Wigford Rememberies

by Kyp Harness

  Yet how was it that this kindness offered by Mona was often minimized, if not entirely negated, when the leaders of the schoolyard took it into their minds to advance upon the two girls known as Big Bess and Gooney Gayle, and began shouting these nicknames at them, ridiculing their shabby clothes and plump bodies, mocking their pathetic doll, insulting their parents and the broken-down farmhouses in which they lived, down ponderous, weed-overgrown lanes behind the veils of intersecting, grey, thorny branches of trees which seemed ugly and inhospitable and of a lower class of trees than those found elsewhere; and how was it then that Mona would often join with the other students in taunting and humiliating the two girls, herself neither entirely a part of the common mass of kids and neither entirely akin to the scapegoats and misfits.

  And in her shame she recalls an instance when joining with Merna Plympton to make fun of the snot on the sleeve of Gayle’s sweater when they were leaving school. She recalls Gayle looking at her reproachfully, her eyes small and pig-like, scared—yet something in the centre of them not scared at all—focusing on Mona in a way they never had before. Mona saw in those eyes the memories of a thousand walks to school, from school, the two of them—memories now denied by Mona’s brazen condemnation of Gayle. And Mona knew her own eyes, even at this moment, showed Gayle the recognition of the reproach Gayle was communicating to her, showed her knowledge that even tomorrow and the day after, Mona would walk with Gayle to school, neither of them mentioning this incident—this rejection and spurning—as though it had never happened.

  She knew her eyes showed this and that they pled for forgiveness for it as well, forgiveness for her weakness in needing to be aligned with the more popular, with the wide middle ground of children neither extraordinary nor deficient but proudly normal, a normality that depended on banding together to brand those beneath them as inferior, banding together to brand the spearheads of their glib normality as superior.

  But the dismissive hatred would fall in an instant as her heart regained the feeling it sometimes had when they walked silently down the gravel road in autumn beneath the slow unravelling of the fire-coloured leaves of maple trees parachuting sleepily to a dusk shadowed landscape attaining its yearly peak of vibrant redness before surrendering to grey, white and black. In the silence of their marching side by side, a peaceful oneness between them in their silence as real as reality itself was communicated without words so much more than the nervous speech of the cliques of the schoolyard, the glibness utilized to elevate oneself, the slander and gossip utilized to denigrate others.

  So much more of a deeper understanding was to be found in the silence of the outcasts than in the backyards and birthday parties of the accepted ones, this was true. But the fact that often governed Mona’s, and most people’s, lives was one that Mona could not always admit to herself: the simple virtue that the pack seemed to be moving, moving ahead, and the outcasts and the misfits were not moving. They were left behind, left for dead, or at least it seemed that way—for they were alone, and those not wanted on the voyage by the majority, having nowhere else to go, are forced to simply stay where they are, watching everyone else leave as life is composed of only the leaving and the left behind; they are always by definition abandoned and left behind—left, finally, alone.

  As she grew older, Bess became less the overweight and unattractive girl who shrinks into meekness and shame; she became more emboldened with the knowledge that there were those who would want her, who would need her, if only she made her availability known to them. These wouldn’t be found at church socials nor at 4-H meetings, but rather those who would be there to supply the emboldening liquid of alcohol to make her come across with the availability of all she dared to do in an even more efficient manner.

  So she became more experienced in the ways of older men with hungry, furious eyes when she was not yet out of high school; she became experienced in practices which would have stunned the superficially sexually experienced and popular girls of her high school; she smoked cigarettes, fitfully hiding the habit, or attempting to, in the last year of school; and scandalizing and breaking the heart of her elderly aunt who had raised her as best she could. After high school, Bess married a Greek man in his forties who owned a restaurant, and after a year the marriage ended, though no one really knew why.

  Mona turns her attention to Maxine now sitting, listening to Bess’s declamations, as always somewhat taciturn, never giving in entirely to the speaker, always remaining somewhat in reserve, wryly, doubtfully. A part of Maxine must sit in at least partial judgment, for it is she who knows the real bedrock truth, she whose face may show nothing, but all the practical facts of the world swim behind those eyes—though now half-hidden by spectacles. All that can be done in the way of healing, building, fixing, feeding, mending, caring, calming can be found in those hands, though speckled with liver spots as they increasingly are, and blue-veined, and subject to the odd tremor.

