Lighting the lamp, p.31
Lighting the Lamp, page 31
Inside, the great beast of mass production lies motionless in an endless, labyrinthine coil, hissing, impatient, waiting for the signal to snake around its monotonously efficient course. Decked out in his paint shop garb, Terry prepares his gear. On the other side of the hanging four-door shell, his opposite number, Yves Laurier, stands and waits.
“Ca marche?”
“Oui, ca marche.”
When the buzzer sounds, the line advances, and Terry, pneumatic gun in his hand like a wand, begins his job of sealing welded joints. This he will do for eight hours. The work both affirms and denies. For Terry, the mechanical hours free the mind to follow wherever the imagination leads. It leads everywhere, assumes all forms, shapes, and rhythms—bits and pieces of songs, free-associations that conclude in rhyme or in the creation of new dreams, and memories short and long—but mostly, it leads back to Donna. She breaks his shift up into myriad images; some, singular in impression—the contour of her lips; others, extended reveries—the thought that there was something intrinsically luxurious and defiant about making love in the afternoon in the middle of winter’s grip will evolve into a fantasy where they roll together through snow-bound fields in endless ecstasy. Conversations are replayed with different words, but outcomes seldom differ.
She: Why don’t you just stay here? He: You know I have to get to work. She: I mean stay here day-to-day, night-to-night, week-to-week. He: Dollard is convenient, especially in winter. It’s more direct from my parents’ place up to Sainte-Therese.
This is followed by a litany of apologies that unravels like a coil of art nouveau. Then the voice in the on-going narrative fabricates a more pleasing scenario with the arrival of a two-door hardtop requiring a line of caulking in its trunk—a retiring red glow reaches across your lips when I move to you fallen with the music—and recedes, like tail lamps, towards the next of tomorrows. Whereupon Terry sees himself chasing Donna’s long, shapely legs around the Beaver Lake skating pond on top of snowy Mont-Royal.
“Ca marche?”
“Oui, ca marche!”
* * *
Window frost glistens. A Polaroid flash captures the scene of seasonal good cheer in the Haywood household out in rural Hudson. After the little drummer boy finishes beating on his drum, Bing Crosby starts to croon. When talk of family holiday traditions runs its course, and likewise for the pros and cons of artificial Christmas trees, declaring one’s favourite carol or hymn comes next in the pattern of the evening’s revelations.
Terry in the throes of indecision, a second hot toddy gurgling in him, is privately convinced the only evidence of an angel descending from on high now sits on the sofa across from him wearing a plaid mini skirt and dark green tights that make of her legs an endless passageway to the heavenly Jerusalem here on earth. He decides on White Christmas as a kind of compromise, he explains, between the traditional and the modern, then reaches for the bowl of nuts on the table before him, but decides before he’s there that a piece of the homemade fruit cake would make a better choice.
The visit is timely and deemed a success. Her parents see the potential for financial security in a university degree despite the present occupation with assembly line wages is how Donna puts it on the drive back to the city.
* * *
Christmas down on Rachael Street and all the Burkes are there. Joy and good cheer are evident about the old home—uncles, aunts, kids, and grandkids. Even Francis Gavin and Elizabeth, John and Catlin with them, have made it in from Toronto, though they arrive considerably later than everybody else.
Terry and Patrick have not seen these cousins in years. Mary-Ellen and Donna are introduced and join in the banter. Young Genny attaches herself to Terry and becomes intrigued by Donna. Spirits are high and Burke tradition gets served on large paper plates along with all the best of the season.
