The Paradise Tree

by Elena Maria Vidal

  It was time for the offertory, but Aunt Ellen still had not returned. Mother whispered in his ear. "Fergie, go make certain your Aunt Ellen is well."

  Fergie diligently climbed over his Aunt Bridget and Aunt Lottie to the aisle, genuflected slowly and strode as discreetly as possible to the back of the church. Aunt Ellen was nowhere to be seen. George was standing in the vestibule. "She went outside," he told Fergie. Fergie pushed open the heavy door of the church and stepped down the stone stairs into the spring sunshine. He did not see Aunt Ellen but he heard the sound of sobs coming from around the corner of the church. He followed the noise, and there she was, slumped against the side of the building, doubled over as if she were deathly ill.

  "Aunt Ellen, Aunt Ellen!" Fergie ran to her, throwing his arms around her. He had seen her mope about and weep, but never had she been so convulsed with emotion. She looked as if her wits had deserted her. She seemed hardly aware of his presence, although she put an arm limply around his shoulder. Her face was streaming with tears, her handkerchief was drenched, her black crepe veil tear-stained.

  “Oh, Fergie,” she said at last, choking on sobs. “I am undone. I have lost everything. Soon, I will be alone, alone. Oh Father, oh Mother, why couldn’t I die with you? I am useless here, a mere nuisance to everyone. Soon, Annie will be gone, and I will be alone. I cannot bear it.”

  Fergie felt himself begin to cry. “I love you, Aunt Ellen! I don’t want you to die, ever! I want you to stay near us in your little house, always.” Aunt Ellen cradled him in her arms.

  “Then, it will be alright,” she whispered, “because I have my little boy.”

  In his mind’s eye, Fergie once again saw the meadow on the last day he walked with Grandpa. He remembered how Grandpa gave him a small statue he called the “Paradise Tree,” smoothed and blackened by age. Grandpa told him it was a crucifix his mother had given him before he left Ireland and that now he wanted Fergie to have it. Fergie reached in his pocket where he always carried it and placed it in Aunt Ellen’s thin, dry hand. When she saw what it was, she began to cry again, and pressed it to her lips.

  Suddenly, Cousin Charley Joe appeared from around the corner. “Come now, old girl, you are going to miss Mass,” he said, helping Aunt Ellen stand up. “And what would Grandpa say to that?”

  “Do not call me an ‘old girl’,’’ she snapped, restored to her vinegary self. “I have told you and told you, you ruffian!” She blazed at him with full dignity, arranging her veil, as Charley Joe grinned and winked at Fergie. Taking Charley Joe’s arm and holding Fergie’s hand, Aunt Ellen allowed herself to be ushered back into the house of God.

  The priest had only just begun the canon, but they fell to their knees at the back of the church without returning to their pews. Fergie prayed for Grandpa during the consecration, asking God to deliver Grandpa from purgatory at that moment, if he happened to still be there. He hoped that Grandpa had gone straight to Heaven at death, but one could never be sure, as Mother always said. The sanctuary bells rang as the priest elevated the Host. The white glow from the windows gleamed upon the Sacred Host; to Fergie it seemed as if his mind were filled with blinding light.

  “A doctor. I will be a doctor.” The thought, peaceful and firm, took concrete form in his being, becoming a fact of his life from which there was no getting away. He could not wait to tell George at the end of Mass. He looked over and George was kneeling beside him, with a serene little smile, as if he already knew.

  As the Mass drew to a close, the choir intoned the In Paradisium, and Father Spratt sprinkled the coffin with holy water. Fergie could not help remembering how Mother had once said that the Irish could make anything sound like a drinking song. As the chant faded, the pallbearers lifted the coffin again and it was time for Grandpa to be buried beside Grandma in the little cemetery across the road. Fergie and Aunt Ellen took their place beside Mother again, joining the cortege as it exited the church.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Resting Place

  March 27, 1887

  I would ravel back the twisted years

  In the bitter wasted winds

  If the God above would let me lie

  In a quiet place above the winds.