  For Maxine is the elder sister of Mona, and more than sister too. It is she who has been Mona’s great safeguard and bulwark since the death of their mother back when they were children, Mona only seven, Maxine ten years older than that, and when their mother lay screaming with the pain all those years ago in that farmhouse, when the doctors had said they’d done all that they could do, when the morphine deadened the pain yet made her rant incomprehensibly.

  It was Maxine who for Mona was the essence of reality, the steadfast sun around which her childhood orbited, for their father, almost mad with distress and grief, was a distant shadow, sitting in sullen, stoic silence by the stove, and later on, too, when they rode back from the cemetery and beyond, when Maxine married young, married Elmer, Mona watched from an upstairs window, watched them setting off on their new life in a pickup truck—Maxine’s bed in the back—and then it was Mona who was left behind, left alone.

  And looking over to Momma Grace Simpson, she sees that portly woman sitting, listening to the monologue of Bess Armstrong as all the rest of them are, but she takes in a glance that Grace Simpson, though perhaps hearing is not truly listening as Grace’s large blue eyes stare through Bess as Grace sits absently scratching at a mosquito bite on the hillock of flesh that is her upper arm.

  In the impermeable opaqueness of Grace’s eyes Mona can guess at the thoughts behind them, guess that Grace—even now—is not preoccupied by the idle talk of Bess or of any woman, that her singular obsession is that of helping the mentally retarded children. It certainly was well-known that Grace herself had a sister who was a bit “off,” who still lived with Grace’s elderly mother and would likely do so for life. Was this the reason, aside from her essential goodness, that she had such compassion for the lost and forsaken?

  Grace, or as the kids called her “Momma Simpson,” was the type of woman continually concerned with the welfare of others, so it seemed. She certainly did give herself to the local mentally handicapped kids’ association and she even volunteered at the local old folks’ home. In fact, she not only served others more than Mona did herself (who did nothing), but she also excelled and surpassed all other lifelong help-givers and volunteers. She was selfless in her dedication, so why was it that she was so unlikeable—this person who by many yardsticks could be considered a saint?

  Was it because she was overweight and didn’t look after her appearance, didn’t seem to care what others thought of the way she looked, and so was in some subtle way an affront to all others who did worry about how they were perceived? And the fact that her unkemptness was a result of her single-minded determination to help the less fortunate—wasn’t that an affront to those who lifted not a finger to help those less fortunate, who might not even recognize that such people even exist?

  She was the kind who always knew what was best, it seemed, and wasn’t shy about telling you so. There was always the sense when you were around her that she assumed you were under her control and were expected to obey the suggestions she had for your life. This presu
mptuousness on her part was something Mona always chafed under, would shrug off, and came to the conclusion—as many others did—that Momma Simpson was someone best taken in small doses.

  But on the other hand maybe it is simply her basic goodness that is the real offence, in that way that it puts on trial and convicts those of lesser goodness, automatically. She is not controlled by fear or discomfort, merely a steely, unwavering resolve as solid and unyielding as the blue in her concentrated stare. She is moved by a constant energy that compels her in the name of what she perceives to be the objective fact that she is here to help the helpless; it is a job that simply needs to be done, like a farmer mending a hole in his fence, and somehow this matter-of-factness about it is annoying too—who can say whether all saints are not in some essential way unlikeable?

  Nia sitting beside Martha Simmons on the couch, looks over at her aunt now in late middle-age (though seeming older), and watches her aging yet still deft fingers busily knitting, and asks, “How is it being married thirty-five years, Aunt Martha?”

