Dressing for Don Pedro, Part II

(continued from Part I)

And so the battle lines were drawn, so long ago, it seemed to Lupe now, standing between her weeping aunts, as the padre intoned Latin - Rest in Peace, Lupe translated. Peace! Nana had found it now, after all those months of watchfulness; Aunt Dora and Aunt Mercy, each trying to outmaneuver the other, Aunt Mercy fawning, honey-tongued; Aunt Dora too proud to stoop to flattery, but newly showing a dutiful respect, a daughterly attention to Nana's needs; soups and atoles, clean laundry and warm blankets for her knees, a caring belied by the unveiled hate in her eyes when she thought herself unobserved.

But Lupe had seen, and most devotedly guarded her Nana; first up in the morning, tapping at Nana's door, hearing her ragged breathing falter, strengthen, become a voice - "Yes?" - entering the darkened room full of the heavy odors of sleep and spikenard, and drawing back the curtains to flood the face on the pillow with sunlight, to see the faded brown eyes, awake and smiling: everything is all right. Early home from school, dashing breathless up the stairs and into that open door, patient through the long, slow afternoons with embroidery and school books, the drowsy evenings, before the final kiss on Nana's forehead, scanty hair tumbling over the pillow, teeth in the glass beside the bed.

"Night, Nana."

"Night, child."

Nana was finishing her pillow, filling in the last green petal with a tidy satin stitch, when Lupe pushed aside her Physics textbook, her assignment postponed for now, and said, "Nana, tell me about Great-Grandfather and you. When you were young. When you got married; what was it like?"

"Ah, child, what's there to tell?" Nana put her embroidery hoop down on her lap. "A girl, a man. Like always."

"How old were you, Nana?"

"I was fourteen, my Pedro was twenty-three. He had a good job at the bakery, and his own house - two rooms, child, it was a long time ago. He used to sing to me, nonsense about my eyes; I would pretend not to notice him until he got permission from my father, but I couldn't sleep for dreaming about him. And then we had to wait to get married until my clothes were done, the best my father could afford."

"Great-Grandfather didn't buy them, then?"

"No, that's the Spanish style. We went by the old customs: I wore all my wealth, although Pedro said I was beautiful the way he'd first seen me, barefoot and dusty from the road, carrying the corn to the molino." Nana picked up her fabric and made a few more stitches, running the final one under the length of the petal, then snipped her thread. "There, that's done."

"Now you tell me, Lupe. Are you going to marry Alexander?"

"No, Nana."

Lupe had never told Nana about Alexander, how had she known? But it was nothing serious, or so she had believed; a few evenings at the movies, a dance and a kiss or two at parties, talking over coffee after classes, at least until she had started to come straight home to Nana. Now he was meeting her every day for lunch, quite insistent that they get married as soon as she graduated.

Aunt Dora would be glad to be shut of her: Lupe had long ago overheard Aunt Dora explaining to a visitor that it was only because the old lady insisted that Lupe was tolerated in the house, bastard child of a servant girl that she was, said Aunt Dora, "gotten on her by my nephew, the slut claimed, but these girls will say anything, and if he agreed, well more fool him. At least he never legally adopted the brat, just foisted her off on his grandmother to raise. She'll be lucky to get a man from a decent family," Aunt Dora had said, "she should grab him before he thinks better of it." Yes, Aunt Dora would be glad to see her married. But no.

"No, Nana," she repeated. "I'm going to go on to University. I'm going to be an architect."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Lupe," Nana said a few evenings later, "I need your help."

"Yes, Nana?" scrambling off the bed, ready to thread another embroidery needle.

"No, not now. Tomorrow. Can you come shopping with me?"

So Lupe had missed her classes (and lunch with Alex) and joined Nana in the back seat of a green taxi, surprising a driver by now accustomed to his lone passenger and apparently to her routine, for, without more instructions than "the bank, Carlos," he deposited them on the steps of a stone and glass building where a dapper little man, grey-haired but spry as a twenty-year-old, dashed across the sidewalk to open the door of the car. "My lawyer," murmured Nana.

Inside the bank, the manager, clearly expecting them, met them halfway across the lobby and escorted them to his office, where three chairs were already set out. The lawyer introduced himself - Mr. Lopez - and the bank manager - Mr. Sotelo - both men rising again from their chairs to shake Lupe's hand formally, before he snapped open his briefcase and handed a sheaf of paper to Nana, who nodded briskly and began to read.

The others waited silently. Lupe sat rigid on the front of her chair; she didn't know what to do with her hands. A truck rattled by on the street outside. In the room, the pages rustled as Nana laid them one by one on the desk in front of her, face down. Finally, she nodded once more to Mr. Lopez. "Good," she said, and, "Now, child," turning slightly in her chair.

"Yes, Nana?"

"Lupe, I've brought you here today because I'm going to die soon."

"No, Nana, not yet..."

"Silence, child. I'm going to die with my affairs in order. No wills for your Aunts to contest, saying that I was old and didn't know what I was doing, no court cases to make Mr. Lopez here rich, no digging up old stories, nothing. Mr. Lopez?" stretching out a hand, palm up, in his direction.

"Your great-grandmother," said Mr. Lopez, "has the house and bakery in trust. It was to go to your uncle, and now will pass to his widow. Besides that, your great-grandmother owns and has the disposal of her savings -"

"I've got my own use for that," said Nana.

"...considerable savings; I would still recommend a will," he continued.

"No need," said Nana.

"...and the house in Mexico City. This she wishes to give to you."

"It was to go to your father, Lupe."

"She feels that her daughter-in-law, your aunt, would find reasons to contest this item,"

"Hold it up for years," said Nana.

"...so she wants you to have it now."

"If you're careful, child, the rent will pay your way through University."

"Nana, I..."

"Silence, child. Now, where do I sign?"

So the deed was signed over and locked away in a safety deposit box, arrangements were made for rents to be paid into Lupe's account, hands were shaken all around, the bank manager declared himself delighted to have been of service, and Mr. Lopez escorted the women out to the sidewalk and the waiting taxi, still remonstrating with Nana about the need for a will, even as he shook her hand once more through the window of the car. They had lunch in a quiet restaurant just off the main plaza, where Nana talked about the city as it had been fifty years ago and refused to discuss the morning's business: "Silence, child," she repeated. Later they walked down the block to a dry-goods store where Nana bought wool yarn in red and burgundy and a deep red-black; then Carlos was back with the taxi to drive them home, Nana cat-napping in the back seat, Lupe carrying Nana's shopping bag and, clutched tightly, her old leather purse, now enriched by an envelope containing a bank book and the key to a safety-deposit box.

