A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2) Read Online Free
Author: Terence M. Green
Twenty acres of our downtown world disappear, two hundred and twenty businesses. Things will never be the same. In the destruction we sense a new beginning, a chance to transform our world, ourselves.
The dynamiting of buildings rocks the city for days. It is two weeks before every small fire dies.
I never call on Kathleen again. I am changed. We are all changed.
FIVE
Wednesday, June 15, 1904
Gramma Whalen sits silently in what has become her chair at the kitchen table with us, her wide eyes focused on her plate, her mouth a small oval, her white hair pulled straight back. Since the fire, Ma has brought her to live with us. The very next weekend, in fact. First the asylum at Longue Point in Montreal, and now this, Ma says often, convincing herself. Two hundred people, including nuns, burned. Even though she cannot read, Ma saw the before-and-after drawings of the Longue Point asylum that were printed in The Globe. No place is safe, she says.
"Eat up, mother," Ma says.
Gramma Whalen ignores her, touches nothing.
Da and I pretend we do not notice. Da stares down into his dinner, slicing potatoes.
We are alone in the house. Gramma sleeps in Rose's old room. The girls have all married. It is what Ma wanted, but she seems to take little pleasure in the fact.
"Mother."
But Gramma doesn't look up. We don't know if she is thinking, dreaming, despairing, or merely resigned.
Ma gets up, goes over to her, cuts her vegetables, spoons some into her mouth, sits patiently beside her. Gramma chews absently. Sometimes she swallows, sometimes she does not. Today she swallows, and Ma sighs, relieved.
Da pushes his plate away, finished. He watches the two of them, expressionless. Then he lights his pipe, blows a stream of smoke upward.
Gramma watches it float aloft, disperse, disappear. She does not move.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be twenty-four years old. Nobody knows how old Gramma is.
Ma has made a small cake—chocolate, my favorite—which she sets before me at dinner's end. There are three small candles on it—white, red, and blue. Gramma stares at it, fascinated. There are only the three of us. Da is not yet home from work. Once again, I am the only man.
Ma strikes a match, lights the white one, does not light the other two. Then she sits back. "If you're lucky," she says, "the good Lord willing, you'll get seventy-five years on this earth. The white one is for the first third."
We watch the flame.
My glance slides in measured stages to the red one, the blue. The white one is a third gone already, wax gathering hotly at its base.
"Happy birthday." She pushes a gift-wrapped box across the table toward me—silver paper with gold ribbon encasing it. Gramma's eyes, unblinking, follow the movement of the package.
I smile. The ribbon slides off, the paper tears away, and I lift the cardboard lid beneath the glitter.
I am surprised.
First, I take out the straight-edged razor with the wooden handle. Unfolding the blade, I read "Killarney Razor" etched in its steel, and in smaller letters, near the hinge: "Marshalls, Argyle Street." I fold it, set it down, take out the shaving mug with the pattern of roses circling its wide lip next, lift out the brush inside it, touch its softness.
"The brush is made of badger hair," she says.
I can think of nothing to say yet.
"They were your father's grandfather's. Great-Grandfather Radey's. Your father's aunt had them when she died. They were with the few things they sent us after she passed." She looks at me. "This was almost fifteen years ago, when you were a boy." She pauses. "But now you're a man."
"Doesn't Da want them?"
"He wants you to have them," she says firmly.
I am moved. "Thanks, Ma."
We watch the candles. The white one is only a flame floating in a clear pool. Now she strikes another match, lights the red one. "The red one is for your next twenty-five years," she says, sitting back. "Your best years. Make them good ones,"
I
The dynamiting of buildings rocks the city for days. It is two weeks before every small fire dies.
I never call on Kathleen again. I am changed. We are all changed.
FIVE
Wednesday, June 15, 1904
Gramma Whalen sits silently in what has become her chair at the kitchen table with us, her wide eyes focused on her plate, her mouth a small oval, her white hair pulled straight back. Since the fire, Ma has brought her to live with us. The very next weekend, in fact. First the asylum at Longue Point in Montreal, and now this, Ma says often, convincing herself. Two hundred people, including nuns, burned. Even though she cannot read, Ma saw the before-and-after drawings of the Longue Point asylum that were printed in The Globe. No place is safe, she says.
"Eat up, mother," Ma says.
Gramma Whalen ignores her, touches nothing.
Da and I pretend we do not notice. Da stares down into his dinner, slicing potatoes.
We are alone in the house. Gramma sleeps in Rose's old room. The girls have all married. It is what Ma wanted, but she seems to take little pleasure in the fact.
"Mother."
But Gramma doesn't look up. We don't know if she is thinking, dreaming, despairing, or merely resigned.
Ma gets up, goes over to her, cuts her vegetables, spoons some into her mouth, sits patiently beside her. Gramma chews absently. Sometimes she swallows, sometimes she does not. Today she swallows, and Ma sighs, relieved.
Da pushes his plate away, finished. He watches the two of them, expressionless. Then he lights his pipe, blows a stream of smoke upward.
Gramma watches it float aloft, disperse, disappear. She does not move.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be twenty-four years old. Nobody knows how old Gramma is.
Ma has made a small cake—chocolate, my favorite—which she sets before me at dinner's end. There are three small candles on it—white, red, and blue. Gramma stares at it, fascinated. There are only the three of us. Da is not yet home from work. Once again, I am the only man.
Ma strikes a match, lights the white one, does not light the other two. Then she sits back. "If you're lucky," she says, "the good Lord willing, you'll get seventy-five years on this earth. The white one is for the first third."
We watch the flame.
My glance slides in measured stages to the red one, the blue. The white one is a third gone already, wax gathering hotly at its base.
"Happy birthday." She pushes a gift-wrapped box across the table toward me—silver paper with gold ribbon encasing it. Gramma's eyes, unblinking, follow the movement of the package.
I smile. The ribbon slides off, the paper tears away, and I lift the cardboard lid beneath the glitter.
I am surprised.
First, I take out the straight-edged razor with the wooden handle. Unfolding the blade, I read "Killarney Razor" etched in its steel, and in smaller letters, near the hinge: "Marshalls, Argyle Street." I fold it, set it down, take out the shaving mug with the pattern of roses circling its wide lip next, lift out the brush inside it, touch its softness.
"The brush is made of badger hair," she says.
I can think of nothing to say yet.
"They were your father's grandfather's. Great-Grandfather Radey's. Your father's aunt had them when she died. They were with the few things they sent us after she passed." She looks at me. "This was almost fifteen years ago, when you were a boy." She pauses. "But now you're a man."
"Doesn't Da want them?"
"He wants you to have them," she says firmly.
I am moved. "Thanks, Ma."
We watch the candles. The white one is only a flame floating in a clear pool. Now she strikes another match, lights the red one. "The red one is for your next twenty-five years," she says, sitting back. "Your best years. Make them good ones,"
I
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