“How are you?” he asks.
“Fine, thanks. And you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m getting old, Ellie. Just plain getting old. I’m not ready for this. I don’t know how to handle it.”
Impulsively, she grabs his hand. “Me neither.”
He squeezes back, then loosens his grip. Ellen goes back into neutral when, unexpectedly, his arm slides around her waist, drawing her into a hug. Their bodies still fit together. They fit too well. She relaxes against him for a minute before drawing back.
“Hey, we’re not doing that any more. Remember? Besides, what would your girlfriend say?”
He makes an Al face — a funny thing he does with his mouth. Half goes up and half goes down while his eyebrows do a little dance of their own.
“She’s history, Ellie.”
It’s her turn to be surprised.
“I’m sorry,” she tells him. And to her astonishment, she really means it.
He reaches his arm out again, but she slides away, leaving only her hand. He holds it for a minute before turning it over and stroking the back of it, as one would stroke a kitten. His touch is a soft cincture: a single strand of spider web, drifting on warm summer air. But, she remembers, a strand of spider web is stronger than a strand of steel. She stands, tense and wary, a small animal venturing too close to a trap. She forces herself to relax. There is no trap. She’s no longer bound to him, no longer at his beck. She is no longer part of “Al’n’Ellen.”
He closes both hands over hers, an envelope that holds her motionless as he peers at her with warm eyes. Ellen stifles the urge to laugh. He reminds her of a big puppy dog.
“She wasn’t you, Babe.”
They stand for another moment while she searches for a way to defuse the situation, but he makes the move first. He drops her hand, half turns away, and brushes his hair back as though he’s just come through a wind tunnel.
“Ellie, what’s happening with Joanne and Stan? They’re hurting mega, but I can’t figure out what’s gone wrong. When they need each other most they act like they’re on separate planets. It breaks me up to see them like this.”
“I know. She blames him for not letting them try radiation and chemo. It wouldn’t have made any difference; Lissy was gone before they ever had the chance to try it, but Joanne can’t accept that.
“He’s upset because …” her voice catches. It takes a minute to get herself under control. “Al, I don’t know why they’re like they are. I know they had an argument about the chemo just before Lissy died, but I think that was just pouring gas on a fire that was already smouldering. There’s more going on than we know about. Neither one is asking for our help, and it’s hard to know what to do without intruding. I don’t know what to say to either of them.”
Her throat tightens. She tries to continue talking, but the words are forced. It physically hurts to speak. Al leans closer to hear. “We don’t know the whole story, and my guess is, we never will.”
He nods, slowly, reluctantly. His hands make futile gestures.
“I don’t know how to help them either.”
At that moment, Jana bounds into the room, shattering the brittle space between them. She rushes forward to claim her grandfather, grabbing his hand, tugging him away.
“Whoa there, chickadee. Where are we going in such a hurry?”
“Come see, Grampa,” Jana pleads. “It’s reeal special.”
“Reeal, reeal special?” Al echoes.
“It really, really is,” she promises, her wide eyes a mirror of his own. “You can come too, Gramma.”
Al grins. “Come on, Babe. Looks like a command performance.”
They follow Jana, expecting to go into one of the other rooms, but she leads them outside, onto the back deck. As they reach the door she turns and puts a chubby finger to her lips.
“You have to be real quiet or he’ll go away.”
They step carefully through the door, closing the screen gently behind them so as not to frighten the elusive whatever-it-is.
Jana stops, triumphantly, lowers her voice to a whisper, and points.
“See. It’s a kingbird!”
It’s a bird, but Ellen has never heard it called a kingbird. Al’s eyes catch hers and points of laughter dance between them.
“That’s a blue jay, Jana,” Al whispers.
The tousled head shakes vigorously.
“No, it isn’t,” she insists. “Look. He’s got a crown on top of his head. He’s special.”
“Maybe he’s king of the blue jays,” Al suggests.
Ellen’s eyes roll upward. Is this pandering or what? A Stellar jay is, after all, just a talkative bird with some blue feathers. But Al is happy to go along with Jana’s decision that this bird is somehow special. Still, king of the blue jays?
