worked especially hard on the meetinghouse after she died, doing the lion's share of the work himself--siding , flooring, roofing. Whatever needed doing, he was there. He was restless and of course terribly hurt by Mother's death, as we all were, and I think he considered the building a kind of memorial to her. He didn't know what else to do, so he gave it his all.
Taking slow, thoughtful steps, I circled the meetinghouse, remembering with pleasure how I had helped Ben hoist the pre-built trusses up on the roof, using a pulley attached to an overhanging branch on one of the live oaks. I rounded the front corner and stepped up on a wide covered porch, a feature that had been added years later, then put the key Kissy gave me into the lock and opened the plank door. I left it open to freshen the air, and then walked slowly to the covered billiard table and stared at the afternoon sunshine pooling on its top. Difficult memories darted through my mind like rabbits running just ahead of a pack of baying hounds.
Five weeks after christeni9ng the building, the same group of people who celebrated its completion, plus many others, came together under its roof again in the gathering heat of an August morning. Only this time there was no discussion of business, no talk about problems with livestock or speculation about the weather. There was no potluck dinner, and there was certainly no dance. A simple wooden urn had been placed amid flowers on the pool table in front of a small podium. the urn had been turned on a lathe from a chunk of oak Ben had cut for our wood stove. A matching lid had been turned and threaded onto the container, and on its top was a relief carving of a canoe and a broken paddle. Inside were Ben's ashes, but nothing more. The essence of my brother had seemingly vanished, held now only within the memories of those who had known him. The urn had been entrusted to me at the tender age of sixteen, to dispose of as Ben himself had requested, months earlier after Mother's death.
But what about Ben, the qualities that made him who he was? Ashes were not blood and bone, nor were they laughter or serious speculation, miscalculations, gentle deeds or lofty dreams. Where were those things now? In spite of my mother's earlier passing, I could not comprehend the loss of something so solid in my life, of someone I had never been without. I was never especially close to my sister, Kissy, and after other's death I felt adrift and out of place, with no anchor except what my brother provided. And now, he too was gone, my best friend, and the person to whom I looked for guidance and comfort as well.
Now, standing beside the table fifteen years later, I thought back on the memorial. I felt surprise at how vivid the memories were, at how sharp the images and pain remained in my mind. There had been rows of chairs facing the table, and in the front row was our dad, Horace Joules, plus Kissy and myself. Behind us were other family members, as well as most of the people we had known our whole lives, men and women whose lives had been touched by my brother in numerous ways, large and small. A few were Ben's close friends and acquaintances, some of whom you'll meet in the pages to come, people like Billy Hobsome, Lydel Bignornea, Sarah Pritchart, and Ziggy Pugh. But most were the local farmers, their families, and numerous townspeople, such as Price Walker, Dr. Hobsome, Sheriff Boggs, Dr. Tuffer (the vet), Lance Collier, the Bigorneas, the tower sisters, and Mr. Moore, his anxious fingers working quietly along the brim of his hat which he held in his lap.
The pool table was covered with a cloth and decorated with vases of gaudy flowers. Propped up on the table were cards of sympathy that to my eyes only pointed out the obvious--"Hey, kid, he's gone. Get it?" Photos of him fishing, playing football, clowning for the camera, were taped to the edge of the table. Nothing but memories, and that simple wooden jar remained of my brother.
At the time, I was still in a state of shock, but there were no more tears. A weariness had crept over me, and I was near ready to succumb to its smothering embrace. Something was needed to jar me out of the deep state of grief I had fallen into, and it came from an unlikely source.
Ours was not a religious family, and Dad conscripted a new, young preacher from the local Methodist church to perform the service. A gaunt, energetic man, about thirty-five, he spoke with conviction in a high, silvered voice, waxing in a eloquent, holier than thou style. I guess he did the best he could, but it seemed to be little more than a thin broth of Ben's life, with the added ingredients of his generosity and his duty to family stirred in for a more personal seasoning.
