Carole Maso - Ghost Dance

I do not know, though, whether this death was easy for her. I fear it was not. I fear, like her life, that it was hard, that she suffered exquisitely, that she turned around in the last minute knowing that it was out there in the snow, because she was so good at knowing things like that, and she w ent out to greet it, to take in its strangeness, and as the headlights tame closer and my, father took the change from the toll taker my mother knew and sighed, “Oh,” as she let death enter her. And he, I’m afraid, turned around to look at her and saw the agony on her face and said, “Christine, what, what is it?” And at that last moment she just shook her head wordlessly, put her head and her hands on Fletcher’s shoulders, slumped over, and said again, “Oh,” and then, “Oh, my!”

Or was it different from this? Did she sink her fingernails into the car’s upholstery right before the end, in terror as the brain in disorder called up random images — an aisle from a drugstore of her youth or a slant of light from her attic study — as she clung to the car and then separated from the world of tolls and cars into horrendous pain. She never imagined it would be like this — death ramming into her, death so hot it turned green and bubbled. Its fingers curled into her back, its sharp teeth sank into her. Pain so hideous the human body has no capacity to hold it, the brain in a fraction of a second casting off everything, everything, the works of Shakespeare, the poetry of Rilke, the music of Chopin, the lives of her own children, she willing to give up everything to be released — everything simply to be released.

She explodes. Or no — maybe she burns more slowly. Maybe my father and brother are made to hear the sighing of her burning flesh, smell the terrible flesh stench of death as she disappears slowly in the snow. She shrieks, one last time, only a mouth left now, the brain dead, but the mouth still shrieking in the excruciating heat.

Then silence, but the silence does not last for very long. It is replaced by something unidentifiable at first, barely audible. It is replaced by the sighing of burning flesh. All year long it has been the sound in the background. It has been the sound in the background all year long. And it never stops. No matter how long we live or how far away we go, it never really stops.

Did my father try to find her withered hand? Did he cradle the head with the mouth in it that shrieked and shrieked?

She was my mother. She was probably just beginning her New Year’s resolutions.

The Ford Motor Company never sent us an apology. Fletcher gathered as best he could information that might be useful in a lawsuit, but he fell apart almost as soon as he began. Neither Father nor I had the heart to pursue it. Retribution was a pallid emotion in the spectrum we were feeling. My father could not see the use of it; Ford would feel nothing and we would be made to sit in the courtroom and gape at giant blow ups of the car and the remains of her body. It was Aunt Lucy who pursued the lawsuit finally, displaying the same courage and tenacity I imagined she once did when my mother was so sure she was bleeding to death, long ago.

There was a flurry of excitement among the senior executives at Ford. They had not counted on a distinguished writer being incinerated in their Pinto. If they had thought such a thing was possible, they might have thought twice about what I am convinced they knew was the fatal position of the gas tank. They did not care at all about my mother. They did not care that they had taken away one of the country’s most original, most authentic voices. What they cared about was the publicity, the unknown numbers who would remember “the Pinto incident” because of this Christine Wing, whoever she was.

An added nuisance to an already irritating Monday, Charles Walcott thought, closing his briefcase and rushing to a meeting. In the hall he met Sullivan. “And the icing on the cake is this,” Sullivan said, “she’s got some wise-ass son, some antiwar type who’s gonna try to run us right the fuck into the ground.”

Mrs. Walcott, at home in Scarsdale, ordered the maid to intercept all incoming magazines and newspapers. Her husband’s high blood pressure, already out of hand, would skyrocket with all this. They must do their best to keep it from him. “Christine Wing Killed in Ford Pinto.” “Ford Under Scrutiny.” “Walcott of Ford Denies Pinto a Safety Hazard.”

If it had only been someone else, she thought, there would be a two-inch article buried somewhere near the back of the paper. An insignificant lawsuit would be initiated, and quietly the family would be compensated. “It’s just not fair,” Mrs. Walcott sighed to Winnifred the maid. “It wasn’t Ford’s fault, after all.” But Walcott, leaving the meeting, saw my mother’s face on the front page of all the local newspapers and all the national newspapers, and a barrage of obscenities spewed like exhaust from his mouth. He did not have the imagination or the knowledge to suspect the front-page headlines of the newspapers in France, in Germany, in England, in Canada, in Italy, in Mexico, in Brazil, in Africa, in Russia, in Poland, in Greece, in Israel, in Czechoslovakia, in Norway, in Holland, in Denmark, in Belgium, in Sweden.

She was my mother, Mr. Walcott. She was probably just starting her New Year’s resolutions.

My mother’s wake was filled with flowers. They came from every corner of the earth and continued to arrive all day and all night. They could not be contained by the walls of the room her coffin was in; they spilled into the other rooms of the great mansion, which was the funeral parlor, and filled them. People floated like sleepwalkers from one doorway to another, dizzied by the awful perfumes of death.

The funeral parlor was filled with the people who loved my mother. There were relatives, there were friends, there were reviewers, there were people she had never known but who knew her through her work. They came with stories, they came holding her books. They kept coming and coming, endlessly, in tremendous white clouds of grief. There was so much grief that, even in this place which was made to hold grief, the walls seemed to tremble and the floor to give way. The funeral directors stood against the collapsing walls and charted the unstable weather of the room. To those mourners who stayed long enough, there came a time when they passed through the heavy, cloudlike sorrow to the other side where there erupted a black wind of anger. It swirled around the room in a twisting so great that it threatened to level the funeral parlor with its violence. It blew our hair back away from our faces. It tore our clothes. It circled the room and grew fiercer and fiercer. “Why?” the mourners howled, raising their windy fists, their mouths in horror frozen open, in rage. The circle tightened.

Fletcher and I sat next to the coffin and did not move. Those who had known her from college gave out great cries when they saw me sitting next to it. I must have looked enough as they remembered her from school to confuse them for a moment. Preparing to see her dead, they saw her alive instead, and young again, the way they remembered her best — twenty-five years earlier, and their own pasts, too, came alive through me. They were young women again, their whole lives yet to live. And in my ruined face they saw her face as a young woman looking into some unbearable future that only she seemed capable of seeing. One always had that impression of my mother — that she somehow knew everything in advance. It was true of her in college, probably even as a little girl — that she held the whole of her life inside her. It pained us all terribly to think of it: she had probably seen her own death, maybe even felt it, many times during her life.

“Oh, Mommy,” I say into my quiet apartment, feeling finally the burden of her life entire in me, the way I have never felt it before, not even last January at the actual wake, and tears run down my face.