intuited that, because she started staying away from me. Then one day we found her under the lounge, stiff and twitching. Mum let out a pretty fraught wail, which was odd, considering this was only a Fluffy. Dobie Squires lunged at Mum, taking as his cue the raised volume (he’d started improvising). Dad grabbed Dobie by the hind leg and dragged him towards the kitchen, which caused more screaming because Mum was trying to get in there for a wee nip. And I pulled Fluffy out to watch the death throes.
It’s called post-mortem spasm. I read about it. It’s all about calcium ions and motor proteins. Fluffy might have been in the middle of one of those fidgety dreamsof hers, had it not been for the milky pupils and voided bladder. Merrill eventually got a towel and wrapped her up. Mum was having some kind of post-mortem spasm of her own, howling and hiccuping her way through instructions to Dad. She was adamant. Fluffy was not to be buried in the yard. Fluffy was to be taken to the nearest vet and handed in for cremation. Dad started making some noise about the expense of this when he had a perfectly good shovel out back, but Mum was near hysterical by this time. I think that’s when it occurred to me. This wasn’t grief. This was fear. Fear turning into anger. Mum didn’t give a shit about Fluffy. She was just terrified and furious at having a dead thing in her house. She didn’t even want a dead thing in her yard. Dad took Fluffy to the car and drove off. I saw him pop the shovel in the boot first, though.
The curtains at Maud’s window stayed drawn for about a week. Sometimes, if the light was right, I could see her moving around behind them. I could hear her music. I sometimes saw her at school. I spent a lot of time thinking about tripe and humming the theme from Thomas the Tank Engine. I discovered just how closely love, grief and anger are connected. I started reading Far from the Madding Crowd and switched to Aesop when I couldn’t concentrate. Then this morning I get up and the curtains are open. Just like that. I consider ignoring herbut realise the binoculars are already in my hand. There is a message in the window. We are on actual text pages of Alice now. Maud has written:
—MY NANNA IS DEAD
The only thing that comes to my mind is Fluffy. I can’t help it. All I can think about is post-mortem spasm and I feel like laughing. Maud’s nanna under a couch, rigid and twitchy and peeing on herself. Psychologists would say that my discomfort with the demise of a relative of the person I love has contributed to my mind choosing to default to a position that removes me from the possibility of having to confront pain in my loved one and empathy within myself in order to reduce my vulnerability. I know they would say that because I’ve read it. I was once interested in the phenomenon of funeral laughter, you see. There’s always one, isn’t there? And at Mrs Green’s funeral, that one was my mum.
Mrs Green ran the local deli. Shocking little place that was never clean and you always had to check the dates on the milk and cheese. Everyone knew her. One day she slipped over while wrapping a tongue. Hit her head on the side of the meat slicer on the way down. That didn’t kill her, though. Apparently, she had a heart attack. Some kids found her on the floor behind the counter with the tongue tucked under her chin.
Most of the street went to the funeral. Mrs Greendidn’t have a lot of family, you see. I remember thinking the person who ordered the tongue should have sprung for at least half the cost. I was thinking about that tongue when I felt my mum shaking. I thought she might be crying, at first. Her shoulders were bouncing a little and her breaths were short and fast. Then I heard the giggle.
If you’re at a funeral, a giggle, to other people, is as shocking as a fart. The unfortunate thing was that Mum just couldn’t get a hold of herself. She sat there, trying to suppress
It’s called post-mortem spasm. I read about it. It’s all about calcium ions and motor proteins. Fluffy might have been in the middle of one of those fidgety dreamsof hers, had it not been for the milky pupils and voided bladder. Merrill eventually got a towel and wrapped her up. Mum was having some kind of post-mortem spasm of her own, howling and hiccuping her way through instructions to Dad. She was adamant. Fluffy was not to be buried in the yard. Fluffy was to be taken to the nearest vet and handed in for cremation. Dad started making some noise about the expense of this when he had a perfectly good shovel out back, but Mum was near hysterical by this time. I think that’s when it occurred to me. This wasn’t grief. This was fear. Fear turning into anger. Mum didn’t give a shit about Fluffy. She was just terrified and furious at having a dead thing in her house. She didn’t even want a dead thing in her yard. Dad took Fluffy to the car and drove off. I saw him pop the shovel in the boot first, though.
The curtains at Maud’s window stayed drawn for about a week. Sometimes, if the light was right, I could see her moving around behind them. I could hear her music. I sometimes saw her at school. I spent a lot of time thinking about tripe and humming the theme from Thomas the Tank Engine. I discovered just how closely love, grief and anger are connected. I started reading Far from the Madding Crowd and switched to Aesop when I couldn’t concentrate. Then this morning I get up and the curtains are open. Just like that. I consider ignoring herbut realise the binoculars are already in my hand. There is a message in the window. We are on actual text pages of Alice now. Maud has written:
—MY NANNA IS DEAD
The only thing that comes to my mind is Fluffy. I can’t help it. All I can think about is post-mortem spasm and I feel like laughing. Maud’s nanna under a couch, rigid and twitchy and peeing on herself. Psychologists would say that my discomfort with the demise of a relative of the person I love has contributed to my mind choosing to default to a position that removes me from the possibility of having to confront pain in my loved one and empathy within myself in order to reduce my vulnerability. I know they would say that because I’ve read it. I was once interested in the phenomenon of funeral laughter, you see. There’s always one, isn’t there? And at Mrs Green’s funeral, that one was my mum.
Mrs Green ran the local deli. Shocking little place that was never clean and you always had to check the dates on the milk and cheese. Everyone knew her. One day she slipped over while wrapping a tongue. Hit her head on the side of the meat slicer on the way down. That didn’t kill her, though. Apparently, she had a heart attack. Some kids found her on the floor behind the counter with the tongue tucked under her chin.
Most of the street went to the funeral. Mrs Greendidn’t have a lot of family, you see. I remember thinking the person who ordered the tongue should have sprung for at least half the cost. I was thinking about that tongue when I felt my mum shaking. I thought she might be crying, at first. Her shoulders were bouncing a little and her breaths were short and fast. Then I heard the giggle.
If you’re at a funeral, a giggle, to other people, is as shocking as a fart. The unfortunate thing was that Mum just couldn’t get a hold of herself. She sat there, trying to suppress
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