The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War

by Jacqueline Guest

  One night after supper, Robert took the garbage out before his mother could pester him and noticed the light was on in Mr. G’s workshop. Robert had been too busy to see his friend in a while, and after all the miles he’d put on his wheeled wonder this last week, his chain could really use some oil. It was a good time to drop by. He walked over and let himself in the side door to the shop.

  “Hey Mr. G, I was wondering if you had any chain lube? I’m really running up the miles and...”

  Time stopped as Robert’s mind tried to make sense of what he saw.

  Mr. Glowinski stood illuminated by the pale glow of the yellow overhead light. His face was haggard, gray and drawn, his tortured eyes red-rimmed.

  In his hand was a pistol.

  The barrel rested against his temple.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MEN AND MONSTERS

  Frozen, Robert didn’t know what to do. He was scared even to breathe.

  “Mr. G,” he finally whispered, “has something happened?” It was a stupid thing to ask, as obviously something had happened to drive him to this.

  His neighbour didn’t seem to hear him.

  Robert wanted to run, to get someone, but was terrified of what Mr. Glowinski would do if he left. Still, the urge to escape was almost overpowering. Then he thought of all the help and the friendship this quiet man had given him.

  The pendant around Robert’s neck warmed, the temperature climbing, heat increasing. The power of the amulet pushed him forward. He took a hesitant step further into the garage. “What can I do? Can I get you something? A cup of tea maybe?” He could have kicked himself for that one, too. Again, a ridiculous thing to say, but tea had always been his fallback in dire situations and this was the direst. He was trying to be calm, afraid of startling his neighbour and perhaps causing his finger to jerk.

  Mr. Glowinski blinked, then shook himself, as if awakening from a long ago memory, a long ago nightmare. He lowered the pistol and placed it on the workbench as casually as if it were merely another tool, a wrench or a screwdriver.

  The big man ran his rough palm down his face, trying to scrape away some unbearable pain. “No, no, Robcio, nothing can be done.”

  Robert watched him collapse heavily onto a wooden stool, the weight of an unseen world crushing him.

  “This anniversary of very bad thing that happened. Every night I dream of this thing.”

  “Something back in Poland?” Robert asked quietly.

  “Tak, tak.” Mr. G shuddered. “You don’t need to know this sadness. It eat your soul, make you want to end pain.”

  Robert’s necklace felt hot against his skin again and he found himself taking another step closer. “Mr. G, my nan always said, ‘A burden shared is a burden halved.’ Especially if the trouble is shared with a friend.”

  Mr. Glowinski’s tragic eyes stared into some distant past, and then he nodded in silent agreement. “Four years ago today, Nazis marched into our village in Polska, what you call Poland. They rounded up men for slave labour, then herded all women and children into town square. My Marta and our babies, Jacob, four; and two-year-old Anya, all together. They made men watch as they...” His breath froze in his chest, and then he exhaled. “As they drove over our families with tanks.”

  Robert was struck speechless. Had he heard right? Had this quiet, kind man been forced to watch as his loved ones were brutally murdered in front of him?

  He tried to recreate this horror in his mind, drawing the gruesome images as they would have been in the most violent of his comic books and still he couldn’t comprehend it. It was unthinkable. He couldn’t imagine seeing something so horrible and losing everyone he loved, and then having to live with the memory every day.

  “Mr. G, I...I...” he stuttered. “I don’t know what to say. Your whole family is gone?”

  The broken man nodded, then gulped, trying to loosen his tongue. “I escape from guards, not caring if they shoot me, I have nothing to live for. Somehow, I make it to woods and then border. Farmer took me to refugee camp. I tell them I am electrical engineer and they send me to Canada. I ended up here.”

  He was hoarse when he spoke. “I tell you something, Robcio. When this happen, I would give anything, do anything, to change bad thing. I change reality, even, to save loved ones. My Marta would have liked Canada. It good country.” Here he nodded at Robert. “Good people.”

