If You Lived Here, I'd Know Your Name Page 10

  Bill O’Neal is the best lay reader. He stands up front, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding the Bible, and delivers the Old and New Testament lessons with the authority of an elementary school principal lecturing spitballers. He has a clipped gray beard and doesn’t take off his hat, which is usually a wool cap with earflaps. He is grouchy enough that when he speaks we all sit up straight and listen. After a life of military regimentation, including combat duty in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, the freedom of wild places is what lured Bill to Alaska. He still carries himself like the air force sergeant he was, but after retiring, Bill wanted to get as far away as possible from that life. Lines from a poem he wrote say it best: “Ah, the far-off places I would see... / High across the great plateau / With none to order ‘stop’ or ‘go.’ “

  Music is a big part of our worship, mainly because the congregation includes Nancy Nash, a concert pianist; Bob Plucker, a retired college choir director; and Bob Krebs, the school district’s music teacher. We also have a lot of members who like to sing. When the Lynn Canal Community Players put on Angry Housewives, a musical about three stay-at-home moms who enter a punk-rock band contest and write funny songs with bad words in them, some churches threatened to picket the performances. Jan encouraged us to attend because three of the four leads were from our church; the other was a Mormon. Margaret Sebens sang a song called “Eat Your Fucking Corn Flakes.” Pam, a grandmother who teaches math at Haines High and spends summers in the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan, surprised us all by rocking out in the stage punk band, adorned with Magic Marker tattoos and colorfully dyed hair. Nancy directed the band and played electric piano in a miniskirt and blue wig.

  BILL O’NEAL LEARNED he had colon cancer before Thanksgiving and asked Jan to announce it in church between Christmas and New Year’s. His funeral was just after Easter. When initial treatments in Seattle weren’t promising, he decided to come home to die. For a while he continued to read the lessons at church, but often he left before communion. Then Jan moved him to her home, converting her office into a sickroom. In the beginning he was brave and stubborn. In the middle he was angry and frustrated. And in the end he was resigned and ready. I sat with Bill on his last day, from after lunch until about five-thirty. I read aloud to him from Naked, by David Sedaris. He didn’t respond, although some of the passages were so funny I cried trying not to laugh. Or maybe I laughed because I was trying not to cry. It was hard listening for Bill’s last breath. He was already halfway into the other world by then, and the only one Sedaris’s humor distracted from the death-watch was me.

  After an hour or so of reading and wondering if Bill would die that day, I moved from his room to a chair by the window in the living room. It was very quiet, and Bill’s mouth was open, so I could still hear him. I got up a few times to moisten his lips with a glycerin-coated Q-Tip, the way Jan had instructed me before she went back to work. He didn’t even move when I touched him. He slept with one eye open and the other closed. I was scared. Before she’d left me with Bill, I had asked Jan what I was supposed to do if he died while I was there. She’d given me her prayer book with the commendatory prayer bookmarked and said to read it out loud over Bill, then call her. I really hoped I wouldn’t have to do that. What if I panicked and forgot? Or ran out of the house sobbing and Bill didn’t get into heaven? I know it’s silly now, but it seemed really important just then. Somebody with more authority than I had should send Bill off to the great beyond. If Bill had been in a hospital room, I could have pressed a button to call a nurse or chaplain for help. But he was not in intensive care. He was stuck with a well-meaning amateur who might faint if he stopped breathing.

  Bill must have had the same concern, because he waited to die until about an hour after I left, when Jan was home. The volunteer undertaker, Paul, told me he was sorry I’d missed Bill’s exit. “You’ve been present at the beginning of life,” he said. “It’s really good to be there at the end, when another door is opened.” Jan and the church treasurer, who was also with Bill at the very end, said he went out well. It was peaceful.

  I guess I had hoped my last day with Bill would be packed with deathbed wisdom. I even brought a notebook to write it all down. I went as much for me as for him. But Bill didn’t tell me the Meaning of Life—or Death—or if he saw God, angels, and all his buddies from the war, who were whole and young again, urging him to join them in heaven’s poker game. He slept the whole time. My friends said that maybe I was getting so eager on my obituary beat that I’d taken to visiting people just before they died to get a last interview.

