He laughed. “I can’t.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Where do you think?” said Edie.
I stood up. ‘ “I’m not going.”
Buster put his foot on the gas. “Oh yes, you are.”
I fell back into my seat.
“The church is full,” said Edie. “But it feels empty without you.”
I said out loud what I’d been thinking all day. “I don’t want to see the coffin.”
Buster and Edie exchanged a look through the rearview mirror.
Edie took my hand. “There’s a big picture of Gord on a table at the front of the church,” she said. “He’s wearing a pair of sleepers with monkeys on them.”
“He’s smiling at the camera,” said Buster. “His tongue is stuck out and there’s drool dribbling down his chin.”
“You focus on that, Barry,” said Edie. “Think of it as a celebration of his life.”
I didn’t feel like celebrating but I did feel like remembering.
“Okay,” I said.
Edie took my hand and I relaxed as much as I could in a speeding bus.
Heads turned as I walked in. Mom and Dad moved apart so I could sit between them. They each took a hand and gave it a squeeze. I was the baby now but I didn’t want to be.
Father O’Flaherty shot me a dirty look, which I thought was pretty outrageous considering the circumstances. I immediately tuned him out. I focused on the photo of Gord in his monkey pajamas. I pictured how happy Gord was when I pretended to dump him in the harbor. Then I heard Pius’s voice. He was up at the altar. He talked about how smart Gord was. And how funny and cute. I heard the rustle of paper and when I looked up, he smiled and said, “I asked friends and neighbors to share their memories.” Boo from Caines said Gord was his favorite customer. Tony from Fred’s said Gord lit up the whole store. Mrs. O’Brien said she loved the sound of Gord’s laugh ringing from our open window to hers.
I looked back at the photo.
My heart was full but it felt empty without him.
Father O’Flaherty shook our hands. When it was my turn, I said, “Your oral presentation skills need work.”
He said, “This anger will pass, my son.”
Pius came over and pulled me outside. He spread his arms apart and said, “Punch me.”
I took a swing. He’d tensed but I managed to knock some wind out of him.
He caught his breath. “Better?”
I nodded.
He spread his arms apart again. I walked into them.
He said, “We’ll get through this,” and I almost believed him.
Back at the house Nan told Mrs. O’ Brien that they think Gord died of SIDS.
“Sid’s what?” I asked.
Nan added three sugars to my tea. “Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.”
I poured my tea down the sink.
Saibal and his parents came to give their condolences. They were two of the many people who came to visit. It felt like a party but it was far from it. Saibal came to my room and we played Operation. I kept hitting the sides but Saibal had a steady hand.
“You have the hands of a surgeon,” I said.
Saibal extracted the broken heart. “Runs in the family,” he said.
I tried for the funny bone. BZZZZZZ.
“You, on the other hand,” said Saibal, “have the hands of a sturgeon.”
I laughed because sturgeons don’t have hands.
“Saibal?” I said. “Can you get your mom and dad?”
A moment later they were at the end of my bed. I addressed my first question to his mother.
“Tell me,” I said. “How in God’s name can a baby’s heart stop for no reason?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“You don’t know?” I said. “Some heart doctor you are.”
“And what about this SIDS business?” I said to his father. “Sounds like a load of old poppycock to me.”
Saibal’s mom spoke softly. “Being angry is normal—”
“I’m not fucking angry,” I said.
Saibal’s dad stood up. “We’ll give you a few minutes to calm down.”
When they left, I kicked the Operation game to the floor. “Some help they were.”
Saibal took another game off my shelf. “Battleship?”
“Okay.”
After I sunk his battleship, I said, “Can you go get your parents again?”
A few moments later they were back.
Saibal’s dad spoke first. “Your parents are happy for us to answer any questions you might have.”
“I only have one,” I said.
He nodded. “Go on.”
My voice broke when I said it.
“Why?”
Sometimes bad things happen to good people. That’s what they said. It wasn’t a very satisfying answer but then they explained SIDS. They said it’s the sudden, unexplained death of a child under the age of one. It’s unpredictable and unpreventable. Researchers are working to understand it. I listened real hard. The army men in my head stood at attention. I understood everything but it was hard to take. I didn’t want it to be true. When they were done, I said sorry for earlier. They said I was going to have lots of ups and downs, and that grieving is complicated. They invited me for supper the following evening and I said, “Let me know if you’re making curry so I can bring a banana.” It felt weird to laugh but I figured it was just one little up in a million downs.
We sat around the table, just the six of us. Dad wanted to check in, see how we were doing. The visitors were gone and the house was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator hum. Nan opened a tin of shortbread cookies from Mrs. Hanrahan. Shelagh took one and spoke to her belly. “Hope you like butter, little one,” she said. “Shortbread’s my favorite.”
“No one cares about your stupid baby,” I said.
“Finbar,” said Nan. “That’s not fair.”
“You know what else isn’t fair?” I said.
Shelagh stood up. “I’m going to bed.”
“Please stay,” said Mom.
Pius took a pile of sympathy cards off the kitchen counter.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s have a look through these. Together.”
