by John O'Neill
“Where have you been? Your mother was here today; she’s been phoning ...”
“I was here all day. Sorry about your mom.”
Ellis placed the empty bowl on top of another in the sink, began to eat from the full one.
“What? How? I checked your room. I checked your bed. Your mom was vacuuming this afternoon.”
“I don’t know,” Ellis said through the cereal. “I was here.”
“Jesus Christ. Anyway, I’m exhausted. We’re going to the funeral home tomorrow. I think you should come. Your mom’s staying with your grandfather.”
“Want something to eat?”
“I need to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be crazy. You might want to phone your mom. Or go over there.”
Leonard went to the back of the house, paused briefly at Ellis’ room, wondered if there was some secret passage that allowed his nephew to come and go undetected. Perhaps the foetal groove that Ellis had chopped out of his mattress was a portal, conduit to another dimension. Leonard imagined that one of Ellis’ science-fiction paperbacks had this picture on the cover, a mattress/doorway floating against stars, and Ellis, in space-helmet and pyjamas, stepping through it. But into what, exactly? What new world would he visit? What would his version of a better place be? Leonard thought about this. He decided, without thinking, not to think about his mother.
The sky is clear. Stars fill the sky brilliantly, but I feel as if I’m in a planetarium, that the sense of eternity, of the infinite, is a lie, that there are walls behind the constellations. Nevertheless, it’s beautiful. Around me are hills, interesting rock formations that resemble places I’ve seen in New Mexico and Arizona, not quite large enough to be mountains. Though there are stars, it’s not dark, and I’m walking in soft sand, between patches of green, plants with desert flowers, the occasional cactus. A light breeze blows. I see an animal moving between two rock formations, catch a glimpse of it before it disappears. The breeze kicks up and, when I look down at my feet, they’re obscured by swirling sand. I look for the animal again, and notice that the rock formations themselves resemble animals – the one to my left has the contours of a bear, with blunt stone legs, wide shoulders, dropped piece of stone for a head. To the right, shelves of streamlined stone that incline forward, like a wolverine. I imagine that some native legend, Navajo, tells the story of a fight between a wolverine and bear and that, as a gift to storytelling posterity, both were petrified. The rocks seem to move, shiver. Beneath my feet, the earth rumbles. I move to take a step, but my feet are stuck; they disappear, then my calves, thighs. I’m being eaten by the earth. When I’m half consumed, up to my waist in the flesh of the world, I reach out, touch the ground, find it has the texture of skin. The planet is a living organism, a predator, and I’m prey. Before I disappear, I look up again, say goodbye to the breathing landscape. There, close to me, is the previous coyote. It’s watching my disappearance.
17
THE HALTON
In the morning, Leonard was surprised to find Ellis already up; his nephew’s bedroom was empty, his futon hole stuffed with sheets. Water was running in the bathroom, the door half-open. Ellis was shaving, most of his face obscured by foam. All Leonard could see, in a ghostly oval enclosed by the misted mirror, were his nephew’s eyes and mouth, his hand pulling a razor across. Leonard had awoken with a feeling of annoyance, perturbed that Ellis really hadn’t given proper condolences. But the slow intensity with which he was shaving, the sense of purpose, the running water and steam rising ceremonially, made Leonard pause, as if he’d come across a shrine, a sacred place on a mountain top.
Leonard went down the stairs to the living room. Hanging from a hook on the fireplace mantle was a charcoal three-piece suit and, below it a pair of gleaming dress shoes. This created the illusion of a finely dressed but headless man. The effect was increased by the presence, farther down the mantle, of the pumpkin head, as if it had floated free of its body, estranged from a formality which was out of keeping with its rusticity, its simple vegetable look. Leonard saw, too, that Ellis had cleaned up after himself the night before. There were no dishes in the sink. The carpet still had the smooth trails of the vacuum cleaner. The tidiness and the sudden formality of things, made Leonard anxious to shower and get dressed.
Leonard phoned the school, explained to vice-principal Toomey the circumstances, accepted his condolences, assured him that he’d drop by later that day to leave work for his classes. Toomey said this was utterly unnecessary, but Leonard insisted.