Jana considers the idea.
“Maybe. He’s lots special. He eats peanuts, too.”
Al looks at Ellen with a wicked smile. “That’s pretty special, all right.”
They both know jays will eat anything that isn’t nailed down and they’re sharing a memory of a time when the kids were young and their holidays were spent camping — tents, smoky fires, the works. A flock of jays raided their camp and almost cleaned them out. Swooping over the table, they inhaled a bowl of popcorn, another of potato chips, then moved on to gobble up hot dogs, the buns the hot dogs were going into. They cleaned up a plate of Ritz crackers for good measure. As an encore they made off with a pot scrubber, one of a pair of dice Al was using in a Parcheesi game, and a chunk of incense-like mosquito coil set on the table but not yet lighted. From the way the jays scooped things up, it might not have mattered it if had been burning. Fastidious they were not. Ellen grins back at Al, acknowledging the memory. She’s about to make a comment, but Al reads her mind and shakes his head.
He’s right. If Jana wants to think jays are special, so be it. And if she needs to believe that this particular jay is especially talented because he eats peanuts, there’s no harm in that. Al believes kids should have fantasies. Ellen used to think it was kinder to demolish them, teach them about the real world, as her parents did, making sure she and her brother never entertained illusions about wee folk, ghosts, spooks, and goblins, never believed in Halloween, the Tooth Fairy, or Santa Claus. Now she’s not so sure. Maybe kids need fantasies. Grownups, too. She’s tired of living in a world where everything has to be verified for content and political correctness.
Dinner is a painful affair. Joanne and Stan are excruciatingly polite with one another. It’s difficult to carry on a conversation when you can talk to one or the other, but not with both. Ellen soon tires of the three-legged round robin.
After dinner a man from the funeral home arrives to discuss the service for Lissy. Al and Ellen are shunted into the background as he talks with Stan and Joanne. He begins by asking for their suggestions for the service. Stan corrects him immediately.
“We don’t want a funeral service. We want … a celebration of her life.”
Ellen bites her lips fiercely, trying to hold back tears. How can you celebrate Lissy’s all-too-short life? What is there in death that calls for celebration?
The man is unconcerned. He bows his head momentarily, as though deep in thought, or perhaps deep in prayer. It’s hard to tell. Ellen is sure he’s heard it all before and is simply letting Stan have his say. After a moment, he looks up and nods, obsequiously, condescendingly, silently telling them that he knows best. Then he begins promoting his product. What kind of coffin do they want? Live music or taped? Who will give the eulogy? Which members of the family will speak? If they don’t have a family minister, he has a list of people who can perform non-denominational services. There is an adjoining room that can be rented for a reception after the service, and caterers who can look after the reception. He has lists upon lists upon lists. He’s done this a hundred times. Ellen hates him. How can anyone be so inured to death? Especially the death of a child?
Ellen wants to scream, t
ell him to get out and leave them alone. This isn’t the time for the Resurrection and the Life. It’s time for a picnic on a hilltop to remember a sweet little girl who shouldn’t have left them so soon.
Stan is no help. It’s obvious he’s trying to patch up the quarrel with Joanne by deferring to her every decision. She chooses not to understand what he’s doing — or at least that’s how it seems. Ellen knows her daughter. Despite her grief, Joanne knows exactly what’s going on and she’s playing volleyball with a barbed wire net.
Eventually, the interview ends. The man leaves. Jana is tucked away in bed. Stan and Joanne head for their bedroom, leaving Al and Ellen alone in the front room. They arrange themselves on the chesterfield, facing the television.
“Anything special you want to watch?” he asks.
She shakes her head.
He clicks on something and turns the volume down. It’s audio wallpaper, covering up the silence in the room.
Once again he reaches for her hand. She lets him take it.
“How’s it been for you, Babe?” he asks, watching her closely.
“Okay, I guess. I’m getting along.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “I still worry about you.”