  Martha looks up and, orienting herself back into the world of humanity, says, “Oh—well, it’s something, something you have to work on.” She half-smiles at Nia, then having paid this due to social interaction, turns back to her yarn and needles, her light, wavering voice continuing on. “It doesn’t always come naturally—people have their differences, of course—so what you have to remember, I think, is to be tolerant. It can’t be excitement all the time—you have to be able to give in to the other person’s point of view sometimes…”

  As Bess Armstrong continues on, now detailing the way that the Jenkins on the third line had split up because all he ever did was lay on the couch drinking beer all the time so she upped and left him, but now he’s had a heart attack and been in the hospital for three months and she hasn’t come to visit once, in comes Webb.

  “Pardon me for interrupting…” he says and Bess looks up and says, “Oh, loverboy!” which makes Maxine laugh.

  “Nia, could I see you for a minute?” Webb asks, and as Nia moves from the couch to join Webb, Bess shouts out, “Now don’t be gettin’ up to somethin’ nasty, you two!”

  “Can we go now?” Webb asks Nia immediately as they are away from the rest of the group.

  “Why?” Nia says, puzzled. “We just got here.”

  “I’d really like to go now,” Webb says, his eyes darting over to the kitchen door, his voice hushed, nearly pleading.

  “We can’t go,” Nia says exasperatedly and with a touch of impatience. “We have to stay a little longer—I mean, come on.”

  Webb looks into her eyes with an earnest searching combined with the resignation that what is so eagerly searched for will not be found. Nia brings her lips forward to touch his, and in a flash she has turned and is on her way back to the couch and the women.

  Webb pushes himself back through the kitchen door. He hears and then sees Buzz as he remarks, “Oh, shit, you’re tellin’ me, you get some of them beefsteak tomatoes. We had some growin’ in the back corner of the yard last summer—MAN, those were some good eatin’! Jesus, I used to come home from work and eat ’em, have nothin’ else but them for supper! I’m not talkin’ about a sandwich, but of course many a time I like those too.”

  “A sandwich is what I like,” Daddy Jack attests. “Just gimme a toasted tomato sandwich, by God, with some butter, salt and pepper, and some mayonnaise, that’s what I like.”

  “Sure,” says Buzz, taking the opportunity to drag at his cigarette and take a swig of his beer.

  “Why, I could make a meal outta just that too,” Jack says. “And what ya wanna do is throw some bacon on there, too—that’s a sandwich for ya!”

  “Now you’re talkin’!” Russ affirms, with a sharp nod of his head and a wink of his eye.

  “Oh, sure, sure, no doubt about that, Jack,” Buzz offers. “Nothin’ I like better than a good bacon and tomato sandwich, and for that matter, I can take a tomato sandwich on its own; you can put it on toast or just plain white bread, that’s good too. In fact, back when I had that job at the plant I’d often take five or six of ’em, SIX of the bastards in my lunchbox with me there in the middle of the summer when the tomatoes were really growin’. That’s when the old man had his patch out back of the house—and man, he could REALLY grow ’em! Could he ever!

  “But what I’m talkin’ about, Jack,” Buzz continues, bulldozing a little heap of cigarette ash on the tablecloth with his finger as he speaks. “What I’m talkin’ about is just comin’ home from work on a hot summer day, goin’ out back and gettin’ some beefsteak tomatoes, comin’ in, washin’ ’em, slicin’ ’em up, throwin’ ’em on a plate and drenchin’ them with some vinegar and then lots o’ salt and pepper, and then sittin’ down and makin’ a meal outta them. Man!”

  Buzz grimaces, shutting his eyes and making a clicking sound with his tongue. “THAT is some good eatin’! And I’ll tell ya, my youngest boy, he likes ’em too, he can’t get enough of ’em! In fact,” Buzz notes wryly, “he’ll come in when I got ’em all sliced up, all vinegared and salted and peppered, he’ll come in and he’ll take all the middle slices away.”

  “Middle slices, what’s that, Buzz?” Jack asks with an amiable smile.

  “That’s the, you know, the ones that ain’t at either end of the tomato, where the stem is—you know, he’ll come in, the little bugger, take all the good middle slices, and leave me with what we call the butt-ends! How do ya like that?” he exclaims with mock chagrin.

  “The butt-ends, eh?” Russ chuckles and the other men smile.

