A Song for Issy Bradley

by Carys Bray

  He was just in time for work. After supervising registration he taught decimal numbers to Year Seven; it was a relaxing start to the day. He’d taught them only twice before Issy died; they weren’t watchful and quiet like the older students, who seemed to be gauging his sadness and looking for signs of weakness. At lunchtime he braved the waft of coffee in the staff room, a wedge of pass-along cards stuffed in his pocket. He blessed his jam sandwiches and ate them slowly, hoping for a missionary opportunity. Dave Weir sat beside him and tried to sell him a ticket for the raffle at the PE department’s Race Night. Ian handed over the money but refused a ticket. When he tried to articulate his position on gambling, Dave said, “It’s cool—never apologize, never explain.” As he left the staff room Ian put the missionary pass-along cards—“Three Ways to Become a Happier Family,” “Finding Faith in Christ,” and “Truth Restored”—on the windowsill beside the leaflets about student exchanges, dyslexia, and teenage pregnancy. During the afternoon he lost himself in number lines and quadratic equations, and before he knew it, it was time to race to collect Jacob from After-School Club.

  Wednesday followed a similar pattern. He learned a thing or two about sandwich preferences and homework supervision and he survived on less sleep than usual because Jacob was up in the night, but he managed, that was the main thing.

  “LONG-SUFFERING”—THE word finally comes to him.

  “Please bless Claire with patience and long-suffering.”

  He pauses for a moment to add, “Me too,” and, having settled on the right words, continues with his prayer.

  “Please bless Jacob with understanding and bless Zipporah as she continues to develop the qualities to attract a righteous husband.”

  Ian’s knees are complaining; he moves and one of them crunches. The answering of prayers must be a triaged procedure, he thinks, with the most urgent pleas floating to the top of the queue for immediate attention. He has always been happy to wait his turn but tonight, beset by a sense of urgency, he searches for words that will elbow his entreaty to the front of the line.

  “Please bless Alma,” he says. “Bless him … bless him with …”

  BY THIS MORNING, things were running a little more smoothly. They were eating breakfast when Jacob asked how long it would be before Mum got out of Issy’s bed.

  “Well …” Ian struggled for an answer, “she can’t, she can’t find …”

  “What? What can’t she find?” Alma asked.

  “She can’t … It’s very difficult …”

  “I’ve just got to do something.” Alma dashed out of the kitchen and pounded up the stairs to his bedroom and Ian was grateful for the interruption.

  When they got home from work and school there was a casserole dish on the doorstep—Sister Campbell’s shepherd’s pie, made with instant mashed potatoes, ground wheat, and several tins of baked beans.

  “This is pukable,” Alma moaned. “I’m going to cycle to school by fart power tomorrow.”

  “Don’t say ‘fart,’ ” Ian scolded.

  “I saw this bloke on the way back from school, right? He was about 400 pounds. He was wobbling down the road and his legs were rubbing together, all the way down to his shins—friction burn—ha ha! He was wearing this T-shirt and on the back of it, it said, ‘Imagine there’s no hunger. —John Lennon.’ So I cycled past and I shouted, ‘You don’t need to imagine it, mate!’ ” Alma put his fork down and sniggered. “If he ate Sister Campbell’s shepherd’s pie his massive guts would blow right out of his butt.”

  “That’s enough. Don’t be so unkind and ungrateful.” They ate in silence after that. There was a long hair in Ian’s portion but he couldn’t complain—the last time he cooked was on his mission, if you could call that cooking. When he got back he lived at home, so his mum did it all, and then he married Claire so there’d never been any need.

  After dinner he needed to go Home Teaching but he didn’t want to leave until he knew everything was in hand. Zipporah was finishing the dishes, Alma was outside getting the washing off the line, and Ian was sitting at the kitchen table listening to Jacob read, pleased with himself for organizing things so well, when he heard a strange noise coming from the garden. He told Jacob to keep reading to Zipporah and went outside to see what was going on.

  It was Alma, sitting on the grass next to the washing basket, crying loudly. Half the washing spilled out of the basket in an untidy jumble and the rest was still on the line. Alma’s face was buried in his hoodie and his shoulders shook as the back garden filled with undulating, high-low howls. Ian couldn’t recall a sorrier sight. He hurried over and sat down on the grass.

  “Don’t cry.”

