Fit Month for Dying (13 page)

One Wednesday evening as October is winding down, a tragedy in our family begins its slow, circuitous unfolding with the words “Here's the
Globe and Mail
,” and it keeps on unfolding until it breaks our hearts into pieces smaller than the putty mounds of a tinkers dam, finer than the ashes from a stick of wet spruce.

Greg, who is sitting at the kitchen table finishing off his second cup of coffee, pulls a newspaper out off his briefcase and passes it to me.

“Here's the
Globe and Mail
,” he says, handing over the neatly folded paper. “Don't throw it out. I haven't read it yet.”

Greg and I are alone in the house, Brendan having already left with Father Tom to set up tables in the church hall for a bazaar that the Catholic Women's League is hosting. I take the newspaper from Greg's outstretched hand and go up to our bedroom, where I settle myself into the big rose-coloured chair by the window. I switch on the lamp beside the chair and proceed to organize the sections of the paper into the order in which I will read them. After the organization is complete, I begin reading. Half way down page one of the business section, I come upon a column that makes me gasp.

“Oh, my God,” I exclaim to the empty bedroom — the Toronto law firm that is the subject of the column is owned by my ex-father-in-law; my ex-husband became the senior partner. The column speculates about the fate of the dynasty-controlled firm now that the only son and senior partner is no longer there, he having been killed in a twin-engine plane crash in Northern Ontario.

“It's Leonard. That's Leonard. Oh my God, he was killed.”

I jump up out of my chair to take the paper downstairs to show Greg, but then I quickly sit back down again, my legs too weak to hold me upright. That I am so affected by the news of Leonard's death perplexes me. Certainly it has nothing to do with residual love for him. Any love that Leonard and I had shared disappeared long ago — many, many months before the divorce proceedings had gotten underway. It had disappeared one argument at a time, one deception at a time, and particularly with one stabbing word at a time. In fact, on occasion Leonard had battered me with such wounding words that even yet when I recall them I feel as if I've been pierced.

In fairness to him, though, he had hurled the harshest words at me only at the end of the marriage. He had hurled them at a time when he desperately wanted the union dissolved and I desperately wanted it kept intact, convinced as I was that if the marriage dissolved, I, too, would dissolve, would melt into nothing like a snowman under an April sun.

As I continue to sit in my chair, unable or unwilling to go downstairs and share this news with Greg, I concentrate solely on Leonard. I need this time to myself to mourn a husband I did not love, to mourn a husband who, towards the end of the marriage, I did not even like. And as I let my thoughts run backwards to recall the Leonard of my marriage, I wonder what pressing business would have taken him to the sky over Kirkland Lake in weather that, according to the article, was unfit for flying. The Leonard of my marriage — the meticulous, exacting Leonard, the cautious, vigilant Leonard — would not have flown under such conditions.

I reluctantly accept that Monica, the “other woman,” had transformed him into a caring, considerate person, a person who would be likely to say, “I promised I would be on hand for the meeting, so I can't let a little bad weather stop me.” I reluctantly accept that under Monica's loving tutelage he might have become more impetuous, even a tad reckless. Perhaps even a mite less acerbic. And I reluctantly accept that I failed Leonard as grievously as he failed me. I failed him by never being able to make him more than he was, and he failed me by always being able to make me less than I was. In fact, whenever I am in a gathering of people and see a woman's body choke up at the approach of her husband, see her fidget with her hair or her rings or her nails, or hear her conversation slide away as he comes close, afraid she will say the wrong word or express an unsupportable opinion or be too solicitous or not solicitous enough, I recognize myself when I was Leonard's wife.

I reread the article several times to make certain I have the details correct, and, once I have calmed myself down, I go to tell Greg. In typical Greg fashion, compassionate and considerate always, he asks me whether I would like him to tell Brendan the news. He thinks that perhaps it would be easier for him than for me to pass it along, and he is right. Although I don't anticipate the news to make any impact upon Brendan — he has always known that I had been married to someone else before I married his father — it comforts me that Greg will tell him.

