Advocate

by Darren Greer

  Richard has gone back to his coffee. He is, really, very childlike at times. Almost idiotic. Most writers are, I’ve found.

  It is too late to get out the trap Deanny laid for me. Pavel is already getting up from his seat. She gives me, as we go, a triumphant look. I know it well. It is the same one she used to give me when we were kids and she got something over on me, except back then she also used to stick out her tongue at me at the same time. I can almost see her doing this now. I sigh, and leave the apartment with the handsome Russian schoolteacher in tow.

  4

  father orlis died eight years ago. My grandmother still mourns his loss, but she did come to accept Father Harry as his replacement. She still thinks of him as a terrible temptation to the parish’s younger women, not noticing in her dotage Father Harry has lost his looks. He was always a short, slight man. When he was young and fresh-faced this was charming, but as he got older, it has given him a gnomish appearance, not helped by the fact he wears spectacles. Because he is given to laughter, the skin around his eyes is heavily crinkled, and lines are drawn at either corner of his mouth. He is no more temptation to young girls — what few of them there are, the church is having trouble attracting younger members of late — than would be my grandmother. She never has conceded Father Harry is as good a parish priest as Father Orlis, though she admits his liturgies are “passable.” And she did once say Father Harry gave the host better than Orlis. The old man had a palsy hand, and sometimes missed her mouth. My grandmother has relegated herself to the fact that when she dies it will be Father Harry who presides over her funeral. And though she has never said so, one gets the impression she considers this a great honour bestowed upon him.

  One morning, after I’ve been home for a week, Father Harry calls me and asks me to meet him in the cemetery. He remembers that I liked to walk through it when I was a boy. As it is summer now, the branches on the willows are full of tendrils and leaves. We take several turns around the graveyard, and Father Harry asks me if I know my grandmother will be the last person to be buried here.

  “Really?” I say.

  “Yes,” says Father Harry. “The last reserved spot became occupied last year. The only one left is your grandmother’s. She sold the other plots when your mother and Jeanette opted to be buried beside your uncle. Once she goes, there will be no more burials at St. Andrew’s.”

  “She will like that,” I say. “The last of her kind.”

  “Agreed,” says Father Harry. He tells me he has already administered Unction — the Anointing of the Sick — to my grandmother, as well as the Sacrament of Penance and the Viaticum. I am familiar with the combination of rituals, better known as the Last Rites; I’ve had history with them. Father Harry knows this history and doesn’t mention it. He is only telling me, he says, because he thinks I might like to know, since it is important to my grandmother. My grandmother had not had confession for a long time, and she wasn’t able to confess then. My mother and Jeanette were present. Jeanette cried. Father Harry anointed my grandmother with blessed olive oil and said, “May the Lord who has saved you free you from sin and raise you up.” He also anointed her hands and said, “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord pardon you of whatever sins you have committed by sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste, walking, carnal delectation.”

  “What possible sins could a person commit by walking?” I ask him.

  Father Henry shrugs. “It’s part of the liturgy. It refers to John’s exhortation that Christians walk in the light.”

  “And what on earth is carnal delectation? It’s a wonder Grandnan didn’t wake up and give you a slap for that one, for even suggesting it.”

  “Delectation means delight,” Father Harry says solemnly.

  “Oh, so you’re not supposed to enjoy yourself? Sounds fittingly Catholic.”

  “It was your grandmother’s wish, Jacob,” says Father Harry. “It’s what she wanted.”

  “Will you be there when she passes?”

  “If at all possible. I told your mother and Jeanette to call me if they even think it’s getting close. I know your grandmother did not like me, at least not as much as Father Orlis. But she has served the church well her long life. I’m certain she will go to heaven.”

  Father Harry suggests we go into the rectory for coffee. Whether he inherited Father Orlis’s books is unknown to me, only that the office is as lousy with them as it was when Orlis was alive. He clears off a chair and bids me to sit, then disappears into a back room and comes out with two cups of coffee. “There’s no cream, I’m afraid. I forgot to get it from the store. Is black okay?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “I want you to know I did not invite you down here today just to take a walk or tell you about the Last Rites.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No,” says Harry. He sits down behind his desk, pushes aside a tall, irregularly stacked pile of books and looks at me. “I want to tell you something. Just before your grandmother became ill, she had a meeting with me to discuss her funeral arrangements. I think she knew she was not well, but her mind was remarkably clear.”

  “I suppose she’s planning a real humdinger.”

  Father Henry smiles. “She expects fireworks, yes. But she was also very clear on what she wanted done and who she wanted to do it. Your grandmother liked to be in control …”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

  “Well, yes, and I think she was afraid her wishes might not be carried out after her death the way she wanted. So she came to me.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “Mother would do whatever it is she wanted. She should know that.”

  “I don’t think she was referring to your mother.”

  “Then who? Aunt Jeannette? The church auxiliary?”

  Father Harry looks at me. I do not understand why he is telling me this. Grandnan is not dead yet. Surely decency demands such a conversation take place after. I tell him so.

  “I’m telling you now because your grandmother asked me to. She was very specific about when. If she got sick, and after I had performed the Extreme Unction, I was to let you know.”