“Isn’t it lucky you don’t have to anymore,” she retorts, pulling her hand away.
His hand remains outstretched.
“That’s okay, Babe. I understand. I treated you pretty badly and you’re entitled to a few barbs.”
This is definitely not the Al she used to know. The silence is thinned by the low murmur of sound from the television.
“How about you? How are you getting along?”
He takes a minute to respond.
“Okay, I guess. It’s funny, but things are better since Verna left.”
Verna? Ellen’s so used to thinking of her as “Al’s Bimbo” or the “Vestal Virgin” that she forgets for a minute who Verna is.
“What happened?”
He shrugs his shoulders in a gesture of renunciation.
“Nothing really happened, I guess.”
Another pause.
“Well, that’s not quite true. What happened is I suddenly realized she wasn’t you. She never would be. She never gave me any space. I guess I liked your style better, Ellie.”
He recaptures her hand.
“Al, don’t you think it’s a little late for all this? I mean, it’s over. We’re history.”
She’s uncomfortable with the direction this conversation is taking.
“I’m serious, Al,” she repeats, with as much force as she can muster without being rude. “We’re history. Period. End of an era. That’s it. There ain’t no more.”
He ignores her.
“Babe, this isn’t the time or the place. There’s too much going on right now. But later, once this is over, can we get together to talk? Just talk. That’s all.”
She agrees this is neither the time nor the place. She’s not sure she agrees they have anything to talk about, but there’s no harm in talking. At least, she hopes there isn’t.
“Okay. That can happen. After this is over — when we’re both back home again.”
It’s an exit line if she ever heard one. She seizes it and rises to her feet.
“Good night, Al. See you in the morning.”
The week is one Ellen wishes she could forget. It ends with Lissy’s service. The small chapel, crowded with friends and family, is filled with the cloying scent of funeral flowers. Ellen finds it hard to breathe. Jennifer sits beside her sister, along with Geoff and Robby. Stan’s dad, his sisters and their families cluster together. There are friends from the neighbourhood, Lissy’s godparents, and people Ellen doesn’t recognize, but it doesn’t matter. The service is a tear-jerker. Surely asking them to sing Sunday school hymns is going too far. There should be an edict prohibiting singing Jesus Loves Me at a child’s funeral. And another to prohibit the reading of Ecclesiastics: There is a time to live and a time to die. It sounds strange without the thump of a guitar in the background and a chorus singing, “Turn, turn, turn.” What she really wants is to prohibit funerals like this, or rather the need for funerals like this. Kids shouldn’t die.
After, people gather in the reception room over cookies and coffee and tell each other what a beautiful service it was, and how meaningful it was. Even as her face freezes in the rictus that masquerades as a smile, she finds herself asking questions: Was it meaningful, and if so, to whom? If the point was to comfort those who Lissy left behind, it wasn’t.
If it was to score points for the funeral director, it probably was. There was the mandatory picture of Lissy at the front
of the chapel, a painful reminder that they’d never see that bright and bubbly little person again. She’d never bring sunlight and dewdrops and butterflies into their day with her smile. Her skipping rope, arranged casually on the table beside the picture, was a reminder that never again would Lissy come tripping down the stairs, bounce through hopscotch squares,
or splash through puddles.
Everything, every word, every song, every object, is loaded with sentimentality and symbolism. And none of it represents Lissy. Not in Ellen’s mind.
Ellen promises that she’ll make her own farewell to Lissy at some other time, in some other place. Meanwhile, Lissy is still very much alive in her heart.
Al and the other kids stay until the weekend. Then they have to get back to work. A friend of the family shuttles Jennifer, Robby, and Geoff to the airport at various times for their various flights. Joanne makes her goodbyes at home. Each departure takes something from her, chipping away at the façade she’s presented during the week. Finally, it’s time for Al to go. Joanne surprises them by suggesting they all go together to see him off. They gather awkwardly around the van as Stan unlocks it and Al opens the middle door, then freeze when it reveals two boosters seats. No one says anything. No one moves, until Stan breaks the tableau, stepping forward to unlatch one from its secure position and stow it in a far corner of the garage.
