Philip Hassey
Ducks
Writing of Fiction
Last week was the Mother's Club auction at Whitinsville Christian School. Everyone went to the auction because when fifty some-odd Dutch mothers tell you to do something, you do it. Them tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed women don't particularly take no for an answer. So everyone went.
The auction was always fun. At least the mothers said so, and we had to agree with them. This year's theme was "Canoe Trip." The ladies hung all the canoes they could on the walls. They rented these canoes from a large man who lived on a portion of land that was "dedicated to nature" near the edge of the Blackstone Valley River. His name was said to be Leroy, though nobody knew for sure, so no one called him that to his face. Since the man did not have a permit to live on these sacred grounds, the canoes were black-market goods. The local authorities either didn't know or just didn't care enough to do anything about him. Not only that, but the canoes were excellent and rented at quite good prices. Perhaps one might wonder how he got ahold of such quality canoes to be able to rent them so cheaply. The mothers did not bother thinking about these questions. The Reformed worldview said not to. They also decorated the walls with streamers and other exotic decorations which were purchased at a nice little legitimate store in Whitinsville called "Occasionally Yours."
They had to go all out at these school events to escape the Christian Reformed tradition for at least a few moments every year. The blank, shapeless walls of the church sometimes depressed the women. If it weren't for fanatics like Ulrich Zwingli, things might have been different. "Burn the relics!" he said. Not that relics were all that bad to begin with, but what Zwingli said went. But at this school event, nothing was held back in the name of Ulrich Zwingli. Sparkly paper was put on the tables. Huge watermelons were cut into shapes and put on the table as hors d'ouvers for the main meal, which was a gigantic weenie roast to go along with the canoe theme. These were all much more exotic hot-dogs than usual, stuffed with pickles and covered with a bluish cream -- only a little disgusting, but people ate them anyway.
At the front table of the arrangement proudly sat the Haringa family. Mrs. Haringa was the head of this entire operation, so it was she who came up with the canoe theme. She sat tall in her seat and looked out across the group, knowing that she was the one who had brought this to be. She was about sixty years old and had the tendency to run her hands through her hair the way a super-hero does. She was doing that a lot this evening, all the while acknowledging that she was the organizer. The canoe trip that had inspired this whole production was the tragic one the Haringa clan had taken during the summer. She was proud of her production, despite its origins.
The Haringa family was pretty old at the time. They had lived in the area since time out of mind. Records show that they were one of the first families to move from Mecca to Whitinsville. Mrs. Haringa, who at this point was Grandma Haringa, was proud of the large blooming family she had started with Mr. Haringa, who was pushing sixty-five himself. With them came the multitude of Haringa descendants, including three grandchildren and their parents. When they had all arrived at the canoe shop on the edge of the Blackstone Valley River, the man supposedly known as Leroy just looked at them and laughed for a brief while. He stood and smoked his grand cigar that must have been at least a foot long and a good two inches in diameter as he sized them up. Eventually he still set them up with a few canoes and supplies so they could set out on their wild journey into the waters. He grinned his large wiskery face at them as if to say he had no faith in the possibility of the Haringa family's survival of this expedition.
Leroy was perhaps not worried for their safety so much as for their souls. He had been in the canoe business for a long time. The river wasn't particularly dangerous, but he had seen a number of family trips end in disaster before, and he could see it in this one too. The sharp, proud look in Mrs. Haringa's face as she handed him the money let him know that she was doomed. He was right.
They were given four canoes to seat the nine of them. Mrs. Haringa was put into the canoe with little Betty. Betty was five years old and had far more energy then any person of any age should ever have. Her cute little yellow pigtails and little blue Dutch eyes just shone with kind of excitement that made up a grandchild. The way she talked and moved, Betty looked as though she was constantly on the verge of exploding into a million pieces and making a horrible mess. Mrs. Haringa knew she was going to get wet.