  “Let me know what?”

  Father Harry sighs. “She was afraid you wouldn’t take it well. That you might refuse to do it. I think her conscience bothered her the last few years, Jacob. I think she has had some regrets.”

  I am utterly bewildered. Father Harry is talking in riddles. “Just get to your point,” I say.

  “She wants you to give her eulogy,” Father Harry says. “And she wanted you to be told while she is alive, to give you time to absorb it. She thought if they told you a few days before the funeral you wouldn’t do it.”

  I am stunned. Me? The eulogy? Why on earth would she want that? Here I am afraid of confronting her on her deathbed, and here she is giving me the opportunity to do it in front of the entire town. My reaction is swift, and unequivocal.

  “I won’t do it,” I say. “I absolutely refuse.”

  “She said you’d say that. She wants you to think about it.”

  “What for? Just to tell you in a week or two, when she finally does die, that I won’t and you need to get someone else? Listen, Father. I don’t hate my grandmother, okay? She practically brought me up. And I know, that in her way, she cared for me. But I cannot stand up in front of the entire town and sing her praises …”

  I catch myself. I was going to say, when she denied my uncle just as Peter denied Christ, but somehow the stricture about speaking about it in our town is still in place, even for me. And now my grandmother wants me to get up and pretend it never happened.

  Or so I think.

  Father Harry shakes his head and says, “You misunderstand. She doesn’t want you to sing her praises. She wants you to explain. She wants you to talk about the year your uncle died. She wants the town to know. She was never able to do it in her lifetime. She never had the courage, and the world she lived in didn’t allow it. But she knew the world y
ou lived in did. She chose you, Jacob. She wants you to justify her to the town.”

  “Justify her? You’ve got to be kidding me! I can’t justify her. I don’t know what she was thinking. I never did. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been so damn angry at her!”

  “She thinks you can. She was quite certain of it. So just take some time and think about what she’s asking. Perhaps if she wakes up again you can ask her about it, though I wouldn’t put much hope in that. Even if she does wake up, she’ll be very confused. I’m afraid she won’t last much longer.”

  “I —”

  “Don’t say anything else,” says Father Harry. “Do your grandmother a favour by considering what she has requested.”

  ▪ ▪ ▪

  every spring and fall, and then again before Christmas, my grand-mother cleaned the house from top to bottom. This consisted of waxing all the hardwood floors and shampooing the rugs, dampening down the drapes with a wet cloth, dusting every stick of furniture and every knick-knack and piece of china in the dining room breakfront, and taking all the area rugs to the backyard to be beat on the red fence. She employed my mother and Jeanette and me for these tasks, overseeing most of them, and only saved the more delicate procedures, the china and glassware, for herself.

  It was not cleaning season when my uncle was diagnosed with meningitis. My grandmother began to clean anyway. My mother thought she was doing it to distract herself from David’s illness and the fact he couldn’t yet be moved to his own place. She and Jeanette were glad my grandmother was keeping herself busy and tried to stay out of her way.

  That Friday my grandmother was in a mood. She said little over dinner. After my mother and Jeanette went upstairs to take a tray up to David, my grandmother decided to take out some of her frustration by cleaning more. Once the dishes were done she asked me to take the duster and dust the picture frames in the hall and the living room. She wiped down the glass bowls and vases on coffee tables and stands. She also switched on the six o’clock news and turned up the volume so she could hear it, wherever in the house she was.

  My grandmother was interested in what was going on in the world, but only so she could complain about the godlessness of it later to Jeanette and my mother. Her understanding of world events was limited. She knew the facts, but she didn’t know how to interpret them. Violence in the Middle East was due to an “inherent savagery” in the Arab nature. Starving people in Africa was due to an “inclination” to be lazy and indolent. Economic crisis in the US was due to rich men trying to fit themselves through the eyes of needles. Current events according to my grandmother were a muddle of biblical prophecy and racial stereotype, which never failed to infuriate my more liberal aunt.

  As we cleaned, my grandmother occasionally commented on a snippet to me. I knew nothing of world events and cared even less. I was too busy dusting portraits of the pope and wilderness scenes and my grandfather’s medical degrees, which my grandmother had removed from his den when he died and proudly hung in the front hallway so everyone would see. I was not very tall for my age, so I had to stand on a chair to reach the highest picture. This was of a horse — Pegasus flying through the clouds — which had been given as a gift to my grandmother from a member of her church. No one ever mentioned to my grandmother this was a strange gift for one Christian to give another. Pegasus was a Greek myth, a pagan symbol, and was as far removed from Christ as apples are from oranges. My grandmother didn’t seem to notice; if she did, she didn’t care. She hung the painting in a place of prominence, and every year since I had turned nine I was obligated to dust it. It was the only time I noticed it. I thought winged horses were stupid. It meant no more to me than my grandfather’s Latin inscribed medical degrees.

