by Joan Boswell
Liam bit back a snort. Active, all right! Active with the back of his hand and the rough edge of his tongue when anyone upset him, and back then, they’d all managed to upset him every blasted day. Even Brendan, his eldest, favourite child, felt it when the old man was mad. A “parlour angel”, that’s what poor Mam used to call him—some wonderful host, life and soul of every party, but like a bear with a sore head with his own family. No wonder the children had mostly left home as soon as they could. Florrie would have gone too, if Jim Fleet hadn’t been lost with the Magdelena. Liam didn’t blame any of them—except for Brendan—the old man’s golden-boy, the son and heir. It should have been Brendan staying home, following in the old man’s footsteps, not Liam. But in the end, he’d turned out too much like his father for the pair of them to work together. The fights between them gave Brendan a good excuse to get away to greener pastures. Prince Edward Island wasn’t big enough for the two of them.
In other circumstances, Liam would have rejoiced to get shot of Brendan’s bullying, overbearing presence. Most days back then, it was like having two bosses in the bush, two captains on the boat for Liam. How he’d longed to be rid of Brendan. But when his brother had gone to Ontario back in the early seventies, he’d taken Marie with him, and Liam’s heart had gone with her. After Marie was gone, Liam slid into the role of his father’s slave. He could no longer even dream of escape. The years that saw Brendan prosper slid past Liam, polishing his resentment as they rolled away. The anger with Brendan still burned in his chest. Liam made a huge effort to set it aside and concentrate on the present crisis.
He lowered his eyes so that the priest wouldn’t see how little he cared for the old man and tried to copy Florrie’s sad tones. They might just be able to keep Father Grayson from letting the Mounties in on the family secret if they played on the “wandering mind” theme that Florrie was busily talking up.
“I’m sorry to say that Dad upset Father Grayson, Florrie.”
“No!” Florrie’s hands flew to her face.
“He got back in the past, like he does. Talking about Grandad, and the old Prohibition times.” This wasn’t strictly true, but the last thing he wanted to do was remind the priest of the old man’s daft maunderings. Liam shook his head, feigning shame and sorrow by keeping his head bent. He mightn’t be such a good actor as Florrie, but he was doing his best.
“Oh my soul! It’s like he was back in those wicked days when he gets that way. Going on about them taking the homebrewed liquor into the States when he was no’ but a boy. We must have heard Grandad tell those old tales a million times when we was little.” She leaned forward to gaze into the priest’s face. “I do hope that you’ll forgive poor Dad, Father dear,” she murmured. “He lives in the past. He would be some mortified to think he had offended a priest—if he was in his right mind and all. Dad’s always been such a pillar of the church.”
Liam barely bothered to listen while the priest mumbled a string of platitudes about his duty to forgive. Florrie had saved the day. She must have been as stunned as himself at the old man’s letting the cat out of the bag, but look how she’d turned the thing around, and she still didn’t know that their father had told Father Grayson about the family’s secret business while going on about his stupid scheme for getting through the Pearly Gates.
Florrie stood up and refilled the cups, smiling and full of gratitude for the priest’s forbearance. “I’ll just pop and check on Dad,” she said, whisking her wiry little body off to trot upstairs, “Give Father some more loaf, Liam.”
Liam admired the speed at which Florrie operated. Off to see the old man, getting the tea ready, thinking up a good story. She was a marvel. It was because she was like Mam—small, skinny and sharp. His younger brother Ken was like that too, and Agnes, years gone to B.C. Ken was big, like the old man and his other two sisters, married and living in New Brunswick, and like Brendan. Not that Brendan was just big now. Brendan might be long gone to Hamilton, but, Ken’s wife Jeannie was Marie’s sister. The sisters kept in fairly frequent contact by phone. Jeannie loved nothing more than a good gossip. Every word she heard from Marie was passed on to Florrie. Even though Liam would have liked to never hear Brendan’s name again, it was impossible not to learn all the Hamilton branch of the family’s news, and the news was that Brendan’s girth had grown at a rate of knots this last while.
Florrie’s footsteps clattered downstairs. She was going some, even for her, Liam thought.
