Shelby (23 page)

I crept into Gran's bedroom and sat on her bed, stroking my hand along her bedspread and then her backrest pillow. Her navy blue, well-worn duffel coat was hanging on the back of the door, garden mud around the edges. I felt my eyes moisten. Her umbrella was in the corner. On her desk was a photograph of me, her and Derek taken a couple of Christmases back. She had her teeth out and she was saluting.

“Hi, Gran,” I said, trying to smile.

There was no answer.

The following afternoon while I was sitting at the kitchen table, I overheard discussion of the funeral plans.

“Pardon?”

“What?” Dad said.

“Did you say closed casket ceremony at the cemetery?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Dad said.

“Uh … I'm afraid not.”

Mom stepped forward. “What are you talking about, Shel?”

“I know for a fact that's not what Gran wanted,” I said. “A couple of summers ago we were sitting on her porch and she told me that when she died she wanted her ashes spread across the yard. I remember because she mentioned something about being toasted with a bottle of Maupassant. I had to tell her he was a writer. You know what she said? ‘Well then see if he can come.'”

We all laughed.

Mom sniffed. “That's what she said, eh?”

“Definitely—back to the earth.”

“If that's what she said, Ed,” Mom said, “that's what we'll do …”

As absurd as it sounds, the day of the funeral was magical. Standing in the backyard amongst friends and relatives (save Larry, who left a note saying:
Will not attend, let the dead bury the dead
), I could hear Gran in the wind and feel her in the sun, as if Heaven was only a moment away. The sky was half-filled with floating clouds the shape of farm animals and a breeze that blew the autumn leaves in a manner reminiscent of some blustery day in the heart of Victorian literature. Champagne and glasses were set up on the picnic table with cheese and crackers, a goose liver pâté, homemade antipasto and the vase with Gran's ashes. We didn't use an urn. The funeral director told us that people who are spreading ashes generally keep them in the original white cardboard box that they are put in after cremation. When I brought the box home, though, Mom was so distraught with the shabby look of it that she immediately transferred the ashes into Gran's favourite flower vase.

While Father Fox, a three-hunded-and-fifty-odd pound Anglican with an honourable if not healthy heart, mumbled his sermon into the wind, somehow tying it all up with references to his mother's cooking—
what a soufflé! But, no, it did not always rise to perfection, bless her heart
—and other delicacies. I, meanwhile, found myself contemplating Larry's attack on Gran's soul. Was it Gran's fault she wasn't overtly interested in personal salvation? Fact was, if she arrived at the gates and was being let in while others were being shooed away, I'd wager she'd say something like, “Listen Petey-boy, either we all go or I ain't budgin'.”

Glancing up to see Father Fox spreading the ashes, I was immediately upset by his apparent trepidation. “That's Gran in your hand,” I recall thinking, “put a little into it. Spread them like you mean it. Put some soul—”

“Excuse me,” I said, surprising even myself. All heads turned.

Father Fox looked up. “Yes, Shelby?”

“Um … I don't mean any disrespect, Father,” I said, “but could I … could I do that?”

He hesitated, confused, and peeked at the remaining ashes in his hand. What was there he brushed awkwardly back in the vase.

“The ashes?”

“Yes,” I said.

He seemed surprised but unoffended. That was fortunate, for my intention was clearly not to hurt his feelings. “It's not usual,” he said, “but neither was your Grandmother.” Everybody laughed, a welcome reprieve. He motioned the vase in my direction.

“Thank you,” I said, nervously approaching. “I have a sense that this is the only time anyone will ever spread Gran's ashes and, well, she's my Gran and … uh … to be frank, I think I know how she'd like them to be spread … no offense.” He smiled as if to say,
none taken
, and handed me the vase. I turned and faced the crowd. The wind picked up. I closed my eyes and took a breath before turning to the vase. “This is it, Gran,” I said. I looked at the faces before me: Mom, Dad, Derek and all the rest, and without warning sprung forward.

