The Diviners

  He stops. Suddenly. Shuts up. Looks away.

  “You mean his name was Skinner?” Morag asks.

  “Don’t be dumb. Jules. His name was Jules. Skinner ain’t my real name.”

  “Why’d they call you it, then?”

  “Some say it’s ’cause I useda be so damn skinny. Some say it’s ’cause I am real good at skinning any damn t’ing, rabbit, muskrat, even deer. Want me to catch a gopher and show you?”

  Morag shudders. No–please. Not a gopher. He will do it and she will throw up. But he only laughs.

  “Scared, eh, Morag?”

  “Tell me about your grandad. Aw, come on.”

  He jumps to his feet and leaps over the tar barrel.

  “Shit, I can’t remember. It’s all crap. Anyhows, I wouldn’ tell you.”

  “Why not? Why not?”

  “It ain’t none of yer business. I tell you one t’ing, though. Long time before my grandad, there’s one Tonnerre they call Chevalier, and no man can ride like him and he is one helluva shot. My grandad, he tol’ my dad about that guy, there.”

  “What means Chevalier?”

  “Rider. It means Rider. Lazarus, he says so. Ah, what’s it to you?”

  Skinner begins to walk away, singing “The Old Strawberry Roan,” really really loud and sort of through his nose as well as his throat, like the cowboys singing on the radio.

  Rattle-rattle-crunk-crash-gronk. Slow horse steps. Grinding wheels, Christie and his wagon. Morag jumps up and heads for the chokeberry bushes, but he has seen her.

  “Jesus in sweet paradise, Morag, girl, what in the christly hell are you doing here? And who the fuck’s that? Oh–hello, Skinner. Found anything today?”

  Skinner scowls but does not reply. The crowbar and pliers still lie beside the tar barrel. The air reeks of smoke and rot. The sweat is snaking down Morag’s back and between her legs.

  Christie’s blue workshirt is rolled up at the sleeves, and the sweat trickles through the sandy hairs on his arms. He starts to unload the wagon, swallowing his spit with the effort of the work, his Adam’s apple yo-yoing in his throat. He is shovelling off a whole pile of eggshells, vegetable peelings, orange rinds, bones with shreds of cooked meat still on them. Skinner and Morag stand silent, watching.

  “Did I ever tell you,” Christie says, “how to tell the garbage, Morag, like telling fortunes?”

  “What?”

  Skinner snorts with laughter. Morag hates Christie. Maybe he will fall down, right now, this second, with a heart attack. He doesn’t. He is chortling, enjoying himself. He likes the sound of his own voice. With him, it’s either yak-yak-yakkity-yak or dead silence. No silence now. No such luck. Would it be worse if someone like Jamie Halpern or Stacey Cameron were here, listening? Yes. Let us be grateful for small mercies, Prin always says.

  “You know how some have the gift of the second sight?” Christie goes on. “Well, it’s the gift of the garbage-telling which I have myself, now. Watch this.”

  Christie shovels out the stuff onto a heap on the dump. Bends down to throw some of the bones with his hands.

  Morag cannot move. She is held there, not wanting to be there but wanting to listen all the same. Skinner isn’t grinning. He is just watching. Watching Christie. And listening.

  Christie speaks. Like a spiel. Only different.

  “Now you see these bones here, and you know what they mean? They mean Simon Pearl the lawyer’s got the money for steak. Yep, not so often, maybe, but one day a week. So although he’s letting on he’s as hard up as the next–he ain’t, no he ain’t, though it’s troubling to him, too. By their christly bloody garbage shall ye know them in their glory, is what I’m saying to you, every saintly mother’s son. And these chicken bones right here, now, they’ll be birds which have been given to Doc MacLeod for services he’s rendered to some farmer who couldn’t pay a bill if his life depended on it so he takes it out in poultry, well it’s better than baloney which is what a jesus lot of us gets served up on the table. And the huge amount of apple peels from the Reverend George McKee, now, means he gets a crate of apples from his Okanagan sister so they eat a lot of applesauce each summer at the manse, there, but they don’t put in a garden or they’d use the peels for compost, so the preacher really means it when he says the Lord provides. Now the paint tins from the Connors’ means the old man’s on the rampage and he’s painting like a devil all the kitchen chairs and suchlike, showing all of them around him that they’re lazy worthless sinners, but he’s painting out his anger, for he thinks this life is shit.”

