Childhood

by André Alexis

  I knew all of the Goodman girls, of course. I turned rope for them. They taught me to skip and to use an Easy-Bake oven.

  I was secretly attracted to Andrea, but Margaret was my first love. Fate, I suppose, and no less bewildering for all that.

  In the summer of ’66, Margaret’s sister Jane was in love with Darren McGuinness.

  – I love Alex MacDonald, but I’m in love with Darren was how she put it.

  The distinction was too mature for me. I didn’t really understand it. Besides, I truly, fervently despised Darren and each and every McGuinness who’d ever drawn breath. They were a little collection of Irish vermin whose chief pleasure was to hold me down so the youngest of them, Barry, who was only seven, could strike me with his fists. When their father died of cancer, I wasn’t the least bit sorry.

  Still, like news from a foreign country that sets wheels turning in one’s own, Jane Goodman’s love for Darren McGuinness started her sisters thinking. When, from the height of her fifteen years, Jane spoke to us at all, she spoke of

  a) life in high school

  b) Darren McGuinness.

  I listened to the talk about high school, yearning for my own locker, a gymnasium, beakers for chemicals, and “algebra” (the most beautiful name numbers have ever had, I think; Al-Jabr, like sugared pomegranate seeds). The girls were impressed by Darren McGuinness. He was sixteen, shared a broken-down Impala with his older brothers, played baseball and basketball, and “really knew how to treat a lady.”

  There was more, but Jane invariably added

  – You’re too immature to understand.

  (She was referring to that part of courtship, physical intimacy, I still find enigmatic.)

  Even so, before that summer was through, both Andrea and Margaret precipitously acquired boyfriends. Andrea chose Don Smith; Margaret chose me.

  Objectively speaking, I was an eccentric choice.

  First, being Edna MacMillan’s grandson I inherited something of her reputation.

  – Stable on the outside, eh. Might lose it any time, though. Mrs MacMillan did quite a number on Jenny Benjamin’s mother…

  And second, Margaret’s father could barely conceal his dislike for me; a dislike that had something to do with my grandmother, something to do with natural antipathy, and, I suspect, something to do with Mrs Schwartz, with whom I spent time.

  Yet, despite unpromising prospects, despite my embarrassment on being told

  – Andrea and Don are going steady, eh. Why can’t we?

  I agreed to be her boyfriend and, in the end, found the role intoxicating.6

  At nine years of age, we were neither of us sure how best to go about steadily. So, with remarkable disinterest, we decided what we would and wouldn’t do.

  – Hold hands?

  – I guess so.

  – Should we…

  – Do you want to?

  – I don’t think so.

  – Ohh…okay.

  Painlessly, considerate with a consideration I have rarely recovered or received, we

  a) kissed once, to see what it was like (uninteresting but not unlikeable)

  b) held hands (warm, but awkward; not altogether unlikeable)

  c) shared drinks (rarely, and only if there were straws)

  d) walked home together from school (consistently)

  e) watched television after school (distressing, because Darren “Hey, I smell nigger” McGuinness was often there with Jane, and Mr Goodman himself came home at 5:30)

  f) played in the Goodmans’ backyard (skipping, mostly, along with a handful of girls).

  After an autumn of constant company, of having somewhere to go without having to go, after innumerable excursions for Popsicles, ice cream, and licorice, I began to think it wasn’t so bad. I wasn’t tired of Margaret’s company, and I even began to see in her the virtues that make for physical attraction.

  The only conflict we had came when, on an afternoon after school, we were in the Goodmans’ basement watching “Woody Woodpecker.” On coming downstairs, Darren McGuinness said, in his usual friendly way

  – Here nigger nigger nigger…

  And, for whatever reason, Margaret chose to defend me.

  – He’s not a nigger, she said.

  That brought such mirth from those around us, I wasn’t sure whether I should laugh or not. When Margaret ran out to the yard, I didn’t know if I should follow or stay in the basement with the others.

  I did follow her out, but I was upset that she’d ruined my afternoon.

  Aside from that, and aside from the pain I began to feel on being separated from her, our infatuation was good.

  It surprises me that I have ever had such uncomplicated feelings for another.

  I have not had them since.

  Given how long we lived together, how singular her influence has been on my life, I knew very little about my grandmother.

  I’ve mentioned her cooking (Pablum and plum pudding)

  her habits (dandelion wine)

  her intermittent concern for my well-being

  her slovenliness

  her love of poetry…

  She fed me, provided a home of sorts, did what she could for me in her lucid moments, and did no irreparable harm in her moments of abandon. For me, these were the things that mattered. Everything else only clouded the issue.

  If she couldn’t quite love me, that wasn’t entirely her fault. Besides, despite all that passed between us, I loved her. How could it be otherwise? For ten years, what tenderness I knew, infrequent though it was, came from her.

  When she died, I was heartbroken.

  I would have realized she was dead much sooner, if we’d been a little more affectionate, but we’d evolved a relationship that, while affording us both a great deal of freedom, called for very few words.

