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Authors: Guy Vanderhaeghe
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gawk.” Car after car and truck after truck went by at a crawl, passengers unabashedly crowding forward behind the glare on the windshield to gaze curiously at the curious pair. Even though they were never recognized and identified, this did not prevent the man behind the wheel in his Sunday best from waving. Country manners demanded a salute even to strangers, although apparently women and children were under no obligation to offer this courtesy, only the driver. As the automobiles slid by, churning up clouds of fine, shifting yellow dust, the man of the house raised a hand in greeting as the others gaped and craned their necks. Vera nodded curtly back while she muttered ill-naturedly under her breath, “Fill your eyes. Two clowns minus the circus, but it’s free – which is the price a farmer likes.”
Finally the parade of cars dwindled away to nothing and they were once more alone on an empty road. A hawk sat on the crossbar of a telephone pole next to a blue-green glass insulator, high-stepping it from one foot to another, opening and spreading its wings, folding and refolding them. When they were twenty yards off it took flight, casually, without alarm. In back of them the church bells of Connaught began to peal: the Catholics’ real bell, tolled by the church janitor, then the United Church’s up-to-date summons to worship, recorded bells played over a loudspeaker. By now the graveyard was near at hand. Vera led them off the main road and on to a narrow trail which crept up the cemetery slope, a trail just wide enough to accommodate the one-way traffic of bereavement. Although the hill was not very high, it was steep, and both Vera and Daniel found themselves leaning into it, their eyes on their feet and the fine, floury dust which rose about their ankleswith the impact of each plodding footfall. At last Vera was beginning to show the effects of the heat and the climb. Her arms, bare in a sleeveless blouse, shone with a film of sweat and Daniel could plainly hear the sawing of her breath.
“God,” she said, “a stroll up this bugger makes you feel ready for the permanent lie-down up top.”
Up top, however, it felt a little cooler; the air was moving. Vera cast her eyes about her as she recovered her breath. “It’s a little iron cross,” she explained to Daniel. “The grave was on the edges somewhere. She was pretty much off by herself.”
They began a search. “Look carefully,” said Vera. “It was only a little iron cross. It may have fallen over, or been choked with growth.” She was striking at tussocks of dry grass with the hoe, hoping to hear the sound of metal striking metal. “Somewhere on the edges,” she repeated. But after two complete circuits around the graveyard they still hadn’t discovered what they were looking for.
Daniel had a thought. “A lot of people die in twenty years,” he said. “She wouldn’t be on the edges anymore. I mean she’s likely surrounded by now. Dead people all around her.”
They drifted farther in, amid the crowd of headstones. “It’s a little iron cross,” his mother kept saying, “and if he painted it every year, it could be white.”
Daniel suddenly called and beckoned her. “Hey, Mom, was Grandma’s first name Martha?”
Vera hurried over to where he stood. Where he stood was not before a little iron cross but a five-foot-high slab of white marble, blazing ferociously white in the sun. It was something to which the word monument could fairly be applied, at least in Connaught. Twelve months ago it had provided Alec Monkman with a topic for proud discussion with Mr. Stutz. “Now they’re making a special delivery from Regina in a covered truck, Stutz. I don’t understand the principle of that – a covered truck – it’s going to get rained on sooner or later, isn’t it? But the fellow who sold it to me was most specific on it being delivered in a covered truck, mentioned it morethan once. The best. Real guaranteed Pennsylvania
Finally the parade of cars dwindled away to nothing and they were once more alone on an empty road. A hawk sat on the crossbar of a telephone pole next to a blue-green glass insulator, high-stepping it from one foot to another, opening and spreading its wings, folding and refolding them. When they were twenty yards off it took flight, casually, without alarm. In back of them the church bells of Connaught began to peal: the Catholics’ real bell, tolled by the church janitor, then the United Church’s up-to-date summons to worship, recorded bells played over a loudspeaker. By now the graveyard was near at hand. Vera led them off the main road and on to a narrow trail which crept up the cemetery slope, a trail just wide enough to accommodate the one-way traffic of bereavement. Although the hill was not very high, it was steep, and both Vera and Daniel found themselves leaning into it, their eyes on their feet and the fine, floury dust which rose about their ankleswith the impact of each plodding footfall. At last Vera was beginning to show the effects of the heat and the climb. Her arms, bare in a sleeveless blouse, shone with a film of sweat and Daniel could plainly hear the sawing of her breath.
“God,” she said, “a stroll up this bugger makes you feel ready for the permanent lie-down up top.”
Up top, however, it felt a little cooler; the air was moving. Vera cast her eyes about her as she recovered her breath. “It’s a little iron cross,” she explained to Daniel. “The grave was on the edges somewhere. She was pretty much off by herself.”
They began a search. “Look carefully,” said Vera. “It was only a little iron cross. It may have fallen over, or been choked with growth.” She was striking at tussocks of dry grass with the hoe, hoping to hear the sound of metal striking metal. “Somewhere on the edges,” she repeated. But after two complete circuits around the graveyard they still hadn’t discovered what they were looking for.
Daniel had a thought. “A lot of people die in twenty years,” he said. “She wouldn’t be on the edges anymore. I mean she’s likely surrounded by now. Dead people all around her.”
They drifted farther in, amid the crowd of headstones. “It’s a little iron cross,” his mother kept saying, “and if he painted it every year, it could be white.”
Daniel suddenly called and beckoned her. “Hey, Mom, was Grandma’s first name Martha?”
Vera hurried over to where he stood. Where he stood was not before a little iron cross but a five-foot-high slab of white marble, blazing ferociously white in the sun. It was something to which the word monument could fairly be applied, at least in Connaught. Twelve months ago it had provided Alec Monkman with a topic for proud discussion with Mr. Stutz. “Now they’re making a special delivery from Regina in a covered truck, Stutz. I don’t understand the principle of that – a covered truck – it’s going to get rained on sooner or later, isn’t it? But the fellow who sold it to me was most specific on it being delivered in a covered truck, mentioned it morethan once. The best. Real guaranteed Pennsylvania
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