurry you up, didn’t it dear? You do look nice, but you haven’t had a shave. Off you go—quickly now!’

  Carl peered at her.

  ‘You look very chirpy this morning, Mother.’

  ‘Yes, dear, I’m pleased you’re coming to Mass. But I don’t want to be late, so do hurry.’

  Carl went out.

  Still, it’s only just round the corner.

  She lit a Rothman’s Plain and sat waving her plump hands to the music.

  Carl came back, his pale face marked with the weals of a hasty shave. He flicked the off button on the stereo.

  ‘All right, Mother, got everything? Let’s go.’

  ‘Just my bag, dear, and my pills…be a good boy and get them for me. On my bedside table.’

  Carl started into her bedroom. The phone rang by his ear. He flinched and stared at it…

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Mother.’

  He picked up the receiver. It was Sophie.

  ‘Hello, Carl?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Listen, Carl, I got to see you, I got to tell you something…’

  ‘Look, I can’t for a while, I told you, my mother…’

  ‘No, this is important.’

  A pang of fear shot through him—she couldn’t know anything.

  ‘What is it? Tell me now, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Carl, I missed my period…and I’m never late…Look, I’ve got to see you. I’m at Auntie Martha’s. She’s out…can you come over? I told you about Dad and that. If I have to tell him…You said you…Carl, I got to leave home!’

  Carl looked at his mother; she was sitting placidly, not listening in a marked manner. The first real hatred rose in him. You fucking old…He calmed himself.

  ‘OK, Sophie, look…I’ll take care of it! I can’t talk now, I have to take Mother to church. Ring me later, OK? Everything’ll be all right…trust me.’

  ‘Yeah, OK Carl, but you’ll fix it up, won’t you? I got no money since the club closed…and I can’t get another job.’ She was crying.

  He felt protective, lustful, fearful and very angry all at once. His voice shook slightly.

  ‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything…ring me later.’

  He put the phone down and stood staring at his mother.

  This’s all I need. No money. No job. Sophie needs an…And…and that other thing…And this bloody old bitch is still hanging round! Christ! I’d like to…!

  He raised that icy numbness…

  ‘What’s wrong, dear? Are you all right? You are coming, aren’t you? Who was that?’

  ‘It was only Sophie, Mother,’ he said calmly, ‘you know, that girl from work. She’s in a bit of trouble, she…’

  ‘What kind of trouble? It’s nothing to do with you, is it? I knew there was something…’

  ‘No, no, Mother, it’s to do with the club, that’s all. She just wants my advice. No, everything’s fine…we better get going.’ It’ll be a good place to think, and I must think.

  He went into his mother’s bedroom and picked up her bag and started putting pill bottles into it. A label caught his eye: ‘Digoxin—Warning—Do not exceed the prescribed dose’. A vague memory stirred.

  D
ig…Digit…something—Digitalis!

  A thought, an idea leapt like a silver salmon. He caught it. It squirmed in his mind, swum free and vanished. He dropped the vial into the bag and closed it, jumping a little at the snap of the catch.

  He went slowly back into the living room.

  Better get a book. He remembered the boredom of Mass at school…boredom broken by flashes of beauty, that was how he remembered it.

  ‘All ready, Mother?’ He gave her the bag. ‘Won’t be a tick…I just have to get something.’

  He went to the bookcase in his room and rummaged through the tattered paperbacks…A Dictionary of Drugs.

  It won’t hurt just to find out. He stuck it in his pocket.

  *

  He ushered his mother out of the door and followed her down the path. A hot gritty north wind was blowing. Her skirt flew above her knees; she staggered a little and turned to him. Her face was damp already, the powder clumping on her cheeks.

  ‘Oh dear, it is warm. Give me your arm, Carl. Such a mercy it’s so close.’

  He looked at her with contempt. How absurd she looks—those stupid shoes! Christ!

  ‘All right Mother…off we go.’

  He took her arm and they stepped out.

  He flinched with revulsion at the touch of her arm; the flesh was loose and flabby. He quickened his pace.

