Were we compelled to choose between the alternatives of translating mental phenomena into physical phenomena, or the translating of physical phenomena into mental phenomena, the later alternative would seem the more acceptable of the two.  Spencer.

   

Chapter Four

 

I sat with Charlie and Judith on the evening of the figure skating trials. They were excited, as only parents could be when their child was competing, and almost too excited since Jane had done very well in both the compulsory figures and her short program the previous day. Although the compulsory sets were being dropped in most International competitions, Ivy had always maintained that our Canadian skaters could do much better if they placed more emphasis on the figures. It was, after all, a demonstration of the exacting techniques of figure skating. Skaters had to develop the basic skills if they were to succeed in the sport, Ivy said.

The White’s contagious enthusiasm had rubbed off on me by the time Jane was ready to skate her long program. There had been some excellent performances and I knew that Jane would have to skate extremely well to win her division. I had secreted a bouquet of red roses under my topcoat that I intended to give to Jane, no matter how well she skated. It seemed that almost every competitor got a few flowers from friends, relatives and admirers ‑ a bonus for skating in front of a home town crowd.

Jane was wearing a typically short, blue skater’s skirt but her top was very different from the traditional tights that were becoming more skimpy since Katerina Witt had set a new  trend a few years ago.  Jane had crossed red braces on a white tunic of a military cut. On her hair, which was pulled into a neat, tight bun, was a small pillbox cap, the type worn at military academies. From the moment the music started, I was mesmerized. She had selected the March of the Wooden Soldiers from the Nutcracker as her opening theme. Not only was it an obvious favourite with the crowd, but it was a favourite of Ivy’s. Jane moved her arms in a stiff, wooden, military motion as she marched the first few steps on the tips of her skates. Then she relaxed her body a little and moved into longer strides, still in perfect time to the music. The crowd was now quietly clapping to the beat of the music, adding to the growing effect of Jane’s skating. The strides turned into powerful strokes of the flashing blades as they carved the ice like silver sabres, the crisp crackling of the ice building to little crescendos as she swept around the arena, executing axels and loops. As the music reached a peak, she went from an axel into a beautiful camel spin that the audience really appreciated. 

As I watched, I saw the change. It was like a metamorphosis playing in my mind. That was Ivy out there! Ivy was skating her dream! She flowed around the ice surface, covering the whole of the skating area, using the boards as an unseen army foe. She would sweep into a corner, spin off the boards and then attack another section, all in perfect time with the music. You could sense the urgency, the rush of the battlefield, the excitement of the single wooden soldier as he fought his imaginary enemy. Then the music slowed to the strains of Swan Lake and she became a swan.  Now she was gliding peacefully over the ice lake, lost in fantasy, unaware of the restricting boards or the presence of the spectators. Her arms were wings, describing graceful arcs in the air as the swan stretched and ruffled imaginary feathers. She moved her arms more quickly now, gaining speed then glided to a complete stop, spinning slowly at centre ice, her arms folded, head down, resting like a swan on the water.

I could feel my spine tingling, the hairs of the nape of my neck were standing up and my skin had turned to goose bumps. The audience was stunned into silence by the beauty of the last section of Ivy’s skate. I wished the moment could last forever. But at the call of the trumpet, the crowd cheered, Ivy became the soldier once more, answering the call to the 1812 Overture. She skated faster and faster, leaping in small quick jumps, like a soldier rushing headlong across the battlefield, vaulting obstacles, dodging the unseen enemy. As the cannons roared, Ivy leaped high into the air, once, twice, three times, then in a slowing spiral spin, collapsed, dead to the ice. The crowd was on its feet, cheering, clapping, whistling.

Charlie, Judith and I stood, spellbound, looking at each other in amazement. They could not believe that their only daughter had just given such a professional, moving performance. I knew it was Ivy. It had to be! We made our way down from the seats in the stands, the Whites heading for their daughter’s dressing room, while I went to the boards to give her my bouquet of roses. She saw me waving the red roses and skated towards me, gathering up the single roses that others had tossed to the ice, waving to the crowd in appreciation of their continued cheering. She took the roses from me, stood on her tip toes and lightly kissed me on the cheek, saying only to me, “Thanks, Fletch.”

