else, couldn’t stay forever grim.With the waters now receding, the work of taking stock and rebuilding however they could was underway. Even though they were still wading or swimming or canoeing to their doors, because they weren’t idle, they were as noisy and cheerful as people at work can be. For once, their work seemed to have a clear purpose, and that was a relief from the grinding meaninglessness of their factory jobs.
And then Grandfather came poling up the street from the river, a small boy beside a large pine box making for the shore, where waited a Catholic priest in a black cassock, a bereaved family and a barking dog.
Hour by hour the poling got harder, for the water began flowing back into the river. Grandfather was weary and hungry. Despite the sight of the bloated corpses being loaded into his coffins, his stomach growled. Now it was after five, the shadows lengthening, and here was his last passenger of the day: a fat woman. As she was lowered from the second-floor window—one man holding her under the arms, the other in a rowboat beside the raft, taking her legs—Grandfather worried. She was too big. No telling how large she’d been in life, but now, with probably a good fifty or sixty extra pounds of river bilge in her lungs, her stomach and the Devil only knows where else, Grandfather was afraid she’d sink him.
When they finally laid her in the coffin they couldn’t nail it shut, for every hammer blow threatened to capsize the raft. At last it was simply tied shut with cord, and Grandfather hesitantly began poling the four blocks to the shore.
But her weight, the cumulative exhaustion of the last several days’ hard work and the ebbing water were too much for the eleven-year-old’s frail arms. Just as he was coming to landfall, with the waiting party of grieving relatives looking on in horror, he slipped to his knees on the slimy planks and, breathless, couldn’t get up again. The raft began to float back to the river. As he lay watching the group ashore recede, they jumped and shouted and wailed like stricken animals. The raft, now totally at the mercy of the current, turned a corner out of their sight and Grandfather turned onto his back, watching the lights go on in windows above and around him, residents pointing and shouting to one another. Just as the street disappeared from his view and the St. Lawrence began to roar in his ears, someone jumped from an apartment window into the water and rescued him. As a strong arm clasped round his tiny chest, and his eyes closed with fatigue, he could just make out the coffin floating downstream to the Gulf.
When Grandfather woke, it was slowly and reluctantly, for he had a fever in his aching joints and had not slept off his labours. But the cold, bony hands of the priest cared not. Grandfather was spared less pleasant fondlings and extremities only by the priest’s discovery of the purse hidden in his underwear. Where else would he have put it, a child without a room to himself or hope of a bank account, or even pockets to his trousers? The priest’s hands hesitated; retrieved the knotted cloth; and then troubled Grandfather no more. Four days of playing Charon,rafting and struggling in filthy, cold water, all to buy nothing but the time to sleep it off.
Was this the value of honest labour?
Even so, considering the alternative, Grandfather was not bitter.
Yet.
Grandfather was an unkind man, but not a stupid one, and so he took life’s lessons to heart. To be happy was a mistake; to be kind was a waste of effort; and to plan for the future was to miss today’s opportunities. Accordingly, he never considered that all the small cruelties he inflicted on Grace, his wife’s crow, were like a savings plan: tiny daily deposits that accrued so slowly their day of redemption seemed infinitely removed. However, Grace had a way of descending on him so unexpectedly that if he’d ever bothered to think along these lines, he would have concluded that
And then Grandfather came poling up the street from the river, a small boy beside a large pine box making for the shore, where waited a Catholic priest in a black cassock, a bereaved family and a barking dog.
Hour by hour the poling got harder, for the water began flowing back into the river. Grandfather was weary and hungry. Despite the sight of the bloated corpses being loaded into his coffins, his stomach growled. Now it was after five, the shadows lengthening, and here was his last passenger of the day: a fat woman. As she was lowered from the second-floor window—one man holding her under the arms, the other in a rowboat beside the raft, taking her legs—Grandfather worried. She was too big. No telling how large she’d been in life, but now, with probably a good fifty or sixty extra pounds of river bilge in her lungs, her stomach and the Devil only knows where else, Grandfather was afraid she’d sink him.
When they finally laid her in the coffin they couldn’t nail it shut, for every hammer blow threatened to capsize the raft. At last it was simply tied shut with cord, and Grandfather hesitantly began poling the four blocks to the shore.
But her weight, the cumulative exhaustion of the last several days’ hard work and the ebbing water were too much for the eleven-year-old’s frail arms. Just as he was coming to landfall, with the waiting party of grieving relatives looking on in horror, he slipped to his knees on the slimy planks and, breathless, couldn’t get up again. The raft began to float back to the river. As he lay watching the group ashore recede, they jumped and shouted and wailed like stricken animals. The raft, now totally at the mercy of the current, turned a corner out of their sight and Grandfather turned onto his back, watching the lights go on in windows above and around him, residents pointing and shouting to one another. Just as the street disappeared from his view and the St. Lawrence began to roar in his ears, someone jumped from an apartment window into the water and rescued him. As a strong arm clasped round his tiny chest, and his eyes closed with fatigue, he could just make out the coffin floating downstream to the Gulf.
When Grandfather woke, it was slowly and reluctantly, for he had a fever in his aching joints and had not slept off his labours. But the cold, bony hands of the priest cared not. Grandfather was spared less pleasant fondlings and extremities only by the priest’s discovery of the purse hidden in his underwear. Where else would he have put it, a child without a room to himself or hope of a bank account, or even pockets to his trousers? The priest’s hands hesitated; retrieved the knotted cloth; and then troubled Grandfather no more. Four days of playing Charon,rafting and struggling in filthy, cold water, all to buy nothing but the time to sleep it off.
Was this the value of honest labour?
Even so, considering the alternative, Grandfather was not bitter.
Yet.
Grandfather was an unkind man, but not a stupid one, and so he took life’s lessons to heart. To be happy was a mistake; to be kind was a waste of effort; and to plan for the future was to miss today’s opportunities. Accordingly, he never considered that all the small cruelties he inflicted on Grace, his wife’s crow, were like a savings plan: tiny daily deposits that accrued so slowly their day of redemption seemed infinitely removed. However, Grace had a way of descending on him so unexpectedly that if he’d ever bothered to think along these lines, he would have concluded that
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