Blasted (12 page)

“What are you stopped there for, girl?” Grandpa's voice was distant and strange, bouncing off the water. “Get a move on.”

I dragged my feet away from the bridge's edge and joined him on the other side. He was staring at the surface of the water, muttering to himself, his face set; his right hand sketched something in the air so quickly I almost didn't make it out.

“Did you just make the sign of the cross?” I blurted.

“What?” he snapped.

“Did you just…”

“I heard you.”

We walked on, entering the rubble-and glass-strewn maze christened with pigeon shit from the roosts in the overpass above us, shadowing our every step. We picked our way with the hum and grating of the traffic overhead, heavy concrete blocking out the light, the polluted Waterford River on one side of us and a link fence crowned with barbed wire on the other. Ducks and seagulls floated on the water, God help them, diving for sewage. Grandpa cleared his throat.

“Bad bit of water, that.”

“Oh.” I didn't ask.

We emerged onto Water Street, the shadow behind us. Church bells were ringing, their tones strangely flattened in the wet air. This stretch of Water Street housed two tattoo parlours, a hostel for homeless guys, a liquor store and a bank (both closed down) and a dubious bar that Juanita and I had christened “Bar Open,” because that's all the signage it ever displayed. It was, I noted, open now, but we walked by it all, up the steep hill, up and up and at last the funeral home came into sight. Perched on a perfect tiny lawn near the top of the hill, it looked down at the harbour, the new hotels and downtown. Marigolds outlined letters cut into the turf: “Hudson's Funeral Home.” A fake church spire sat on top of the brick building, and a sign spelled out: “Into the Hands of the Lord.”

I hobbled behind Grandpa through the front door, my legs purple from the wind. Inside everything was hushed, muffled by ubiquitous polyester carpeting. We hesitated. “Where do we go now?” I asked. “Is Gramma here?” Grandpa ran a hand through his newly cut hair, making it stand straight up. Just then a guy in a grey suit came around the corner.

“Hello, you must be Mr. Jones. And you…?”

I must have expected some bearded Methusela. This fellow was my age, and good looking in a robust kind of way. He introduced himself and spoke in hushed tones to Grandpa about this and that, while I looked around for a place to hide my jacket; I settled for slinging it casually over one arm. Funeral Boy led the way into one of their little chapels. Lights shone upon a vaguely religious-shaped alcove, a few small pews lined in rows. A shiny wooden coffin lay at the front. No flowers. I thought of the garden back at the house; there wasn't much in bloom yet, but I wish I'd thought to bring what I could. Even just a few stems of wild snapdragons, Queen Anne's Lace, goldenrod. Gramma would've liked that. Too late now, unless I went out to the front lawn and tore up some stinking marigolds.

Grandpa had decided on a closed casket funeral. While buddy and Grandpa talked, I went over to the coffin, placing my palms on the varnished box. I knew so little about my grandparents – hadn't asked and they didn't talk. I had only fragments: Gramma had been about my age when she had married Grandpa. They'd been together for years before Dad was born. Had she been in love? But the questions and fragments drifted away in the face of their inseparability; in my mind they were a unit. It didn't seem real, none of this seemed real: the coffin, the room, the young guy in a suit. Concealing my hand with my jacket, I tried the coffin lid. Nothing budged. I tried again, a little more vigorously; it was bolted closed. The smooth lacquer of the coffin, the genteel brass handles, the surreptitious nuts and bolts: these had nothing to do with my Gramma at all.

“Don't worry, she's in there,” Funeral Boy called out. I jumped, turning away from the coffin. The guy was grinning, and I startled myself by grinning back. He deals with death all the time, I realized. He sees people like me and Grandpa all the time, people in the throes of grief.

“Ruby, get away from that,” Grandpa hissed. The sight of him across the room without Gramma standing beside him was enough to make me bow my head and obey.

I was surprised by how many people came to the service. The first to arrive were a bunch of old ladies who'd gone to school with Gramma. And all the Great-Aunts put in an appearance (except for Aunty T., who was about a hundred and lived in a home) – even Great-Aunt Queenie, whom my grandmother had detested in life and would never allow in the house. I was startled to see a few of my old friends. Donny and Wayne from down the road showed up in cheap suits, Wayne with his wife whom I'd never met. They looked older, I realized with shock, and then got shocked all over again when I figured I must look just as old. Wayne had three kids, he told me proudly, and showed me pictures of blonde creatures with jam on their faces. Donny had a beer gut and no wife. He kept coughing and looking around miserably until I laughed, “Oh, for Jesus' sake go out and have a smoke!”