  — “The Quiet Land of Erin”

  Taking Mother’s gloved hand, Fergie walked with her down the steps of the church and across the muddy red road to the burial ground. Aunt Ellen had linked arms with Aunt Bridget and Aunt Margaret and they walked immediately behind the coffin. Watching his three aunts, Fergie wondered how three sisters could be so different. Aunt Margaret was stout, Aunt Bridget was slender, and Aunt Ellen as skinny as a rail. It was difficult to tell who was upholding whom, although Aunt Ellen appeared to stumble at times.

  “Hold steady, Ellen, you almost tripped me!” Aunt Margaret spoke in a piercing whisper.

  “Shh!” said Aunt Bridget. “They’re chanting the Dies Irae.”

  Fergie looked around for George. He spotted him walking beside Father, right next to the coffin. What was he doing there? As if in reply to Fergie’s thoughts, George turned around and gave him a solemn nod. Then he fell back so that he walked next to Fergie, saying nothing. In a moment they were across the red road and standing at the grave, which had already been dug earlier that morning. Next to it was Grandma’s grave, with a white rose bush growing on it. As family and friends stood in a circle around the grave, Father Spratt, with two acolytes on either side, one with holy water and the other with incense, began the burial service. He intoned the In paradisum, and the choir responded.

  In paradisum deducant to Angeli: in tuo adventu suscipiant te Martyres, et perducant to in civitatem sanctum Jerusalem. Chorus Angelorum to suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam pauper aeternam habeas requiem.

  May the Angels lead thee into paradise: may the martyrs receive thee at thy coming, and lead thee into the holy city of Jerusalem. May the choir of Angels receive thee, and mayest thou have eternal rest with Lazarus, who was once poor.

  Outside in the wind the voices of the choir sounded thin and unearthly, echoing against the cliffs and through the vale of the meadow. The sun’s rays penetrated the mist as it lifted in spirals and danced away on the breezes. Fergie noticed that Mr. John MacDonald held Aunt Annie’s arm, as if he had been the one to escort her to the graveside, which probably was the case. Behind her billowing veil, Aunt Annie’s blue eyes had deepened in color and were impossible to read, as she stared down at the grave of her father, seemingly oblivious of the existence of Mr. John. Uncle Mick, Aunt Nancy and Father stood side by side near Fr. Spratt, eyes downcast. Aunt Mary and Aunt Lottie stood on the other side of the priest, dignified and immobile, grasping one another’s hands and staring ahead as if seeing nothing. Their husbands stood behind them, as though ready to catch them if they fainted, Fergie thought. The other three Aunts, Margaret, Bridget, and Ellen, stood opposite on the other side of the grave, still upholding each other, with Uncle Jim MacDonald and Uncle Anthony Flood hovering nearby. Behind the Aunts and Uncles and Fergie’s parents were all the cousins and friends, so many they flooded out to the road and beyond. Fergie noticed Cousin Nora, Grandpa’s niece, and many other relatives he had not seen in a long time. He looked around for Cousin Charley Joe, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Father Spratt doused both the coffin and the grave with holy water, taken from the acolyte, who managed to look as solemn as a small boy with red hair and freckles could manage to look. Then he took the incense from the other boy, who happened to be Joe Bevins. Joe coughed a little at the clouds of incense, which puffed into his face. The spicy aroma mingled with the wind and mist, seemed to make the graveyard an antechamber into Heaven. Father Spratt muttered the prayers under his breath as he swung the censor. He intoned the Benedictus and the choir solemnly took up the response.

  At last the prayers were ended and Grandpa was lowered into the ground. Aunt Bridget threw a nosegay of white roses onto the coffin before they began shoveling the dirt onto it. Suddenly Fergie heard a voice,
an Irish voice with a thick brogue. It sounded like Grandpa.

  “Now I have one more thing to say to you all! Young Charley Joe was my favorite! He was my favorite, he was! He is to get me old hunting rifle and beaver skin cap.”

  All the aunts gasped. Aunt Ellen fainted. Mother and Aunt Nancy hovered over her, and a low buzz rippled through the gathering. Fergie’s father and Uncle Mick looked at each other with blank expressions, which quickly creased into grins as they began to chuckle.