  When you think about it, it’s no wonder Bill chose to go gently into that good night. The people sitting with him in his last hours were an obituary writer, an undertaker, an accountant, and a priest.

  Before he got sick, Bill walked up to the Bamboo Room for breakfast from his apartment in the Haines Senior Village (he called it the Wrinkle Ranch) almost every day. Around here, we think we know a person’s politics by his appearance and habits. A long-haired journalist with a kayak on the Subaru is a liberal environmentalist. A seventy-six-year-old retired air force sergeant who goes to church and eats eggs over easy, white toast, and bacon every day at the Bamboo Room—that’s our man Bill—must be a right-wing conservative.

  Guess again. His friend Albert said, “He thought Clinton could do no wrong, even in the middle of his sex scandal” and that President Bush “could do no right,” even after September 11. Bill didn’t keep his opinions to himself. He was a great letter-to-the-editor writer, and once suggested that all the street and place-name signs be changed from English to Tlingit. Haines, he said, should go back to calling itself Deishu, or “End of the Trail,” its original name. Over his morning hot chocolate (Bill believed coffee was bad for you), he told Albert, a Tlingit, that he was going to “come back as an Indian and raise hell with the whites.”

  Just looking at Bill, you’d never guess he was such a liberal. I don’t think he saw himself in the same camp with the activists in town, the crowd my mother refers to as “aging hippies.” If you asked Bill, he would no doubt say that he was an American patriot, true to the original principles on which our country was founded. Just as Jan might say there is nothing radical about her church—nothing more than following a man who told us to love our enemies.

  When cancer first slowed Bill down, I offered to read to him or help transpose some of his stories. Bill had written a rambling, unpublished novel about Bylville, an imaginary town a lot like Haines with a hero a lot like Bill. He declined, saying he’d rather watch CNN. By then people from church were taking turns visiting him. Some had more success than others. He got along well with Paul, who was about his age and helped bathe him. But a sweet first-grade teacher originally from South Carolina who adored Bill’s grumpy ways refused to see him any more until he got dressed. Bill had quit wearing pants because he had trouble getting to the bathroom. “I want to help, I love Bill, but I just cannot be in the room with a man who won’t cover himself up,” she said. He met her halfway and draped a towel over his lap. But when that fell off one too many times, she quit. When the accountant was with him on one of his hard days and he asked her why God wasn’t taking him, she got angry and told him he wasn’t nice enough. “God doesn’t want you,” she yelled. He yelled right back. Then he apologized and cried. She did, too, and it was better between them after that.

  The week before he died, Bill called the newspaper office and wanted to know why the houses in Haines didn’t have numbers on them. The fire department had mapped the town a few years back and assigned every building a proper address, in case of an emergency. Since we all pick up our mail at the post office, and since we all know where everyone lives, the street addresses hadn’t caught on. Bill wanted to know how much the numbers cost and why no one was making sure they were posted. He told Bonnie, the paper’s owner, that she should write a story about it. She listened, said she’d look into it, and told Bill she hoped he was feeling better. Later she wond
ered what it was that drove Bill to worry about street numbers when he was dying. I told her that sometimes thinking about small things keeps your mind off big ones. I think he’d also wanted to talk to Bonnie one more time and had needed a reason to call. He may have been complaining about street numbers, but what he was really saying was “Good-bye, I’ve enjoyed your company.”

  A few years ago a young man came to St. Michael’s and asked if he could camp on our property. We had purchased a six-acre meadow on the other side of town with the hopes of building a church someday. He wanted to stay there until he had enough money to buy a ferry ticket to Bellingham. We struggle to meet the rent at the Chilkat Center, give Jan a small stipend, and make land payments. We all dream of building a real church but agonize over the benefits of a nice building versus doing good things with the money it would cost. We had just given five hundred dollars to Bulgarian orphans instead of putting it in the building fund. We’d almost bought new hymnals, so we wouldn’t have to share on crowded holidays like Easter and Christmas, but had given a check to the food bank instead.

