Aunty Lily Read online

  “The trick, boys,” I cackled, “is to bait the traps for a couple of nights, but not set them. Lull them into a false sense of security!”

  The strategy worked—on the third morning most of the traps contained the corpse of a mouse. Donning rubber gloves, I threw both mice and traps into a large garbage bag and disposed of them. Remorse was a stranger to me. I purchased more traps. I was relentless and didn’t rest until, at last, only one wily mouse remained. But no matter what traps I used or what stratagems I tried, the traps were sprung, the bait had disappeared, but the mouse escaped. The boys were thrilled and were clearly on his side. “Houdini lives!” they cried triumphantly each day when they checked the traps.

  Gradually, even I developed a grudging respect for the cunning rodent. I began to realize that I had met my match, until one morning I found him on his back lying dead on the stairs. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. Horrified, it dawned on me that he had been caught and had somehow freed himself from the trap. He must have died in dreadful agony. A wave of remorse washed over me. Gently, I wrapped my worthy opponent in paper towel. The least we could do was give our hero a decent burial. We buried Houdini under the apple tree beside his domesticated cousins, the gerbil and the hamster.

  The strange thing was that when I went to gather up the traps, not one of them had been sprung, and I suddenly realized that Houdini had, in fact, died of natural causes. What are the odds of that happening, I thought to myself, but we all agreed that in some strange way it was a fitting end.

  As is the way of the world, one by one our remaining pets met their demise in various ways. Either the boys lost interest and the pets were given away, or they followed Houdini’s example and died of natural causes. The boys, too, had grown up. Ben was at college and Andrew, the fireman, spent more time at the firehouse than at home.

  The last to desert the fast emptying nest was our poor old dog, Sherlock. He had been ill for a long time, and we knew that soon the inevitable would happen. The boys were prepared for this and each had bid their faithful companion goodbye.

  Sure enough, one afternoon I arrived home from work to find Sherlock in pitiful condition—it was winter time in Chicago, a blizzard howled and the roads were treacherous. There was no one else home but me; however, dangerous roads or no, I knew had no choice but to take him to the vet. Gently, I wrapped him in a blanket and made him comfortable on the back seat of the car. I had been to the opticians on my way home from work, and when I glanced in the rear view mirror, I saw that the whites of my eyes were still stained a bright orange from the drops they had used to dilate my pupils. There was nothing I could about this now.

  I inched along through the blinding snow and finally made the turn into the vet’s parking lot. Scooping Sherlock up and battling my way through the snow, I managed to reach the door, which flew open as I slid inside. Alarmed, the office assistant leaped to her feet, her hand pressed against her breast as if she feared I had a sub-machine gun concealed in the blanket. “It’s Sherlock,” I gasped.

  “Oh, it’s Mrs. Munro!” she said, relieved. “I hardly recognized you!”

  I unbundled Sherlock. She took one look. “Oh, dear!” she whispered sadly. “Bring him right in. I’ll get the vet.” I went into the examining room. Soon, the vet arrived and told me to put Sherlock on the floor. Wobbling on his shaky legs, he took two or three steps toward the examining table where he managed to lift his leg and pee.

  “His parting shot?” I asked, the tears beginning to spill from my orange eyes. She nodded silently. She left for a moment. Carefully, I cradled Sherlock in my arms. I kissed him and he licked my cheek. Then, the vet returned with the syringe, and I laid Sherlock on the examining table. I cupped his head in my hands, whispered nonsense words, and stroked him as she administered the fatal shot. Slowly, his eyes closed and his head and body went limp. I covered him in the blanket. “It was so peaceful,” I whispered. “Will you do the same for me when it’s my turn to go?” We looked at one another and smiled through our tears.

  Somehow, I managed to get home. I called the boys and told them the bad news. Then, Eric arrived home from work. Immediately, he knew what had happened. He came toward me and took my face gently in his hands. An engineer by trade, he was not given to emotive endearments, but I knew this time would be different. Gently, he enfolded me in his arms. “There, there, Jen. It’ll be all right. Shhsss, it’ll be all right.” All the time he patted my back. Of course, I began to sob in earnest. When I had wept my orange eyes back to white, I was able to look up at him at last and whisper, “Read my lips, Eric. No more pets!”

