by Arthur Slade
“This frail vessel once held life,” Jacob whispered from the prep station next to Newton. He pushed up his glasses and positioned his penknife on the ground squirrel’s chest. “Forgive my trespasses.”
“It gets better after the first cut,” Newton said. “Not much, though.”
Newton made the incision longer.
“Do not, I repeat, do not cut into the internal organs!” Mr. MacBain shouted from the far side of the room.
Despite the revolting task of preparing the gopher, Newton’s mind was absorbed by the quiche recipe. If the meat is gamy, I’ll have to wham it with the tenderizer hammer.
“Careful with those guts, son!” Mr. MacBain bellowed down his neck, nearly causing Newton to drop his knife. The instructor moved around the room like a panther. “Now, all of you, insert your thumbs into the incision and pull outward! The skin’ll come away easily. You’ll see!” He pointed at the class for emphasis with the middle finger of his right hand. (His index finger was missing. Rumor had it he’d left it somewhere in India.) Newton pulled. As promised, the skin fell away.
I only just got out of the sickbed yesterday, Newton wanted to shout.
“Ach, that’s it, lads and lassies! We’re cooking with petrol now.”
Newton glanced at Jacob, who looked squeamish. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, but this’ll be the worst gumbo ever,” Jacob said. Just then the gopher’s innards spilled out of the incision. “I. Need. Air.”
Mr. MacBain gave Jacob a tap on the shoulder. “Lad, don’t forget the eyeballs,” he said, and Jacob fled, just in time to throw up in the hallway. The sound of it made Newton want to do the same. He gritted his teeth. He wished he could go help Jacob but didn’t want to take the chance of losing marks. A moment later the janitor arrived, mop and pail in hand. Soon Miranda and two others ran to the hallway and used the pail as well. When they were done, the janitor led the three of them away.
Newton’s resolve got him through the gutting of the squirrel. He peeled back the membrane that covered the chest cavity and pulled out the heart, lungs and windpipe. Soon he had all the remaining parts in a small pot boiling away on a Bunsen burner.
“Boiling’ll kill most anything that’ll kill you,” Mr. MacBain announced.
I hope so. He shredded the mozzarella cheese, chopped the green onion and mixed the two with flour and salt. He spread the mixture across the pastry shell he’d made the night before. At the last possible moment, he opened the jar of truffles, so that they’d be as fresh as possible. The scent made his eyes roll back. That’s what heaven smells like. He plucked out a truffle and closed the lid. He sliced the truffle thinly, all the while grieving its future lying next to gopher meat.
Soon the quiche was baking. “Did you like the rose?”
He turned to find Violet standing there, her face guarded. She was holding a dish that looked like some sort of stew.
“Rose?”
“At your bedside in the sick bay.”
“That was you?”
“Yes. You were KO’d, so I didn’t chat.”
“You left me the rose?”
“You’re sure quick. Yes. Of course. I thought it would be a nice touch. After all, Al Capone sent roses after the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
An order flashed through Newton’s mind: Pull the quiche and dump it on her now. Instead, he said, “I gave the rose to Nurse Garchinzki. She ate it.”
For an instant Violet looked like she was going to cry, then she kicked him in the shin. “You moron!”
The Starker anger rose to the surface like the Loch Ness monster searching for sheep, but Newton fought it back down. Revenge. A dish best served cold. With gopher guts on the side.
Only later, when Mr. MacBain was tasting his quiche, did Newton get satisfaction. “Truffles! Tender meat! Lad, this is the best gopher quiche in the history of Potts gopher recipes. Top marks!”
Newton shot a look at Violet. Actually, revenge was best served straight out of the oven.
Excerpt from The Survival Handbook of Jerry Potts Academy of Higher Learning and Survival
* * *
One must always ask oneself, “Is the eye half-empty or half-full?” Take it as your mantra. But what does it mean? The eyes of any large animal contain a certain amount of water. It may be necessary to drink it, especially if you are trapped in the desert and your camel has just died. Pluck out the eyes and suck out the liquid. Squeamishness is weakness. The eye is always half-full.