Mom smiled at him. “My sweet sixteen.”
She hadn’t used the nickname in months. Pius blushed at the sound of it.
Shelagh sat back down.
Dad opened the first one. “This one is from”—he squinted at the signature—“the Fizzards? Who in God’s name are they?”
Nan laughed. “No idea.”
“Wait now,” said Mom. “The Fizzards live out on Barnes Road. Dennis Fizzard is Aunt Jacinta’s brother-in-law.”
“Oh yes,” said Nan. “Now aren’t they the ones that always had a cow tied up in their front yard?”
“A cow?” said Pius. “No way.”
“Yes way,” said Dad. “And on Christmas Eve in ’82—or was it ’83?—the cow escaped and ran over the crowds coming out of midnight mass.”
“Are you serious?” said Shelagh.
“Oh yes,” said Mom. “Father Molloy sprained his ankle that night.”
“Too bad he didn’t end up in a full body cast,” I said.
Mom patted my hand. “Now, now, Fin-bear.”
The next card made everyone cry. It was from a Mrs. Down in Harbour Grace.
“Who’s Mrs. Down?” asked Dad.
Mom looked up from the card. “She lost a baby to SIDS. Emily Louise. She was eleven weeks old.”
So it was a real thing. Cots did kill babies.
Dad picked up the envelope. He traced the curly writing with his finger like it was from a long lost friend.
Some of the cards were Hallmark but even the flimsy
and cheap ones meant something.
That night I heard Mom wailing from her bedroom.
At two in the morning I went to the bathroom and heard a noise outside. I looked out the window and saw Nan sweeping the sidewalk outside our house.
Grief was complicated.
A week later Dad went back to work. He wore his watch around his wrist. It seemed to weigh him down on one side. He put clocks in every room. All day long, it was a bloody cacophony of ticks and tocks. “Every moment counts,” he said. Mom went back in her room. I rarely saw her. Every now and then I’d knock on her door and sometimes she’d say, “Come in.” I’d open the window and say, “It’s some day on clothes,” but she’d just put her arms out and I’d climb into them. We’d lie there staring at the popcorn ceiling, neither of us saying a word. When I’d leave, she’d say, “Shut the window, Barry.”
I dropped a pencil in class once. Damian Clarke picked it up and said, “Here ya go, buddy,” so I stabbed him with it.
Mrs. Muckle said, “What are we going to do with you, Barry?”
I said I didn’t know.
Sometimes, at supper, Nan pulled Gord’s high chair to the table but it slid across the floor too quickly.
The weight of him, it was everything.
I dreamt of Mom by the window, a blanket in her lap. I’d walk toward her but then I’d wake. One night I stayed dreaming. I peeled the blanket back. It was a Cabbage Patch Kid. My head was sweaty and my throat hurt from the scream. Pius said, “You okay, Barry?” I said, “Ever wish it would all go away?” and he said, “Every day.”
Shelagh got fatter and fatter. If I had a magic wand, I’d make it stop.
The days and weeks melted into each other. Someone set fire to them and watched them burn. I don’t know who. Maybe it was God. May became June. The weather was warming up and school was coming to an end. People asked me how I was but I had no idea. I should have recorded myself so I could watch it back. Did I go to school every day? I must have. Would I pass eighth grade and move on to high school? Who knew? The only thing I knew was that Gord was still dead and time was moving further away from his ever existing.
Saibal sat at the war memorial in a T-shirt and jeans. “Some warm out, isn’t it?”
I supposed it was for Newfoundland. There was a chill in the air, but at least the sun was out.
“Practically tropical,” I said.
“Gord would have liked summer,” he said.
I stretched out on the grass.
“Sometimes I watch the time change on my alarm clock. The second hand is lucky. It gets to tick-tick-tick, but the minute hand has to just sit there, watching time pass and waiting to move forward.”
Saibal sat next to me. He put a blade of grass between his thumbs and blew. It made a whistling sound. I sat up.
“How did you do that?”
He picked me a blade and showed me how. It worked on my first blow.
We experimented with the way we held the grass to make different notes. We tried to play “Three Blind Mice.” It sounded decent.
“Saibal?” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Sometimes…I think I need to see your mom. As a patient. Because my heart pains all the time.”
“Maybe I could borrow her paddle thingies,” he said, “and shock your heart back to its old self.”
“Nah,” I said. “You might accidentally kill me. Then where would we be?”
“True. Your parents can’t go through that again.”
We went to Caines and listened to Boo tell ghost stories. Some were really spooky. Gruesome even. But I wasn’t scared. The scariest thing in the world had already happened.
Afterwards, Saibal and I walked out to the Battery. We sat overlooking the Narrows and watched a tour boat putter toward open water.
I said, “You went all the way out to King William Estates to get your bank card and I didn’t even say thanks.”
“That’s okay.”
“You prank-called Damian Clarke too. On my behalf. I should have prank-called Freddie Fudge but I didn’t.”
“It’s okay, Finbar.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “I took you for granted.”
I pulled a clump of grass out of the earth. “I took Gord for granted too.”
