Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) (13 page)

The day of the funeral finally arrived. The air was heavy with moisture, and the humidity was nearing 100%. Later Jillian would only recall the horror of watching a plain cedar box containing Mr. Mueller's corpse roll into the crematorium incinerator. Somehow it didn't seem right. How could Mrs. Mueller and friends grieve and find comfort and solace in ashes that had settled onto the ground or were floating in the air? How would his soul ever be saved? Was there any hope for him in the afterlife? She posed these questions to her mother as they made their way to their cars in the parking-lot of the crematorium: “Shouldn't Mr. Mueller have had a proper burial?” Her mother replied in a consoling soothing tone as she put a warm motherly arm around her shoulders: “Honey, his atoms are in the air.”

Getting to Algonquin Park was another problem. It was a four-hour drive north to that wilderness reserve. Most of the trip was along highway 400, but they eventually had to turn off onto Highway 60, a narrow two-lane road. The cars drove one after the other and silent; then they reached their destination, and solemn mourners issued from them in their Sunday best. The men wore black suits and the women dark dresses, which in the fierce midday glare seemed out of place and sombre. All the mourners looked pale and pasty; the women's lipstick looked too red and made a stark contrast to their white skins, reminding Jillian of vampires or zombies from B-rated movies. Some of them had also made the unfortunate mistake of wearing high-heeled black patent-leather shoes for the hike, which made them step like long-legged cranes, teetering as they crossed the pebbly terrain. Father John Smythe from Our Lady of Sorrows Church, along with the solemn mourners, moved rather indecisively up the steep and rocky hiking-trail.

Turning to his dad, Adam queried: “How did we ever manage to get a priest to attend this rite?”

“He's a very good friend of Mr and Mrs. Sparks.”

Leading the procession were Aunt Jean and Uncle Phil, who was carrying the ornate urn holding Mr. Mueller's ashes; Adam hefted the helium tank, while Jillian carried the balloons. But in their haste to dispose of the body, they had not thought matters through. It was a good five-kilometre walk from where they had left their cars up to the Lookout Bluffs, a long and arduous trek and in places even dangerous. Everywhere were thorny bushes and branches, tree roots jutting out of the hard ground like alien forms or tangled branches; the relentless frenzy of black flies and mosquitoes buzzing and droning around their heads made everyone testy and frayed their tempers. Before long, no one could tell whether their streaked faces bore tears of grief or just plain sweat from the gruelling hike. Mrs. Sparks complained incessantly about her knees and arthritis, grew unsteady on her feet and had to lean on her husband's arm the whole way. The mood quickly turned sour when someone had the audacity to pose the question, “Who's idea was this, to hike up to a cliff?” and “Couldn't anyone have thought of a spot that was easier to get to?”

“Well,” replied Mrs. Mueller, catching her breath and panting heavily as she picked her way past a large boulder, “it was my dear John's wish to have the ceremony up at the Lookout Bluffs. In our younger days we would often go camping here.” She looked around at everyone, smiling but on the verge of crying at the same time.

This promptly put an end to the dissension.

The first few mourners to reach the top were greeted with a beautiful awe-inspiring view of far-off rivers and trees, strawberry plants and granite outcroppings with huge crevices where rainwater had collected overnight. Growing among the cliffs and boulders were young sapling maples, poking through decaying leaves and crumbly bark. Jillian looked around and thought to herself,
Yes this is a beautiful place. This is paradise.
She looked down near her feet, and there scattered amongst the rocks were colourful red bunchberries; she reached down, picked some and fastened them in her hair as she waited for the other mourners to arrive. Moments later, they came up, and it promptly became evident that the clearing would not hold the number of people who had come to say goodbye to John Mueller.

“People, I have to caution you to be very careful and move back away from the edge of the cliff. We don't want another death so soon following John's.” Uncle Phil made this announcement jokingly, but no one found it funny.

The ceremony finally began. Father Smythe presided and with due solemnity said a little prayer— simple words meant to reassure and console the living. He asked the Lord for guidance in these tumultuous godless times and prayed for Mr. Mueller's soul. Uncle Phil read a eulogy written on piece of paper that he had stuffed into his trouser pocket earlier that morning and which was now badly crumpled from the car ride and damp from the humidity. He recounted events from their early days together as students at Queen's University— a brief history of their acquaintance, chronicling their many years together; a heartfelt account that brought a smile and tear to many of the mourners.