Earlier in the day, however, when presents have been opened, and thanks offered, and preparation is underway for getting to the reunion, Terry is questioned before he leaves to pick up Donna. It comes off as a form of preliminary inquiry, in part to satisfy the nagging uncertainty of a concerned mother, in part to prepare defences should Donna have to face a full-frontal assault when introduced to Ma Maggie. Patrick and Mary-Ellen are still getting the third degree about regular church attendance even after almost a year of joining in on all the family functions as a committed couple. Ma Maggie ran Mary-Ellen through the wringer when they first met, and as far as Terry can determine she more or less made the cut. He presumes his Aunt Elizabeth has not made the cut because he still hears Ma Maggie refer to her as “that Protestant tart” who made off with her son, and hence the lingering question of whether his uncle’s move to Toronto was really job-related.
“You say Donna’s a lovely girl, but we’ve met her only briefly. We really haven’t had a chance to talk to her. Or to you about her. You know how determined your grandmother can be.”
“Plenty of time for talk, Ma.”
“What parish is she from?”
“She hasn’t mentioned any, and I haven’t asked.”
“What religion?”
“She hasn’t mentioned any.”
“And you haven’t asked? Has she even been baptized?”
“Haven’t a clue. Donna hasn’t declared herself an atheist if that’s what you’re concerned about. She’s not a witch, and she’s not a pagan. She’s from a good family.”
“Is it you’re serious, then?”
“That’s a leading question, Ma.”
“What about Irene? Mary-Ellen’s cousin? She’s a nice Catholic girl, and she’s Irish.”
“Yes, she’s a very nice girl. And one of us. But I’m not about to marry her!”
“If you were to marry,” JB intervenes, “you’d want to be standing, we’d all want you and your intended to be standing, before the main altar, not off to the side only half done, as ’t were, like your Uncle Frank.”
“Right now I have no intended and no intention of standing before any altar.”
“Must not forget tradition, Terry, whatever your intentions. Tradition is important, is it not?”
During this season of giving, Terry knows that the greatest gift he’s received is Donna’s love, and he will do all he can to protect it. Driving over to Rachael Street, he feels it is necessary, however, to warn her of potential threats to their mutual happiness that might result from family curiosity about her, in particular, that of his grandmother. He tells her how as a kid he sympathized with his mother always having to defend herself when Ma Maggie accused her of not following her lead.
“You’ve already told me she’s the queen bee.”
“That’s for sure. Matriarch supreme. Okay, let’s touch this up with a bit of humour. Remember the tale of the wolf donning Grandma’s clothing? Ma Maggie might take you by the arm and march you into the coal shed out back to ask you a few questions. She’ll fix her blue squinting eyes on you through large round glasses and scour your soul, and if it measures up, she’ll treat you with sugar-coated kindness, at least for a short while.”
“What is she trying to do? Intimidate?”
“Nothing as sinister as that. No, discover what parish you and your family belong to and everything that follows from that.”
“Kind of like what your mother tried to do when we met her that once? On our way to The Maples on the Lake Shore.”
“Ma’s less intense.”
The most Donna has revealed of spiritual beliefs, other than manifesting in both word and action a subjective kind of pantheism, is hoping that some power beyond human understanding controls events in the universe. End of metaphysical certainty and end of any rationalization of human purpose, let alone human suffering. But how do you explain that position to someone of such strong religious conviction as Ma Maggie?
Donna’s honest and direct way of saying exactly what she is thinking could be interpreted as being forward, disrespectful. Not saying what she is thinking, lest offence be taken, might be construed as ignorance or impertinence. When discussion leads beyond her experience or knowledge, she chooses to defer with a slight inclination of her head rather than to say something that might serve either to please or to indicate simplicity. Always respectful, she is anything but naïve when dealing with others. I know that he exists Donna might say of God, but such belief is a risky game. Or she might quote Emily Dickinson directly to Ma Maggie and come out with “Some keep the Sabbath going to church, I keep it staying at home… So instead of going to heaven at last, I’m going all along!” Donna will not avoid speaking the truth, the truth as she experiences it.
