Finish.
“Climb on,” Christie says. “I’m heading back.”
Morag doesn’t want to. She would rather walk. But can’t say so in front of Skinner. Christie offers Skinner a home-rolled cigarette, and Skinner takes it. Without saying thanks. Christie doesn’t notice. He wouldn’t.
“You know,” Christie says, as they go along past the cemetery, “I once saw a terrible thing. It was the worst thing I ever did see in this country. I am not counting the time in France in the War, do you see, for that was worse. Now, then, what is strange is that some people think I don’t see what goes into the bins outside their back gates. They put it in and that’s the end of it to them. But I take it out, do you see?”
After the garbage-telling, this. Why can’t he shut up? Why can’t he just shut up? Crazy Christie. But he can’t shut up. He can’t, at times, and she knows it. She knows it, all right. What
was
it, that time, here? She won’t ask. Not her.
“What
was
it, Christie?” she asks, not wanting to know at all, no not at all.
It wasn’t terrible at all. It wouldn’t be terrible at all. It would just be Christie, like he sometimes is.
“It was wrapped in a lot of newspapers,” Christie says.
He stops and turns to look at both Morag and Skinner, Morag is sitting beside him on the wagon seat. Not saying a word. Skinner is sitting in the back part of the wagon, where all the awful stuff has been, just sitting there as though it didn’t matter to him what had been there. And looking at Christie. Listening. Not letting on.
“Well,” Christie says, “the Lord only knows I would be better off keeping my trap shut. It was a newborn baby. Wrapped in newspapers, but it fell out. Dead, of course. Hadn’t gone its full term. It was that small, like a skinned rabbit.”
“What’d you do with it?” Skinner.
“Buried her. It was a girl.”
“
Where?
” Morag cries, cries. “Buried her
where
?”
“In the Nuisance Grounds,” Christie says, spitting into the dusty road. “That’s what it was, wasn’t it, a nuisance? Well, the hell with their consecrated ground.”
Morag sits quiet. Thinking of what his hands have touched. She won’t think of it. Once she used to take Christie’s hand, crossing the street. She’s too big for that now, but even if she weren’t, she wouldn’t. Dead. Dead when born? Or what? What is
dead
, really? Do you know when you are?
“Didn’t you ever
say
, Christie? I mean–I mean–”
“Why? What good would that’ve done? I knew where it had come from. The girl, the one whose it was, she’d had enough hard talk, I wouldn’t doubt, from her people. She’s married now. Happily married. They say.”
“
Who?
”
“None of your business, girl.”
Memorybank Movie: How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds
Morag loves Jesus. And how. He is friendly and not stuck-up, is why. She does not love God. God is the one who decides which people have got to die, and when. Mrs. McKee in Sunday school says God is
LOVE
, but this is baloney. He is mean and gets mad at people for no reason at all, and Morag wouldn’t trust him as far as she can spit. Also, at the same time, she is scared of God. You pray at nights, and say “Dear God–”, like a letter but slipping in the Dear bit for other reasons as well. Does He really know what everybody is thinking? If so, it sure isn’t fair and is also very spooky.
Jesus is another matter. Whatever anybody says of it, it was really God who decided Jesus had to die like that. Who put it into the head of the soldier, then, to pierce His side?
(
Pierce?
The blood all over the place, like shot gophers and) Who indeed? Three guesses. Jesus had a rough time. But when alive, He was okay to everybody, even sinners and hardup people and like that.
Christie doesn’t care whether Morag goes to Sunday school or not. He wouldn’t. He never goes to church himself. Although a believer. But not liking the Reverend McKee. Prin goes to church. She wears her coat, whatever the weather, even in summer, because it covers her fat up. She says the singing does her good. Morag goes into the basement, where the Sunday school is held, while Prin goes upstairs to the church service.
Winter, and Morag stamps the snow off her galoshes at the United Church door. She pulls her scarf down from around her nose and mouth, and peels off her mitts, covered with tiny hard red bubbles, wool and ice. Colder than a shit-house in hell. Christie’s saying. Mrs. McKee, who takes Morag’s Sunday school class, would not think that was funny. Still, Mrs. McKee doesn’t bawl people out, nor look at their clothes. Mrs. McKee’s clothes are none too hot, if it comes to that, old tweed skirts and kind of shrunken twin-sweater sets. Does Mrs. McKee like being the minister’s wife? Morag would hate it. Mrs. McKee, though tired-looking, doesn’t seem to mind. Should Morag show Mrs. McKee the poem she’s brought to show her? Would Mrs. McKee laugh? No. Mrs. McKee isn’t a laugher. Maybe.