Saibal made his hand into a fist. For a second I thought he was going to punch me, but he ran his fingers along his knuckles. “Remember Gord’s dimples?” he said. “Ten little dents where his knuckles should be. You always seemed to notice the little things.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“My heart’s hurting again, Saibal.”
He pushed me over and straddled my waist. “Clear!”
He hit my chest with an imaginary defibrillator and I jolted with the almighty shock. I stared into the sky and said, “Look, Saibal. A pair of boobs.” He lay beside me. “An elephant too.” The clouds moved by slowly just for us. We watched them while my heart recovered.
I sat in the front window. Mrs. Inkpen’s dog, Labatt, greeted her by stealing one of her nursing shoes. Mr. O’Brien went straight to his bedroom and changed from his mechanic coveralls to his Snoopy pajama bottoms. Mr. Power came home and went straight to his wife for a kiss. Funny thing was, Gord was still dead. Our car puttered up and pulled over. I ran to the door. Dad put his arms around me and ruffled my hair. He said I was a grand boy and we should go out for a plate of chips, so that’s just what we did.
Usually a whiff of June would stir up the excitement of summer, but not even a custard cone from Lar’s could revive the butterflies that lay dead in my belly. The ice cream was sweet and cool and velvety smooth, but there was no little tongue leaning in for a lick, so I was left with a bad taste in my mouth.
June in Newfoundland meant going out in shorts and T-shirts and hoping the weather got the point. I wore Pius’s old soccer shorts and AC/DC shirt almost every day because it made me feel like he was near, though why I wanted that I didn’t know.
Saibal and I were glued at the hip. One day we got the bus to the Avalon Mall. We tried to sneak into a movie but got kicked out. The security guard called us Crockett and Tubbs. I said, “I’m not fat.” The security guard said I needed to brush up on Miami Vice.
On the bus home, Saibal said, “Tubbs is black. Crockett’s the white one. He wears shoes with no socks.”
“That’s a blister waiting to happen,” I said.
We stopped in to Mary Brown’s on the way home for a two-piece and taters. I held up my drumstick and said, “Mary Brown’s—she’s got the best legs in town.”
Saibal smiled. “Open twenty-four hours a day!”
We took a handful of straws and blew the wrappers off. One landed on a high chair.
That was what June was like. Even the ups felt like downs.
On the last day of school I was the first to arrive at Mr. McGraw’s class.
He took off his blazer and hung it on the back of his chair. “Well, well,” he said. “I don’t believe it.”
“I went to Bannerman Park at six,” I said. “I sat on a swing till my arse hurt.”
He sat at his desk.
“Whenever I wake up now I can’t get back to sleep,” I said. “Because Gord is the first thing that pops into my mind. I mean, I can’t just close my eyes and forget about him, can I? That wouldn’t be very nice.”
“Finbar,” said Mr. McGraw. “Have you thought about talking to someone?”
I frowned. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
He smiled. “I suppose you are.”
I scraped my nail on the wooden desk. “I like you, Mr. McGraw. Ditching your class wasn’t about you. It was about me. It was about me being a puzzle piece with the ends all bashed up. I’ll always stick out this way and that. First it was my face and now it’s Gord. I feel like everyone’s always looking at me
. I hate it. It makes me feel really unconscious.”
“I think you mean self-conscious,” he said.
I smiled. “If you like.”
I scraped a splinter out of the wood. I held it between my thumb and forefinger. It was thick on one end and pointy at the other, like a miniature sword. It’d be perfect for poking the likes of Damian Clarke and Thomas Budgell. It might even draw blood.
“I like it in the principal’s office,” I said. “I have my own desk there and the only person to bother me is Mrs. Muckle.”
Mr. McGraw followed my eyes to the clock on the wall. Four minutes to the bell.
“Come here, Barry,” he said.
I went to the front of the room. Mr. McGraw pulled open his desk drawer.
“Help yourself.”
I chose a pastel blue.
“Tell Mrs. Muckle I sent you,” he said. “You can make up the reason why.”
I passed him my miniature sword. “I’ll miss you, sir.”
He took the sword and smiled. “I’ll miss you too.”
I waited for two minutes past the bell before waltzing into her office.
“Oh, for goodness sake, Barry,” said Mrs. Muckle. “What now?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I said, laying my schoolbag next to my desk. “Thomas Budgell was being an arsehole, so I stabbed him with a miniature sword.”
Her eyes widened. “With a what?”
I sat down. “Don’t worry. It only drew two drops of blood. Three, tops.”
She leaned back in her chair. “What are we going to do with you, Barry?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s the last day of school. I’ll be out of your hair soon and you can forget all about me.”
“Impossible,” she said. “How do you forget the unforgettable?”
“You don’t,” I said. “Especially when the unforgettable is bad like me. Good things, though, you get scared of losing. Like what if they fade and you forget them forever?”
She came out from around her desk and crouched before me.
“It’s the bad things that fade over time, Barry. I promise. You’ll never forget Gord, and I’ll never forget you.”
Barry Squires, Full Tilt Page 12