In the shower, Leonard tried to masturbate. Saw Alison at his mother’s funeral. Black skirt, black heels, black nylons. Wilting by the coffin, crying hysterically. Leonard helped her sit, calmed and consoled her. One arm around her shoulders, one hand on her leg. Alison, in her veiled but powerful love for him, felt wrenching grief. But his fantasy kept being invaded by the image of her father. Leonard pictured him in the suit that was hanging by the mantle.
Finally, he gave up, resigned to merely washing. Distracted himself by following the instructions on the shampoo bottle: lather, rinse, repeat. He hoped his adherence to the directions would oblige any higher powers to look out for him, to make his quest successful.
He put on jeans and a flannel shirt. Ellis was waiting in the living room. He stood by the mantle, impeccably groomed, unrecognizable in his dark suit. His shoes winked. His white shirt glowed. His face gleamed too, his usually unkempt hair slicked back, his chin clean. Leonard realized he’d never seen his nephew clean-shaven before. The only evidence of his former slovenliness were his red eyes; despite his scrubbed appearance, they gave him a demonic look.
“You didn’t need to dress up,” Leonard said. “We’re just making arrangements.”
Ellis stared back, as if he wasn’t at all sure what his uncle meant.
“Of course, it is Hallowe’en,” Leonard said.
His nephew didn’t laugh.
When Leonard pulled in front of the costume store in the small plaza off Kingston road and told his nephew that he needed a costume for later, Ellis didn’t react. He didn’t ask why his uncle was apparently planning to go tricking and treating the day after his mother’s death, but Leonard had learned not to question his nephew’s responses. When he suggested his nephew come inside, Ellis said, inscrutably: “No, I have everything I need.”
All the masks that hung on the wall behind the counter were thick rubber-heads that would become intolerably hot, and most represented characters from recent horror films. Leonard searched but couldn’t find any of the faces of the old Universal monsters. He’d always preferred Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Mummy, The Wolfman, Frankenstein, Dracula, to the crass and anonymous parade of kitchen-sink psychotics, toxic avengers and Japanese demon-girls from recent film history. He asked the store clerk, a sweaty middle-aged man in a too-small Elvis outfit if there were any masks hidden away, to which Elvis grumpily replied: “What ya see is what ya get.” The man did not affect an Elvis twang.
Deeper into the store, there were racks of more elaborate costumes, from Roman Gladiator to Victorian Policeman, but most of them had “reserved” tags attached, and the ones available were sized for children; or, they were huge: in a corner was a pile of what looked like animal skins, deflated beasts that seemed less like costumes than parade floats. Leonard fondled an elephant tusk, an enormous beaver tail. Most, too, carried discouraging price tags. Leonard simply wanted to disguise himself; he wasn’t interested in competing for first prize in the Midnight Costume Parade. He settled on a simple white mask that he could wear with black pants and a black turtleneck, a mask without expression, and a large plastic butcher knife to display on his belt. Upon consideration, he decided to buy two of these masks, so he could cover his head, front and back. This would suggest a killer’s twin personalities and also create the illusion that he was both coming and going. Leonard thought this appropriate under the circumstances.
When he returned to the car, Ellis didn’t ask him what he’d purchased, and his n
ephew was sitting so straight, so rigidly in the passenger seat, hands on his knees, that Leonard was nervous driving, afraid that if he turned too quickly or applied the brakes forcefully, his nephew would snap in half. A formality had seized Ellis that made Leonard feel as if he were chauffeuring some foreign dignitary.
The funeral home was a squat, grey brick building with recessed stained glass windows and huge fortress doors. The whole created a brutish, immovable aspect. Leonard felt the impression of weight.
The funeral director offered his hand and condolences to Leonard and Ellis, led them into a small office where Ruth and her father were sitting, leaning over a binder. Ruth stood up, hugged Leonard, then Ellis. She didn’t say a word to her son, but there was no tension between them. His father remained seated. Leonard saw, unhappily, that he was the most casually dressed, his father in a black jacket, ironed pants and a crisp, white shirt; Ruth in a brown pant-suit and a blouse with a ruffle against her throat. The director wore a suit of dark green, expensively cut. Leonard mumbled something about having nothing to wear. Leonard’s father looked up from the coffin photo-album and frowned at his son.
