University of Northern Iowa

In the Bell Museum of Natural HistoryAuthor(s): Barton SutterSource: The North American Review, Vol. 266, No. 3 (Sep., 1981), p. 17Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124167 .

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Given Names

in the front row, the one ahead of my mother. It seemed a

reminder of our mortality, this arrangement; the blonde

and jet black of my row giving way to the gray of our

parents, and then to the yellowish white of Grandmother and Grandfather and the two extant great-aunts. My

grandfather's voice sang out bravely and joyously the words to the hymn. My grandmother, I noticed, did not

sing at all. The eulogy was short and somewhat imper

sonal, focusing on the untimely nature of Babe's passing instead of saying anything about who she was.

My mother and her sisters seemed to be crying occa

sionally in the church, but in the car on the way to the

family luncheon, Mother expressed what seemed like resentment over my grandmother's grief for Babe. "After

all," she said, "It isn't as though Babe were the one who

did anything for her or Daddy all these years." For a little while, there was a kind of deliberate sobri

ety to the luncheon, but shortly after the fruit cup the aunts began to chatter, and my cousins to compare house

purchases, pregnancies, and recipes. Only Orrie, sitting on my right, who couldn't stop telling his awful story over

and over; and Grandmother, stony at the end of the table, seemed affected.

I had to leave early. I'd left my daughter with friends

overnight, and needed to catch the afternoon plane home.

I went around the table, whispering goodbyes to those who might be hurt if I didn't?my mother, grandfather, and the aunts; then I stopped at my grandmother's chair,

and knelt next to her. She swung her head slowly towards me like someone hearing a distant call. I realized she was

still strongly sedated. "Gram?" I said. "It's Anna. I came to say goodbye to

you. I have to go." I spoke clearly and slowly. She reached out and touched my face in a kind of

recognition. "Say goodbye," she repeated.

"Yes, I have to go. I'm sorry I can't stay longer. But I

wanted just to come, to remember Babe today." She kept

nodding her assent.

"Edith," she said mournfully. "Yes, Edith. I was so sorry, Gram." She nodded.

"I'm going now Gram. Goodbye." She stopped nod

ding as I leaned forward to kiss her. Her hand clutched at mine. Her grip was bony and tight.

"Don't go," she whispered. "I'd like to stay, Gram, but my plane

. . ."

"Don't leave me." I looked at her face. It stayed

inexpressive, but tears sat waiting in her eyes. Impul

sively I put my free arm around her and held her. "I can

stay just a minute, Gram," I said, patting her back. She whispered in my ear, "Don't leave me alone."

Her body felt empty but for the frame of bones. I held her until her hand loosened its grip on mine. When I leaned back away from her, her face was completely blank

again. I kissed her cheek. "Goodbye, Gram."

I sat alone on the plane. I ordered a drink, but even

before it arrived I had begun to cry. The stewardess was

concerned; asked me if I were all right. I assured her I would be, I had just been to a funeral. As I sipped the drink and stared out into the blank sky, I realized that I had never before heard anyone in the family call Babe by her christened name. D

BARTON SUITER

IN THE BELL MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

I was knee-high to the grizzly bear

When my old man first brought me here.

He held me up so I could stare

At timber wolves and white-tailed deer.

And here they are, much as they were.

I'm the one that's worse for wear.

The wolves still stand the way they did

When Dad explained that they were dead.

Cock and bull. Those bastards are immortal,

While I've grown old enough to be my father.

The woman I've brought points out a girl Who gapes at the eagle spread above her,

Raises her arms, shrieks, and whirls

Away to attack her mother. My lover

And I can afford to laugh. We've got careers

In place of the family we might have reared.

We enter a room called Touch and See

Where kids are swarming an elephant skull

And clattering strings of teeth. Timidly We pet some pelts while children howl

And egg each other on. Finally I drape myself with wolfhide and skulk

Behind my friend who's put on antlers.

I grab her and growl in her ear.

Shutting out that pandemonium,

We window-shop back down the hall

Past panfish, pike, and muskellunge,

Past phalaropes, the males female,

A hummingbird the size of my thumb, And pause to admire the soft pastel

Plumage of passenger pigeons. To think

These birds eclipsed the sun, and

they're extinct.

THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW/September 1981 17

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