Jane won the competition by a large margin, no doubt for scoring the four 5.9’s and two perfect 6.0’s in the freestyle. We celebrated that night with a party for Jane’s friends at the White’s. As the crowd thinned out, I finally had the opportunity to question Jane on how she felt while she was skating.

“It was somewhat surreal, Mr. Blair. As if I were in a trance, almost.”

“Call me Fletcher, please, Jane. What do you mean, in a trance?”

“Well, I was in control of what I was doing, of course, but I felt so at ease, so confident. It was as if I were looking at myself from outside, seeing what I was doing, what I was going to do next.”

“Sounds almost like an ‘out‑of‑body’ experience,” I said.

“Well, no, not really. I did feel sort of detached but I was absolutely in control. I could really feel the music tonight, as if it were a part of me. I have heard other skaters say the same thing has happened to them, but I always thought it was just an adrenaline rush, or something like that.”

“You didn’t feel like someone else was guiding you, did you?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment then said, “No. I could picture all the things my coach has been telling me, all the things we do in practise, but that’s normal. No, this was a real Ahigh@. I can’t explain it any other way.”

When I finally got home to my own private world, I sat in my Lazyboy rocker and had a good cry. I knew that it was Ivy skating there tonight. She was not dead. She was alive. She was here. She was just in a dimension that I could not reach. She had to be here. Jane would never, ever call me AFletch@, let alone, AFletcher@. I was Mr. Blair to her. It had to be Ivy.

The following morning over my coffee, I decided that I had to speak to someone about Ivy, someone who could tell me where Ivy  was, how I could reach her. Was I really talking to myself at dinner each night or was Ivy still here with me? With whom do you discuss such things? I knew some of my close friends would be obliging listeners but I doubted any of them would be really able to offer any concrete advice, even if they did understand what I was going through. I did not have a very high opinion of psychics, fortune tellers, Ouija board readers or their ilk. I did not think I was quite ready for a psychiatrist, although I must admit that I gave that considerable thought over my second cup of Colombian coffee. I did not have any religious leader to talk to and besides, from my limited experience, they were also on the wrong channel for this problem. I finally settled on my family doctor since she seemed to be the pragmatic type.  There was a dead mouse on my doorstep again.

Doctor Lynde‑Smythe is a little different from the usual family physician, perhaps novel, compared to most doctors I have met. She practises hypnotism to cure a number of ailments, has even sent some of her patients for acupuncture treatments when she thought the person could accept the needles. She is very strong on diet and exercise and believes that stress is our biggest medical problem. The good doctor is into the Holistic thing, promoting wellness through being in tune with the universe, but I have stuck to taking a few pills whenever some part of the body felt out of sync. Generally, she is my kind of person. She had been our doctor for about five years, ever since old Doctor James retired to Florida and the golf course. I feel quite at ease with her ‑ even when she does my annual physical check-up. Somehow, I never completely trusted a male doctor who gleefully snaps his rubber gloves and chuckles as he says Aassume the position@.

I blurted out my story to Dr. Lynde‑Smythe. From the sexual fantasies and my sore left tit, to the dinner conversations and the experience at the skating competition. She bought the whole package. I felt greatly relieved and slightly more relaxed after she said that all the things I was experiencing were not that uncommon or unusual. She said it was just my reluctance to admit to myself that Ivy was dead and no longer a part of my life. The memories were so strong that they created these visual images in my mind. Again, that was not abnormal. She suggested that a few visits and some hypnosis would fix me up. I said that I guessed it was the thing to do. Next week. I wanted to hang onto Ivy a little longer. It was okay if my mind was playing little tricks on me. Just as long as I knew.