  Alma didn’t look up from the pillow of his hoodie.

  “When I feel—when I’m upset—there’s a thing that sometimes helps me to feel a bit better.” He reached out to pat Alma’s back a couple of times. “I know you miss her, especially out here, perhaps? What makes me feel better is when I do something for someone else. It’s called ‘losing yourself in service.’ You forget about yourself by making other people feel happy.”

  Alma’s sobs rolled on, so Ian increased his volume.

  “I’ve been thinking that BROTHER RIMMER could do with some HELP. I went to SEE HIM, the other Saturday, the day when Issy … He’s getting ON A BIT and he can’t do everything he used to. His lawn needs MOWING.” He paused to rub the curl of Alma’s heaving back. “And perhaps he’ll give you a few POUNDS for your MISSION FUND if you do a good job.”

  Alma’s sobs suddenly decelerated and Ian mouthed a silent “Thank you” to the heavens for helping him find the right words.

  “I’ll see Brother Rimmer later, when I go Home Teaching. I’ll tell him you’ll help on Saturday, instead of going to the Work Day at the chapel. OK?” Alma’s face was still buried in the hoodie, but he moved his head up and down a couple of times, which seemed to indicate “Yes.”

  “Great. Don’t forget to bring the rest of the washing in,” he called as he hurried back to the kitchen.

  FAITH. THAT’S WHAT Alma needs.

  “Please bless Alma with faith.”

  Ian yawns and leans forward, resting the shelf of his folded arms on the mattress.

  “Please bless Mum and Dad in Ireland. Help them to bring many souls to the gospel. Please bless everyone at church.”

  He pauses to remind himself that charity is the pure love of Christ and continues, “Bless the Andersons …”

  HE WENT HOME Teaching with Brother Stevens. They visited the Andersons, Sister Valentine, and Brother Rimmer. Ian hadn’t had a chance to read the Home Teaching message, so Brother Stevens gave him a quick summary in the car on the way to the Andersons’ house.

  “A young man is dying and the prophet is at his bedside—oh, I’m sorry, Bishop, this is kinda close to home.”

  “Not at all.”

  “So the man asks the prophet what will happen to him when he dies, and the prophet reads him some verses from Alma chapter forty that explain it all. The man dies happy—yadda, yadda, yadda—the Book of Mormon promises incomprehensible joy and never-ending happiness, et cetera—it’s the most correct book on the face of the Earth, and so on. It’s pretty straightforward. We could change it a bit for the Andersons—with his cancer and everything, it might be kinda insensitive.”

  Ian turned into the Andersons’ road, signaled, and pulled over outside their house. “I don’t think so,” he said. “The prophet chose October’s message, it might be just what the Andersons need to hear.”

  The visit was a short one. Brother Anderson wasn’t feeling well and Sister Anderson interrupted the message to ask if Claire had received a letter. Ian said he hadn’t had a chance to talk to Claire—she’d been so busy.

  “I wrote to say I saw Issy at the Temple.”

  There was something pink and marshmallowy about Sister Anderson’s face and Ian was tempted to test the veracity of her claim with a series of skewering questions. It wasn’t that he thought such a visitat
ion was impossible, but it seemed both unlikely and hurtful that Issy would choose to appear to Sister Anderson. He wanted to say that communications from the Spirit World shouldn’t be chatted about as if they are everyday occurrences, but Sister Anderson’s eyes were dribbly with emotion and he had to remind himself that everyone is given a gift by the Spirit of God: Some are given the gift of faith, some are given gifts of knowledge or healing, and others are given the gift of the discerning of Spirits.

  “Thank you for telling me,” he managed.

  Sister Valentine was pleased to see them; she listened to the message carefully, and when Ian asked if there was anything they could do for her, she nodded.

  “I had a dream,” she said. “I dreamed I was kneeling at the altar in the sealing room at the Temple. A man was kneeling opposite me and we were holding hands—our reflection stretched on and on forever in the sealing-room mirrors. The man was older—when I say older, I mean about your age, Bishop.” Her voice shushed to a whisper. “I know it was only a dream and you have to be careful when you talk about the Temple, don’t you? But I was there, and the man was there, and our eyes met across the altar … what do you think it means?”

  Brother Stevens was happy to offer an interpretation.