“Oh, Father,” she gasped, “Come up quick. Dad’s breathing sounds so strange. Liam dear, I think you’d best call 911.”
“He was gone ‘fore the ambulance got there.” Liam leaned against the side of his pick-up, his hands thrust into his pockets. He kicked at an icy ridge on the body shop forecourt, speaking in the general direction of his brother Ken’s backside as it jutted from under the hood of a battered red Toyota in the first bay. Apart from Ken’s oldest, Scotty, who could be heard cursing to the accompaniment of muffled rap music from bay three, they were alone.
“Brendan and Marie’ll be here tomorrow.” Ken groped for a wrench and banged at something inside the Toyota. “I’m surprised you didn’t hurry the funeral. Superstitious bugger won’t fly. It’s not like him and Dad was close.” He gave a small snort of a laugh. “You could have fixed it so’s he didn’t have time to drive.”
Liam, who had been doing a lot of serious thinking lately, chose his words with care. Ken would wonder if he seemed to have abandoned his well-known dislike of Brendan. It’d be tricky getting it right. If he could fool Ken, he might be able to fool Florrie. That would be the clincher. Anybody who could get one past his sister would be home free.
“I thought about it,” he said. That was good. Never lie when you don’t have to. Disarm Ken with a show of honesty. He took a breath. Now came the lies. “But I couldn’t do it. After all, there’s been a lot of water under the bridge. None of us is getting any younger. I don’t mind saying it shook me up some when the old man went so sudden like. The priest didn’t have time to open his book. ‘Course, he did the whole rigmarole anyhow. Still...”
Ken had emerged from under the hood and was looking at him with considerable surprise as he wiped his greasy hands on an old Moosehead T-shirt.
Liam ploughed on. Only semi-lies this time. “Anyway, the old man had Brendan down as a pallbearer. I had to take that into account. Don’t need to give folks cause to flap their tongues about us more’n they do already.”
“I can’t believe you got Dad to arrange anything about the funeral at all. He was that superstitious about dying, and such.” Ken seemed okay.
“Once I’d got him convinced that the government’d grab everything unless he made a will, he got the bit between his teeth, like. Wouldn’t shut up about it. Going on about the wake, and the prayers, and the service till me and Florrie was half crazy,” Liam sighed. “You remember. That was when he started up with his daft idea of taking the brew to Heaven. ‘Saint Peter’ll have to let me in the Pearly Gates if I takes along a couple of jars of me good stuff.’” Liam whispered, imitating the quavering tones of their failing father.
Ken laughed softly. “At least he didn’t tell the world. People’d thought he’d gone off his head, sure.”
“Fair makes me boil, always on at us kids to keep us from tellin’ all those years when the still was going full tilt. Then he goes and blabs to the priest of all people! That uptight bugger? I never thought Florrie’d be able to get him calmed down. Course, when the old man croaked right after the blow-up, the poor devil got left feeling some guilty. Let’s hope he stays that way.”
“Oh well, no harm done.” Ken clapped Liam on the shoulder. “It’s not as if you’d really do what the old man wanted.”
Liam gritted his teeth. This was it. How would Ken take it?
“What d’you mean?” Liam gazed at Ken, intent on looking and sounding utterly sincere. “Me and Dad had our differences, but I give him my word. You don’t go back on your word, man.”
“C’mon, Liam,” Ken was still half laughing, unsure whether to take Liam seriously or not. “You’ve gotta be kidding! Nobody ‘ud expect you to keep a daft promise like that. Put a couple of jars of homebrew in his coffin so he can bribe his way into Heaven! It’s nuts!”
“Nobody knows about the promise, ‘cept you, me and Florrie.” When he’d shared the old man’s stupid plan with Ken, it had been a joke. They’d snickered about it several times. Now he wished he’d kept quiet. “You didn’t tell Jeannie, did you? I asked you not to tell a soul.”