 

Inevitably a theologian will appear and offer a solution.  Blair   

   

Chapter Five

 

I thought that I had escaped it, that they had misplaced my file, that they knew I really did not want it, but it was inevitable. I suppose that it took longer to happen because I was not a member of the congregation of St. Paul ’s Baptist Church , but Ivy’s minister finally came by to do his duty and pay the ASocial Visit to the Grieving@. The Reverend was a kindly, older man, approaching what must have been retirement age, if they have such a thing in churches, a man I had met a few times and liked for his casual style of trying to redeem my soul. Ivy certainly held the minister in high regard, often referring to Andrews in our discussions on social topics. I recalled her saying that the old gentleman was a Scot and a widower, but I knew little else about him.

I was sitting on the old grey Hudson =s Bay blanket that I use as a ground sheet, on the driveway that warm Saturday afternoon, working on the Triumph motorcycle. Ivy had found the blanket for me to use so I would not get oil stains on the fancy paving stones that formed a pattern containing a big AB@ for Blair right in front of the garage doors.  I had grumbled a first about using a blanket but it did have a cushioning effect that made the work more comfortable. I was trying, again, to get the points set so that damn thing would give a hot spark at approximately the right time to explode some of the gas I was flooding into the cylinders.

Thomas Three Toes was lying on the grass beside me, a bemused look on his face, soaking up a few of the warm rays from the autumn afternoon sun. He did not like the motorcycle when it backfired but he seemed to know that there was no danger of that this afternoon. I had the well‑thumbed manual open beside me, trying to find some hidden clue to the proper gap for the points when a voice said, “I used to have a Triumph, just after the war.”

“Oh?” I said, looking up.

“I’m Ian Andrews, Ivy’s minister . . . “

“Oh, yes. Hello,” I said, getting up and wiping my hands on the seat of my pants without thinking, then extending a not too dirty hand to the man. “I didn’t recognize you without the robe and collar. I was just trying to get the points set correctly. It’s tricky on this machine.”

“Ah, yes, I know the problem verra well. Back in the forties they kept burning off ‑ poor material, I suppose. One was forever adjusting the points. I had a 500cc, a big bike, back then. Used it to get around the parish. Dandy machine.”

“Yes. Well, this one is good enough when it runs, but I haven’t had much luck getting it started. It always seems to flood before it will fire, no matter how carefully I use the choke. By the time I get it running, I’m too tired to ride it!”

“I don’t know about this model, but I found that the correct gap on mine was the thickness of a pound note, folded four times,” he said.

“Umm ‑ I wonder . . . “ I said, reaching for my wallet. I found a five‑dollar bill , figuring that the pound was about half the value of the five, both being depressed by a high American dollar just now. I folded the blue Canadian bill four times. It did appear about the right thickness. The old gentleman held the bill while I tightened down the screw that held the points in position.  Thomas Three Toes had to stick his head in to see what we were looking at. When he took a playful swat at the condenser that was dangling from its fine red wire, I had to chase him away. He thought it was a new game so Andrews had to hold the cat with one hand and the cover with the other while I replaced the distributor cover screws. The three of us finally got everything back together with no spare pocket parts left over. I primed the engine and gave the starter lever a good solid kick. The 650 roared into life, a cloud of blue smoke bellowing from the exhaust as the engine burned off all the excess gas and oil I had flooded into the engine. Thomas leapt from the minister’s arms and high-tailed it across the street, a blur of tawny fur and legs. There was aloud bang, more smoke, and then the engine settled down into a pleasing rumble. I could see that the old man was enjoying all this and suspected that he would like to take the bike out for a spin.

“You want to try it?” I shouted above the noise.

“Well, it’s been a few years since I rode a street bike . . .  but, yes, I would! You don’t mind?”

“No, you go ahead. I’ll get you my helmet . . .  you can take her up the street. There is hardly any traffic today, so you won’t have to worry about cars.”