  Robert had an inspiration. He quickly removed his pendant and held it out to Mr. Glowinski. “I think you should have this. It will make you feel, like...like you’re part of something bigger, the universe, like we’re all connected somehow. Maybe it will bring you closer to your family. Maybe they live among the stars now.”

  He could see Mr. G was about to refuse his gesture of goodwill, then the big man reached out and took the small meteorite.

  The second the amulet left his fingertips, Robert felt bereft. He told himself he was like the Maple Leaf Kid, doing something for the greater good. “It’s special, Mr. G, it has powers.”

  “I know this very important to you, Robcio, maybe most important thing for now. Dziękuję, mój przyjacielu.” He put his calloused hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend. I feel very good when I know you have it. You appreciate it.” He gave the talisman back.

  “Honest, Mr. G, it would make me feel so much better, like I’ve done something to help you.” Robert searched for the words to make him understand. “Remember how you listened to my rant when I was having trouble with Crazy Charlie? Your listening helped me.”

  “Your friend with broken bike?”

  “Yes, and we’re back to being worst enemies again, by the way.”

  The shadow of something, which may have been a weak smile, passed across the weary man’s face. “She hard worker. Maybe you two get along again someday.”

  Robert didn’t bother to argue. Mr. G’s weary voice told Robert the man had no heart left to fight about anything.

  “I tell you what we do, Robcio. When I make your medallion, two pieces broke off. They still sit over there. I couldn’t throw them out. I will make into same you have. I keep one and think about stars. You right. That will make me feel better, to see my Marta and my babies up there. They shine down on me.”

  “Tak, tak, Mr. G,” Robert agreed. He squeezed his own star and wished peace for his friend and, perhaps, a dreamless night’s sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  STORM CLOUDS

  December was passing fast as Robert waited for the new adventures to show up. The Christmas issues were always a little more exciting than the rest; he guessed it was to wind up the year on a high note. It didn’t help that Mr. Kreller said he’d been so busy, he hadn’t put the December comic book order in with his supplier yet and they’d be late. Whatever the reason, Robert could hardly wait.

  His mother had been wild about confiscating his wages lately, telling him he had to save more as she knew he wanted to buy another savings certificate before Christmas, which meant she wanted to buy another savings certificate before Christmas. At the rate she was making him save, he’d be the richest kid in Calgary, if not Canada, by the time the war was over. He stashed away enough to buy his Christmas comics when they came in, but did it in such a way that he didn’t have to actually lie to his mum about his wages.

  The week preceding Christmas, they were busier than ever, good for the pay cheque, but fighting the cold and holiday shopping traffic was exhausting.

  “Telegram!”

  Robert was oblivious to the call. He was busy helping Ice refuel his fighter plane before the Nazis storm troopers arrived. Avgas was extremely flammable and it was always safer with two people.

  “Rob, you’re up,” Charlie whispered.

  Still he didn’t respond.

  “Wonder Weed!” She kicked him under the table. “Move it!”

  Robert jerked his head from the page. “What?” he snarled.

  “Old man Crabtree called you. Delivery – unless you want me to take it?”
Her voice was flint edged.

  “You wish.” He closed his comic and went to the desk.

  “It’s going to Mewata Armouries and fast. This one’s a premium payer.” The cigar in his boss’s mouth danced when he spoke.

  “I need it.” Robert picked up the telegram.

  The delivery took him the rest of his shift, but it was worth it. Although not the two-fifty he’d have received for a Bowness run, the twenty-five cents from the Mewata telegram would add nicely to his tally. It was only Wednesday and he was already way ahead of Crazy Charlie. There was no way she would out earn him this week.

  On the way home, black storm clouds rolled in with frightening speed and the weather took a nasty turn. The needle-like sleet stung Robert’s cheeks and made him wish he had flying goggles like Ice. They’d stop the millions of tiny knives slicing relentlessly at him.

