From the Ashes

by Jesse Thistle

  “Jesus Christ!” Grandpa said after it sounded like he dropped a plate. Yorkie bolted. Jerry continued to cry. I decided to go down and find out what was going on. I hadn’t heard a peep from Grandma and wondered where she was.

  When I entered the kitchen, Grandpa was clattering through forks and knives in one of the drawers and swearing.

  “Do you want some goddamned eggs?” he barked.

  “Sure.” I waited, staring at him.

  He grabbed a fork and tried to stab out a few pieces of bacon, but he fumbled and the fork fell over the edge of the skillet onto the floor. A strip of bacon teetered on the drawer next to the stove.

  “Fuck,” he muttered and wiped the stove with a paper towel. “Sit down, boy.”

  He tossed my breakfast plate on the table and pulled my chair up all in one motion. He looked frail almost, in a way I’d never seen before. To me he was invincible, with his strong, hairy arms and barrel chest. But now he was as he really was—an older, greying man.

  “I’ve already told your brothers, and I don’t like beating around the bush, so listen up.” He reached over and rubbed my arm. He’d never touched me like that before.

  “Your dad was never in the hospital,” he said. “He got into trouble robbing some stores, went to jail. When the police found you, you lot were starving and dirty.” He tapped his finger against the table like a tiny hammer trying to beat back the past. “Once we heard what went down, me and Grandma went and got you. Sonny got out and was supposed to come home but . . .” Grandpa’s voice trailed off for a moment. “I guess he loved drugs and booze more. Fucking asshole.” He slammed his fist on the table and his plate fired beans into the air. “Family is the most important thing, Jesse, and if I ever catch you doing drugs I’ll disown you.”

  His face looked harder than I’d ever seen before—like steel, tungsten even. I trembled. Tears began rolling down my cheeks like an ancient levee had broken.

  He pulled his hand off my arm.

  “None of that,” he said. “Men don’t cry; you’re a man now.”

  The smell of margarine filled the air as my grandfather slathered his browned square of toast with it and ate it, and I tried not to cry. Then I heard the sound of my grandmother’s rocking chair in the next room, moving back and forth, and the sound of her crying.

  CANADA GEESE

  “THERE’S ONE RIGHT OVER NEAR the portable,” Leeroy said as he reached down for a juicy butt. His black-and-white Mötley Crüe concert shirt, a hand-me-down from his sister, was skin-tight against his back. It looked like it’d burst open as he bent over to grab the smoke. Even tighter were his acid-washed jeans, which were rolled up and pinned at the bottom to accentuate his kicks, their tongues hanging out like overgrown dog ears. He looked like Sylvia’s rocker friends, but without any style.

  I didn’t have the wicked threads he did. We wore Bargain Harold’s crap Grandma purchased from the sale bin. Black turtlenecks were about as fashionable as I got, and the one I was wearing was covered in mustard from the lunchroom.

  “Holy cow!” I said, trying to rub the stain off. “That hasn’t even been smoked!” Leeroy held the cigarette up to the sun. The body of it was near perfect, it was just crooked. It had yellow moisture stains, but the Export A logo was intact.

  Leeroy pulled a book of matches out of his jeans pocket and dangled them. “Look what I got,” he whispered, looking back and forth for Mrs. W. or Mr. G. They were always on patrol and gave any kids they saw hanging around a tough time. We knew we could end up incarcerated in the principal’s office.

  “I stole them from Sylvia this morning.” Leeroy grinned. He peeled open the book of matches to reveal three perfect rows. The cigarette drooped from his lips and begged for a flame. I huddled close to guard against the wind. The ember burned cherry red as he struck the match, lit the butt, and hauled in a breath. He strained to hold the smoke in, and his face turned green. He exhaled and coughed so loud it sounded like a flock of Canada geese erupting from his lungs.

  “Here, your turn,” he said, still convulsing.

  I grabbed the smoke and pictured my grandma and grandpa yelling at me. I took a big drag and pretended to blow smoke at them. I didn’t cough like Leeroy, though. I wheezed, dropped the smoke, and fell ass-backward onto the ground. I groped the grass—everything was spinning. I saw black spots dance across the blue sky. Leeroy laughed, a sound that pulled me back into this world.

