The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories (21 page)

 

 

He had only ever attended one other wake, six years before for a family friend who had died at twenty-one, also in a motorbike accident. On that occasion he had not spoken much to anyone and had stood in the dining room where the cakes and biscuits and sandwiches and drinks were arrayed, looking out the window at an enormous creeper-hung tree in the family's front garden. A girl had spoken to him and he had turned to see the late young man's girlfriend who of all people asked him why he looked so sad.

Six years later now at his uncle's wake at his grandmother's house he was spoken to by nearly every guest who wanted to say how much they had enjoyed his eulogy. He felt proud and sure, as others told him, that his uncle would have been proud of him too, mainly for the thread of irreverence in what he had said. But he also felt it was vaguely inappropriate to feel this glow on such a black day that was, after all, not about him but the man now forever absent. The full impact of his uncle's death had perhaps not yet hit him but he had had a taste of it in the closing lines of his speech when his eyes had blurred and his voice choked. Now it seemed alright. He had a beer in his hand and people were stopping and taking him by the hand or putting an arm over his shoulder and telling him what a fine man his uncle had been and how he had captured him so well in the words he had spoken that afternoon. Guests were smiling and drinking and someone was talking to him and he was smiling back and trying not to think too much about anything. He was among the living.

 

 

A photograph of his uncle laughing, sitting in a lime felt armchair with one leg crossed over the other, in one hand a glass of wine. His uncle bare-chested, in short trousers and slip-slops, talking over some fine point of bicycle maintenance or car mechanics. His uncle sitting in his sunlight-filled lounge eating a frugal lunch from saucers on a tray laid on his lap.

The rain had stopped a while ago and outside his room there was a myriad shifting and bristling of plants and grass and birds in the quietness of the afternoon. He put away the folder of keepsakes and photographs and sat in an armchair that was one of the larger items that had come into his possession when the contents of the tenantless house had been sorted and allocated. There had been a cat too and even that had found a new home. He sat now in this armchair in his garden flat, the same armchair his uncle would occupy forever in the photograph, and reflected how easily a lifetime's accumulation of possessions is dispersed into other people's lives, other people's homes. Nine months had passed since his uncle had not returned from the motorbike rally in Oudtshoorn.

He thought about that: packing a bag of clothes and some toiletries for a weekend away, getting onto a motorbike and gliding onto the freeway out of town on a Friday afternoon before the thickening late-afternoon traffic, opening up on generous country roads, the skies wide overhead, the road a hungry promise. With the grace of two wheels at speed, who would think the ground could be so hard?

 

Valerie swivelled on her chair and tapped her pencil against the desk. The computer in front of her hummed tunelessly. It was getting a bit old and noisy, but she was fond of it in a strange way. For all the fondness she felt towards it, at this moment she had to restrain herself from slapping it on the side, from shaking the screen or even throwing her pencil at it. Throwing her pencil felt like it would be the most satisfying.

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear to try and hide her frustration. Mostly she liked her shoulder-length, sandy hair. Her mother often told her that the colour made her look mousy, and that she should put highlights in. Valerie had learned to ignore all her mother's comments. Today the thin strands kept falling across her eyes and annoying her. She had probably missed a few pieces when she'd put in the butterfly clips that morning.

‘I'm so sorry, Mr and Mrs de Klerk. The design is just loading.'

Mr de Klerk nodded. Mrs de Klerk didn't even glance up. Her eyes were fixed on the photographs clutched in her hands.

‘Okay, here it is.' She turned the screen slightly towards the young couple.

Mr de Klerk swallowed visibly as he read the words.

‘What do you think, Marelize?'

‘It's fine.' Mrs de Klerk hadn't even looked up at the screen.

Mr de Klerk looked at his wife. He cleared his throat and read from the screen. ‘Corné de Klerk. Beloved son, grandson and nephew. Then the date of birth and,' he cleared his throat again, ‘death. Psalm 23, verse 6
.
Now safe in the arms of Jesus. Always in our memories.'

