“It’s still the middle o’ the night,” Martha moaned. “The stores is not open yit.”
“Night or day, no difference ’round here. Can’t sleep no how with that old bastard sister o’ yours hollerin’ and screamin’. Don’t know how it wuz I let meself be talked into takin’ in her and her brat in the first place. Ye said she wouldn’t be givin’ me no trouble. Ye said she had the money to pay her way. Well, I ain’t seen no money, nor I ain’t seen a decent night’s sleep since she took sick. Git up! And stop her from screechin’. I’m gittin’ out soon’s I can.”
Martha heard the outside door slam as she buttoned her dress. She crossed to the window, as she did every morning, to take a look at the sheep in the top field. She did not have to count them, so accustomed were her eyes to seeing their exact number. When Willie came in from the barn, she had the fire going and his porridge on the table. There hadn’t been time to quiet the screaming from the bed in the covered porch that served as a bedroom off the kitchen.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus!” a voice rang out. “Please, please, dear God, spare me this agony —. ‘Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy . . . .’”
Martha looked toward the little man she had married so long ago. He had his hands over his ears. His eyes squeezed tight and his nose wrinkled up until his heavy gray moustache bristled. His face was ashen with leashed rage.
“A man can’t even have his breakfast,” he shouted, jumping up from the table. “Where’s them brats we’ve been feedin’? Git ’em up! Ye’d think I was runnin’ an orphanage. Good ol’ MacSween! Simple-headed ol’ MacSween! Takin’ in everybody’s brats and bastards.”
“Willie, your own flesh and blood,” Martha’s voice was barely audible. “Show a little mercy to your own at least!”
“Git them up! I’m goin’!” Willie MacSween pulled his old gray cap down over his ears and stormed out of the room. The screams from the porch drowned the banging of the door. Martha hurried in to her sister.
“Is there anything ye’d like me to do fer ye, Helen?” she asked, kneeling down beside the bed. “Ye had a bad night last night, didn’t ye, dear? I wisht Willie would git the doctor fer ye, and the priest. Might as well be talkin’ to the wall fer all he cares to listen.”
Helen screamed again. Her eyes were open, but there was no recognition, no expression in them.
Martha ran to the foot of the stairs.
“Larry! Sadie! Gretta! Git ye up and git down here! Helen’s took a turn, and Himself is gone to town.”
Then grabbing her old shawl, Martha ran down to the riverbank and shouted to Jennie. Her friend’s house was only yards away, and the women always called back and forth to each other. Large stones made the crossing easy, except during the spring floods. In spite of her age, Ol’ Jennie could ford the river with ease.
“We’ll say the beads fer her. There ain’t time to git the priest,” said Martha, starting back up to the house.
“Is it dyin’ she is, then?” gasped Jennie.
Martha nodded.
The house was quiet now, and the children stood silently around the stove, afraid to move.
“I’d best take a look,” said Jennie, throwing down her shawl and going out into the little porch.
“Come on. Sit down and eat yer porridge,” said Martha, pushing the kettle over the fire. “Sadie, ye’d best clean up the table when ye’re through, and sweep up a little. Gretta’ll give ye a hand.”
“Is Helen bad, Grandma?” asked Larry. “Is she gonna die?”
Martha nodded. “Git on with yer breakfast, child. There’s chores to be done.”
“Fetch me the lookin’ glass, Marthie!” Jennie cried out. “I’m thinkin’ she’s gone.”
Martha reached for the cracked mirror over the sink and ran to the porch. “Git yer beads quick,” she called to the children.
Jennie took the glass and held it to the dying woman’s mouth.
“She’s goin’ fast, but she’s makin’ a smudge. We’d best git the beads started,” she said, taking her rosary from her dress pocket.
Silently, the children crowded in and knelt beside the bed.
“Will we be started in time?” asked Martha, bending down and trying to see if any breath clouded the mirror.
Jennie nodded and started rattling off the beads as though she were running a marathon. Martha and the children could barely keep up with her.
“Git me water in the bowl, Marthie, so’s I can wash her,” said Jennie, rising to her feet. “No need to worry ’bout her soul. If she don’t git to Heaven, none of yez stands a chance. God rest her soul!” she said, crossing herself. “Poor Helen’s done her penance here.”
