Close to the Heel

by Norah McClintock

  “Mr. McLean made full provision for Rennie’s further education,” he said.

  “Further education?” The Major stared at him as if he’d said the old man had made provision for my transport to Mars.

  “Rennie indicated to Mr. McLean that he wanted to go to university,” Mr. Devine said.

  The Major stared at me, waiting for an explanation for this ridiculous statement.

  “It’s true,” I said, bracing myself for what I was sure would follow.

  “You don’t have the grades, Rennie.”

  “I know. That’s why I enrolled in school again.” I didn’t mention that it was an alternative school. To the Major, alternative meant phoney.

  “You what?” I’d seen a lot of expressions on the Major’s face recently, but that particular kind of surprise wasn’t one of them.

  “I figure if I work my butt off, I can get into Lakehead.”

  “Lakehead?”

  “They have an outdoor recreation and parks program there. I want to take it.”

  The Major was looking at me now as if he was pretty sure that someone or something alien had taken over my body, or at least my brain.

  “What are you going to do with that?” he asked.

  “Maybe work in a national or provincial park. I don’t know.”

  The Major let out a long sigh. There it was: I don’t know. There was no alien. It was all me. Monsieur Je-ne-sais-pas. That’s what he called me—a lot. What are your plans for tonight, Rennie? I don’t know. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Rennie? I don’t know. Where the hell did you get such a stupid idea, Rennie? I don’t know. Je ne sais pas.

  “You’re not going.”

  “But Grandpa—”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Charbonneau—” Mr. Devine began.

  “Major Charbonneau.”

  The lawyer nodded. “Mr. McLean has made similar requests of his other grandsons.”

  “They’re all going to Iceland?”

  “Not exactly. One is going to climb Kilimanjaro—”

  Why couldn’t that have been me?

  “Another is making his way to Spain.”

  Spain sounded good too.

  “Each boy has a request to fulfill. Their parents have all agreed.”

  “I don’t do things just because other people do them, Mr. Devine,” the Major said. That was true enough. “And I don’t appreciate anyone, least of all a complete stranger, presuming to tell me what I should and shouldn’t allow my son to do.”

  “I would never make such a presumption,” Mr. Devine said. “But…” He sighed and produced another envelope from his inside pocket. This one he handed to the Major, who ripped it open and began to read. His face was ferocious with annoyance when he started but had softened somewhat by the end. He folded the letter and shoved it back into the envelope.

  “Well?” Mr. Devine said.

  A minor miracle happened.

  “I’ll think about it,” the Major said.

  “I’m staying at that little bed and breakfast near the train station,” said Mr. Devine. “I’ll wait there for your answer.”

  Mr. Devine left. The Major tucked the envelope into one of his uniform pockets.

  “I have to get back to work,” he said.

  “But—”

  “You haven’t finished your chores. I expect you to have them done by the time I get home.”

  “Yes, sir!” I clicked my heels and gave him a crisp salute. For once I wasn’t being completely facetious. I wanted him to say yes. I would have given my left arm to get away for a few weeks, even if it meant going to Iceland, wherever that was. I wasn’t entirely sure. All I knew was that it wasn’t here, the Major wasn’t there, and the old man wanted me to go. That was more than enough reason to pack my bags.

  I picked up all the clothes from the floor of my room, scooped them into the hamper and carried them downstairs, where I started a load of laundry. I mopped the bathroom floor and the kitchen floor. I ran the vacuum cleaner over the carpet in the living room. I emptied the dishwasher of all the clean dishes and refilled it with the dirty dishes that were piled in the sink. I moved the laundry from the washer to the dryer and put together a casserole while I waited for the dry cycle to finish. By the time the Major reappeared, the casserole was in the oven, the laundry was put away, and I was slicing tomatoes for a salad. The Major, who is usually pretty slick about hiding his feelings, stood in the doorway to the kitchen, briefcase in hand and stared at me in astonishment.

  “Supper will be ready in five minutes,” I said without turning around.

  He disappeared and was back again exactly five minutes later. I’m not kidding. The kitchen timer went off just as he pulled out his chair at the table. He’d showered and changed out of his uniform and into jeans—the only jeans on the planet with a knife-edged pleat down the front of each leg—and a blindingly white T-shirt.

  I served him some casserole and passed the salad. We ate in silence for a few minutes. Then he put down his fork and leaned back in his chair.

  “I still don’t like the idea, Rennie.”

  The Major isn’t precise just with his time and his appearance. Or just with rules and the law. Or tidiness and orderliness. He’s also precise—extremely precise—with his choice of words. So my ears pricked up. He hadn’t said, “No, and that’s that.” He had said, “I still don’t like the idea.”

  I knew better than to interrupt. I forked a slice of tomato into my mouth and chewed slowly.

  “What kind of man sends teenaged boys all over the world?” the Major said.

  “He was like that,” I said. “He had this idea that if you get out of your comfort zone and take on something, especially if it’s for someone else, you can learn more about yourself in a few days or a few weeks than you ever could in a whole lifetime of just doing the same old cautious thing day in and day out.”