Valerie watched the couple in front of her. The husband's dark hair was cut very short. She wondered if the grey hairs starting to appear were a result of the stress of his son's illness. He looked like a professional of some kind. Neat black pants, casual open-necked shirt. If she had to guess she would have gone with accountant or something similar. Mrs de Klerk was slim and short. Valerie looked at the gorgeous wavy hair that hid her face from view. The hair was beautiful, something out of a Renaissance painting, but Valerie could see that the locks lacked shine and life. The reddish hair was frizzy and the unsympathetic electric lights gave the woman an odd halo around her bowed head. Mrs de Klerk was very pale. She had been quiet for most of the meeting. Only once giving her opinion when they had to choose the gravestone. Her husband had wanted a stone shaped like a teddy bear. She had simply remarked that their son had been too old for teddy bears.

‘Is there anything else you want on there, sweetie?' Mr de Klerk glanced at his wife after having read the inscription.

Mrs de Klerk shook her head. ‘It's fine.'

Mr de Klerk met Valerie's eyes. She nodded and turned the screen back to face her. ‘It's a lovely inscription. And it will be marble with white lettering. On the top it will be the angel with hands folded in prayer. I have all the details on this form. If you have no further changes that need to be made, please sign here.' Mr de Klerk nodded again and took the form.

Valerie had learned how to read couples. Some stayed together to support each other. Others needed to get away from this moment, to bury their marriage alongside their child.

‘You said that you needed it by the middle of March. We'll be in contact as soon as it's finished and further arrangements can be handled then.'

‘Thank you, um …?'

‘Valerie. My office phone number is on the card. Please call if you have any questions.' She leaned slightly forwards in her seat. ‘Mr and Mrs de Klerk, I know that nothing I can say can even begin to touch on what you're feeling right now. Just know that I am here to help you take care of all these details.'

Mr de Klerk thanked her again and held out his hand to shake hers. Valerie got up and took his hand.

Mrs de Klerk stayed seated. ‘We have to choose a picture to put on the funeral service,' her voice faltered and she cleared her throat, ‘but we can't decide. We have so many of him.'

She held out the photos to Valerie. Valerie walked around her desk and took the seat Mr de Klerk had just vacated. She took the pictures.

A little blond haired boy on a tricycle. The picture taken from a high angle and the boy laughing up into the camera.

The little boy seated between his parents. All three were wearing red shirts. It looked like the sort of picture that too-good-to-be-true families put on their Christmas cards to show their extended family and friends how happy and together they were.

The little boy playing at the beach. A bright blue swimming costume, light blue hat, bucket and shovel.

A close-up of the little boy eating ice-cream. Chocolate all over his mouth.

Valerie's heart beat faster. The boy in the pictures was only slightly older than her own son. Every time she had to do a stone for a child, she tried to imagine what it must be like to be on this side of the desk. To be the grieving parent instead of being the one helping to make arrangements.

‘They're all beautiful. The one with the tricycle is great.' She handed the photos back. ‘My son has just got a new tricycle for Christmas. He loves that thing.'

Mrs de Klerk smiled and wiped away a tear. ‘Ja, Corné couldn't wait to get a real bike.'

Valerie and Mrs de Klerk stood up. The couple left, holding hands as though their physical closeness could reach across the emotional divide.

Valerie sighed as she sat back down at her computer. She opened the design, checked it again and printed it. While the computer was grinding and whirring through the commands she had given it, she pulled the couple's form towards her. She filled in the delivery date and attached the form to the warm piece of paper which had emerged from the printer.

She walked across the building to the workshop. The noise from the sandblaster was such a contrast to the air of peace which she tried to create in her office.

‘Hey! Dave!'

‘Hi, Valerie! What have you got for me?'

He took the pages, put on his glasses and scanned the design.

‘Okay. Sure. I'll let you know when it's done.'

‘Thanks, hey.'

Another client was waiting as she got back to her office. Her days were filled with people coming and going. Sometimes she didn't remember those who had come to see her. She remembered their engravings. She remembered the dead more clearly than she did the living.
In Loving Memory of. With love we remember. In remembrance of. In ever loving memory.
Husband, father and grandfather. Daughter and sister. Son, grandson and nephew. Wife, mother and friend.