“Poor John didn't know what was coming,” exclaimed Geordie Crossland, choking back the tears and blowing his nose loudly. “It was that blasted séance! It was the witch!”

“Oh, here we go again!” cried his sister Jean.

“Enough!” shouted Uncle Phil. “I'm not finished what I have to say.”

But who was this? Partway through the eulogy, a sombre figure wearing loose-fitting black robes appeared in the shadows of the trees. It was Madame Zelda! She stood well apart from the group and did not seem to wish to come nearer.

“What's she doing here?” asked Mr. Paradis suspiciously.

Mrs. Mueller crossed herself several times and started whispering a
Hail Mary
under her breadth.

“Someone should invite her over,” whispered Jillian's mother to Aunt Jean.

Madame Zelda was slowly making her way up the cliff.

“Madame Zelda, please join us,” shouted Aunt Jean, her voice echoing into the far reaches of the park.

They waited in silence for Madame Zelda to respond, but all they heard was the chirping sound of birds and the wind blowing against the trees.

Jillian sighed and looked up at the dark figure of Madame Zelda in her black cape, sitting perched high on an outcrop of rock, like a giant raven, with her watchful eyes peering down on the group.

“Oh, leave her there. What harm could she do?” asked Mrs. Sparks.

Uncle Phil rubbed his hands together briskly, as if to prepare himself for the task at hand. “Shall we begin?” he asked. Through violent sobbing fits, Mrs. Mueller blinked away tears as she waited patiently. Aunt Jean produced a funnel from her purse and handed it to Uncle Phil, who proceeded to attach it to the large white balloon. He took the urn and began to empty its contents into the balloon. After a few tense moments, the urn was completely emptied. Everything was proceeding smoothly and according to plan. He then handed the balloon to Adam, who was looking sombre and dignified in his three-piece suit but conscious of people looking at him. He squatted before the helium tank to inflate the white balloon. Then like a scene in a Laurel and Hardy film, everything began to go wrong. A dark cloud, which moments before had been screening the noonday sun, shifted away, and at once a bright light flashed on the metallic tube of the helium tank, momentarily blinding Adam. Somehow the balloon managed to come loose, slipping away from his fingers, and torpedoed into the air, narrowly missing Geordie Crossland's head. Someone shrieked as if in pain, and in the next instant, Mrs. Mueller was on the ground, inches away from falling off the cliff to her death. In the ensuing confusion, Mr. Mueller's ashes were scattered around the cliff. Jillian could hear raised excited voices: “Oh, oh God!” “This can't be happening!” Ashes were blowing everywhere: in people's hair, into their clothes. Mrs Sparks was sneezing and wiping ash from her face and eyes. Suddenly everyone was squatting, groping for ashes or dirt that might or might not have been John Mueller's remains and stuffing them into the balloon. Handkerchiefs were drawn from purses and pockets and teary eyes were wiped. Jillian had a blurred vision of Father John Smythe standing a distance apart and detached, with his arms folded, contemplating the scene with a look of pity and ash on his face.

Somehow in the end things came together. Mrs. Mueller revived just in time to witness the release of twenty-three colourful balloons, including the extra large white one bearing what remained of John Mueller, as they were pulled quickly away by a gust of wind into a patch of blue sky. The mourners stood glancing up at the sky, with their hands high up in the air, waving the deceased goodbye. In the background a soft classical aria, Schubert's
Ave Maria,
was emitting from miniature speakers— notes charged with emotion and sung flawlessly by Barbara Bonney. The very air quivered as the notes echoed and drifted into the far reaches of the park and beyond. Oddly enough, that was the first point during the whole ceremony at which Jillian felt a tinge of religious emotion— the comingling of nature with the beauty of music. She stood staring up at the sky as an air current bore a round white speck to another sphere. She found it hard to believe that the cantankerous Mr. Mueller was gone.

