Too Close to the Falls (23 page)

While my head was reeling about what it would be like to ignore your father for the rest of your life, to actually cut him dead on the street, and how God could have made such a mistake as to give Roy's father nine children, Roy went on to tell what was ostensibly the point of the story.

Even before the loss of the washing machine, Roy's mother had admired a wooden wagon with red sides in the window of the general store. Although it would have been perfect for delivering the laundry around town, they couldn't afford it, even by pooling the incomes of his eldest two sisters who “worked out.”

Roy built a soapbox derby car out of junk parts and won a Fourth of July soapbox derby in his town. He marched right over to the hardware store and plunked down his prize money for that red wagon for his mother. Roy said his mother, generally “not one for words,” because she was so busy and suffered from back pain due to a bad case of “the dry bones,” recognized his efforts to make up for the phantom washing machine, saying it was the nicest surprise she'd ever received and he had not one drop of bad blood in him.

Roy rubbed his hands together and shivered. “Now that was one long time ago — and I can still smell the new rubber wheels on that wagon, and I can still see the red fence sides — how they fit in them grooves.”

“You know, you've been a driver ever since. You love driving if it's a car or a truck, as long as it has wheels.”

“You know I never thought of that, but you're onto somethin' there.”

“You even love the dolly on the loading dock. Why, I bet you'd even marry a forklift. You know, like the one at Veverett Lumber?” Roy just shook his head when I got what he called “carried away.”

It was really cold now and dark, so dark there wasn't a light in the sky. Not even a star or the moon. My father had a telescope so I knew a little about the constellations. I couldn't believe they didn't even have astronomy in Wheatfield. There hadn't been a car or even a rabbit since we were stranded, which had now been a long time. I was beginning to feel tired, as though everything were a big chore. Even talking seemed sort of exhausting. My ears had hurt a while ago, but now I couldn't feel them when I touched them. When I bent my hand, my mitten was hard. I'd never heard of wool freezing. I felt like I was wearing woollen casts on my hands. “Roy, do you think we'll be found?”

“Yup.” He wanted to be enthusiastic, but he could barely manage a whisper. I was dressed more warmly than he was. When I suggested he have a cigarette, which had always rejuvenated him, he said he was too tired to light it, right then.
Jeepers!
I thought. He started talking to me about how nice it would be to have a hot toddy at Shim-Shacks. “Wouldn't that be a great wagon.”
Wagon?
Roy was drifting off, but his eyes were open.

“Roy, Roy!” I yelled. “Roy, son of a sea cook!” That's a phrase my father used when he hammered his finger when doing carpentry or if something really made him angry. “This isn't funny. Cut it out and let's make some
plans
here.” Roy was breathing heavily and leaning back on the headrest. I realized there were not a lot
of plans to make. It was windy outside and we were starting to freeze. I could press in the lighter but what would I burn? Then I started to imagine things. I saw a big red light spin in the sky and then it came closer and closer like a pink tornado and then I blinked and realized a police car had pulled up behind us.

The police knew who we were. In fact, they were looking for us. They had us get out of the car. I wondered why, since we were already freezing, did we have to step out into the wind chill factor? Roy whispered that he was getting ready to cross the river Jordan as he stumbled out.

The Wheatfield police told us to put snow on our faces and hands before we got in the cruiser. They said we were “subject to frostbite” and that we couldn't thaw out all at once or else all the blood would go to our frozen parts and “bust the vessels.” The policeman said we were “welcome to thaw,” but it had to be very slowly. I stood up in the wind and put snow on my nose and hands and then got in the cruiser. By the time we got to Niagara Falls we were in more pain than I can ever remember having. My ears and feet started to pound like the Telltale Heart and it got louder and louder and I truly believed my ears would burst. Then they felt hot, prickly, and itchy. The nurse in emergency told me not to touch them, but as soon as she left the room I scratched my right ear. I guess that's when I lost a little chunk, or maybe it was earlier. Roy had to be wrapped in a special blanket, and they told him in the future he would be more susceptible to frostbite and that from now on he always needed to wear a hat. When they said his nose would never be quite the same, he smiled and said, “There's nothing wrong with a little change.”

It was a spring afternoon in 1958. Sputnik had just been launched into space, and I was stuck on earth in the same spot I'd been in for years — stuffed into a small desk with its attached chair. I really couldn't listen to Mother Agnese, my teacher, any longer. I looked longingly out the window at the yellow forsythia
that waved, begging me to come outside. Purple lilacs were in bloom along the chain-link fence. I was sure God did not want us to be sitting in the same spot seven hours at a stretch or why would he have given us legs?

I daydreamed about pioneer days, my favourite era. I imagined myself on a farm in the backwoods of Tennessee. There was no school because it hadn't been invented yet. America was too busy for that kind of thing. It was my job to trap for the family, so I set off in my coonskin cap with my rifle and my dog, Ol' Yeller, at my side. I waved goodbye to my mother, who wore a long dress and made pies in the kitchen. As I tramped blissfully through the rough, smelling the wet earth and sweet grass, I popped open milkweed pods and blew the seeds into the air to see which way the wind was blowing.