  ‘Please, Carl, not so fast.’ She was wheezing.

  ‘Well, we’ll be late, Mother. I don’t want everybody looking at us.’

  ‘I am glad you’re coming, though, dear.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, Mother.’

  At least I can think there—I must think—I must look at things.

  After about ten minutes they turned into Blyth Street. The church was over the road. As they waited to cross she turned to him, pressing his arm.

  ‘What I meant to say, Carl, was—I wish you wouldn’t have anything to do with those girls.’

  ‘What girls, Mother, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Ones like the one who rang up…You won’t, dear, will you? Now I want you to write to dear Prue after church…you will, won’t you? You need someone to look after you and I won’t be…Now I’m relying on you, Carl, I do want you to settle down, otherwise I’ll have to speak to your Uncle John. You know what I mean by that, don’t you?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘Now, dear, don’t look like that. I only want to see my children settled.’

  ‘OK, OK, come on!’

  They crossed the road and approached the church. It was a rather handsome building with a neo-Renaissance tower.

  Mrs Fitzgerald paused and took a square of black lace from her bag, draped it over her head and tucked the ends into her dress. The effect was grotesque in the extreme, rather like Toad as the washerwoman.

  ‘God, Mother, what’s that?’

  ‘It’s a mantilla,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘I know you don’t have to wear a hat any more, but…what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘I don’t know…you look like one of those Turkish ladies…’ He thought of Mustafa’s wife and shook himself. ‘Never mind, Mother. Let’s get inside. It’s started. I can hear singing.’

  They went inside, Carl following his mother, automatically dipping his fingers into holy water and crossing himself.

  Jesus! How long has it been? At school, was it? He looked around bewildered; the church was extremely simple, bare even. Where’s the statues?

  The alter was a block of stained pine with what looked like a lurex flecked polyester curtain draped across it. Two lecterns stood at either side and at the back a flimsy stand with a plain metal box on it—a crude pottery cup beside. To the right, on the wall, was a large board with numbers slotted into it.

  A young man in a tracksuit played an electric organ. The thinly scattered congregation was singing raggedly—an English hymn! It sounded like…was it ‘Rock of Ages’ or ‘All Creatures Great and Small’?

  ‘Mother!’ he whispered urgently, ‘for God’s sake, this is the wrong church! It’s Baptist or something.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Carl.’ She genuflected and sat down. Clumsily he followed her. ‘This is how it is now. Really dear, how long since…shush now. It’s starting.’

  A grey-haired woman in a shapeless floral dress walked to the lectern, followed by a fat youngish man with a shock of black curls. He was wearing a short robe? vestment? of the same material as the altar cloth. The lurex sparkled in the pale light. He sat down behind and to one side of the altar. Carl was surprised to see that he was wearing shorts and sandals under his robe. He had very hairy legs.

  The grey-haired woman started to read from a plastic folder. Carl could make out only a word or two. He glanced at his mother. She was slumped with her head in her hands, praying, he supposed.

  He looked about again. There were perhaps fifty or sixty people in the big church. Most were elderly. There were a few Italian families at the back with young children. He was surprised again at how bare it all was. The walls were unadorned except for a line of small ugly blue plaques ranged along both sides—they looked like china ducks. He squinted at them.

  They look like…yes, Stations of the Cross! It is a Catholic Church! And those windows—they must be the original stained glass.

  A soft pale lemon and rose light shone through them. The effect was soothing. Carl relaxed a little. He was tired.

  What a dream. He shuddered, remembering the previous night. As long as I don’t talk in my sleep. She’s not as deaf as I thought…Jesus—I nearly told her! She’ll have to go back to South Yarra…or something.

  The grey-haired woman finished speaking and sat down. The tracksuited boy stood behind the other lectern and began to read in a nasal monotone. Carl fidgeted restlessly. Ideas, fearful, ugly, but inviting, twisted through his mind.

  He reached into his back pocket and eased out the book, glancing again at his mother. She was still praying. Better hide the cover.

  He picked up a yellow leaflet from the seat beside him and folded it round the paperback. Bending forward in an attitude of devotion, he turned to the index.