“Where's Eddy?” I asked Wayne.

“Eddy!” He shrugged. “Haven't seen him in a long time. He went off to the mainland a few years back, but couldn't find a job… Came back, I think.”

“He's probably in jail,” I said. Wayne agreed.

A commotion outside cut through the murmurs. A woman's voice: “You smarten up, me son, and smarten up
now
if you don't want a smack in the gob.”

“Child abuser,” a boy replied.

“Shush!”

“Shush yourself!” Mourners stirred and Funeral Boy started moving toward the trouble.

“All right. Back out to the car with you, then.”

“I'm hungry.”

“I said…”

“You said there'd be food.”

“Come on then. But for the love of Christ keep your voice
down
!”

“Juanita!” I called, moving to cut Funeral Boy off at the door. “Juanita Cooper!”

We collided in the doorway, hugging and laughing. Juanita held me away at arm's length and looked searchingly into my face.

“Oh, Ruby, I'm so sorry…” Her eyes filled with tears. “Christ, you look terrible,” she said.

“Thanks.” She'd put on weight, which suited her, made her all plump and curvy like those old paintings. But that softness didn't temper the harshness around her eyes and mouth. I looked down at the boy who stood beside her, his name coming to me in a flash of inspiration. “Dennis, I presume? I'm not going to tell you you've grown.”

Dennis made a horrible eye-rolling face. “Thanks.”

“Watch it, I'm bereaved,” I said. “You're supposed to be nice to me.”

“Don't wave a red flag in front of a bull,” said Juanita. “We're having one of our days.”

“
You're
having one of
your
days,” said the kid. “Where's the food?”

“You have to sit through the funeral first, boy. Them's the rules,” I said.

“Shi-it,” he whined.

“Dennis!” Juanita mock-smacked him on the side of the head. “Don't make me hit you in church.”

I caught sight of Grandpa, alone across the room. “I think we're starting soon. See you after?” I said, and went to him.

“Time to sit down,” Grandpa said, avoiding my eyes.

The service was dreadful. The minister or whatever he was exuded boredom; his eulogy focused on Gramma as homemaker, devoted wife-and-mother, and kept referring to her by the wrong name.
Maggie
Jones this and Maggie that. I turned to look at Grandpa. He sat there in his suit, eyes to the front, unseeing. My heart seized within me, and I fought back a frustrated flurry of tears. I felt exposed sitting at the front, imagining people were just waiting for me to break down crying or something. I wouldn't. I was afraid to look at Grandpa again: this might be the end of him. The thought made the hair stand up all over my body.

“Maggie was a kind woman, the sort of person who touched everyone she came into contact with. She…”

Suddenly I was on my feet. “Her name was Maddie.”

The minister paused, and looked over his glasses at me. “I'm sorry?”

“Maddie. Her name was Madeline Jones.” I sat back down, face burning. The minister cleared his throat and apologized, then went back to the eulogy. I lowered my head, my hands trying to strangle one another; Grandpa reached over and placed his big hand on mine. We sat like that through the rest of the service.

When it was finally over, we were shepherded into another room for the reception. Grandpa was engulfed by people telling him they were sorry for his troubles. I tried to corner Juanita, but she was being dragged out the door by Dennis.

“Let's go out some night, Rube,” she called over her shoulder, and I yelled back, “Phone me!”

I did my best with the small talk, and chatted with the old ladies, thanking everyone for coming. The minister apologized to me again, and I said it was quite all right. I lied about my life in Toronto, and told everyone it was going really well. “Any special someone?” they kept asking. I must be looking old, I decided; everyone wanted to see me married off.

I got so sick of myself I finally fled to Grandpa's side. The detested Aunt Queenie, flamboyant in black chiffon, had hold of his elbow; they were whispering together. “Hello,” I said, interrupting them. Grandpa jumped.

