Blind Date at a Funeral (4 page)

‘Oh.'

‘Ja, I lost my temper a few times and … well … you know how it is.'

Now I am sitting there, not knowing how to respond, and wishing someone else would come into the cabin.

I was so damn uncomfortable I wanted to run out of there.

‘Er, what are you making?'

I pointed at the box in his hand.

‘Oh, this?' he said, holding up the wooden box.

I nodded.

‘It's a box,' he said.

Apparently he thought I could not see that it was a box.

He held it up for me to see. It was quite beautiful. It was dark wood with an intricate pattern inlaid in lighter wood.

‘Wow,' I said. ‘Did you make it?'

‘Ja. My grandpa taught me how to work with wood.'

‘It's beautiful,' I said.

He handed me the box. I turned it over in my hands.

‘Who is it for?' I asked.

‘For me,' he replied, not looking up.

Neither of us spoke for a while, then he told me why he was making the box.

‘I have a lot of very bad memories from when we were fighting terrs in Angola and a lot of kak happened when I was in Zambia and Rhodesia.'

‘I can imagine,' I said quietly, not knowing what the hell else to say.

‘No, you can't,' he said bluntly. ‘Those memories are like hundreds of screaming ghosts in my head.' He sighed. ‘I had to do terrible things,' he began. Then stopped abruptly.

He sat turning the box over in his hand.

‘My people are in Tzaneen, on a farm,' he said. ‘I made this box for when I go home after I get out of the hospital. Ja. I am going to put all of those bliksemse old memories in this box and bury it in a special place on my oupa's farm.'

‘That's a good way to put the memories to rest,' I said, attempting a smile.

He nodded, still not looking up.

He continued sanding the box with slow deliberate strokes. We did not speak again.

A few hours later, the train stopped at the station in Pretoria.

He grabbed his kit and got up. He turned on his way out and gave me a grim nod. I lifted my hand in recognition.

I watched him as he slowly made his way along the platform to the exit.

I was startled by the shrill sound of the conductor's whistle.

Some doves on the rafters above us were startled too, and they took off in a flutter of wings. I saw the Recce hesitate and watch a small white dove feather spiral lazily down through the sunbeams onto the platform.

He bent down and picked up the feather. He gazed at it for a second, reflecting, and then put it in the box.

And then he was gone.

(Soundtrack: ‘Angel' by Sarah McLachlan)

‘Brakes, brakes!' he yelled.

Oh my God!

I jammed on the brakes and we came to a screeching, dust-swirling stop, right in front of a huge ant heap.

I got such a fright I almost swerved into the mielie field.

My grandpa leaned over and gently klapped me on the back of my head. ‘Avoid ant heaps,' he said. ‘Now, carry on driving.'

I was about fifteen years old and my grandpa was teaching me to drive on his farm near Vredefort in the Free State. The car was a huge grey Chevy with a full seat in the front. It was a tank and I could hardly see over the bloody dashboard.

Every time we went to the farm, my grandpa took me driving in that grey bumbershoot of a car. And every time I hit a bump or came too close to an ant heap or was about to run over a chicken, he gave me a klap on the back of my head.

‘Avoid the chickens,' he said. ‘Now, carry on driving.'

One time I was so distracted by a bunch of meerkats sitting on an ant heap and laughing at me when I drove past them that I almost drove into the river.

Klap.

‘Avoid the river,' he said. ‘Now, carry on driving.'

My grandpa was amazing. I often watched him giving the calves their injections. I couldn't believe how strong he was. He just flipped the little calves over and zip-zip zap-zap, he gave them their shots, all the time speaking so nicely and sweetly to them. ‘It's okay, my girlie,' he'd say to the lowing little calf as he injected her. Then he would carefully massage the spot where he had injected the animal and set her back on her feet, waiting patiently as she steadied herself.

A number of years ago, when I began my stint as a board member and subsequent board president of the American Childhood Cancer Organization, I started visiting kids at the cancer hospital in Austin, Texas, where I now live.

At that time, I was known as the Doctor of Mischief. I spent hours and hours at the hospital, driving the kids crazy with jokes and stories and cartoon drawings.

One day, I was visiting a young guy named Victor, who was about ten years old. He was putting up a hell of a fight after a harrowing bonemarrow transplant. We were drawing together in his hospital room when he suddenly turned to me and said, ‘What's going to happen to me when I die?'

Before I could say a word, his mom ran over to the bed and said, ‘You are not going to die, damn it! I told you.'

Behind his mother's back, the kid looked at me, shrugged, pulled a tongue and flashed a broad smile. He was a naughty little shit, I swear.

A short while later, his mom left the room and I said to him, ‘You know, buddy, we're all going to die one day?'

‘I know,' he said, interrupting me. ‘She thinks I'm stupid. I know what's going on. Hey, do you think there's … like … a heaven up there?'

‘I hope so,' I said, taken aback by his question.

‘Do you think they give you a map when you get there?' he said.

‘Huh?' I said.

‘The place must be huge,' he said. ‘How do you know where to go?'

I laughed so hard I almost sprayed the coffee I was drinking out of my nose.

‘I'll tell you what,' I said. ‘If you die from this disease, while you're still a kid, ask for my grandpa when you get up there.'

