Waking the Dead

As I entered the back porch of my grandfather’s house, the sound of laughter hit me like a handful of mud to the face. Such merriment seemed so out of place. I’d expected sounds of grief, if not the silence of mourning. But laughter? 

No one seemed to notice my presence as I peered through the open door to the kitchen. Strangers were gathered about the room, downing a variety of drinks. The table was laid out with a vast array of hors d’oeuvres, sandwiches, and sweets, looking like a picnic recently pillaged by giant ants. People mingled and conversed like patrons at a singles’ bar. I turned away, fishing a cigarette out of my purse as I retreated to the back of the porch.

“Hi,” said a tiny voice behind me. “You lost?”

I turned and looked down into the rash-red face of a little girl. She couldn’t have been more than four years old. Crouching down to her level, I smiled as best I could and shook my head. “I don’t think so.” But I didn’t belong here, either. “That’s a pretty dress.”

“Gramps gave it to me.” She twirled around once, almost stumbling at the end, and fluffed the white lace hem with her hands. “D’you know my Gramps?” 

I clasped my hands between my knees and rocked slightly, forgetting to smile. “Yes. He was my Gramps, too.”

“Really? But you’re so big.” She turned suddenly and ran into the kitchen. “Nanna! Someone’s here again. She’s hiding in the porch.”

“Don’t yell, Sarah,” came a woman’s voice. Each word brought her closer to me. “Straighten your dress and find your mother.” 

I stood up and smoothed out my clothes as the woman entered the porch. She had to be Mom’s oldest — and only surviving — sister, Effie. Her coarse, permed hair was the color of tarnished silver, and she had a face like a pug on a bad day.

“You here for the wake? How long you been about?” Her dialect was quick and high-pitched. Words blurred together until they sounded like something from a lost civilization.

Although I felt like I must be staring at her, she didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. I felt phlegm rising in my throat — probably from that last cigarette — and coughed just enough to loosen things up. “Um . . . yeah, hi. I’m Mary… Digdon.” 

The woman practically squealed. “Normie’s girl? If you ain’t the spitting image of her. Come in, me girl. Let’s have that coat. Everyone, hold up! This here’s Mary Jane. Normie’s baby.” 

“Just Mary,” I muttered.

The woman rattled on, barely stopping to breathe. “Are you hungry? Bathroom’s that way. Sarah! Don’t be bothering those folks. ’Scuse me, Mary Jane, I got to take care of little miss hospitality over there. Make yourself to home.” With that, she scooped up Sarah under her right arm, grabbed a tray of food with her left hand, and maneuvered her way through the living room door. She deposited Sarah on the lap of an unnatural blonde then doled out food to the other guests.

The food was accepted and scrutinized but left uneaten in folded paper napkins. The living room mourners spoke with their heads close together, paging through photo albums like they were reading the Holy Bible. One man gently touched a page with his index finger, whispered something to the woman beside him, closed the book, and sighed. His companion laid her hands over his, and they sat together as if in prayer, eyes cast down and shoulders stooped. Comfort seemed to emanate from their closeness. I wanted to burrow into the warmth of their grief until it eased the chill of my own.

The aroma of pipe smoke, clinging and cloying, drifted into my awareness. The smell always reminded me of Gramps. When I closed my eyes, I pictured him sitting in his rocking chair and puffing on his pipe. The smoke swirled and drifted upwards, making lazy shapes in the air. Setting aside his pipe, he invited me to sit on his lap. I rubbed my face on his soft flannel shirt and settled into his frail arms for an hour of gentle rocking. Sweet-smelling smoke drifted over from the ashtray to join our little dance and envelop us in warmth and comfort.

A high-pitched wail from the living room brought me out of my daydream. Before I could move, Sarah came running past me, almost unrecognizable behind a mask of fresh tears. She disappeared through a door, her tiny feet tapping an unsteady rhythm up an unseen set of stairs. Her Nanna plodded after her, wheezing like a gap-toothed whistler.

“Leave the girl be, Effie,” shouted an old man in Gramps’s rocking chair. He looked at me with eyes the color of a hazy summer sky. Backlighting from the picture window made his hair look like cumulus clouds. He clasped a mahogany pipe between solid white teeth and stroked Gramps’s brown fedora, which lay on his lap. His eyes didn’t waver from mine. He just rocked and puffed, rocked and puffed, like a locomotive on a straightaway.

