Part 8.

1.

My horoscope, November 27, 1963: Time ripe for basic changes. Express hopes, ambitions. Check with authorities. Follow expert advice. Continue to be optimistic. Associate due to offer encouragement.

The funeral is a blur. Sounds of clinking from blazers heavy with medals dangling from coloured bits of ribbon. Legion men from Amherst. And Sydney. Old North Novies. Burying one of their own. The Swede and the wife didn't come.

I see people lining the street all the way to the cemetery but that couldn't be. Nobody ever lines the street for a funeral procession here. I'm getting mixed up with the other one. In Washington. There was a piper, I know that. The same one Angus had, nine or ten years later. He played "Flowers of the Forest." Uncle Jack was standing in front of me at the graveside and when the piper started I saw his shoulders jerking. Ma held her fist under her nose the whole time. The only one you could see actually weeping was Sextus. I came close though when the piper played "MacCrimmon's Lament" as we walked away from the grave, leaving Legion men to fill it in. Grandma was snivelling by then. Ma actually moving like a slow march. Feet stiff.

The hardest days were afterwards.

Ma at the wake. Comforted knowing that when all these people in the packed house were whispering they were talking about her qualities. But I could tell.

And Effie. The way she'd take my hand whenever she came close. She knew too. That the majority of these people needed more. Accidental death wasn't good enough. Sandy the war hero who got shot serving his country, now killed falling into Ceiteag Alasdair's old cellar? Not likely. Not Sandy. Not when you put it together with what people were saying about the Swede's wife. Not when you knew he had that streak in him anyway. Accidents like the one that killed Sandy the Lineman were in competition with the TV stories. There had to be more to it. Drama. Romance for certain. That's how gossip starts.

And the Kennedy stuff on TV was a perfect background. Our little spectacle drew significance and drama from it.

When Effie came up to me she'd take my arm and squeeze it a little. Getting my full attention. God, she was getting good looking. Seventeen. No more Little Orphan Annie.

"It'll be all right," she'd say.

After midnight, when the place would thin out, Sextus and Duncan and Angus and Squint and a few others would sit around the kitchen table drinking rum. Uncle Jack would be gone by then. Jessie taking him away gently. Him staggering a little bit. Everybody wondering.

And the day of the funeral, somebody from the power commission came early with an industrial vacuum cleaner and did the whole house. So when the undertaker came and took the coffin out it was as if none of it had happened.

Of course it rained and after the funeral half of them came back for tea and drinks again and stayed late into the evening. Made a mess of the place all over again. But it was different. The mourning was over, even if the grief wasn't. The old man was gone. Mostly everybody talked about Kennedy. And Oswald. Squint being an old sniper explaining how Oswald did it. Three shots. You had to be real fast. Rifle was bolt action. He was good, Oswald. Well trained, obviously. And Angus saying how Ruby should get a medal. But he shouldn't have shot him. Should have cut his fucking guts out.

It was the one time I felt a bond with Angus. Went out for air once and saw him leaning against the house, like taking a leak. But when he turned and spoke you could tell he'd been bawling.

Effie was the first to tell me Sextus had written a book about it. Years later.

"Guess who's written a book?" she says.

"A book?" She laughs.

Me so surprised I never thought to ask what it was about. Of course I found out soon enough. The Hawkesbury Sun wrote it up. Big deal. Book about here by somebody from here. Never mind what was in it.

Sextus took me upstairs after the funeral and pulled a pint of vodka from an inside pocket. We were standing in the bathroom. You drank vodka if you didn't want people to know. Jack did that too. All through the wake.

"I don't know," I said.

He uncapped the bottle and took a swallow. Made a face.

"Give it to me," I said.

I gulped a mouthful. It burned my throat and stomach and I felt a sudden sweat and a lightness behind the eyes. "Not bad," I said when I got my breath.

He was smiling.

Downstairs they were making jokes with Ma about being single again. And she was going along with them. Poor Ma. Wouldn't want to make anybody feel bad even if they were being arseholes.

There was a lawyer there. A young fellow originally from down north somewhere. Doucet. Pa must have known him. He introduced himself and asked if he could see me alone for a minute.

Said he was a friend of Pa, and how sorry he was, etcetera, holding my hand in a steady grip longer than I was used to.

"You're the man here now," he said seriously.

I nodded.

"While I'm here," he said, "I have something I have to show you. If it's okay. I could always..."

"No," I said. "That's all right."

He unfolded an official-looking paper. "Certificate of Death" was written on the top.

"Somebody had to witness this," he said. It was signed by the Polish doctor in Hawkesbury. "I took the liberty."