  “Since when did you ever do the cautious thing?” the Major asked.

  “Okay, so maybe he meant that a person has to get out of his rut from time to time. Try something different.”

  “He told you that?”

  I nodded.

  “It makes a lot of sense,” the Major said.

  “You would have liked him. He was a good guy.”

  “I know.”

  “What?” I stared at the Major. Like I said, he was precise in his choice of words. He hadn’t said, “Maybe,” or “I doubt it,” or even, “I guess we’ll never know.” He’d said, “I know.”

  “I did like him. I liked him a lot. But—”

  “You met him?”

  “I talked to him.”

  I remembered. But that conversation had lasted ten minutes, tops. When I said that, the Major fixed me with one of his patented you’ve-got-to-be-kidding looks.

  “My delinquent son disappears, calls me from Toronto after a couple of weeks and tells me he’s staying with his grandfather, and I’m not going to check out what he’s doing there?”

  Well, when he put it like that…

  “We talked for a couple of hours.”

  “A couple of hours?” That didn’t sound like the Major.

  “Well, he did most of the talking.”

  Now that sounded right.

  “A lot of it was about your grandmother. The rest was about you. He saw a lot in you.”

  He saw a lot? What did that mean?

  “What about school?” the Major asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you enrolled in school. That was true, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded. “It’s semestered. I start in January. I was going to see if I could pick up a few credits in night school in the meantime.”

  The Major pondered this.

  “If you were to do this,” he said finally, “if you were to go to Iceland…”

  I caught my breath and held it.

  “…you’d be careful, right?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “By which I mean, you wouldn’t d
o anything there that you’re not allowed to do here—”

  “I don’t do that stuff anymore.” I really didn’t. “That’s what that whole camp thing was about, right?” Well, okay, so maybe it had started out as an alternative to a juvenile detention center. But they knew what they were doing at that camp. They’d made me think. So had my grandfather. In fact, he’d started me thinking. I took off in the first place because I didn’t want to show up for a meeting with my youth worker. I didn’t want to hear what he had in mind for me. I’d ended up at my grandfather’s because I couldn’t think where else to go. We’d talked. And talked and talked. By the time I came home, I’d more or less decided to deal with it. And if that meant spending a few months at boot camp with a bunch of other screwups, okay, I’d do it.

  “And use a guide,” the Major said. “The lawyer said that’s provided for.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And prepare properly. For a thing like this, it’s all in the preparation. If you went, you’d be going to a country that’s just south of the Arctic Circle.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know it sounds great, but it can play havoc with your circadian rhythm.”

  “My what?”

  “Your sleep patterns, Rennie. It’s also not an easy place to get around. The whole country has maybe 300,000 people in it, and they’re scattered around the edges in tiny settlements—the ones that aren’t living in the capital, that is. You’d need to drive, and I’m not at all sure you’d be able to rent a car there. Usually you have to be twenty-one for that. We’d probably have to make some other arrangement.”

  I’d forgotten all about my supper by now. He was talking as if he was going to let me go. Either that or I was dreaming—big time!

  The Major sat up a little straighter and looked hard at me from across the table.

  “One way or another, you’re going to be gone in another year, two at most. You’re going to be making all of your own decisions.” He paused and looked at me again. “Before you do this, Rennie, I want you to prepare. I want to see your plans. And you have to promise that you’ll stay in touch. D’accord?”

  French. He was speaking French, which he only ever did when he was being dead serious.

  “D’accord, Papa,” I said. I would have agreed with the devil himself to be able to make this trip. “Anything you say.”

  FIVE

  I had just secured the straps on my duffel bag when the Major appeared.

  “You have everything?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Sweaters? Longjohns? Parka? Gloves? Hat?”

  “Yup, yup, yup, yup, and yup.”

  “Because the average temperature is maybe seven degrees Celsius—and average doesn’t mean that’s what it’s going to be. It could be—”

  “A lot colder or a lot warmer. I know what an average is, thanks,” I said, maybe a little too testily considering my math grade.

  “Did you remember sunscreen?” he asked. “Just because it’s going to be cool, doesn’t mean your skin can’t burn.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Hiking boots? If you’re going into the interior, you’ll need them. The terrain is pretty rough, especially if you run into a lava field—”

  “Got ’em.” I began to count, slowly, under my breath. Jeez, he was going to drive me nuts.

  “Warm socks? Lots of them?”

  “Got socks,” I assured him. “Here. Here’s my list. I checked off everything as I packed it. Why don’t you take a look and see if I’ve forgotten anything?” I hadn’t. I’d done my homework and I’d made most of the arrangements myself. Mr. Devine had bought my airline tickets and hired the guide my grandfather had requested.

  He seemed surprised, but pleasantly so, which, in turn, was a nice surprise for me. Yeah, I’d learned a few things up there at that camp. I’d paid close attention, mostly (at first) so that I could get the hell out of there as soon as possible. Who would have guessed it, but the stuff they’d taught me actually worked!

  “Looks good, Rennie,” the Major said when he handed the list back to me. “So, I guess we’d better get you to the airport.”

