Fit Month for Dying (20 page)

“You're probably right,” I say, not caring whether he is or isn't. “Anyway, I have too much on my plate at the moment to worry about that.”

“Sure you have, girl. Sure you have. Clear this out of the way first.” He invites me to his house, but I decline the invitation. I have to get back to St. John's in case Brendan needs me.

By the time I arrive home, Brendan and Greg have already returned from their fishing trip to Big Pond. I find Brendan in his bedroom, curled into a ball like a defenceless little animal, his arms and legs cuddling the tender parts of himself close against the day's onslaught. When I come in he reluctantly unrolls himself and sits up on the edge of the bed. I ask him if he enjoyed the fishing trip, he mumbles yes, but the apathy in his voice and the droop of his mouth tell me otherwise. I go over to the bed and sit down beside him.

“Grandma was disappointed you weren't with me,” I say, feigning lightness. “She said you've got to come for certain on the weekend for her birthday. She's going to make the kind of chocolate cake you like — chocolate icing and...”

“Did you tell her?” he breaks in, apprehension putting a hitch in his voice. “What did she say? She hates me, I bet.”

“Of course she doesn't hate you. You were taken in. She knows that.”

“Did you explain that Father Tom isn't all bad?”

“I tried to. She didn't want to hear about him. Just about you.”

“I thought she'd be mad at me. Like Christopher's grandmother. She said Christopher brought shame on the Church. And on his dead mother. And on her, too. She said she'll never be able to show her face at bingo again.”

“Poor Christopher,” I say and let it go at that.

“Will you tell Uncle Danny?” For an instant I consider lying, but I decide there's been too much deceit in his life already.

“Yes, we'll tell him. It wouldn't be right to keep it from him.” I'm careful not to say he will probably read about it in the Vancouver Sun or hear it on the CBC
National News
. Ashamed, he drops his head. “Uncle Danny will be on your side,” I say, knowing this is the truth. “He loves you as much as we do.”

“Not Dad,” he says, not raising his head. “He hates me. He's ashamed of me.”

“You know that's not true,” I say, wondering what has transpired while I was in the Cove. “He just loves you so much he's furious that anyone would hurt you.”

“He hollered at me today. I slipped off a rock and filled my waders, and I said I wanted to go home because my feet were cold, and he said to take off my waders and turn them upside down to empty them out. And when I said I still wanted to go home because my feet were still cold, he said I was being a namby pamby, and it was about time I grew up to be a man because I'm almost thirteen years old.”

Fury at Greg almost chokes me, but I say, not sure whether I'm trumping up excuses or not, “Dad just wants to toughen you up to be a hardy fisherman like himself. He used to be out in a dory jigging cod when he was your age.”

“I know. He told me that lots of times. He said some day he's going to take me out in a dory. And he's going to show me how to use Grandpa's gun — the one that's in Grandma's spare bedroom — and we'll go to the beach and shoot wild birds like he used to do with Grandpa.” He shivers. “Yuck! He told me I'll have to eat them when they're cooked because we can't shoot the birds just for the sport of it. We have to eat what we shoot.”

“You'll manage to clean them,” I say absently. “The first time will be the worst time.” My mind is assembling fighting words to hurl at Greg, not only for yelling at Brendan but for promising to teach him how to use Hubert's gun to shoot ducks.

As I leave the room to go downstairs, Brendan asks, “Do you think I could practice shooting tin cans first? That way I wouldn't cripple anything. I'd hate to cripple something. I'd rather we didn't shoot ducks at all. Just tin cans. Dad and I could have a contest to see who could shoot the most tin cans.”

“Talk to your Dad about it. I'm sure he'll see things your way,” I say with imitation certainty. The truth is I'm no longer certain what to expect from Greg. In the last couple of days, some foreign creature seems to have crawled into his body and taken up residence there.

