Pure Spring

by Brian Doyle

  She tells me all about herself. Her father — she doesn’t remember him — was killed in the war. In his pictures he’s very handsome. She’ll show me sometime. Her mother died last spring. Tuberculosis. TB. She was tired all the time. Then coughing up blood. Gerty quit school to stay home and take care of her mother. She didn’t go back. Now she lives in the house next door to the store with her grampa...

  “I live with a grampa, too...” I say.

  A grampa. It sounds so stupid.

  We’re silent walking along. She’s waiting, I know, for me to tell her everything about me. Fair is fair. But I don’t. I can’t.

  Strathcona Park is almost covered in ice water. The snow is melting so fast that you can hear the water gurgling everywhere. They’ve already dynamited the ice on the Rideau River and the water is deep and fast. The river is full, bursting.

  Sounds of water slurping, burbling everywhere.

  And redwing blackbirds are back — Konk-a-ree! Konk-a-ree! — up and down the riverbank and in our ears. Cheap is glaring at the birds.

  Gerty gets a little unfriendly because I didn’t share.

  “Why do you wear that shirt even when you’re not working? Don’t you have a shirt of your own?”

  “Grampa Rip told me it looked good on me and so I put it on to come and see you.”

  “For me?” She’s friendly again.

  “Yes.”

  “It does look very good on you. With sleeves rolled and everything and so nicely ironed! Who ironed it?”

  “I ironed it. Grampa Rip showed me. I can sew, too. And cook. I can cook. Grampa Rip says that a man who can’t iron and wash and sew and cook is not a man as far as he’s concerned!”

  Gerty likes what I just said. I can see in her face the way she looks at me.

  Thank you, Grampa Rip.

  On our way back, Gerty walks beside me this time instead of on the other side of the bicycle.

  In front of her house her little finger touches my little finger.

  “When does the Pure Spring truck come back again?” she says.

  “Not for another week or so, according to my boss, Randy,” I say.

  “That’s too bad,” says Gerty, and then with a small smile she blushes because of what she just said.

  Cheap and I whiz like bullets home. We’re late.

  The maple tree is about to explode above the Gray Man on the bench in Dundonald Park across the street from our apartment on Somerset Street where the famous spy smasher, Igor, once lived.

  I forgot to turn off the radio when I left today. Grampa won’t like that. Wastes electricity, he says.

  While I’m opening the door, Nat “King” Cole is just finishing up his beautiful song — “...we’re not too young to know / This love will last...”

  Now the violins and piano finish it off...

  But no Grampa Rip.

  He’s late. He’s never late.

  Something’s wrong.

  Now there’s noise outside. I open the door.

  It’s Grampa Rip. He’s with a very short sandy-colored man in an army uniform that’s too big for him. His nose is very red and his eyes are close together. His army boots seem way too big for him. He clicks his heels together and snaps to attention and salutes me. He’s looking up at me, staring with his tiny eyes. Green eyes. The fingers of his saluting hand are stubby and red and the nails are bitten down short. He holds his salute.

  There’s a bowl of pennies and nickels and dimes on the hall table. Grampa always puts his change in there.

  “His name is Sandy,” says Grampa Rip. “He found me. I got lost. He brought me home. I’m tired. Give him fifty cents out of the bowl.”

  Grampa pats Sandy on his sandy-colored head. Grampa’s big hand covers the head.

  “He’s a friend of mine. We go away back. I’m goin’ to bed.”

  I give Sandy five dimes and he salutes again.

  Then, down the stairs, his big boots bang-banging and he’s gone.

  8

  Honee Orange and Tulips

  “I’M VERY matutinal this morning,” Grampa is saying after reveille and an extra verse of “Up Lad” (there’ll be time enough for sleep after you’re dead). He’s been up since 5:00 A.M. in the morning. Said he was starving after a wonderful night’s sleep. Frying up a batch of pork rinds.

  “Matutinal?” I say.

  “Right!” he says. “Latin for the Greek goddess of dawn, Matuta! Very handy word. Impress your friends with knowledge. Be the most popular kid on the block!”

