My information came from listening to my dad and Mr. Larkin talk. Sometimes Aunt Helen, too.
Relief camps had been set up all across the west, where the men were paid as little as twenty cents a day to do back-breaking work, often work that could better be done by a machine — a bulldozer or a steam roller — or work that didn’t need doing at all. Tag, who already looked too skinny to survive one more missed meal, would die in a relief camp; I was sure of it.
Jackson’s casts would come off in another week or so. Till then, he said, he would bide his time. They would ask the Footes if he could stay in the yard with Benoit.
“If I can’t, I can’t,” he said. “I’ll make do.”
Fraser nudged me and pointed with his chin to the Willises’ backyard past the scrubby elders and wild honeysuckle in the field. The Willis twins stood there staring at us, or at least in our general direction; they were too far away for me to know for sure. Dirk Botham stood with them.
A shiver slid through me like so many tiny snakes. I waved automatically. No one waved back.
I was sure if the Willises realized I was the same small girl who lost her sister all those years ago they would have waved back. But they weren’t thinking about babies or their pretty mothers or the way they had helped in the search, lent a hand in 1925. They probably didn’t even remember. At least one of them was dim-witted, according to local legend; word was Lump Willis had been deprived of oxygen at birth. That was one of the usual reasons for dim-wittedness.
Anyway, now they were walking swiftly toward us. Dirk was walking backwards in front of them, waving his arms and talking loudly, although I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then all three of them stopped and the Willises concentrated on Dirk’s words.
“You wave, Fraser,” I said.
He did so the next time they looked our way, but they didn’t respond to him either. Not even Dirk. They didn’t retrace their steps but neither did they come any closer. I imagined that it was Fraser’s presence that stopped them in their tracks. Dirk would have pointed out to them that there was no point in messing with the local cop’s son.
The Willises were notorious in our neighbourhood for growing up to be actual criminals. Both of them had graduated from juvenile detention homes to jail as they grew older, for property crimes and worse. One of them beat a fellow inmate so badly that the man lost an eye, or so the rumour went.
What was Dirk doing with these guys? And how could they stand him?
When Fraser and I were plodding back over the field, I said, “Could you tell your dad to keep an eye on those Willis guys?”
“They weren’t doing anything, Violet.”
“Staring is something.Walking quickly toward us is something.”
“Yeah, but they were practically staring from their own backyard. My dad would be more interested in doing something about the guys they were staring at.”
“Okay, never mind.”
“What the hell was Dirk doing with them?” Fraser said.
“I don’t know. It scares me a bit. Maybe you could get your dad to keep an eye on him.”
“Dirk Botham’s dad is one of the mayor’s inner circle,” Fraser said. “Practically his right-hand man. My dad doesn’t like Dirk, but I can’t see him keeping an eye on him, as you say.”
“Well, maybe you could just mention to him the sinister activity we just witnessed.”
Fraser sighed. “Maybe.”
We went back to our house and reported what had gone on to Aunt Helen. Not about the Willis twins and slimy Dirk but about Benoit building the shed.
“I’ll stop over this morning, Fraser, and see your mother,” Helen said.
If she had anything to do with it, Jackson would be safely ensconced with Benny in the Footes’ backyard before the sun set. She didn’t say this, but I knew she was thinking it. I sure as heck didn’t know what else she was thinking. How far did her imaginings go with Jackson? Did she want to marry him, have his children?
“Did you mention to your dad about the fires we saw by the river last night?” I asked Fraser as he was leaving.
“No.”
“Don’t you think maybe you should?” I asked.
I could tell I was getting on Fraser’s nerves by now, but the whole of life seemed to be getting away on me. I needed outside assistance, maybe from a grouchy policeman who had once made an impossible promise to my dad. Maybe he could help to keep the bewildering world from flattening the good people in it. It was his job, wasn’t it?
“My dad can’t stop the fires, Violet,” Fraser said.
“But maybe he could tell the fire department guys and they could set up patrols or something.”
“I think they already do that,” said Fraser.
Tears filled my eyes and I turned away but Fraser caught them and put his arms around me right there in the front yard. He led me to the front step and we sat for a while just being quiet. Then he headed off home.
When I went back in the house Helen was on the telephone with Mrs. Foote. Fraser’s mother was a religious sort. It wouldn’t be hard for Helen to convince her that harbouring Jackson was God’s work in one way or another. Maude Foote was almost famous for the breakfasts she offered out her back door, much to Ennis Foote’s chagrin. Unlike Helen, though, she was quick to send the travellers on their way. Fraser’s dad thought that hunger was a character flaw, like greed or pride. But he didn’t stand a chance against the fire that Jesus worked up in Maude Foote’s blood. That fire could burn down any objections to getting some food into a hungry man’s stomach. Hell, that fire could burn the whole day down.
Chapter 19
Things worked out okay for Benny and Jackson for the next week or so. But not for Tag. A couple of days later I stopped by his camp on my way home from Wade’s drugstore and there he was, sitting on the ground beside his tent whittling away on a sharp stick. He wasn’t alone; Warren and Tippy Walker sat with him. Warren honed his own stick, doing at least as good a job as Tag. Tippy whapped her tail against the ground when she recognized me, raising a low-lying cloud of dust.