  It was understood, once I was old enough, that I would go shopping for such things as she wrote on a list pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen. If she planned to cook anything more elaborate than macaroni and cheese, she might let me know, so that I could be home in time to have it warm. (Not always a pleasure.)

  In general, she made elaborate meals only for those of her old friends who still came around. Her own meal of choice was bologna sandwiches with radish salad. So food did not bring us together.

  Neither did housework.

  Although she was untidy, I wouldn’t have dared to leave my clothes about or my dishes unwashed. My grandmother was strict about whose confusion she wanted to see; it would have been lèse-majesté for me to clean up after her. So, I kept my few belongings (books, clothes, comics, and shoes) neat and in place in my room, and left the rest of the house as I found it.

  It bored me to stick around, waiting for the disaster of smells, dishes, and newspapers to bring her to herself so that she would tidy up and begin her cycle again.

  I wonder how she passed the time. What did she think about, for all those hours on end? Did she live the coming of her own death? She must have felt as lonely as I did, but perhaps she imagined her solitude differently, giving it escarpments and a platinum moon.

  Whatever it was she thought, she died in 1967.

  It was a Friday in April; a Friday, because there was no school the next day, no hour by which I had to be in bed. I had saved fifteen cents for the latest Fantastic Four, which I would have to sneak into the house, so much did my grandmother dislike comic books.

  I had come directly home from school, to pick up the empties I’d saved, and then tried to sneak out again, noiselessly.

  The clinking of the bottles disturbed my grandmother. She said

  – Thomas, is that you, dear?

  (Her last words, as far as I know.)

  – Yes, I answered.

  * * *

  —

 
From the store, I went to the schoolyard and read my comic. I’d have returned home after that (comic book rolled around my leg, tucked into my sock, hidden by my pant leg), but the girls were skipping in the Goodmans’ driveway, and Margaret asked me to be an ender.

  It was only after turning rope for an hour or so that I went home.

  My grandmother was still in her armchair, facing the television. The television was on, tuned to “Let’s Sing Out.” I made myself a peanut butter and jam sandwich for supper. And then, quietly as I could, I snuck to my room.

  Once I’d made it safely, I called out

  –I’m going to read, Gran…and lay on my stomach, on my narrow bed, and reread every frame of The Fantastic Four.

  To keep myself from reading the comic again, and exhausting it too soon, I must have taken up something my grandmother would not have been upset to see: Dumas, Dickens, or Defoe. And, as often happened on Fridays, I read myself to sleep. (I distinctly remember thinking how strange it was that my grandmother had watched “Let’s Sing Out.” “Caterwauling” was a thing she hated.)

  The next morning, I woke to the sound of the television tuned to a station that hadn’t begun to broadcast. My grandmother was in her armchair, but, from where I stood, she was sitting strangely: she had straightened up, her back no longer touching the back of the chair.

  – ’Morning, Gran, I said.

  She didn’t answer, but that wasn’t unusual. If she’d been drinking, it was natural for her to ignore me. I sensed something wrong, though. For one thing, she smelled a little stronger than usual. I thought at first there was something spoiled in the fridge, but the kitchen smelled better than the living room. That in itself was odd.

  – Gran? I said.

  Still no answer, and I thought: I’m not talking to you either, then.

  I made myself a margarine sandwich, drank a glass of orange juice, and went outside to play in the garden. An idea wouldn’t leave me alone, though: “Let’s Sing Out”…and the strong smell…and…

  And what?

  I looked half-heartedly for centipedes, distractedly admired the buds on the neighbour’s willow, but it was as if I’d misplaced something valuable.

  Then, all of a sudden, I knew what had been missing: the sound of her breathing. Instead of the laboured drawing in and noisy letting out, there had been silence, a silence under the silence. I can’t express my relief at having remembered the missing thing.

  I went back inside.

  – Gran, I said. Are you going out today?

  No answer.

  I took the unprecedented step of turning her television off and, listening intently, heard nothing, exhilarated that I was right: no sound, the only breath my own.

  I was almost giddy with relief. I wanted to say: Look, Gran, you’re not breathing!

  Her eyes were open; she was looking towards the television, but above it, to a spot on the wall.

  I touched her arm.

  It was at that moment I had my first hint of disaster. Where was I to go? Whom should I call? What should I say?

  My first and most comforting thought was of Mrs Schwartz. I could tell her all this without panic, and she wouldn’t accuse me of anything. I was beginning to feel guilt, to feel that I was responsible for whatever my grandmother had endured.

  But the Schwartzes weren’t home. I knocked at their door for a very long time.

  That left only the Goodmans, if I wanted to speak to adults I knew relatively well, and this was a thing for adults, for front doors. It was possible Mrs Goodman would answer. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  Mr Goodman answered.

  – What is it? he asked.

  – I think my Gran is dead.

  – What’s that?

  – I think my Gran is dead.

  – Is this some kind of prank?

  – No, sir.

  – How do you know she’s dead?

  – She isn’t breathing.