  I get to the Pure Spring truck early. I look in the window and see my birth certificate on the seat. He’s giving it back to me. I slip it in my wallet.

  “You’re early,” Randy says behind me.

  “I’m very matutinal this morning,” I say.

  “Yeah, right, smart ass! I figure I’d give your birth certificate back. I felt sorry for ya. You were sick and crazy there. I got worried. Maybe I was a bit hard on ya. Maybe we can be pals? No hard feelings?” He puts out his hand. “Shake?”

  I take my hand out of my pocket and put it out. His hand is small and hard and rough and strong. We shake.

  “Pals?” says Randy.

  “Mm,” I say.

  I don’t think I ever said “mm” in my whole life before. It sounds like yes but not quite.

  Maybe Randy’s not so bad after all. A liar and a thief, yes. But, so am I. So am I a liar and a thief.

  We drive off. Lots of silence.

  Then Randy: “What’s this fancy word business? Why cancha talk English? Ya said you were what this morning?”

  “Matutinal,” I say.

  “Ma toot in al...”

  “Greek goddess of dawn — Matuta. Means you like the morning. A morning person. I was up early because my Grampa Rip couldn’t sleep because he was hungry —”

  “Matoota! Well, why don’t you just say you got up early? Why do you wanna say all this nutty stuff? I thought we were pals...my last helper was useless, he was lazy and stoopid and he picked his nose and ate it but at least he didn’t come up with all this baloney about Latin words and Greek goddesses and crap. What’s wrong with you anyway?”

  Inside, I’m smiling. Two reasons. One. I’m making a list of everything we’ve ever stolen — the name of the store, the date, the number of cases, the method. Two, I’m smiling because of Gerty. Because of you, Gerty! Now I’m not so afraid of Randy any more. I’ve got much nicer things to think about.

  Randy is back on the subject of how charming he is.

  “I like ‘em tall, I like ‘em short, I like ‘em skinny, I like ‘em chubby. It don’t matter...they all come to Randy... they can’t help themselves...”

  I’m drinking my one free Honee Orange for the day and eating peanuts. Randy lifted two bags on our way out of our last store without paying for them.

  Do stolen peanuts taste better than bought peanuts? Randy says they do. And, oh, they taste so warm, Gerty, it’s like chewing sweet bark and the salt on them on your tongue and the crunchiness and the butternutty sunflowery orange smell of the oil on them and when you stick your nose right into the package you get all of it specially when you lick the salt, stick your tongue inside and lick the cellophane...and pour down the warm Honee Orange, down your throat until it feels smooth and sweet and it makes your nose squeeze up it’s so delicious, and then you’re not thirsty any more for a while and...what’s Randy talking about now...?

  “...tulips. Boy oh boy I can hardly wait for all those tulips to come up. You know what a tulip reminds me of?”

  “What,” I say.

  “Guess,” says Randy.

  I can guess but I won’t.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “A woman’s patootie, banana brain!”

  Banana brain? Where does he get these brilliant sayings? Patootie?

  “Anyway, the tulips in Ottawa when they come up they all come from Holland, did ya know that? I was over in Holland in the war. The women, the girls really loved ol
d Randy over there, you know what I’m sayin’? Their favorite Canuck was yours truly and you better believe it. Near wore me out, they did! Come closer to killin’ me than the Germans did and that’s the truth!”

  What was that last thing she said to me? Could you come to me sooner? No, it wasn’t that. When will I see you again? No. She said when does the truck come again. I said a week or so. She said, “That’s too bad.” What beautiful words. That’s. Too. Bad. Like music.

  Randy again: “But no more of that for Randy. Cause ol’ Randy’s married now. Settled down. Got the most beautiful...you ever see the movie Neptune’s Daughter starring Esther Williams? Technicolor? Esther sells bathing suits. Designs them or something. Every five minutes she comes out in a new bathing suit. Drives ya crazy! This handsome guy tries to get her into bed. Sings her this stupid song about how cold it is outside. And, oh yeah, Red Skelton falls in the pool — he’s the funny guy. Anyway, my new wife looks a lot like Esther...long legs, beautiful skin, lovely breasts.”