“I see you two have found each other,” I said.
“Hi, Violet,” said Warren. “We were just talking about you and your family.”
Tag silenced Warren with a look.
“Nothing bad, I hope,” I said, wondering what on earth could have caused that look from Tag.
He changed the subject. “My little buddy here is showing me how to protect myself from a grizzly bear should one happen by.”
“I don’t think a sharp stick will do it,” I said.
He laughed.
I rummaged through my bag of drugstore items and came out with some mixed nuts and a Burnt Almond chocolate bar that I had bought for Tag.
His eyes grew big, especially at the sight of the chocolate bar.
“Violet, are you sure?” he said.
“I’m very sure,” I said.
Warren tried not to look at the treats. He knew how much Tag needed them. I reached into my bag again and came out with a small Jersey Milk bar that I had bought for myself and gave that to Warren.
A little stream of drool escaped his mouth when he spoke. “Thanks kindly, Violet,” he said.
“Any sign of your brother?” I asked Tag.
He shook his head. “No. No luck there, I’m sad to say.”
“How did you make out with the relief camp people?”
“Not so good,” he said. “They closed down all the camps last month. There’s no such thing anymore.”
“It’s probably for the best,” I said and wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand.
The day had been hot and clear in the morning, but by lunchtime clouds had pushed in from the west, bringing a dampness with them that made a person want to lie down and rest.
Tag stood up and went into his tent and came out with a small threadbare rug that he folded and set on the ground next to them.
“Sit down, Violet,” he said.
> I did so, fixing my skirt carefully around my legs.
“Thanks, Tag,” I said. “So what now? Will they give you some kind of relief payment while you hunt for Duke?”
“Nah, I don’t belong here, they said. They want me gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “So is that what you’re going to do then? Go home to Detroit?”
“I don’t rightly know. I don’t want to go home without Duke. For the time being I’m going to keep on whittling on this stick till Warren here tells me it’s done.”
Warren tested the point on his own stick by poking it into his own thigh and saying, “Ouch.”
Tag and I laughed.
Warren stood, hitching up his pants. They were way too big for him. “Tag’s gonna come and stay at our house,” he said. “I’m gonna ask my mum.”
Tag and I exchanged a glance.
“Just till Benoit and Jackson are done over at the Footes,” said Warren. “And then he can hook up with them again.”
It wasn’t for me to stomp Warren’s idea into the dirt. Gert Walker would do that soon enough. So I just wished them both luck as I got to my feet and continued on my way across the field.
“Watch out for grasshoppers!” Tag shouted after me.
I felt them crunching and dying beneath my shoes. I turned back and waved. It was an effort to raise my arm.
Please go home, Tag, I said out loud to myself. Duke’s not here. If he ever was, he’s gone now. He’s likely home safe with your parents.
“Don’t leave without saying goodbye!” I called over my shoulder.
“He’s not going anywhere!” Warren hollered back.
By the next morning the scrub field had been deemed off limits by the police, and a few men, including Tag, made a new home for themselves beside the river under the Norwood Bridge.
That afternoon I was over at Gwen’s house playing crokinole with her and Dirk and Fraser.
The pressure was on Gwen to get any kind of job now. If she wasn’t going to take her grade twelve, she couldn’t just be mooning around the house, as Mrs. Walker put it. As though Gwen didn’t do every single bit of work in that house, except maybe snap the odd bean.
The four of us sat at the kitchen table. The kitchen was the coolest room in their house when the stove wasn’t on. A giant oak shaded a goodly portion of their yard.
We drank Cokes as we played. I had brought them from home. Mrs. Walker didn’t believe in Coca-Cola. That was what she said, as though it were its own religion or something. She didn’t disbelieve enough not to enjoy a glass when I provided it, though, so I figured it was just that she wasn’t willing to spend the money on it but was too proud to say so.
She was at the counter snapping beans.
“What are you doing hanging around with the Willis brothers?” I asked Dirk.
He and Mrs. Walker exchanged a quick look and Gwen stared at me and then at Dirk.
“I haven’t been hanging around with them,” he said in his flat voice.
“We saw you over in their yard,” I said. “Fraser and me. We even waved at you, but you didn’t wave back.”
I was enjoying myself. Gwen obviously didn’t know about Dirk’s new best friends.
“The Willis twins have been treated unfairly, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Walker. “They’re not such bad boys. I swear once or twice when they were sent to jail it was a set-up.”
“Why on earth would you think that?” asked Gwen. “Do you know them?”
“I’ve known their mother forever,” said Gert.
“You’ve never told me this before,” said Gwen.
“I was never asked,” she said, as if there were any reason in the world that Gwen would have asked her about grubby Mrs. Willis.
Fraser was telling Dirk about how his dad’s new shed was turning into a garage. “Benoit talked him into it,” he said.
“Who’s Benoit?” Dirk asked.
“One of the men who built Vi’s dad’s garage,” said Gwen, “as if you didn’t know.”
I could see her mother’s posture tighten up over her yellow beans.