  The Fisher King

  THE FOUR WHITE VANS stood with their doors flung open, ready to accommodate the squealing teenagers, their sleeping bags, pillows, the step ladders, tool boxes, and assorted power tools. Every conceivable plumbing device, including, not only the kitchen sink but also a full-sized bath tub, lounged on the black top just daring us to find room for it.

  We were off on a field trip to the mountains of East Tennessee to do general household repairs for people too poor or ill to do the work themselves. During the previous year, the senior high group and their leaders at our church had raised the six thousand dollars to fund the trip and buy the necessary supplies. We had taken workshops and learned how to hammer nails into wood and use power tools without maiming ourselves or others. Now we were being unleashed to practice our skills on the homes of the unsuspecting poor. I stood hopelessly looking at the supplies blanketing the church parking lot, doubtful we would be able to perform even the first miracle of making all of it disappear into the oversized vans that stood waiting.

  With the eagerness endemic to youth, the teenagers threw the contents of the parking lot into the vans using neither logic, rhyme, nor reason. And miracle of miracles—they did the impossible. With the parking lot laid bare and black, we stood in a circle—hand in hand—with heads bowed as the pastor recited our “bon voyage” prayer. The only setback to our departure was caused by the Heineman’s dog, Rusty, who, upon sniffing my farm-encrusted tennis shoes, lifted his leg, and relieved himself down mine. A premonition of things to come, I wondered ruefully to myself. And it was!

  With humans loaded, the vans’ engines and tape decks roared into life. In order to accommodate the variety of musical tastes on board our van, we listened to all kinds: heavy metal, light metal, soft rock, and hard rock then hip hop, be bop, rip rap, and clap trap. We listened to it all, including the favorite gospel hymn of my co-leader, Lemon-Drop Bob, “Shall We Gather at the River,” no less than three times each time he played it. Bob, as his nickname suggests, consumed a vast amount of lemon drops on the journey. At last, having been a good sport, I now took out my Walkman and proceeded to listen to a special tape I had been saving for this moment. I put on my head phones and settled down to listen to Odds Bodkin tell the legend of Percival and the Fisher King. Only five minutes into the story, I stopped the tape. “Listen, you guys!” No reaction. “Listen!” I shouted over the roar of the music. Bob turned it down.

  “Oh God!” Someone groaned from the back. “She wants us to listen to a story!”

  “Just listen for five minutes. If you don’t like it, I’ll go back to listening to it by myself. OK?”

  They reluctantly agreed, and I started the tape. After a momentary crackle, we heard the melodious sound of a twelve-string guitar and the compelling voice of the storyteller weaving the Arthurian legend of Beloved Son, whose destiny is to ask the questions that will free the grail king from his enchantment. Beloved Son’s real name is Percival, but his mother has kept his identity a secret, fearing she might lose him to a chivalrous death as she did her husband, Pellinore.

  As the tale unfolded, no one in the van spoke. Lost in the mists of time, they listened intently as Beloved Son encounters a band of Arthur’s knights, who laugh at this rustic; however, the damage has been done. He tells his mother he will become a knight of the round table. To foil his efforts, she sends him off wearing a
thick, homespun woolen tunic that falls below his knees, a ludicrous fur hat with a long feather in it, and a huge pair of hairy boots. So absurd would Arthur’s court find him that they would send him packing—but, of course, this does not happen.

  As we listened, our van magically transformed into a white horse galloping toward a destiny that, unlike Percival, we hoped we might recognize. At last, the mountains of Tennessee loomed before us and we arrived at the school which would be our home for the next week. After unloading the vans and our belongings, we leaders set off to various sites to meet our families. Work would begin the next day, and we had to determine exactly what supplies we would need.

  Lemon-Drop and I followed the directions which led us into the surrounding tree-covered mountains. We thought we knew what to expect, but nothing could have prepared us for the cold reality that shattered the magical stuff of legend. Sitting in a wheelchair on the porch, a legless, toothless old man grinned warmly. His wife, whose bare feet were red and swollen, waved to us excitedly. Before them, the garden was a tangled mess of wood, weeds, and rocks; a pervasive smell of sewage hung in the air.