  “Well, back there when you were talkin’ about takin’ six sandwiches to work, that made me think on how I useta take a good goddamn of a half loaf of bread’s worth of sandwiches back when I’d pull an all-nighter on the transport trucks,” notes Jack.

  “That right, eh, Jack?” Buzz asks.

  “That’d be the size of it,” Jack says, “but the sandwiches were bologna and mustard. Jesus, when I was a young guy, I couldn’t get enough bologna and mustard, and I didn’t have no problem at all knockin’ back maybe ten or twelve of those sandwiches a night.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with a bologna and mustard sandwich,” Buzz attests.

  “You’re goddamned right there’s nothin’ wrong with it!” Daddy Jack agrees. “That was back when I was doin’ them all-nighters, and there weren’t no time to stop off for a meal, and I didn’t wanna anyway. I had to be at a certain place at a certain time the next day and I had to make pretty good, goddamn sure I was there, come hell or high water!”

  “Well now, long as you’re talkin’ ’bout lunchtimes on duty, hear this,” George interjects, raising a pointed finger. “Now back when I was a teenager, I spent the summers, when the old man didn’t need me, pickin’ up the rocks on old Mr. McFinistry’s farm. Bob, you remember ol’ Mr. McFinistry’s place?”

  “Yep, I remember ’im,” says Ol’ Harrison.

  “Well, he could work a fella pretty damn hard,” George recalls. “He’d sit up there on that tractor lookin’ down on ya, pullin’ his wagon behind ’im, and if you missed a rock, by God, that guy’d be on your ass so fast it’d make your head spin. Anyway, I’d be what, about seventeen or eighteen, and of course when you’re a young fella like that you got a pretty good appetite anyway, but after the way McFinistry worked us, with the sun beatin’ down on our backs all morning, by God, I was ready to eat a horse every day, couldn’t wait for noontime to come around—and of course we had to eat out there in the field without a speck of shade to sit in. But anyway, what I would take to that job would be eight big sandwiches o’ pickle and cheese—or ham if we had it, but that was rare—a couple apples, one whole thermos of coffee, another of chicken soup and half a pie!”

  “Yeah!” Harley suddenly pipes up. “And sometimes when I’m out workin’, I can eat a whole turkey!”

  “Harley, you shut up!” Jack shouts
at the snickering teenager as George looks darkly down upon him. “I’ll be damned if you ever even knew what it was like to do an honest day’s work in your life!” Jack fumes, and George glares at the boy furiously, before pursing his lips and shaking his head in disgust, quelling his distaste with a long draught of his beer.

  “Hey, who the hell’s shootin’ the shit in here?” a voice rings out, and everyone turns to see a diminutive man walk in, squat, with incongruously muscled arms, shoulder-length hair and a round face with a tiny pug nose.

  “Hey, well if it ain’t Raymond!” George shouts out, forgetting his disgruntlement.

  “Hey, Ray!” Jack calls, and the rest of the men greet the small man now striding into the room, a cigarette jutting from his smirking lips, his left arm upraised, giving the thumbs-up signal.

  “Congratulations on your anniversary, George!” Raymond says, clasping George’s hand and shaking it energetically.

  “What’ll you be havin’ to drink, Ray?” George asks.

  “You know me, George—I’m a bottle baby!” Raymond attests, and Jack and Harley guffaw as a beer is passed to Raymond who snaps it open and downs half of it in one grand, ostentatious gulp, then pulls the bottle from his lips and delivers himself of a long, rumbling, wrenching belch.

  “Sure nothin’ else came up with that one, Ray?” Buzz asks with a grin.

  “Oh I’m fine, Buzz. Jesus, this is prob’ly the last thing I need, a beer, Jesus,” he pauses to shake his head and pull on his cigarette, exhaling a vast cloud of smoke up to the ceiling. “I was out last night with the girlfriend, got so goddamned pie-eyed I couldn’t see straight. It’s a wonder I was even standin’. Somehow I got into the truck and got us home, out there on Highway 7. I don’t even know how, I can’t even remember how we got home. Jesus!” he says, shaking his head.