“Ruby, dear.” Aunt Queenie kissed me on the cheek, leaving, I knew, a red circle of lipstick. “So nice to see you. I'm sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”

“Never mind,” I said. “How's Uncle… um, Uncle…”

“Bruce died eight years ago, girl,” Grandpa said.

“Oh. Sorry.” How was I to know? I'd only seen Queenie and Uncle Bruce twice in my whole life; well, three times if you counted my parents' funeral. I didn't. “I'm sort of surprised you're here, actually,” I went on, feeling a surge of loyalty to Gramma's memory. She had hated her husband's older sister ever since I could remember. Whenever Grandpa had gone out to Mount Pearl to visit Queenie and Uncle Bruce, Gramma had refused to go, and punished my grandfather with tight-lipped coldness for days afterwards.

“Ruby! Shut it.”

“It's all right, John.” Queenie looked at me more closely, then actually took me by my upper arms and held me away from her, staring. “Dear Lord. You look so much like Mother. Doesn't she look like Mom, John?”

“What are you talking about?” Grandpa barked.

“She's the spit… oh, never mind. It's always annoying,” Aunt Queenie went on to me, “to be a young person and be told you look like someone else.”

I tried to think up an appropriate response, but Grandpa cut in again. “She doesn't look a thing like Mom!” He was shifting from foot to foot.

“No, of course not, dear,” Aunt Queenie consoled.

“That's crazy!” Grandpa stalked away. Queenie's eyes filled with tears. “Oh, dear.” She fished a tissue from her black ruffled sleeve, and delicately blew her nose.

There was the processional to the graveyard, with Grandpa and me in the hearse. There was the lowering of the coffin into the ground. No one said anything here; Grandpa had asked that the burial happen in silence, and so it did, under the hiss and sigh of the great pines above. Grandpa's face as he helped lower the coffin looked grey, like the face of someone seen under water.

Afterwards people darted away, bright voices distant. The hearse took us back to the Southside.

Grandpa and I toiled slowly up the wooden steps and along the path at the side of the house. We were at the back door before he spoke.

Somehow, a plan had been hatched for us to receive visitors at the house later that evening. Lots of visitors. “Don't worry, Queenie will be here,”

Grandpa said when he saw my deer-in-the-headlights expression. He opened the linny door, but I sank down upon a big flat stone, a sort of seat he'd built into the dry-stone walls years before, shoring up banks to keep the miserable bit of topsoil from washing down the Hill every time it rained. He looked over his shoulder at me. “I'm going to have a lie-down. Coming in?”

“In a minute,” I said. He nodded and went inside. I raised my face to the grey crescent of sky, pulled my knees to my chest and hugged them there. Water eased in a constant drip off the little stone cliff at the back of the yard, where the house went into the stone of the Hill. I sat there, rocking a little, until my ass was numb with the cold of the stone.

I don't know how long I sat there before I went inside. The TV was droning in the living room and Grandpa lay on the sofa, a newspaper over his head. Hesitating in the doorway, I checked to see if he was breathing.

He was, and fast too, pretending to be asleep. Silently I sketched a cross in the air the way my mother and grandmother used to do when they tucked me into bed, another borrowed Catholic gesture.

Back in the kitchen, I rooted around in the cabinet until I found a half-empty bottle of cheap scotch. This I took to the kitchen table, where I proceeded to sit, swigging from the bottle, trying not to think. Or feel. Or something.

The careful numbness I'd adopted the moment my plane had left Toronto was shaken. None of this seemed real, and I didn't want to make it real. Or think about the other funeral, the one where Gramma had laid out the cloth on the table, had dressed me, had arranged the service. She'd arranged it all; I couldn't keep up to her. I'd needed her then. I needed her now.

When an old person dies, everyone acts as if they expected it. Because everyone
does
expect it – except maybe the dead person and their near and dear. I know people can prepare for a death, even welcome it, but it's always something other than what you expect. Death is always itself.

Gramma's death was expected, so the quality of the service had been quiet and full of platitudes:
She's better off where she is; she'll always be with you.
Even,
She was ready to go.
That one (from Great-Aunt B., the second-oldest of Grandpa's all-female family) had hurt; the last time I'd seen Gramma, she had been anything but ready to go. Had she gotten that bad, then? I tried to tell myself that this was just one of the things people say, imagining they're making you feel better. It wasn't, I told myself, a dig at me for being a bad grandchild.