“You need to learn to take a joke, Bun O’Keefe. You know I’d take you anywhere.”
—
One of the things I liked about living with Busker Boy was how we ate meals together and at regular times. We were like the Huxtables from The Cosby Show—only white and not related and poorer. Chef did most of the cooking and after the visit to Chris’s dad he made dishes like beef carbonnade, Indian spiced red lentil soup, potato and spinach frittata. I liked not having to think about the Canada’s Food Guide. Chef did all the thinking for me. He said, “You’ll have an army of red blood cells marching through your blood in no time.”
I liked to help Chef cook, and while we chopped and sautéed, he told me that his job as a dishwasher at the Newfoundland Hotel was temporary and someday he’d cook for kings and queens. He asked me, “What kind of meals did your mom cook for you?” and I said, “My mother didn’t cook,” and he said, “Then what did you eat?” I said, “Whatever stopped my stomach growling.”
One night, after a bowl of hearty vegetable soup, Busker Boy said I had color in my cheeks. He congratulated Chef and told Big Eyes there was no need to put that pink stuff on my face anymore. She told him to bleep off.
—
I opened my eyes. “Read me something?”
He straightened his paper with a snap. “Elie Wiesel won the Nobel Peace Prize.”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
I shook my head.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”
“Book of Samuel.”
“What?”
“ ‘How the mighty have fallen.’ It’s from the Bible.”
He didn’t say anything, he just stared at me, and all of a sudden I got a panicky feeling like something bad was going to happen, so I said, “Was I being frustrating?” and he said, “Of course you weren’t, I was just thinking,” and I said, “About what?” and he said, “How you’re smart in some ways, but not in others,” and then he said, “No offense,” and I said, “None taken.”
He nodded at the paper. “Want me to keep reading?”
I sat up and pulled the comforter up around my waist. It looked like the one from Big Eyes’s bed. “Where did this come from?”
“Another reject from the hotel. It must be warm because you had a good night’s sleep. You barely fidgeted at all.”
“I fidget?”
“Not as bad as when you first moved in.”
“I moved in?”
He laughed. “Looks that way.”
“Why are these accommodations temporary?”
“I’m not too fond of them, that’s all.”
“I like it here. Everyone’s really nice.”
“Not everyone. Now, shall I continue reading?”
“Okay.”
“So, the Nobel Committee says that Wiesel is a messenger to mankind. They say: ‘His message is based on his own personal experience of total humiliation and of the utter contempt for humanity shown in Hitler’s death camps.’ ”
“I don’t normally cry but I did when I read Anne Frank’s diary.”
“This guy wrote a book called Night. It’s about his experience in a concentration camp.”
“I’d like to read that.”
“I’m not sure I would. Sounds like a tough read.”
Sometimes, alone in my house, I’d scan random books, looking for a passage that would jolt me out of my numbness, something that would make my stomach twist and tears well up in my eyes. I rarely found it.
He folded the paper shut. “Time to go busking.”
On the way downtown he told me it was Pop Girl’s birthday.
“Chef’s baking a cake.”
I never knew how to respond to statements. Questions were easy. If nothing else you could say, “I don’t know.” Statements were trickier so I just said, “Hmmm.”
“You don’t like her, do you?”
“She’s never offered to curl my hair, but she’s okay, I guess.”
“She’s a bit cold, at first, a bit icy. But she’s warm once you get to know her. When it’s just the two of us things are great. Not that I don’t want you around or anything,” he added. “I didn’t mean that. I’d actually like you to get to know her better.”
“I’ll try.”
We made more money than usual in front of Atlantic Place. I thought of Anne Frank and people said, “Poor little thing” and “Here ya go, my ducky.” The cup filled up fast.
—
Dragon Man was sitting on the top of the stairs with a bottle that said Jim Beam.
“Thought it was darts night,” said Busker Boy.
“It is. Having a tipple before I go.”
Busker Boy put me in front of him, hands on my hips, and pushed me past Dragon Man. Dragon Man caught my wrist. “Sit on my lap and tell me a story.”
Busker Boy pushed him away. “Get your hands off her.”
Dragon Man laughed. “Simmer down, Tonto!”
I turned around. “That’s inappropriate.”
Dragon Man squinted. “You talking to me?”
“Tonto was an American Indian,” I said. “Not Innu.”
“A redskin’s a redskin.”
“Not true,” I said. “There are lots of different American Indian tribes…Iroquois…Cree…Apache…”
Dragon Man’s eyes were slits. “You’re a real little know-it-all, aren’t you?”
I could have gone on, about the different languages and customs. I wanted to tell him that the actor who played Tonto in The Lone Ranger was actually a Mohawk from Canada, not ’cause it was important but ’cause it was an interesting fact, but Busker Boy pulled me away.
We went into the kitchen, where Chef was making Pop Girl’s cake.
Busker Boy sat me on a chair and said, “You never told me I was Aboriginal.”
“You mean you didn’t know?”
“Ha!” said Chef, passing me a beater of icing. “She told a joke.”