"Sure," I said.

I read quickly. I saw the words "severe trauma" and "accidental gunshot wound." There was a jumble of medical terminology.

I felt sick and grown-up at the same time. Handed him back the paper.

"This is just so you won't be worrying about anything," he said. "We can talk in a few days. You, your mother, and I. About the will. And the insurance."

"Insurance," I say.

"Of course," he says, brow furrowed. "It was an accident."

He winked and nodded his head quickly. Assuming I understood. But that didn't matter.

2.

"You don't know 'euphemism'?" Sextus says. "Think Euphemia or Faye. Synonym for deception." Euphemia. Effie's real name.

"The day they killed Kennedy really meant the day Sandy...you see. It's hard to say. Even for me. Killed himself."

"That's bullshit," I say quickly. We're not going to get into that again.

"You're right," he says. "Killed himself? Somebody killed him? Circumstances killed him? What difference? The thing was...why?"

"Sometimes life ends when you don't expect it to," I say.

"If you believe that," he says quietly. "Something that simple, how come it's been so hard for you to think about, never mind talk about?"

"I've never had any trouble thinking about it."

"Ha!"

Ha yourself.

Ma spent a good week writing notes on the little cards she sent to everybody whose name appeared in the visitors' book and on the Mass cards. There must have been hundreds. Duncan took a bunch of the cards back to Antigonish for distribution among the priests at the university. They'd have time to say all the Masses people were offering up for poor Sandy the Lineman's soul.

"Your dad would be awfully proud knowing they'll be saying Masses for him over at the university," Ma said.

Dad?

Even Ma was changing.

Sextus says, "Sandy just disappeared. Nobody talked about him. So it was like he never existed. You look around for a trace of Uncle Sandy and...nothing. Like you pulled your hand out of a bucket of water. Sandy deserved better than that. To be written out of the memory...for something like..."

"Like what?"

"Small-town shit."

"If you're talking about the goddamned Swede's wife, then that's it!" I shout, jumping to my feet.

His face is very calm.

"Where does it leave any of us," he says, "if one...lapse...erases everything else?"

Nowhere to look but at my calloused hands.

"That's all I was trying to say," he says.

Before, the schoolbus had rocked and bounced with the noise and carrying on. Guys grabbing at girls. Legs. Tits. Hair. Them screaming. People up and down the aisle. Throwing things. Guys messing up each other's hair. Even mine. People getting pissed off. Hair was a lot of work then. Getting longer.

After the funeral the bus was quiet. You'd catch people watching you. Then they'd look away. A lot of low talking. First I thought it was just them being respectful. Then I realized it was them talking behind my back. Exchanging what they were picking up at home.

We don't know the half of it. Smirking. Words that rhymed with Swede and wife and Sandy made me jump.

Effie would sit with me, which I appreciated. Then I realized she probably knew what was going on and didn't want me thinking she was part of it. The safest place for her was beside me. A kind of loyalty. We were both from the Long Stretch. Screw them.

The teachers. Every single one would say hello no matter how many times I bumped into them during the day. Cheerful as hell. But I couldn't concentrate on classwork. People watching. Teachers talking. I broke out in a swath of pimples. Then I got a big cold sore.

"Johnny's got a dose," somebody said. The way they laughed I knew I wasn't included in the joke, even though it was about me. At recess or noon hour I'd just sit in the classroom. Whenever somebody barged in they'd stop quickly and say "Oh, hi" and retreat. That went on through the end of November and into December.

Then he ceased to be. And I did too.

Over Christmas I decided to quit. Piss on it. Ma wasn't happy when she heard. She got Aunt Jessie to put pressure on me. And Sextus came down from Halifax early in the New Year to ask how come. I had no answer for him.

"Maybe a few months out will do a fellow good," he said.

"Won't do any harm," I said.

"A fellow can always go back," he said.

"That's what I figure."

He retreated then, back to his life in Halifax. Going to the university. Building his road to the Future.

After that the rest backed off.

Plus the pulp mill was going full blast by then. There would always be something. Cutting pulpwood or working there. Even driving a truck. And there was bold talk about refineries. Petrochemical plants. You name it. The place was going to turn into a frigging metropolis. Who needed school?

3.

"There's just the two of us left," he says.

"Plus your kid," I say.

"She's a girl. The name will go."

"Hardly," I say. "There's more Gillises around here than you can count."

"I'm talking about our Gillises," he says. "Our line."

"You're looking," I say, "at the human starter pistol."

"Which means?"

"I just shoot blanks."

He puts his head back and laughs. Then stares at me.