“Look out!” I yelled. Dad and second cousin Horton from Salmon Arm leapt out of the way just in time to give Gran and me sufficient room to bob and weave through the second and third rows. I reached my hand into the vase and flung ashes like confetti to the far reaches of the back yard and then into Gran's beloved garden. The wind howled out its support. We darted and danced to the call, Gran ecstatic as we ran towards the greenhouse. A quick cut sent me towards the apple trees and the compost pile. “This is the way you do it!” I yelled. The crowd had spread out more, some in awe, others offering tentative pursuit. “Don't you see?” I yelled. “Don't you see?” We turned towards the cherry trees. “She's everywhere! Everywhere!” I spread her on the bird bath. I threw her in the rose bush. “Everywhere!” I rejoiced, spinning like an Olympian doing the hammer throw, the vase out in front, blowing ash into the cosmos as I turned faster and faster, tilting my head back and screaming to anyone or anything that would listen, the wind howling with boisterous approval, autumn flying into the mystic ache, Gran's heart beating in perfect rhythm, the colours of fall twisting before me in a wondrous collage of oranges and reds and yellows and greens and …

Black
; pumping, breathing, cold, wet darkness. My eyes opened to the blurred vision of my mother's face and an increasing awareness of sky, wild and blue, revolving around her head like a halo. Slowly she came into focus—nose first, at which point Dad's face joined in.

“Are you all right, Shel?” a voice asked. I shifted my eyes from side to side—looking at all the familiar faces.

“Son,” Dad said, “are you okay?”

I looked at him from flat out on my back. “Hi, Dad,” I said.

“Son,” he said again, “can you hear me?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why?”

Then I saw Derek's face. “Is he okay?”

“Hi, Derek,” I said.

“I don't know,” Dad said.

“Who?” I said.

“Should we get him on his feet?” Derek asked.

“Who?” I said again, as they hoisted me up by my arms and dragged me towards the house.

The moment they sat me down in the kitchen, tears poured up from my heart and into my cheeks, the overflow balancing on my eye-lids.

“I guess she's gone, eh?” I said. A few minutes of interrogation and a wet towel on my forehead later, I had gathered myself enough to go back outside. The masses surrounded to inquire about my condition.

“Well, young man,” Father Fox said with a smile stretching his rosy cheeks into two red apples, “that was a divine performance. I'm considering hiring you full time. You okay?”

“Yes,” I said, “we're both fine, thank you.”

“Good,” he said, shaking his head and pivoting like an overstuffed turkey towards the picnic table for another helping of hors d'oeuvres.

The champagne was poured and everybody took a glass. Dad said, “To Gran!” and we all simultaneously repeated it. Tears aside, the mood was festive. I sat by myself on the edge of the picnic table, my heart a collage of sadness and anger, numbness and wonder. How Gran would love to be at this party, I remember thinking. And why couldn't she be? She was only ninety-three. Of course I knew that was old, but compared to what? Had Eve done us in with her garden disobedience? Did all hatred and misery stem from such a mistake? Were episiotomies God's grudge against the first sin? I slipped another quick glass of champagne and became acutely aware of Gran's presence; festivity, eros, wind. I missed Lucy. She had offered to accompany me but I, in stubborn haste, turned her down. What a mistake! What could be more wondrous than discussing the relevance of existence with a beautiful woman from the city in front of a group of country folk? I poured myself another glass of champagne. Gran would have wanted my spirits on high. And so I had a fourth. After my fifth glass I stood up.

“To my closest ally, Gran,” I said, “who taught me how little I know.” Nobody moved. Nobody even noticed. “Fuck you all, then,” I said. I didn't mean it.

XVI

Who's who in Hinterland?

—
Lorne Greene

Guided by the revelation that awoke me at four A.M., my decision was an easy one. My confidant, my mentor, my embassy of refuge, my pal, my Gran had returned to the source and the hour was nigh for me to do the same. All that remained was the penning of a short good-bye note to my family and a letter to Lucy.

Dearest Mom, Dad, Derek, Kristine (and Larry, see Matthew 7:3)
.

Apologies for not waking you. Thought you could use the sleep. Decided to go home early. Hitching a ride into town to catch the bus home. Talk to you soon
.

Love, Shel
.

P.S. Sorry I let you all down with my education
.

Love, Shel

Dearest Lucy:

I'm writing to let you know I've decided to stuff muffing about and truly seek the source. Gran came to me in a dream tonight and said, “Shelby, I think I left the stove on.” In other words, a warm light to guide my way. USE IT!