The work on the quechemetl started the next morning; when Lupe came home she found Nana framed by tall stalks of white flowers next to the window, her red and burgundy wools glowing jewel-like in the shaft of afternoon sunlight. In the centre front of the white cotton cape, a double-headed bird was taking birth, beaks pointing east and west, wings outstretched. Nana looked up, smiling, as Lupe dropped her school bag on the bed. "See, Lupe," she said, "it won't be too plain, after all."

Nana worked from no visible pattern, her needles following sure-footed a trail blazed in long-abandoned memory, day by day discovering a magical landscape where many-antlered deer cavorted next to self-absorbed swans, where vermilion rabbits and peacocks paraded among improbable flowers, and sleepless owls glared at chattering doves. She was tiring now; she slept often, needle and fabric slipping from her hands, losing themselves among the cushions of her chair. The wools tore at her fingertips until they were raw, as red themselves as the merry fauna of her paradise. But she held herself to her toil, morning and night. "I don't have time, child," she said when Lupe suggested a rest to let her fingers heal. "My Pedro is waiting."

For Lupe, also, time was short. Before the quechemetl was finished, summer had come, and Lupe was preparing for her final exams, studying long into the nights. At lunch with Alexander, her eyes strayed to her notes while he talked about his job prospects. She was pale; there were purple circles under her eyes. Her neck was stiff.

"You walk like an old lady, like your Nana," grumbled Alex. "You're studying too hard, Lupe. Why? Ruining your beauty, and what for, my life? What for? You don't need to go to University; I'll have a good job, I'll take care of you. Marry me, Lupe, and forget all this."

But Lupe went back to her old lady, her Nana, and helped her put on her heavy wool skirt, folding the nine pleats in front as she had been taught, and winding the belt tight around the waist.

"Now, Lupe, pin all the pleats down, top and bottom, and mark the limits of the fold in back," Nana said, and when the pins were in place, securely inserted through all three layers of fabric, "Now, undo the belt and help me out, but carefully, carefully."

The skirt was laid out on the bed and Lupe went back to redden her eyes over her textbooks, while Nana basted the pleats. They both went to bed very late that night.

Aunt Mercy's voice, raised in saccharine reproaches, was echoing down the stairway when Lupe came home the next afternoon. "...never saying a word, and dear Dora so worried; anything could happen to you, out all alone..." Aunt Mercy said, and "Ah, Lupe, here you are," as Lupe dropped her bag on the bed and went to kiss her Nana's downturned forehead.

"Your Nana has been very naughty today," Aunt Mercy said. "A taxi brought her home, sound asleep. She couldn't even tell the driver where she wanted to go, just stumbled into the back seat and fell asleep with the door open. Alone, downtown, and us here..."

"Wise of her to always take the same taxi, isn't it?" interrupted Lupe.

"But Dora and I; I would be glad..."

"Mercedes, I won't go out again." Nana's voice was submissive enough, but her eyes challenged, waved banners, triumphed. "You can tell Dora," she said, "I'll stay home now. Until they carry me out in that," waving carelessly in the direction of her coffin.

"Well!" huffed Aunt Mercy, then partially recovering, "That's good; I mean, you'll be safe, here at home, I mean; I'll tell Dora," extricating herself, escaping those sardonic eyes.

"Child," said Nana, after a pause, "can you thread a needle for me? I've got work to do."

"Yes, Nana." Lupe took the needle and the length of black thread from Nana's hand, and held them up to the window. She poked the end of thread at the gleam of light in the eye of the needle, and missed, twice. Her hand was shaking. She rested it on the window sill, and turned back.

"Nana?"

"Yes, child?"

"Nana, I..." hesitating, then bursting out; "It's not fair! You don't have to stay home just because my aunts scold! Don't listen to them, Nana!"

"Don't fret, child. I finished what I had to do. Their scolding?" Nana shooed away an imaginary fly. She grinned suddenly, a wicked, little-girl grin, full of mischief. Lupe had a sudden vision of her, fourteen years old, barefoot, hands on black-skirted hips, tongue stuck out at a tormentor; just so her Pedro, a young man himself, must have seen her and loved her; just so she must have said, "Let them scold! If they only knew!" The grin faded, and Nana was her Nana again, saying more soberly, "I closed out my account at the bank today. And paid my lawyer. I'm finished everything but the skirt."

"What do you have to do to the skirt, Nana? I know how to put it on you."

"I'm going to sew down the pleats and line them with paper so they hold their shape, lying down. It has to be perfect for my Pedro, Lupe."

"I'll help, Nana. I can do that."

"No, child. My own hands. All my wealth. My own...hands." Nana's head slumped forward. She was asleep.
Lupe threaded the needle finally, jabbed it into Nana's green velvet pincushion, and took out her books. She had a Math exam in the morning.

Nana didn't go to Lupe's graduation. She was too sleepy, she said. She was very happy, very proud, she said, but too tired. She set Lupe burrowing deep into the top shelf of her wardrobe, propelling the scent of mothballs into the room to vie for dominance with the spikenard, searching for a carved wooden box, which found, brought down and opened, disclosed a set of ornate silver earrings, black with the tarnish of many years. "My Pedro gave them to me," said Nana. "Wear them for me."

Polished, the earrings, while not in style, suited Lupe's face; with her hair smoothed up for the academic cap, they danced in incongruous light-heartedness, eliciting a sour grimace from Aunt Dora. "Entirely inappropriate," was her verdict, but Lupe tossed her head to hear the jingle of silver birds, and went off to catch a taxi.

After the ceremonies, Lupe walked in the park with Alex, taking the long way home, for once. It was quiet under the trees after the babel of voices at school and the roar and hooting of traffic; here the leaves whispered in the wind, birds twittered, feet crunched softly on crushed lava walks. The wind smelled of new-mown grass. Alex swept fallen leaves off a bench with the side of his hand. They sat.

"So what's your decision?" Alex said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're finished. You've graduated. Now, can we get married?"

"I'm going to University, Alex."

"But why? I love you the way you are."

"Alex." How could she explain this? She spoke slowly, weighing the words as they came to her. "You only see part of me. The schoolgirl. The woman, maybe. The architect I will become is another part. When I marry, I want to bring everything, all of me, into it. If you want me, you'll have to wait."

"But I want you now."

"No, Alex."

The letter from the University came two weeks later. Lupe was accepted into the School of Architecture. She went into Mexico City to pre-register, and to find a place to stay; she rented a room in a private house near University City, almost walking distance, with meals included for a price she could afford. She went home and packed her suitcases. She wouldn't be taking much; a dozen or so books, a few clothes, a keepsake or two. Her school uniforms and textbooks she gave away.

