Simon's Death

By Jack B.S. North

Simon had his life planned. He’d graduated from a prestigious university. He is living up to the opportunity his father had given him at a profitable company, with the promise of swift promotions and a corner office. And the future of a wedding and his own family lies before him.

And then Gramps dies.

On the eve of his grandfat

• Language: English
• Publisher: SA Jeejeebhoy
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781775351412

Jack B.S. North

Just a writer of novels filled with pitiless compassion, excavating the depths of the human soul. With some poetry and humour to lighten the load.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Please Pass The Peas

Please pass the peas, Michael.

Simon, Phyllis wants her peas.

Simon lifts his head up from contemplating the pea he's chasing desultorily around his plate with his fork. He turns his head, stares at his older brother Michael.

Michael elbows his sunken shoulder. He bays, C'mon, Simon, you know how to pass the peas.

Michael, their mother Phyllis says. "I asked you to pass me the peas." Her eyes bore down her long nose, along the length of the table dressed in its whitest tablecloth at him until Michael drops his own eyes.

Michael picks up the shallow Doulton bowl with its roses twirling madly around the rim, filled with peas glistening in butter, its silver serving spoon leaning against its gold-lined white rim, and stretches his arm toward Phyllis across Simon, who is back to chuffing one pea around his dinner plate with his fork. Phyllis grasps the fine china bowl. Michael lets go. She holds it over her plate as she spoons up a generous portion of peas, letting them roll out of the spoon onto her plate. She slips the empty spoon underneath the mound of green peas and leans its graceful handle back precisely in the curve of the bowl. She hands the bowl back to Michael, who lays it back down on the table where it had been.

For a few minutes, silverplate rings Doulton plates and voices are still.

Hey guys! Knock, knock, chirps the boys' sister, the middle sibling, Sarah, suddenly from her seat across from Michael and Simon.

Not now, her mother and father say in unison, their eyes on their food.

Sarah sinks back into her padded chair and exaggeratedly chews her last bite of roast beef, making mm sounds of gustatory delight. Continuing to be ignored, she mushes her peas with the back of her fork so that they will stick to the silver and puts the whole in her mouth, pulling the fork out from between her closed lips with a grand upward gesture and an ostentatious slurp. No one responds. She frowns and glares down at her plate. She has no more mashed potatoes to play with, having eaten them first.

Michael elbows Simon's shoulder and, with a mouth full of peas, potatoes, and beef, asks, So man, you going to work tomorrow. You look like you could join Gramps.

Enough Michael, Phyllis admonishes him. I don't want any unpleasantness at the table. It's best to ignore him when he's in this mood, she instructs him.

He needs to toughen up, their father Fred chimes in, as if he's said this about Simon many, many times before.

Simon mutters to his plate, Why do I need toughening up? It's normal to miss the dead. He raises his head and scowls at Michael, Don't you miss Gramps? We just buried him!

Michael shrugs, Hey man, life goes on, you know.

Don't use those vulgar common phrases, Michael. How many times have I adjured you? Phyllis remonstrates.

Sarah chokes on her last mouthful of peas. Michael waggles his eyebrows in response at her. Simon glowers at his plate and recommences chasing his pea. Michael schools his eyebrows and turns a contrite face to Phyllis. Sorry, Phyllis.

They continue to eat in silence.

Michael, when do you get back to residency? Fred asks as he places his knife and fork together on his plate to signify he's done with eating and it's time to talk.

Tomorrow. They gave me a couple of grief days off.

Quite right. Are you still on the same rotation?

Nah, I mean, no. They switched yesterday.

Which one are you on?

A dramatic sigh from the other end of the table makes Michael hesitate.

Your mother is sensitive about this topic. But we two are talking here. Go ahead, Fred instructs Michael.

Michael replies, with a swift sideways glance at Phyllis, Um, gynecology.

Oh, must we? Phyllis expostulates. Really Fred. Can we talk about something more suitable for the dinner table. It's not a question.