“Okay, just a short ride,” he said, a pleased look on his face.

He put on my fancy full‑face helmet, the blue and white Shoei that Ivy had bought for me, a couple of years ago. I had to help him with the D rings. I guessed that back in his riding days they just used a buckle or snap, if they even wore helmets.  He climbed on board, checked out the controls with me, then headed down the driveway. He wobbled a little at first, but then gave the bike a little more throttle, shifted gears smoothly and drove away. When he had not returned after five or six minutes I began to wonder if I should not get the car and go looking for him in case he was having trouble. Just then the throaty sound of the Triumph heralded his return. 

He came belting up the street, well over the speed limit, his brown tweed jacket flapping in the wind.  It looked like he had under-estimated his speed for the turn into the driveway. I was sure that he was going to dump the bike and himself into my flower bed among the red begonias at the side of the house. But at just precisely the right instant, he swung the big blue Triumph around as if by magic. In a succession of rapid moves he first twisted open the throttle, hit the front brake as he released the throttle, turned the front wheel as the back slid out, pivoted the bike on his left foot, and rolled to a stop in front of me. He killed the ignition while adding throttle. The engine coughed once, backfired, and was still.

“My God, how did you do that?” I asked, not meaning to be irreverent.

He laughed. “I always stopped mine that way . . . clears the cylinders for the next time you want to use it. That was great fun! I should get a street bike again.”

“I mean, the turn, the foot down . . . “

“Oh that. I guessed you’ve missed the motor‑cross stories in my sermons. I came fourth in the Isle of Mann, back in ‘48.”

We pushed the bike into the garage and put away all the tools after carefully wiping them clean. I invited Andrews in and asked if he would like a drink, thinking a spot of tea might be in order on a Saturday afternoon. When he said a wee drap o= scotch and water would be very pleasant, I felt even more at ease with him. The old gent asked if I minded him smoking his pipe and I said it was all right with me. I had to look for an ashtray because Ivy never left any out as her way of discouraging smoking in the house. The reverend’s tobacco was slightly aromatic, a mixture similar to the one I had used when I smoked a pipe many years ago, before I met Ivy. We chatted amicably about motorcycling and a little about sports and the weather. Then, as if we had had enough of the polite conversational fencing, he said, “Why is it, Fletcher, that we never see you at church service?”

“Well, I suppose it is because I don’t believe in churches or religion.”

“Oh, and why is that? Your good wife was assuredly a strong believer.”

“Oh, I don’t know, really,” I replied. “I used to attend church . . . won all my stars in Sunday School for memorizing the ten commandments, the beatitudes, names of the books of the Bible . . . all the required dogma. I just slowly drifted away from it. The more I saw of life, the more I studied, I came to realize that religions were just tools used to keep control of people. Usually by fear. They preach love, but in fact, always have this threat that if you don’t do what they teach, you will suffer the consequences. I find the threat of hell impossible to reconcile with the promise of heaven. I don’t believe there is a god up there who really cares for us on an individual basis, a god who needs our love and obedience. I just can’t picture an omnipotent being that is so human that he, or she, or it, needs us.”

“But you do admit that there is a presence, a nature, something that created all this . . .  this universe, and others?”

“Well, yes. I suppose I’m not quite a confirmed atheist, more agnostic, I would say. As a reasoning man, I just cannot accept what has been done in the name of religion or what religion has to offer . . . not the United Church, in which I was raised, not your Baptist church, not the Muslims, the Brahmins . . . none of it. I believe we have to be concerned about our fellow beings, that we have a responsibility to live in a civilized manner, that we have to respect each other, and all life, for that matter. I don’t think we need the fears generated by religion to do that.”

The old man drew on his pipe for a minute, emitting little puffs of blue smoke. He sipped his scotch, then said, “Being a scientific, reasoning man, do you believe that man has a soul or a spirit?”

“Well, yes, something. We are more than just meat and bone.”