  “Gosh, I bet I know what it means, Sister Valentine, I bet you’re gonna get married! I bet you’re gonna get married to the guy in your dream!”

  “Do you think so?” Her eyes filled with tears, which she prevented from falling with fluttery, hand-flapping motions. “Do you really think it means that?”

  “Sure,” said Brother Stevens, “I think that’s exactly what it means.”

  “What about you, Bishop? What do you think?”

  Ian had been thinking unworthy thoughts as Sister Valentine spoke. He knew it was uncharitable but he couldn’t help it: “Issy died eighteen days ago, I don’t care about your ridiculous dream.”

  “I think Brother Stevens is right,” he said.

  Sister Valentine beamed. “Oh, Bishop!” she said and she stood in her doorway and waved as they drove away.

  Brother Rimmer’s blue-and-white-striped pajamas hung from his enormous waist like a circus tent. He offered Barleycup and Brother Stevens said, “Sure, we’d love some,” so Ian had to drink it, even though it tasted like mud.

  “I’ll put the lad to work, Bishop,” Brother Rimmer said when Ian asked him about Alma. “There’s nothing like a bit of graft to cheer you up.”

  Ian dropped Brother Stevens at home after the visits.

  “Goodnight,” he said. But Brother Stevens didn’t get out of the car.

  “How are you doing, Bishop?”

  “Oh, I’m fine.”

  “And is Claire OK? Only, Ashlee’s tried to call her a few times during the day and there’s never anyone at home. Jacob said she was in bed when Ashlee phoned yesterday, but it was only five o’clock.”

  “She’s got a bit of a cold.”

  “Oh, poor Claire.”

  “All bunged up … and a sore throat.”

  “Give her our love, won’t you?”

  When Ian got home he felt terrible for lying and it suddenly occurred to him that he was going to have to do it again on Sunday if Claire didn’t get out of bed. The situation had the potential to morph into a deception of huge proportions, and that’s why he’d stayed up late looking for answers on the Internet.

  “PLEASE FORGIVE ME for being untruthful and please bless me to carry on. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

  Ian waits beside the bed, hoping for an immediate answer. All he hears is an echo of his own words—“Carry on, carry on, carry on”—and it is enough to keep him going; if he doesn’t get into bed he will fall asleep on his knees.

  He climbs in carefully and Jacob shifts and rolls closer as the mattress dips, air beating out of his mouth in shallow, sour puffs. Ian remembers how it was when the children were babies and their milky breath blew through bare gums, he remembers Issy occasionally lying between him and Claire when she wasn’t well or she’d had a bad dream, and he reaches for Jacob’s hand, trying to find the right tightness of grip, one that won’t wake him but will hold him fast to mortality.

  Jacob persistently arrows toward the center of the bed, no matter how often Ian gently repositions him, and at five o’clock, when there’s no longer any point in trying to sleep, Ian climbs out, pulls on yesterday’s clothes, and tiptoes down to the kitchen. He makes the sandwiches and loads the washing machine. The kitchen smells strange, like rotting and something else, something burned. It’s probably the sympathy flowers; their crispy petals dot the countertops like confetti and the ribs of the leaves are showing. He opens the back door and carries the flowers out to the green garden-waste bin, bunch by bunch. He puts the empty vases and buckets next to the sink to wash later and wipes the countertops clean. The room feels empty and bereft.

  When the children come down, he tells them to sit at the kitchen table.

  “Mum isn’t feeling well at the moment. She’s very … tired because of everything that’s happened. If people ask where she is, you can say she’s not feeling very well, but I don’t want you to say she’s in bed—we’ll keep that bit a secret in case people think she’s lazy, which she isn’t. Understand?”

  They all nod.

  “Now, what cereal do you want?”

  “Shreddies.”

  “Oh, I forgot to buy a new box on the way back from Home Teaching.”

  Jacob starts to cry and Alma calls him a big girl.

  “I’m a girl,” Zipporah says. “And I’m not crying, so what’s your point?”

  “A proper girl would’ve done a better job of washing the clothes.”

  Ian’s head is fuzzy from lack of sleep and he’s not up to refereeing a fight so he tells them to eat in silence or leave the room.