  “Charley Joe O’Connor, come out of there!” called Uncle Mick.

  Cousin Charley Joe crawled out from beneath the undertaker’s wagon. He saw Fergie and chuckled. Aunt Annie and Aunt Lottie covered their mouths with their hands. Aunt Mary began to fan herself and Aunt Margaret frowned. But Aunt Bridget began to laugh out loud with her sweet, silvery laugh, and in a moment everyone joined in.

  “Come now, everyone,” exclaimed Fergie’s father, “Let’s hie back to Long Point for dinner!”

  “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” Fergie asked George. George just grinned.

  “Who is Fergie speaking to?” wondered Aunt Mary to Mother in a voice loud enough for Fergie to hear.

  “We’ll speak of it later, Mary,” Mother replied. And they left the graveyard.

  CHAPTER 22

  A New Heaven and a New Earth

  March 27, 1887

  And I saw a new heaven and a new earth. For the first heaven and the first earth were gone, and the sea is now no more. And I John saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice from the throne, saying: Behold the tabernacle of God with men, and he will dwell with them. And they shall be his people; and God himself with them shall be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes: and death shall be no more, nor mourning, nor crying, nor sorrow shall be any more, for the former things are passed away. And he that sat on the throne, said: Behold, I make all things new. And he said to me: Write, for these words are most faithful and true.

  —Apocalypse: 21:1-5

  The sun was ablaze with spring warmth when they finally arrived at Long Point. Mother’s sister Aunt Kate Donnelly had stayed behind to prepare a simple but hearty Lenten repast. Fergie thought he had never been so hungry. The dining room chairs were all put against the wall, while the dining room table bore trays of salmon, pike, trout, colcannon, fresh baked rolls, ripe cheeses and fresh butter, pitchers of milk and beer. There was another, smaller table set up in the parlor which had tea and biscuits but nothing fancier because it was Passiontide. Most of the children grabbed a plate of food and then were shooed outside onto the porch, Fergie and Joe Bevins along with them. George was nowhere to be seen.

  After eating to satiety, Fergie and Joe ran and played with the other children, many of whom were cousins. They ran through the mushy fields to Saddle Rock, where a game commenced involving knights and ladies, which went on for most of the afternoon. When they were extremely thirsty and dirty, they wandered back to the house for more refreshments. He and Joe washed up in the kitchen and then drank huge glasses of milk and ate more biscuits.

  Because there was no music or dancing during Passiontide, the grownups were talking quietly in groups. Fergie saw Mother talking to Aunt Mary, and he wondered if they were discussing him. Aunt Mary kept nodding with an understanding smile and both of them kept glancing over at him. He began to wonder where George was. He went upstairs to search for him. He walked all over the upstairs, but George was not there. He went into his room. George was not there, either. He suddenly felt tired and decided to rest. It had been an early morning. He curled up on his bed and pulled a quilt over him and slept.

  Fergie dreamed. In his dream he saw George, lying in a forest. He was pale and looked ill. His eyes were on Fergie, and he smiled faintly. As Fergie watched, George closed his eyes and lay still. He called to him, but no sound came out of his mouth. He knew, as people know things in dreams, that George was dead. He woke with a start. Mother was there; her hand was on his shoulder. He burst into tears.

  “Sorry to wake you, darling,” she said. “Were you having a nightmare?”

  “Oh, Mother,” Fergie cried. “George is dead!”

  His mother sat next to him and put her arm around him. “He is? When did this happen?”

  “I don’t know,” said Fergie. “I saw it in my dream. I just know George is not coming back.”

  She kissed his forehead. “You know, dearest, that it has been a long exhausting day and we are all missing Grandpa. It is a day for tears. You are a tired young man. And you have been playing hard with the others. No wonder you should have such a strange dream.”

  “But I know that George is gone and that he is not coming back.”

  “I think, Fergus, he has gone because you do not need him anymore. After all, you are going to be eight years old in five days. Because you are an only child, it was natural for you to have a friend like George, someone whom only you could see. But now you are growing up and going to school and making friends with other children. You and Joe Bevins play together more often; you are reading books and helping Father more on the farm; you do not need to have George to talk to.”