“What do you think happens to the spirit or soul when the body finally fails us? Does tha= no break your scientific law about matter or energy not being created or lost? Does the soul just cease to exist?”

“It could. I’m not sure whether this thing we call a soul has any energy. There seems to be some indication that we have some power that can influence things outside the body, but whether this is part of the Asoul@, I don’t know. Unlike those who cannot accept that life is simply a progression to death, and death is just the end of life, nothing more, nothing less, I can and do accept that premise. I do not need the mystery of a religion to hide behind, or a dogma to mask my fears. Maybe that spark of energy that we call life here on earth does live on. Maybe it changes into something else here on earth or maybe it just zips off to somewhere called heaven or hell. Maybe it simply burns out like a light bulb. I don’t know. All I know is that right now I am alive, I function by my own set of personal rules that generally frame our civilization . . .”

“Uh huh. What do you think happened to Ivy?” he asked. He certainly did not pull any punches.

“If there is a God and he or she fits the mould that Ivy and your Baptist church believe in, then I’m sure that Ivy went to heaven.” I stopped and then threw caution to the winds, “Or is going there when . . .  when.” Thomas was scratching at the screen door.  That cat never comes into our house. I opened the door and Thomas Three Toes sauntered into the living room and plopped himself down at Andrew’s feet. The old man patted the cat’s head.

       “Ah, tha=s a nice wee cat you have there. You were saying?”

“You’ll laugh at this . . .  I really feel that Ivy is not dead . . .  or at least not gone. I can feel her presence, quite often.”

“Do you ever talk to her?”

“Talk to her?” The reverend was trying to put me on, trying to trip me up on my arguments, trying to trap me into admitting something about some residue of my Christian upbringing. “Well, no, not really,” I lied, and felt guilty.

“You know Fletcher, it is no all tha= unusual to communicate with the dead.” He held up his hand to stop my interruption, “I know, I know, tha= does no sound like Christianity, the way many teach it, but remember that Christ appeared to the living after his death. He talked to them, instructed them, consoled them and even let them touch him. Aye, and I believe that can happen to any of us. A number of religions teach that there is a period after death when the soul must wait, in limbo, if you will, until its time of final rest. The Catholics have their purgatory, the Hindus can go through several phases or lives before they reach their final goal.”

“I never did understand that belief in purgatory or why the Catholics believe in it,” I said.

“Many religions have that waiting period, a place of transition, a place where the souls rest until the final Judgement Day.”

“Like waiting for St. Peter to call out the roll?” I asked. “That sounds as likely as the streets paved with gold to me.”

“Aye, I admit tha= we do get carried away with the grandiose descriptions of heaven somewhat, but you must remember that it was meant to be something appealing to the people of the day. Perhaps the transition period was as much for the grieving as for the deceased, a time and place to adjust to the changed life. There appears to be a common thread in religions that have this intermediary, like St. Peter or even auld Charon.”

“Charon?” I asked.

“If you remember your Greek literature, the ancient Greeks had to cross the river Styx , sometimes having to wait for the ferryman, Charon. Charon exacted a price to row the soul across the river so the Greeks usually placed a coin under the tongue of the dead so the soul would have the toll to pay the ferryman.”

“Oh,” I said, “I probably slept through that one in university. Is that why we have to pay to have masses said for the dead now, to pay the way across?”

“Aye, I suppose it could be connected to the old ways. Religions grow and evolve over the years, partly based on facts, truths, experiences ‑ not just blind faith. Things do happen tha= we canna explain.  Even by scientific reasoning.”

“Yes.” I hesitated. “I guess that I may as well be frank with you. I’m certain that I have talked to Ivy, felt her presence, since she passed on. Is it possible that she could come back, or appear in the body of another person? Have you ever heard told of that happening?”

