The Storyteller

          Death can be a liberation for some, from unrelenting pain, but for others, the fortunate ones, death can be the final act to a commendable life. My grandfather seemed destined to fall into the first category—he was quite ill for years, but because of an interminable will to live and a genuine affability for the world’s citizens, he attained the second—eight years ago today.

           The nurse we hired to complete daily checks found him unresponsive in bed that morning, with a wide, mischievous grin on his face. My wife and I believe he died imagining himself sitting in his storytelling chair—the red wingback chair in our living room, telling his latest tale to whomever was present. There were likely hundreds of stories over the years, but he had two favourites—depending on the audience. For the children he would read The Tale of Peter Rabbit, as his mother had read to him as a child; a story, he said, mirrored the peaks and valleys of childhood, and helped build a solid foundation for the children to grow into morally conscious adults. My mother, then my sister and I, and finally our children—my sister’s three girls and my twin boys, were favoured with the story on multiple occasions as we grew up. I remember watching his face wrinkle with delight each time the troublesome rabbit ran into the garden, ignoring a mother’s cautionary tale of a father being caught in the garden and being put into a pie by Mr. McGregor. I remember his blue eyes sparkling when describing the dangers facing children if they ignored their mother’s warning.       

         He carried his mother’s pocket-sized paperback to every family function, he said, on the off-chance he was asked to read it. He needn’t be concerned, it was tradition. I tried to follow his lead and read the story to my boys at bedtime, but each time they would howl like I was a bad performer on stage. They had no time for anyone else’s version. I stood outside their bedroom one night and listened through the door. They were right. There was much more dramatic flare. I’m more plain-spoken.

           The adults were treated to something entirely different—an intricately detailed story of the night he nearly died in the war. I could never understand how a story that vividly captures the horror and the agonizing death of war elicited such joy in him. I asked but he never answered. I eventually realized that each rendering breathed new life into his fellow soldiers. As long as he was alive and telling the story, they were alive as well.

           I only remember him being social and convivial, but my mother described a different man after his wife died. He would sit alone in his house, venturing outside only when dragged to a family function where he would sit alone, unwilling to engage even when prompted. She said it was like watching the life leave his body with every exhale. Then she had an idea, an epiphany—she liked that word. She asked him to read Peter Rabbit to her then four-year son who had not yet heard the story. She hoped a pleasant childhood memory might shock the storyteller to life. It did. She said his smile came back to him that night; a smile that grew wider with each reading and wider yet when my sister was born.

           I remember the nights, later in his life, when he would show up at our door unannounced; we were usually home. He’d claim to have been driving through town and wanted to check on us. We knew he only drove during the day, and only for appointments, so he wouldn’t be just driving in the dark. He was lonely. Then, we would dance. We’d ask him to stay for dinner; he’d say he didn’t want to impose. We’d assure him that he was always welcome and, after some consideration, he’d smile, nod his head and walk inside. I don’t know if he ever understood how much we loved his company.

          Good stories, he insisted, needed the undivided attention of its audience and should not be told at the table while eating. After dinner, he’d go upstairs, read Peter Rabbit to my sons, then come downstairs and settle into my chair. I’d make his favourite drink—a Rye Manhattan with one ice cube in a square glass, and we would sit and listen to his latest tale.

          I don’t remember all of his stories; I hope I didn’t take him for granted. But I do remember one. My wife and I were having marital issues, shortly after the boys were born. He told us a story of when he and his wife were separated while shopping—this was before cell phones so no way to contact her. He searched for hours and finally found her in a nearby saloon, at the bar, sitting, drinking and laughing with the local barflies. She said her reason for leaving was simply to escape, for a short while. He made sure she had cab fare and went home. She came home later that night, kissed him on the cheek, apologized for her behaviour and promised to not make it a habit. She then went to bed. Everyone needs to escape he said, if only for a short while.          

        I remember the evening when I confidently announced to my mother and grandfather that I was too old for Peter Rabbit. I was twelve years-old and mature enough to hear the adult story. Mostly I was tired of being sent out of the room like a child. To demonstrate my maturity, I created a scene. I flailed my arms and stamped my feet—obstinance is an unquestioned characteristic in my family. My mother granted my wish. She knew. My grandfather was hesitant though, asserting that the story could not be tempered to shield an innocent child. I assured them both I was ready—but I was wrong. I learned a lesson that night. I learned that the chasm between the innocence of a vegetable garden and the cruelty of war should not be hurdled in a single bound. It was three years before I felt ready to hear the story again. I never missed another telling.           

          I was being justifiably hesitant, I believe, when my boys claimed to be mature enough. I wanted them to wait until at least twelve like me, but my wife argued that our sons were mentally and emotionally equipped at ten. She also described their deep frustration at being sent out of the room each night like children. The irony was purposefully effective. She was right of course, they listened with rapt attention, asked pertinent questions at its conclusion and went to bed afterward without complaint.  

          From the moment my sons joined the audience however, the story—which had always been told with fervent strictness, began to change. The enemy barrage was more pronounced, his injuries more debilitating, the bodies suddenly dismembered and strewn across the field, the truck he was inside wasn’t tipped over like before but was now sent hurtling through the air by an explosion before crashing to the ground; flames then swarmed the vehicle like an inferno. The story structure was the same, but the details were embellished—a storyteller’s prerogative I guess, but it did trigger some doubt in me. Had I taken the story’s authenticity for granted all these years? I felt guilty, like I was betraying his trust, when I investigated the event, but I needed to know for certain.       