  After quickly introducing ourselves, we gazed over the porch railing at the beginnings of a wheelchair access ramp, which we would need to complete. The sweet, new wood smell was barely discernable in the stench. The old woman hobbled inside and we followed. I was appalled—not so much by the conditions themselves: the backed-up toilet, full to the brim with solid waste, the mounds of dirty clothes, the swarms of black flies that buzzed around half-eaten food left on the table, or the smell—but that no one was doing anything about it. And then it suddenly struck me that we were there to do something about it, and I was appalled even more.

  We returned to the school in a subdued mood, but our crew surrounded us eager to hear about “their” family. They were up for the challenge and helped load the van for an early start on Monday morning. Promptly at seven-thirty we left the school. Adam, who now called himself Beloved Son—which the kids shortened to BS—was in charge of morning devotions. Ignoring the script, he prayed, “Dear Lord, if it be your will that we meet the Fisher King on this our quest, inspire us to ask the right questions so that we can free him from his enchantment. Amen.”

  “We’re not on a quest,” Rocky said, “just a mission trip.”

  “Same thing,” BS responded resolutely. Rocky sighed.

  At Lemon-Drop’s insistence we had all chosen nicknames for ourselves. In tribute to the Heineman’s dog, I was now Rusty. Ryan, a short, skinny freshman, was Superman, Denise, Snow White, TJ, who never cracked a smile, was Joker, and Christine was Rocky.

  As the van climbed the tortuous mountain road, the kids settled down and the tape deck roared to life. It wasn’t long before we arrived at the small cabin where the old couple was seated as they had been the night before. They were grinning and waving, eager to meet this new band of helpers. As we looked down on the desolate little house—at the unfinished ramp, the tangled yard, and the flies, busy and thick, it was not so difficult to believe that this land, like that of the Fisher King, was in the grip of a curse, which had laid it waste.

  “See,” said BS, gesturing toward the old man, “there’s the king in his coracle. He dangles a length of twine into the muddied waters, but catches no fish. We’re here to change that.”

  The others sighed but didn’t say anything. BS took hold of the power saw, his golden sword perhaps, and led the charge from the van. He stood smiling before the astonished couple. Dressed as he was in a pair of oversized overalls, bright yellow boots, a wide-brimmed hat, a red bandanna tied jauntily around his neck, and a large pair of safety goggles, did he not look as foolish and eager as Percival when he arrives at Arthur’s court?

  “I come to champion the Lady Reagan,” he cried. He laid the saw at the absent feet of the old man, untied his red bandanna, and gave it as tribute to the old woman. No explanation for this strange behavior seemed necessary. Laughing, Mrs. Reagan tied the bandanna around her arm and soon everyone was shaking hands and introducing themselves. Strangely enough, neither the old man nor the old woman asked why we all bore such odd names, but this was not their destiny, nor was it their time for questions.

  Immediately, we split into three groups: Snow White and Superman began to dig out a rock that was obstructing the pathway of the ramp. Lemon-Drop, Rocky, and Joker started to measure and cut the wood into the necessary lengths for the ramp. Meanwhile, BS and I tackled the toilet-lucky us!

  In a flurry of enthusiasm, we set to work. Flies buzzed blissfully around us as we dismantled the toilet, slid a board beneath it, and then carried it—oh, so carefully—through the treacherous obstacle course of the front yard. The relentless heat of the Tennessee sun illuminated the contents as we dumped it into a ditch. Then, we returned to the bathroom to remove the rotted floor.

  As we worked, the old man wheeled his chair into the doorway to watch our progress. BS peppered him with questions and the answers were forthcoming. We learned the old couple had one grown son. Mrs. Reagan shuffled into the house to get a photograph. “Here,” she said proudly holding it up so we could admire her husband, who had legs and teeth, and the small, serious boy, who gripped his father’s hand and stared at the camera.