  As he pedalled through the darkness, he felt especially tired and chalked it up to the long trip to Mewata. He plowed on feeling worse every minute, and by the time he made it home, he felt really lousy. He stopped by Mr. Glowinski’s to say hi, still worried things might again get desperate for his brave neighbour.

  “Hey, Mr. G. How’s tricks?” He tried to keep his tone light, which took a real effort now that he knew the tragic background of his friend.

  “I better, thanks be to God and you, Robcio. Good you come. See this.” His neighbour walked to the workbench and held up a pendant on a chain.

  It was a smaller version of Robert’s own, without the ornate metalwork. “I wait to show you. Now, I put on.” With a grand gesture, he fastened the amulet around his neck. “I keep family close to my heart.” He patted his broad chest.

  Robert beamed at his friend. “This is very, very...” He scoured his mind for exactly the right word to fit this auspicious occasion. “This is very dobre. That means good, right?”

  “That mean good, Robcio.”

  His neighbour smiled back and Robert understood it was genuine; this was a smile you could have faith in. A rush of heat from his own talisman let him know the universe had heard his message and, as the meteorite hummed in agreement, he knew Mr. G was going to have much better dreams from now on.

  The happiness buoyed him up as he went into his own house but it didn’t last, and as the evening wore on, he felt sick again. Not about his neighbour, he knew things would work out there. It was all physical. Chills, nausea and a wicked tiredness overcame him.

  “Robert, are you all right?” his ever vigilant mother probed as they ate their late supper.

  “A little tired. I’ll be fine.” He figured a good night’s sleep was all he needed.

  It didn’t turn out that way. Thursday morning, Robert woke with a spiking fever and felt achy all over.

  His mother couldn’t be fooled this time. “No school for you, young man, or work either. You should phone your boss and let him know. I’ll contact the school.”

  OUR HERO VALIENTLY TRIED TO ENGAGE THE ENEMY. SADLY, THERE WAS NO FIGHT LEFT IN HIM AND THEY BOTH KNEW IT. SWOOPING AWAY, THE ENEMY PLANE FLEW OFF ON ITS DEADLY MISSION WHILE HE LIMPED BACK TO THE HANGAR.

  Robert called Mr. Crabtree and explained he was sick and couldn’t come in for his shift.

  “Sorry to hear you’re under the weather. I must say, this is bad timing. We’ve got a slew of military telegrams to deliver and you know those are top priority, no excuses for being late with them. It’s a bad one this time, Robert,” he added confidentially. “There’ll be a lot of grief in Calgary tonight. I’d help, except my dang key never stops chirping and I can’t abandon it.”

  “I hate to let you down, Mr. Crabtree. I’ll get some rest and I’m sure I’ll be better by tomorrow. I’ll be in right after school.” As he hung up, Robert hoped it didn’t sound like a hunk of baloney. He went back to bed, his head aching.

  He slept between visits from his mother, who checked on him constantly and always managed to time it to the exact minute he was dozing off. He was as weak as a newborn babe, but found if he didn’t move around he felt better. Lying in bed also allowed him to concentrate on his comic books and he pulled old issues out of the back of his closet to revisit long ago adventures.

  Rest and his mother’s constant stream of strong tea, eventually did its work and by late afternoon he was on the mend. He didn’t want to miss any more shifts. He also didn’t want Crazy Charlie to get any ideas about taking over all the deliveries and squeezing him out of a job. Retrieving a stack of comics from under his bed, Robert settled in for another reading session.

  Without warning, his mother popped into his room, as cheery as one of Santa’s elves.

  “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Did the medicine help?” she asked, referring to the latest round of tea and dry toast. Bustling over, she placed her “mother hand” on his forehead. “Still 100 degrees. I was going to go to my Knit for Victory Club meeting. Instead, I think I should put you in a tepid bath and try to cool you down.”

  Robert’s hope for a long uninterrupted session with his comics sank like a torpedoed frigate. Then his mother’s reference to her knitting club gave him an idea.