  On the other side of the door from Pegasus was a narrow, waist-high table. Upon it rested a large green Depression glass punch bowl. My grandmother loved Depression glass. She had a china cabinet full of it in the dining room. This bowl sat out because her own grandmother acquired it as a promotional gift in 1932, when her grandfather filled up his De Soto at a gas station and got an oil change. It was one of the only family heirlooms she had, and she wanted to display it prominently. Anyone given a tour of the house was first shown the punch bowl, and given a brief rundown of its history — where it had come from, including the name and proprietor of the gas station; the names of her mother and grandmother, who had owned it before my grandmother; and the day my grandmother received it, which happened to be her wedding day.

  Children brought into the house were given the same rundown, though not half as friendly. “You see this?” my grandmother would say. “That is very old. Worth both a fortune in terms of its sentimental and dollar value. It is irreplaceable. You hear me? Irreplaceable! You are not to touch it. Do not run, jump, or slide around it. You are to avoid this area at all times. If I catch you doing any of those things around my bowl, I will banish you from this house.”

  My grandmother meant what she said. I believed she would have banished me had I broken any of these rules. I was careful to walk around the table and punch bowl, always conscious not to trip and fall into it.

  Breaking the punch bowl, according to my grandmother, would be akin to murder.

  My mother and Jeanette told her many times she should store the bowl somewhere safer, where it would be in no danger. But she wouldn’t listen. “It needs to be displayed,” she said. “I’m very proud of it. People should just be careful of it. I’m not going to uproot and hide away my heritage just because some people don’t care to watch their step.” And so the bowl stayed.

  As I was dusting Pegasus, my grandmother was dusting the bowl. It was a delicate procedure. She dared not move it to the kitchen to wash it, and instead ran a wet cloth around the inside of the bowl. To get to the underside, she had to lift it off its stand, cradling it in one arm like a baby while wiping it. .

  We were both startled by my mother shouting at the top of the stairs.

  “Mom!” she cried. “Come here. Hurry!”

  “What?” called my grandmother. “I’m busy!”

  “It’s David! Something’s wrong!”

  “What is it this time?” my grandmother shouted. She was cradling the bowl in both arms now, and was about to set it back on the stand.

  My mother yelled, “He can’t breathe! He’s burning up! Call an ambulance! For God’s sake.”

  “Those two,” said my grandmother. “An hour ago he was fine. Now he’s sick again. God-knows-what …”

  She stopped speaking. The tv in the rumpus room could be heard distinctly from where we stood. So far the news had been of the usual suspects — conflict, economy, politics. But just at that moment, as if orchestrated, we heard the announcer talking about this new disease. aids. Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.

  My mother and Jeanette tried explaining it to my grandmother before, when the news first started carrying stories about it. But no one made a connection until then.

  My grandmother gave a harsh intake of breath. She shoved the bowl back on its stand. The bowl was not all the way on. I watched in horror as it toppled and fell, detonating like a bomb on the hardwood floor. My grandmother didn’t notice. She turned halfway around and screamed, “Don’t touch him!” with an old lady’s dry and piercing squeal. “For God’s sake! Don’t touch him!” She ran up the stairs as fast as she could. “Don’t touch him!” she screamed. “Don’t touch him, Caroline!”

  I stood on the chair, my duster in hand, looking down. Pieces of my grandmother’s precious bowl glittering like jagged emeralds on the dark wood of the floor.

  PART II

  ■

  ■

  ▪

  FIVE

  ■

  the word aids was never spoken in our house. Not during that period in July, 1984, when it was suspected my uncle had it; nor after, in the late summer, when we knew for sure. There was a barely restrained hysteria then, a sustained but muted mania over something we all knew was there but had a name we could
not speak.

  The reason it could not be spoken was because of me. This I knew for certain. Whatever secrets were being kept were to deny me knowledge of what was really going on. Conversations stopped when I walked into a room. Forced cheerfulness and idle questions would follow.

  “How was your day, Jacob?”

  “What did you do outside, Jacob?”

  “What do you want for your birthday, Jacob?”

  Jeanette and my mother joined my grandmother in this behaviour, and I marvelled at the three of them in collusion over something. Together for the first time in agreeing that whatever this was, it must be kept from me.

  And so, of course, I was dying to know.

  The night my grandmother smashed her bowl, my uncle was taken to the hospital by ambulance. He did not come out until the middle of August. Those weeks he was away would be the last full days of my childhood, before a long and complicated adolescence began. My mother and aunt and grandmother succeeded in keeping the truth from me, but they knew they couldn’t keep it forever. My uncle’s situation consumed them to the point that it was as if I didn’t exist. I became, for those short weeks, something of a neglected child. I didn’t mind. I preferred to be neglected than weighed down by whatever was troubling them. I wanted to know, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be involved.

  After a week of hanging about the house and attempting to find out what was going on, I decided to weather the storm by spending as much time away as possible. Unfortunately, in addition to the weirdness at my own house, Cameron began exhibiting a weirdness of his own.

  It started simply. One day I called him up to go to his house. He told me I couldn’t because his parents were busy waxing the floors. A few days later I ran into him on the sidewalk outside of the library and again suggested we go back to his place. Again he said we couldn’t. His father was cutting the grass and didn’t want anyone around.