All too soon, she was ready. But now she doubted. She sat one long evening in Nana's room, pretending to read a magazine, watching Nana's fingers push and pull the needle through the black wool. The pleats were all firmly in place, now, the triple fold in back tacked down top and bottom, and Nana had cut the skirt all the way up the centre back; so it could be wrapped around her easily, she said. Now she was blanket-stitching the cut edge, nodding off at intervals, waking soon to pick up her needle again. In the coffin, the pillow lay at the head, the quechemetl folded beside it, the belt rolled in a spiral on top.

Nana was cold, these days, in spite of the mid-summer heat, and the windows were kept tightly closed. The mixed odors of wood, wool, spikenard and mothballs, with no way to escape, became a concentrated essence of deathwatch, permeating the whole house, clinging to Lupe's hair and skin, infecting her dreams.

"Nana."

"Yes, child?"

"I don't think I should go, after all, Nana. I don't like to think of leaving you alone here. With Aunt Dora. I want to stay with you."

"Nonsense, my Lupe. Look; I'm almost finished! Less than half a seam to go." She held it up, measuring it against her arm, fingertip to elbow. "Oh, and Lupe..."

"Yes, Nana?"

"When you lay me out, remember: my feet should be bare; don't make me wear these old shoes for all those years."

"No, Nana."

"And weave wool into my braid. There's enough left from the quechemetl."

"Yes, Nana."

"And Lupe, don't look so mournful. I've had a good life, and you to cheer my last days. And my Pedro waiting for me. Be happy for me, Lupe."

"Yes, Nana." But a chill finger had brushed her cheek. She shivered in the heat. Nana was asleep again, and Lupe slid off the bed and stole from the room.

The next morning the skirt was finished. Lupe folded it neatly and added it to the collection in the coffin. She cut two lengths of burgundy wool for Nana's braid and laid them on the pillow.

Two nights later, Nana died in her sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was early afternoon and Lupe was dressing her Nana for visitors. The doctor had come and gone, the windows had been thrown open, the spikenard removed to the living room, where the coffin would soon be carried. Aunt Dora had shut herself in her room with the telephone. Lupe was alone with her Nana for the last time.

She worked quickly, washing, combing, clipping nails; doing for Nana what she could no longer do for herself. Then the clothes: Nana's best pink blouse, buttoned up to the neck for warmth; the quechemetl; a silky half-slip, Lupe's, actually, because the wool skirt would be itchy. The hair: Lupe brushed it gently back, careful not to pull, and made a long, thick braid in back, burgundy and grey twined together and draped forwards over the left shoulder.

Now she lifted her Nana, so light, like a corncob doll, and moved her to her silk-lined box, positioned her head comfortably on the pillow, straightened her limbs, bare feet together, hands for now at her sides.

The skirt was next; Lupe unfolded it, brushing away the beginnings of a crease, feeling the weight; no wonder Nana had been tired! At the top of one of the pleats, several stitches had pulled, no doubt due to a faulty knot Nana had not seen, black on black as it was. An edge of white paper was visible; it would have to be covered. Lupe pushed at it with a fingertip, then pulled instead. This was good, white, heavy paper; why did Nana not use brown wrapping paper?

She had to pull out a few more stitches, but she winkled the paper rapidly out of its sheath and unfolded it. And gasped. "Pay to the Bearer," it read. The sum would buy Lupe a good car. She calculated quickly: nine pleats, nine bearer bonds; the price of a house!

And now she understood. Nana's voice came back to her; "All my wealth," she had said, "I wore all my wealth." And again, "If only they knew! How they would scold!"

Lupe chuckled then, and quickly refolded the bond and inserted it into its pleat. A few stitches, and it was safely hidden. She smoothed the skirt around Nana's hips, tugged it straight at the hemline, snapped the belt around the waist, adjusted the point of the quechemetl, and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

Nana was beautiful, she thought, so peaceful, so - was that a hint of a grin on those still lips? - yes, so satisfied.

"Wait, Nana! You forgot something!" Lupe said, and ran to her room, returning with a small framed photo of herself. She arranged it in Nana's hands, now clasped under the quechemetl. "Give my love to Great-Grandfather," she said, bending to kiss Nana's forehead one last time.

She went to find Aunt Dora. "Nana's ready to go now," she said.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The diggers were working now, shoveling clods rapidly into the grave. At first, stones had drummed hollowly on the wooden coffin, but now the only sound was the rhythmic chick-shud, chick-shud, shovel and clod. Lupe stood watching the dirt creep up the sides of the hole. A hand touched her elbow. Alexander.

"Are you coming? We're waiting for you," he said.

At the entrance to the cemetery, the last of the mourners slammed a car door. A window rolled down, and a black-gloved hand beckoned impatiently.

"Do me a favour, Alex?" Lupe said. "Tell them to go without me. And call me a taxi. I have to take my suitcases to the bus depot."

Halfway back to the gate, Lupe turned to wave, one last wave. Above the eucalyptus, the vultures were circling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stories of Mexico
© Susannah Anderson, 1999

Dressing for Don Pedro

When the funeral procession rolled through the graveyard gates, the vultures took to the air, wheeling with raucous grumblings around the giant eucalyptus, finally settling in the highest branches. Their scabrous wings made irregular clapping sounds, perfunctory and belated applause for the corpse in her casket, the eulogy, perhaps for the amateur theatrics of the mourners below.

Aunt Dora stumbled as she stepped out of the lead car, and Lupe hurried around to take her arm, steadying her across the uneven ground. Aunt Dora, of course, could barely see, blinded as she was by tears, and by the scrap of black lace she was using as a handkerchief. Raspy black lace, inabsorbent, more suited to irritate, to sandpaper those drowning eyes, to redden the puffy lids.

Behind them, looking like a salesman in a black suit and tie, Alexander murmured encouraging words to Aunt Mercedes, who strode along ignoring him angrily, Lupe could see when she looked back; furious, probably at having had to cede first place in the procession to Aunt Dora, who was, after all, the widow of the defunct's son, not just a second cousin, like Mercedes.

It was Aunt Mercy's voice, though, Lupe was sure, that she heard whispering in the kitchen last night, while Lupe sat silently in the living room, watching the last candle guttering out at the head of the coffin, her great-grandmother lying serene now, triumphant in all her finery. And the whispers in the kitchen, murmurs rising and falling, respects paid, condolences offered, muted sobs, and then a new voice, more penetrating, though still sibilant: "My dear Dora! Such a tragedy! How terrible for you!" A murmur of assent, then: "Yes, we'll miss her. But what a job she has left you! That room! All that stuff to clean out! It's too much for you, my dear Dora; I'll come and help you. No," after a protesting mumble from Aunt Dora, "no, I insist!"