In the basement, the chairs are all set out in neat rows. The same old coloured paper pictures on the walls–they never change them. Morag doesn’t mind. She likes the same ones being there all the time.
The Mothers of Salem Bringing Their Children to Jesus
–a whole lot of ladies dressed in white sheets, with little kids scampering around, and Jesus (also in
a white sheet and with that lovely-looking beard) lifting one hand as he suffers them (
suffers?
) to come unto Him.
The Good Samaritan
–an old guy in a blue and yellow striped dressing gown (sort of), leading a donkey on which is lying, draped across it, a very skinny guy who has closed eyes and terrible wounds
pouring with blood
.
The Loaves and the Fishes
–a huge big mob of people, men with different coloured beards black or blond, women carrying babies, lots of kids running around all over the place, and the Apostles looking really worried, but Jesus looking not worried at all, not by a long shot. He is standing there cool as a cucumber and raising one hand in the magic way and at his feet are two baskets, one with a few hunks of bread and the other with a few tiny fishes, and in a moment there will be a zillion loaves and a whole seaful of fishes because He can do anything.
Mrs. McKee is talking to the Sunday school principal, at the front of the room. Morag slides in the door and waits. Mrs. McKee turns. Smiles.
“You’re early this morning, Morag.”
Morag nods.
“Can you c’mere for a second, Mrs. McKee? Please.”
“What is it?” Mrs. McKee walks to where Morag is standing.
Morag hands the piece of scribbler paper to her. The poem is copied very neatly in best writing.
The Wise Men.
by Morag Gunn.
VERSE ONE
Despite the cold and wintry blast,
To Bethlehem they came at last.
And there amid the hay and straw,
The baby Jesus was what they saw.
“Why, this is just fine, Morag. I never knew you wrote poetry.” Surprised.
“Sure. I write lots. I’ve got more at home. And stories. Would you–”
“The only thing,” Mrs. McKee says, “is that it was a Far Eastern desert country, dear, so they wouldn’t have a wintry blast, would they?”
Morag’s face–flames of shame. She snatches the paper back. “Wait–I’ll fix it.”
She goes into the classroom where the tables and chairs are set out for each class. Sits down. Finds a pencil.
Despite the desert sun’s cruel ray
To Bethlehem they came that day.
No good. It was night.
Despite the heat of the desert (what?)
To Bethlehem they came that night.
Bright? White? Light? Might? Bite? Of course. Bright and light. Never mind the weather.
Guided by the Star’s bright light
To Bethlehem they came that night.
Good. Fine. Much better. Morag goes out and hands the new version to Mrs. McKee. Who looks at it. One quick glance.
“Much better, dear. Now we’d better get ready for the service. Sit with your class, dear.”
The others have all come in while Morag was busy. She has not noticed them until this very instant.
“Whatcha’ doing, Morag? Writing out
I must not tell a lie
four hundred times for the old bag?” Jamie Halpern, his face giggling behind his glasses.
Morag says nothing. Crumples the page and stuffs it in her pocket.
The singing. Carols. Morag sings loudly, loving the carols.
Good Christian men rejoy-oy-oyce
With heart and soul and voy-oy-oyce–
When they get to the line
Ox and ass before Him bow
, Ross McVitie puts a hand to his bum. Morag glares at him. Ignorant slob.
In class, Mrs. McKee tells them that one member of their class will be chosen to sing
A SOLO
at the grown-ups’ Christmas Eve service, and all of them will be in the choir. They will have to try out, those who want to be considered for the solo. They gather around the piano, the five who want to try, Morag among them. She has a good voice. Clear and can carry a tune perfectly. Also, a carrying voice. Christie says she would’ve made a good hog-caller, but he is just ignorant. They each sing a verse of “Once in Royal David’s.”
“I’ll let you know next week,” Mrs. McKee says, “when I’ve considered thoroughly.”