  Finish.

  “Climb on,” Christie says. “I’m heading back.”

  Morag doesn’t want to. She would rather walk. But can’t say so in front of Skinner. Christie offers Skinner a home-rolled cigarette, and Skinner takes it. Without saying thanks. Christie doesn’t notice. He wouldn’t.

  “You know,” Christie says, as they go along past the cemetery, “I once saw a terrible thing. It was the worst thing I ever did see in this country. I am not counting the time in France in the War, do you see, for that was worse. Now, then, what is strange is that some people think I don’t see what goes into the bins outside their back gates. They put it in and that’s the end of it to them. But I take it out, do you see?”

  After the garbage-telling, this. Why can’t he shut up? Why can’t he just shut up? Crazy Christie. But he can’t shut up. He can’t, at times, and she knows it. She knows it, all right. What was it, that time, here? She won’t ask. Not her.

  “What was it, Christie?” she asks, not wanting to know at all, no not at all.

  It wasn’t terrible at all. It wouldn’t be terrible at all. It would just be Christie, like he sometimes is.

  “It was wrapped in a lot of newspapers,” Christie says.

  He stops and turns to look at both Morag and Skinner, Morag is sitting beside him on the wagon seat. Not saying a word. Skinner is sitting in the back part of the wagon, where all the awful stuff has been, just sitting there as though it didn’t matter to him what had been there. And looking at Christie. Listening. Not letting on.

  “Well,” Christie says, “the Lord only knows I would be better off keeping my trap shut. It was a newborn baby. Wrapped in newspapers, but it fell out. Dead, of course. Hadn’t gone its full term. It was that small, like a skinned rabbit.”

  “What’d you do with it?” Skinner.

  “Buried her. It was a girl.”

  “Where?” Morag cries, cries. “Buried her where?”

  “In the Nuisance Grounds,” Christie says, spitting into the dusty road. “That’s what it was, wasn’t it, a nuisance? Well, the hell with their consecrated ground.”

  Morag sits quiet. Thinking of what his hands have touched. She won’t think of it. Once she used to take Christie’s hand, crossing the street. She’s too big for that now, but even if she weren’t, she wouldn’t. Dead. Dead when born? Or what? What is dead, really? Do you know when you are?

  “Didn’t you ever say, Christie? I mean–I mean–”

  “Why? What good would that’ve done? I knew where it had come from. The girl, the one whose it was, she’d had enough hard talk, I wouldn’t doubt, from her people. She’s married now. Happily married. They say.”

  “Who?”

  “None of your business, girl.”

  Memorybank Movie: How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds

  Morag loves Jesus. And how. He is friendly and not stuck-up, is why. She does not love God. God is the one who decides which people have got to die, and when. Mrs. McKee in Sunday school says God is LOVE, but this is baloney. He is mean and gets mad at people for no reason at all, and Morag wouldn’t trust him as far as she can spit. Also, at the same time, she is scared of God. You pray at nights, and say “Dear God–”, like a letter but slipping in the Dear bit for other reasons as well. Does He really know what everybody is thinking? If so, it sure isn’t fair and is also very spooky.

  Jesus is another matter. Whatever anybody says of it, it was real
ly God who decided Jesus had to die like that. Who put it into the head of the soldier, then, to pierce His side?

  (Pierce? The blood all over the place, like shot gophers and) Who indeed? Three guesses. Jesus had a rough time. But when alive, He was okay to everybody, even sinners and hardup people and like that.

  Christie doesn’t care whether Morag goes to Sunday school or not. He wouldn’t. He never goes to church himself. Although a believer. But not liking the Reverend McKee. Prin goes to church. She wears her coat, whatever the weather, even in summer, because it covers her fat up. She says the singing does her good. Morag goes into the basement, where the Sunday school is held, while Prin goes upstairs to the church service.

