Chapter 3
Of course, I said nothing to anyone about the fluttering in my chest. Heartburn, I told myself. Indigestion. It was there and then gone. Nothing really to worry about.
The next morning, Sunday morning, we all went to church.
St. Agnes has been my home parish from birth.
I was baptized and confirmed there, as were all my children.
I was an altar boy, member of CYO, a Boy Scout whose troop was sponsored by the church, and now I usher one Sunday a month, count the take from the offering plates, and head up the Buildings and Grounds Committee.
St. Agnes is also where Mal served as priest for a while before he voluntarily defrocked himself.
Although there were a lot of other underlying reasons for his decision, because he married Rose, there are still some in our parish, mostly older, unduly pious folks, who carry a bit of enmity in their hearts toward Mal and Rose.
They’re both aware of this, and whenever they visit over a Sunday and attend mass with us, they suffer a few scowls of disapproval.
They claim it doesn’t bother them. But my own guess is that there’s still some sting, especially when those scowls are turned on little Luke, who is completely innocent in all that occurred before he was born.
But Mal and Rose always insist on attending mass with us, and that Sunday was no exception.
Nothing untoward occurred, and they were both welcomed warmly by the great majority of those in attendance.
Afterward, when we all had changed out of our Sunday best, we had dinner—pot roast, mashed potatoes, asparagus, and tossed salad—courtesy of the women of our family, who prepared things while the men played workup softball in the backyard with the two boys.
Following dinner cleanup, which was the responsibility of the males, boys included, we made our pilgrimage to the cemetery, the purpose at the heart of our gathering that weekend.
It’s always a bittersweet experience standing among all those silent headstones with so many unspoken stories buried beneath.
My daughter, Annie, and my wife, Jo, are buried side by side there.
I sometimes visit their graves alone. Alone, because I talk to them and tears are often the result.
I don’t know about other guys, but I don’t want people gawking at me when I cry.
My parents are also buried in that cemetery, and my grandfather.
But not my grandmother Dilsey. She was laid to rest beneath a small spirit house in the Ojibwe cemetery behind the old mission on the Iron Lake Reservation, which is where most of my Anishinaabe relatives are buried.
Whenever I gather with my family in the cemetery and we share memories, it feels to me as if, for a brief while, we’ve brought our lost loved ones back to us.
We stood around Jo’s grave and Annie’s and told stories and embraced memories.
The day was perfect for such. The sky was a vault of blue and the air warm and the tall linden tree whose boughs arch overhead gave us plenty of cool shade.
There was a good deal of laughter, and a lot of tears, mine included.
But I was the only one whose heart began to act up in a scary way.
I clutched my chest.
“You okay, Dad?” Stephen asked.
“Something’s wrong,” I said.
Rainy, public health nurse and Mide, lifted my chin and looked into my face. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“My heart. It feels like a galloping horse.”
She checked my pulse and shook her head. “Come on. We’re getting you to the emergency room.”
“Is Dad having a heart attack?” Jenny asked.
“I don’t know. But we need to get him seen. Right now.”
I lifted my hand to the others in apology. “Sorry to spoil the moment.”
“Go, Dad,” Stephen said. “We’re fine.”
We left them and quickly returned to where I’d parked my Expedition.
“I’m driving,” Rainy said.
“I think I’m starting to feel a little better.”
“I’m still driving,” Rainy said. “Give me the keys.”
They did an EKG, a CAT scan, took some blood. I’d been there a couple of hours when the ER doctor, a young guy named Housewright, new to the Aurora Community Hospital, sat down with Rainy and me.
“Okay, the good news is that you didn’t have a heart attack.
In fact, your heart appears to be in pretty good shape.
I think what you experienced was probably a mild arrhythmia.
It’s not uncommon and it’s not life-threatening.
I don’t think I need to prescribe anything for you at this point.
But I’d like to encourage you to see a cardiologist, just to be on the safe side. ”
“I can do that,” I said, trying to sound as healthy and as positive as I could.
“I’ll make sure he does.” Rainy gave me a pointed look.
The doctor gave me some advice about how to get through another episode, should one occur, then told me I was free to go.
Rainy had kept in touch by cell phone with the rest of our family. They were waiting for us at the house on Gooseberry Lane. They were all way too solicitous.
“Sit down.”
“Can I get you something?”
“Just relax, Cork.”
“You look much better.”
And this from Waaboo: “I thought you were going to die, Baa-baa.” Which was the most honest of all the comments and expressed a fear that some of the others probably shared. Then he added, “I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Makes two of us, little rabbit.”
In the language of the Anishinaabeg, my grandson’s name Waaboo means, “little rabbit.” His legal name is Aaron Smalldog O’Connor.
My daughter Jenny found him when he was only a few days old, shortly after his mother had been killed.
She adopted him. Almost immediately Stephen had given him the nickname Waaboo.
It stuck, and now that’s what we call him most of the time.
It was late afternoon by then. But there was something I wanted to do before I sat down to relax.
“Stephen, I think we need to talk to Henry.”
“I’m not sure walking to Crow Point is something you should be doing today,” Rainy said.
“I need some answers,” I told her. “The kind only Henry can give.”
“I’d like to hear Henry’s take on our visions,” Stephen said.
“You don’t think they’re about your father’s heart?” Belle asked.
“Where a vision is concerned, I’ve learned to take nothing for granted,” Stephen said.
“You want to see Mishomis?” I asked Waaboo.
Mishomis is Ojibwe for “grandfather.” It’s a respectful term for men of advanced age.
These days, when I’m on the rez and encounter a very young person, they often address me as Mishomis.
It’s how Waaboo addresses the old Mide, and he always says it with great affection.
“Yippee!” was his reply. “Can Luke come, too? He’s never met Mishomis.”
“I wouldn’t mind going as well,” Mal said. “Henry often gave me good advice when I was struggling as the priest here. And I haven’t seen him since Jenny and Daniel’s wedding.”
“All right, then,” I said, turning to the front door.
“Dad.” Stephen put a restraining hand on my arm. “I’ll drive.”
It’s a cold reality that as you age, your children feel a need to become protective, in the way you protected them as they grew up.
I could have argued. The doc had said my heart was in good shape.
But Stephen was clearly ready to battle me on this one, so I tossed him the keys to the Expedition and said, “I’ll ride shotgun. ”