On the weekend we drive to the Cove for Philomena's birthday. Because Brendan has refused to go to school since the scandal broke, isolating himself in his room and claiming to be sick, we are both surprised and delighted that he is eager to come with us. In fact, we were so certain he wouldn't want to go to the Cove that Greg planned to go alone. Greg's delight at Brendan's change of mind is obvious in his buoyant walk as he makes trips from the house to the car, loading suitcases into the trunk and piling in groceries Philomena cannot get in the Cove — fresh whipping cream, Boston lettuce, lemon caraway biscuits.

On the drive to Philomena's, Brendan remains in high spirits. He even consents to play road games with us, ones he had scoffed at after he turned twelve. We spy horses in the fields and sight graveyards to bury our competitors' count in. We tally station wagons, giving extra points for white ones. When we arrive at the Cove, he receives his customary hero's welcome from Philomena, who plies him with cookies and freshly baked bread.

In the morning when we are getting dressed for church, Brendan announces he isn't going to come with us.

“Of course you are,” I say firmly, brooking no nonsense. “You're not sick. And it's your grandmother's birthday. Of course you're coming with us.”

“I'm not going,” he repeats. “I'm staying right here.” He taps the arm of his chair. “Right here.”

“Come on, me son,” Philomena entreats. “We'll have the cake when we gets home. Chicken sandwiches first and then the cake.”

Brendan is unmoved.

I look to Greg for support, but he disappoints me. “Let him stay,” he says easily. “We'll only be gone an hour.”

Philomena agrees with Greg. As she pokes a linen handkerchief into her patent-leather purse, she says, “Oh yes, girl, let him stay. The Lord will understand. He's been through a lot. Go easy on him. If he wants to be alone, let him be alone. Things will get back on track in their own time.”

“He's been alone all week,” I retort, partly out of concern for Brendan's welfare and partly out of pique because I've been out-manoeuvred by both Greg and Philomena. “He shouldn't be alone on Sunday as well. If he won't go, I won't go.” I pull off my gloves and begin to unbutton my coat.

“For the love of God, Tess,” Greg says, “he's almost grown up. You don't have to mollycoddle him. If he wants to stay home by himself this once, let him. He just won't be able to make a practice of it, that's all.”

I give in reluctantly and without a hint of grace. In fact, I am so annoyed with both Greg and Philomena that when we get to church, I leave plenty of space between us in the pew. Although the space is not wide enough for anyone else to notice, Greg notices, and he never attempts to slide over and fill the gap.

After church we drive back to Philomena's in silence. Greg brings the car to a stop in the lane, which has become so rutted from washouts that he can only drive partway up to the house. In a final effort to pull the morning together, he says, “You two take your time. I'll run on ahead and put the kettle on to boil. I'll get Brendan to help me.”

He hurries off, leaving me to help Philomena pick her way through the ruts. The walking is more treacherous than usual because the night's frost and the morning's melt have dampened the muddy ground, making it as slippery as ice.

The instant we come around to the back door, I see Greg staggering down the high porch steps as if he is too drunk to walk upright. He lurches from side to side, railing to railing. Part way down the steps, he falls against the outside handrail and vomits over it, covering a clump of wild caraway bushes with the remains of his breakfast. His hands are bloody and his face is as white as the clapboards on the house.

I drop my hold on Philomena and rush to him, although the sight of him is so mind-numbing it seems I am walking towards him in slow motion.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I shout as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and lower him down to the steps. He looks at me but doesn't speak. His eyes seem crazed. His mouth is covered in vomit.

“What's wrong? What's wrong?” I keep shouting. My mind says
heart attack
— only a few days earlier one of our neighbours had suffered a heart attack, and it had been preceded by violent vomiting that had brought up blood. My voice is banshee wild, my eyes search his face. “What's wrong, Greg? What's wrong?” Philomena comes hurrying around the corner of the house. Wordlessly, she gapes down at us, eyes wide, purse sliding down her arm. “Quick!” I shout to her. “Call the doctor! A heart attack! No! No! Go get Paddy to take him to the hospital! It'll be quicker.” I continue to cradle Greg's shoulders.