She would, Lupe had thought, she wants to be there when they go through Nana's room, to be present when the deeds are found, the deeds to the house and the bakery, the house in Mexico City. She wants to be the first to find the cash hidden under the mattress; don't all old people hide money there? And the key to the safety deposit box. And most of all, a new will, she's sure there must be one, hidden between the pages of the missal or secreted among the folds of long unused tablecloths, starched and ironed and folded in tissue in eternal readiness for guests that would never again sit at a table. Surely a will would be found there, surely Aunt Mercy's assiduous visits over the last year, her frequent little gifts; "...just brought you a teeny bunch of grapes, look how luscious, a dab of lotion for your hands in this dry weather, a drop of wine for the cold, my dear Nana," surely they must have paid off!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lupe knew they hadn't: Nana wasn't blind, or the doddering old fool that Aunt Dora said she was, after she fell down the stairs: "Was pushed," said Nana, "Dora pushed me" but Aunt Dora had been away at the other end of the house in her bedroom at the time, a fact attested to by the maid, who had heard Dora open her door and rush out, after the clatter on the staircase, after that terrible wail from the old lady. "Was pushed," insisted Nana, but the doctor agreed with Aunt Dora; after all, Nana was over ninety, unsteady on her feet and easily confused. It was a miracle she survived, so fragile and yet back on her feet the next day, albeit with a splint on her thumb and a large purple bruise on her cheek, still faintly discernible, even as they shut the lid on her coffin, almost a year later.

At the gravesite, a rectangular pit had been prepared to the left of Great-grandfather's headstone, the clay still damp at the bottom, baked dry on the mound alongside. The pall-bearers, Aunt Dora's two sons, two of Mercy's, lowered the coffin onto its trestle, hands involuntarily straying to middle-aged backs. The flowers were removed, laid out on the mound, the movement sending waves of cloying scent into the dusty air, spikenard and roses drawing an invisible curtain, enclosing the graves, the coffin, the mound and the mourners in their secret woe.

Lupe remembered the day she had come home from school, sunburned , eyes smarting from dust and glare and exhaust fumes, opening the street door, relaxing in the flow of cool air dropping down the staircase in its rush for the exit she had provided, tensing again as she identified the aroma it carried; spikenard, the flower of death. She had rushed up the stairs then, abandoning her school bag in the open doorway, tumbling breathless into Nana's room, to find Nana sitting tranquilly in her stiff-backed chair between the bed and the coffin, now buried in a great heap of spikenard.

"Nana! Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right, child. Now go down and shut that door," voice strong and confident, eyes bright, still in command of herself and her household.

Aunt Dora, of course, had her own opinion: "The woman is crazy!" she exclaimed down in the bakery for all to hear; "Last month saying she was pushed downstairs, next ordering her own coffin and having it delivered and set up in her bedroom -in her bedroom, if you can believe it! - now the flowers, spikenard ordered for every day until she dies! It's not to be tolerated!"; this last pressing her left hand to her forehead, elbow high, right hand flung outward; a flamboyant gesture of despair, wilting suddenly as she turned and saw her niece. Lupe, holding a tray half-filled with golden rolls, stood startled into stillness, the tongs poised over the bin, forgotten now in her sudden alarm and doubt.

From then on, Lupe took to sitting evenings in Nana's room, cross-legged on the foot of the bed with her books spread around her or piled on the floor, studying diligently, but every now and again glancing up, sometimes feeling alert eyes drawing her, at times made uneasy by a change in Nana's breathing, looking up to see the grey head drooping, chin on chest, that chest still rising and falling gently in this room where Nana waited for death.

But not yet. For now there was a new purpose in her step, an interest in life that had been missing since Great-Grandfather had been gone. The next morning, while Lupe was at school and Aunt Dora had gone to the market for the day's fresh vegetables, Nana phoned for a taxi; the cashier in the bakery had seen her through the window, the driver solicitously helping her into the back seat, settling her bag and her cane, seeing that her skirt was inside before shutting the door on her and driving her away. And she was not to be found; though Aunt Dora had phoned every member of the family, and all her friends, not one had seen her, until there she was in the early afternoon, in the same taxi, and obviously much pleased with herself, but so tired that she fell asleep in the midst of Aunt Dora's vehement scolding.

Nana would not say where she had been, not for Aunt Dora's threats, nor Aunt Mercy's coaxing, nor even Lupe's wide-eyed interest, limiting herself to quiet, inward focused smiles, and when much pressed, an announcement that she was going to bed early tonight, and would they all please get out of her bedroom, so she could undress.

And three days later, she went out again. This time she brought back purchases; a meter of heavy satin, creamy white to match the lining of her coffin, embroidery threads, new needles, "Something to keep me out of trouble," she said, and retired to her room to trace out flower patterns.

"What is it going to be, Nana?" asked Lupe that evening, as they sat companionably together, both working.

"A pillow for my head. In the coffin." And Lupe was suddenly embarrassed, not knowing what to say, not willing to say anything that would acknowledge the presence of that wood and chrome box, the flowers at its head and feet, the lid now thrown open to expose the place where Nana would one day lie. Lupe bent over her books, flipped pages, scribbled down frantic notes, looking up finally to Nana's amused glance.

"It's a long time to sleep without a pillow, child," she said. "A long, long time."

A week later, a peasant woman, strayed somehow from the Friday market, with a large bundle wrapped in a reboso on her back, and a grimy toddler clinging to her apron, rang the downstairs doorbell, asking for the "señora". When Aunt Dora, not a little annoyed at the interruption, went down to get rid of her, it was found that the woman had a package for "the older one, the very old señora," and Aunt Dora had to stomp back up to notify Nana, then down and up again, a double trip made necessary by her distrust of anyone in plastic shoes and wool-woven braids; how else could she be sure that the person didn't just pretend to shut the door, leaving it ajar for every thief and ruffian to come in?

The bundle, unwrapped, disclosed a length of hand-loomed black wool, still carrying the odor of the sheep it came from, blanket-stitched into a large circle: the traditional skirt of the tribal people of the area. With it was a narrow belt, woven in an elaborate design of stylized flowers and geometric figures, maybe birds, the warp a pinkish white, the woof in deep burgundy and red, knotted into a fringe at both ends. Nana would not be satisfied until she had tried it on, with the assistance of the weaver and Lupe, and had been instructed in the proper manner of forming the triple fold of fabric at the back, the nine deep pleats across the front: "Watch carefully, Lupe, you'll have to help me later," said Nana. Then with the skirt held in place - this took three hands, at first, until - "Ah! I remember now!" said Nana, holding the belt in one loop around her waist with the left hand and awkwardly reforming the pleats with the other; "Now bring the belt around once more, child, and pull it tight." Another loop, and the ends were tucked in, hands were removed, and the skirt held. "Now the quechemetl, did you bring it?" asked Nana, and the peasant woman dug once more into her reboso, producing a small white cotton cape, unadorned, which was slipped over Nana's head. The points were adjusted to hang centre front and back, just below the belt line. "Perfect!" said Nana.