“She’s all right now,” Martha said gently, crossing herself as she rose from her knees. “Now ye kids best go find somethin’ to be doin’. Jennie’ll be after washin’ her now, and she won’t be needin’ ye to watch. Twas a blessing God took her, poor soul. She’s suffered plenty.” Martha brushed the tears from her eyes. “May she rest in peace,” she whispered.
With bowed heads the little procession filed out of the room. The children stopped to whisper in the kitchen, but Martha continued on her way out into the yard, past the barn and the outhouse, till she reached the sheep pen. The pen was empty now. The sheep were out to range. But in the quiet of this place that housed the animals she loved, there was comfort.
“I been lookin’ fer ye all over,” said Jennie, holding open the back door. “There’s somethin’ I gotta tell ye, and there’s no use the children hearin’ it to repeat.”
“What is it, then, Jennie?” Martha’s voice was steady now.
“Look, Marthie, I don’t mean to be buttin’ in on any of yer business, but didn’t Helen have some money?”
“I can’t say. Why do you ask?”
“Put on yer thinkin’ cap. It’s not on straight right now. Helen was away t’ the Boston States a long time, and her workin’ every day she was there. She didn’t spend any money to speak of after she came back here.”
“Jennie! Don’t talk so —”
Tears filled Martha’s eyes.
“If ye think I’m buttin’ in where I’ve got no business, just say so. But listen first. Now when Willie gits home later, he’ll have to go all the way over to Dan Angus’s to git him to make the box fer her, and to git the arrangements made fer the funeral. And what is it Willie’ll be thinkin’ about? It’ll be did Helen have any money. And if ye keep standin’ there thinkin’ how ye’ll be desecratin’ the dead or some other such foolish notion, ye won’t get it. He will. Soon’s he walks in that door after makin’ the arrangements. Mark me words. Ye’ll not be seein’ any of it then.”
Martha wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “Poor Helen!” Her thin words seemed pulled by her ragged breath. “She worked so hard to earn the money, if there is any, and sufferin’ so — I still can hear her screechin’. It just don’t seem right to me. But I guess maybe yer right.”
“Think, Marthie,” Jennie went on. “Would it be you Helen’d rather be havin’ the money, or would it be Willie?”
“Well, puttin’ it that way —”
“Come on, then. The kids’ll be here in a minute, and you don’t want anyone knowin’ what’s what, then tellin’ Willie soon as they take a spite ’gainst ye fer somethin’.”
“I don’t think the girls or Larry’d tell ’im,” said Martha, coming to the defence of her grandchildren.
“No use takin’ chances though,” said Jennie, as she led the way into Helen’s bedroom. “No tellin’ what kids’ll do sometimes, nor growed up people either, fer that matter. Let it slip out, and them not meanin’ to tell at all. We’ll start in here.”
Jennie threw open the door to the room where Helen lay. Catching a glimpse of the body covered by a sheet, Jennie put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, Marthie,” she moaned, “I
forgot! I couldn’t git Helen’s legs straightened out by myself. And you was gone. Could we . . . ?”
“Oh no!” Martha cried. “I couldn’t! Leave her be! Willie can do it when he comes.”
“Don’t ye think she might be after gittin’ too cold by then? And we daresn’t call anybody yit.” Jennie’s voice rose in desperation. “We’ve got to find that money! The kids are comin’ in now. Find a chore fer them.”
Not until late afternoon did Martha remember Helen’s trunk stored in the attic. It was easy to get at, and Jennie was in no mood for wasting time. The trunk wasn’t locked. Jennie threw open the lid, pulled out the contents and strewed them on the floor. Martha stood by, wringing her hands and blessing herself. Her lips moved in silent prayer.
Jennie’s wrinkled old eyes snapped with excitement.
“If I didn’t know it was forgiveness ye was prayin’ for, Marthie MacSween, I’d be thinkin’ you was prayin’ fer me to find somethin’,” said Jennie, as she sat back on her heels. “And I have!” She grinned and held up a worn pocketbook.