Mr. Haringa was with his son, Bill. Bill was a useless son. Ten years ago, Bill looked like a boy with promise. He was about to get married to a wonderful Dutch girl named Suzanne. They were going to have children and live a productive life. Bill would be working as a manager at McDonalds. However, his occupation didn't work out so well. McDonalds produced too much stress. He quit. Eventually it was realized that he married a useless wife, but they together produced that Betty child. This left the grandparents and social security and other such funds to pay for the expenses of these two worthless parents and their exploding child. Mr. Haringa figured maybe little Betty would some day do something productive with her overly-energetic life -- perhaps something like pushing his wife into the water. He knew it was bound to happen and was more than thrilled that it might just happen. He didn't hate his wife, but all Dutch wives need to be pushed in the water by someone once in a while.
Needless to say, within five minutes Mrs. Haringa was covered with water and mud and Betty was dancing around her in the canoe just squealing with delight. "Grandma is wet!" she cried it out again and again with the biggest smile Mr. Haringa had ever seen on a child. Exactly how this happened was a mystery to Mr. Haringa, but that it happened was not surprising. Likely Betty had been jumping up and down in the canoe like a maniac, started whacking the water with an oar, as she danced and sang "Joy to the World" for the fiftieth time this day. Eventually Mrs. Haringa reached over to grab the oar from Betty's hand because Mrs. Haringa was getting wet. Unfortunately as she was reaching out to grab the oar she lost her balance and fell in the water. Betty continued to dance and sing joyously, smacking the water dangerously near Mrs. Haringa's face. Grandpa Haringa missed this because Bill had been crying on his shoulder about how tough life was not having anything to do. Mr. Haringa suggested that Bill get a job, and Bill explained how he just wasn't cut out for work and he needed to find himself. Mr. Haringa wondered what he had done wrong to parent a child this worthless. This made him wonder even more as to how Bill had managed to parent a child like Betty as he looked over and saw his wife screaming in the water, waving her hands in the air, yelling for someone to dip an oar in and help her out. Eventually someone did, but it wasn't Mr. Haringa. Bill needed a hug.
The smile upon Betty's face when she saw Grandma wet only matched the smile on Mr. Haringa's face as they drove home. Mrs. Haringa was wrapped up tight in some blankets and towels trying to dry off from the entire canoeing experience. She was shivering and looking very miserable. Inside of her head she was trying to distract herself from her present misery by planning for the auction. She wasn't able to forget about how horrid she felt, so that is when she decided to use canoe trip as the theme.
In the driver's seat, Mr. Haringa was smiling because he had enjoyed the baptizing of his wife. However, the smile on his face doubled when he saw a herd of ducks on the road. He gunned the engine and hit two of them nicely. The van lopped right over two of them with a small bump and a little splashing sound. Cleaning the guts off the van later was going to be unpleasant, but the squishing sound and the squalking of the ducks made up for it as Mr. Haringa beamed with happiness at his accomplishment.
Grandma was not so thrilled with Mr. Haringa's hunting skills. When he looked towards her with a look of manly accomplishment, she turned her neck towards him and glared. She told him he was going to go back and clean up the mess he had just made on the road. And he was going to do something productive with those ducks and not be disgusting and wasteful by just running them down into the pavement. Mr. Haringa rolled his eyes, but complied anyway. Sometimes he missed the old concept of "traditional male-dominated marriage," but then he wouldn't get the thrill of seeing his wife fail at being a man.
After shoveling the remains off the road, putting them into a paper bag, and shoving them into the back of the van, he drove them back to Whitinsville. They smelt like fresh bloody duck. Perhaps not the most pleasant smell, but it reflected the mood of most everyone in the van. Except for Betty, who was still singing and occasionally giggling about Grandma, and Mr. Haringa, who was still more happy about his duck accomplishment than anything else. They were trophies of his manliness.
As it was, Mr. Haringa had two disfigured ducks to deal with. He decided he was going to donate them to the auction. He figured he could get away with this, as he had seen worse things donated to the auction and all sold at exorbitant prices. He still didn't understand how Betty's leech collection had been sold for over $400 last year. Her leech collection was a dirty wooden box filled with the last three summers worth of swimming in the town reservoir. Every time she got out, if she found a leech, she would dry it out in a jar in the sun for a week and then paint it a different color. She would then drop the dried-out, painted carcass into the box. The fact that someone bought this proves some people are far too dedicated to the cause. Maybe they just get excited at the thought of spending large amounts of money on something that is completely useless and worthless. Mr. Haringa could see that thrill, but he really didn't want to ever face it himself. Perhaps they are exercising the old Calvinist idea of capitalism. The only way some of these gentlemen feel they can strut their election is by showing that they are rich and can buy junk. Being a steward of junk is their divine appointment.
