Crow

by Amy Spurway

  Willy Gimp, grilling me about how this even happened, what he’s supposed to do about it, and why I even bothered telling him.

  Char and Allie giving me various shades of dubious advice.

  And then there’s Mama’s voice. Loud and clear and fierce as hell: You made your bed, Missy. You’d best damn well lie in it.

  When the phone rings again, I am too stunned to answer it. The ringing stops. Then starts again. Stops. Starts. Over and over. Finally, I pick up.

  “What?” My social graces are gone.

  “It’s me,” says Peggy, who never had much in the way of social graces to begin with.

  I just start laughing like a hyena. I laugh and laugh and laugh. Laugh myself to tears.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Peggy’s voice raised and rising, tight and desperate. “Christ, Crow! Shut up! There was an accident.”

  “What? Who? What happened?” I mumble. There’s an unmistakable urgency in Peggy’s voice, snapping me into the awareness that shit just got real.

  “A car accident. Your mother,” hushed and shaky.

  “Jesus, is she okay?”

  “No,” choked and barely audible.

  Not at all.

  She’s dead.

  7 IN LIVING AND DYING COLOUR

  Everybody always said that “letting go” was one of those things I had to learn to do. Let go of grudges against people who are just born arseholes. Let go of needing to run the whole show, and just let other people do a piss-poor job and make mistakes. Let go of the cat’s tail before she claws your eyeballs out. But letting go is a lie. Nobody really does it, not in the way that all the serenity-stuffed blissers out there would have you believe. We usually just find something new to cling to. Something to fill whatever void is left by whatever we pretended to let go of, because voids make us twisted and twitchy. Letting go isn’t liberating. It’s a gruesome process of coming undone, especially when nothing can fill the void left by losing the only thing that held you together. The thing that was so precious, so deeply embedded in every fibre of your existence that you don’t even know how to be in the world without it.

  Still, on a frigid February day, I had to let Mama go. Literally. Despite the near weightlessness of ash, my hands ached and shook as all that was left of her slipped through my fingers.

  For as long as I can remember, Mama made no bones about how she wanted things handled. No keening obit in the paper, no tiresome wake, no fancy funeral. She insisted that she be cremated, her ashes spread in a no-fuss manner down at The Wharf. By me. Because I was the only one who’d know how to toss her out properly. Poor Father Delahanty was a terrible judge of wind and water. Just ask the family of old Tully Crumb.

  “Handsome young devil, that Father Delahanty,” Mama would say, “but stunned as me arse. The service for old Tully Crumb down at Black Rock, he goes and chucks a scoopful of her ashes up into the air toward the water, and doesn’t the wind catch it. Ashes flying back into everybody’s eyes! One way to make people cry at your funeral, I guess. And knowing Tully, that was part of her plan all along. Getting in people’s faces like that, just to be a prick one last time. But Delahanty is not to lay a hand on my ashes. Got that?”

  Standing on the wharf, my lime-green parka over a long black dress that just grazes the tops of my silver moon boots, I test the wind direction with a spit-moistened finger. I watch the rippling water, and the cruising clouds up above. I chuck the little scoop the funeral home gave me aside because I need to touch her one last time. To hold her as best I can. My cupped hand gingerly scoops some of her ashes out of the plain black urn, and my fingers curl around her, squeezing her tight. I kiss her through my white, blotchy knuckles. Whisper goodbye. Then, one slow, heavy handful at a time, I let her go into the invisible current that will carry her onto the Great Bras d’Or. I let Mama go in waves.

  […]

  A volunteer emergency responder named Fricker pulled her body from the car after they towed it out of the icy bay’s depths. She was already dead, but Fricker didn’t waste any time getting her out and wrapped in a blanket. He didn’t let them put her in a body bag right away. He held her hand for a few moments, smoothed down her hair and closed her eyes. Mama would have appreciated that. She was always afraid that death would give her that freshly caught smelt look.

  I can pick Fricker out of the crowd. I can’t make out his face from this distance, but there are slivers of translucent blue and solid green that reach and pull all around him. When I shift my gaze to the group that has now inexplicably gathered at The Wharf, a dancing dome of colours is all I see. Every now and then, an electric indigo or incandescent white spark flickers, flashes, dissolves in the crowd of old churchies who are here to pray for Mama’s soul, now that she’s gone. Because God knows they didn’t have a spare prayer for Scruffy Effie Fortune while she was alive. C’mere till I give you an eyeful of ashes, ya pack of pious bastards.