Morag knows it will be her. Or maybe it will, anyhow. At least, there’s a chance. Maybe.
“I want to read you a poem today, children,” Mrs. McKee says, when they are all around the table again.
Morag’s heart quits beating. Hers? She will faint. A talented poem written by one of our members, class. The others will stare. Who’d have thought it? Old Morag. Gee.
“It is by the English poet, Hilaire Belloc,” Mrs. McKee’s gooey voice says, and she opens a book.
When Jesus Christ was four years old,
The angels brought him toys of gold,
Which no man ever had bought or sold.
And yet with these He would not play,
He made Him small fowl out of clay,
And blessed them till they flew away….
There is more, and some words in Latin, which Mrs. McKee explains, but Morag isn’t listening now. At home, Morag takes off her galoshes and coat. Goes to the stove.
“What’s that you’re burning, Morag?” Prin asks, alarmed.
“Nothing. Just nothing.”
Morag goes to her room. Sits thinking. Wants to cry, but will not, must not.
Blessed them till they flew away.
Oh. How could anybody write anything that good?
She has shown “The Wise Men” to Mrs. McKee, and there is no way she can unshow it.
Next Sunday, the verdict. Vanessa MacLeod will sing the solo.
Vanessa MacLeod! A crow with a sore throat could sing better than what
she
could. An old bullfrog honk-honking out there in the Wachakwa could sing better, even. It isn’t fair.
“It’s not fair, Christie,” Morag rages, at home.
Christie cleans his horrible teeth with a straw out of the broom, a wonder his gums don’t rot, dirty old broom like that.
“If you expect things to be fair, you’ll be waiting until hell freezes over. Anyways, has she got such a lousy voice, then?”
“Well. I guess not. But mine’s just as good.”
Would Mrs. McKee think Morag would
look
okay, standing up there alone in the choir loft? Would Mrs. McKee be that way? Sure. You bet. Any of them would. Wouldn’t they?
On the night, Morag decides to go and be in the choir after all. Vanessa, all gotten up in a pleated tartan skirt with straps over the shoulders and a white blouse with a frill at the front, rises to sing. Her hands, Morag sees, are trembling. She’s nervous. Ha ha. Morag hopes that something really awful will happen to Vanessa. But it doesn’t. She sings a crappy song but she never misses a note.
Christ was once a little baby
Jus’ like you an’ me
Boy, whoever wrote that song was sure plenty dumb. Serve Vanessa right, having to sing a dumb song like that.
It is a month later. School. Roll call. Vanessa MacLeod? Absent. Morag listens to the recess-time whispers.
“Her dad’s died.”
At home, Christie blowing his nose on his fingers, stepping outside to throw the snot on the snow already dirtied with yellow dog-piss, comes back into the kitchen and says it.
“Well, then, Doc MacLeod’s gone to his ancestors. Pneumonia. He was quite a man, there. You could of had many a worse.”
Morag sits at the table in the warm stove-crackling kitchen. But has to go upstairs to the freezing bedroom.
She never meant never meant never meant and a long time ago what was it when and Dr. MacLeod was there and
God knows what you are thinking.
He
knows, all right all right. But is mean. Doesn’t care. Or understand.
Vanessa returns to school. Morag neither looks at her nor speaks to her. Want to but cannot. Vanessa does not notice. She has never spoken to Morag much, anyway. Vanessa does not talk much to anyone, now, for quite a while. Morag watches. From a long way off.
Memorybank Movie: Christie and Red Biddy
and Piper Gunn and Clowny MacPherson
Christie has a jug of red biddy. Prin has waddled off to bed, not approving. Morag is doing her homework. The ceiling bulb isn’t very bright and she has to bend close over the geography book to read the print which flickers in front of her eyes. Christie, across the table, brings down one fist–
clump
. Taking care with the other hand to hold onto the grey bottle-jug which once long ago used to hold vinegar.
“Now, then, girl, would you like me to tell you about what happened to Piper Gunn and them, when that ship landed up north there?”
Morag closes the geography. Grinning.
“Sure, Christie.”
“Well, now, then, I read it all in a book somewheres, so help me, and it is all there in the books, but you don’t want to believe everything them books say, for the good christ’s sake. We believe what we know.”
What’s he talking about? But she likes this story. He pours another glassful.