How to influence another’s responses without appearing to be playing puppeteer is uppermost in Terry’s thoughts as he ploughs the Corvair into a snowbank. He adds a little more detail to round out his cautionary tale. “Picture an old lady, the flaming shafts in the Sacred Heart of Jesus like an aura about her head, raking over the coals in her stove, and to the accompanying crackling in the firebox, she curses heathens and describes the eternal sufferings a guilty fallen away Catholic boy will endure for all eternity. Guilt is a great part of our tradition. But Donna, don’t worry.”
“And ’t would be of no surprise ’t all,” Terry hears Ma Maggie declare later to JB, “should boyo not bother with the besotted girl this day forward. To do otherwise would be going against God’s will. That one will never convert.”
* * *
It is a cold February day as Montreal labours through the aftermath of a blizzard. Predictions are accurate: sub-zero temperatures, winds out of the west, thirteen to twenty centimetres of accumulation.
Donna rubs the sleep from her eyes, moves barefoot across the chilling hardwood floor; her toes knead the wool of the Cretan rug while her fingers lose themselves in her long, tangled hair. She breathes against the windowpane: a mirror to enter through to the outside world. A taxi under its quickly fading Yellow Diamond slaloms up Côte-Sainte-Catherine, and then the prolonged stridulation of soft rubber on icy, packed snow. A low sun struggles against the oblique whiteness. She shivers, but she knows that coffee will somehow warm up the day and that Terry will likely bring her around.
When Terry joins her, and they have their coffee, he wants to know what’s troubling her. She tells him an uneasy feeling can sometimes come upon her. Same as knowing that without actually throwing the clay, it will break down no matter how caring she is. When he asks what’s really causing the frown, she reaches for her Emily Dickinson, turning to a poem that conveys it all.
‘“There’s a certain slant of light / On winter afternoons, / That oppress, like the weight / Of Cathedral tunes.’” Donna pauses here and then carries through to the end of the poem.
“Worried again about Ma Maggie and her dictates?
“Not really, Terry. I trust your judgement in all of that.”
“Cathedral tunes and Heavenly hurt. That stuff?”
“It’s not a reaction to religious bigotry, Terry. Or God’s design, if there be any. Just the human condition. What you said after the Christmas get together about finding meaning despite the oppression—very heavy, all that. Thurber helped somewhat.”
“Maybe so, but I think this poem means having knowledge of despair and death can bring you back into the light. Something like that anyway.”
“Could be it’s just that this kind of bleak winter day is the beginning of a painful transformation due me after so many months at the Veterans. I deal with death and dying and despair daily. Attempts to alleviate the pain and suffering of old men telling sad stories seems futile at times, and frustrating, but I keep on doing it, and then this feeling comes over me. And when it comes, even the landscape listens. Take a look outside.”
“Your landscape sings other songs, Donna. I know now you’re beyond Cathedral tunes and Heavenly hurt.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. Up on the mountain. Hinchinbrooke Farm. Sometimes I just want to embrace the sun. Get a new perspective.”
“I remember a time when Dan Cleary and I took out our bikes, intending to see how fast we could circle Brome Lake, fourteen or so miles. It had to have been some weekend in March. We peddled away from Yamaska College but forgot about setting a school record and took a side road off the main Knowlton highway. We found ourselves in open spaces, in farmlands where the snow over the winter had piled up. That day, a thick belt of shadow-blue and white. The sun was pouring down, and everything was melting. Rivulets ran off the open areas and joined streams rushing towards the river, all merging with a force I’d not seen before, a city boy. You could hear the sound of the earth being released from the grip of winter, and you could smell it on the warming wind. Colder days followed, naturally enough, then rainy days, but that particular day where you could feel the change in your bones was a sure sign that spring was on its way. And we peddled on and made it around the lake and got hell for being late for evening prayer, never mind supper. The landscape that day spoke not of death and despair but of renewal, and it spoke of the life force you acknowledge each shift at the Veterans, even though it may express itself only in tiny, waning breaths.”
