Sufficient Grace (26 page)

He shuts off the light, still talking as he walks toward the door. ‘Grandma's in heaven with Jesus.'

And then he is gone.

The wind is howling and my room is dark. There is still my father's smell at my bed: soap and sweat. While I lay waiting for sleep to come, I remember last spring when that big black-and-white malamute would rush across the fields. Turgeson's dog would run with his tail stretched flat, legs scrambling in the muddy furrows made by the plough. He'd chase the new fawns as fast as he could until he tired. After, he'd come down to our house so I could pat him or feed him a bite of venison sausage. To help him shed for summer, I'd brush his long tangled fur with a rusty sheep's comb. I've kept that hidden too. Out there in the garage, I've got an old pillowcase full of his fur. Mixed together, it isn't black and white. Once fur is scraped away, it makes something more like grey.

28

WE ARE IN THE COLD KITCHEN BECAUSE NO ONE LIT
Grandma's stove. The family is gathered together again, remembering Grandma and her ways. ‘Gentle and good', ‘loving and strong'; no one says ‘stubborn' but we all share sly smiles knowing we're thinking it just the same.

And the talk turns. My daddy and my uncles are worried about the land and the barn: leases and fallow years, dividing and selling. The men are speaking — even Peter's in the house and is having his say — and Mom and Aunt Gloria are listening and nodding. Reuben and Samuel are set at the table, and Naomi and me are standing behind our mommas' chairs. There is an empty seat at the head of the table; it is where Grandma sits. All the women are quiet, but we are there nonetheless.

Uncle Peter leans back in his chair. ‘Just so everyone knows: there'll be no hunting or trapping either way.'

‘You can't be serious.' Daddy puts down his coffee cup. ‘That ain't fair and you know it.'

‘That's the way it'll be.' Uncle Peter sounds certain.

Reuben shakes his head and looks as if he might yell or cry or both. Samuel's face is hard to read; he might just be pleased.

Daddy can't believe it. ‘Peter, Momma's law got buried with her. You can't keep me and Reuben from these woods.' His voice is angry.

‘Let's see if I can't.' Peter's voice is calm. ‘And this ain't about the boy.'

Ingwald looks up from his Bible for a moment. He scrapes his chair back. ‘As the eldest, perhaps I should have a say here? Peter, you might farm the land, but Eric has a right to the woods and his machinery in the barn.'

Both younger brothers turn their heads to watch Ingwald's mouth form the words.

‘Maybe buying me out is the best way for you boys to keep me out of your affairs.' Ingwald lowers his eyes back to his Bible.

The other men exchange looks across the table. The women sit in silence.

I am not ignorant about those who fall asleep; I do not grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. Jesus died and was buried and rose again; just like Christ, those who have fallen asleep in God will be raised up by Him. And those of us who remain awake — we who linger at the coming of the Lord — will not go before the sleepers.
For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first.
After they rise up — the dead shedding dirt from their skin and breaking the vines that hold their arms — after that, the saved will rise up into the clouds and touch our Jesus riding high in the sky.
And so we will be with the Lord forever.

‘Mind your own way.' Uncle Peter is more than angry; his voice is hard and we can hear him. He is in the doorway separating Grandma's kitchen from the porch, moving his hands high. Peter points his finger sharp at his brother; Ingwald is drinking coffee and resting calm with legs crossed at the table. ‘Ingwald. You, mind your own way.'

Whatever brought on Peter's anger, we missed when all the cousins went outside to get snow. We were going to make snow ice cream; Mom and Gloria already mixed the eggs, sugar and vanilla. As we stamp our boots on the porch and pull off our snow clothes, Peter surges through, angry as a wet cat.

He grabs Reuben's arm. ‘Keep your gear on. Let's go.'

My brother replaces his cap and follows orders.

Peter's truck tyres scratch and spin black muck up onto the clean white of this afternoon's snowfall.