"But, Nana..."

"Hush, child. Later."

And they helped her out of the skirt and cape, set her down, somewhat breathless, to recover in her solid chair, while the woman re-folded the clothes, and Lupe went to bring Nana's purse from the wardrobe.

"But, Nana," Lupe repeated, coming back into the room after escorting the weaver downstairs.

"Yes, child?"

"But the cape is so plain, Nana. And did you wear those clothes before? Why did you buy them? They're too heavy for you!"

"One thing at a time, my Lupe! Yes, I wore a skirt like this one, many many years ago, forty at least. Dora will remember. I wore the skirt the day I married, Dora won't remember that, a new skirt and quechemetl, especially made for my wedding day, very beautiful I was, and my Pedro - your great-grandfather - so handsome!"

"But why now, Nana?"

"Now? My Pedro is gone, but I will be joining him soon. I want to meet him in my bridal outfit. He'll remember."

"But the cape..."

"Child, child, so many questions! Wait and see. Just wait."

"It's indecent!" stormed Aunt Dora, at supper the next evening; "A wedding dress for her burial! The idea! And then, a native costume! Does she want to shame the whole family?" All this addressed to Aunt Mercy, who was visiting, Aunt Dora being by now beyond speaking to Nana, or even to Lupe, whom she plainly regarded as an accomplice.

But Aunt Mercy, playing out her new role as loving niece, supported Nana: "But, Dora, if it's her last wish? Everyone is entitled to last wishes! And besides, it's not as if she will be seen, with the lid..."

"Open casket," said Nana. "I've already instructed my lawyer." And she returned her attention to her bowl of soup, the clink of her spoon against the china the only sound now in the room.

Aunt Dora sat with her cup half way to her lips, eyes widened; Lupe read consternation on her face, consternation and wrath, blazing momentarily, then quickly hooded. Then the cup chunked on the table, too hard; coffee slopped over on the tablecloth, and dripped on the floor. "She went out again today," Aunt Dora said.

Lupe got up and went to the kitchen for a cloth to mop up with. When she returned, Aunt Mercy was discussing the price of vegetables in the market - outrageous, she declared, simply outrageous!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued ...

Stories of Mexico
© Susannah Anderson, 1999

Fish Story

This is a true story, insofar as I am reporting what I saw and what was told to me. For the part that is hearsay, you will have to judge for yourself.

I was thirteen or thereabouts. We were living in one of the two houses belonging to a long-abandoned cannery, on our own island across the channel from Nootka Island. Our only neighbours were the Randalls next door, with their two little boys, and the Augusts in a floathouse moored on the beach; they had three girls. Total population: 14.

The “town” was crammed into a dimple in the coastline: a small flat area between two creeks, the cannery on pilings over the water, the dock enclosing a harbour barely big enough for our pair of boats. A rocky cliff shielded the bay from the north; beyond was a smaller inlet with its own few yards of beach and a mossy bank. We children sometimes scrambled through the bush to picnic there.

To the south there was nothing. Mountainsides plunging into the sea. Douglas fir cut off abruptly at the high-tide line. Spray hissing over black rocks. Perilous waters, impassible forests. No place for humans.

One Saturday afternoon Mom took the canoe out alone and went south. I didn’t see her go, but I remember how I looked up from catching crabs on the beach and saw her coming home. First, the prow of the canoe appearing from beyond the promontory, a green triangle with a tiny bow wave, then Mom kneeling amidships, back straight, paddling fast. When she rounded the end of the wharf and saw me watching, she raised her paddle high in the air. I waved back, and she dipped the paddle again and spun in to her landing. I went back to my rock-turning.

When I went into the house later, Dad was in the kitchen gutting a large salmon, and Mom was leaning over the counter, talking excitedly. This is her tale:

She had gone out for a quiet paddle, heading straight out across the channel, but once she was beyond the shelter of the bay, she saw a pod of seals just off the coast to the south. She turned and went towards them. As she approached, she saw that they were playing; climbing onto the rocks and diving off, leaping and cavorting in the water. They didn’t seem to notice Mom in the canoe.

She drew closer, paddling as quietly as she was able. The seals ignored her. They were throwing something repeatedly into the air; it looked like a kids’ game of catch. Mom held her paddle still, just steering as she drifted closer. Occasionally, she took a small stroke, a slow, gentle push in the right direction.

The game went on. Now Mom could see that the seals were throwing fish, flipping the live salmon out of the water, snatching them before they escaped, tossing them into the air again. Mom eased in closer, almost holding her breath. The seals made way for the canoe until she was right in the centre of the pod. And the game went on.

How long she floated there, she wasn’t sure. The seals barked and splashed, dove under the canoe and came up on the other side, curved and danced around her. Salmon flew.

And then – thud! – a fish landed in the canoe and writhed between the ribs. The seals stopped their play. They looked at Mom; she looked back at them. Nobody moved. After a while, Mom said, “Thank you,” turned and paddled out of the circle. When she glanced back, the water was empty; the seals were gone.

Mom told us – she swore it – that the salmon was a gift. It didn’t land in her canoe by accident, she said; she was convinced that the seals knew what they were doing. It was a good salmon, too; firm, pink meat, shiny scales. And not a tooth mark on it.

Fishermen are notorious for stretching the truth. But Mom was no fisherman; as far as I know, she had never even baited a hook. You may believe her story or not, as you like. I know what I know: I ate my share of the salmon.


Stories of childhood
© Susannah Anderson, 2004

Listen up, Oso Bear!

(Since it's Easter, I'm posting a poem written for my grandson, Erik, who was 5 years old at the time. "Oso" means "bear", and Oso Bear was his teddy.)

What's this I'm hearing,
    Oso Bear?
Such behaviour,
    Oso Bear!
What Erik tells me - is it true?
Is this something bears should do?
Is your mother proud of you,
    Oso Bear?

You've been nibbling - did you dare?
Chocolate candies in your lair.
Easter eggs that Mommy hid,
Chocolate bunnies for a kid,
You've been biting - Yes, you did!
    Oso Bear.

Good bears eat berries,
    Oso Bear,
From the forest,
    Oso Bear.
Blackberries with purple juice,
Strawberries, or you can choose
Thimble, huckle, logan, goose,
    Oso Bear.