  Oh shuddup, Crow, I can almost hear Mama say. It won’t kill you to accept a little kindness.

  If I squint at the world just right, my squirrelly vision could almost be beautiful today, and I can’t help but feel an unexpected pang of gratitude for Parry and Ziggy and Fuzzy Wuzzy for giving me this gift of colour and light and movement in the midst of an otherwise frozen, dark moment. Like even the brain tumours are trying to show me some kindness.

  Mama would be mortified that somebody put an obituary in the paper calling her “a blessing to her community.” Mortified that the ladies’ auxiliary pulled together an im­promptu reception at the fire hall. Mortified that so many crying, sniffling people spontaneously found their way down to The Wharf today to pay their respects. But nobody got an eyeful of ash. So at least that went the way Mama wanted.

  […]

  The investigation into the accident was quick. The treacherous turn by the bridge at the foot of Ceilidh Mountain is known for swaths of black ice. Mama lost control of the car. It went through the old guardrail, hit the big rocks on the bank before going into the water, then sank into the deep part of the Bras d’Or. The autopsy was quick, too. Mama was probably already unconscious from the crash when the car went under. It was the kind of accident people have been predicting for decades. One of these days, somebody’s gonna get killed on that turn, and won’t that be a shame. So there’s no need to ask too many questions, and no need for Shirl Short or Dar MacIsaac or Bonnie Big Mouth or Peggy Fortune to make up answers.

  Meanwhile, I’ve got a whore of a pile of funeral ham, because in Cape Breton the only way to offer condolences is with food, and there are only three kinds of foods that show you mean it: casseroles, squares, and funeral hams. When the funeral hams go on sale down at the grocery store for ninety-nine cents a pound, you stock up so you’ll always have something to bring the family when somebody dies. Flossie Baker brought over the biggest slab of ham I’ve ever laid eyes on, cheerfully decorated with patterns of pineapple rings and maraschino cherries, all pinned to the meat with cloves. In fact, there’s not a lick of room left in the fridge thanks to the gargantuan ham, two cheesy hash brown casseroles, and a tub of goulash. And the pan of deep-fried chicken wings and some kind of noodles. Clearly, there are some rebels down the Middle Rear Road these days.

  “Here,” Peggy says, shoving a pan of brown and pink swirly squares at me as I prod the ham, trying to make some room. “From Audrey. She’ll meet us down the fire hall.”

  “You take ’em. I don’t eat squares.” My flat voice is barely audible over the fridge’s hum.

  “Suit yourself,” she trills as she jabs a finger into the red dye-drenched concoction. “Hunger’s a wonderful sauce.” She slurps the glob from her finger and grins. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. I’d eat a horse and chase the driver right about now.”

  I bite my tongue as I abandon the fridge and instead fish one of the frozen pans of Mama’s broc-o-glop out of the freezer. In my peripheral vision, I can see Peggy’s head swimming in an odd pool of pale silver, shiny and concave like an empty spoon.

>   “Is that Effie’s broc-o —”

  “Frig off, it’s mine and you can’t have any,” I say, looking up just in time to see the silver around Peggy tilt, tarnish, then disappear completely. I bury my head back into the depths of the fridge.

  “Crow, listen, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye —” Peggy starts.

  “Christ, that ham is a monster,” I grumble, like I didn’t hear her.

  “Your mother would chew my face off for leaving you here all by yourself. She didn’t want you to be alone.”

  “I can take care of myself. Not gonna be here much longer anyway.”

  I shove the fridge door shut, only to have it bounce right back at me because the stupid ham is sticking out too far. Two pineapple rings lose their clove pins and slop to the floor, while the electric red cherries escape into the filthy darkness under the fridge.

  “Listen, Sarah Spenser is up to something with the land sale. I can smell it,” Peggy says.

  I expect to see the gleam of scheming and gossipy glee in her eyes, but instead her meaty hands are squashed together in an anxious clench. There might even be tears trying to sneak out from the puffed edges of her eyelids. The ham finally yields enough space for me to close the fridge door. I pitch the escaped pineapple into the garbage.

