by Brian Doyle
The next movie will be on in a minute and I ask Gerty if she wants to come out to the lobby with me to get some popcorn.
While we’re walking up the aisle I start talking about Randy and how he has all of these schemes for stealing from our customers.
The more I tell her, the more confused her face gets.
Now we’re leaving the show.
Now we’re on the street.
Now we’re on the streetcar.
I’m telling Gerty more about Randy now and how he steals. I can’t help it. I’m getting closer. I tell about the scheme at Persephone’s to get the guy to pay for more cases than he actually got. I tell that Randy has many schemes for many different stores.
Gerty has a storm coming over her face.
“Many stores?”
“Yes. Many. Many stores.”
The streetcar conductor is banging his foot on the bell trying to get rid of a kid on a bicycle who’s hitching a ride hanging on to the open back window.
“Did he steal from our store?”
The bell stops. The streetcar moves.
“Yes.”
“Did you help him?”
“Yes. I did. I helped him.”
Now, tears.
“You’re not a thief. I know you. You’re not a thief! Martin! Tell me you’re not.”
“I was. I did help. But he made me. I’d be fired if I didn’t. No. It’s not like that. You were our first store. It was after that I stole. When I was in your cellar I didn’t realize what I was doing until it was over. Then I saw you.”
“You’re not a crooked stealing thief person. I know you!” says Gerty.
“How do you know me? You don’t know anything about me.”
“Can you get back what he made you steal? My grampa’s losing money in the store.”
“Maybe. I have a kind of plan.”
“A kind of plan?”
“Yes. An almost plan.”
“When you have that plan, Martin O’Boy, come and see me and tell me what it is.”
She kisses me light on the cheek, her fingers on my shoulder, her lips brushing right above the corner of my mouth on the left side.
“Don’t come and see me ever again unless you have that plan. The plan to get back what was stolen from us.”
I get off the streetcar at my stop.
She says she knows me. How does she know me? How can she say she knows me? Nobody knows me. Nobody in this world knows me.
The streetcar pulls away. She’s in her seat, staring straight ahead. She doesn’t glance at me standing there.
13
Everything Reminds
GRAMPA RIP asks me why Gerty didn’t come back after that one visit and then he pauses a bit. Then he says I don’t have to tell him if I don’t want to. And then he says, “Be careful, Martin, my young friend. It’s spring and ‘In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ That’s by Tennyson, a fine poet!”
Then he says I’ll feel better if I write it down. How I feel.
I’m sitting at the secretariat writing in the notebook Grampa gave to me — writing about Gerty, mostly how beautiful she is and how just about everything I see and hear and smell and touch and taste reminds me of her.
Cheap, half asleep, watches me write. He likes to see the pencil moving up and down along the page and now and then sometimes he puts his furry little hand out and touches gentle the place where the pencil is pressing the paper. And he likes, I think, the warm coming from the secretariat’s writing light.
I’m also working on my theft list. Every night I record what Randy and I are stealing. The store. The time. The way we did it. The amount of money we are stealing: almost one hundred dollars a week! I have it all written down right from that first day at McDowell’s Grocery and Lunch on Sweetland Avenue.
Grampa’s huge painting of the Pieta — the Virgin Mary with the dead body of Jesus across her legs — reminds me of Gerty. The Virgin is wearing the same color blue that is Gerty’s favorite color.
I wish that was Gerty in the painting and that was me she was crying over.
Everything reminds me of her.
Grampa Rip has a bird feeder hanging outside our round bathroom window. He has a book on the windowsill called Birds of Ottawa. You can look in the book and name the different birds that visit. The chickadees, nuthatches, goldfinches, cardinals, redpolls and bluejays all remind me of Gerty.
Last Sunday I went with Grampa Rip to one of his funeral wakes. Grampa had a nice time at the wake talking to some old people he met near the coffin who knew somebody who knew somebody else that he knew once. A nice time. That reminded me of Gerty. Even the flowers around the dead body reminded me of Gerty.