Your big cousin, grizzly bear,
Flips a salmon in the air,
Shimmery trout from quiet pools,
Oolichan that swim in schools.
Bears eat fish, if they aren't fools,
    Oso Bear.

What's that you tell me,
    Oso Bear?
Don't like seafood,
    Oso Bear?
But chocolate eggs are just no good-
For bears, that is; I think you should
Try ants or termites. Sure you could,
    Oso Bear!

Have you tried honey,
    Oso Bear?
Bears love honey,
    Oso Bear.
Sweet and fragrant, gooey; plus,
Eat it all; no-one will fuss.
Just leave the Easter eggs for us,
    Oso Bear!

Nusatsum: A parable

Many years ago, when the world was young, or at least I was, I moved into a cabin in a long valley in the north country. The back of the cabin looked over a meadow to green foothills and, towering over them, snow-capped even in August, the mountain our end of the valley was named for. Nusatsum, the natives called it.

The old-timers told me there were legends about the mountain; a lonely chieftain, a sleeping maiden. "You can see him waiting up there, in the snow," someone said. I couldn't. Nothing there but massive rocks and eye-blinding white.

In the evenings we sat with our coffee on the back porch, looking at the mountain. I tried and tried to make out a figure, a face, even a facial feature. Visitors pointed him out to me: "Look near the top on the right; you should be able to see his eye." No.

Suddenly, one night, the shadows acquired meaning: there he was. A long nose, a deeply shadowed eye, a mournful mouth. He was the mountain, or rather, the mountain was him. He sat, half reclining, facing east. The setting sun tinted his head pink, as if he wore an exotic feather headdress.

"I see him!" I told my companion. "See; that sharp line at the top, it's his forehead, plain as day!"

She stared, tilted her head to one side, then the other. "I don't see him." She sat back, sipping her coffee. She looked at the mountain again. "Wait! I see what you mean! There he is!"

We watched, entranced, as the sunlight faded and died, leaving only a glowing brightness up there where the sky brushed Nusatsum's cheek. Our coffee chilled in the cups.

"I am glad he's facing East," I said. "He'll be watching the sun come up."

"East? He's facing West!"

"No, that's East," I said, pointing.

"Wait a minute! What are you seeing? The face I see looks West! That way!"

In the dark of the porch I couldn't see my friend's face, just her arm thrust out, her hand gesturing in the moonlight. "That way!" she repeated.

I felt betrayed, somehow.

My friend never knew Nusatsum as I knew him. It's a pity. Weekday evenings, driving up valley after yet another weary day, I kept my eyes on his brilliant face and was comforted. So pure he was, so regal, so serene. So patient.

It was long ago when I was young, but still he sits unchanging, forever watching the morning.


Stories of Bella Coola
© Susannah Anderson, 1999

The legend of La Llorona

On chilly nights in Mexico City, when the wind wails on the street corners or whispers at the rejas of your window, the old crones tell you this story...

It was long ago, they say, before the Spanish conquerors arrived. The city -Tenochtitlán, they called it in those days-still floated on chinampas in the centre of the valley. It was a merry city, bright with flowers and alive with the cries of water birds and the melodies of clay flutes. The warriors were brave, the maidens beautiful. And the most beautiful of them all was Cihuacoatl; some call her a goddess. Always dressed in white, her glossy black hair done in two long braids tipped with brilliant feathers, she made the sun rise just by stepping out of her father's house in the morning.

She was fifteen when she met the most handsome of all the Aztec princes; it was love at first sight for both of them, and soon she presented him with two beautiful baby boys, twins as strong and healthy and smart as any man could desire. Twins that were his pride and delight, even though he no longer loved Cihuacoatl.

Why her prince left her, no-one knows. Some say he had a wife in another city. Some say he was an adventurer, always looking for a new challenge across the next hill. Perhaps he had been lured away by a younger, fresher goddess, or a captured maiden from a competing tribe. Or perchance there was some flaw in Cihua's character, something not evident to ordinary onlookers, dazzled by her beauty as they were.

Be that as it may, Cihua mourned his faithlessness. The laughter died; she no longer sang as she dressed and bathed her babies; she forgot to put the feathers in her hair. The days were a burden and an ache. She spent long hours at the edge of the canal, watching the dark water swirling sluggishly around the roots of the chinampa.

One evening, after the boys were asleep, she looked across the water and saw her prince. He was as handsome as the day she had first known him; bronzed and sleek, wearing golden armbands and a loincloth of ocelot skins; her heart turned over in her breast. For beside him, laughing, was a woman in some strange foreign garb, embroidered all over with flowers. Laughing, and holding his arm!

A hopeless fury engulfed Cihuacoatl. She called out his name and he looked in her direction. Just a glance, indifferent, as if she were some chance acquaintance. Then he turned his back to her and steered his new woman around a corner.

"Come back! Come back!" Cihua cried, but only the wind answered. She rushed into her hut and carried out her sleeping boys, one in each arm. On the bank of the canal, she called to him again; "Don't you even want to see your babies?" But her prince was far away now; she couldn't even hear the woman's laugh. Tears blinded her.

"Then take your babies!" she shouted. She tossed the right hand one into the canal; he made a small splash, almost a plop. She threw the left hand twin after him. There was a sharp wail, cut off in a moment by a gurgle. Then silence.

Cihua's eyes cleared; the light came back. Her babies were floating down the stream, face down, too far away now for her to reach. The pole from the boat would help, she thought; she ran to get it, but when she got back, the twins were gone.

All that night Cihua searched, running along the banks, crouching to peer among the dark roots, straining in the moonlight to decipher every glimmer, every ripple. She wailed, but no-one heard her, no-one came to help her. They found her in the morning, bedraggled and dripping, whether dead from grief or from drowning the old ones aren't sure.

And so they tell you, the old folks, never to go out alone into the night and especially to stay well away from the canals. Cihuacoatl wanders there, wailing and sobbing; you can hear her from far away, crying into the wind. Legend has it that when she arrived at the gate of paradise, the guardian asked her for the souls of her twin boys. He won't let her enter until she returns with them, and so she searches, mourning, always near the water. On rainy nights she is deceived by the drenched pavement and roams the city streets; they have seen her, they say, a white figure in the mist, with uncombed hair and muddy skirts.

"La llorona", they call her now, the weeping woman. "Ay, mis hijos, my babies," she cries, "Ayyy! Where can I find you?"