A Second Illuminating Visit with Great-grandmother Starker
* * *
Saturday afternoon, Newton checked the weather on his MacBook and was a little worried about how warm and humid it was for September in Saskatchewan. There was no prediction of thunderstorms online, just the comforting image of a smiling sun. Nonetheless, in the back of his head, the constant and unnerving electrical buzz had been jacked up a notch.
He phoned Environment Canada. “Is this Newton Starker?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re our most frequent caller. We appreciate your faith in our system. There is absolutely no chance of lightning today.”
And so Newton set off for the Welakwa Home for the Elderly. When he’d walked three blocks, he shrugged off his backpack, lowered it to the ground and opened the flap. Joséphine stepped out, sniffing the grass on a perfect lawn.
“How do you like the fresh air?” Newton asked.
Oink! She trotted alongside him, and a few Moose Javians gawked. Newton shouted in his head: Haven’t you seen a truffle pig before!
When he got to the front desk, Newton signed in, and, since the woman didn’t bother to look down and see Joséphine, Newton didn’t bother to mention her.
He went to his great-grandmother’s suite and knocked. A bitter “Come in” pierced through the door. She was in the same place by the window, in the same shawl, with the same blanket over her lap. A pot of tea sat on the tray next to her. She looked down at Joséphine. “You’ve brought lunch.”
Joséphine let out a squeak, then barked at the old crone. At least, it sounded something like barking to Newton.
“Feisty little piece of bacon, isn’t it?”
“She’s my pet,” he replied indignantly. Joséphine bark-oinked again, this time at Newton. “I mean, my friend.”
“You have a pig for a friend? How far the Starkers have fallen. It’s a good thing the line will end with you.”
“It won’t end with me. And Joséphine is very special!”
She smiled. “Ha, got your dander up.”
He took a deep breath and counted to five in his head. Don’t fall into her trap, Newton. Try to find the positive in this visit. He sat on the wooden chair across from her. “Uh, how are things here?”
“Boring and stupid. Old Man Munroe died on Wednesday. He was eighty-two. A loudmouth. I told him I’d outlive him. We’d even bet on it. I won! Ha! Of course, I can’t collect my two bits, because he’s dead. But still, I won.”
Newton blinked in awe. What a horrible bet.
He put his hands on his knees, leaned in and tried to find something in his great-grandmother that was similar to something in his mother or him. Only the eyes. One gray and one blue. Eyes that were currently examining him. “Well, are we having a staring contest or what?” she chided.
“Uh, so, I read the journal.”
“Oh, really. And what did you make of Andrew’s pitiful life?”
“Well . . . he gave up, didn’t he? In the end. Just completely gave up.”
She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. “It’s not about right or wrong; it’s about weak or strong. If you hope to live any longer than a mayfly, learn that lesson, at least.”
“That’s partly why I’m here. I want to know how you’ve managed to live so long.”
She smiled, gargoyle-like, displaying crooked yellow teeth. “Ah, my secret. All the other Starkers have died so young. So tragically. But I’ve outlived them all.
So what’s my secret?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . you are the last of us. I suppose I should tell you, on the off chance you live long enough to sire children. Wouldn’t want to have the line die out.” She paused to sip from her teacup, then her palsied hand lowered it onto the side table. Newton’s brain pulsed, and he leaned in, ears at the ready. “I once believed I could just move away from the lightning, so I went to Alaska, but the nightly chatter of the northern lights nearly drove me mad. So I moved here, married a second-rate lightning-rod salesman and hoped for something that would keep me alive. I kept living. To thirty, then forty; and on my forty-fifth birthday, I discovered what was keeping me alive: spite.”
“Spite?”
“Spite, Great-grandson. Lovely, gorgeous, unyielding spite. I hate everyone—everyone I have ever met, every man, woman and child who ever breathed air on this ugly planet. Oh, it was just a seed in my heart when I was a child, but the longer I lived, the bigger it grew.”
“You hate everyone?”