Gloria is refilling Uncle Ingwald's coffee cup as Samuel, Naomi and I file into the kitchen. Steam rises off our clothes while we huddle near the stove. Finally, someone saw sense and made a fire; the coals are just starting to glow and heat is pushing the crispness out of the air. Mom is leaning against the counter, still holding the blue bowl ready for the snow, and Daddy is resting his elbows on the table. His coffee cup is empty too, so I reach for it, but he stills my hand.

‘Did that need to happen today?' Daddy is looking straight across the table at Ingwald.

This table in this kitchen held almost all their boyhood meals: breakfast oats, ham sandwiches and chicken dinner. It was here, a thousand times over that they read their daily bread — cardboard scriptures from the little plastic loaf that rests in the centre of the embroidered tablecloth. I keep my eyes on those faded, knotted birds picked out in blue and green thread.

‘There was a better time for that.' And Daddy stops speaking.

Mom places the bowl on the counter. ‘Nothing was said that can't be taken back.' She almost whispers. ‘Peter didn't mean —'

‘He didn't mean?' Ingwald interrupts her. ‘With his pagan poison and discontent?' My uncle is almost spitting. ‘Peter dishonours our mother.'

Ingwald is crying now, great sobs pulling his arms down onto the table, his head slumped over his hands. Beneath his weeping I can hear the whirring and tick of the cuckoo clock; it chirps the hour as the bird slides in and out of its wooden nest.

‘And the unfounded accusations? Against my family?' His voice is pitched high but soft, like a whimper. Ingwald picks his head up and looks straight at Samuel. The boy is standing in wet socks and a red long-underwear shirt, his jeans dripping a puddle on the floor. Samuel's face changes from pale to whitest white as his father pushes himself up from the table.

Ingwald rounds the table and stands directly in front of Samuel. The boy must look up, as his father is still several heads above him.

I'm frozen at the stove with Naomi; we are like night animals caught in light, stunned into stillness. I'm using only the corners of my eyes; no motion can be seen. My mother and father do not move and neither does my aunt. But this stillness is not calm. It is not the eye of the storm; instead, it is the space before the great reckoning: the clouds hurling thunder and fire, the mighty cleaving of the earth, and the boiling of the churning sea.

‘Samuel.' My uncle speaks with a tongue of fire burning atop his head and in his mouth. ‘Are you setting fires? Did you burn Turgeson's barn?'

Samuel's eyes shine black, and he does not flinch; he keeps his eyes hard on his father's face. ‘No.' The boy leans wet and steaming by the stove. ‘No to all your questions.' Ringlets of blonde hair are puffing up as they dry, and we can all smell the wool. Samuel breathes normal without any sign of fear, without any pause or searching; he is well and warming at the fire.

‘And that's the end of it.' Ingwald puts his hand on Samuel's puny shoulder, capping the bone with flesh. The man holds on tight for a moment and then releases his grip. Ingwald glares around the room and his face flushes red again. ‘Peter's waited a long time, but he won't sow division amongst us.'

And my uncle walks back to the table and drinks his lukewarm coffee. Aunt Gloria and Mom start folding the snow into the vanilla mixture, clinking their spoons in the bowls, and Naomi and Samuel sit down at the table. My daddy gets up, but keeps his head pointed at the ground; he walks quiet through the kitchen into the pantry and brings back some of this fall's maple syrup. The pails of snow have been melting; the ice cream will be soupy and strange. But we'll all pretend it's alright. No one dares speak. I stay warm at the fire.

Last spring a starving black bear was roaming our land. Grandma had seen it across the river weaving amongst the white pine planted by Grampa's people. The bear was tall and long, would have been six foot if he stood. Winter fur was coming off in mangy clumps where the bristly new was poking through, and he walked a bit unsteady. Could have been he was just dazed like they are when they first awake, but then Grandma got out her binoculars. Instead of pointing them at the bird feeder, she aimed them at the bear and saw that he was hurting. She got a good look.