  We knew this young man. We had all read his name in the court report in the paper when he was arrested for possession of pot and then again for drunk driving. He’d met another wayward soul and they’d gotten married and had a baby. Afterward, she’d quickly realized that she needed more security. Her mother had agreed and had flown her and the baby home to the Lower Forty-eight. We knew all that, and though it was sad, thought it was probably best, for now anyway. She looked so young. He was almost thirty.

  While everyone else had cake and coffee in the lobby, the vestry, which is the church leaders and included Bill and me, stood in the narrow ticket booth we used for storage and debated the young man’s request to camp on church property. Jan said the shed out there had an oil stove in it, so there was heat; he could stay in there instead of in a tent. Dwight offered to set up a portable boat toilet. They were trying to make it work. I was thinking that this was a terrible mistake. The Episcopalians were already on the edge of the Christian community here. Some of us had left other churches, and our priest was a woman. Nationally the Episcopal Church has been vocal about environmental issues—it opposes drilling for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (something most Alaskans want) and logging in the Tongass National Forest (something half the people in Haines want). Then there were the gay issues. We might be an old denomination, but we were new to Haines. I thought, What if something bad happens and the other churches make it difficult for us to build ours someday? I suggested we simply explain that we didn’t have camping facilities; that we were sorry, but it wouldn’t work. I looked to Bill for help. Surely he’d put his foot down to a freeloader who had never even come to our church before. But Bill only asked Jan if we had insurance. We did. Then Bill reminded us that we were Christians, “part of a faith community that is supposed to love our neighbors, especially the difficult ones.” Of course, he was right. Didn’t Jesus himself hang around with guys just like this?

  Dwight had an idea: Ask the young man to be our caretaker. We could give him fifty dollars a week and a place to stay in exchange for some chores. It was the perfect solution. We called the young man into the ticket booth to tell him. For this interview, he had dressed neatly and taken out the nose ring, cut his hair, and shaved. There wasn’t much room. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Dwight told him our plan. Bill looked stern and emphasized that this wasn’t charity; it was a way to save up for his ticket, earn his keep, and help us out. “This isn’t what I had in mind,” the young man said, about three times. We assured him it would be great for everyone.

  Chip isn’t on the vestry. I told him about our meeting on the way home from church. He couldn’t believe we’d do something so foolish. “What if he burns the building down or gets arrested on church property? What were you thinking?” I didn’t want to get in a fight about it. I was still embarrassed for not thinking kinder, true Christian thoughts about the whole situation to begin with. Chip knows how impractical and softhearted I am. I think that’s why he loves me. He also knows that the rest of the St. Michael’s vestry are, too, and I think that’s why he comes to church.

  Three days later Bill and I were sitting next to each other at the beauty parlor, in matching plastic capes, having our hair trimmed. There’s only one hair shop in Haines. Bill said he’d heard at the Bamboo Room that the young man, who had just begun working for us at the church, might be leaving. Sunday morning—a week after we’d hired him and done our great good deed—we learned he had already left without telling anyone. And he’d kept our key. If Bill was disappointed, it didn’t show. “It could have been worse,” he said. Oh, I wanted to shout, but it could have been so much better. The young man could have turned our six wild acres by the stream into an English garden with a boxwood maze for meditation, a wide green lawn, and a tidy gravel driveway. The old shed could have been transformed into a chapel. Bill could have walked down there each morning and barked out instructions, supervised the progress, and reported back to the vestry. The honest outdoor work, our kindness, and Bill’s guidance could have brought out the best in the lost young man. His family could have returned. He could have gone to school, become a teacher, and started a camp for troubled youth. Maybe the campers could have built us a little timber-frame-and-stone church. Instead he hadn’t done much of anything, had left without saying thank you, and had stolen our key.

  I asked Bill how he felt about it all, if he would make the same decision again. “Sure,” he said. And we left it at that.

