The Agony of Bun O'Keefe

by Heather T. Smith

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I let my fist do the talking.”

  “You punched him?”

  “Not him. His candy. Smashed them to smithereens.”

  “Did he really waltz up to the counter?”

  “Well, no. Not literally. I just meant he walked over without a care in the world.”

  “Oh. In that case you should have used the word saunter.”

  “I think you’re missing the point of the story.”

  “No, I’m not. I even caught the symbolism.”

  “What symbolism?”

  “You crushing your uncle’s balls. If that’s not symbolic, I don’t know what is.”

  Big Eyes laughed. “You’re a riot, Bun O’Keefe.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “So I’m told.”

  —

  Big Eyes joined us for a siesta. Halfway through there was a knock on the door.

  Busker Boy sat up. “Nobody move.”

  “It’s him,” I said.

  “Shh,” said Chris.

  “It’s him. Make him go away.”

  “Quiet,” said Busker Boy.

  I stood up. Busker Boy grabbed my hand and pulled me back down. I brought his hand to my forehead and prayed like Big Eyes, but not about Heavenly Fathers. “The alcohol has almost completely worked its way out of his system. Quinlan’s nerves are raw.”

  Chris growled at me. “Quiet, Bun.”

  Busker Boy leaned in close. “Just whisper it.”

  There was another knock, louder than the first, and it startled Big Eyes awake. Chris put his finger to his lips. My heart pounded.

  “On a good day he could drink ten bottles of cheap Canadian sherry. Somehow today he’s managing not to drink at all.”

  We heard the front door open.

  I looked at Busker Boy. “I don’t want to see him.”

  “Then close your eyes.”

  Chris whispered shit.

  “If it’s the cops, you guys know nothing,” whispered Busker Boy. “If it’s the landlord, take Bun upstairs.”

  The footsteps got closer, then a voice. “This is private property.”

  I felt Busker Boy’s body relax.

  “Sorry. We don’t want any trouble. We’ll move on.”

  “How did you know this place was empty?”

  “We saw in the paper that the homeowner died.”

  “I only just found out,” said the man. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  I opened my eyes but shut them again when I saw a man with a thick red-gray beard staring right at me.

  “I’ll have to put this place up for sale soon.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Busker Boy. “We’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

  “Take your time,” said the man.

  Then he was gone.

  —

  At bedtime Busker Boy told me to close my eyes and hold out my hands.

  “Now, open them.”

  The Agony of Jimmy Quinlan was in my upturned palms.

  I said, “I didn’t really want to throw it away.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry I lied about it being terrible. Seeing it again made me feel funny, especially in front of all of you. I don’t know why.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You were embarrassed, that’s all.”

  Is that what that feeling was?

  I rubbed the cover with my hand. “This boring load of shit is like an old friend to me. Is that weird?”

  “Not at all. We all have our quirks.”

  “Will you watch it with me sometime?”

  “Sure.” He tried the voice. “There are about ten thousand Jimmy Quinlans on the streets of Montreal.”

  “Five thousand,” I said.

  “Five, ten, what’s the difference?”

  “Five thousand,” I said. I was surprised he had to ask.

  “Chris is calling his dad tomorrow,” he said. “If we’re in the clear, what do you want to do?”

  “I’m not ready to go back.”

  “Then we’ll find somewhere to go wait until you’re ready.”

  He laid the VHS tape on the bedside table and told me to get some sleep.

  I tried, but I had something to say so I said, “Excuse me.”

  He laughed and put down his book.

  “Yes?”

  “I think I’m turning into a normal human being.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That was the first time I ever felt embarrassed.”

  He propped himself up on his elbow. “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it didn’t feel particularly good but it definitely made me feel more normal.”

  “You? Normal?”

  I smiled. “Never going to happen, is it?”

  His whole face smiled back at me. “I sure hope not, Bun O’Keefe.”

  —

  The next day, while Chris and Big Eyes were in town, there was another knock on the door.

  I hid in the kitchen.

  Busker Boy came back with a note. “There was nobody there. Just this.”

  He read it aloud: “To the tenants, For the next six months all utilities will be covered by the homeowner. Should the tenants decide to stay beyond that time, a monthly rent will be paid directly to the homeowner. Please call the contact number below to negotiate a rate and set up a payment schedule.”

  I looked at Busker Boy. “Are we tenants?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So we have a place to stay?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “What about after the six months? What will we do then?”

  He folded up the note and put it in his back pocket. “Why don’t we take it one day at a time?”

  He went to the fridge. “You can tell Chris’s dad is a doctor. Look at this stuff—yogurt, apples, cucumber, carrots.”

  I said, “He bought hot chocolate too.”

  Busker Boy smiled. “Then you’d better put the kettle on.”

  I filled it with water and plugged it in.

  Busker Boy passed me the powder. “That guy that was here yesterday. You know him?”

  I turned away. “No.”

  We waited for the kettle to boil.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “What’s what?”

