Guy Vanderhaeghe - Man Descending

“You worry a lot for a kid,” she said, “don’t you?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. It wasn’t a question I had ever considered. I tried to shift the conversation.

“What’s there for a kid to do around here?” I said in an unnaturally inquisitive voice.

“Well, we could play cribbage,” she said.

“I don’t know how to play cribbage.”

She was genuinely shocked. “What!” she exclaimed. “Why, you’re eleven years old! Your father could count a cribbage hand when he was five. I taught all my kids to.”

“I never learned how,” I said. “We don’t even have a deck of cards at our house. My father hates cards. Says he had too much of them as a boy.”

At this my grandmother arched her eyebrows. “Is that a fact? Well, hoity-toity.”

“So, since I don’t play cards,” I continued in a strained manner I imagined was polite, “what could I do – I mean, for fun?”

“Make your own fun,” she said. “I never considered fun such a problem. Use your imagination. Take a broomstick and make like Nimrod.”

“Who’s Nimrod?” I asked.

“Pig ignorant,” she said under her breath, and then louder, directly to me, “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Drink your tea.”

And that, for the time being, was that.

It’s all very well to tell someone to make their own fun. It’s the making of it that is the problem. In a short time I was a very bored kid. There was no one to play with, no horses to ride, no gun to shoot gophers, no dog for company. There was nothing to read except the Country Guide and Western Producer. There was nothing or nobody interesting to watch. I went through my grandmother’s drawers but found nothing as surprising there as I had discovered in my parents’.

Most days it was so hot that the very idea of fun boiled out of me and evaporated. I moped and dragged myself listlessly around the house in the loose-jointed, water-boned way kids have when they can’t stand anything, not even their precious selves.

On my better days I tried to take up with Stanley the rooster. Scant chance of that. Tremors of panic ran through his body at my approach. He tugged desperately on the twine until he jerked his free leg out from under himself and collapsed in the dust, his heart bumping the tiny crimson scallops of his breast feathers, the black pellets of his eyes glistening, all the while shitting copiously. Finally, in the last extremes of chicken terror, he would allow me to stroke his yellow beak and finger his comb.

I felt sorry for the captive Stanley and several times tried to take him for a walk, to give him a chance to take the air and broaden his limited horizons. But this prospect alarmed him so much that I was always forced to return him to his stake in disgust while he fluttered, squawked and flopped.

So fun was a commodity in short supply. That is, until something interesting turned up during the first week of August. Grandma Bradley was dredging little watering canals with a hoe among the corn stalks on a bright blue Monday morning, and I was shelling peas into a colander on the front stoop, when a black car nosed diffidently up the road and into the yard. Then it stopped a good twenty yards short of the house as if its occupants weren’t sure of their welcome. After some time, the doors opened and a man and woman got carefully out.

The woman wore turquoise-blue pedal-pushers, a sloppy black turtleneck sweater, and a gash of scarlet lipstick swiped across her white, vivid face. This was my father’s youngest sister, Aunt Evelyn.

The man took her gently and courteously by the elbow and balanced her as she edged up the front yard in her high heels, careful to avoid turning an ankle on a loose stone, or in an old tire track.

The thing which immediately struck me about the man was his beard – the first I had ever seen. Beards weren’t popular in 1959 – not in our part of the world. His was a randy, jutting, little goat’s-beard that would have looked wicked on any other face but his. He was very tall and his considerable height was accented by a lack of corresponding breadth to his body. He appeared to have been racked and stretched against his will into an exceptional and unnatural anatomy. As he walked and talked animatedly, his free hand fluttered in front of my aunt. It sailed, twirled and gambolled on the air. Like a butterfly enticing a child, it seemed to lead her hypnotized across a yard fraught with perils for city-shod feet.

My grandmother laid down her hoe and called sharply to her daughter.

“Evvie!” she called. “Over here, Evvie!”

At the sound of her mother’s voice my aunt’s head snapped around and she began to wave jerkily and stiffly, striving to maintain a tottering balance on her high-heeled shoes. It wasn’t hard to see that there was something not quite right with her. By the time my grandmother and I reached the pair, Aunt Evelyn was in tears, sobbing hollowly and jamming the heel of her palm into her front teeth.

The man was speaking calmly to her. “Control. Control. Deep, steady breaths. Think sea. Control. Control. Control. Think sea, Evelyn. Deep. Deep. Deep,” he muttered.

“What the hell is the matter, Evelyn?” my grandmother asked sharply. “And who is he?”

“Evelyn is a little upset,” the man said, keeping his attention focused on my aunt. “She’s having one of her anxiety attacks. If you’d just give us a moment we’ll clear this up. She’s got to learn to handle stressful situations.” He inclined his head in a priestly manner and said, “Be with the sea, Evelyn. Deep. Deep. Sink in the sea.”

“It’s her damn nerves again,” said my grandmother.

“Yes,” the man said benignly, with a smile of blinding condescension. “Sort of.”

“She’s been as nervous as a cut cat all her life,” said my grandmother, mostly to herself.

“Momma,” said Evelyn, weeping. “Momma.”

“Slide beneath the waves, Evelyn. Down, down, down to the beautiful pearls,” the man chanted softly. This was really something.

My grandmother took Aunt Evelyn by her free elbow, shook it, and said sharply, “Evelyn, shut up!” Then she began to drag her briskly towards the house. For a moment the man looked as if he had it in mind to protest, but in the end he meekly acted as a flanking escort for Aunt Evelyn as she was marched into the house. When I tried to follow, my grandmother gave me one of her looks and said definitely, “You find something to do out here.”

I did. I waited a few minutes and then duck-walked my way under the parlour window. There I squatted with my knobby shoulder blades pressed against the siding and the sun beating into my face.

My grandmother obviously hadn’t wasted any time with the social niceties. They were fairly into it.

“Lovers?” said my grandmother. “Is that what it’s called now? Shack-up, you mean.”

“Oh, Momma,” said Evelyn, and she was crying, “it’s all right. We’re going to get married.”

“You believe that?” said my grandmother. “You believe that geek is going to marry you?”

“Thompson,” said the geek, “my name is Thompson, Robert Thompson, and we’ll marry as soon as I get my divorce. Although Lord only knows when that’ll be.”

“That’s right,” said my grandmother, “Lord only knows.” Then to her daughter, “You got another one. A real prize off the midway, didn’t you? Evelyn, you’re a certifiable lunatic.”

“I didn’t expect this,” said Thompson. “We came here because Evelyn has had a bad time of it recently. She hasn’t been eating or sleeping properly and consequently she’s got herself run down. She finds it difficult to control her emotions, don’t you, darling?”