Just Some Stuff I Wrote
Page 11
“Have a nice day, Albert,” she said, handing over a few bills and counting out the coins.
“Thanks. You too.”
“Guess everybody’s stocking up for the hockey game tonight,” Albert’s grandfather commented as he pulled into the crowded parking lot of the beer store and slipped into a spot by the doors. There was a lineup inside the store.
The old man pulled on the handle and leaned his shoulder against the door to force it open. He went around to the back of the truck while Albert fetched a shopping cart. They loaded empty bottles on the cart and Albert wheeled it into the crowded store, followed by his grandfather dragging the sacks of beer cans. They queued up under the Returns sign, along with half a dozen men.
A few moments later, Albert had collected the bottle money and returned to the truck to wait for his grandfather. He turned on the radio and spun the dial to find his favourite station, but got only static. The car next to him backed away and a full-ton diesel “doolie” pulled in. Albert let out a low whistle and gazed at the shiny candy-apple red hood, the polished chrome grille surmounted by a gleaming statuette of a charging mountain sheep. The powerful diesel rumbled and clattered for a moment, then fell silent. A young man in black denim shirt and pants hopped out and went into the store.
With nothing else to do, Albert watched the customers. The lineup inside the store lengthened. A woman emerged, carrying a six-pack in her two hands as if it weighed ten kilograms. A man in a baseball jacket followed soon after, pushing a cart laden with cases of beer—all the same brand. Albert wondered what beer tasted like, what all the fuss was about.
A while later, the man in black came out, a case on one hip. He hefted the box into the back of the pickup and opened his door.
“What the hell was the holdup?” his buddy asked, flicking a cigarette butt out his window.
“Ah, some old fart in there, counting out empties, dropping them all over the friggin’ place.”
“Oh, him. Yeah, that’s his wreck, the one with the hillbilly kid in it.”
Albert fixed his gaze on the dashboard, on the hole where the cigarette lighter used to be.
“Pathetic,” the man in black commented, slamming his door. “Friggin’ welfare bum. Friggin’ beer can man.”
The big engine roared to life and the truck backed away.
Albert could see into the store. Saw his grandfather’s back as he stood to the side of the Returns counter, waiting for the clerk to count the empties as he put them into boxes. Saw the tattered windbreaker, the baggy pants with the frayed cuffs, the boots broken at the heels. Saw the men in the queue staring at him, exchanging glances.
Hurry up, Albert whispered under his breath. Hurry up.
Finally the clerk handed some bills to Albert’s grandfather. As the old man came through the door he caught Albert’s eye, held up the bills and smiled. Albert shifted his gaze, looked out his window at the compact car that had replaced the red truck. There was a furry white dog in the back seat, his tongue lolling.
Albert’s grandfather climbed into the truck, pulled the door closed and turned the key. “Here’s hoping,” he said softly. The truck’s engine struggled to life, and the old man backed away.
“All right,” he said. “We’ve got time before we pick your mom up. We’ve got a few bucks in our jeans. Let’s hit the café. I know they’ve got a plate of fries-with-the-works there with your name on it.”
“I’m not hungry,” Albert said.
“Eh?”
“I don’t want to go to the restaurant. And I don’t want to drive this stupid goddamn no-good truck, and I don’t want to pick through garbage at the park any more!”
“What are you talkin’ about? What’s the matter?”
Albert stared through the cracked windshield, wishing he could explain.
On Thursday, his grandfather, who hadn’t been himself all week, went to bed early. Albert cleared the supper dishes while his mother wiped down the table and swept the floor. When they had finished, his mother said, “Sit down for a second, Albert.”
Albert pulled up a chair, watching as his mother opened a cupboard and reached to the top shelf. She placed a small envelope on the table and sat down.
“Take a look,” she said, pushing a wisp of hair from her eyes.
“It’s addressed to Grandad,” he said.
“Open it anyway.”
The envelope said callfortickets.com and had a return address in the city. Albert opened it to find two tickets. “Montreal at Toronto” was printed in bold letters.
“They’re for Saturday’s game!” he exclaimed.
“We can catch the four o’clock bus,” his mother said. “We’ll have to take our supper with us. We’ll get home late, but—”
“Are we really going?”
Albert’s mother crossed her arms on her chest and leaned back in her chair. “You’re holding the tickets, aren’t you?”