  “You suck.” He reached over, plucked the smoke off the gravel where I’d dropped it, took another drag, and handed it back. “Just ease into it, Jess. Like me.” He exhaled without coughing, then crossed his arms, oozing style.

  I wanted to be as cool as him.

  CHEESE SLICES

  “WHO THE HELL HAS BEEN into the fridge again?” Grandma hollered. “We aren’t rich—you boys know that, right? You’ll eat us out of house and home!”

  I looked toward the kitchen from the chesterfield and my TV program. I heard Grandma slam the fridge door, and an avalanche of something hitting the floor. All I could see was her hair wagging in the morning light, and the dog’s ass bounding up the stairs. Yorkie was never one to miss the prospect of spilled food.

  “I dunno,” I said, shrugging. “I swear, Grandma. Wasn’t me.”

  “The goddamned cranberry juice is nearly gone, too. I told you boys that’s for Grandpa’s gout.” She held up a bunch of empty cheese wrappers, a near-empty package of hot dogs, and a three-quarters-empty bottle—the remaining red liquid sloshed around, angry.

  I wonder how she slammed the fridge door, I thought. With her foot?

  “I don’t know what to do with you boys anymore.” She dropped what she was holding and took a drag of her cigarette, smoke licking around her flustered face. I could tell she was trying to remain calm. “Go get your brothers, Jesse.”

  “Okay, Grandma,” I said, with a feeling of dread, even though she sounded defeated, not angry anymore, kind of like everyone in our house since learning the truth about Dad. She nodded and began picking stuff off the floor.

  My brothers were wrestling in the backyard; Josh beating the shit out of Jerry like usual. He had Jerry’s head in a full nelson, pressing it forward into his collarbone, choking him almost unconscious. It was his signature move—I knew from experience it was impossible to escape.

  “Grandma’s pissed,” I said, trying to catch my breath. Josh let go of Jerry, who fell to the ground clutching his neck, the pinkish colour of life replacing the purple-blue of suffocation.

  “What’s she on about now?” Josh asked.

  “What does it matter?” Jerry shot back, as he got to his feet and made his way to the house. “The dog probably shit inside because we didn’t walk him. That’s your fault; you’re supposed to walk him in the morning.”

  I bit my nail. “It’s more serious than that.”

  Grandma was sitting on the edge of my grandfather’s chair in the living room. On the coffee table were the empty cheese wrappers—a stack of around twenty. Small price tags were taped to the table right next to them.

  “See,” Grandma began as the three of us walked in, her nicotine-stained index finger pressing down so hard on one of the price tags her fingertip was white. “The wieners here, they cost $2—I buy the good beef kind for your grandfather. He deserves them.” She flicked her butt, the ash tumbling into a puke-yellow glass ashtray. “The cheese”—she motioned to the cloudy wrappers—“that’s around $3.50. Black Diamond cheddar. Again, only the best for your grandfather.” The cherry on her cigarette hissed as she took another drag and moved on to the final exhibit. “And this here, that’s cranberry juice, real cranberry juice. The doctor told me to buy it to help with your grandfather’s gout. He gets it in the knee and big toe and can’t work a day without a glass. That costs $5. Together, it all costs $10.50, and I just bought it yesterday. It should’ve lasted until next Friday when I do my groceries again.”

  A boa constrictor wrapped tight around my ribs. Jerry rubbed his pal
ms down the front of his jeans.

  “But it’s gone. Now what am I gonna give him?”

  “Wasn’t me,” Josh blurted, shaking like a Chihuahua with hypothermia as he pushed the bottle toward Jerry.

  “Wasn’t me, either, Grandma,” Jerry said. “I swear!” He kept it together but looked guilty as sin. He shoved the bottle at me, not knowing I’d already been interrogated.

  “Jesse already said it wasn’t him, either,” Grandma said as she tapped the bottle. The tiny echo boomed in my ear drums. “So, I guess you’re all lying—again.” Her sigh seemed to drain the life out of her. “You boys steal food and lie all the time. This time is no different than the thousands of times before. You came to us like that—broken. But, now, for once, I want a straight answer. Please tell me the truth. Who did this?”