  I’m wondering what Grampa Rip would say about Randy. “This fella needs to have the inside of his head hosed out...” Something like that, probably.

  “...legs long like Esther’s, really narrow waist, nice breasts like that, nice beautiful smile like that — except her hair...her hair is more thicker and curly blonde, golden blonde. You should see her in her Esther Williams swim suit. She has one, ya know. I bought one for her. I buy her everything. Did ya know. They like ya to buy stuff fer them. Nice stuff. They’ll do anything for you if you buy them stuff. And praise their hair. They like that. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  Oh, Gerty, I wish I was with you right now instead of this...this...

  What Happened • Three

  YOUR FATHER was showing everybody the car he borrowed. Proud of it, he was.

  “A brand-new ’51 Buick, four-door sedan. One thousand, nine hundred and ninety-five bucks is what she cost!”

  You remembered how worried was Horrors’ face as you drove off skidding down the snow-packed street. You waved. Trying to say with the wave to Horrors not to worry. Everything will be all right with the car.

  Your father driving off, never looking back.

  Some of the neighbors were out in the street to say good-bye. Mrs. Laflamme was whispering to Mrs. Sawyer, “It’s for the best. She hasn’t been the same all this time — four or five years, is it? — since she lost the baby. And Phil is more and more of a burden...getting bigger and bigger...harder to handle!”

  “And she gets absolutely no help at home...”

  “It will be hard for a while but it’s best in the long run...’’

  “It’s very sad, it is.”

  Phil was in a good mood when you helped put him in the backseat. He had extra napkins on, in case. He had a rubber toy that squeaked when he squeezed. He showed it to you. His strange eyes. He has feelings, you thought.

  Your mother was standing fussing with her clothes and her purse.

  “Come on,” your father was saying. “Hurry up and get in! The next time we take you anywhere we’ll leave you at home!”

  Your father couldn’t wait to get driving Horrors’ new car.

  Cheap was in the living-room window, saying goodbye.

  Mrs. Laflamme would feed him. Not to worry.

  You drove off. It had started to snow. Big flakes. Mild weather.

  “Snowstorm coming. Doesn’t matter to us, though. Not in this machine! We’re going to find Highway 15. Then it’s straight down 15 to Smiths Falls! It’s a long drive. So just sit back and relax!”

  You drove through the thickening storm.

  Phil was happy squeezing his rubber toy, making it squeak and giggling and bubbling.

  Your father, taking a sip from his small rye bottle, was singing.

  Your mother sat staring straight ahead. Your father singing. Happy. Another sip of his rye: “There’s no tomorrow...when love is true...”

  Another sip.

  “What a beautiful machine is this car!”

  Your father, the singer. They loved it in the tavern when he sang. If they only knew what he was like at home!

  “There’s no tomorrow / There’s just tonight!...”

  9

  Nine Pages

  WE ‘RE ON Cobourg Street near where I used to live on Papineau. We go into Prevost’s Lunch Room and Grocery where I used to go all the time when I was a kid with my friend Billy Batson. The ancient man is still sitting in the corner there in his highchair killing flies. I remember him. Hard to believe he’s still alive. It’s easy in the spring. These flies are very slow. They’re not awake yet.

  I’m a little surprised that Randy’s not stealing from here but I don’t say anything. Then we go down to the corner to St. Patrick Street Confectioners. Same thing.

  Same thing happens in the other little store, Lachaine’s. I used to go there on my way to school. It’s right near Heney Park where an awful thing happened to me one time. A man named Mr. George hurt me there once. But that’s over now.

  “I’ve decided,” says Randy, “since we’re pals and everything now, I’m going to take you home to my place for lunch.”

  “Your place.”

  “Yep, I live right down there. Number 60 Cobourg Street, Apartment 403.”

  I look across at number three Papineau, the house where I used to live. And number five, where my hero Buz lived with his mother. And number seven where my friend Billy Batson used to live. And number one. Horseball Laflamme and his big family.

