No Great Mischief by Alistair MacLeod Read Free Book Online

Gaelic – especially when they were alone. It was the language that one heard emanating from their bedroom late at night – his voice a bit too loud, the way it often is with the somewhat deaf who cannot hear the volume of their own utterances. It was the language of their courting days and they had always been more at ease with it, although, especially after “the chance,” they had become quite adept at English. If one passed the sometimes slightly opened door of their bedroom in the early morning, they were to be seen always sleeping in the same position. He, lying on his back, on the outside of the bed with his lips slightly parted and with his right arm extended and curved around her shoulders. And she, with her head upon his chest while the outline of her right arm extended down beneath the blankets, towards the familiarity between his legs. They were tremendously supportive of one another, never denying each other anything which came within their framework of knowledge. And confidently certain of how their lives should be.
    Sometimes when he stayed too long at the taverns, as he sometimes did in his later years, he would exhaust his money and send a “runner” to Grandma, asking for more so that he might extend his socializing. She always gave it to him, saying, “He does not do this often. And it is little enough when youconsider all he has given to us.” And once when a rather cryptic neighbour said, “If he were my husband, he would not get another cent,” Grandma, in her own indignation, said, “Yes, but he is not
your
husband. You look after your husband and I’ll look after mine.”
    On one Christmas Eve, we waited and waited for him throughout the late afternoon and the early evening. He had gone to get his last-minute presents, but “must have stopped along the way,” as Grandma put it. “Maybe he took too much money for the presents,” she added. “Anyway, he will come by 6:30, because he knows that there are things to do, and that we must go to church later tonight, and anyway the taverns close at six on Christmas Eve.”
    Sure enough at 6:30 he arrived; in a taxi, no less, accompanied by a number of erratic friends who helped him open the door and carry in his precious packages and then vanished back into the taxi, amidst off-key choruses of “Merry Christmas.”
    “Hullo,” said Grandpa, weaving unsteadily across the kitchen floor.
“Ciamar a tha sibh?
Merry Christmas to all. Is everybody happy?”
    He wobbled to his chair at the end of the kitchen table, where he sat swaying almost regularly, as if sitting on the deck of a departing, pitching boat. “How is everyone?” he said, waving to us blearily, his hand moving back and forth before his face, as if he were cleaning an imaginary windshield. “Great day to be alive,” he added, and then he sort of crumpled and fell off his chair in a rapid yet amazing sequence. It was like looking at those films which show the destruction of the building which has been cleverly laden with dynamite and then, in a matter of seconds,folds up and seems to vanish soundlessly before your eyes. A few tremors and shocks and then it crumbles.
    “Holy Jesus, get that boat up before the tide rises” was one thing he said from the floor and the other was “Be sure that all the valves are shut off before you do it.” Two rather curious statements: one from his life before “the chance” and the other, perhaps, from after it, referring to the hospital. And then he was sound asleep. Even Grandma was a bit taken aback, looking down on him as he slept so peacefully, his mouth partly opened and his arms outstretched.
    “Whatever will we do?” she mused, and then brightening she said, “I know.” And going to the box of leftover Christmas tree decorations she began to extract various ornaments and strands of foil rope and even a rather tarnished star. She placed the star at Grandpa’s head and deftly strung the rope about his limbs, and placed little