Following the service, most of the mourners left quickly, removing their footwear as soon as they had completed their arduous trek back down the steep cliff to their cars, and returned to the Spencer home for the wake; but Jillian and a few others lingered to watch the balloons disappear from view. Some thought they could still see the white balloon in the distance.

Back in Oakville, the grief and shock of the tragedy had not worn off. A damp chill had settled on the house, even with the air-conditioner cranked up to the maximum. Family and friends sat around the living-room trying to carry on normal conversation, engaging in idle chat and drinking tea. The room, until lately Jillian had found so cheery, now seemed to her full of grief and superstition; the very air was saturated with it.

“It's just as well not to put too much faith in the séance. Strange and unfortunate coincidence, that's all. I'd like to believe that we are not the instruments of Fate,” said Karen Sparks in her southern drawl as she dabbed her puffy eyes with a Kleenex.

Aunt Jean, frowning and smoothing her hair, promptly stated that she intended to hold another séance with Madame Zelda presiding, because they needed to communicate with whoever was upset with them.

Geordie Crossland swiftly quashed that suggestion, exclaiming “No! Enough! We can't afford any more deaths!” Except for Jillian's mother and Aunt Jean, everyone was adamantly against it. Who could be rational in the face of such superstition? They were striving to put the nightmare of the séance out of their minds, but it would haunt them for long after. Even Jillian could not shake off the feeling that the death was not the end to the streak of bad luck that was in store. The raven image of Madame Zelda, perched high on the rocks, stayed imprinted on her mind for weeks.

Hunched over the breakfast table, wearing plaid flannel pyjamas and with just his bare feet resting on the linoleum floor, Mr. Crossland sat by the kitchen window overlooking the back garden. Three tall silver-maple trees surrounded the house on Baby Point Crescent, creating a canopy effect with their large extended limbs, and reached down over the windows with their leafy branches. These trees with their huge gnarled silver trunks were even older than the house itself. A smell of fresh-cut grass crept in through an open kitchen window, and from the distance, in a neighbouring yard, came the drone of a power lawn-mower.

Having perched his reading glasses partway down his nose, and still unshaven with grey bristle showing on his face, Mr. Crossland appeared relaxed yet dignified. It was Saturday morning, and he meant to spend it the way he liked best— reading the morning paper. He neither believed in nor trusted the Internet for his news.

The business section was reporting the worst recession since the 1930's, caused by dot-com collapses. And yet, thought Mr. Crossland, weren't people going to baseball games in record numbers at $250 a seat, while television commercials portrayed contented middle-class consumers buying more and more products? Yes, it was virtually impossible to tell fact from fiction or see through the haze of rhetoric. Whenever he was called upon to exercise his democratic right to vote, the newspapers were quick to publish dubious advance polls, literally every day leading up to the day of the election, bombarding him with predictions on who would win, trying to sway public sentiment to favour one candidate over the other: a form of mass brainwashing. Democracy was a myth! Geordie Crossland saw political dynasties emerging around the world— unquestioning acceptance of authority by masses that had grown indifferent over time. ''Society is drugged. Shameful!” he reflected on the headlines of the day with irritated boredom.

“Yes, dear? What was that you said?” He glanced up from his paper with the look of someone whose thoughts have just been interrupted and smiled a blank smile. The person standing before him was his wife. She was saying something to him, but he couldn't quite make out what it was. Her voice had somehow blended in with the other background sounds of lawn-mowers and car engines. He blinked his eyes a few times.

“I'm sorry, Ruth, what did you say?”

His wife paused, a wide eyed startled expression on her face and stated forcefully, “John has been reincarnated!”

Geordie Crossland appeared to have heard but with an air of discomfort and turned his gaze to a page offering a technical analysis of the shares of Skort Energy Group. “Has he indeed? That's nice, dear.” His problem was never how to make money but how to invest it. Analysts were predicting a stellar year for share profits, and Mr. Crossland fell to dreaming of unrealized gains in the next quarter.

“Geordie, did you hear me?” asked his wife in a quavering voice. “Listen. I found out John has been reborn in France, because as you know, he always preferred the temperate European climate, and he's always had a passion for French cuisine.”