My reverie was disturbed by the laughter of my classmates. I looked up to see Mother Agnese looming over my desk. “Well, Catherine, I'll ask you
one
more time what you think.” What I thought about what? I had no idea what she was talking about. I didn't even know what subject we were on. I quickly worked backwards. We had already had lunch, lined up for the washroom, and parsed our sentences. Anthony McDougall had already been sent to stand in the coatroom for making “ungodly noises,” which had to take us to about two o'clock. This must be history or social studies. We never actually had social studies that didn't have to do with God or Mother Agnese's view of the world; everything was one big fat subject entitled The World According to Mother Agnese, an as-told-to version — told by God to Mother Agnese.

Oh well, I guess I had to own up to not having been paying attention. If you didn't pay attention you paid in other ways. As if
eight hours locked in school wasn't bad enough, you had to stay even longer to clean the chalkboards and sweep after school. As I saw it, I had three choices. I could be honest and say I wasn't listening and take my punishment like a man; or I could wing it and say something general like “I believe it's true” or “God has his reasons that are not for us to question.” However, that was risky since I could make a fool of myself if she'd asked something specific. I opted for the third choice, which was answering a question with a question. This was also a risk since Mother Agnese was a lot sharper than the other nuns. That's how she'd made it to principal which, at Hennepin Hall, was top of the heap. I asked, finding the perfect combination of righteous indignation and genuine confusion, “How come everything interesting has already happened? For heaven's sake, we missed the Renaissance
and
the Reformation. Everything in history is old news. How come there are no saints now? Who are the Joan of Arcs or the Saint Theresas of Lewiston?” Some of the kids around me actually perked up and nodded their interest in this filibuster.

“As usual, Catherine, you are looking for the glory, the great deed.
God
will decide who is a saint.
You
must find grace in everyday life. It is you who must decide to live a holy and selfless life. When Saint Theresa was accused of knocking over a vase of flowers and she knew she hadn't done it, what did she do?”

How would I know? For sure this was a trick question and the answer wasn't going to be the obvious — whoever spilled it should clean it up.

Linda Low raised her hand and said in singsong perfection, “She fell to her knees and prayed for God's forgiveness as though she had dropped the vase. She found redemption in her humility.
That's why she is called the Little Flower.”

Great
. I could see where this was going.

Mother Agnese picked up the ball and ran with it. “It was many years later that the Little Flower was canonized, but that does not mean she wasn't a saint in her own time.”

“How can you be a saint if you're not canonized?” I asked.

Mother Agnese looked perplexed, as though I were not seeing the obvious. “There are great inventors who have walked silently among us; who, for example, invented the wheel?” (She ignored Anthony McDougall, who shouted, “Chevrolet!” between the slats of the coatroom door.) “Why shouldn't there be saints who do the same? Recognition is the least important part of sainthood. Canonization is only so we may have registered examples to follow.” Mother Agnese took a deep breath, readjusted her wimple, and turned her penetrating gaze toward the rest of the class. “In fact, Catherine, your unusually dispirited vexation comes at an ideal moment, since we are about to embark on a unit in English called
journalism and interviewing
. As you know, all of our work is done for the love of God. Perhaps we could kill two birds with one stone. I would ask each one of you to find someone who lives amongst us, an adult you admire, as Linda admires the Little Flower, someone who gives to God every day by small but cumulative sacrifices. Those Sarah Bernhardts amongst us,” she said, looking at me, “who are looking for the grand gesture, will have to revamp their idea of sainthood along more humble lines. Now we will make up a list of questions together, and I expect you to have selected your local saint candidates by Friday. Naturally, boys will interview men and girls will confine themselves to women. I would suggest you do not choose any relative since we
already know their habits, holy and otherwise. It is important for all of us to help Catherine understand that we are not studying history but that we are part of it. As George Santayana said, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.'

I didn't know who George was, but I liked his ideas. I perked up, seeing myself as a part of history, and the idea that there were future saints around me made a spring day cooped up at Hennepin Hall slightly more bearable.

The saintly sleuthing became quite an event in Lewiston. Father Flanagan gave a sermon on the topic on Sunday. He announced that he, with the help of our good Lord above, would pick the winning essay and read it aloud at our May Day Procession in honour of Our Lady. This definitely upped the ante because I thrived on competition of any kind and revelled in public speaking. If I had to beat the bushes, I was going to find the one true saint in Lewiston.

Naturally Linda Low chose Mother Agnese. Several boys called my home that night and asked my father if they could interview him. Although he said nothing, I felt he was flattered, immediately inviting them out to “a breakfast meeting” the next morning. Two girls chose my mother, I guess since she arranged flowers near the tabernacle for the Altar and Rosary Society, and put up plaques on historical buildings telling who had slept there. I didn't see that as exactly
saintly
, but as my dad said, “Someone has to do it. And besides, any job done well has honour in it.” He said it was up to me to decipher the difference between “honour” and “sanctification.”