  – You’re sure she isn’t breathing lightly?

  – Yes, sir.

  – All right, all right. I’ll be over in a few minutes.

  He closed the door and I went back home, having nowhere else to go.

  * * *

  —

  It was only then, having done what I was supposed to do, that I felt a little frightened being in the same house with my grandmother’s body. On discovering she was dead, I’d had something to do: tell someone. But that had only made matters worse, as if telling had finished her off. Now I was alone with her corpse and with my own thoughts, which were more disturbing as the minutes passed.

  I didn’t know where to sit, or where to stand. The kitchen was too close to the living room. The basement was even more frightening than the living room, and though my own room was a small refuge, it was too far from the front door to hear anyone knock.

  I went from the kitchen to my room, from my room to the kitchen, unable to decide where to stay. In my bedroom, I made fitful attempts to read, but I was too distracted to care about Crusoe or d’Artagnan. In the kitchen, I sat listening for a knock at the door. The sounds of the house, sounds I’d known all my life, frightened me.

  When I was in the kitchen, I wanted to be in my room. When I was in my room, I wanted to be in the kitchen. Not once did it occur to me to go outside.

  It wasn’t that I was afraid of my grandmother’s body, you understand. It was that I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and time passed slowly, and Mr Goodman took hours to knock.

  * * *

  —

  Three days later, my grandmother was buried.

  I remember her funeral, but only vaguely. There were very few people at St Philip’s Church, most of them old, almost all of them women.

  – Oh yes, mm hm, she was quite a woman was Eddy.

  – Not to say she didn’t have a temper.

  – We all have that, dear…no worse than any one of us, I dare say.

  – Better than some…better than some.

  – Are you sitting to the left of the casket, Dorothy? I’ll sit with you.

  The church was dim, as churches always are in my memory; tall white candles on the altar, small brown coffin between the banks of pews; incense, candle wax, and, because I was sitting next to Mrs Schwartz, patchouli.

  It was hushed, as churches are, so that every cough and sniffle sounds, then echoes, along with every creak of the benches and the rustle of hymnals.

  “O God, Our Help in Ages Past” flared briefly and went quickly out, there being so few voices to carry it.

  When the service was over, six men, not one of whom I’d ever seen before, carried my grandmother’s coffin from the church to the hearse, and it was gone.

  I don’t much remember the burial. I was there. The coffin was lowered, the first handful of dust was thrown in after it, but I remember all that less than I remember the church, the six men in dark suits, and the smell of incense.

  * * *

  —

  I don’t think of those as my last moments with my grandmother.

  Her death and her funeral, at both of which she was partially present, were not our moments. Our last moment, if there is such a thing as a last moment, came a week later when she was not there at all.

  I was staying with the Schwartzes, sleeping uneasily in Irene’s room. After a week, I needed more clothes and wanted my comics, so I returned to my grandmother’s house.

  The house looked almost foreign to me. There was no light, the drapes were all closed, everything waiting for my grandmother’s return. I was almost as intimidated, alone in the house, as I had been on the day of her death.

  I didn’t plan to look into my grandmother’s bedroom. It was a room I’d been forbidden to enter. I hadn’t seen the inside of it for so many years, I’d forgotten what it looked like.

  And yet, on this s
econd venture into what had been my home, I felt something of the bond I had with what was, after all, the only house I’d ever truly known.

  My grandmother had regularly assured me that my stay was temporary, that I would be taken to my “rightful home” as soon as my “wretched” mother returned for me, but I was beginning to dread my rightful home, wherever it might be, and I longed for this: a house that was not mine and not quite not-mine. Aside from this house, my own room, my clothes, the books my grandmother had given me and those my grandfather had left, I had nothing at all.

  All that to say I felt bereft.

  I hesitated before going into her room, worried my grandmother would catch me, but when I pushed the door open, I found a tidy place that smelled of lavender. The bed, with its powder-blue quilt, was neatly made. There was not much dust. There was none of the disarray I expected.

  It was as unlike my grandmother as I could imagine.

  To one side of the room’s only window, a simple rectangular mirror hung above a chest of drawers. The window faced Grove Street. On the chest of drawers was a photograph, in a silver frame, of my grandmother when she was younger. Beside her, with his arm around her waist, was a tall, handsome man wearing black-rimmed glasses and a long overcoat: my grandfather. This was the first time I saw an image of him.

  There was a closet in the wall opposite her bed, its white louvre doors not quite closed. Half of the closet was given over to versions of my grandmother’s two dresses; beneath the dresses were two pairs of nondescript black shoes and an umbrella I’d never seen before, a lacquered wood sphere for its handle. The other half of the closet was taken up by a number of dark suits, beneath which were two brown shoes, in either one of which I could have fit both my feet.

  The closet smelled of camphor.

  On the wall opposite the window, there was a short, wide bookshelf. It was lined with math books, hymnals, piano music, and books for children: The Wind in the Willows, Alice in Wonderland, Gulliver’s Travels…

  The room was enchanted.