* * *
Later, when Terry has left, Donna looks through the window, waiting, watching the eaves for the sounds of the sun melting snow. The orange light of the tow truck strobes the dim afternoon intersection as a Victoria Avenue bus in muted brown and silver slides to a stop against the hidden curb. Two people get off, soon to become hurrying shades against the whirlwind snow, one this way and one that way. She pulls the curtain and goes to put on her uniform.
THE PEDIGREE OF HONEY
In late April 1970, vernal breezes having long since eradicated any vestiges of snow, the Burkes and relatives and a wide range of friends see Ma Maggie’s older cousin off, a widow of some eight years. Née Kathleen McGee, when she married John Kelly, the affable cop from Pointe-Saint-Charles, she became known affectionately as Katie Kelly. The sun shines brightly on a warm day when they bury her in the Notre-Dame-Des-Neiges Cemetery on Mont-Royal. JB and family are in attendance, as are all the Burke brothers and their families, except for Uncle Frank and his.
When graveside services come to an end, and a handful of earth is thrown on the coffin, an inconsolable Ma Maggie is driven home by Terry. Their conversation centres entirely on the fact that Katie Kelly was a good woman and lived the life of a saint given the old man’s outbursts when indulging in bouts of heavy drinking, which he did often. She’d be in heaven now, of course. There can be no doubt of that, no, no doubt at all.
Sandwiches and other comestibles, coffee, tea and other beverages are being served in the Kelly home in NDG, whereto most attendees gather, and that is where Terry heads after picking up Donna. Ma Maggie at home and Donna ending her shift when she does insure no further pointed questioning of the latter at the hands of the former, although Terry believes Donna’s intermittent attendance at Burke functions to be a useful ploy for ingratiating her to his own immediate family. Patrick has always been reserved in dealings with Donna, seeing in her a female that is too liberal and too contemporary, and at times a little too “far out” for a practicing nurse, yet he admitted that even though her smile could heal a broken heart, she’d still have a hell of a time with Ma Maggie.
“You okay?” Terry asks as they near the Kelly home.
“It makes no difference,” she says in sentiments reminiscent of an Emily Dickinson poem, “the seasons are what they are. The flower dies and regenerates. Just like you said, Terry. Recognizing death is part of being alive, but that fact, really, is no stranger to me.”
Terry agrees. What she says makes perfect sense to him, given where they are driving to at the moment and why. Communicating through allusion and metaphor has become habitual for them, particularly when the words they seek elude them. Contemporary song lyrics add a further dimension to how they engage one another. For some time now, however, Terry has sensed that Donna is using the poems of Emily Dickinson in particular as a kind of code for what happens in the world. And also, perhaps more significantly, for what is happening between them, and it’s not always wild nights in Eden.
Of late, she has expressed the feeling that though they might be floating down the river together, they are definitely drifting apart. Terry calls the idea a metaphysical conundrum, not an existential one, and dismisses it as mere paradox. At this, Donna inclines her head. And yet, what she infers gives him pause.
‘“Auto da Fe and judgment,”’ she continues as they near their destination, ‘“are nothing to the bee; / His separation from his rose / To him seems misery.’ Or at least it should be if his life is true, and his love is complete.”
“Don’t worry about Ma Maggie. I’ve taken her home. There’s no inquisition today. Just some additional obsequies served up with the tea and the whiskey. Fear no hard looks. Patrick and Mary-Ellen will be there, and a lot of the cousins, including Genny, who thinks the world of you.”
“That’s comforting. As I’ve told you, I deal with heavy-hearted familial remembrances just about everyday. A more gregarious sad occasion, if I can call it that, will be a positive change.”
Later, in the garden out back where the reception has spread, Terry watches Donna engaged with Mary-Ellen and Genny. This pleases him. Later still, when the reception is nearly over, and they’re preparing to leave, Terry asks Donna about how things are going, and how it is that Genny came over to him repeating something she said that caused considerable amusement.