In the basement of the house, Mr. Haringa put the ducks down and sat there looking at them. He talked to them and asked them how they felt about things. Neither of them looked very happy, but there was almost an aura of peace about them. He asked the ducks why they were peaceful. The answer came clearly back. They were dead and dead things are peaceful. He stroked the necks of them ducks until he realized how messy his hand was getting. Then he stopped and just looked at them for a few more minutes.
Even though the idea was ugly to him, it didn't stop him from stuffing the two crushed ducks, shellacking them with something or other, and nailing them to a nicely varnished board. To round off the job, he used a wood-burning kit to burn the title of his art-work, "The Victim Ducks," on the bottom of it. He felt very artistic and was sure some fool would pay thousands for those ducks.
He brought his artistic work to the school, put it on one of the tables, and wrote the suggested bidding price at $1275. Sometimes Mr. Haringa placed too much faith in the stupidity of mankind. Although, he did observe that this year there were more quality things being sold. There were large swords from Ireland, as well as a selection of paintings done by Mr. Banning. Although none of those items were priced as high as his ducks were, Mr. Haringa was certain that they were worth more.
Finally at the auction, Mr. Haringa sat and watched the proceedings. He was seated across the table from Mrs. Haringa. He didn't look at her a whole lot because she looked far to proud of her accomplishment. He had tried to bid several times upon the swords but was unable to get them. They sold for over $1275, which relieved him. His faith in the intelligence of mankind was going up. However, the victimized ducks had yet to be put up for bid.
The meal served was delicious, thought Mr. Haringa. The blue stuff across the top of the weenies was such a nice touch. He beamed across the table at Mrs. Haringa, who gave back a short shot of a smile. During times like these he wondered why they had gotten married in the first place. Her genes were probably the ones that made their son Bill be the way he was. Bill was sitting at one of the far ends of the table. He was picking his nose and belching periodically. "Not cut out for work." Mr. Haringa could understand that. Had Mr. Haringa been someone considering hiring Bill, he would have thought the same thing about him and told him so.
Mr. Haringa looked around for a while at the canoes that were hanging from the walls. They made him wonder why Mrs. Haringa had chosen them. They seemed like a strange mockery she was making of herself. She was the one who had gotten soaked with water during the canoe trip.
Sweet little Betty was one of the little waitresses, and she came by and offered Mr. Haringa another piece of cake. He eagerly accepted it. So he dug in hungrily, and took a sip of coffee to wash it down.
He then looked back up at the proceedings and noticed that his artwork of ducks was up for bid. For a few moments he figured the best it could be sold for was maybe $50 or so. Mr. Haringa glanced at the price sign and saw what he thought. $50. It figured. He looked back down to his cake and took another bite or so.
Then he heard the auctioneer yell out the price "Anyone else for $5050?" At that he swung around to face the auctioneer, knocking his coffee over on the way. As he looked up towards the auctioneer, the coffee in his cup swiftly slid across the table. The coffee streamed off of the other edge and poured onto Mrs. Haringa's lap. Just before the auctioneer could close the bid, she jumped up and screamed in pain.
"Sold for $5050 to Mrs. Haringa!" shouted the auctioneer.
Mr. Haringa dropped his head to the table and cried.
After purchasing "The Victim Ducks," they took them home and mounted them over the fireplace. They spent many evenings sitting around that living room watching those ducks.
Mr. Haringa never went to another Whitinsville Christian School auction again. Mrs. Haringa continued to run and organize them, with her never-ending Dutch vigor. "The Victim Ducks" forever looked out across their living room with their flattened tar-covered bellies, mourning their own pathetic deaths. Peaceful in a way.