He was caught. He was plain stuck and he was dying. Must've been some syrup dripped down inside a plastic jug or somebody pure mean put some meat in there. Otherwise there was no reason for his head to be wedged like that. The bear's whole head, triangle face and ears and eyes, were trapped inside a plastic jug. The opening must have been just big enough for him to force his way in, but too small to pull out. The ears would've been the sticking point and his sharp teeth couldn't help him much, not in that position, pushed close to the plastic base. So for however long was as long as he lasted, he had wandered the woods without sight, sound or smell. And without eating — and barely breathing — he was ready to drop. But before he lay down and died, he was giving it another shot; rubbing his head against the pines, he was straining to pull his way free.

Grandma called the DNR boys, but it didn't seem they were interested in this particular natural resource. They said they'd come and shoot him if she'd like. Grandma said she'd shoot her own bear, thank you, and called my daddy. He came down the hill and made her a deal: they'd try for a while, but then time would be up. He had better things to do than rescue bears. It took a while; sometimes they were too close to danger or too far away to help. And close enough to touch was a hard balance. But eventually it worked: Daddy lassoed and held him just long enough for Grandma to get ahold of the jug. When she pulled, it came off with such force that she landed on her bottom as the bear shook himself, blinked his eyes and — as Daddy released the noose — walked slowly away. Grandma held the jug and Daddy the slack rope as they watched the bear's backside slip into the woods. Nothing held his neck anymore.

29

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see. 'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved. How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed. Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come. 'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home
.

I DON'T KNOW IF THE LORD IS SAYING YES OR NO, BUT I KNOW
He needs to start speaking louder now. She must have started bleeding heavy on the bus ride home from school, because when we got up to get off at the homefarm, Naomi left a dark, red stain on the vinyl seat. In between the pain, she keeps saying that God heard us and He is answering our prayers. I know that He hears, and I believe that He answers; I just think I'm having a hard time hearing His voice over the sound of Naomi.

Straight off the bus, I hustle Naomi up through the yard into the screened-in porch; Grandma's house is lonely now, but at least we'll be out of the weather. As I try to push the front door into the kitchen, the door handle don't turn. After the funeral and the family meeting, someone must have locked the house; I didn't even know that door had a lock. Through the window, I expect to see Grandma peeling potatoes at the sink: scraps floating in a basin of murky water, peels piled on a newspaper spread out on the counter. Instead, I see casket flowers sitting on the table. With the florist-wired roses and irises smashed together, dying without water to drink, the kitchen must smell sickly sweet. It makes me glad we can't get inside: I want to keep the kitchen in my memory with the smell of spring lilacs and baking apples.

Even a garter snake knows you can't have a new thing lying around outside in the cold. She'll carry her eggs inside her, come hunger or fear, and won't give them up until the babies are ready to wriggle free. I've got to find us a nest; there's got to be room for us somewhere. In the corner of the porch, three brown-paper grocery bags sit on the flaky-blue bench. Mom and Gloria must have made a start on sorting out Grandma's clothes for charity. Looking farther and further away, Naomi's brown eyes are coal-black. It don't feel like she's even standing here with me anymore; all that's left is a girl-body, empty and trembling. So I grab the first bag without even looking in, take her by the elbow, and decide to head toward the barn.

Parked smack in the middle of the entry, the dusty tractor is taking up too much space. We can barely squeeze between it and the wooden workbenches piled with oily chainsaw and snowmobile parts. My hand brushes the pitted concrete wall; it is damp with cold. There's no room here for us. Naomi ain't going to like it, but we'll have to go up. I tell her, but she don't say no. She don't say anything at all until she is pulling herself up the ladder into the haymow. She is scared, and she is hurting.

She is crying. ‘Oh God. Oh my God.' And she sure ain't cursing; she is praying and praying hard. Her grip on the metal rung seems a bit shaky, so I start to help from behind. As I hold Naomi's bottom, a trickle of warm water seeps into the sleeve of my jacket.