  I reached for my duffel bag, but he got to it first and carried it down the stairs and out to the car, where he stowed it in the trunk. We drove to the airport in silence. He stayed with me while I checked in and got my boarding pass and then walked with me to the security gate.

  “You let me know when you get there,” he said.

  “I will.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out something. He handed it to me.

  “You told me not to bring my cell phone,” I said.

  He was probably convinced I’d lose it.

  “This one is set up to operate there. Just in case.”

  “Thanks.”

  He handed me a piece of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “The name of someone in Iceland you can call if you need anything.”

  “You know someone in Iceland?”

  “Jake does.” Jake Thorson was the Major’s best buddy. “His mother was Icelandic. That’s his Uncle Geir’s number. You can call him anytime.”

  “Is he in the army?”

  “He works for one of the daily newspapers there. He’s some kind of editor.”

  I tucked the paper into my jeans pocket.

  “Be careful driving over there, Rennie,” the Major said. “The temperature and the weather can change just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Be especially careful on gravel. You don’t get good traction on gravel.”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  “And stay off the glaciers. They’re dangerous.”

  “I think part of the reason I’m going is to see the glaciers.” I’d been online checking out the place. Iceland had the biggest glaciers outside of Greenland and the Antarctic.

  “Well, be careful. Really big glaciers can create their own weather systems. Do what your guide tells you. And don’t even think about going into an ice cave. I don’t know if you know this, but—”

  “I know,” I said. “You told me at least a dozen times. I’ll be careful.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Okay then. Well…” He looked awkwardly at me. Then, without warning, I found myself engulfed in a bear hug. “Sois prudent, mon fils. Bon voyage.”

  “Au revoir, Papa.”

  The first thing that surprised me was how many people were going to Iceland this time of year. The plane was full, and we were jammed in like cargo. I have long legs, and there was no room for them. My knees became best friends with my chin on the way over. The movie selection sucked—there was nothing first-run and nothing worth seeing a second time. I tried to sleep, but a baby somewhere behind me started to shriek. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I got up to see if I could locate the kid. I had it in mind to make a helpful suggestion or two to the parents. But the parents turned out to be just the mother—she didn’t look any older than me—and she was doing her best to shush her baby before some jerk complained. I sat down, put on my earphones, jacked up some Björk, and tried to figure out what kind of country would make someone like her a rock diva. Before long, the baby settled down.

  The next thing I knew, we were making our descent into Keflavik airport. Then it was like airports anywhere—get off the plane, stand around to get your luggage, stand around again to be quizzed by a stone-faced customs officer, get your passport stamped, and welcome to Iceland.

  I went out through the doors of the customs hall into the arrivals area along with everyone else and peered around, wondering how I was going to recognize Brynja Einarsdottir. I had no idea what he looked like. All I knew was that Mr. Devine had given him my email address and he’d emailed me to tell me he’d meet me at the airport and take me to a guide named Einar Magnusson, who was going to take me to the interior.

  I peered around nervously. What if this Brynja and I didn’t connect? I realized—too late—that I didn’t have a phone numbe
r for the guide. I wasn’t even sure where he lived, except that it was near some place that sounded like Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, but wasn’t.

  It turned out that I had nothing to worry about. As soon as the customs hall doors swooshed shut behind me, I saw a big cardboard sign with my name printed on it in block letters. I walked toward it—and the girl who was holding it.

  “I’m Rennie,” I said, looking over her shoulder for the guy named Brynja.

  “I’m Brynja,” she said. I guess the surprise must have showed on my face because she said, “Didn’t you get my email?”

  “Sure. But…” Some thoughts are better left unfinished. At least, that’s what they said at the camp, usually when some guy—usually me—started to say something he wasn’t supposed to. Like, say, calling some other guy one of the names that were officially banned.

  “But what?”

  “Never mind,” I mumbled.

  “You seem disappointed.”

  “No.” I looked into Brynja’s clear blue eyes. She was a little shorter than me, slender, with thick blond hair that hung down over her shoulders. “No, I’m not disappointed. Really.”

  “Surprised perhaps?” she persisted.

  “Well…” I glanced down at the toes of my sneakers. “Maybe a little. I was expecting…”

  “What?”

  “I thought you’d be a guy.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding,” she said.

  I shook my head.

  “But I signed the email with my patronymic.”

  “Huh?”

  “My whole name.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never heard of anyone called Brynja before. I thought it was like Bernie, you know? That’s a guy’s name.”

  “But it’s Brynja Einarsdottir,” she said, emphasizing the last name as if it was supposed to mean something to me. It didn’t. I must have looked pretty blank, because she said, “Dottir means daughter.”

  I thought about that for a second. “So your last name means something like Einar’s daughter?”

  “That’s exactly what it means.”

  “Wow. What are the chances?” I mean, what were the chances?

  “Chances?”

  “It’s like meeting a guy named Luke Robertson who is taking me to meet a guy named Robert. You’re Brynja Einarsdottir and you’re taking me to meet a guy named Einar.”