  “Do you get to see him much?” BS continued, but the old man didn’t answer. Instead, he wheeled himself back to the porch; the old woman’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “No, not much,” she whispered before an uncomfortable silence fell. BS stood up and put his arms around her.

  At lunchtime, we retired to the shade of the one small tree in the front yard. Superman and Snow White constructed makeshift seats out of the planks of wood. Wrapping our hands in plastic bags, we devoured our sandwiches. The smell of raw sewage, which still hung heavily in the air, did nothing to dampen our appetites. For suburban kids, they had come a long way.

  Rocky settled next to BS. “So, you seem to be getting to know the Reagans? Asking the right questions?”

  “I’m trying. But it’s hard. I kind of understand why Percival didn’t ask the questions the first time he went to the castle. You know, why the spear dripped blood, what ailed the king, and how the grail magically fed everyone.”

  “Yes, but that was because of the stupid old knight who told him not to ask too many questions, right?”

  BS replied, “I know, but questions cause pain. It’s just not that easy.”

  After lunch we labored through the hottest hours of the day, and the progress of the morning became a fond memory. The rock impeding the path of the ramp had grown into a bolder and when we removed the bathroom floor, we discovered why the toilet had backed up. The plastic sewer pipe lay on its side and had huge gaping holes down its length. Finally, BS, whose constant questions were slowly driving everyone but the Reagans nuts, broke the blade of the power saw. We had no replacement.

  “OK, it’s almost four o’clock. Let’s determine what supplies we’ll need tomorrow and head back.”

  “A stick of dynamite might be useful,” suggested Snow White sweetly.

  Since we had turned off the water, we made sure the Reagans had enough to last them until the next day. On the way back, we stopped off to pick up the supplies we would need and returned to the school. After a hot shower and meal, it wasn’t long before we collapsed into our beds—ready to fight another day.

  The next morning on the way to our site, Superman led devotions according to script, but added his own ending. “And if it be your will, inspire BS to keep asking the right questions so that we find the Holy Grail. Amen”

  When we arrived, the Fisher King and the Grail Maiden, as we were now calling the old man and his wife, were in exactly the same positions as they had been on our first day. The Grail Maiden untied the bandanna from around her arm and waved it cheerily. Our intrepid band of teenagers responded in kind, and after a brief conversation, immediately set to work.

  Superman and Joker tackled the boulder, BS and Snow White sawed more wood—not only for the ra
mp but also for the bathroom floor. In the bathroom Rocky and Lemon Drop removed the defunct hot water heater. Meanwhile, I crawled under the house to start removing the sewer pipes—like the kids, I, too, had come a long way.

  After only about an hour, I heard an unearthly yell. It was BS. “I’ve done it again! I’ve broken the golden blade!”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it,” yelled Lemon-Drop. “I’ll get the replacement; you give a hand with the rock.

  Superman and Joker had thrown a strong rope around the boulder and all the kids, laughing, took hold of the end. As they pulled, the Fisher King and the Grail Maiden, taking us by surprise, began to sing. Their oddly stirring voices filled the air: “Yo, heave oh! Yo, heave ho! Once more, once again, still once more.”

  The kids joined in with the next chorus of “yo, heave ohs” and as if defeated by the magical singing, the boulder leaped from the ground.

  The Fisher King and Grail Maiden cheered, and then she hobbled off toward the kitchen. BS joined the old man and they both talked earnestly until she returned with a battered tray on which rested an assortment of chipped cups and a plate of home-made biscuits. Strictly speaking, we were not allowed take food or drink from our families, who had so little, but no one chose to remember the rule. As the old woman handed out the simple fare, Rocky whispered, “And each took meat and drink to his own liking, and all were satisfied.” Gratefully, we drank the lemonade and sank our teeth into the tender biscuits; we had never tasted such sweet ambrosia before.

  “Get the box,” the old man told his wife abruptly. We were surprised by his tone, and so was she. Nonetheless, she disappeared inside and returned carrying a cereal box. With trembling fingers, the old man took it and with a sadness we could not fathom, dug deep inside. He fished out a gold watch, which he handed to BS.