“Where’s Cynthia?” he asked.
Leonard, caught off guard, looked right at Ruth, then back at his father.
“Oh, she’s not, feeling well. She didn’t want to give anybody something. She hardly slept last night. I told her stay in bed. We’d do everything. She gives her condolences.”
He blushed, aware that he’d over-explained.
Leonard and Ellis took places at a small couch to the side of the desk; the director, who had the scrunched face of a pug dog, handed them both a photocopied sheet. It was a list of funeral options or packages: Traditional Same Day Service Package, Direct Service Package, Remembrance Service Package, Graveside Service Package. The director sat in a swivel chair behind the desk. There followed five minutes of silence, as Leonard’s father and sister flipped through photographs and descriptions of coffins, and he and Ellis perused the “packages,” their eyes crossing at the long itemized lists: Preparation and filing of permits, Transfer of deceased, Embalming/Preparation, Staffing for service, Use of state room/chapel, Funeral Coach, Transfer Vehicle, Catering. Finally, the director stood up very slowly, as if he feared startling them, and said: “Now that you have an idea, why don’t we go down look at the vessels.”
After Ruth told him that Dad might have trouble with the steps, the director offered the elevator, but their father said he’d prefer to wait, that he was tired, that his children should make the decision. The director got James a coffee then led the others down. The wide, gleaming hardwood stairs had wide gleaming banisters that were too big for gripping. On their descent, Ellis got a burst of energy, broke from the solemn pace, overtook the director, entered the pitch-black room before the man could turn on the lights.
“Whoa, hold on, don’t want you to have an accident,” he said to Ellis, irritated. They entered a long, carpeted space lined with coffins.
Each coffin had a little card with a title and price. Leonard felt a sudden rush, the same he got in the Toyota showroom whenever he took his car in for servicing. He decided to do a quick sweep, narrow their options.
There were all manner of coffins, or ‘vessels’ as the director called them, from inexpensive (called, Leonard couldn’t believe it, The Sierra Minimum – cloth covered at $899), to the Victoriaville Classic (bronze, at $9,900) Most of the coffins were wood, however: cherry, mahogany, maple and oak, and, lower down the price scale, poplar and ash. Each came with a title: The Paragon, The Oxford, The Halton, The Regal, The Fairholme, The Windsor, The Frontenac. Leonard was reminded of the names they gave houses in new subdivisions, and knew that he was currently residing in a neighbourhood called The Vales of Lakeridge and, specifically, in the house model The Winslow. He wondered if house architects also designed caskets. Some of the models wouldn’t look out of place in the basements of monster homes. Perhaps they could be included as “add-ons” – after all, death was as certain as laundry, or dirty dishes.
Once Leonard and Ruth had examined the vessels, they found themselves watching Ellis, who was taking much more care in evaluating the merchandise; he’d run his fingers along the wood grain, grip the handle and test its weight, push his palm against the upholstery, stick his finger in to see how it was fixed to the wood. He’d crawl halfway under each one, as if studying a car’s undercarriage. At one point, he leaned so far into an oak model (The Woodstock), that Leonard thought he was about to climb in and have a nap. Leonard looked to see how the funeral director was reacting but he’d disappeared. After Ellis had stroked, smelled, pressed and prodded each of the vessels, he walked by his mother and uncle without saying a word and, like a sentry, took a position by the entrance door.
Beside the entrance was another doorway that Leonard hadn’t noticed; it was dark, opening on a stairwell leading farther underground. Perhaps this was the passageway to the room where the morticians worked on the bodies of the deceased, disguising the ravages of age or disease or accident. Or it was a cold storage, where each of the customers was kept until their special day. Leonard wondered if his mother was there. He pictured her naked body, rubbery and pale, on a metal slab. He saw her wrists and ankles, her breasts and stomach, her vagina; felt their bloodlessness, their single, spoiling dream; how all their imperatives, their separate lives, had come together in a sleep that had gone too far, that excluded his father, excluded him. Her neck. Her face. His sister interrupted his morose delectations.