Duty. I tell you, that preacher didn't know squat. His idea of sacrifice, well, it was everyday living to Ben. Just being a neighbor. He called Ben a "young man of nature, and therefore of God". Canned words. What about his dreams, or his search for adventure? Did he know about those? He said, "His spirit has departed before at time of our own choosing, and whatever dreams and potential held within him has been prematurely emptied into god's unfathomable sea of love and infinite mercy."
I nearly choked on that one.
I distinctly remembered the preacher looking directly at me an saying, "Ben is not wholly gone from us, for his sisters remain to carry on his legacy, to remind us in body, and in deed, of him." There was a nugget of truth to that, and it gave me an idea and the courage to speak. My legs were unsteady, but I rose to hold the mourners a moment longer.
I looked at the gathering, which had begun to fidget. Sissy sat mutely, a far away look on her face. Dad stared straight ahead, the lines of grief etched permanently into his weathered face. "Thank you all for coming," I said. "Ben knew and loved each and every one of you, and I know he would be pleased that you came." Sarah Prichart (Ben's girl friend) bowed her head and sobbed, and for a moment I thought my emotions would get the best of me, but I pressed on. I was the oldest now, and I had to hold up. My words were unrehearsed and inadequate, but I had to say something.
I didn't know where to begin, so I just blurted out, "I'll tell you something about Ben." I paused to collect my story. It seemed so important, somehow, one chance to touch someone.
"Most you know Ben worked in the Bryan hospital. Started after Aunt Sherry died of cancer. He wanted to help, cause all any of us got to do was stand around while Aunt Sherry passed on. Everyone knows he took it hard." There were nods and murmuring, and I waited for things to settle down.
"Scrubbed toilets and cleaned floors at first. Used to come home pretty upset, saying they could hire a monkey for that. He was about ready to quit when they moved him on up and he became an orderly. He got to shuffle people around some, make up beds, and fetch things for the nurses.
"Still too boring, though, and Ben can be pretty persistent." I caught my mistake and looked at the floor. "Could be. They finally trained him to work in the emergency room. He did, till an accident with a young girl put him off. That's right. Ben, brought up here on a farm, trapper, hunter, raising steers for 4-H--he couldn't get past blood. An ambulance came in, and they wheeled a kid out. Ben cried when he told me. black hair, and she had blue eyes that stared straight up. About nine years old, and there wasn't a thing left to do, not for anyone, except to cover her up. Said she was in pieces. Ben pulled the bloody sheet over her face and went home. He never mentioned to anyone else why he decided to go back up and work in the cancer ward.
"They let him sit with patients who they knew weren't going to be leaving, though they didn't really tell it that way. Just said they were especially sick, and needed comforting. Someone to be with them, to wait it out with. Ben knew, though. He'd already seen it with Aunt Sherry. He used to come home not wanting to talk, the hurt in his eyes, but I'd draw it out of him.
"Told me he asked a load of patients if they had any regrets, and one thing stuck with him: Said nary a one ever told him they regretted not making more money. Closer to family, more friend, kinder. One wished for children, but never more money.
"Bendigo told me about a woman who got him to realize dying wasn't something strange or abnormal, just something that everyone had to do. She told him it was harder to be afraid of something once you made its acquaintance. Harder to hate it
.
"Maybe so. Turned out to be advice he could use. See, he was there one Friday evening last December, a few days after Christmas. A patient--one he knew had been in the hospital a couple of days for stomach pains--was brought up to the cancer ward. Room 307. One nurse took Ben aside and told him he should go see her, that she was someone special."
I stopped a moment and looked at my father, for a clue that it was okay to go on. I could see him reliving it, and wondered if I'd done the right thing, bringing it up. Too late now. I cleared my throat and went on.
"I was there when Ben walked into that room, and I saw him choke back his tears. He pulled up a chair next to the bed, then he sat down and held the hand of his mother." I waited as the gathering remembered what they knew of our mother's unsuccessful fight with cancer. "That's why we're here, in this meeting house. You all know Ben raised the money, and nearly built it hisself. He dedicated it to her. that was the Benjamin Joules I knew."
My gaze moved over each of them, Sissy, Dad, Ben's best friend Billy Hobson, the Towers sisters--even Sheriff Boggs. "Don't forget," I told them. "don't ever forget Bendigo Joules.