  ‘Digoxin’—page seventy—OK. Digitalis. Classification—from foxgloves—well, well. ‘Therapeutic use of Digitalis is in the treatment of congestive heart failure.’ There followed a short bio-chemical treatise of which Carl could understand very little. He turned the page. ‘Side effects. In large doses, on or after the cumulative effects of long term treatment, Digitalis and all the other cardiac glycosides can produce fatal intoxication. The most frequent cause of death is increase in heart arrhythmias, leading to atrial and ventricular fibrillation. Death is due, in fact, to arrhythmic heart failure.’

  He turned another page. There was a sectional drawing of a heart. He looked at his mother. No! I can’t. His hand shaking, he put the book away.

  No! Don’t let me…

  The shiny little thoughts kept showing their heads. With a practised effort he pushed them down and sat back, trying to keep his mind blank. The thoughts kept coming and coming…There was awful pain and guilt in them but also, and horrifyingly, a slow lascivious pleasure.

  He stared rigidly ahead, his teeth clenched. He felt someone sit down next to him. He couldn’t look or move. Sweat trickled down his back like blood.

  His mother nudged him. He gasped in shock:

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Shush, dear. Stand up, it’s the Gospel.’

  The fat priest was speaking in a rich Irish tenor.

  ‘This is the word of the Lord!’

  Carl stood, formless images crowding his mind, the amplified voice rolling round him:

  ‘I shall separate the sheep from the goats…’

  At last the voice stopped. There was a pause. His mother pulled him down. He sat numbly.

  Suddenly the sun shone overwhelmingly through the nearest stained glass window. Carl was bathed in a wonderful golden light. Motes sparkled in the beams.

  Just like my dream! He stared into the radiance, transfixed.r />
  And into the nimbus: ‘Now, my dear brothers and sisters, I’d like to say a few words to you about forgiveness!’ The priest’s voice carolled out joyfully. ‘Yes, forgiveness. For today is the Feast of Christ the King—Christ the Judge. But not a judge like our earthly judges. No, brothers and sisters, not the corrupt, severe and worldly judges we see about us! But a heavenly judge! Friendly, merciful and forgiving. Yes, all forgiving.’ The voice dropped confidentially. ‘I’d like to tell you a little story now. A recent experience of mine. The other day, in fact, a man came to me in an agony of spirit, yes, literally agony…For years he had been an abortionist. Yes. An abortionist, a murderer of infants. In those years he had killed hundreds, nay, thousands of innocent little babies…In a way, brothers and sisters, he was worse than a Nazi in one of those terrible death camps. Suddenly he realised what he was doing; the heinous sin of it. And he was in an agony of grief and remorse…he thought that he could never be forgiven.

  ‘Now, I can’t tell you this man’s name, but the first part of it rhymes with Cain—yes, Cain, the first murderer…Now this man came to me in fear and despair. He had lost all hope of reconciliation with God and the Church. I tell you, brothers and sisters, this man was desperate.

  ‘But I was able to tell him, assure him, counsel him, that our Heavenly Father will forgive anything! Even a heinous sin like his…Now isn’t that a wonderful thing! A sin like that washed away in the holy blood!’

  Carl felt his mind spinning slowly away. The light surrounded him like a fiery cloud…the voice boomed on, but he heard no more…the light grew blinding. He put his hands to his face. He could see nothing.

  *

  The sun shifted and the light dimmed. He took his hands away from his face, blinking cautiously. It was all right. He saw.

  The priest was saying: ‘Now let us pray for the dead. May we meet them in the flesh, face to face.’

  Yes—I could now. He felt calm and resolute. What’s happened to me? It was like in the graveyard…Something…went…But it feels good now. Do I believe in Christ and all that? I never used to—but now? I can feel someone. He knows! He doesn’t care—He’s forgiven me—even before I…

  The boy in the tracksuit came round with a plate, people dropping money into it. Carl took out all the notes in his pocket and leant across the back of a short dark man kneeling next to him. He threw the notes into the plate…