“She doesn’t do jokes,” said Busker Boy. “And what I mean is, you never said that you knew I was Aboriginal.”
“Why would I?”
“Most people comment.”
“Why?”
“They just do.”
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
“That’s why I didn’t comment.”
“How’d you know I was Innu?”
“Bear claws are symbols of Aboriginal culture.”
He touched his necklace. “That’s it?”
I grinned in a playfully annoying way. “And I’d asked Chris when I moved in.”
Busker Boy grinned back at me. “You moved in?”
I answered with a mouthful of icing. “Looks that way.”
Busker Boy laughed and took the beater away. “Enough junk. Go take your iron pill.”
—
Chef let me help decorate the cake. He gave me a piping bag and with his hands over mine we made flowers around the border and in the center we wrote Happy Birthday.
“When’s your birthday, Bun?”
“The real one or the fake one?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t remember the real one ’cause I lost my birth certificate.”
“You mean you don’t celebrate your birthday with your family?”
“Not since my dad left.”
He put a piece of wax paper on the table. “Here, you can practice making flowers with the leftover icing.”
He sat next to me.
“So when’s your fake one?”
“August sixteenth. The anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death.”
“I didn’t know you were an Elvis fan.”
“I’m not. But my mother is. When she plays ‘Love Me Tender’ and lights a candle, I know that’s the day to say, Happy Birthday, Bun O’Keefe.”
My flowers were blobs. “I’m not good at this.”
“It takes practice. Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”
I kept trying
.
“What’s TLC?”
“You don’t know what TLC is?”
I shook my head.
He put his hand over mine again and piped a perfect flower. “TLC is Tender Loving Care.”
He changed the tip. “Try the star.”
My stars were stars. “I’m doing it.”
“Well done, Sally Lunn.”
“Who’s Sally Lunn?”
He laughed. “It’s a bun. From England. We made them at school today.”
“You go to school?”
“Culinary school. You’d get an A Plus for these stars.”
“Does the Sally Lunn bun taste nice?”
“It’s lovely—part bread, part cake. Like a light brioche.”
I thought a brioche was a pin for a lady’s blouse.
He switched the star for a leaf. “Give these a try.”
My leaves were blobs but he said he’d give me a B.
He added more icing to the bag. “Bun, are you happy?”
“I never really thought about it.”
He took the bag and piped my name in fancy letters. “I think about it all the time.”
I said, “Have you ever smelled a rainbow?”
He laughed. “Can’t say that I have. You?”
“Once, in a dream.”
“What did it smell like?”
“Crayons.”
“Interesting.”
“I climbed it too,” I said. “Sat on the top for ages.”
“Did you slide down the side to get off?”
“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”
He smiled. “Lucky guess.”
“It was a good dream,” I said. “Want to borrow it?”
“What?”
“Borrow it. For when you’re not sure if you’re happy or not.”
Chef cleared his throat. “Thank you, Bun. I’d love to.”
I said, “Careful on your way up. The red is super slippery.”
—
I only remember one gift. It was a red-and-yellow car that you sat in and moved with your feet. I’d go from the living room, to the hall, through the kitchen, and back again. There was room to do that back then. Dad kept the junk neat.
My mother made a cake. She stuck a Barbie waist high in the middle of it. Her skirt was chocolate with pink icing.
It tasted like magic.
They sang “Happy Birthday,” told me to make a wish.
I think they might have loved me then.
My father used to sing a song about love being strange and how once you get it you never want to quit.
He was right. Love is strange.
But the second part, that was wrong.
People quit all the time.
I never tasted magic again.
—
Before the party, Big Eyes called me into her room. “I have something for you.”
She passed me a bag of clothes. “I snuck in when everyone was at church. My room’s a den now but the closet wasn’t touched.”
I pulled out a thick, cream-colored sweater.
“My mother knit that. It’s a fisherman’s sweater. Not very stylish, but warm.”
I looked at the half-shirt that hung off her shoulders. “Maybe you should keep it.”
“Too baggy for me. And, anyway, I’ve changed my style. I like things super tight.”
She reached in and pulled out a pair of sweatpants. “These are the coziest things ever. Feel the inside.”
I did. It was fuzzy.
“There are leg warmers in here too. And hats and mitts. I picked all the heavy stuff because I know how cold you get.”
I pulled on a hat with a big bobble on top. It had orange-and-yellow stripes around the top and bottom and sandwiched in the middle were multiple Snoopys skating round and round in a circle.
“I have a story,” I said. “If you’d like to hear it.”
She sat on the bed and patted the spot next to her. “I was just about to ask for one. You and me, we’re on the same wavelength.”
On the same wavelength. I liked that.
She put her arm around me and ran her fingers through my hair.
“I just need to think of one,” I said.
“Take your time.”
I thought about who she was and what she was all about.
“I’ve got one.”
“I’m listening.”
“So, there was this nun and she really needed to pee so she walked into a bar and—”
“Um, Bun? This sounds more like a joke than a story.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A joke ends with a punch line.”
“Oh. It was in the Funny Stuff section of a magazine. I don’t know if that means it has a punch line or not.”