  We looked at each other, shrugging and making faces like idiots. Grandma didn’t budge. Silence hung heavy around us, resting somewhere between her polyester slacks and the wads of Black Diamond cheese that lay digesting in one of our guts. A smatter of rain misted the sliding doors while we waited for someone to give. Gradually, it turned into a light patter as the wind picked up. I saw a crow perched on the fence looking in at us.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” Grandma finally said, her voice thin and monotone behind a lungful of cigarette smoke. “I want you each to go to your rooms, pack one bag of clothes, and bring it downstairs. I’m taking you to the Children’s Aid Society. Your grandfather and I have spoken about this already, and we’ve tried our best . . .”

  Josh’s mouth dropped open. Jerry’s eyes were wider than Josh’s mouth. Me, I felt nothing, or what I can only describe as a yawning chasm of hate—the first time I’d felt it.

  “Make sure to take your boots and winter hats. You’ll need them. You’re old enough now to survive. Go on. Get ready.” She shooed us off. “Haven’t got all day.”

  A flash of black caught my eye—the crow had flown off. I went to my room and began packing. I couldn’t stop thinking about being hungry when we were kids with my dad, that gnawing ache that haunted me every day, that made me always think we were on the brink of starving, even when we got to my grandparents with their full fridge. I could actually feel that ache in my legs.

  Jerry, I knew, felt that hunger most. He’d told me how he always felt like he could never get enough food, even when he was full. It was a force that drove us to steal and lie, to eat until we destroyed every hors d’oeuvre plate at every family function my grandparents took us to. My cousins used to tease us about how we consumed everything in sight. They called us pigs, but it was something we had no control over.

  I kept thinking about that hunger as I pulled out my favourite red sweater, my Batman T-shirts, my Blue Jays baseball cap, and four of my favourite jeans from my drawers. I packed them carefully in my Adidas bag, making sure to place pictures of Grandma and Grandpa between the layers. I always wished I’d had pictures of my dad to remember him by and didn’t want to forget my grandparents wherever I was going. I also grabbed the old, worn-out Polaroid I had of my mom from off the dresser—one of her wearing a Russian-style fox fur hat—and put it in my back pocket for safekeeping, then made my way down to the front door.

  Josh and Jerry were there, bags packed, stone-faced. Yorkie was there, too, whining and turning in circles, tail wagging faster than normal. Grandma was upstairs, we assumed searching the change drawer for taxi fare, slamming things. We didn’t wait for her to walk us out. We shut the door and left. The brass door knocker clanged rudely behind us. Good riddance, we thought.

  Before we hit the end of the driveway, we linked arms and decided to keep going as far as we could, to find homes where we could eat whatever we wanted, where we didn’t have to be afraid anymore. Jerry pulled a butter tart out of the side of his suitcase—we had enough to get us to where we were going.

  We made it as far as the other side of the mall where Grandma did her shopping, about five kilometres. We sat near a bush and ate the lone tart. As night set in, we got cold and hungry and decided to make our way back home. Jerry and I waited outside the house with our bags, while Josh went inside to take the heat for the missing food and for running away.

  DRIVE

  ONE DAY, I ASKED MY uncle Ron where Dad went. “I’m sorry, Jess,” he said. “I miss him, too, but we don’t know.”

  According to our family, Uncle Ron was the toughest of my uncles. He was like a pro wrestler, stout through the middle, the bridge of his nose was thick, and he had a gold tooth that glinted every time he talked. His body looked like he’d been attacked by wild animals. There were deep gashes, burns, and knife marks all over. The scars on his knees were the deepest—“from a shark attack back in the ’70s,” he said. Grandma said they were from when he’d broken his legs at work and from when his friend ran him over with a car.

  He told me stories about my father, and how they’d get in trouble on the golf course they both worked at as caddies, or fight with neighbourhood boys, or chase girls and terrorize their boyfriends with firecrackers. “I even blew up your grandfather’s garage playing with gasoline,” he said, adding that Grandpa laid the smack down so hard for that, Ron saw stars for several weeks.