Martha’s eyes lost their look of resignation. The pocketbook was crammed with American bills. Slowly she sank down to her knees and watched Jennie as she counted the money, passing each bill lovingly through her fingers.
“Eight hundred dollars!”
Martha was stunned. Never before had she seen so much money. The girl’s voices from the kitchen brought her back to reality. She whipped the bills off the floor and stowed them safely in her bosom.
“I’ll see ye git a share, Jennie, soon’s we’re alone again,” Martha whispered.
Then she said, “What on earth will I do with all that money! Wisht I could buy some baby lambs, but like as not Willie’d catch on and take a spite on them maybe.”
“Sheep!” Jennie snorted. “Ye needs new curtains, and ye could use a new church dress.”
“Yes, but if I bought things at the store, Jennie, even if Willie’d let me come along, he’d ask where I got the money. And I couldn’t lie, Jennie.”
“The catalogue, ye fool!” said Jenny, forcing her voice into a whisper. “Send away fer them. It’s you takes care of the mail. Ye’ll see. Willie don’t notice curtains or such things. And if he do, ye can say yer cousin Frannie sent another parcel from the States. No need to say they was in it. Git the idea!”
The women smiled and hurried down the stairs.
Near sundown, the big gray mare trotted smartly into the yard. Larry rushed out to meet his grandfather, to be the first with the news.
Willie didn’t give the child time to speak. “Well, don’t stand there with yer eyes buggin’ out! Git the harness off this animal and put her in the barn.” He threw the reins at the boy, and for the first time saw the expression on his face.
“She’s gone, then, is she?” he said.
The boy nodded.
“So — she finally died!” Willie squeezed two tears from his eyes and set his face in an expression of benignity.
“Sooo —.” Willie got no further. Over his wife’s shoulder, he saw Ol’ Jennie. He bowed his head. “Oh, hello, Jennie. The boy’s been tellin’ me poor Helen’s after leavin’ us. Poor soul! She suffered the tortures of Hell this last while. She’s lucky to be shed of all the pain.” He frowned. “God rest her soul,” he added as an afterthought.
“Ye’ll have to be goin’ to see will Dan Angus make her a box, Willie,” said Martha, “and see can ye git one of the boys up there to see the priest about a Buryin’ Mass.”
“I s’pose so,” Willie mumbled into his moustache. “Best git a bite to eat. Haven’t ate since mornin’.” Willie marched to the table, sat down, and waited for his dinner to be placed before him.
“Tell that feller to throw some hay to the mare, so’s she’ll have ate, time’s I’s ready to leave,” he grumbled, apparently to the food on his plate.
The girls came in to fetch the milking buckets.
“Granny,” said Sadie, “the cows was way up by Lawlors. We called in to tell them ’bout Helen. They said they’d be down as soon as they got the chores done.”
“All right, then,” said Martha. “Now, best ye git the milkin’ over and git back fer prayers when they come.”
Two hours passed before the Lawlors arrived. Willie came in soon after they were seated. He accepted their condolences and went directly upstairs to the attic.
“Well, I s’pose we’d best say a few prayers,” said Jennie. “I washed her, and bein’ there wasn’t any man to help, we thought it best to leave her be.”
Martha led the way into the little bedroom. The sound of Willie prowling overhead punctuated their prayers. They heard him tramp down the stairs.
“Would ye care fer a drop, Charlie?” he asked by way of greeting, when the devout had returned to the kitchen. “I have to keep her ahide, or she’d be gone.”
“And who but yerself would drink her?” said Martha, stating the truth with no trace of anger in her voice.
“When did it happen?” asked Charlie unexpectedly.
“This mornin’. Right after Willie left fer to go to town. Jennie and me was with her.”
“She went so fast there was no time fer to call anybody,” said Jennie, hoping to avoid further questioning. “We just got to our knees in time fer the beads. Willie bein’ away, I said to Martha here to git cleanin’ and fix things fer the wake. I was here, and there weren’t no use puttin’ other people out to help clean the house.”