  Winter, and Morag stamps the snow off her galoshes at the United Church door. She pulls her scarf down from around her nose and mouth, and peels off her mitts, covered with tiny hard red bubbles, wool and ice. Colder than a shit-house in hell. Christie’s saying. Mrs. McKee, who takes Morag’s Sunday school class, would not think that was funny. Still, Mrs. McKee doesn’t bawl people out, nor look at their clothes. Mrs. McKee’s clothes are none too hot, if it comes to that, old tweed skirts and kind of shrunken twin-sweater sets. Does Mrs. McKee like being the minister’s wife? Morag would hate it. Mrs. McKee, though tired-looking, doesn’t seem to mind. Should Morag show Mrs. McKee the poem she’s brought to show her? Would Mrs. McKee laugh? No. Mrs. McKee isn’t a laugher. Maybe.

  In the basement, the chairs are all set out in neat rows. The same old coloured paper pictures on the walls–they never change them. Morag doesn’t mind. She likes the same ones being there all the time. The Mothers of Salem Bringing Their Children to Jesus–a whole lot of ladies dressed in white sheets, with little kids scampering around, and Jesus (also in a white sheet and with that lovely-looking beard) lifting one hand as he suffers them (suffers?) to come unto Him. The Good Samaritan–an old guy in a blue and yellow striped dressing gown (sort of), leading a donkey on which is lying, draped across it, a very skinny guy who has closed eyes and terrible wounds pouring with blood. The Loaves and the Fishes–a huge big mob of people, men with different coloured beards black or blond, women carrying babies, lots of kids running around all over the place, and the Apostles looking really worried, but Jesus looking not worried at all, not by a long shot. He is standing there cool as a cucumber and raising one hand in the magic way and at his feet are two baskets, one with a few hunks of bread and the other with a few tiny fishes, and in a moment there will be a zillion loaves and a whole seaful of fishes because He can do anything.

  Mrs. McKee is talking to the Sunday school principal, at the front of the room. Morag slides in the door and waits. Mrs. McKee turns. Smiles.

  “You’re early this morning, Morag.”

  Morag nods.

  “Can you c’mere for a second, Mrs. McKee? Please.”

  “What is it?” Mrs. McKee walks to where Morag is standing.

  Morag hands the piece of scribbler paper to her. The poem is copied very neatly in best writing.

  The Wise Men.

  by Morag Gunn.

  VERSE ONE

  Despite the cold and wintry blast,

  To Bethlehem they came at last.

  And there amid the hay and straw,

  The baby Jesus was what they saw.

  “Why, this is just fine, Morag. I never knew you wrote poetry.” Surprised.

  “Sure. I write lots. I’ve got more at home. And stories. Would you–”

  “The only thing,” Mrs. McKee says, “is that it was a Far Eastern desert country, dear, so they wouldn’t have a wintry blast, would they?”

  Morag’s face–flames of shame. She snatches the paper back. “Wait–I’ll fix it.”

  She goes into the classroom where the tables and chairs are set out for each class. Sits down. Finds a pencil.

  Despite the desert sun’s cruel ray

  To Bethlehem they came that day.

  No good. It was night.

  Despite the heat of the desert (what?)

  To Bethlehem they came that night.

  Bright? White? Light? Might? Bite? Of course. Bright and light. Never mind the weather.

  Guided by the Star’s bright light

  To Bethlehem they came that night.

  Good. Fine. Much better. Morag goes out and hands the new version to Mrs. McKee. Who looks at it. One quick glance.

  “Much better, dear. Now we’d better get ready for the service. Sit with your class, dear.”

  The others have all come in while Morag was busy. She has not noticed them until this very instant.

  “Whatcha’ doing, Morag? Writing out I must not tell a lie four hundred times for the old bag?” Jamie Halpern, his face giggling behind his glasses.

  Morag says nothing. Crumples the page and stuffs it in her pocket.

  The singing. Carols. Morag sings loudly, loving the carols.

  Good Christian men rejoy-oy-oyce

  With heart and soul and voy-oy-oyce–

  When they get to the line Ox and ass before Him bow, Ross McVitie puts a hand to his bum. Morag glares at him. Ignorant slob.

  In class, Mrs. McKee tells them that one member of their class will be chosen to sing A SOLO at the grown-ups’ Christmas Eve service, and all of them will be in the choir. They will have to try out, those who want to be considered for the solo. They gather around the piano, the five who want to try, Morag among them. She has a good voice. Clear and can carry a tune perfectly. Also, a carrying voice. Christie says she would’ve made a good hog-caller, but he is just ignorant. They each sing a verse of “Once in Royal David’s.”