‘What do you mean?' he said, laughing.

I told him all about my late grandpa and what a wonderful, caring man he was and hopefully still is. I told him all about my driving on the farm and the ant heaps and how my grandpa would klap me upside the head. He laughed at all the stories I told about my grandpa.

‘Look for him when you get to heaven. He'll get you checked in and get you a great room,' I said.

‘But how will I find him?' he asked. ‘There must be, like, millions of people up there.'

I thought for a moment and then pictured my grandfather. In my mind I saw his face as clear as daylight.

‘Hang on,' I said, and I drew a quick picture of my grandpa in my journal. I tore out the page and gave it to him.

‘His name is Teddy Tanchel,' I said. ‘Memorise that picture.'

He looked at the drawing of my grandpa and said, ‘He looks real nice.'

‘Oh, he is the best,' I said, putting my hand on my heart. ‘You'll see.'

The next time I came to visit Victor, the picture of my grandfather was up on the cork pinning board in his room next to all his get-well cards.

When I teased him, as I often did, he would point threateningly to the picture of my grandfather and tell me he was going to tell my grandpa about it when he saw him.

I'm very sad to say that cancer won the battle and Victor died about five months later.

His mom asked me to deliver the eulogy at his funeral. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life.

I arrived, only to discover that it was an open-casket ceremony. I had never seen a child in a coffin before and I did not want to see him like that. I avoided the casket and went into the church.

They wheeled the coffin into the church and put it next to the pulpit. Open!

The priest delivered his sermon and then called me up to do the eulogy. I did a humorous memorial based on Victor's wicked sense of humour. I wanted to celebrate his life instead of mourning his death.

We all laughed so hard and I managed not to look at the coffin the whole time.

As I finished my speech I pointed to the coffin and said, ‘As he was dying, that little boy taught me so much about living …' As I spoke, I accidentally glanced at the coffin.

And I'm so glad I did.

Victor was lying there with his hands resting on his chest. He looked so comfortable and at peace. He was dressed in a black tuxedo with a red bow tie. His head was bald from the chemotherapy. He had such a sweet, innocent, peaceful look on his face.

In his coffin, surrounding his body, were all his childhood toys and a sea of flowers. His train set was in there. Also his baseball glove, hundreds of Legos and his blankie from when he was a baby.

I smiled and mouthed goodbye to him as I walked past the coffin on the way back to my seat.

And that's when I saw the picture of my grandfather. He was holding it in his hand.

(Soundtrack: ‘Old Man' by Neil Young)

I was about six years old. My father took me fishing on the Vaal River near my grandfather's farm. It was spring and the leaves on the trees were a million shades of fresh green. We found a perfect spot under some willow trees on the riverbank.

I snooped around the immediate area while my father set up. When I got back from my exploring I found everything ready. Two folding chairs were set up facing the lake. Two fishing rods were loaded and ready to go.

My father cast my line for me and rested the fishing pole on a Y-shaped twig he'd cut from one of the trees. ‘Now don't take your eye off that pole,' he said. ‘The minute it moves, you grab it and jerk it like I showed you.'

He threw in his own line and rested it on another Y-shaped stick. Then he opened the newspaper and settled back into his chair. Within thirteen seconds I was bored. I drew patterns on the sand around the chair with my shoes. Then I leaned far back on my chair and tried to see if I could see any stars in the deep-blue sky. I knew the stars were there somewhere. Suddenly I lost my balance and began falling backwards. I flailed with my arms, trying to keep my balance. It seemed to take forever. I hit the ground hard and winded myself. For a second I couldn't move. I'm paralysed, I thought.

I looked at my dad, hoping he'd rush over and comfort me, tell me it was all right and that he'd love me even though I was handicapped. And he'd give me things to prove it. But he didn't move.

He lowered his newspaper slowly. ‘Boytjie, you've got to be very quiet when you're fishing,' he said.

Before he could lift the newspaper again, my line jerked so hard that it pulled the pole right off the stick and almost into the water. My father jumped up and grabbed the line. My back healed instantly and thanks to the marvels of nature, I was no longer a paraplegic. My father grabbed me by the collar and pulled me over towards him. ‘Here, reel it in,' he said, excitedly. ‘It's your first fish.'

I was scared and elated. I grabbed the pole and clumsily reeled in the line. The line got tighter and tighter until it was almost impossible to reel any more. Then I jerked the pole back and suddenly the line gave. I thought I'd lost the fish, but I'd actually pulled it right out of the water. It landed at my feet, flipping and jumping as it gasped for air. I was horrified.

‘Good boy!' yelled my father. ‘Now put your foot on it and let's get rid of the hook.'

The fish looked at me. I knew it was scared. I raised my foot and placed it gently on the fish's body. The fish jerked away, then suddenly jumped towards me. I screamed and ran. My father grabbed the fish and brought it over to me. It was squirming in his hand. Mouth gaping. The hook had ripped through the inside of the fish's mouth and was sticking out of its cheek. I took two steps back.

‘Let me show you,' said my father, ripping the hook out of the fish's mouth. My stomach turned. I wanted to be sick.

He threw the fish into the ice chest and quickly closed the lid. ‘Well done,' he said, sitting down and picking up the paper.

My father smiled, but not his normal smile – this one was made up for me.