“Even you.”
“That’s terrible.”
“That’s survival. Oh, not that I don’t have moments of feeling sorry for you or your mother or your grandfather. But I have made a stone of my heart and I have survived. Idiots made up jokes and laughed about my father when he was killed. The lightning hit his Model T in 1910. I survived that blast. I outlived the schoolchildren who called me names and taunted me, the newsmen who told half-truths, the teenagers who left me out of everything. They’re all dead, and I’m still here. I’ll even outlive you, Newton.” She pointed a crooked finger at him. “Would you like to bet on it?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Your great-grandfather thought he would bury me. I was his ticket to cash, my fame helping to sell all those lightning rods. But I buried him. Then your grandmother, your uncle, your mother.” The madness in her eyes softened for a moment, and she sighed. “She was such a sweet child. I did . . . I did sometimes hold out hope that Delilah would live longer. But your mother gave up.”
“She did not give up!” Newton couldn’t believe his ears.
“Well, she forgot about the weather, then.”
“What do you know, you old bat!”
“Settle down there, whippersnapper!” She leaned back in her chair. “Well, well, well. You actually have some spite in you. Good. Good.” She eyed him.
“Maybe you will survive. Do you have any friends? I mean, besides Porky here.”
Joséphine didn’t even oink at that. Instead she yawned.
“Not that many,” Newton admitted. He thought of Jacob. And, oddly enough, of Violet, then pushed her out of his mind.
“Dump them. They’ll just drag you down. Life is a sinking ship, and we’re all fighting for one solitary lifesaver.” Her twiggy fingers balled up into a fist, and she shook it as though she were about to roll dice. “So, that’s my secret. You must cultivate a healthy sense of spite, Great-grandson. Spite. And maybe you’ll even outlive me. But I doubt it, since I’m the Angel of Spite itself.”
Now she truly did look insane. The Angel of Spite? Good grief!
“Well, that’s enough wisdom imparted for today. What time is it?” she asked.
Newton glanced at his watch. “Almost four-thirty.”
“Ah, wheel me out to the veranda, then. I want to see the old men bowling. Some of them still have nice bums, you know.”
Newton made a sour face. He didn’t want to think about old people’s bums. Ever.
He wheeled his great-grandmother down the hall, with Joséphine trotting behind. Enid seemed amazingly light, as though there were nothing in the chair at all. She peered into the rooms as they passed. The occupants glared back. He imagined that she had mocked all of them at one time or another.
“Not so fast,” she said, “not so fast.” He slowed down. She seemed to soak up the attention. She held her head and shoulders straighter, like royalty. Newton expected her to begin waving at any second. They passed through the tearoom, and conversations stopped. White-haired ladies narrowed their eyes. “I’m afraid they don’t like me much here,” she said. “They’re jealous of my good looks. And the fact that I’ve still got my own teeth!” She shouted that last bit. “My own teeth!” She clacked her dirty teeth together and laughed.
“Clear skies, my boy,” she said as they approached the veranda. “Clear skies! It’s a glorious day. Roll me right up there.” She pointed. “And stop hitting so many bumps! I suppose you can’t have a driver’s license yet. Let’s hope you never get one.”
He wheeled her up to a spot on the wide deck where they could look down on the lawn bowling green. Several men in white hats, white pants and white shirts watched as another rolled a ball through the grass.
“Ah, the games are on.” She rubbed her hands together, emitting a sound like sandpaper. “Do you want to wager on who’ll win? I bet it’s the guy with the bony butt.”
She was working so hard to be hateful that Newton was struck with an odd sense of pity. He looked down at her frail body. Spite seemed to leak out of her, making her appear smaller and smaller.
“You’re my great-grandmother,” he whispered, and touched her shoulder.
She looked up, anger boiling in her eyes. “Why is your hand on my shoulder?”
“You’re family.”
She was silent for several moments. Then she placed her gnarled fingers on Newton’s hand. They were like ice, but Newton didn’t move. “Your mother was the only one who would touch me,” she whispered.