  “The song you’re humming. Sounds familiar.”

  “I wasn’t humming.”

  He got his guitar and picked out the tune.

  “It’s ‘Your Song,’ ” he said.

  He loved me, my dad. He took me to school every day. He had a red beard and sang Elton John. He got me glasses when the world was fuzzy.

  He hated me, my dad. He left and never came back. He left me in a big, stinky mess.

  Busker Boy’s voice suited “Your Song.” It was perfect. He was perfect.

  When he finished he said, “That’s a real nice tune.”

  “Yeah.”

  I poured boiling water into two empty mugs. “Oh. I forgot to add the powder.”

  He put his guitar down and did it for me. “You okay?”

  “I feel weird.”

  “In what way?”

  “Like something bad might happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I might wake up some day and you’ll be gone.”

  “That man was your father, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sit down, Bun. I think it’s time I told you about Shekau.”

  We stirred our hot chocolates and I leaned into mine, letting the steam fog my glasses, and Busker Boy opened his mouth to speak but didn’t know where to start, so I helped him.

  “Did she work for the landlord?”

  He nodded. “She left our community without telling anyone. It took me months to find her. She was selling herself down on Water Street. I grabbed her, said you’re coming with me. She told me to leave, said she was in too deep. But there was no way I was leaving St. John’s without her. So I found out where she was living
, broke the door down, told the landlord she was coming with me—”

  “Wait…she lived in our temporary accommodations?”

  “Most of his girls lived in another house, but his ‘Little Pocahontas’ was special. She told me he’d rescued her off the street, promised her a job, a place to stay. I said, That’s not rescuing, that’s recruiting.”

  “So did he let you take her? After you broke the door down?”

  Busker Boy let out a laugh. “Not quite. He said I was messing with the wrong person and to get the hell out. Shekau stood behind him, said she was staying put. The next day I was jumped. Black eye, broken ribs. But I never gave up. I hammered the door every day. He said she was his best girl. I said I’d pay him double what he made from her. I said I’d rent her room, too, so he could keep an eye on me. I wouldn’t let up. I hung around for weeks. Eventually he gave in. We set a price and I sent her home.”

  I didn’t ask why he didn’t just leave, once Shekau was out. ’Cause Busker Boy was faithful, like Horton.

  “There was nothing keeping me there but my word,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have that bastard calling me a thieving Indian.”

  It was like he could read my mind.

  “Did the roommates know,” I asked, “about Shekau?”

  Busker Boy shook his head. “She’d told everyone she was a nurse’s aide, up at St. Clare’s Hospital. She made sure they knew how much she loved the night shift, because it was quieter than the day. It was a convincing story, crafted by the landlord himself. He said he’d kill her if anyone found out the truth. He had her scared to death. You should have seen her face when I told her I’d stay and she could go—she was so relieved.”

  Poor Shekau. Sounded to me like she was living in her own private agony.

  “I bet she was glad,” I said, “when it was all over and she was back home.”

  Busker Boy looked pained. “That’s just it, Bun. She never made it back. I arranged the whole trip—the bus journey, the flight. But somewhere along the way she just disappeared.”

  “People don’t just disappear,” I said. “Unless they spontaneously combust. And even then there is usually evidence left behind, like a skull or a pile of ash.”

  I said sorry right away, before he could get a pang, or say, Jesus Christ, Bun, but he just looked at me and said, “Don’t ever apologize to me for sharing the thoughts that you have in your head. They’re honest and real and, more importantly, they’re you.”

  I swallowed a lump that was lodged in my throat. “Don’t worry. Shekau’s out there somewhere. Maybe she just wanted to move somewhere else.”

  “No. She wanted to go home. I could see it in her eyes.”

  “But she has to be somewhere,” I said.

  I was getting that lost book feeling multiplied by a trillion.

  “The police looked, Bun. She’s gone. Shekau is gone. She’s just another missing Indian girl.”

  I didn’t like that word, another. I reached across the table and held his hand.

  “It hurts me,” he said. “Every single day it hurts me.”

  He looked into my eyes. “And that is why you will never, ever wake up and find me gone. I lost one sister, I won’t lose another.”

  He didn’t normally cry, but he made a gulpy noise and his shoulders went up and down, and he stood up and said, “Come here, Nishim.” He pulled me close, wrapping me up tight in his arms, and it was the first time we’d actually hugged, which was weird ’cause I felt like I’d been hugged by him a million times, and I laid my head against his chest, and even though I felt bad that he was crying, I felt relieved ’cause I knew it meant he’d never walk out on me, not without telling me first anyway.

  —

  Chris and Big Eyes came back with good news.

  “Guess what?” said Big Eyes.

  “What?” said Busker Boy.

  Big Eyes opened her mouth to answer but Chris blurted it out. “The landlord’s been detained at the cop shop.”

  “What for?” asked Busker Boy.