“Oh well. Just keep going.”
“So it was really loud with music and stuff, and every now and then the lights would go out, and when they did everyone howled with laughter. But when they saw the nun, they all went silent. She asked the bartender if she could use the bathroom and he said, ‘Yeah, okay, but just so you know, there’s a statue of a man in there and the only thing he’s wearing is a fig leaf,’ and the nun said, ‘That’s okay, I’ll just look the other way.’ So the bartender showed her where the bathroom was and after a few minutes she came back out, and when she did everyone in the whole entire place gave her a round of applause. She asked the bartender why and he said, ‘Well, now they know you’re one of us. Would you like a drink?’ And she said, ‘I don’t understand,’ and he laughed and said, ‘You see, every time someone lifts up the fig leaf, the lights go out. Now, how about that drink?’ ”
Big Eyes didn’t say anything at first but then she burst out laughing. “Holy bleep! That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my whole life! I’m gonna tell my bleepin’ mother that joke. I’m gonna tell it right to her bleepin’ face. She’ll probably have a bleepin’ heart attack and die, and then I’ll have it engraved on her bleepin’ tombstone, and then I’ll never have to say, ‘No, I didn’t go to bleepin’ church this week,’ and she’ll never be able to look at me like I am the devil again.”
I didn’t know what to do ’cause the rainbow on her eyelids was running down her face, so I went and got Chef who came in and held her for a whole load of Mississippis.
—
Halfway through the party Cher came home and I was glad ’cause I liked her as much as Chris. She said, “Get off that beanbag chair and come sit with me,” so I squeezed onto the couch beside her. She held my hand and I rubbed my thumb over her shiny red polish. She smelled sweet, like the pear galette Chef had made the night before.
When Busker Boy and Chef took a break from singing I said, “Let’s play a game.”
Everyone looked at me like I was a strange alien being, but when I pointed at Pop Girl and said, “You first,” Busker Boy smiled.
I asked her, “If you could be an animal, which one would you choose and why?”
She looked around as if the answer was floating in the room. “I’m not sure.”
“How about a polar bear?” I said. “Or a penguin. ’Cause you’re a bit cold, a bit icy.”
Big Eyes moved her finger back and forth across her throat, and I asked her if she was okay ’cause I knew there was an international sign for choking but couldn’t remember what it was. I figured everything was fine though, ’cause Cher was Chris and Chris probably knew the Heimlich maneuver and would be doing it by now if Big Eyes was in danger.
Pop Girl said, “Are you going to let her talk to me like that?” and I wasn’t sure who she was talking to, but then Busker Boy said, “She doesn’t mean any harm,” and Pop Girl said, “She’s a bitch,” and Busker Boy flinched, but I just said, “You could actually use that as an answer to my question if you want ’cause a bitch is a female dog.”
Then things got weird ’cause Chef starting singing “The Bitch Is Back” with his eyes half closed, and Pop Girl said, “You are the rudest, most obnoxious little ass
hole I’ve ever met,” and Cher zigzagged her finger in the air and said, “Don’t you talk to her like that, you tarted-up little tramp.”
Big Eyes told everyone to calm the bleep down but no one was listening. Somehow, though, Busker Boy’s soft, quiet voice cut through the noise. “I think it’s time you left.” I stood up but Cher pulled me back down, and then Pop Girl looked at me and said, “Well happy friggin’ birthday!” I opened my mouth to say it wasn’t my birthday but Cher told me to shush.
The slam of the outside door shook the living room window.
“Maybe,” said Big Eyes, “you should think about things before you say them.”
“I was just trying to get to know her better.”
“Well we’ve seen her true colors now,” said Cher, “and we’ve got you to thank for that.”
“Still,” said Big Eyes. “The whole polar bear thing was a bit harsh.”
“I can’t help it if she doesn’t like icebreaker games. Reader’s Digest said they were sure to be a hit.”
Everyone laughed but Busker Boy had a pang, I could tell. He said, “Go to bed now, Bun.” So I did.
—
I didn’t like falling asleep without him ’cause of “The Tell-Tale Heart,” which was weird ’cause I’d fallen asleep alone most of my life.
I hung on to the last bit of wakefulness in my body—it was a tiny spark of light through my eyelids. Sometimes it would flicker, bright then dim, but something inside me kept it powered on until I heard Busker Boy slip into his bed on the floor. Then the spark burst and died.
In the morning he said he wasn’t mad and it was probably for the best.
“You didn’t have to tell her to leave. I don’t expect people to like me.”
“It’s not that she didn’t like you. She was envious, that’s all.”
“Of what?”
“The fact that we’re close.”
“In that case, jealous is the appropriate word. Envy means you want something that someone else has, like a car, but jealousy is the fear of losing someone ’cause of someone else.”
“Hmmmm. I never knew that.” He passed me a catalog.
“It was on the doorstep when I went for the papers.”
On the cover a small girl and a smaller boy snuggled together in an armchair, a stocking hung in the background. The words Christmas Wish Book 1986 hung above them.
“Why would you give me this?”
The Agony of Bun O'Keefe Page 5