Jana breaks the silence.
“Come on, Grampa,” she says, tugging his hand. “You sit by the window and I’ll sit in the middle by side of you and Gramma.” She beams at them. She has a grin that’s hard to resist and Ellen doesn’t try.
Al quirks his eyebrows and she nods in reply. He gives her hand a squeeze before turning back to Jana.
“Okay, bright eyes,” he says. “Let’s get in.”
They arrange themselves across the seat as Joanne and Stan slip quietly into their seats and buckle themselves in.
Jana chirps and chatters all the way to the airport, burbling merrily to everyone. When they reach the airport, Al calls out to Stan: “Don’t bother parking. Just drop me off at the front. There’s no sense coming in with me, because I’m just going to check my bag through and go straight to the departure lounge.”
Joanne starts to object, but Al overrules her.
“No. I hate standing around saying goodbye.”
As they pile out of the van, Al retrieves his bag and it’s time for hugs all around. Ellen’s comes last.
“I meant what I said, Babe,” he tells her, his voice soft in her ear so no one else can hear. “I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
Ellen nods. She’s not sure she should encourage him. It’s over with them. Finished. Dead and gone. Bad choice of words. Over and done with. That’s better. But while the inside of her head is holding back, the outside is nodding up and down like the puppet she’s been all her life. Sure, dear. Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Whatever you say, dear.
Ah, well. Time to deal with that problem when she gets back. Right now it’s more important to bring this scene to an end, to get Al off on his plane. And tomorrow, to catch her plane. Maybe then Stan and Joanne can find a time and a place to sit down and talk about whatever is tearing them apart. It becomes more painfully clear with each moment that the barrier between them, which neither has yet acknowledged, is growing higher, wider, and deeper.
&n
bsp; Stan spends the remainder of the day shuttling between his den and the basement. Joanne moves between the kitchen and Lissy’s room. They take unusual care not to be in the same place at the same time.
Jana stays glued to Ellen’s side. They dress and undress her dolls. Ellen makes little folded paper hats for Jana, for the dolls, and for herself. She suggests making some new clothing for the dolls. Jana is enchanted. As far as she knows, dolls and their clothing come from a store.
Ellen hunts in Joanne’s rag bag and finds a few scraps of printed material that she converts into elastic-waist dirndl skirts for the doll family.
“Gramma, can we make some for Lissy’s dolls, too?” Jana asks.
She holds her breath for a minute before she can answer.
“Maybe later, sweetheart,” she says. Jana knows Lissy is gone, but doesn’t yet understand exactly what that means. Ellen isn’t in a space dispassionate enough to explain it any further. It will have to be acquired knowledge that will gradually bring her to the truth. Ellen might have done something different if Stan or Joanne had been in a more normal space, but they aren’t, so she doesn’t. The coward’s way out. Do nothing and things might
get better.
Dinner that night is another painfully polite meal. Words fly around the table: flights of little dickey birds, never really coming to rest anywhere, just batting endlessly around and around. They cover the silence but don’t count as conversation.
The next day it’s Ellen’s turn to be driven to the airport. Stan has gone back to work.
“I wish you could stay longer, Mom,” Joanne says.
“I wish I could, too, but you have things to do that I’m no part of. And Jana’s going to need some special attention for a while. One of these days she’s going to realize her sister isn’t coming back. Ever.”
“I know. It’s just that … I’m so confused right now, Mom. I don’t know what to think or what to do.”
Ellen reaches toward her. Maybe this is the moment she’s been waiting for, the moment when Joanne lowers her guard and will talk about what’s gone wrong. Magically, Ellen will offer the suggestion Joanne’s been waiting for. Things will be set right again, go back to where they used to be. Ellen’s arm stretches out to Joanne, but instead of letting her mother enfold her, instead of moving into the protective circle of that arm, Joanne takes her mother’s hand and holds it firmly. It’s a defensive gesture — soft, gentle, but still keeping her at bay.
On the Rim Page 13