“Aye, I have. Often, in fact. It seems there can be a manifestation in other forms. It is usually explained away by saying that the observer fantasized or willed himself to see what was not there. However, I am convinced that it is possible.” Thomas was paying close attention to this conversation, his ears perked, his eyes following our conversation. “When my dear wife died several years ago, I went through a period of self‑doubt. Then one day, it was as if she came back to straighten me oot. She spoke to me ‑ AJock, laddie, you buck up now.  Don’t be havin' doubts. I’m here, waiting for you@. After that I settled down, my faith fully restored. I believe, and am convinced, that there is life after death.”

I refreshed our drinks, taking an extra half ounce of the scotch for myself. Thomas gave me a searching look so I excused myself and went to the kitchen for a saucer of milk for the cat. That cat had been following our conversation almost as if he understood what we were talking about. He certainly understood what I said when I had offered to refresh our drinks.

“Have you ever spoken to your wife since then?” I asked.

“Well, no. To tell the truth, I never tried. I just did as she had said, I got on with my life,” the minister replied.

“Do you know anything about séances or that kind of thing . . . where people talk to the dead?”

“I’ve never had any first-hand experience with the use of a medium in that sense, but there are examples of using an intermediary, you know. ‘Tis a common practice in many religions, in fact. Some religions use a high priest as a medium ‑ a way to channel a person’s thoughts to their God. In the olden days, these high priests, shamans, witch doctors, whatever they were called, claimed to have power over the soul of the dead. That is how they controlled the people. Personally, I don’t think there is any truth in that . . . no one has control over your soul, only you. Free will, if you like. Of course, these people who run séances can control or influence your mind by hypnosis or the power of suggestion. People who go to these charlatans are usually in a state of mind that makes them easy targets for manipulation.”

“Yes, that’s how I feel, too. But I was wondering if I should try a medium, just as an experiment, to try to contact Ivy. I feel as though I am talking to her at times, or even sense her presence, but I have never seen her.”

“Perhaps my dear wife had the answer to that when she talked to me that one time. She said that she was waiting for me. I would say that Ivy is waiting for you. In the meantime, you’ve got to get on with the rest of your life.”

“What you are saying is that I have to have faith that Ivy is out there, waiting . . . “

“Aye, faith, tha=s the word.”

“I feel something now, when I talk to her. A confidence, a sense of security, in that I know she is still . . . “

“We call that peace. Peace of soul. Tha’s the feeling we Christians are supposed to feel all the time. Unfortunately, most of us are not that good at practising what we profess or teach, so we are not in that state of Apeace@ as often as we should be. Many find that peace only at Sunday service, others through private, personal prayer. I believe that my talent here on earth is to show others how to achieve that peace of soul, or peace of mind, if you prefer.”

“You definitely have given me some peace of mind, just talking about your experience. I guess I never questioned if I were at ease with my soul, or inner self, until Ivy’s death.  Now, since she has talked to me, I am beginning to think that there is something more to life than just this day to day existence. She said she would come back and tell me. I suppose that is what has happened.”

“Aye, it could be,” he said.

I offered him another scotch but he declined, saying he had to get back to his study and put the finishing touches on his sermon for the coming Sunday service. He left, thanking me again for the ride on the old Triumph. He mentioned that he had a 250‑cc Gawa XT that I should ride. I said I would try to get over one day before the snow fell. Thomas left without thanking me for the milk. I really did feel better after talking to the old man. He was a regular sort of guy.  Imagine, Isle of Mann! It was good to realize that I was not going crazy just because I liked talking to Ivy. Andrews had communicated with his wife so he could relate to my feelings. I preferred his approach to Dr. Lynde‑Smythe’s. Maybe Ivy did appear as Jane.  A manifestation, Andrews called it. Maybe it actually was Ivy who said AThanks, Fletch@ at the arena. Maybe Ivy was out there waiting for me, just like Andrew’s wife was waiting for him. Maybe Ivy was waiting on the shore, waiting for some mythical ferryman to take her over to the other side. Ivy had said she would come back and tell me.  She had not said that she would come back to get me sexually aroused a couple of times a week, but then, Ivy was like that.