A kid pushing a little wagon reminds me of Gerty. The leaves on the trees that used to be buds remind me of Gerty. Streetcars remind me of Gerty. The doorman at the Chateau Laurier reminds me of Gerty. His white gloves.
A butterfly, a silver buckle, a robin’s egg. A straw hat, panties in the window of A.J. Freiman’s department store remind me of Gerty. Nat “King” Cole singing “Too Young” reminds me of Gerty. Maple syrup, clouds, running water, violins, hairs in a hairbrush, rain, pianos, ice cream cones, my cat Cheap, cocoa, the sound of the oil furnace, a foggy windowpane. Habitant soup, Honee Orange, dinging and donging of bells, milkshakes and hamburgers, ribbons, lilacs and Konk-a-ree! Konk-a-ree! all remind me of Gerty.
I’m imitating a redwing blackbird saying Gerty’s name. It’s the middle of the night.
Konk-Gertee! Konk-Gertee!
Cheap is looking at me. Am I crazy?
Grampa Rip comes out in his long pajama gown and his cap with the tassel hanging over his ear.
“Did I wake you up? I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“I always get up with the birds,” he says, “but redesigned blackbirds in the middle of the night?”
Grampa Rip looks over my shoulder at what I’m writing. I try to cover my theft pages but he sees.
“Keeping books? Bookkeeping. Always wise to keep track of your money. Every cent counts. It all adds up. Every penny, every nickel, every dime. Can get to be a pretty big pile one day! I know from experience.”
He goes around and sits in his giant rocker. Cheap jumps up on his lap.
You can’t fool Grampa Rip. You can’t hide from Grampa Rip. You can’t pretend or lie to Grampa Rip. You have to tell.
And it’s okay to tell.
Because you know that Grampa Rip will never turn on you, yell at you, say you’re stupid, say you’re wrong, say you shouldn’t have done that, say you should be ashamed of yourself, say you’re no good, say you’re a waste of time, say you’ll never amount to anything in this world, say you should never have been born...
I bring my notebook around to the front of Grampa Rip’s giant rocking chair with the two wooden eagles and I sit on the rug and I tell him everything about the stealing. About Randy and the birth certificate. About day number one and Mutt McDowell’s six stolen cases of drinks.
There’s a long silence after I’m finished.
“The birth certificate. It’s safe?”
I pull out my wallet and show him the priceless plastic-covered document. His eyes are full on me.
“Good lad!” he says. “Show me more?”
I do. I show him each bookkeeping page. Each day. Each theft.
“Very interesting,” says Grampa Rip. “A series of serious crimes. And a Romance Interruptus. I take it that Miss G. McDowell now wants no part of you because she believes you to be a thief and your heart is now broken hearted.”
He winks at me. I know he’s teasing me. I say what he expects me to say.
“Your heart can’t be broken hearted. Either your heart is broken or you are broken hearted. It is redundant to say your heart is broken hearted...”
“You learn well, Martin O’Boy. Now. After we get some sleep we’ll be more fresh and able to decide what to do with this thieving, blackmailing, bullying specimen. And th
en maybe, just maybe, we can get the lovely Gerty McDowell back for another pork hock!”
To bed. Oh, yes. When I told Grampa Rip all about Randy and the wedding pictures and about Randy the roofer and Randy the vacuum cleaner salesman and Randy this and Randy that, he said a very funny thing. He said, “This Randy fella, somebody should hose out that brain pan of his with an industrial-strength disinfectant!”
Cheap, purring away beside me, reminds me of Gerty. My pillow reminds me of Gerty.
The last Somerset streetcar of the night goes rumbling by; a mouse scratches between the walls; the creak of the back stairs that lead from the yard to our back balcony — somebody coming home late; the sound of someone near our back kitchen door; the smell of my own hand; the place on my cheek where she — right above the corner of my mouth on the left side — brushed her lips and the very same place on my shoulder where she put her fingers...all remind me...