Philomena pays no heed to my shouting. She breaks out of her stupor and pushes past us up the steps. Greg lunges out of my grasp, grabs the tail of her coat and pulls her backwards on top of us. She breaks away and starts up the steps again, screaming, “Brendan! Brendan! Brendan!”

“Come back, Mom!” Greg shouts, hoarse and desperate. “For the love of God, come back! He found Dad's gun.”

I let go of Greg and rush up the steps, overtaking Philomena. I sideswipe her against the railing.

“Merciful Jesus! “Merciful Jesus! I knew it! I knew it!” she screams, righting herself and hurrying back down the steps. “We've got to get him to the hospital.” She flies off in search of Paddy.

Greg races up the steps after me, grips my arm just as I am about to open the porch door. I wrench free of his grip with a savage yank, certain that I can mend Brendan if only I can get to him. I can bind up any wound. I had saved him before. When he almost choked on a piece of apple. When he darted in front of a car in the middle of Water Street. When he drank the air freshener.

“Don't go in there, Tess! For the love of God, don't go in there!”

Greg snatches at my arm once more and jerks me back against him. The sudden weight of my body against his own throws him off balance, and both of us pitch to the ground, our fall broken by our careening from railing to railing and by Paddy, who is standing at the bottom of the steps. He had driven home from church behind us, and Philomena's shrieking had brought him on the run.

“Shot himself,” Greg gasps even as Paddy is helping us to our feet.

Paddy drops his hold on us and tears up the steps. Greg and I reel into one another as Paddy pushes open the porch door and then bangs it shut. “Oh Christ, help us!” He staggers back, grabbing the railing for support. Slowly he comes back down the steps.

I try to loosen Greg's grip on my arm. “Let me go! Let me go!” I shout, struggling and flailing.

Paddy places one of his big carpenter hands gently on my arm. “Stay there, my dear. There's nothing you can do. You don't want to see him like he is. You really don't.”

My body believes him even if my heart doesn't, and I collapse in Greg's arms like a kite suddenly hitting a downdraft. Greg pulls me back upright and tightens his hold on me.

The news spreads quickly from one neighbour to another, and a crowd gathers. Frank Clarke arrives and releases me from Greg's grip. “Greg, you go meet the priest and the doctor,” he directs. “They should be coming any minute. Bridey called them. I'll look after Tess.”

Frank helps me to a pile of rocks a few yards from the porch — rocks Hubert had dug out of the ground with a pickaxe when he was building his house, rocks that are now covered with the withering October remains of goldenrod and bachelor buttons and the brown-tinged white flowers of wild caraway.

Philomena is already at the rock pile, huddled as if she is very cold. She isn't crying, just staring off into the distance. Sounds come from her lips, whispering sounds, like wind funnelling through a keyhole. She doesn't acknowledge my presence, just continues to stare across the meadows. Every now and again I recognize a word here and there from the scatter of sounds leaking out of her mouth, enough to know she is whispering Psalm 129 from the Mass for the Dead.

Out of the depths I have cried to you. Lord! Lord! hear my voice. Let thine ears be attentive to the voice of mine supplication. In You, O Lord, I place my trust. My hope is in Your mercy. If You, O Lord, should mark our sins, Lord, who would know salvation? But with You is forgiveness.

The minute she finishes the
De Profundis
, she starts in on the Memorare – a prayer I know backwards and forwards, a prayer Grandmother had me say every night whenever Martin had a recurrence of tuberculosis. The prayer is so familiar that, even from Philomena's whispers, I can make out whole words, whole sentences. I join in and keep pace with her even though I see no reason to say it. Brendan is already dead. He is beyond my supplications. Beyond my petitions. For that matter, I am certain I am dead as well. Still, I pray the prayer from force of habit:

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that any one who fled to your protection, implored your help or sought your intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly to you, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother! To you I come; before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petition, but in your mercy hear and answer me. Amen.”