My Mother the Axe Murderer

My Mother the Axe Murderer

She trawls a dull fork through a buttery knoll of mashed potatoes on her small plate, mother of six, well into her eighties, worn down by arthritic knees and rudimentary boredom. I ramble and reminisce while she nibbles at her dinner. At most of the oral history tidbits she either shakes her head or offers a bit of a chuckle. One that translates into, “You’re not well.”

Our matriarch, the Peaceful Knower of All Things, in the days when I was knee high to a grasshopper, in constant motion, was quick on her feet, with a good deal of practice. By the time I was born, my soft-hearted Mother had already raised four hapless Hellions and one Almost-Nun. At forty years old in early December 1973, she gave birth to me. I wasn’t exactly meant to be. I often joke, much to her chagrin, that I was a sordid slip-up. An oopsy-daisy deal. An ill-fated knocking of boots with Father Mine while on what would be their last vacation together, to New Orleans. I find this fact spine-tingling after a reputable psychic revealed that in a past life, I lived in New Orleans in the 1800s as a nine-year-old girl named Janine. She/I died by stagecoach. As in run over by. A real rotten bit of luck.  Thankfully for me, there were forces at work in the Universe willing to give me another chance. The responsibility of my soul’s rebirth fell heavily on my Mother’s shoulders. She’d have to break out the Carnation Milk regiment again, change countless more shitty diapers, and wipe one last snot encrusted nose. I wholly understand that their activities were what brought me about, but I’ve always carried around a truck load of guilt, figuring my birth was the beginning of the end of their twenty-five-year marriage.

Before I came along, my siblings were mostly grown. The youngest was already ten, the oldest seventeen. Because the Universe insisted I exist, my family’s tree was begrudgingly uprooted from Eastern Passage proper down to the bustling metropolis of Cow Bay, AKA the sticks. It was like moving from a city center to the deep woods behind a rural expanse. Super remote. My family came up together in a tight knit community on a small lane, a stone’s throw away from the homestead, the corner store, gas station, church, school, and everyone they held dear. My Mother tended to her rambunctious herd while Father Mine brought home the bacon. I like to imagine her then, wearing a simple dress, up on her tippy toes hanging out the washing, the clothespins standing like soldiers across the line while chirping happily from her stoop to her friends across the way. Not a care in the world aside from all the dust kicked up from the boys booting around a ramshackle ball. Once they moved with Infant Me in toe, everything changed. Home as they knew it would never be the same. The Hellions and the Never Nun had to travel a long way just to see their friends or do most anything, often hitch-hiking up and down the Bay stretch, which gave my Mother the willies. It was lonely for them and my Mother. Especially when Father Mine left.

In those last days when my parents were still together, I’d watch her ready herself for an evening out with Father Mine. Her dresses smooth and stylish, slender feet tucked into fancy shoes, her ominous bag of curlers left me curious, her dark eyebrow pencil and lipstick tubes intimidated. My Mother would clip luminous earrings on her lobes with her perfectly manicured fingers, unfurl her rollers careful to shape a perfect tuft across her forehead and spray it in place. I loved watching her but hated to see her go. I was teetering between four and five years old and my sister, almost fifteen, would be left in charge to babysit. I’d bawl and cry at the side door, begging my Mother not to go. Sister, who always had friends over while babysitting would threaten to tie me to a tree in the backyard if I didn’t frig off with the wailing and such. I’d be miserable, wide awake quietly sobbing in my bed, despising my stupid Sister and seething at my Mother for leaving me. And, then later, much later, I’d hear them return home, fumble down the long hall and close their bedroom door. I felt safe again. Safer. All would be forgiven.

And in those last days, the death rattle of their once marital bliss, I skulked toward shouting voices in the kitchen one rainy evening to see my Mother holding a cast iron frying pan well up over her head, taking ominous aim for Father Mine’s head. My Mother’s eyes were wide and brimming with tears, Father Mine’s lips were curled up in a nervous grin. I couldn’t hear a word they were saying but their body language told the whole story. Once they caught wind of my presence the frying pan clattered in the sink and Father Mine disappeared through the swinging doors to the porch. My Mother scooped me up for a brisk hug, instructed me to go get my rain gear on, we were going for a walk in the woods. I didn’t know it then, but she was the walking wounded, defeated, broken – and I walked holding her hand content as can be, oblivious, innocent, distracted by the wet leaves sticking to my pink rubber boots. I think now how sad it is to know my Mother’s pain was so blatant and I was too young to understand. I helped Father Mine pile his belongings into the back of a borrowed station wagon one late afternoon in 1978. We became weekend buddies, I stayed living with my Mother.