So don't, don't go out alone at night. Who knows; you may encounter la llorona. And who knows; in her despair, she may mistake you for her faithless prince or for his newest love, and her anguish may turn to rage. Then the last thing you will ever feel is the clutch of her cold, wet fingers at your throat.

~~~

Stories of Mexico
© Susannah Anderson, 2004

Remembering Jellybean

She still comes to Christmas dinner. And birthdays and weddings: anytime the family is together. Sooner or later someone says, "Jellybean would have loved this," and I catch a fleeting glimpse of her, a small, bony, black shadow dropping silently off the window sill. Or a watchful yellow eye gleams under the sofa, then fades back into the darkness. I dare not look directly at her; shy in her lifetimes, she's even more furtive now. But she owns us just as securely as she did in the days of her physical reign.

We met her the summer of '77. In the wake of a family breakdown, the children were lonely and bewildered. From experience I knew that the best shoulder to cry on was soft and furry, so after a few phone calls and a short drive, we found ourselves beside an old farmhouse, peering at a half dozen lively kittens under a lilac bush. My daughter, Betty, chose the black one, smaller than her grey brothers, scrawny but playful. She crooned to her in the back seat all the way home.

Why did she name her Jellybean? No-one seems to remember, but her sister Pauline followed suit, calling her terrier-daschhund puppy Cookie, and starting a family tradition: all pets must have food names.

Jellybean acclimatized herself quickly to her new home. She played happily with the children, allowed Cookie to pull her around by the ear, and slept on Betty's stomach at night.

Then one day when Betty came home from school, she couldn't find her. We looked all through the house, then went up and down the street calling "Here, kitty, here, kitty!" No Jellybean. Betty moped and wouldn't eat.

The next day and the next we looked for the kitten everywhere. I had given up, when a neighbour came in. "Is this your kitten? The coon hounds had her treed in the vacant lot." It was Jellybean all right, skinny, shivering and rumpled, but obviously happy to be home. Both she and Betty ate huge suppers that night.

From that day on, she loathed all dogs but Cookie.

She was never happy around strangers. If you had come to visit us, you would have had to stay several days before you glimpsed a black tail disappearing around a corner. Her favorite hideout was under the fridge; once she stayed there for three days. The only exceptions to this were dog owners. Strange dogs were not allowed to trespass on her property. She would attack them and drive them off, even if it meant facing the owners.

The day after the birth of her first litter, a political canvasser came to our door with her miniature poodle. I was standing at the open door when a whirlwind of flying fur and scalpels clawed past. In seconds, the poodle was racing down the driveway, yelping frantically, with Jellybean one pace behind. Somehow both my leg and arm were bleeding. Luckily, the poodle was not seriously hurt.

After that, I kept the screen door closed until I had checked the porch for dogs, and eventually Jellybean learned not to attack dogs I had okayed. But she spent hours skulking under the shrubs behind the fence, watching for dogs walking down "her" street. Let one take a step over her imaginary line, and she became black lightning, striking the dog and gaining cover while he stood bewildered and bleeding.

Maybe it was her ordeal with the coon hounds. I think she had decided that never again would she be cowed by a dog, no matter how big he was. She chased German shepherds as enthusiastically as she did Pekes. Soon even the biggest neighbourhood dogs learned to walk on the other side of the street.

When Jellybean was two years old, we moved north, to homestead in a log cabin on 10 acres of rocky side hill. Of course we took Jellybean with us. Other cats could come and go, but Jellybean was family. She caused no end of trouble, but she belonged with us. She got along well with the rest of the family, humans and others, as long as we obeyed her orders. We cuddled her when she wanted us to, and left her alone when she didn't.

She was not really a beautiful cat. She was very small, and thin almost to emaciation. Visitors confused her with her own kittens. There seemed to be a basic disproportion in her lines: her head was too small, her neck too long. But her black fur was glossy and scrupulously clean and her yellow eyes glowed in a tiny elfin face.

Our new home was Jellybean's idea of heaven. We had a big sunny field in a valley surrounded by untouched forest. There were fish in the creek, thousands of mice in the field, and, oh, delight! a big lilac bush by the old barn. Cookie chased butterflies by the hour, while Jellybean dozed under the lilacs or in the sleepy warmth of the hayloft.

In July she gave birth to one black and white kitten, whom we named Popcorn. It was often rainy so we made a dry bed for them in the van. There she slept through the long days of a northern summer, or sat in the open door surveying her territory impassively.

In mid-August I had to take the van to drop off some eggs on the other side of the river. Jellybean and Popcorn were curled up sound asleep in back. I hated to disturb them so I just shut the doors and windows carefully before I climbed into the passenger seat and handed the keys to Marcos, who was learning to drive.

At home again, I went to the back to open the door for Jellybean, and found Popcorn, still asleep, but alone.

"Marcos, have you seen Jellybean?" I called.

"No, she's probably around somewhere."

"But she was in the van when we left."

"Oh no! I didn"t know she was there. I got out to see the dog and left the door open!"

So we went back, a mile down the road to the bridge high over the turbulent waters of the creek, four more miles to the Bailey bridge over the river, three more miles past tall rocky cliffs to our egg customers' home. Would she still be in the yard? What would Betty say if she was gone?

The yard was empty. The German shepherd yawned lazily on the front porch. Jan, our customer, had been busy inside. No, she hadn't seen the cat. We walked around the edges of the bush calling, searching the trees, listening for an answering "Meow". Nothing. The dog watched us curiously for a while and went to sleep. We finally gave up and drove home in glum silence.

In the next week we went back repeatedly to ask about Jellybean. Jan set out food on the woodbox out of the dog's reach, and kept an eye on it. "Today I saw a blotchy brown cat" she would report. "Are you sure yours is completely black?"

"Mom," Betty insisted, "we can find her if we look in the right place. We have to look in the bush." So we walked through the bush for hours. "She's here. I know she's here!" Betty would say and we'd listen and call again and again. Finally we gave up hope and went home.

September came and went. The days were shorter now; it was dark before we finished supper. When we had our first hard frost Betty cried all afternoon. "She'll freeze. Mom! We have to find her!"

There really wasn't much hope. Jellybean could probably find a warm barn and plenty of mice, but all the farms had big dogs; big country dogs, trained to repel bears and cougars. A scrappy cat would find no welcome.

I agreed to try one last time. We went back and walked through the frozen bush, calling until we were hoarse, "Jellybean, Jellybean, here, Jellybean. Where are you Jellybean?" When night fell we went sadly home.

A month later we were setting the table for supper, when Marcos came in from the woodshed with the news: "There's a cat crying up a tree behind the house. Where's Popcorn?"

He was in his usual place, curled up asleep under the wood stove. Betty dashed out the door, and back again immediately. "Mom! It's Jellybean! I know her voice!"