Fred replies, Nothing wrong with me and my son talking about his future. To Michael: I think your mother likes poking her sensitive ears into our conversation. It gives her a nice frisson of outrage. To Phyllis again: It isn't Michael's fault his rotation has taken him to . . . gynecology. He smiles and fixes Phyllis with his amused eyes.

Phyllis drops her eyelids and tells her plate as she swivels her own knife and fork toward each other, Of course Fred. But let's switch topics.

Sarah promptly pipes up, I thought the huge flower thing the Smiths sent were gorgeous. Did you see all that work the florist did? And then they just dumped it on the dirt. What a waste, eh?

Phyllis sighs, Sarah must you be so common in your language.

Yes.

Michael chokes; Fred allows a small smile to appear and disappear; Simon steams at the pea he's chasing. How can Phyllis talk about language on this day? How can Fred talk about Michael's work as if nothing has happened? Don't they miss Gramps? Is he the only one to notice the empty seat across from him, the one Gramps sat in next to Sarah only last Sunday.

Only last Sunday.

A whole week, Simon ruminates, five days since he'd last heard his grandfather's rough voice. Simon sinks into memory as Fred consents to Phyllis's request and the other four begin to discuss the weather. Every morning for years his grandfather had called him to check in, to say Hi, to ask him what was up for the day, Simon remembers. Jawing, as Gramps had put it, for only five minutes. But that was Simon's cue that his day had begun, of knowing that his day would be okay because Gramps had called.

Gramps called only him. No one else was interested. Sarah complained Gramps timed his calls for the moment when they were heading out to work. Michael's complaint was that he was usually with a patient. Didn't the old man know they were busy, the two would moan and roll their eyes.

One time, Simon had asked Michael: You have time to see your friends, why don't you have time to talk to Gramps? It's only five minutes. Michael had exclaimed: Hey man, Gramps doesn't give me a chance to call him. The old bugger always beats me to it. Why doesn't he chill and wait? I'll call when it's convenient, man.

Sarah had barged into their conversation, whining that Gramps calls all the time. Every. Single. Day. And who has that kind of time to waste? Sarah had said she had her life and he had his and why did he want to call her anyway? Just because they were family? Family were supposed to be there in times of crisis, but that didn't mean she had to talk to him while she was running for her bus. It was inconsiderate. Just like an old man to be inconsiderate, she'd said.

Simon stops pushing his lone pea in its endless circle around his plate as he tries to recall how he’d replied to their excuses. With shame, he remembers he'd been silent. He should've said that giving Gramps a time window would've been easy; he should've said if you don't talk during the peace times, how can you be there during the crisis times?

Like now.

Heat flares in his chest, and bile spurts up into his dry mouth. He lifts his head up into the small talk flowing back and forth over him and interrupts: Does no one miss Gramps? he yells.

Talk stops. Phyllis draws in a shocked breath. Fred blows breath out angrily. Sarah giggles. Michael pushes Simon hard with his shoulder. Simon resists his brother's physical aggression for once and doesn't fall over toward his mother.

Instead, Simon turns his head to glare deep into Michael's eyes: Well, don't you?

Simon, dear, Phyllis says calmly, drawing his attention away from Michael. Of course we do. We buried him only this morning in a very nice service. I thought the Reverend gave the service a very nice touch, and the cremation went off flawlessly. Don't you think so, Fred?

Yes, it did. He pauses. Right to your specifications, m'dear. As usual. I rather liked Dan's speech about his old friend. And you, Simon, spoke for the whole family. Quite right, too.

Too bad he kept bawling, Sarah snickers.

Sarah! Phyllis admonishes her.

Well, he did. I mean, the man was old. He was bound to die.

He was not old, Simon retorts. He was only in his seventies. He wasn't old! he shouts. Sarah leans back, her mouth agape, her eyes widening. Okay, okay, he wasn't old. Geeze. Take a pill.

He wasn't old, Simon repeats at normal volume. Did you know his heart was weak, Mommy?