Go to sleepy, Gerty, sleep...
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Five times on our back door. Loud. Sharp. Never heard this around here half asleep before. Knuckles on the door. Hard on the door. Important.
Five rat-tat-tats again. I fumble out of bed. Cheap hits the floor with his two soft thumps.
We all — Grampa Rip, Cheap and me — get to the kitchen door at the same time. Turn on the light.
The door is opening. It’s now open.
A man standing straight as a board. A man with a thick neck, not too tall, a large chin, a straight mouth, square head, turned-up nose, baggy suit, heavy accent, raises one eyebrow and says, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Igor Gouzenko, Russian defector and famous Canadian hero! May I come in?”
“Grampa Rip,” I whisper. “He used to live here!”
“Correct, young man!” says Igor.
“Come in,” says Grampa Rip. “Come in and be welcome!”
What Happened • Four
YOU STOPPED at a restaurant in the town of Carleton Place. The restaurant was called Bellamy’s. It was on the main street. Bridge Street.
It was in there that Phil all of a sudden decided to throw his lemon meringue pie all over the place — on the table, on our faces, on the floor, on the next table, on the wall and even over a huge man sitting on a stool at the counter.
The restaurant had booths along the wall with little nickelodeons in each booth and six stools with red leather seats along a counter on the other side. In a glass case there were huge pies — apple, blueberry, lemon meringue.
There were two people at the counter. One on stool number one. One on stool number six.
They were far apart but they knew each other.
The man was a very large farmer, so large you couldn’t see the stool he was sitting on. The lady at the other end was thin and straight and had a high raspy voice.
“Big storm comin’,” she said.
“Here already,” the huge farmer said.
He had lemon meringue pie on his back.
The waitress rushed over to our table.
You heard the waitress whisper, whisper, whisper to your mother.
“Don’t worry. It’s all right. I understand. I have one at home myself. Everything’s going to be just fine,” the waitress said.
You wondered about the word. One.
One.
I have one at home.
One what? One boy just like Phil.
You wondered, was it true there were other boys, people in the world just like Phil?
“How is it,” you heard your mother ask. “How is it that you are able to leave yours at home while you’re out? I can’t go anywhere or leave him with anybody the way he is.”
“I’m lucky,” you heard the kind waitress say. She was cleaning off the table and wiping lemon meringue pie off Phil’s head. You saw Phil calming down when the waitress spoke soft to him. She rubbed Phil’s back and she talked quiet to your mother. You saw.
“My husband’s a fireman. Works in the city,” she said. “He has lots of time off in the daytime. Works nights a lot. Takes care of Junior so I can do some shifts here. Bellamy’s — good people to work for.”
“You’re lucky, all right,” your mother whispered so your father wouldn’t hear. He was fiddling with the little nickelodeon. Looking in his pockets for a nickel. “You’re lucky to have the help. I have no help. I can’t go anywhere. This is my first real trip since he was born. Hard to believe but they’re twins, you know.”
The kind waitress looked at you. Her eyes said she almost didn’t believe it.
“Oh!” she said. Then she changed the subject. “Oh. Where are you going on your trip?”
“Oh, just a drive to Smiths Falls to see some relatives.” “Watch out for the storm coming,” the waitress said. “Here already,” the huge farmer with the lemon meringue pie on his back said.
“We have a good car,” your father said. He put a nickel in the nickelodeon. “Brand new as a matter of fact. Latest thing for the snow. Special snow tires! What’ll they think of next, eh?”
When the waitress turned her back your father poured rye whiskey into the water in his water glass. The water in the glass was now gold colored.
You had hot chicken sandwiches and French fried potato chips. With salt and vinegar.
Your father kept playing the same song: “Put another nickel in/In the nickelodeon.”
Phil started pouring vinegar on his ruined lemon pie. You took the vinegar bottle away from him, gentle, and Phil looked at you with his strange eyes.
You were together since you were born.