  “Let’s get this show on the rogue.” Char sashays into the kitchen. Legs in thigh-high black leather boots. Dreadlocks contained in a tall black top hat. Daktari slung on her hip, dressed all in pink. Grinning, drooling, and waving.

  “Christ almighty, Charlotte, tuck your tits into your dress first,” Peggy sighs. “And try not to act like you’re out on a day pass from the Butterscotch.”

  […]

  Everybody knows that you’re not supposed to eat all the sandwiches and squares and drain the coffee urn at a funeral reception before the family arrives. But the pack of gannets who flocked from The Wharf to the fire hall for this one clearly forgot their manners, because all that is left when we get there are Lolly Ferguson’s cucumber sandwiches and a plate of Helen with the Hairy Pits’s gluten-free, sugar-free, taste-free cookies. Poor Helen. She’s a hippy and a Come From Away. New Brunswick, God love her. Fine by me though. I’ll just drink the tea, flash the requisite sad smile, and pretend I know who everyone is. Plus, there’s a pan of Mama’s broc-o-glop waiting for me at home.

  The buzz of all the busybodies in the room evaporates when we parade through the door and into the midst of Mama’s mourners. Peggy steers Char and the baby toward the scant offerings left on the food table, then goes with Aunt Audrey to shake some old church lady hands. Uncle Gordie goes to the kitchen, rummaging for something to chase the pint of rum he has stashed in his funeral suit pocket. I make a beeline for Allie, who is standing by the tea, her arms outstretched and beckoning, her entire frame shrouded in a shaky teal haze. I lean into her hug and try to laugh as I whisper, “Fuck, would Mama ever hate this. Look at all these old bags, coming all the way out here like they give a shit.”

  She ignores my glib chatter. She squeezes me tight. She gasps in my ear, “Now we both have to learn how to be motherless.”

  I slip out of Allie’s arms and bolt to the bathroom, where I crank the water on full blast in the sink so that I can heave and gag over the toilet bowl for a few minutes in relative secrecy. When I come out, Uncle Mossy is standing there, grinning from ear to over-sized ear. He takes a couple of quick shuffles toward me, squints his eyes, screws up the bottom half of his rubbery face, and cranes his stubby little neck until his face is just a few inches from mine.

  “I sees it,” he whispers, “dat little rainbow.”

  “G’wan, Mossy, stop hovering outside the ladies’ room before somebody thinks you’re some kind of pervert.” Peggy elbows her brother over toward the dartboards in the corner. “Go smile and nod at Flossie Baker for a bit.”

  “You look like ten tons of garbage,” she says as she turns to me. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  She leans in so that for a second I think she’s going to hug me, and I instinctively start to recoil. Instead, she takes a long, slow suck of the air in the space between my ear and my shoulder.

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She begins to rotate her girth back to the busyness of the room. Then she stops. “You know what petrichor is?”

  I give her a faint frown and a head wobble that barely indicates no. I hate admitting that I don’t know what a word means. Especially to the likes of Peggy.

  “It’s the smell after it rains. That fresh, earthy, growing smell. Right fertile smelling.” Peggy’s voice is philosophical and dreamy, but then it shifts abruptly, sharp and pointed as she looks me in the eyes. “Weird to catch a whiff of that in the dead of February.”

  With that, she waddles off. My head spins, my eyes are bombarded by a slew of reddish-orange and dusty blue twinkles, and my gut tightens around an impossible, paranoid notion: Peggy knows.

  Allie slides up beside me with a woman I don’t recognize. Long coal black hair with a pale silver streak, nonchalantly looped into a knot. Intricately detailed birchbark earrings, a turquoise scarf, probably woven by a pack of goddess-blessed babies on the banks of a sacred Guatemalan river.

  “Crow, you remember Wendy, right?”

  The Wendigo.

  She smiles softly and motions to give my arm a brush of sympathy. My body tenses up, as I smile and resist the urge to jerk away. Wendy’s hand drifts back without making contact.

  “My deepest condolences, Crow,” she says in her slow, low, mournfully monotone voice. “Your mother was remarkable. I trust her passage was smooth.”