I always remember her being in the kitchen, the nucleus of our house. The large sideboard wooden stereo was always on.  I remember vividly this one day sauntered up to the stove, belly grumbling. I was hungry. My Mother was busy cooking. She turned her back for two seconds. I pulled myself up to see what she was making and made the innocent mistake of placing my hands flat on both front burners, still hot as the dickens. I howled. My Mother, in a fright, plunked me up on the cupboard and tended to the sizzling welts. By the end we were in a cloud of baking soda and all was well. I was also sat on that same spot when I disobeyed a direct order to not go over to the neighbor’s house. It was getting dark and my Mother thought it too dangerous for me to go alone. Instead of listening like I usually did, I crept all the way to their front door in the ditch. This event occurred while Father Mine was still living with us. My Mother scolded me by saying, “You just wait until your Father comes in here.”  I was so scared I almost shit my knickers right on the cabinet. He came through the swinging doors, shirtless, his bare feet slapping on the kitchen floor, he had a glass of ruby red wine in his hand. He stared me down until my eyes filled with tears and I couldn’t control my lip from quivering, “What did I tell you about not listening to your Mother!?” I thought for sure he’d spank my arse red, but he just put me down on the floor and pointed. I ran straight to my room and hid under the covers for what felt like an eternity. My Mother checked on me and brought me a little bed lunch. I cried my fool heart out and said I was sorry a hundred thousand times. I clung to my Mother like static cling. She let me.

My Mother was always soft, like the two pieces of white untoasted bread of the bacon sandwiches she made me after Sunday school every weekend.  She was caring and generous, often funny, and witty. My clothes were always clean, my tummy was always full, and she was always there no matter what – whether I was spraining my wrists from hanging from the clothesline or driving tree branches up my knee while running in the woods or wiping out on my bike, she took care of everything. My Mother, no matter, was always strong and giving, I rarely saw her ire, I still don’t. Her resolve, her quietude, stoic nature, and protectiveness reign supreme.

After filling up on low hanging raspberries one youthful day I hit the back yard under a cluster of heavy rainclouds to play tennis with the backside of the house. My Brother left behind an old racket when he shipped off for California. It used to drive us crazy when he’d beat the ball on the back of the house, the quick and strident thunka thunka thunka was enough to rip the top of your head off. Only when he was gone, I missed it. I could tell she missed it too, so I carried the torch. I stood far back along the edge of the cement slab that was our patio just off the Devil red outer basement door and served, thunka thunka thunka … I worked myself into such a frenzy the ball flew into the ankle-high grass. Father Mine hadn’t been by to mow it which made me happy because the last time he did, he mowed down the sunflowers I was attempting to grow in the very back corner of our fenced in yard. I braved the grassy hill, moved toward the fuzzy yellow ball and hastily ran back down. Because snakes. Rushing was a moot point. Once my feet hit the concrete a long thick squiggly sucker near touched the toes of my high-top sneakers. I screamed bloody murder, like a long-extended horror movie being-hacked-to-death scream. Suddenly, the Devil red outer basement door swung open and out bound my Mother in a wild colored kerchief covering a head full of rollers, scuffing her house slippers on the cement, carrying an axe.  Without a word, with two strong hands she raised the blade high above her head and came down square in the middle of the deadly serpent cutting it in half. The wallop of the cutting edge petrified me. My Mother, without a word or an emotion, turned and vanished behind the Devil red outer basement door. Gave it a little slam. I was rendered speechless.

I remind her of all this sitting at the kitchen table while she cuts into a Shake ‘n’ Baked boneless chicken breast with a paring knife. “Don’t talk so loose I hate snakes,” she says, “I don’t remember a lick of that!”

Oh, Mom, but I do.

Axe. Snake. Dead. Gasp.

***

I’ve been ravenous with books lately. Reading is what saved me through these months where I’m lucky to write a random poem or scribble a note on a scrap piece of paper. I have ideas. A few worth exploring. I just decided that it was better for my creative appetite to bury my nose in a book instead of watching a blinking cursor. I stopped briefly to bang out this tiny piece of creative non-fiction. For some reason, I couldn’t quite get the memory of my mother hacking that snake in two out of my mind. It was as terrifying as it was funny. I’ll never forget standing there, a ball of sweat, my chest heaving at the sight of the snake – black, fat, and with mean eyes. I’ll never forget the squeak of the Devil red outer basement door and my Mother coming to my rescue with the axe. It was completely out of character even though she did threaten my Dad that one time with a cast iron frying pan. All these years later, she doesn’t remember what they were fighting about or that she even did such a thing, but, if I know my Dad, it was probably warranted – he was a wee bit of a shyster. I only say that because my Mom had the patience of a Saint so for her to wield cookware as a weapon, she had to have been at the end of her rope.

One of the largest writing lessons I learned from my Dad was to never censor myself, especially for people who love me to spare their feelings. I admit, I am a wee bit nervous to share this in the event Mom isn’t exactly excited about me recalling her history or referring to her as an axe murderer. I mean, it IS creative non-fiction. I am pulling from my memories, many of which are still very vivid to me. Mom likes to remind me that I’ve always had quite the imagination so perhaps I remember things not quite as they happened. I beg to differ.

A dear heart recently told me I excel at this genre. I don’t know if this is true, but I enjoy it. It’s worth exploring. Perhaps after some time, I can compile them?

Today is my Friday. I’m taking an extra long weekend. Tomorrow night Matt Mays kicks off a killer week of Memorial Cup concerts on Argyle Street. Since I’m not hitting Hubbards this summer, it’ll be probably be my only chance to see him play. After, I’m going to the Marquee with my buds to see The Fabulously Rich. There is no other Tragically Hip tribute worth seeing. I’m overdue for a dose of their homage.

In propinquity,

Nic