It would seem all enlightened men (and probably women, too, although none come to mind—Joan of Arc, perhaps?) were at one time or another called into the wilderness; Jesus Christ, John Yepes, Walt Whitman, Moses, Abraham (the desert), Gautama Buddha, Henry Thoreau, most aborigines, et al. You can now add my name to that list. I would first off like to thank you for the love you have shown me over the past few months. You have cracked open my skull to a myriad of ideas and insights. For what it's worth, Gran would have loved you. I applaud your celibacy—but don't fight the urge, for then everything gets messed up
.

Eternally, Shelby M. Lewis (who dropped out of school and into life. Farewell.)

PS. Please do not contact my parents. They believe me to be taking the bus back into the city. It's better that way. P.P.S. Maybe we could get married when I get back. (Just kidding)
.

By five-thirty I was packed and standing on the edge of the porch gazing upwards to a parade of stars, considering God. If in fact the world is a mere six thousand years old, I told myself, He would have had to have created the light from the stars already in mid-flight on the way to Earth in order to make their vast distance away make any sense whatsoever. Accepting for a moment that He was capable of such playful buffoonery, I felt unconditionally protected. My first step made a crunching sound on the frozen front lawn and I thought of Neil Armstrong. Free association led me to think of Armstrong, the small cheese-making community just south of Salmon Arm, and finally, to my bag of Cheezies which I quickly devoured. At the end of the path I dropped Lucy's letter in the mail box.

An hour or so into the journey I strutted into Revelstoke National Park with the image of the voyageur dancing across my mind's eye; blazing trails over pristine country, draped in furs, no roads, no bridges, no worries, trading post to trading post, free from homeland tyranny, free to celebrate good old-fashioned life. And I, their progeny, proud in the wake of Gran's call to be doing the same. I wished I had a pen and paper to keep a journal.

By noon (judging by the sun), the forest had thickened to the point where hiking was treacherous. I stopped, yanked off my pack sack, sat on a moss-covered log and beneath a canopy of tree branches ate a banana and three handfuls of peanuts. Taking off my tuque, I could feel the steam rising from my sweaty head. All before me was silent, majestic greens sprinkled in white, beckoning, beckoning …

A sharp pain descended from just below my sternum, gradually increasing until my bowels burned as if on fire. I found a suitable clearing, pulled down my corduroys, crouched and let out a grunt into the wide open space. For the first time in my short life I felt part of the land, part of the cycle. A gust of wind shot up like a wet towel and cracked my cheeks, causing me to flex my sphinctre muscle so abruptly I toppled backwards into the muddy terrain. Pushing myself back up I continued the task at hand. About half-finished, I noticed a distinct lack of toilet paper and/or toilet paper substitute. As far as the eye could see was an infinite supply of prickly-needled evergreens. My legs broke into a quiver. I waddled towards my knapsack, removed Dad's
Wilderness Survival
handbook, tore out several pages at random and wiped. Hurdle one had been overcome. The trek continued.

By late afternoon, each step became a lesson in perseverance. My legs felt brittle from toes pinched by hiking boots a size too small. Looking up
Footwear
in Dad's book, I was dismayed to read,
Footwear is especially important … Lost in the bush is no place to get blisters from stiff boots
.

Estimating I'd travelled thirty to thirty-five miles and ignoring the limits of the human body and in particular feet, I grimaced and trudged on, the price for transcendence fully laid out.

Recoiling out of thick bush at around dusk, I tumbled flat out onto a wondrous clearing of dirt and rock and moss. Before me was a hill descending gently towards a magical creek perhaps twenty feet afar. I threw my pack to the ground and galloped to its edge, cupping handfuls of its sweetness to my thankful mouth. Climbing back up the hill, I lay my head on my pack and smiled into the fading light, the ache of Gran's death soothed with the remembrance of her toothless grin. I was enraptured with the possibility of immediate eternity and the opportunity to harvest my soul in the belly of paradise. Glancing to and fro, I marvelled at the river rocks and the lichens, the bushes and the trees as my eyes gently heavied. Indeed, I had found my Walden Pond …