  “I’ll let you know next week,” Mrs. McKee says, “when I’ve considered thoroughly.”

  Morag knows it will be her. Or maybe it will, anyhow. At least, there’s a chance. Maybe.

  “I want to read you a poem today, children,” Mrs. McKee says, when they are all around the table again.

  Morag’s heart quits beating. Hers? She will faint. A talented poem written by one of our members, class. The others will stare. Who’d have thought it? Old Morag. Gee.

  “It is by the English poet, Hilaire Belloc,” Mrs. McKee’s gooey voice says, and she opens a book.

  When Jesus Christ was four years old,

  The angels brought him toys of gold,

  Which no man ever had bought or sold.

  And yet with these He would not play,

  He made Him small fowl out of clay,

  And blessed them till they flew away….

  There is more, and some words in Latin, which Mrs. McKee explains, but Morag isn’t listening now. At home, Morag takes off her galoshes and coat. Goes to the stove.

  “What’s that you’re burning, Morag?” Prin asks, alarmed.

  “Nothing. Just nothing.”

  Morag goes to her room. Sits thinking. Wants to cry, but will not, must not. Blessed them till they flew away. Oh. How could anybody write anything that good?

  She has shown “The Wise Men” to Mrs. McKee, and there is no way she can unshow it.

  Next Sunday, the verdict. Vanessa MacLeod will sing the solo.

  Vanessa MacLeod! A crow with a sore throat could sing better than what she could. An old bullfrog honk-honking out there in the Wachakwa could sing better, even. It isn’t fair.

  “It’s not fair, Christie,” Morag rages, at home.

  Christie cleans his horrible teeth with a straw out of the broom, a wonder his gums don’t rot, dirty old broom like that.

  “If you expect things to be fair, you’ll be waiting until hell freezes over. Anyways, has she got such a lousy voice, then?”

  “Well. I guess not. But mine’s just as good.”

  Would Mrs. McKee think Morag would look okay, standing up there alone in the choir loft? Would Mrs. McKee be that way? Sure. You bet. Any of them would. Wouldn’t they?

  On the night, Morag decides to go and be in the choir after all. Vanessa, all gotten up in a pleated tartan skirt with straps over the shoulders and a white
blouse with a frill at the front, rises to sing. Her hands, Morag sees, are trembling. She’s nervous. Ha ha. Morag hopes that something really awful will happen to Vanessa. But it doesn’t. She sings a crappy song but she never misses a note.

  Christ was once a little baby

  Jus’ like you an’ me

  Boy, whoever wrote that song was sure plenty dumb. Serve Vanessa right, having to sing a dumb song like that.

  It is a month later. School. Roll call. Vanessa MacLeod? Absent. Morag listens to the recess-time whispers.

  “Her dad’s died.”

  At home, Christie blowing his nose on his fingers, stepping outside to throw the snot on the snow already dirtied with yellow dog-piss, comes back into the kitchen and says it.

  “Well, then, Doc MacLeod’s gone to his ancestors. Pneumonia. He was quite a man, there. You could of had many a worse.”

  Morag sits at the table in the warm stove-crackling kitchen. But has to go upstairs to the freezing bedroom.

  She never meant never meant never meant and a long time ago what was it when and Dr. MacLeod was there and

  God knows what you are thinking. He knows, all right all right. But is mean. Doesn’t care. Or understand.

  Vanessa returns to school. Morag neither looks at her nor speaks to her. Want to but cannot. Vanessa does not notice. She has never spoken to Morag much, anyway. Vanessa does not talk much to anyone, now, for quite a while. Morag watches. From a long way off.

  Memorybank Movie: Christie and Red Biddy

  and Piper Gunn and Clowny MacPherson

  Christie has a jug of red biddy. Prin has waddled off to bed, not approving. Morag is doing her homework. The ceiling bulb isn’t very bright and she has to bend close over the geography book to read the print which flickers in front of her eyes. Christie, across the table, brings down one fist–clump. Taking care with the other hand to hold onto the grey bottle-jug which once long ago used to hold vinegar.