My eyes burned a little at first, then my vision grew cloudy. The old man’s image softened and blurred until he looked like a spectre. A sound like wind slipping through an uninsulated window frame came from somewhere upstairs. A chill rose from the base of my spine and hugged my shoulders. My purse slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a thud.

The old man hammered his pipe on the ashtray several times. “I remember the time,” he began, “when William and Margaret were newlyweds. Couldn’t afford the kind of honeymoon folks go in for nowadays, just married on Saturday, rest on Sunday, and back to work on Monday morning.” He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees and fingers interlaced.

“This particular Monday, William had to go out to Fogarty’s Cove to deliver a table to Seward Creamer. In those days, the shore road still ran clear through from up the Tickle to Half Island Cove. Since the Province closed it down, ain’t been nothin’ but a home for hash-growin’ hippies. Damn shame Rogers had to get mixed up with that lot. 

“Seward’s land was right on the ocean, top of a cliff that wore away more and more each year. A little gully ran about thirty feet in and was full of up to ten feet of seawater at high tide. He kept the gully and cliff edge fenced so’s his cows wouldn’t have no accidents. One of them cows had a real thing for fences though. She liked poking her head ‘tween the slats, but then she’d get stuck and start crying like a calf wantin’ teat. William’d already solved that problem by building a blinder for the cow. Nothing fancy, just a piece of wood with leather straps that attached to the cow’s horns. The contraption still let her see the ground for finding feed and avoiding holes.

“While William and Seward was unloading the table, all hell broke loose. An aeroplane — the first flight ever in the area — flew over the house and spooked the cows. The one wearing the blinder took off like she had a butcher on her tail — straight for the gully. She hit the fence so hard, she went right through it and fell twenty feet to the water below.”

The old man sat back in the chair and rocked gently for a few beats. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pack of tobacco. Slowly, lovingly, he pushed the dried leaves into the bowl of his pipe, stubby fingers leaving no stray pieces protruding from the top. Finally, he struck a wood match against the side of the rocking chair and resuscitated the pipe until it breathed flames again.

“Funny thing is, the cow didn’t die. William and Seward had to take the dinghy to the mouth of the gully, get a rope ‘round the cow’s horns, and row her back to the beach. Couldn’t get her back up top the cliff, though, so Seward butchered her on the spot.” The old man pulled his hat down over his eyes and took a couple puffs of his pipe. 

“William swore off beef for near a month after that,” said one of the old ladies at the table.

Laughter filled the kitchen, and my lips curved into a tiny half-smile. I knelt beside the rocking chair and gently touched the old man’s hand. His skin was softer than I’d expected, like well-worn leather. I looked up at those soft blue eyes, hooded beneath the brim of his hat, and said, “You must be Charlie.” 

He nodded once. 

“Gramps talked about you all the time. He missed you a lot.”

Charlie nodded. “Family’s easy to ignore when they’re alive but impossible to forget once they’re gone.” He pulled his hand away from mine and brushed it across his cheek. “Can you sing at all, Mary Jane?” 

I shook my head, ignoring the glint of moisture on his fingertips.

“Not surprising,” he said. “Never knew a Sceles what could carry a tune — nor one that would let that stop him.” He pushed back his hat and stomped out a rhythm with his booted foot. “Let’s have a tune for William.” He finished the first verse and was joined on the chorus by a dozen others before I recognized the song as “Fogarty’s Cove.”

Charlie was dealing with grief in his own way, but it wasn’t for me. Retrieving my purse, I pushed myself to my feet and eased my way towards the living room. As I reached the door, the couple I’d seen earlier — the ones with the photo album — passed by me into the kitchen. The flow of people moving back and forth between the rooms had gone on sporadically since my arrival. The woman looked at me and smiled almost apologetically before finding a seat at the table. She tapped her foot in time with the music; the man stood behind her and absent-mindedly stroked her hair.

Sunflower curtains drawn over the windows on the far wall gave the living room a feverish, jaundiced glow. Mourners gathered in clusters, whispering amongst themselves. Their combined voices droned on rhythmically, more lyrical than the song in the kitchen. Alone or in pairs, people broke formation and approached the mahogany casket that dominated one side of the room. Some stood there for five minutes or more while others only paused briefly before retreating to the linoleum glow of the kitchen. 

I approached the casket slowly, concentrating on the brass handles and the polished wood. A small table had been placed to one side; laminated copies of Gramps’s obituary were neatly stacked there, like parting gifts for those in attendance. William Lester Sceles, 91, of Canso, died at Eastern Memorial Hospital, Thursday Feb. 23. Part of me wanted to toss them across the room. 