Mommy? Fred's sharp voice swings Simon’s head toward the opposite end of the table. Fred lifts his left eyebrow lifted in judgement. Simon flushes. He'd reverted to his childhood name for Phyllis unconsciously. Fred straightens his brows and states, Cardiac arrest is common in men his age if they don't exercise and eat well. And your grandfather unfortunately liked his cream.

And his butter, dear. Don't forget his butter and eggs. He had two boiled eggs in the morning, every morning. He said they made him strong, Phyllis adds without sarcasm.

It's true eggs are good for you. But he had too many for a man his age. The research shows, says Fred as he launches into a discussion of the latest nutritional science. For once Simon hates that his father specializes in nutrition and anatomy—when he's not consumed with his administrative duties, which is rare. His title of . . . Simon draws his brows together. He can't remember Fred's official title at the hospital, a title his father had made them memorize when he'd first been promoted to ensure everyone knew who he was. Simon's mind this Sunday evening has emptied itself out, like his heart has hollowed itself out, and there's nothing left to retrieve. Days and days of unwanted tears have drained him. He can't get the phone call out of his mind. Phyllis had been the one to call him, to tell him in her passionless voice, as if she was passing along the latest church news, that her father had had a heart attack and that he would be cremated at Burn & Burns, the crematorium the Smiths had used, as if the Smith's opinion was what made it right.

Only five days ago.

Before Phyllis had called Simon, earlier that morning, Gramps had called him, his chipper voice asking him how he was doing. He’d clucked at Simon to take up running. Don't be like me, boy, he'd said. You gotta get into the good habits now. Simon had laughed and said he had plenty of time. Don't think like that, Gramps had said. You never know when your time is up, eh? Never know, he'd chuckled. Simon had agreed with him good-naturedly to get along with his grandfather but hadn't intended to take up running, never thinking that hours later he'd hear that his so-alive grandfather was dead.

A sob hiccups out of him. His family drops silent and stares at him. Head down, Simon excuses himself. He runs up the stairs, two at a time, to the family bathroom. He slams the door shut and sits down on the closed toilet seat because that seat lid always has to be down, his mother will have it no other way, and in this they all obey her. She rules the family. Or maybe it's really Fred. He doesn't know. But one thing he does know: Gramps loves him. Had loved him. Wholly loved him.

Simon sinks his face into his bony hands with their delicate, tapering fingers. He resists the tears. He clutches his short, sticking-out straw-coloured hair and pulls the dead-straight strands hard, pulling his scalp forward, yearning for the physical pain to override the black hole that consumes his entire body. Even his legs hurt from the memory of seeing the coffin holding Gramps being rumbled slowly along metal rollers through the discreet black curtain into the fires beyond. Gramps couldn't be hurt by those flames, he'd assured himself as he'd watched, as he’d cried inside at the agony burns cause.

He'd visited Michael once when Michael was interning on the burn unit and had seen the searing pain etched over all the burn victims' faces despite the massive pain killers they were on. Michael had said matter-of-factly that burn pain was the worst.

And now today, only hours earlier, he'd seen Gramps being carried relentlessly into the flames. Hell had flames. People immolated themselves to protest. Others set their wives on fire in rage and hate. But Gramps was a good man. He'd worked with his hands. He should've been buried alongside his dead wife. Gramps had loved Simon and had always called him. Always. Five days now and no call. It had all been so fast, and here they are around the dinner table, talking as if it's just another Sunday. Only last Sunday Gramps had been with them, and this Sunday he’s not. It makes no sense. How can that not be strange and awful to everybody?

With his long fingers, he pulls harder on his hair, but his hair slips out of his grasp. Tears dribble out of the corners of his eyes until he can resist no longer. For the umpteenth time in three days, he weeps as silently as he can. The first two days after he'd heard those dreadful words, he'd walked around like an automaton, unblinking, unseeing. Then in the middle of the second night, a sob had erupted, convulsing his body on top of his bed, focussing his vision on his ceiling before tears had blurred the view. He'd cried until the dawn. And had continued on and off ever since.

