Anne Tyler - The Tin Can Tree

Ansel's shoes were dropped on the floor, first one and then the other. There was a small whipping sound as he flung his tie around a bedpost. Even with his eyes shut James could picture his brother, how he would be leaning toward James with his shoulders hunched and his hands flung out as he talked, even though he knew he couldn't be seen. 'Go to sleep, Ansel," he muttered, but Ansel only sighed and began unbuttoning his shirt with tiny popping sounds.

'This all has to do with Janie Rose,' he told James. 'Are you listening?'

'No.'

'Just about everything has to do with Janie Rose these days. I don't know why. Looks like she just kind of tipped everything over with her passing on. Janie don't like gladioli, James.'

James didn't answer. A button flew to the floor and then circled there for an endless length of time, and Ansel stamped one stocking foot over it and shook the whole house. James could feel the floorboards jar beneath his bed. There was a long silence; then Ansel bent, with a small puff of held-in breath, and scrapped his fingers across the floor in search of the button.

'Got it,' he said finally. 'All today, I was so sick and tired. I had looked at that picture of the Model A too long. I don't know why I do things like that. Then I thought, well, I'll just go up the hill and pay my respects to Janie Rose. I'll go slow, so as not to get overtired. And I did. I stopped a plenty on the way. But when I got close I saw her flowers, how they had got all wilted. I thought: I wisht I'd brought some flowers. I thought: I wisht I'd brought some bluets. You listening, James?'

James gritted his teeth and stayed quiet.

'There's four names for bluets I know of. Bluets, Quaker-ladies, pea-in-the-paths, and wet-the-beds. You can count on Janie Rose; she called them wet-the-beds. Well, she had problems herself in that line. But what I thought was: I wisht I'd brought some bluets. I didn't think: I wisht I'd brought some wet-the-beds.'

'Oh, Lord,' James said tiredly. He turned his pillow to the cool side and lay back down on it.

'Now, bluets are not good funeral flowers. Too teeny. But Janie Rose is not a funeral person. Usually it's only the good die young. Consequently I thought: I wish I'd-'

James raised his head and shouted, 'Ansel, will you hush?' and on his wall there was the sudden sound of frantic tapping. 'I don't want to hear,' he told Ansel more quietly, and then lay back down and forced his mind far away.

'I'll just get to the point,' Ansel said. 'I have to tell you this. James, there are gladioli on Janie's grave.'

James heard a zipper slide down, and after a minute a pair of trousers was tossed shuffingly across the floor. Then Ansel's socks dropped one after the other beside his bed, in soft crumpled balls, and James heard them fall and winced because his ears seemed raw tonight.

'Janie Rose despises gladioli,' said Ansel.

James said nothing.

'She hates and despises them. Believes they're witches' wands, all frilled up. She told me so.'

James opened his eyes and rolled over. 'Funerals are for parents,' he said. 'Ansel, Janie Rose is dead.'

He waited, frowning. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the white blur that was Ansel in his underwear, standing before the bureau with his skinny arms folded across his chest. Finally Ansel said, 'I know.'

'She's dead.'

'I know all about it. Nevertheless, she despises gladioli.'

‘The funeral is not really for her,' James said, and rolled over again to face the wall. 'It don't make any difference to her about those gladioli.'

'Oh now,' said Ansel. 'Oh now.' He crossed to his bed, heavily. 'It's hard to bury people, Jamie. Harder than digging a hole in the ground.' '

'Will you go to bed?'

'They keep popping up again, in a manner of speaking.'

James dug his head into his pillow.

'I remember Janie Rose's religious period,' Ansel went on comfortably. 'It was a right short one, wouldn't you know. But she took this tree out back, this scrubby one she was always drawing flattering pictures of. Dedicated it to God, I believe; hung it with tin cans and popcorn strings. Didn't last but a week; then she was on to something new. The birds ate the popcorn. But those tin cans are still rattling at the ends of the branches when a wind passes through, and Mr Pike sits out back all day staring at them. Though he had placed every last bit of her in a hole in the ground. Ha.'

James reached behind him for the sheet and pulled it up over his head, making a hood of it. The rustling of the sheet drowned out everything else, and then when he was still again the sounds couldn't come through to him so clearly. The creaking of Ansel's bedsprings when he sat down was muffled and distant, and his voice was thin-sounding.

'I ought to studied botany,' he was saying. 'Don't you think? All I know about flowers, I ought to studied botany.'

James lay still, and stared at the dark vines running up the wallpaper until his eyes ached.

'With Mama it was lilies,' said Ansel. 'Lord, she hated lilies. All she wanted, she said, was just a cross of-'

'We won't go into that,' James told the wallpaper.

'We don't go into nothing. Getting so the only safe topic around here is the weather. Well, I was saying. Just a cross of white roses, she wanted. No lilies. And you know what they sent? You know what?'

He waited. The silence stretched on and on. James's arm, pressed beneath his body, began to go to sleep, but he didn't switch positions for fear of breaking the silence. He wiggled his fingers gently, without making a sound.

'Well, they sent lilies,' Ansel said finally. 'I thought you would have guessed. If you'd been there, I wouldn't have to be telling you all this. But I called you. I called you on the phone and said, "James," I said, "will you kindly come to Mama's funeral?" I called you long distance and person-to-person, Caraway to Larksville. But you never answered me. Just hung up the telephone, neat and quiet. If I was the persistent type, I'd be asking still. I'd ask it today: "James, will you kindly come to Mama's funeral?" Because you never have answered, never once, not once in all these years. I'll ask it now. James, will you kindly -'

'No, I won't,' said James.

Across the room there was a little intake of breath, quick and sharp, and over behind the Potters' wall the measured pacing suddenly began again, with the weighted bathrobe sighing behind it. Ansel lay down on his bed.

'There's two kinds of sin,' he said after a minute. His voice was directed toward the ceiling now, and sounded dreamy. 'There's general sin and there's private sin. General sin there's commandments against, or laws, or rules. Private sin's an individual matter. It's hurting somebody, personally. You hear me? Listen close now; this is essential. What I chose was a general sin, that they'll be a long time forgiving. I did all that drinking, and ran around with that girl that everyone knew was no good. But what you chose was a private sin, that they'll never forgive. They got hurt personally by it – you forever running away, and telling them finally what you thought of them and leaving home altogether. Then not coming to the funeral. Think they'll forgive that? No, sir. Me they will cry over in church and finally forgive, someday. But not you. I'm a very wise man, every so often.'

James didn't say anything. Ansel raised himself up on one elbow to look over at him, but he stayed within his hood of sheets. 'James?' Ansel said.

'What?'

'You don't care what I say, do you?'

'Yes, 'James said.

'Don't it bother you sometimes? Don't you ever think about it? Here we are. You walked off from them without a backward wave of your hand, and I got thrown out like an old paper bag. Don't it -'