“Yeah,” said Fraser. “My folks went over to Violet’s place to have a look at what had been done there and my dad was pretty impressed. I’m helping some. Dad figures I can learn a thing or two from Benoit.”
Mrs. Walker snorted. A mean snort, not the kind Gwen made when she laughed.
“About the Willis boys…” I tried to interrupt. Enough about sheds! Fraser should have been helping me out.
“What does your dad need with a garage?” asked Dirk. “That old Studebaker he drives looks like it wouldn’t make it to the end of the block.”
Fraser laughed. “Yeah, it’s an old wreck. But he likes it. And, anyway, he’s saving for a new car. When he gets it he’ll already have a place to keep it. I think it’s a great idea.”
“I think so too.” I stared at Fraser with what I hoped was a stern look on my face. “My dad’s really happy with ours,” I said through clenched teeth.
Fraser’s face took on a quizzical look and I sighed loudly.
We played without talking for a while, the only sounds the wooden pieces knocking against the sides of the crokinole board and Mrs. Walker snapping her beans.
“Well, I declare,” Dirk said quietly.
“What?” said Gwen.
He was looking out the window, past the yard to the field that edged on to the golf course, where we had played baseball in younger cooler times. Warren’s field. We followed his gaze: Warren and Tag were throwing a ball back and forth. Tippy was leaping about with them, part of the game.
“Mrs. Walker, come and have a look at this,” Dirk said and stood up to make room for her by the window.
“What?” said Gwen again, irritated by now with what I suspect she saw as the unnatural pairing of her mother and her boyfriend against what they saw out the dirt-streaked window.
Mrs. Walker didn’t say anything. She just scooted to the back door and shouted, “Warren! Get over here! Get over here right now!”
Warren and Tag stopped their game of catch and looked at her.
“Now, young man!” she shouted again when no one moved.
Warren looked to be speaking a few words to his friend and then he walked toward the house, Tippy at his side with her tail down.
We all continued staring out the window, except Mrs. Walker who waited on the stoop till Warren was at her side.
Tag headed back across the field, to the bridge and his camp there, I supposed.
Dirk was smirking.
“What gives?” said Fraser.
“Gert doesn’t like Warren’s new friend,” I said.
She slapped Warren; we all heard it — it had to be his face. Tippy snarled and Gwen rushed to the door to hold the dog back from attacking her mother.
Sic her, girl; sic her, I said silently.
Gwen tied Tippy to the bottom of the stoop, then followed her mother and brother back into the house.
Warren was crying. “Tag’s my friend,” he said to his mother. “We share secrets.”
“No, he’s not your friend and I don’t want you going anywhere near that man again.” Gert turned to me. “You see, Violet? You see now?”
So it was my fault.
“What gives?” said Fraser again. He must have wanted a better explanation.
“I gotta go is what gives,” I said.
“Can you believe he asked me if that filthy vagrant could stay with us?” Mrs. Walker addressed Dirk now.
Fraser came with me. We left through the back door. An angry slap mark hid Warren’s freckles. I tousled his rust-coloured hair as I passed him and he looked up at me with a sad, perplexed little face. I looked back at Mrs. Walker.
“He has to learn,” she said.
Gwen crouched before him and said, “I’ll take you to Happyland later, Pipsqueak. We’ll go for a swim.”
“We’ll all go,” I called back.
Gwen followed Fraser and me out and we left Dir
k with Mrs. Walker. I hoped Warren would go to his room, away from the two of them.
“Dirk smells like a dentist’s office,” Gwen said.
Turning to look back, we saw him and Mrs. Walker on the stoop with their heads together as though they were discussing auditions for the school play.
“Look at my mother,” Gwen said, walking backwards for a step or two.
Fraser and I clomped along beside her.
“I better go back and see to Warren,” she said and ran back home.
We went swimming that evening after supper: Warren and Tippy and Gwen and Fraser and me. Happyland wasn’t much of a pool — a simple wooden enclosure fed by the Seine River. But it was big enough to cool off in, deep enough to dive in or drown in, dirty as the dickens.
My friend Isabelle was there and we smoked together. She could roll a cigarette with one hand. She only had enough tobacco for one — she had stolen it from her dad (just like me) — but she shared it, puff for puff.
Fraser and Gwen played with Warren and Tippy while I smoked with Isabelle.
I told her about the cut-up clothes; she already knew. Someone had heard the Willises talking and laughing about it at a coffee shop downtown.
“Do you want to do anything about it?” she asked me.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, some sort of payback.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said.
I pictured something feeble on our part that would mildly inconvenience them, like burning a poo-filled paper bag on their porch. Then they would follow up by doing something horrendous to us, the crowning glory of the Willises’ career in crime, something that would be the worst possible thing that could happen to anyone in the entire history of the universe.
After a good cooling-off, the others came up to us, ready to go.
“See ya, Isabelle,” I said, standing.
“See ya, Vi. I’m around if you ever need anything.” She winked. “Or if you change your mind about that other business.”
“What on earth did she mean by that?” Gwen asked.
We were walking home down back lanes, past plum trees not quite ready for picking.
Alison Preston - Norwood Flats 04 - Sunny Dreams Page 13