The day after tomorrow they’d be riding the bus along the big highway to the city. To the loud, teeming streets, the sports centre near the lake, lit up like a castle, just like you could see on Hockey Night in Canada. Albert had never been inside a real hockey arena or seen professional players up close. But the day after tomorrow he’d be there, cheering for his favourite team. And Lorne Cuddy, the best centre in the league, the best player ever, would lead the Leafs and trounce Montreal, and Albert would kid his—
A sinking feeling pushed aside Albert’s excitement.
“Mom, you don’t even like hockey.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, it might be fun,” she said without conviction.
“Grandad bought the tickets, didn’t he?”
“He sent for them a month ago. They got here last week. He saved up for almost a year.”
“For a rainy day,” Albert whispered.
Albert paused outside his grandfather’s door. He heard the double clink of the Zippo and the rustle of a newspaper being opened. He knocked.
The room was just big enough to hold a single bed, dresser and night table with a small lamp. The old man was sitting on the bed, pillows at his back, reading the paper. He lowered it, took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped it on the edge of the ashtray on the table.
“You look a little glum,” he said.
Albert searched for words and couldn’t find the ones he wanted. He stood silently for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” he managed.
Slowly, his grandfather closed the newspaper and folded it twice. He raised his cigarette to his thin lips. In his other hand, he turned the Zippo over and over.
“You was ashamed of me,” he said. “At the beer store that day.”
“No! No, I wasn’t!” Albert protested. Again, he rummaged for the right words. To explain. To justify. And once more the words fled before he found them.
He had been ashamed.
But only for an instant. Only because those guys in the shiny red diesel were laughing at his grandfather. At Albert, too, sitting in the beat-up truck, eyes fixed on the empty socket in the dashboard. How could he describe the sudden realization, the knowledge that came like a sharp pain, that so much was closed off from him? That he loved the old man holding up the line in the beer store, yet for that brief flash of time hadn’t wanted people to know he was with him?
Albert stared at the counterpane at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
“I wish I could tell you,” his grandfather said, “that someday, if you work real hard, you’ll live in a big house and drive a fancy new car and have lots of money in your jeans, but I can’t. Maybe it’ll happen, maybe it won’t.” The old man took a last long drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “That’s just the way things are,” he said.
“Grandad,” Albert said. “I don’t want to go to the game if you’re not going.”
The old man picked up the newspaper and unfolded it. He shook it open, turned a page, held it up to cover his face.
“Says here,
” he began, “that Cuddy could break the scoring record Saturday night. That would mean another record for those damn Maple Leafs, wouldn’t it?”
“Yup,” Albert said.
“Well, I guess I better go along to the game and make sure that doesn’t happen.”
acknowledgements
Thanks to Maya Mavjee for supporting this project; to my editor, Amy Black; to Shaun Oakey for his usual excellent copy edit; to Molly Macdonald for putting us up in Edinburgh and helping with historical background for “The Promise;” and, as always, to Ting-xing Ye for endless help and encouragement.
ALSO BY WILLIAM BELL
Alma
Times have been tough since Alma’s father died and she and her mother had to give up the family farm and move into town. With few friends, Alma loves to lose herself in stories—books she reads and re-reads, and tales she writes herself.
To help make ends meet, Alma takes a job transcribing the letters of Miss Lily, the eccentric and reclusive elderly woman who has just moved into the old house on Little Wharf Road.
Eventually, their mutual love of words creates a strong relationship, and Miss Lily encourages Alma’s spark for writing, introducing her to the art of calligraphy and lending her some of her favourite books. But why is Miss Lily so secretive about certain parts of her life?
Alma is determined to find out—but will she be prepared for what she will discover? …
ALSO BY WILLIAM BELL
Stones
Garnet Havelock know what it’s like to be on the outside, not one of the crowd. Now, in his final year of high school, he’s just marking time, waiting to get out into the real world.
Then a mysterious girl transfers to his school and Garnet thinks he might have found the woman of his dreams—if only he could get her to talk to him.
At the same time, Garnet becomes caught up in a mystery centred in his community. As he and Raphaella draw closer to the truth, they uncover a horrifying chapter in the town’s history, and learn how deep-seated prejudices and persecution from the past can still reverberate in the present.
Copyright © 2005 William Bell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Seal Books and colophon are trademarks of
Random House of Canada Limited.
JUST SOME STUFF I WROTE
Seal Books/published by arrangement with Doubleday Canada
Doubleday Canada edition published 2005
Seal Books edition published February 2007
eISBN: 978-0-385-67229-0
Seal Books are published by Random House of Canada Limited.
“Seal Books” and the portrayal of a seal are the property of
Random House of Canada Limited.
Visit Random House of Canada Limited’s website:
www.randomhouse.ca
v3.0