  AT BILL’S MEMORIAL service, the Chilkat Center was full of his friends, dressed in jeans and flannel shirts or fleece pullovers. There wasn’t a suit in sight. A sign on the door said that no one wearing a tie would be admitted. It was Bill’s last wish. Nancy played “St. Patrick’s Breastplate,” Bill’s favorite hymn, and we sang all seven verses. Nancy pounded the final verse out so loudly the whole room shook. Maisie wore a black dress and matching hat; the acolytes had on their white robes. There was communion and incense. Jan gave a short sermon without notes about God’s love and its ability to find us anywhere, not just in church. She came around to the power of God’s love to transform us, and thus the world, and wished us all the peace of the Lord, which, she said, “passes all understanding.” She was interrupted a couple of times by the small children playing with toys in the back, but nobody minded. I sat there looking out the big windows, half-listening to the prayers, thinking about Bill, God, and angels—and how we all fit together.

  I also thought about something one of my friends had asked when she’d heard I’d been with Bill the day he died. She wanted to know if he’d given off a death rattle. That’s when your breathing goes all noisy and erratic just before it stops for good. Apparently, it’s quite a moment to witness. Like a drum roll for a high diver. If it’s a good death, you see the soul take flight. No, I didn’t hear Bill’s death rattle. And I’m glad. I have a feeling it would have been unforgettable, in an awful way. At his funeral, when I looked out the big windows facing the backyards of Soap Suds Alley, the inlet, the mountains, and the cloudy sky that God sometimes peeks down from, I saw a lone bald eagle circle higher and higher until he was gone.

  DULY NOTED

  Rob Goldberg and Donna Catotti hosted a picnic at their Mud Bay Road home with traditional Bulgarian food and hot dogs. Their son, Aihan Catotti-Goldberg, is originally from Bulgaria, and Rob and Donna are adopting another little boy from Bulgaria.

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  James Alborough and nearly three dozen other Southeast residents took the U.S. oath of allegiance in a citizenship ceremony on July 19 at the Dimond Courthouse in Juneau. James, a native of South Africa, lives in Haines with his wife, Sarah “Tigger” Posey, and two children. James said the citizenship ceremony capped off sixteen months of paperwork and study, including exams on civics, U.S. history, and the English language.

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  One of the tiniest Haines residents carries a hefty monik
er. Newborn Dante Salvatore Bonaccorso is named after his great-grandmother and great-uncle, said mom Justine Starzynski. Harry Johnson Sr. is the proud papa. Bonaccorso means “good path” in Italian and was the maiden name of Justine’s maternal grandmother.

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  Since Canadian customs officer Marinka Darling is originally from the former Yugoslavia, she speaks Slovenian. “It is as different from Albanian as French is from English,” she said this week, which is too bad, because Canadian officials were ready to fly the Haines woman to Montreal to help translate for ethnic Albanians from Kosovo seeking refuge there.

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  The fourth annual Tlingit Cultural Awareness Month wrapped up September 30 in Klukwan with a potluck at the Alaska Native Sisterhood Hall. The tables were loaded with, among other things, beach asparagus, deer stew, roast goose, smoked salmon, and herring eggs. The Klukwan School children danced and the Alaska Native Brotherhood and Alaska Native Sisterhood honored their lifetime members.

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  Mother Bears

  IT TAKES FOUR flights to get to Bulgaria: Haines to Juneau, Juneau to Seattle, Seattle to London, and then London to Sofia. When we get there, Eliza and I will pick up my newest Lende, Stojanka, from an orphanage. Since it may be a once-in-a-lifetime trip, Chip encouraged us to spend a week in England on the way. He is staying home, running the store and taking care of the rest of the family. Chip’s sister, who spends part of the year in England, has promised to entertain us.

  With each flight, I gain confidence. When we descend into Heathrow, in our British Airways socks and sleep masks, I feel rich, like a world traveler. Eliza and I get through customs and take a train downtown. We follow my mother-in-law’s directions to an apartment—a flat, as she calls it. It belongs to a friend of hers who is away but has left a key with the manager.