  “Mum, you can’t possibly think of ditching the Knit for Victory Club. Think of all our boys over there waiting for their Christmas parcels and the nice warm socks you’re making.” His mother blinked rapidly as she considered this and Robert grew a tiny bit hopeful.

  “I am so careful to use the Kitchener toe so they’ll be comfy in those dreadful army boots they make our young men wear. I know if I’m not there, Mavis Blanchard won’t take the time to do it right. It’s tricky to knit you know.”

  “Oh, yes, Mum. If you aren’t there to supervise, there’s no telling what blister-busting stitch Mavis would use.” He let this stew a minute, then added, “And blisters can lead to blood poisoning then, eventually, to gangrene. And you know what comes next – the surgeon’s bone saw!”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, Robert. Still, do you think you could wait while I go to my meeting? I won’t be long as your dad will want his supper when he gets home and I promise you’ll have an extra-long bath later.”

  Robert took his chance: “I insist you go, Mother. This is for my brothers, for all our boys, fighting so valiantly against that Hitler!”

  She hurried out of his room as Robert flopped back on his bed and relaxed. Then he propped up his pillows, snagged his copy of The Maple Leaf Kid from under the quilt and settled in for a well-earned quest with his hero.

  A dozen comic books later, Robert decided he needed a fresh supply of reading material and knew exactly where to get it: his secret milk-crate stash in the garage. Throwing back the covers, he grabbed his robe, stuck his feet in his slippers and went in search of more adventures.

  After selecting a half-dozen favourite old epics, he was on his way back to bed when, as he passed through the living room, he happened to glance out the window and see Crazy Charlie turning onto his street.

  She must be checking up on him to see if he really was sick, then, if she found him goldbricking, she could tattle to old man Crabtree.

  Robert watched her lean her old cruiser against the front fence and open the gate. She was a piece of work and brazen, too, coming right to his door. And to think, at one time, he had liked her.

  He decided a pre-emptive strike was best and opened the front door before she could reach the step. “No need to spy on me, Charlie. I really am sick, so you can report that news flash back to Crabtree!”

  He stopped when he saw her face. She had tears in her eyes.

  Then he saw what she was holding.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  DON’T SHOOT THE MESSENGER

  It took Robert a second to realize what he was seeing. Crazy Charlie wasn’t here to check up on him. She was working. She had a delivery. She had a telegram and she was coming up his walk.

  Heat built in his pendant, hotter and hotter. He felt the strange buzzing against his chest that came from the small interstellar rock when something was go
ing to happen, something big.

  What was it Mr. Crabtree had said? “It’s a bad one this time” and “There’ll be a lot of grief in Calgary tonight.”

  When George had been shot down, the air force had sent Squadron Leader Aberdeen to notify them. Since he wasn’t here, it meant the telegram was about James or Patrick.

  Robert shook his head. No. No telegrams for him about any of his brothers. Period. Final. Not going to happen. “You’re not delivering anything here, Charlie.”

  She kept coming.

  “It’s a mistake. Crabtree must have written my address by mistake.”

  Charlie continued toward him.

  He felt a drop of sweat run down his back. “I said it’s not for here! Now, turn around and go tell the boss he screwed up the address!”

  Charlie raised her arm, the telegram blazing in the evening light like a spectral message from beyond. “There’s no mistake. It’s for your family.”

  “I said it’s not for us! Now, take off, Donnelly! Get back on that hunk of junk and leave!” He was yelling and his face felt hot.

  She reluctantly climbed the porch steps. “I’m so sorry, Rob.”

  Robert shook his head. “Maybe one of them has been wounded and is on his way home. Yes, of course, one of my brothers is coming home for Christmas.” He knew he was raving now. He could feel his heart racing wildly, adrenalin pumping.

  Charlie reached out for him, but Robert shoved her back down the steps. “Get away! You’re not my friend! I said one of my brothers will be home for Christmas. That’s what’s in your lousy telegram.” Was this what it was like for all those people he’d delivered to? Had they felt like caged animals with no way out?