          While the details remain sketchy, a British division with Canadian volunteers had indeed marched into Belgium from France and, after crossing the border, had been attacked from the rear by enemy forces. The number of deaths and the damage inflicted were unknown but the division did reach Brussels and did help liberate the nation. I was relieved knowing the story was based on true events, though I still feel like I deceived him.

          He never knew of my betrayal—if he did, he never showed it. Then again, I only remember him raising his voice once—to protest our decision to name our boys after him. We explained how we wanted his name to carry through the generations and didn’t think it fair to reward one and slight the other, so we decided to use it as their second names. He was unconvinced, stating that each person should chart their own path without the burden of history to carry. It wasn’t a burden I insisted, it was their lucky charm.

           His complaint ended after I told him a story. My boys were seven and attended a school at enough of a distance to warrant taking the bus. I usually dropped them at the bus stop in the morning before I headed to my high school teacher job. I noticed a blue lunch bag one morning, wedged between the seat and the rear passenger side door. Back to the bus stop I went but while the kids were still waiting my boys were nowhere to be seen. I took a deep breath to stem the rising panic, lowered my window and asked where my boys had gone. A number of arms pointed down the street, toward the school. I was livid. When I caught up to them, I ordered them inside the car and scolded them as I drove to their school. They apologized and vowed that they meant no harm. They were simply playing a game; they were running away from Mr. McGregor, just like Peter Rabbit, so they wouldn’t be put in a pie. I remember my grandfather’s chest puffed out and he laughed with great pride. To him they were The Rabbits from that day onward.

          The rabbits are grown now; having hopped from home and are charting their own paths. One joined the military and the other is studying to be a doctor—we’re proud of both. Family gatherings are rare now, perhaps once a year at Christmas. My wife has been urging me to travel; I’m hesitant—I love being home, but a few weeks ago I had a dream. My grandfather was standing in the lettuce patch, an arm around Peter Rabbit. They were laughing at me and shaking their heads with disappointment. Once the school year ends, we leave for a six-week tour of Europe.

         I have a new tradition, for myself. On the anniversary of his death, I sit in my living room chair, after my wife has gone to bed, a square rocks glass of bourbon and one ice cube on the table beside his distinguished service medal, as I flip though the pages of our family album. The photos remind me of the stories, but mostly I remember the story of the night he nearly died in the War.

          It was late summer, 1944. Allied forces were marching into Belgium from the French border, intent on liberating the capital. He was a young soldier with the second Canadian Division stationed nearby and he volunteered to join the mainly British Division on a one-hundred-kilometre march to Brussels. Shortly after crossing the French border the division was attacked by the residue of a battered enemy army that had surrendered the Battle of Normandy days before. The enemy heard the Allies coming, hid in the forest and attacked from behind.

          The echo of the division’s march was the only sound in the night until a shell exploded on the road beside the truck in which he was riding. It was his good fortune he said, to have been seated in the rear, as the truck was struck at the front. He was thrown from the vehicle and onto the dirt road. He could not determine the length of time he was unconscious but he was shocked awake when a burning piece of metal flew off the truck and stuck in his neck. It was at this time in his story when he would lower his shirt collar to display the scar on his neck.

          It was a struggle to move, he continued. His right leg was broken, his right arm was smouldering below the elbow, there were deep wounds across his chest and his head rang like a Sunday morning church bell. Shells continued to explode and gunfire pierced the night as he watched the fire swarm the truck, incinerating those trapped inside. The screams still resonate in his mind, he said. He then named the soldiers who died in the truck, highlighting character attributes and personality traits for each man.

          He rolled off the road into a nearby field of long grass. He crawled past the dead bodies until he reached the forest where he found safety inside a thick cluster of bushes. He was awakened by the bright morning sun. It was quiet he said, everyone had gone. He must have gone undetected in the darkness by friend and foe. The division would have radioed back to the base but he couldn’t wait for the cavalry; he felt like he would bleed to death before help arrived. He staggered down the road toward the border, dragging his broken leg and poking at the bloody cavities in his body to stimulate pain whenever he felt faint. Ten, twenty, thirty kilometres—the distance expanded over the years. If he stopped, he said, he would surely die.

          It was here when he would stand, roll up his pant legs and show the scars on his legs, and the size discrepancy in his calves—his right calf missing half its muscle. When the cavalry arrived, he collapsed into the arms of the soldiers and again lost consciousness. When he awoke, he was lying in a French military hospital. After a few days, he was transferred to a British medical unit. When he was physically capable, he boarded a plane and came home to his wife.           

            He concluded the narration with remembrances of his wife, the townhouse they bought after he returned, and the home they purchased five years later in which they resided until she died, and in which he resided until he died. He refused all our requests to move him into a care facility—he wanted to die at home. Three months shy of his ninetieth birthday, he got his wish.

          I still have that pocket-sized copy of Peter Rabbit. I keep it inside the plastic sleeve of the album’s back page. In his memory I read the story out loud, with his customary flare, to an invisible audience—nobody to howl at me, and I read the passage, on the inside of the back cover, he wrote for the children.

          If you are good and listen to your mother, you will have bread and milk and blackberries for dinner, while those who don’t listen, like Peter, will have none.    

          Happy Anniversary, Peter.