Time ticks on.

At last Simon, after a deep shuddering breath in, lets his whole body slump into his outgoing breath. He sits there for a moment. Then stiffly, reluctantly he stands up, walks over to the lustrous sink, studiously avoids his image in the gilt-framed mirror, turns on the tap, and bathes his face, particularly his eyes, over and over with the cold water gushing out of the faucet. He twists the tap shut, dries his face off with a thickly piled cream towel, and with another sigh opens the door and trudges down the stairs back to his place at the table.

Good, Simon. You're back in time for dessert. Melanie has cleared your place. We assumed you had finished.

Yes, Simon mumbles, looking at the tablecloth, his blank place, his dessert silverware, his wine glass still full with his father's best red wine.

As I thought. I hope you won't make a hash of your dessert like you did with your beef and potatoes.

No.

It’s trifle.

Simon catches his breath. Gramps's favourite dessert. His cheeks quiver under the strain, but he controls the tears from making a reappearance. Melanie places a cut crystal bowl filled with soaked fruit and cake, rich custard, and pure white swirls of cream in front of him, pats his shoulder, and whispers in his right ear, For your grandfather. I miss him, too. —

Simon looks up sharply, but she's already walking out of the room.

Simon, Fred says, demanding his attention. Is your grief leave over?

We get a week, Fred, he replies softly.

A week to contemplate death, Sarah giggles as Phyllis, in a voice that overlays Sarah's, asks astonished, A week? Whatever will you do with yourself?

I don't know, Simon replies, realizing from her words that everyone else would be back at work, back at their volunteering and hobbies, while he'd be at home. He looks uncertainly into the days ahead, alone by himself.

Chapter 2

Rustling Dead Leaves

Grief pain flows like a neverending river of needles through Simon’s arteries as he leaves his parents' home, shutting the door on his family's voices. The sun has set. The streetlights are throwing pools of white light into the night that spill into nearby windows. Around his neck, Simon wraps the scarf his grandfather had given him on his first day of university. You are a poet in my eyes, Simon, Gramps had said. Here. This scarf will keep your voice warm. Wrap it around your neck. Poets need to be kept warm by those of us who don't have your gift.

I'm not a poet, Gramps, Simon had retorted.

Never mind that, Simon. Take it. Put it on.

Simon had lifted his right hand to take the folded scarf reluctantly from Gramps's gnarled and spotted hands. He'd unfolded the tightly woven scarf and scanned its indeterminate colour. He'd repressed a sigh and bowed his head slightly to raise the scarf over his head and slip it down behind his neck. He'd pulled one end down until it was much longer than the other end, lifted it to wrap around his neck, and then grasped both ends to even them up a bit. He'd looked down at the muddy-coloured scarf dangling on either side of his lean body, the fringes gently tapping at his hip bones as he’d moved. He'd been surprised at how soft it felt. He'd lifted one of the ends up to frown at the simple fringe in the same colour and weave as the scarf: a reddish-brownish-beige. He still hadn't known what colour it was, and somehow it had seemed important at the time. He'd looked up to say tritely, Thanks, and was stopped by the proud smile wreathing Gramps's face, and in that moment, he'd decided he'd wear it, though he felt foolish.

It had become a habit, wearing the scarf.

He lifts up the left end of that same scarf and stares at the fringe in the dying light. It's ragged; some of the twisted yarns of the fringe are lost; the weave is worn here and there. Yet it feels softer. He rubs his hand on the familiar fabric back and forth, back and forth.

His chest spasms.

He drops his scarf end and starts striding along the sidewalk, letting his feet guide him as they rustle the dead autumn leaves. No dried-up leaves soil the expansive lawns he passes, but they flutter along the sidewalk and are flattened in slick piles on the edges of the road. He empties his mind and tries to empty his heart as he walks. But his heart swells up with unpleasant things, like maggots multiplying in a dead raccoon until they burst out of the corpse under the pressure of their numbers. He rubs his chest and drops his head. He tries to think of work, but it slips away from him. He tries to think of Priscilla, but though his feet change course to lead him to her house, he cannot conjure her in his mind. He loves her. He knows that. But what is love but an invitation to loss, to this awful loneliness of being left behind?