Often, only when she called up the picture of her design did she remember the family member she had been dealing with. Most often they were heartbroken like the De Klerks. But she regularly dealt with family members who felt betrayed, angry, guilty or resentful.

All too often she felt guilty as well. Especially when she remembered the dead.

Valerie shut down her hardworking and ageing computer. She gave it a thankful pat on the top of the screen as she exited. She walked home, passing the stalled traffic. She looked down into her enormous handbag as she tried to track down her keys.

‘Val.'

Her hands stopped searching through her possessions. She slowly took her hands out of the bag and looked up. The man was leaning against his car. Jonny's twin. The years had left his features mostly untouched. He was a physical manifestation of her memory. Darryl took a deep pull from a cigarette as he waited for her response. He tilted his head upwards and slightly away from her as he blew the smoke out into the air. His clothes were casual: jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt with a band name she didn't recognise. His hair was longer than it had been when she last saw him. Jonny had always kept his hair short. He had complained that long hair made his ears too warm. Apparently his brother didn't feel the same.

‘I prefer “Valerie”.'

‘You look good.' He dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his sneakers. ‘I like the haircut.'

‘It's been like this for years.'

He shrugged.

Silence stretched between them.

‘Are you going to invite me in for coffee?'

‘No.' Her answer seemed to amuse him, and he pulled out another cigarette, lit it and took a deep sighing pull. ‘What do you want, Darryl?'

‘Nothing. Just wanted to see you. See if you were still around. You know.'

She folded her arms across her chest and watched him. Darryl just kept smoking.

She could see that the silence was irritating him.

‘Are you seeing someone? Don't you want to go upstairs and see him?'

She didn't answer. It wasn't his business and he knew it. He was fishing; too bad that she wasn't going to take the bait.

He snorted. ‘Jonny and you date for almost a year and then you just vanish off the face of the planet. Like you didn't even care.' He looked down at the cigarette between his fingers. ‘My mom still asks about you every now and then. She really liked you, for some reason.'

Valerie swallowed.

‘I thought I should come and see where you are, just in case she asks again.'

Darryl took another few pulls before dropping the cigarette and extinguishing it. He glanced at her.

‘I can't believe my brother actually loved a cold bitch like you.'

Valerie knew that if she had been standing any closer to Darryl she would've hit him. She wanted to hit him. But in another moment the anger had dulled and settled.

Darryl smiled. He unlocked his car. ‘See you around, Val.' She was still standing completely still when he drove away.

Her mother was waiting. She pulled open the front door the moment Valerie put her keys to the lock. ‘You're late. I'm going to miss my lift home.'

‘Sorry. Something came up at work.' The lie didn't trouble her at all.

‘Mommy!' The small figure leapt around the corner. He was smiling, but his hands were raised and formed into claws.

Valerie stretched her eyes wide and put a dramatic hand over her heart. ‘You gave me such a fright! Hello, Jonny. Did you and Granna have fun today?' He gave two big jumps forwards and growled. ‘Give me a kiss.' She bent down, received the kiss and lifted him on to her hip. At four he was getting a bit big for her to handle, but she still loved having him in her arms. He continued to roar or growl, she wasn't sure which it was supposed to be.

Valerie laughed. She turned back to her mother who was waiting impatiently by the door. ‘Thanks for waiting, ma. I'll make sure to be home earlier tomorrow.'

‘Yes, yes. There's dinner in the fridge. We went to the park this afternoon, so make sure he has a good bath tonight.'

‘Bye, ma!'

 

She glanced down at her schedule for the day. Her first client had just called to cancel. She had decided to use the time to follow up on all her open orders. She would check in with Dave and see if there were any production problems. She was going to call any customers whose orders were almost finished to arrange delivery dates. She was going to clean her desk and her drawers and water the plant in the corner. The list of things to do had been so clear in her mind, but every time she wanted to start on one of the items, her mind returned to the conversation with Darryl.