On the weekend we go out to the Cove, and I tell Philomena.

“God help his poor mother,” she says, crossing herself. “There's no sorrow for a mother like the sorrow of a child going first.” On the heels of this compassion, the implication of Leonard's death dawns on her. Her face lights up. “Sure, girl, the Lord have mercy on his soul and all, but it means yer now a sod widow, not a grass one. Now ye can have yer marriage blessed by the Church.”

She rushes to make herself clear: she wants the blight removed from our marriage post-haste. The sooner Greg can be fully reinstated into the Church, the sooner her heart will be free of the bruise that our unsanctioned union has placed upon it. Apparently, the sooner her pride will be assuaged as well; she immediately launches into plans for the ceremony that will let everyone in the Cove know her son is returning to the fold. After years and years of illicit union, Greg and I can now properly be united, and after the ceremony she will put on a scoff in the Star of the Sea church hall the likes of which won't have been seen since her sister Madeline got married in Herring Head fifty years ago.

I quash her plans as gently as I can.

“Sorry, Mrs. Phil,” I say, “but all that fuss is out. We're not having any of it.” I speak firmly so as not to give her a wedge to help her wheedle me into giving in. “We don't want any fuss. We've already talked it over. We're going to get our marriage blessed in our own parish in St. John's.”

I turn to Greg for his support. “Isn't that right? It's just going to be a very quiet affair.”

He solidly confirms my plans, and then I elaborate upon them, adding that I have been thinking that we should ask Father Tom Haley to officiate. I'm certain Brendan will like that, especially since he will be our altar server.

“Did you mention to Brendan about serving the altar?” Greg asks, surprised that I am taking Brendan's participation for granted. “Did he agree?”

“I didn't ask him yet,” I reply, equally surprised that he could even entertain the thought that Brendan might refuse to be our Mass server. “I'm just assuming. Why wouldn't he agree?”

Greg shrugs. “I don't know. It's just that lately he's changed so much. Can't take anything for granted with him anymore. Seems he has his own agenda.” He shrugs again. “But if Mom comes in and we have this Father Tom he's so fond of, he'll agree. I don't see why not.”

On Monday night, I arrive home from work before either Greg or Brendan, and I hurriedly prepare supper. My intention is to discuss the arrangements for the upcoming blessing of our marriage during the meal. And I want to broach serving the Mass to Brendan.

As a rule, Brendan gets home before Greg, and although my original plan was to wait until after supper and the three of us were seated at the table, I blurt out my request to Brendan as soon as he gets in the door.

“Dad and I were talking at your grandmother's yesterday, and we thought you might like to ask Father Tom to officiate at our marriage blessing. We can do that now because of my ex-husband's death, and we thought that, with you serving, you'd like to have Father Tom rather than another priest from the parish.”

“No way! I'm not asking him,” he retorts, his voice flat and his tone brooking no negotiation. “And I won't serve the altar for the Mass, either. A bunch of foolishness, that's what that is.”

He tosses his book bag on a chair, slips from the room and hunkers down in front of the television in the den. Confounded by his reaction, I follow him.

“That was rude of you to stomp off like that. What's wrong with you? Did something bad happen at school?”

“Nothing's wrong. Why should anything be wrong? Right away you think something's wrong if I don't agree with you.”

He barely takes his eyes from the television screen to acknowledge my presence, although I know he has no interest in the program. I cross the room and switch off the set, sit down opposite him and begin a cross-examination.

“Why don't you want to ask Father Tom? It would be nice. Especially with you serving on the altar. I thought you'd be delighted.”

“Who said I was serving?” he asks, continuing to stare at the blackened television screen. “How many times do I have to tell you, I won't serve on the altar when you get remarried or have your marriage blessed or whatever it is you're having done.”