"No, Betty. We're too far away. It's some other cat." I knew she was in for a disappointment. Why did this have to happen? But we went out with a flashlight- it was pitch dark already- and met two yellow eyes staring down at us from a scraggly pine tree.

Marcos climbed up slowly while I held the flashlight. There were sounds of a struggle; the tree shook and Marcos yelled "Ouch! Ow!" and "I got her! I think it's Jellybean!"

Betty danced impatiently below while he climbed down. As soon as his feet hit the ground, she grabbed the cat and ran inside without a word of thanks.

It was Jellybean. She was thinner than ever and her coat was dull. She was limping badly: one shoulder blade had evidently been broken and then healed. It was an inch higher than the other, but she didn't seem to be in pain. She ignored us all, drank some milk, then wandered around the house looking in all the corners. When she found Betty's bed she curled up in the centre of it and went to sleep.

I was amazed, astounded that she had lived, had managed to find us miles away across two rivers in unfamiliar territory, and with a serious injury as well. She continued to amaze me as she returned to her normal sleek self in a few weeks. Her deformed shoulder never straightened itself out, but she ran and climbed trees as fast as she ever did.

We have a theory about her shoulder. We think she must have been caught and mauled by one or more of the cougar hounds near Jan's house. At any rate, her hatred of all dogs but Cookie had intensified. She would now chase, hissing and spitting, any dog in sight.

Spring came, and we raced to get the farm operating: rototilling, plowing, planting, weeding, pruning and raking. We bought chicks and built them a chicken coop. We built a pig sty, rabbit hutches, and a stall for Inga, the goat.

Cookie and Jellybean worked as hard as any of us. They inspected every inch of the grounds, and supervised all our tasks. Cookie bounced around every work party, her tail pointing straight up to where Jellybean could be seen in the rafters or a tree.

By summer the family had grown. The barn was bursting with rabbits, geese, chickens, goats and a horse. The pig sty housed two piglets, and in the house Jellybean reigned over a family of two adults, six children, Popcorn, Cookie, her mate Pepper, three pups, and three kittens.

"I think it's about time for lunch." It was a typical Saturday and we were on our knees in the garden, digging out thistles. I got to my feet and stretched sore muscles. "Look how much we got done! One more morning should do it!"

Marcos was the first to head down the trail to the house, with Cookie and Pepper at his heels, but Jellybean took a shortcut through the nettle patch and met us at the door. We made sandwiches and juice and collapsed on the front porch. Jellybean made the rounds, sampling each sandwich, before she chose a lap to sleep on.

"It's getting hot. Can we go down to the creek after lunch?" Pauline never liked sitting still for long.

"Sure. Just come back in time to feed the animals before supper."

Jellybean always led the way on these outings. She would run ahead, looking for dogs, then back as if to say "All clear. Are you coming or not?" Cookie followed hard on her heels. On her own she was afraid of other dogs, but with Jellybean there, nothing fazed her.

Back home in the cool of the evening we barbecued pork chops on the lawn and lounged around lazily until the mosquitos forced us inside. Cookie and Pepper stayed out to gnaw on the leftover bones and gristle. At bedtime they came inside to sleep under the stove.

In the morning, passing the front door on my way to the kitchen, I stopped to exult in the beauty of the greenery outside. Green sloping lawn, mock orange bush beside the porch, rose bush, weeping willows and ... what was that? A black bear ambled out from behind the trunk of the largest tree and sat down to nibble on the bone he was holding.

"Kids! Come quick!" I stage whispered. "Shhh! Look out the window."

We clustered around all the windows on that side of the house. The bear finished his bone and nosed around looking for another. He was magnificent, but how were we going to get out of the house? He was only a few yards from both the front and side doors.

Pepper was dancing up and down excitedly by the door. Maybe if he saw the bear, he'd bark and maybe -- just maybe -- it might decide to leave. I opened the door a crack.

"Ssssst! Ssssst!" Jellybean clawed her way over Pepper's back, through the crack, and made a beeline for the intruder, spitting as she went. The bear took one startled look at her and leaped into the willow. Jellybean followed him into the higher branches, slashing at his tail and feet.

Now what? I opened the door wider and Cookie dashed out to join Pepper, barking at the foot of the tree. The bear squirmed a little higher with Jellybean right below.

We were in a tricky situation. We couldn't leave the house; at any moment the bear might decide to make a run for it, and anyone in his way could be badly hurt. We had to get the animals inside. Cookie and Pepper came quickly when we called, but Jellybean ignored us until Betty thought of dangling a kitten out the door. Then she scrambled down, suddenly worried. Maybe that nasty bear had hurt her kitten? She rushed to see, and we slammed the door behind her.

The kitten was checked over and washed, and Jellybean had joined us again at the door before the bear decided it was safe to scramble back down the trunk. At the bottom he stood, peering short-sightedly around the yard. Nothing moved. He snuffled in the grass, looking for his bone, then gave up and started up the hill. At the apple tree on the edge of the forest he hesitated, considering. Would he come back? I couldn't risk it: I opened the door to let Jellybean out.

Too soon: the bear spun on his heels and made for the willow again. This time he went higher, and it was harder to convince Jellybean to come back. All her kittens were awake and mewing before she would leave the intruder, spitting insults over her shoulder. "Just you wait!" she seemed to be saying; "As soon as I take care of my babies, I'll be back to deal with you!"

I waited longer the next time; not until the bear had gained the cover of the bush would I open the door again. Jellybean dashed out and disappeared into the bush with Cookie and Pepper yipping madly in her wake. Their noise -- crashing, barking, caterwauling -- moved up the side hill and faded into the next dip.

Much later Jellybean strutted back, tail held over her head like a victorious banner, her exhausted doggy troops panting in the rear. We never saw the bear again.

Oh, those eternal summer days! And the long, cozy winter evenings, with me in my big chair next the stove, Cookie snoring on the sofa, Pepper's toenails click-clicking on the floor on his way back from the kitchen -- with a house full of teenagers, somebody is always eating -- and kids spread out on sofas and rugs, doing homework, sewing a quilt, or just talking.

Those days are gone now; in 1985 we moved back to the city to be near the University. And one by one, the kids left to found their own families.

Jellybean is gone, too. One evening, shortly before we moved, she didn't come home for supper, nor for breakfast the next day. A week later, a neighbour mentioned having seen her chasing several of the local dogs off into the bush. "They were too many for her, I guess," she said. "She was one spunky cat, though."

But last Christmas, when we all gathered at Marcos' home, she was there. Tucked away in the darkest shadow behind the Christmas tree, I saw her, intently eyeing a toddler with a tipsy paper plate of turkey and stuffing. And in the momentary silence before we said the blessing, I'm positive I heard her purring.

~~~

Stories of Bella Coola
© Susannah Anderson, 1996