I carefully slid one of the plastic squares into my purse.

When I finally forced myself to look into the open casket, I was amazed. Gramps looked so healthy, as if his body had absorbed the trace amounts of untainted light in the room. His cheeks were rosy, and he looked years younger than when I’d last seen him alive. A circle of light shone around his head, although it was slowly succumbing to encroaching decay.

Something brushed my arm; I looked over to see Aunt Effie standing beside me. Her clasped hands rested on the edge of the casket, and her eyes were closed as she bent her head in prayer. She whispered “Amen” and met my gaze with tired eyes.

“He looks so peaceful,” I said. 

My lungs became a vacuum as my heart closed in on itself. Voices became distorted, like recordings played back on low speed. I felt strong, meaty hands on my arms as the walls rushed past me.

I found myself sitting on a low bench in the front porch, bent forward with my head between my knees. Aunt Effie sat beside me, forming a warm, cushioning barrier between me and the living room. She held me and rubbed my back as I shook the grief from my body. 

At first, when I tried to speak, only quivering sobs escaped my lips. I felt as if I would never be in control of my emotions again.

After several deep breaths, I shook off Aunt Effie’s embrace and sat up. Charlie was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. 

“How you holding up, girl?” he asked. 

“Been . . . better.” My voice seemed to catch in my throat, as if I hadn’t spoken in days.

“Never easy seeing someone you love laid out like that. Some folks say it gets a little easier each time, but I can’t say as I agree.”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t know.”

Aunt Effie pulled back and stared at me. “Don’t tell me this here’s your first wake. Well, no wonder you’re so shook. You should’ve said something.”

“I just . . . don’t know . . . I was okay so long as I didn’t say anything. You know?” Fresh tears threatened to form, and I had to close my eyes to stop them from streaming down my face. “I thought I’d done my crying at home.”

Charlie took my chin in his hand and raised my head until our eyes met. “You’re feeling sad for William, but there’s no need.” He stroked my hair and whispered, “He’s with his Margaret now.”

Aunt Effie touched my forehead and made a little clucking sound. “Open that door, Charlie. Girl needs some fresh air.”

“I need a smoke,” I grumbled, fumbling through my purse. I pulled out the cigarette case and tossed the purse aside. The lighter’s flame danced around the cigarette, stubbornly refusing to touch the tobacco.

Charlie swung the door wide and raised the sliding glass in the screen door. “Let me help you.” He took the lighter from me and held it steady until I could get a light.

I took a long pull, expecting the relaxing effects of a long-overdue drag. My throat burned. Smoke blasted from my nose and mouth, choking off my breathing. Aunt Effie pummeled my back until my spastic coughing stopped.

“Feel better?” Charlie asked as he passed me his plaid handkerchief. 

“Yeah,” I said, dabbing at my eyes. “I feel so much more relaxed.” My laughter came out like a series of dry hiccups. I took a more tentative drag and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling light.

Aunt Effie took my hands in hers. “How’s your father, anyway? I know he don’t care much for us, but I thought he might set it all aside, considering.”

“Dad’s stubborn as always.”

“True enough,” Aunt Effie said. “It was all your Gramps could do to convince him to let you come visit as a child.”

“Dad says this place killed her.”

“The old bastard. She came back here to die, but it was his ways that killed her.”

“That’s enough, Effie,” Charlie said. “Truth is, your father thought life would be better out there. Your mother just wanted to be home.”

Aunt Effie braced her legs and rolled herself to her feet. “Well, you just finish up here, then come join us in the kitchen. Sarah’s been looking for you.” She disappeared into the living room without another word.

Charlie fumbled with the fedora for a few minutes before placing it gently on my head. His body heat radiated from the hat’s fabric, easing the chill that still threatened to overcome me. I set the cigarette in the ashtray and snugged the fedora down with both hands. Its soft warmth reminded me of a kitten. 

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Looks better on you,” he said, chuckling. “Let’s get back to the kitchen before Sarah comes looking for you. Cute little thing, but right snippety when she don’t get her own way.”

“You go ahead. I just need a few more minutes.”

Charlie nodded and smiled.

The sun was setting over the waters of the Tickle, casting a red glow onto the evening clouds. I stared at the cigarette, letting it burn itself out before tossing it in the ashtray. Standing on shaky legs, I pulled the brim of the fedora down over my eyes and stepped back into the living room.