“What do you mean, you won't serve on the altar?” I am sure I am not hearing him correctly. “Certainly you'll serve on the altar. Of course you will.”

“Of course I won't.”

“You know you will. Stop carrying on like this! I don't have time for such foolishness.”

“It's not foolishness. And I'm not doing it. And that's final.”

I realize he is not parrying. He is dead serious.

“Why not do this for us? What's your reason? You must have a reason.”

“Just because. That's all. I don't have to spell out a reason.” He switches the subject. “I'm out of drafting paper. I have to go to the Avalon Mall. Can you or Dad drive me there after supper?” He throws this out scrappily, as if he expects me to say no.

I tell him his father will probably drive him while I clean up the supper dishes. Although I can easily drive him, I am hoping he will open up to Greg along the way and tell him why he is so negative. I switch the television back on and return to the kitchen.

At the supper table, Brendan surprises me by reopening the subject of serving our Mass. As soon as we sit down to eat, he turns to Greg and says, “Mom wants me to serve on the altar when you go to get your marriage redone, but I said no, I won't. Now she's all mad at me. Won't even drive me to the mall.”

Unprepared, Greg flounders. “What! What's gone on?” He looks to me for an explanation.

“That's it,” I reply. “Just what he said. Except the bit about the mall. I never said I wouldn't drive him. I said you'd drive him while I cleaned up.”

Scrambling together the bits of information that Brendan and I have parcelled out to him and adding to this the loaded atmosphere, Greg asks, “What's going on, Brendan? How come you won't serve on the altar? You do it every Sunday. Every funeral. Every wedding. Why not for us? You know what it would mean to us. And to your grandmother.”

“A bunch of foolishness!” Brendan repeats, as surly as before. “That's what the Altar Servers' Association is. And serving on the altar is foolishness, too. Never should have joined. I'm going to quit.”

“Oh, no, you're not,” I cut in tightly and straighten up in my chair to give authority to my words. “You know our rules. No flitting from one thing to another. You commit to an activity, you commit for a year. That's what you agreed to.”

“But if he feels so strongly,” Greg begins, eager to let him off the hook. He is about to say we can make an exception in this case. A glower from me heads him off.

“One year commitment. Isn't that what we agreed to?” I say pointedly. Greg, after all, was the one who set the rules after Brendan joined the Cub Scouts for all of two weeks. His uniform was still on order when he quit. “No quitting before you've given something an honest try.”

Trapped, Greg backs down. “If you don't want to serve on the altar when we get our marriage blessed,” he says, “that's okay. But there's no need to quit altogether. Maybe just slack off. No need to spend every waking minute with the association.” He is determined not to display his delight at this happy turn of events.

“Can we go now?” Brendan interrupts, not committing himself to either a yes or a no about serving our Mass or about staying in the association. “I'm out of drafting paper.”

“Sure, Sport,” Greg replies, as eager as Brendan to stop the squabbling. He hunts up his car keys, and as he goes out the door he gives me a bewildered look, stumped by Brendan's intense reaction to our request.

When they return from the mall, Brendan bolts to his bedroom, saying he has lots of homework to do. Even before he is out of earshot, Greg and I exchange another look, and the second I hear the bedroom door closing, I ask, “Did he open up to you? Did he say anything?”

“Nothing. Not a thing. I tried to get him to talk. All he'd say was, ‘Stupid rules,' and when I asked whose stupid rules, he said, ‘Yours and Mom's.' Then he clammed up. Maybe he's ashamed of us getting married by the Church at this late date. Maybe it embarrasses him. Maybe he doesn't want his friends to know.”

“Probably that's it,” I agree, eager to grasp at an explanation that is both reasonable and reasonably inoffensive. “And then again, maybe it's because he's almost thirteen. Lately he's been quick to take offence. And he's gotten sullen. My grandmother used to say she hoped some day I'd have a daughter to make my life a Calvary like I made hers. Maybe a son can do the same thing.”