Liam had no need to fake his earnestness now. This was vital. If Jeannie knew, then so did all of Montague. More to the point, so did Brendan. His own plan was out the window if Brendan knew. Then he could be stuck following through on a dumb promise that no one in their right mind would keep, all for nothing. He certainly wouldn’t be keeping it now, not with the Priest in on the business, if he hadn’t suddenly realized the possibility that the old man’s craziness had given him. Just as long as Brendan hadn’t heard.
“You know me better than that. I didn’t say nothing to nobody.” Ken smiled and elbowed Liam in the ribs, “I’d not tell a secret to Jeannie. She’s a good old lass, but no one can accuse her of keeping things in.”
Liam gave a sigh of relief and risked a grin back at Ken. Now all that mattered was that Brendan hadn’t changed. Last news from Maria, via Jeannie, was that he was up over three hundred pounds, still smoking the big cigars, eating the expense account dinners and knocking back the booze. He was also still engaged in all-night, hardball negotiations for the union, and ignoring everything Marie and the doctors said in favour of his lucky rabbit’s foot, and the same obstinate belief in his own superiority that he’d got from their father. Jeannie seemed to think that Marie was pretty fed up with Brendan’s bad habits. Liam was confident that Jeanie would have been hot off the press with any news that Brendan had reformed. He soldiered on with the task of getting Ken on board.
“Look, I know it was crazy to swear I’d carry out Dad’s getting into Heaven idea, but it’s done. I can’t change it. If you, me and Florrie just keep Dad’s daft little plan under hatches, nobody’ll ever know. Okay?”
“But, how’ll you work it? Douggie’s got the old man now, hasn’t he? How’ll you square putting something extra in the casket?”
“Douggie won’t know nothing. Nobody at Monahans’ll be any the wiser. The old man wanted the prayers and the wake at home, not the funeral parlour. He hated undertakers—more unlucky than a woman on the boat, to hear him talk. Douggie’ll deliver him home tomorrow for the prayers and wake. I’ll be the one to sit up with him overnight. Florrie’s beat, and Brendan’d have a fit if you asked him to sit beside a dead body. Him and Dad always more’n half believed them ghosts and hauntings tales.”
Ken nodded. The old man’s superstitious beliefs had lasted a lifetime. From all reports, Brendan’s were just as deeply ingrained.
“I’ll wedge the jars in so’s they don’t show when Douggie comes to screw him down before we head out to the Point. Then it’s just the short service round the grave, we cover him up, and it’s over.” Liam could see that Ken was almost on side. “It’s a piece of cake, Ken. Stop worrying about it, and worry about all the money you’ll lose while the shop’s closed on Thursday.”
They laughed together a little, cuffing and shoving one another, engaging in the same friendly horseplay that had defined their relationship since Ken was weaned. Liam felt huge relief that the task of getting Ken squared had gone so well. There was still a lot to mull over—a lot of “what ifs”. He’d thought and dreamed about ways to kill Brendan for thirty years, and this plan, the only one that had even a hope of working, was far from foolproof. It might not pan out, but at least he was more confident now that he could pull it off.
Liam had steeled himself to be civil meeting Brendan, but it was Marie who shook him the most. He hadn’t seen her for years. Not since Mam died. He knew she was no longer the laughing girl he’d loved and lost. He expected her to be like Jeannie, comfortably middle-aged. Better dressed maybe, since Brendan was a big-shot union boss and pulling down a lot more money than Ken, but instead she looked like someone on TV. Slim, young, and her clothes had a look that even he could see was a far cry from the local womens’ finery from the catalogue.
Brendan, enormous and purple-faced, seemed exactly as Liam had hoped. His superstitious edging away from the old man’s casket set up in the big bay window, his utter horror at the appearance of Florrie’s black cat, until she showed him it’s white belly, the salt tossed over his massive shoulder after he’d frosted his potatoes at supper; all served to hearten Liam no end. Brendan wouldn’t get near enough to the casket to look over the rim, let alone walk up and give it a close inspection. He’d be the last to spot any additions. It made it easier to bear Brendan’s crushing hug and sentimental “reminiscences” about the “good” times they’d shared as lads. Liam didn’t even care that Brendan took over as host of the wake. He was tired from helping Al McCourt dig the grave. Usually folks who died in winter weren’t buried until spring, but everyone knew how superstitious the old man had been, and Al didn’t mind a bit of heavy machinery work in the off season. He certainly hadn’t noticed Liam’s satisfaction at the churned up mess they’d made of the old cemetery laneway.