After a brief conference, Ruth and Leonard decided on one of the moderately priced models (the $4,000 cherry Halton), then moved to the exit door. Ellis, waiting there, smiled a full, unabashed smile, and Leonard had a sense, by the way his nephew opened his left hand, palm upward, that he was inviting them into the darker doorway, to descend. Ellis’ appearance, too, the sharply defined angles of his suit, his padded shoulders, shaved face, his unprecedented formality, and the fact that he stood entirely, exaggeratedly erect, lent him a kind of authority.
Leonard hesitated, smiled back, said to his nephew: “We’re liking the Halton. What do you think?”
His nephew didn’t respond. They all started up the stairs. Leonard was overtaken by lethargy. He had to pause, concentrate. He put both hands on the banister until the moment passed.
They went back to their father’s apartment in the nursing home building. Their father had removed any pictures from the walls that included his wife, had set them up in a semi-circle on the coffee table. Ruth sat close to him on the couch while Leonard sat in the fake Victorian chair near the big television. Ellis sat attentively on the edge of an armchair and studied everyone, as if researching a documentary on the effects of grief. Ruth began to talk about the people she’d contact about the funeral and Ellis joined in, saying he was happy to do anything that needed doing.
“That’s so lovely for you to offer, son,” Ruth said. “I love you.”
“Well, Dad didn’t come,” Ellis said.
“He hates these things; he’s coming tomorrow.”
With that, she began to cry. James leaned over and hugged her.
“It’s okay,” he said, “It’s okay. She’s with the angels now.”
Ruth broke from her father’s embrace, saying: “Tonight’s Hallowe’en; we should buy some candy, we can hand out candy. It’ll take our minds off. Dad, you can stay with us, I’m not going home to pick up Jack till tomorrow.”
“I’d like to spend some time alone.”
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
An expression of extravagant disgust came over their father’s face. He tamed it somewhat, said: “There are lots of people here want to give condolences. Penny O’Malley and Ursula, who helps with my banking, are coming this afternoon. Marge, Mrs. Horne, who lost her husband two months ago, she’s coming. She puts in my eye drops. I have a little group. We’re having tea. Don’t worry, I have company.”
“Dad, they’re not family.”
“Ru
thie, don’t talk to me about family, with your husband.”
A look of recognition passed between his father and sister, which made her nod and stare at the floor. Leonard thought of supporting her, of at least suggesting that Dad could come over later, but he felt, as he had the day before, that he’d missed out on something, that more was passing between his sister and father than he understood. And he himself would need an excuse to get away later that night, so his father’s desire for alone time might soften his sister to the idea.
“It’s okay, Ruth,” Leonard said. “People have different ways of grieving. Everybody’s different. We’ll be together tomorrow.”
His sister didn’t argue, had already deferred to their father. She said to Ellis, without softness: “Go to the drugstore, get some treats for tonight. I’ll make the phone calls. We have to put together the notice for the papers. Maybe you can help with that, Leonard. You’re the teacher.” Ruth’s tone made it sound like an accusation.
Back at the house, Leonard spent the afternoon composing a simple notice for the obituaries. He used the obituary notices in that day’s paper as models, adding only one distinctive detail – in the place after he wrote: “Survived by her husband James, and two children, Ruth and Leonard,” he added, “who are already lost without her.” Leonard saw Alison reading those words. By mid-afternoon, Ruth had made all the necessary phone calls and had set up a bowl of candy by the front door after sending Ellis out a second time for some orange and black crepe paper to string around the foyer. She also moved the pumpkin into the front window.
18
GRAVITY
Leonard threw together old lesson plans from his files, scribbled down the names of movies that could be shown in his classes while he was away. He considered developing a new lesson plan, an assignment in which each of the students would write their own obituary, but decided this was too morbid. Drove to the school hoping for a brief visit, unwilling to stand and share with his colleagues the details of his mother’s death. But when he arrived in the parking lot around 4 p.m. he saw Mavis Grace about to get into her car.