  “He recruited a twelve-year-old,” said Chris. “Right out of the schoolyard.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Within twenty-four hours her face was all over the media. There was a massive search, and when the cops found her, his operation was busted. He’s in custody now till the trial.”

  Busker Boy stood up and looked around. “Where’s my jacket?”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To experience the sweet smell of freedom. You coming?”

  We walked down the back of the property and into the bush. Everything was dead and brown, but there were birds singing and the fresh air made me feel more alive.

  We weaved our way through fallen trees until we came to a stream.

  “I never knew this was here,” I said.

  “Listen,” said Busker Boy.

  It was a trickling—a musical, sing-songy trickling.

  “What happens if we go back to St. John’s and he gets out of jail and we see him somewhere?”

  “Then we look the other way.”

  “Can we come here again?”

  “Every day if you want.”

  “You know how you went looking for Shekau?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That was nice. No one came looking for me when I left.”

  “Your dad came looking when he heard about your mom.”

  “He just wanted to sell the house.”

  “You didn’t see his face when he set eyes on you. He was looking for you, Nishim.”

  I pressed rewind. I came as soon as I heard.

  “I think I’m gonna move back to my own room at the front of the house.”

  “Really? Okay.”

  Busker Boy pulled the note out of his back pocket. “The phone number that’s on here, you want it?”

  I looked the other way. “Nope.”

  We sat on a fallen tree, tossed pebbles into the stream.

  “Bun?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to start thinking about your future.”

  “We do?”

  “I want you to start studying, every day. So that when you’re older you can get your diploma.”

  “Okay.”

  “You can be anything you want to be, you know.”

  “I can?”

  “You’re amazing, Bun O’Keefe. One of these days, you’re going to knock the whole world dead.”

  —

  Chris and Big Eyes were waiting for me when we got back. They said they were leaving the next morning. We had one last siesta, all four of us. We slept soundly, toasty and warm. And that night, Busker Boy and Chris moved my bed back to my room. As soon as I lay down I saw it—it looked like a lightning bolt, fine cracks branching out from a thicker one, downward like an upside-down tree. I got out of bed and went to the wall. I wanted to trace the crack but the ink was still wet.

  —

  I dreamt of fuzzy letters coming into focus and woke to the sound of my light clicking off.

  “Go back to sleep,” whispered Busker Boy, picking up Al Purdy off of the floor.

  I must have fallen asleep reading.

  A soft light glowed from the hallway. I raised my head to look.

  “I had Chris pick up a night-light,” he said. “Is that okay?”

  “Yes. That’s okay.”

  He slipped my glasses off my face and folded them. They were small in his hands.

  I started to ask, “Would you be mad…”

  But I didn’t finish ’cause I wasn’t sure.

  “Mad about what?”

  I pulled the sheet over my face. “That number in your pocket. If I asked for it.”

  He sat on my bed and tugged the sheet back down. “Of course not. Why would I be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want me to be mad?”

  “It would make my decision easier.”

  “What are you afraid of, Nishim?”

  “That he’ll want me
back…that he won’t want me back.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to say hi. And then come back to you.”

  “Then that’s what you’ll do.”

  —

  I didn’t cry when Big Eyes and Chris left ’cause I knew they’d be back to visit.

  Chris said he’d eat the face off me when he saw me next. Not literally, I assumed.

  As they drove away Busker Boy said, “I don’t know how we’ll manage without a car.”

  I pictured him pulling my mother’s old wagon around town.

  “What are you smiling at?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  He passed me a slip of paper. “The phone line’s been connected,” he said. “I checked this morning.”

  He left the room when I picked up the receiver.

  The ringing made my heart jump three…four…five times. The deep “hello” made it stop.

  A funny thing happens when your heart stops—your voice doesn’t work.

  “Is that you, Bunny?”

  When your heart stops, your legs stop working too.

  “I think I died,” I said, when Busker Boy found me.

  He helped me up. “I think you fainted.”

  I passed him back the slip of paper. “Maybe I’ll try again,” I said. “When I’m older.”

  —

  The sun was just coming up when we heard the knocking.

  Busker Boy appeared at my door. “You know who that’s going to be, right?”

  I nodded.

  “What do you want to happen?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He pulled a T-shirt over his head. “If you’re not down in a bit, I’ll send him on his way.”

  I hugged my knees to my chest and stared at the Magic Marker crack on my wall. This place was more of a home now than it ever was.

  Even when the man with the red beard was in it.

  He was never my constant. And never would be.

  I pulled my flannel shirt over my Wonder Woman undershirt and slipped on my jeans.

  Then, I went downstairs.

  —

  They were in the front hallway, talking. Even though my father was the bigger of the two it was Busker Boy who filled the space. His arms were folded and his muscles were bulging and his face looked serious. When he saw me he said, “Should we invite your father in?” and when I said yes, he nodded toward the living room. But my father didn’t budge. Not until Busker Boy stared at him hard and said, “Relax.”