“Let him if he wants,” your father said. “What’s the difference? Vinegar on lemon pie? Could taste real good depending on who you are. I’m not gonna try it though. Not this Canadian. Not this time around! HA! HA!” Loud, so’s the others in the restaurant would hear.
Phil started throwing his head around and almost howling. It was time to go. You had to leave some of your hot chicken sandwich (the gravy was getting sticky glue cold anyway).
You helped Phil with his winter coat and hat and out you went.
You knew Phil would be better in the car, would calm down because of the sound of the engine. Phil also liked the hypnotizing snow coming at us. He dozed off. Your strange twin.
“I couldn’t tell that woman where we were taking Phil,” your mother said in the front seat. “Couldn’t bring myself to tell her.”
“So?” your father said. “It’s none of her business. She’s a stranger. What we do has nothing to do with some waitress in a two-bit village!”
Your father was yelling.
“She has help,” your mother said. “Help to deal, day in and day out, with the one she has!”
“There’s no help for this! Let’s get it done and over with. Over and done with!”
More hypnotizing snow.
“And anyway, a fireman? All they do is sleep all night in the fire station and get paid for it. No wonder he has so much time!”
Phil snoring a little bit. Silence for a while.
“They should be paid only if there’s a fire! That’d be good, wouldn’t it?”
Your mother quiet again.
“Paid by the fire. That’s a good one!”
You thought your father had not heard the whispering but he had.
“But then again, if they were paid by the fire, they’d probably be out at night settin’ the fires just so’s they’d get paid! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
You wished you were somewhere else. Anywhere else.
14
Moths and Flames
“WHAT A wonderful thing it is, Mr. Gouzenko,” Grampa Rip is saying, “that we live in the very same apartment that you did. What a great honor it is. You are a great man!”
“Enough!” says Mr. Gouzenko. “The honor is mine! You are too generous. I come for nostalgic. For memory of old days!”
“Of course. Welcome! Come into the living room and sit down. I’ll put on the kettle! Better still, Martin, will you put on the kettle like a good lad?”
“Is
grandson?...”
“Well, yes and no...”
In the kitchen I can hear the talking back and forward. When Grampa Rip asks me to put the kettle on he really wants me to make tea. I put on the kettle and get out the cups and the milk and sugar.
Might as well put out some bread and butter while I’m at it. Maybe slice up some cold roast pork and set a jar of hot mustard and some pickles and salt and pepper on the table. And the homemade applesauce and there’s some potato salad left over from supper...
While I’m doing this I try to listen in to what they are saying. Some of it is about me. Grampa Rip is telling Igor about how I came to live with him and how I felt so small when I first came here, and how the doctor said that a big boy like I was shouldn’t be feeling so small and that I’d better not be going to school in such a condition — have to feel big again before I’d go back.
“He was pretty sick when he first came here,” Grampa Rip says, “but he’s a lot better now.”
Now Igor is talking about how he’ll never, ever see his parents again. He’s heard his mother is ill and he can’t communicate with her. They will never see him again. To lose your parents. Very sad.
Now there’s a long silence.
A silence to be sad in.
A strange man this Mr. Gouzenko.
The first thing he did when we brought him in was he fell face first to the kitchen floor and did ten pushups with only his fingertips touching. Inside his baggy suit his body was straight and stiff as a steel beam.
And when Grampa introduced me to him and while I shook his powerful hand, he held it a little longer, looked in my eyes and said, “Ah! A young man in love!”
How did he know that? There must be pictures of Gerty McDowell in my eyes.
The kitchen table looks good with the huge wooden legs carved like giant bowling pins holding up the tea and the pork and the potato salad.
Grampa brings Mr. Gouzenko back into the kitchen. He’s carrying Cheap. They’ve made friends. Cheap doesn’t make friends that fast, usually. Igor Gouzenko must be a nice man. He’s stroking Cheap’s head.
“Where is ear?” he asks Cheap. “You are like Russian cat. Communists take other ear?”