  “Nothing smooth about your car crashing into freezing water,” I snort. “Getting incinerated in a thousand-dollar cardboard box doesn’t sound so smooth either.”

  The Wendigo clasps her hands and bows her head solemnly. She flashes a gap-toothed smile, as the blue-green ripples around her head emit tiny tangerine bursts.

  “If you’d ever like to plan a more personal celebration of your mother’s life, or if you have things you’d like to explore with your own circumstances —”

  Allie interjects. “Wendy is doing some really great work. Spiritual counselling. Grieving. Dying with dignity. Home wakes and burials. Sounds morbid, but she’s amazing. They’re doing a thing here at the fire hall in the spring. ‘Rig Yer Mortis: Doing Death Right.’ Clever, hey? I told Wendy we’d come.”

  I give Allie and her smooth, steady, blue-and-silver halo the side eye.

  Before I can think, or tell them about my chat with old Hottie McMonk Pants down at The Wharf on New Year’s Eve, I feel something pelt me in the back of the head. Then another. And another. A handful of pine cones are scattered on the floor. I turn, and see the emergency exit door of the fire hall flung wide open. Char stands in the doorway, her giant black hat in hand and filled with pine cones. Which she is biffing at me. Her eyes and her maniac mouth are wide open. She’s howling with laughter.

  “Little. Baby. Trees. Everywhere!” she shouts.

  Before too many tongues can start wagging, Peggy ushers Char out the door. Into the Monte Carlo. Back to the looney bin. I pick the pine cones up off the floor, as Shirl Short and one of the nosy housekeeping broads from the Greeting Gale scuttle toward me. Shirl puts a hand on my arm. The other one has her doe-eyed, half-smiling head — tinged by a bubble-gum-and-mud-coloured halo — cocked to the side in some sort of half-assed condolence expression.

  “Crow, dear,” Shirl starts, all syrup and sympathy, with bile-and-tongue-coloured splotches clustered around her head. “I’m so sorry for your loss. A shame your poor sainted mother couldn’t even be properly mourned without the likes of that one causing a scene. What was Peggy thinking, bringing her here? Silly twit.”

  There are a million things I could say to Shirl Short, and I know that whatever I do say is bound to get repeated. I smile politely. I try to picture Shirl Short as an innocent child. Or as an old woman on her deathbe
d. Aching. Vulnerable. Truly sorry for all the shit she couldn’t help but cause. I open my mouth to let some saccharine platitudes flow.

  “With all due respect, Shirley Short, go fuck yourself.”

  With a smile and a curtsey, out the door I go. To practise being motherless. Pregnant. And dying.

  […]

  With the full moon throwing a sallow light across the icy whiteness of the yard, I bundle myself up in my snow pants, moon boots, and parka and go outside to sit in the snow. I plunk myself down just a few paces from the trailer and stare up at the pale old orb in the sky, surrounded by distant stars. I draw the frigid February night deep into my lungs and hold it there before sending a sigh’s worth of my own exhausted, stagnant breath back into the world. As if the world needs more exhausted, stagnant hot air. I keep trying to suck in some peace, some relief. But all I get is cold and uncomfortable. With snot and tears frozen to my face.

  Despite my broken heart and murky mind, it occurs to me that the path of least resistance is being fully illuminated by this moon and all the other cold, hard, glaring realities that hang over my head now. My mother is dead. My friends are fucked. My days are numbered. I’m about to be homeless, and I got knocked up by a disabled deadbeat drug dealer. Dave suddenly looks like a knight in shining armour.

  He will give me a good-enough love. He’ll hire some top-notch professionals to care for me when I’m blind and drooling and pissing my pants. Plus, Dave would be a stable steward of my little walking, talking legacy. Poor bastard always wanted to have a kid. I was always ambivalent, at best. Dave would make sure that this kid gets into the best daycare, the best alternative arts-based school, the best clothing and footwear. He would tell my child warm, charming stories about me without using the words shitfaced or arseholes or sur-fucking-prise. And he would most certainly be on board for having my ashes mashed into a multi-faceted gem of a memory after I die. Nobody around here thought getting Gem-Mortalized was as awesome as I did. When I told Mama that’s what I wanted, she scoffed and said, “Oh well, pardon me, Your Highness.” Even The Wendigo said it was creepy.