Newton immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the western sky was clotted with clouds. The hairs on his arms shot up as straight as saluting armies, and his ears buzzed as though a swarm of bees were encircling him.
“Does it seem a little quiet?” she asked.
Get down! he thought he heard his mother’s voice scream. His great-grandmother swung around and yelled, “Back, boy, get back!” as she shoved him hard. He let go of the wheelchair and fell back, landing half inside the veranda door.
At that moment she was struck by a flash of light so bright, Newton’s pupils shrank to pinpoints. The lightning sparked through her, out her body and down the metallic frame of the wheelchair. It crackled along the back of the chair, and the bolt arced over Newton’s head, striking the door frame. The electrical energy seemed to dance for a few microseconds, and Newton thought he heard a fuzzy transistor-radio voice say, I told you to be careful.
Mom? Mom? He lay on the carpet for several seconds, his eyes throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He ran his hand over his skull—his hair was sticking straight up, but no other damage.
Slowly he got to his feet, keeping his eyes on the sky. The clouds had vanished, almost magically, and the sun was shining again. His great-grandmother sat peacefully, her wrinkled face at rest, her eyes closed, her mouth shut and her bonnet smoking. Clearly she was dead.
Joséphine oinked quietly and rubbed against his leg.
From the bowling green came an odd pattering noise that Newton at first took for rain.
It was clapping. The old men had stopped their game and were looking up, applauding—what? The sky? The lightning? The spectacular death? Newton didn’t know which.
He wheeled his great-grandmother back inside the home, away from them. But in the home the old women had plugged up the hallway with their walkers and wheelchairs. They were applauding, too, relieved smiles plastered on their faces.
What the National Globe Wrote About Great-grandmother Starker’s Death
* * *
Woman, 102, Struck by Lightning!
ENID STARKER of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada, was in her wheelchair on the front deck of her senior citizens’ home, when a bolt of lightning appeared out of the blue and struck her dead. Starker, as many of our readers know, was the grand matron of the Starker family, famous for having been decimated by lightning. Enid Starker was predeceased
by her daughter, granddaughter, grandson and other relatives, all taken by lightning. She is survived by her great- grandson Newton Starker, age 14. He has been known to wear a tinfoil hat in the hope of deflecting lightning.
Calculating the Odds
* * *
In his room, Newton sat on his bed, staring at the wall. Absentmindedly, he patted Joséphine’s head. The ambulance had come to the Welakwa Home for the Elderly and taken his great-grandmother away. Its lights weren’t flashing. He had phoned his father, who promised to catch the next flight. “Sit in the tail end of the plane, Dad. In a crash it will most likely break off. Statistically, most plane-crash survivors were seated at the rear.”
“That’s morbid, Newton.”
“It’s survival, Dad.”
“So it is. I see they’re teaching you well. I’ll be there as soon as possible. I promise.” Newton was happy about that. Being so close to the lightning and, therefore, coming so close to death had set his brain ticking. Newton couldn’t stop it from working on a list:
Things That I Wouldn’t Have Been Able to Accomplish If I’d Been Hit by Lightning
Finishing the year with the highest marks and being in the Hall of Heroes
Creating new, wonderful recipes
Reading Jacob’s new book
Having the last laugh on Violet
Getting to know Joséphine
Being with Dad
Growing up
Newton paused to relive Great-grandmother’s death: how she’d pushed him away, the hair-standing-on-end moment, the crack of the lightning and the applause. All the applause. Do you want people to be clapping at your death, Newton? There really was something worse than people making fun of you.
Yes, she had pushed him out of harm’s way. That was something. That she would do such a thing created a firestorm of conflicting emotions for Newton. On the one hand, he didn’t feel an overwhelming sadness, as he had when his mom died. He would never miss his great-grandmother as he did his mother. On the other hand, Great-grandmother Starker was the meanest person he’d ever known, but at the very last second of her life, she’d chosen to save his. It was all so confusing. One thing he knew for certain: He felt sorry for her. She deserved a natural death.