“I know it weren’t anywhere lately she went,” said Charlie. “She’s after gittin’ stiff already. If I was ye, Willie, I’d git her outta that bed and straighten her legs. She won’t be fittin’ in any box the way she is.”
“I thought of it,” said Willie, “but fer about a month now, the rheumatiz’s been botherin’ me right arm, and havin’ nobody around but the boy fer to help . . . .” Willie’s voice trailed off.
“Is that so?” said Charlie. “I could’ve given a hand around the place. I had no idea yer arm was botherin’ ye.”
“Well now, seein’s yer here, we’d best git her outta here,” said Willie, as if he had just thought of it himself. “We’ll catch the ends of the sheet and bring her in, sheet and all.”
Willie took the head and left Charlie to manage the feet as best he could. Helen’s knees were drawn up under her chin. They tried to pass through the door into the kitchen, but had to turn this way and that, and finally turn her over on her side to get her through. They laid her on the table and threw back the sheet to expose her twisted form in its long flannel nightgown.
“Ye’d best not plan to keep her long,” said Charlie, looking around to make sure that Martha wasn’t near. “She’s smellin’ perty bad now.”
“That ain’t from bein’ dead,” Willie answered. “She’s been stinkin’ fer a long time now. Herself says it was cancer she had. I couldn’t say.”
“She musta suffered something terrible,” said Charlie, shaking his head. “Look at them legs. Doubled up like a fence staple, and that stiff! Bear down, Willie. See if we can git the knees straight.”
The men tugged and pushed. Willie complained at every move. But the legs were set. They would not move.
“Larry!” Willie yelled. “Go out into the barn and git that two-by-four standin’ against the door in the horse stable and fetch her here.”
“What’ll ye do with the two-by-four?” Charlie asked.
“Put it across the legs and bear down. The boy’ll help. Gotta git them down fer the box lid.”
Martha and Jennie were in the pantry making tea.
“What did ye shove me for at the stove?” asked Martha.
“To stop ye from tellin’ how long we was, givin’ out the news,” said Jennie. “Turned out the truth was best. When old Charlie said she was stiff, I knew how close he’d come to catchin’ us. I can just hear the valley buzzin’ now, if ye
’d paid me any mind at all.”
“Jennie, I just don’t feel right about takin’ that money,” said Martha. “There’s Belle. Shouldn’t she be told?”
“Belle!” scoffed Jennie, sputtering with disgust. “Marthie, are ye after gittin’ queer? When was it ye last heard from Belle?”
“Never heard from her since she left,” Martha answered sadly.
“How can ye give her money, then?”
“I could git her address all right. Are you sure, Jennie? Are ye sure it’s not wrong what we’re doin’?” Martha was pale.
“Tell ye what,” said Jennie, closing the pantry door behind her. “Tell Father MacGillivray — about everything, just like it is. Everything now, mind ye, and see what he says. Trouble is, he’ll want a chunk of the money fer somethin’.”
“Helen was a lot of care for over a year now,” Martha sighed, as she took the roll of notes from her bosom. “I guess I have this comin’ to me. Here’s fifty fer ye.”
“No!” said Jennie firmly. “That’s yers. I only want ye to keep it.”
Jennie pursed her lips. “Poor Helen’s troubles started with that Belle of hers. Wouldn’t leave her in the Home. Oh no! Paid fer her sins with the rest of her life. She gave up everything fer that baby. If she didn’t have Belle, she could’ve found a good man and got married. Then fer Belle to run off as soon as she could make her own way and leave you to take care of her mother. Didn’t even have the decency to write. If I was you, I wouldn’t even bother to tell her Helen was dead.”
“But Helen cared fer her.” Martha shook her head.
“And how do ye know?” Jennie was not to be stopped now. “Helen didn’t see her in years. Ye took care of her after she come back. Ye put up with Willie grumblin’ and hollerin’. I heard him from over home, rantin’ and carryin’ on.”
“Jennie, I want ye to take this fifty,” said Martha, trying to change the subject. “I wouldn’t feel right if ye didn’t.”
“Well, if it’ll make ye feel any better. I didn’t expect it, mind ye.” Jennie stowed the bills safely in her bosom.
Great Cape Breton Storytelling Page 5