Words By Whittall

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The Fall

“It’s not the fall that kills you,” Tom Rafuse always used to say. “It’s the landing!” Millicent Dunbar – Millie – heard Tom tell the gag many, many times. He had an easygoing manner, a penchant for pocket protectors, and the meaty paunch and polyester wardrobe of a much-beloved high school shop teacher, which he was. Tom’s wife, Rose, was downright dim – always at his side, looking up adoringly. Millie watched their delightful backyard barbeques through her kitchen window. Tom’s monster hamburgers and stupid repetitive jokes; Rose’s exquisite potato salad and chilled cherry cheesecake. Of course, the laughter stopped when Rose was found dead at the bottom of the cellar stairs, her blood pooling under shelves of raspberry jelly and pickled beets. It was, indeed, the landing and not the fall that killed her. The coroner ruled the cause of death a broken neck. The manner of death she left undetermined. A tall detective with an odd moustache came to question Tom daily for the fir

Nick in Time

My mother didn’t teach me to shave; she actively tried to stop me. She argued that I was too young, unconvinced by my pleas that all the other girls were doing it; unconvinced by the 34 Double C bras she had to order from the Sears catalogue. I didn't want boobs at aged 10. I didn't know what to do with them. I didn't want hairy legs at age 13, either. I had a mind of my own and my body, alas, did too, regardless of Mom's "too young" argument. By grade eight, all the other girls – or at least one of them – suggested I see to my legs and underarms before we donned bathing suits for the upcoming co-ed class swimming lesson, which was a big deal. We were to be bussed from our small rural school to a sports complex in Kitchener, big deal. I would see Robert Woods in his bathing suit and he in mine, big deal! Without telling Mom, I simply borrowed the gummy turquoise Lady Shick that she kept in a bathroom drawer alongside a congealing jar of Noxema and a disi

Red

Mother summons me to her office on Monday morning to scold me and I’m transported back in time. I’m five years old. Her red pinched lips are shouting and her red-tipped finger is wagging at me. You horrible bad girl, where is Mother’s sweater? What did you do with it? I’d taken it to bed with me, to feel something soft that smelled like her mix of menthol cigarettes and Chanel Number Five. While she and the rest of the family were skiing in Mount Tremblant, I’d explored our big empty house, including Mother’s walk-in closet. The sweater, cashmere, lay crumpled on the floor. I hid there, amongst her clothes, shoes, purses and scarves, missing my family – my father who was rarely home but smiled and sometimes told me stories; my boisterous teenage brothers, who were rarely home but sometimes played games with me; and my mother who was always home and whom I tried so very hard to emulate and please. I hid the sweater under a pillow in my frilly pink bedroom. Rosita made my bed ever

In the Manger with Jesus

Young children have a hard time understanding complex ideas and things they can’t see. This is why they say the darndest things as adults struggle to explain concepts like God, death, and the small microbes that live on their grubby little fingers which they should wash before supper. My nephew, we’ll call him Sebastien, was four years old when my father passed away. Dad had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and while he had trouble breathing and didn't have much energy, he always had time to read a story or share some red grapes with Sebastien. There were lots of naps in the big easy chair with Grampa. When Dad got sicker, the chair was moved out of the front room to make way for a hospital bed. Dad died on December 24, 2009, as my brother and I held his hands and my mother stroked his face. At Sebastien’s house, his mother struggled to explain what had happened. Why there would be no more naps, stories or grapes with Grampa. “His get-better-bed didn’t work,” she sa

Life with Neville

Neville and I exist in a drafty, clapboard house at the end of a gravel road. We don’t see much of the neighbours. It’s conversation-worthy if a car goes by or, more likely, turns in our lane to avoid the dead end ahead. Neville mostly does his own thing and, especially in the winter, I rarely see another human being outside of the monthly trip to town. The view from every window is white and devoid of beauty. The interior landscape is just as bleak. I dust, mop and wipe, yet see only a film of gray blanketing my home. Neville and I sleep in the same bed and eat our meals together, but the deeper connection we once had has now also accumulated a hazy grey-white patina. He used to gaze lovingly into my eyes, sit cuddling close, and pay attention to whatever I was doing, angling for my attention. Now Neville looks at me when supper is late. In lieu of meaningful looks, caresses or conversation, I tell him to do the thing he’s already doing. It gives me the illusion that he’s listen

Funeral Pants

Moira fingered the fabric in her closet: a winter wool designer suit purchased at an outlet store. Her mother had been with her then. Mom’s the first spur-of-the-moment trip outside the house in years. The suit was fine, her mother said, but a little snug. Perhaps one size up. Moira complied. Two days later her mother patted her hand. “The eulogy was lovely, dear. But all I could think about was what a great job you’d done in hemming those pants.” Moira laughed bleakly at the memory of her father’s funeral. Her family wasn’t one for feeling their feelings. She’d been pleased to give her mother something else to think about that sad day. A decade had passed; the hem held. Moira knew she’d been lucky. At 49 her dad was the first funeral for which she’d chosen her own outfit, her grandparents and other family friends having died when she was a child. At 59, there were too many funerals. She’d worn these the original pants to mourn her business partner in January, then bought a new