He sat quiet, perfectly happy to look at Marie who took little part in the noisy wake. How much would she really care about what might happen tomorrow? He could comfort her, if things went as planned.
Not a lot of the night remained after the wake. Liam found the time went very fast. It took longer than he’d thought to remove the padding from the foot of the box, and longer yet for the smell of burning it to clear. Arranging the two big old mason jars of homebrew took even longer. They were well sealed, but he had to get them positioned to stay hid while Douggie Monahan screwed down the lid, and to remain in place for the ride out to the cemetery at the Point. Monahan’s boys could be counted on to keep the casket pretty much on the level in transit. It was going to be later when Liam wanted the jars to move.
Dawn came, and he opened the drapes. It was snowing. He almost laughed out loud.
The morning went badly. Brendan seemed to be feeling the effects of the wake. He and Marie argued. Marie kept up a string of complaints—the cold, the lack of cappuccino and melon slices, her hair, the snow. Liam couldn’t help noticing that she looked somewhat haggard, older and overly made-up in the daylight, and her voice had lost the soft Island lilt. It sounded nasal and whiny. Brendan growled that he couldn’t do anything about her problems and wolfed down a second plateful of bacon and eggs. Marie switched to criticizing him, his overindulgence at the wake, his barbarity in dragging her to such an uncivilized event, and the effect of a huge, fatty breakfast on his health and girth.
Liam almost felt sorry for his brother. The nagging was getting on his nerves. He was used to quiet and harmony with Florrie. Couldn’t Marie see that Brendan was a bag of nerves about the funeral? He began to feel uneasy about his plan. It had all been going so well, but he was no longer quite so pleased with his cleverness in pulling it off.
He’d just decided to let Brendan in on the old man’s getting into Heaven scheme when the undertakers arrived, followed by Ken’s family and the New Brunswick lot. Douggie Monahan screwed down the lid of the old man’s casket without a blink, and before Liam could say anything to Brendan, they were all hustled out the door and into the cars. Liam and Florrie went in Monahan’s new black SUV behind the ancient hearse. Then Brendan with his Audi, and Marie complaining that the short walk across the snowy yard had wrecked her four-inch heeled, suede boots.
The little old church out at the Point was no longer used, but many local families had plots in the cemetery up on the hill behind. The lane to the graves was in notoriously poor repair. Old ruts from ATVs and new ones from Al’s digger plus years of erosion from rain etching out the gravel were now frozen solid and covered by three inches of snow.
The cortège drew to a halt. Just as Liam had so hopefully planned, the lane was impassable for Douggie’s old hearse. Nor did Douggie want to risk the oil pan on his nice new SUV, four wheel drive. Marie returned to her seat in the car.
A neighbour with a half ton tried to drive up the slope with Douggie and the priest, but he fish-tailed so badly that he gave up, and they, like the rest, had to walk. Before they set off, Douggie got the six pallbearers plus two of his own boys organized to carry the casket. Liam had imagined this moment so well that it was almost like déjà vu, but now he realized what a fool he’d been to even think of doing such a thing. He hovered close to Brendan, ready to pull him aside and tell him about the jars as soon as everyone else got out of the way.
“The weight’ll be to the back,” Douggie told the men. “Liam and Brendan’s the biggest...” He looked at Brendan’s purple face, and faltered, struck by doubt.
“No!” Liam’s anxiety sharpened his voice. “Brendan’s not in good shape. Let Ken come behind.”
Brendan turned on him. One minute he was standing there panting in the cold air, the next he was the old man reincarnated, a bellowing, snorting fury in an alpaca coat and gleaming city shoes.
“Who the hell you think you’re calling ‘out of shape’, boy?” he yelled, balling his huge fists and spitting his fury into Liam’s face, “I could beat you to a pulp when we were kids, and by god, I can do it now. I’ll give you ‘out of shape’!”