Abandoned.

It is foolish for him to think that way, but he feels abandoned. It's like Gramps had deliberately died and left him to fend for himself. Oh sure, he, Simon, has his own apartment, his own job. He's able to support himself and needs no money from his mother. Phyllis. Funny, how he's reverted to his childish conception of her. He blinks rapidly. He feels so completely on his own.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs his shoulders up to his ears, ducking his head down between them. Gramps had been a rock, a strong foundation. He knew no matter what mistakes he made, what bad choices he followed, Gramps would hold him up. Someone cared enough for him to have his back.

No longer.

Already, he yearns for someone to be that kind of person for him. But Priscilla isn't. And how could he ask her, anyway? Isn't he supposed to be the man?

He stumbles off the curb, his hands caught in his pockets, and takes two jerky steps into the intersection. Tires squeal. A man swears at the top of his voice, You stupid fuck. Watch where you're going. Do you want to die?

Horrified, Simon steps back, and his heels trip backward on the curb. His hands free themselves suddenly and fly up in supplication as he falls down backward onto his tailbone. The raging driver speeds off. Simon stays in position on the curb. Slowly, thoughts return. He doesn't want to die. He just doesn't want to be alone.

Simon stands up gingerly, rubbing dead leaves off his backside. He forces his mind onto the streets in the diminishing light and, ignoring the tailbone pain, hurries to Priscilla's.

Simon runs up Priscilla's walk to her front door and bangs on it with the side of his fist. He steps back. Through the door’s fanlight, he sees distant lights come on. He leans leftward to follow her progress through the side window from the back of the house to the front door. She looks up as she approaches the front door and sees his face. Seeing her face, the face that loves him, dulls the needles pricking his arteries. He hears the deadbolt clunk.

Simon! she exclaims. She looks around him as if expecting to see somebody else, What're you doing here?

Come for a walk?

Uh, sure.

Simon turns away to stride back down the front walk.

Hey, wait, Priscilla yells after him. I hafta put my coat on.

Simon stops and mumbles, Oh sorry, to the concrete brick walk. When he feels Priscilla brush his side, he begins walking again, head down.

Slow down, Simon, Priscilla pants.

Oh sorry, Simon again mutters, this time to the broken sidewalk with its ribbons of tar imperfectly sealing its cracks. He slows down to a stroll. Priscilla seeks out his hand. Their hands clasp; their fingers entwine. They stroll like this as time stretches and slows. It pulls the air around them like hardening taffy being pulled long and longer until Priscilla pipes up, So what's happening, Simon?

Nothing.

Oh. Well, the funeral for your grandfather was very nice. I told Beezie all about it when I got home. She stayed late special today so she could hear all the details. I told her about the flowers—she wanted to know what kind and thought the lilies were a nice touch, that's what she said, a nice touch. Anyway, I told her about your speech--and, uh, well, it was real nice.

Uneasy quiet descends upon them, only the rustle of the leaves on the sidewalk as their feet disturb them and the distant hum of traffic on the nearby main road, intrude on the silence. They follow the sidewalk right, right, right, and right again. They are approaching her house for the third time when Priscilla, trying to quell her impatience, asks again, So what's up, Simon?

Simon picks up the end of his scarf with his free hand and flaps it. He drops it and rubs his chest. Priscilla purses her lips. She inhales and opens her mouth to speak when Simon suddenly spits out: They don't miss him.

Priscilla asks cautiously, Who don't miss who . . . Oh.

Simon stops and turns to her. His light brown lashes shadow his eyes underneath the streetlights as he plaints, How could they, how could you forget?

I didn't Simon. I just . . . I mean, I didn't know who you were talking about. I'm not as quick as you, you know.

"Yes,