  For a moment, Fergie wanted to keep sobbing, until he realized that what his mother was saying was a good thing. It was good to grow up, especially since the older he became the more he would be able to help his parents. He liked the idea, and felt hopeful.

  “Mother, I am going to become a doctor. I decided today.”

  His mother put both her arms around him and squeezed him tight. “I am glad to hear it. That would make Grandpa very happy! He wanted to be a doctor, you know.”

  “Yes, Mother. He told me.”

  At that moment there was a knock at the door of Fergie’s room. It was Aunt Bridget. “Is Fergie alright? I just made some hot chocolate for him.” She handed him a steaming mug and he took a long sip. How the world had suddenly become a friendlier place.

  “Thank you, Brig,” said Mother. Fergie drank the chocolate down.

  “Would you like to go for a walk, Fergie. Uncle Anthony and I are going to be going home soon, and I need a walk after so much sitting. The sun seems to have dried things up a bit and I see a tinge of green in the meadow.”

  Aunt Bridget and Fergie went downstairs and outside. They walked along the path which led to the garden and the meadow. The birds were singing.

  “’Tis a soft day, as Grandpa would have described it,” said Aunt Bridget.

  “Aunt Bridget, I decided today that I want to be a doctor,” Fergie told her.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “But you look like you have been crying.”

  “Oh. It was just over my friend, George. He was a friend no one could see but me. He has died or gone away. Mother says it’s because I am growing up and I do not need to have him as a friend anymore. But he was my best friend and I will miss him.”

  Aunt Bridget looked at him sharply. Fergie felt embarrassed. Then she asked, “Was he the little boy with very black hair who was with you in the buggy this morning?”

  “Yes, Aunt Brig, except that other people could not see him. Only I could see him.”

  “That is so odd, Fergie, because I could see him, too. And I have seen him before . . . somewhere.” They walked quietly for a few minutes, as they walked through the gate and into the meadow. The earth smelled aromatic as it burgeoned with life and springtime. “Oh, well, let us not speak of it again. There are many unexplained phenomena. As old Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet long ago: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Come; let us talk about how to become a doctor.” And hand in hand they walked across the meadows of Long Point, with the old Saddle Rock in sight, and the sound of whippoorwills rising from the woods beyond.

  The End

  AFTERWORD: THE TREE OF LIFE

  Fergus Joseph O’Connor did indeed become a doctor, as well as the first Irish Cat
holic mayor of Gananoque, Ontario. He married a schoolteacher, had eight children and moved to Kingston. He had many impoverished patients who could not afford to pay him, but to Fergus being a doctor was a vocation, not a career. He would gratefully accept an offering, such as a bag of potatoes, in the place of money, so that he could feed his family. By the late 1930s he was delivering one third of all the babies in Kingston. He eventually became Chief of Obstetrics at the Hotel Dieu Hospital and remained so for almost half a century. He delivered his last baby at the age of eighty-four. Fergus was also active in the community and the church. He was on the Separate School Board for many years, as well as being a city alderman. He belonged to the Knights of Columbus and in 1945 founded the Queen’s University chapter of the Newman Club. In March of 1966, he received the medal of the Holy Cross Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice from Pope Paul VI in recognition of his contributions to medicine for over sixty years. He died in 1971 and has many descendants to this day. Both of his sons became doctors and two of his daughters became nurses. His oldest daughter, Norah, was my grandmother.

  In 1890, Charlie and Emily had twins, a boy and a girl. The boy died, but the girl, named Madeline, became a writer. She never married but lived in Kingston near her brother Fergus, in a house full of cats. Charlie and Emily were among those who contributed to the building of a new Catholic church in Lansdowne. The cornerstone of Saint Patrick’s Church was laid in June of 1902; the O’Connor family donated two of the Stations of the Cross in honor of Daniel and Brigit, as well as the stained-glass window over the altar. Charlie and Emily lived at Long Point until they were too old to work the farm, and then they moved to Kingston to be near their children and grandchildren, where they died. They are buried at St. Mary’s Cathedral.