  Grandpa and Uncle Ron had a strange relationship. Grandpa tried to keep him out of the house, but always let him back in, I think because he loved him. There were times that Uncle Ron went to jail for months. When he came home, Grandma always hugged him and made him a big meal, and everyone was happy and joking. But when Grandpa got home and saw him, he gave him a tough time. Everyone went silent. Uncle Ron just smiled and didn’t say anything. I thought it strange he would allow himself to be treated that way, but I understood why he never quipped off to Grandpa. Respect was important in our home.

  When me and my brothers first arrived at our grandparents’, it was Uncle Ron who greeted us and made us feel at home. There was something about him. Dogs and kids loved him, but everyone else was scared. My older cousins were terrified of him. They fetched him beers and cigarettes whenever he was around—he’d just motion to the cooler or a pack and they’d run. But I loved him. He lived around the corner from us and he’d come and put me on his shoulders, take me to the park, and swing me on a swing until I laughed so hard I got dizzy. He was a father to me in many ways.

  “Come on, Jess,” Uncle Ron said, punching his cinder-block fist into my shoulder and bringing me back to the moment. “You wanna come on a delivery downtown tonight? I gotta see a few people on Yonge Street. It’ll be fun.” He was a flower delivery man and good at his job—he collected money and no one was ever late on a payment. He’d pull up, and men would run into the shops and come out with wads of money. His gold tooth glimmered between his lips, inviting me to join him.

  “I guess . . .” I twisted my foot on the ground as if putting out a cigarette, trying to decide if I wanted to feel sorry for myself in my room or go out and cheer up.

  “You don’t have to look so morose, you know.” He punched my arm again, and I struggled to smile through the pain. “I’ll be here at four—be ready or else.” He winked.

  When he screeched into the driveway that afternoon in a red convertible Mustang, I was waiting on the balcony. I had no idea where he’d gotten his new ride, but it was nicer than the beat-up work van he usually drove. I had on a white muscle shirt and a jean jacket with the sleeves ripped off. I thought the frayed strands that dangled over my shoulders made me look tough, like one of the characters from The Outsiders. Like Uncle Ron. My fake Ray-Bans added to my persona.

  “Get a load of those pipes,” Uncle Ron said. I knew he wasn’t making fun of my arms, he was trying to make me feel confident. A field of zits covered the whole of my face, and my arms and legs looked like stretched hot dogs as I’d shot up nearly a foot in the past few months. I put on my best bodybuilder pose, curling my fists and biceps inward as hard as I could. It felt good.

  “You’ll get there, kid,” he said as he stood up in the driver’s seat and returne
d my flex with his own double guns. “Just gotta start liftin’.” His arms looked like Hulk Hogan’s as he rotated his head and kissed the bicep-crest of each arm. They were bigger whenever he returned from jail.

  “Now let’s ride,” he hollered as he sat down, tooted the horn twice, and combed back his hair, looking in the rear-view as if he were a 1950s greaser. “We haven’t got all day, Schwarzenegger.” I launched myself off the balcony, down ten feet, hopped over the passenger door, and we were off.

  A mix of Foghat, Deep Purple, and Steppenwolf blasted out of the car speakers as we drove, announcing to the world that two badasses were in the vicinity. The wind blew through my hair as Uncle Ron drummed on the steering wheel, reminding me of my dad. When we got downtown, people gawked as we went by. I got excited when I saw women looking at us, but they weren’t checking me out. Uncle Ron, I knew, caught all the eyes.

  “You see that, Jess?” he said as he smiled back at a blond woman coming out of a store. “It’s all in how confident you are.” He flexed his left arm, twirled a toothpick between his front teeth, then held it erect in the sunlight.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Just try it,” he said. “Be the rooster.” He bobbed his head back and forth to the beat of the music.

  “What does that even mean?” I asked, adjusting my vest.

  “You know, cock of the walk. Own it; feel the music. Like this.” He curled his lip up, revealing his gold tooth; it reminded me of a jailhouse Elvis.

  I tried bobbing my head and smiling at the ladies on the sidewalk, just like he told me to. But I knew I was more like a malnourished chicken, and every girl I grooved at stared right through me over to Uncle Ron and his muscles.

  He laughed. “Just give it time, it gets easier. I promise.”

  I laughed back. I was glad to be hanging out with my favourite uncle, making him happy, the sun beaming down on my face.