  Later, as Zipporah is leaving for the bus, she turns and says, “Dad, can I stay at Lauren’s tonight?” She looks like she is expecting a firm “No,” and Ian is about to refuse when he realizes he’d rather not. She’s been so good about keeping up with the laundry and the washing-up, and if Claire doesn’t get out of bed next week and the Relief Society meals stop coming there’ll be the cooking to do too. She deserves a little break and her expression when he says “Yes” is priceless, he feels like a genie granting a wish. “Remember who you are and what you stand for,” he adds as she hurries up the stairs to pack some clothes. “The Spirit goes to bed before midnight and so should you!”

  When it’s time for him to take Jacob to school, he rushes back into the kitchen to collect the sandwiches. That’s when he notices Issy’s fish, floating sideways near the surface of the tank. He bows his head; it’s too much, there’s been more than enough sadness—he’ll have to dash to the pet shop during his lunch hour.

  IAN GRABS THE envelope from his pigeonhole as he passes. It’s too fat to be another sympathy card, and although he’s in a hurry to get to the pet shop, he’s curious. He pushes his thumb past the seal and pauses as he notices a scrawled message below: “I think these belong to you.” His thumb catches, changing the direction of the tear from horizontal to vertical, and the pass-along cards from the missionary meeting spill onto the floor. He kneels to pick them up, stuffing them into his pockets: “Three Ways to Become a Happier Family,” “Finding Faith in Christ,” and “Truth Restored.”

  He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he pulls out of the school parking lot—red flushes streak his cheeks like war paint; it’s unsettling to think that his missionary work may have offended one of his colleagues, but every man who has been warned must warn his neighbor, even if the effort leaves him raw and rebuffed.

  He doesn’t have time to be fussy about the fish. The one he picks is almost the right color. It seems a bit bigger than Issy’s but he can’t afford to waste any more time over it or he’ll be late for Year Nine Trigonometry.

  “Do you need a tank or any food?” the boy at the register asks.

  “No thanks.” Ian pay
s and dips his hand into his pocket.

  “Can I help you with anything else?”

  “No, but I can help you,” he says as he presents the boy with “Three Ways to Become a Happier Family.”

  “YOU’VE GOT SOME felt tip on your hands. Go straight upstairs and give them a good wash before you have a cookie.”

  Ian watches from the doorway as Jacob trundles up the stairs. When Jacob disappears he rushes back to the car, flips the glove compartment open, and grabs the fish bag.

  He dashes into the kitchen, unknots the bag, and slides the new fish into the tank. He tries to take the dead fish out but it’s slippery, and when he finally grasps it, it shoots out of his hand like a bar of soap.

  He is on his hands and knees with the slippery, cold fish pressed flat under one palm when Jacob appears to collect his cookie. Ian curls his fingers, scraping his cuticles against the floor until the fish is enclosed in his hand. Making sure not to squeeze, he stands, slowly. “I forgot to wash my hands,” he says. “Silly me. Back in a minute.”

  In the bathroom he opens his hand and lets the fish fall into the toilet. He unravels a stream of paper, which he balls up and drops on top of the fish. Then he flushes and it is gone.

  After he’s washed his hands he steps out onto the landing and turns to glance at Issy and Jacob’s room. The door is half-closed, he can see the bump of Claire’s body under Issy’s duvet, and it suddenly occurs to him that maybe she can’t get up, maybe she really is ill. He tiptoes to the door and pushes it wide open, it squeaks, but she doesn’t move, so he stands there and watches the covers for evidence of respiration, as he did when the children were babies. He thinks there is movement—yes, there is, one breath, and another, she’s OK.

  He tiptoes away and sits on the top stair. His mother warned him about marrying a nonmember, but he wouldn’t listen. If people find out about this, he could be released as Bishop. This trial is not the kind of trial he understands. He knows what to tell himself about death, but this is something else altogether. Pioneer women didn’t refuse to stop walking, they didn’t lie down on the plains when their children died. He digs in his pocket and pulls out last night’s list. He has to keep going. There’s the dinner to sort out. There wasn’t any food on the doorstep when they got home and Zipporah is going straight to Lauren’s house from school; they’ll have to manage with the leftovers in the fridge tonight. The bathroom looks a bit rough and there’s the ironing to do before he can even think about getting to bed. Tomorrow is the Work Day at the chapel and he’s got a pile of math homework to mark. He is so tired. He looks back over his shoulder at Jacob and Issy’s room. He’d like to sleep too, but someone’s got to stand and face this.