  While Randy’s talking to Mr. Lachaine I stroll down Cobourg Street to Papineau and try to look in the window of my old house, number three. I see a strange couch and a sad-looking table. A small airplane is droning in the sky over Lowertown. The sound of the droning plane makes me think of when I was a little kid, home from school, sick, lying in my mother’s bed under the special comforter, sick with fever, wishing I was in that little plane going somewhere, anywhere, droning away, trailing my life behind me...

  Randy’s back.

  “Bring your lunch up. We’ll have lunch together.”

  The truck is parked at the back of 60 Cobourg Street, under the fire escape. It’s a big brown apartment building with dirty windows.

  We go in. A little elevator shakes while it takes us to the fourth floor. We go down the dark dirty hallway to his door beside the garbage chute.

  There’s a rusty nail in the door — probably to hang something on — a wreath at Christmas, maybe.

  We go in and we’re in the kitchen. There are dirty dishes all over the place and there’s spilled food on the oilcloth floor.

  “I want to show you something,” Randy says. We go in the living room and Randy goes over to a book shelf that’s filled mostly with magazines and old newspapers.

  There’s a folder on the top shelf beside a clock that is stopped and covered with dust. He takes it down and opens it. There are some pages, a bit yellow, with funny-looking typing on them.

  “‘Member I told you ’bout the Commie spy smasher, Igor? The Russians were gonna kill him because he squealed? Igor, who lived in yer apartment? Well, that night when he escaped, I stole these papers from a bag he had, a cloth bag with wooden handles. There’s nine pages. All in funny letters. Probably Russian. Looks like lists or something. And some Ottawa places. And some Canadian names. I thought the papers would be worth something but Igor, he disappeared so...you know. You never know...might be worth something some day. Quite a coincidence, eh?”

  He puts the folder back up beside the dusty clock.

  Randy puts me back in the kitchen now. It’s a mess. Dirty dishes. Leftover breakfast in the frying pan. Stained tablecloth. Sour milk in a milk bottle. Moldy cheese on the windowsill. Torn, dirty curtain.

  Grampa Rip would be disgusted. “Are there bears livin’ here?” he might say.

  I sit at the table and set my brown lunch bag in front of me. I’ve got pork sandwiches today. Pork and sweet mustard. But nothing to drink. I’ve had my one free drink for
the day.

  “Go down to the truck and get a Lemon ’N Lime for me and a Honee Orange for you.”

  “But I already had my drink for the day.”

  “Never mind that. Go! And when you come back sit by the window so you can look down and see the truck. Make sure no kids are around tryin’ to steal drinks!”

  Funny how crooks don’t trust anybody.

  I get back with the drinks and sit at the window and start eating my lunch while I’m watching the truck down there through the black iron fire escape.

  The Honee Orange and the pork are good. And the sweet mustard.

  Suddenly I see down there some kids around the truck. They are looking all around.

  “I’m going down to the truck!” I shout. “There’s kids going to steal!”

  “Okay!” Randy shouts from the other room.

  I go down and chase the kids. I tell them the driver is crazy and he has a gun. They run off.

  I go back up the slow, shaky elevator.

  I sit at the kitchen table with Randy.

  “What do you think of Jews?” says Randy. This is going to be our lunch conversation.

  “Jews? What do you mean, Jews?” I don’t think anything about Jews.

  “Do you know who Karl Marx is?”

  “Does he work at Pure Spring?” I like to play dumb with Randy. Playing dumb makes me sort of invisible.

  “No, dummy. Karl Marx is dead. A hundred years ago he dreamed up Communism. Karl Marx was a Jew. Jews with their crazy ideas. Why do you think Hitler tried to kill them all? He almost made it. You know why he hated them, tried to exterminate them?”

  “Because he was crazy?”

  “No, because he was a Christian.”

  I nearly choke on my Honee Orange at this last bit of wisdom.

  “Yes, a Christian. A Christian who loved Jesus Christ. And who do you think killed Jesus Christ? The Jews killed Jesus Christ. Killed our Lord. And now the Commies are making religion illegal!”

  I’m going to forget about trying to eat the rest of my lunch. I think I’d rather be having a lunch date with Adolf Hitler than Randy.