by Ted Staunton
Mister Bones pants, AmberLea’s fingers drum the steering wheel, and the lady border guard smiles as if she’s going to buy the whole act. No questions about guns, large men with duct-tape burns, bags of white powder, gas tanks, or anything else we might have stashed around the Cadillac. Then she notices the windshield. “Is that a bullet hole?”
“Gracious no.” Gloria Lorraine’s hands go up to her cheeks, and then she flutters them in front of her. “One of those big trucks just sailed past us and something flew up. I was like to die. ‘Duck’ I yelled. Oh, Miss Fifi didn’t like that one bit, did you, Barkums? Poor Spielberg in the back there nearly jumped out of the car.”
I almost believe her myself, that’s how good she is. The guard, though, looks confused. “Spielberg?” she says.
“Nickname,” I say quickly and hold up my camera bag. She laughs and waves us through.
“Good ad lib,” says Gloria Lorraine over her shoulder. “From now on, you can call me GL. Now get me to a restroom, pronto.”
We stop a few blocks farther on at a Tim Hortons. It’s busy, and AmberLea has to pull around the back to find a parking spot, near another Dumpster. It seems to be our day for Dumpsters. Anyway, it’s a good spot, because we also have to let Al out of the trunk. He’s started thumping again.
“I guess we’d better,” says GL, as she eases out of the car. “Too bad. It’s a hell of a lot simpler with him in there. Amby, honey, grab those Dependables and help me in there.”
“Then can we eat?” AmberLea asks. “I didn’t have any breakfast.”
It’s a good point. Suddenly I realize I’m starving. “Yes, yes,” says GL. “Spotty, you let him out, then join us inside.” She grabs Mister Bones and her cane and off they go.
I sit for a moment as a couple of cars go by, listening to the thumping; then I pop the trunk and Al boots the lid up. I guess he hurts his foot doing it, because then there’s a monologue straight out of Goodfellas. I go around and help him out.
“Where’s the others?” he grunts, brushing himself off.
“Inside, getting something to eat. And GL has to use the restroom. Let’s go in.”
Al doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a fistful of my T-shirt and slams me against the side of the Dumpster so hard my glasses fly off. Al has big hands. They make big fists. Black hairs sprout from each of his fingers. He’s stronger than he looks, maybe from squishing all that pastry dough. Or maybe from squishing other things. All at once I can believe Al’s maybe not just a baker. “Gimme the keys.”
He’s knocked the breath out of me. I gurgle, “AmberLea has them. She was driving.”
“And the old broad has the gun. And Mistah Bones. I can’t book it without Mistah Bones.”
I nod, fast. The Dumpster is grinding into my back. I register that my head hurts. For no good reason I wonder how strong Jer’s hands are. I try to picture him and Al talking pastry dough. It’s better than picturing Al tearing me apart and dropping me in the Dumpster.
Al drops my shirt, spins to the car and opens the glove compartment. He curses again. “Why does—?” He turns back to me. “What is it with you kids? Why does nunna yas ever put anything back?”
“W-wha—?” I’m trying to get my breath as I go after my glasses. They’ve skittered partway under the car.
“There’s suppose ta be a shooter and the spare keys in there. I tell my kids, you use somethin’, you put it back. Spare keys, spare piece, ya don’t just walk off with ’em, for cryin’ out loud. What’s wrong wit’ youse kids today?”
He glares down at me as if it’s my fault. With the red streak and partial mustache, he looks a little crazy. People walk by on the way to their cars. Al smoothes out his face. I pull my glasses out and stand up, smoothing out my T-shirt. My hands are shaking. The back of my head still hurts too. “Why don’t you just steal a car here and take off?” I say, putting my glasses back on. The frames have gotten bent and now they sit crooked.
Al shakes his head. It looks like he’s cooling down. “Not my line. Back inna day, maybe, but now, all the anti-theft computer crap, who can keep up? I can’t even hot-wire my own car. But hey, it’s a good thing, all the scum out there.” He sighs. “Time bein’, I’m stuck wit youse. We’ll get clean shirts and somethin’ to eat.”
It turns out “clean shirts” means new license plates for the Cadillac. Right now it has New York vanity plates that read CANOLI. “How do we do that?” I ask.
Al looks at me, then around the Tim’s parking lot. “You don’t get out much, do ya? What the hell do ya do all day?”
“I watch a lot of movies.”
“Like what, National Geographic specials?”
From the trunk Al grabs a newspaper and something from a little tool kit. “Okay, you’re my straight man. Stand in fronna me.” He crouches at the back of the Cadillac. There’s an angry little whining noise, then another, a scrape, and then Al is standing beside me, the paper flat under his arm. “C’mawn.” I follow him as he strolls to a Matrix parked nearby and bends down as if he has to tie his shoe. Except he’s wearing loafers. I step in front of him, hands in pockets, as more people drive by. Whine, whine, scrape, click, whine, whine. He’s done in seconds.
Al stands up holding his paper, red in the face. Back to the Cadillac. Click, whine, whine. We do it again for a front plate. As he finishes, I have a thought. “Why change the plates if it’s your car?”
“Let’s just say someone’s innarested in me,” says Al, standing up. “Someone I don’t wanna see.”
“Why?” I say, trying a little joke. “You miss a delivery?”
Al’s head jerks around. He hisses, “Whadda you know about it? I’s you, I’d keep my mouth shut. You live longer that way.” At this moment Al does not look like your friendly neighborhood birthday-cake baker. Who just happens to carry a gun and keeps another in his car. And gets bound and gagged and stuffed in his own trunk. On bags of white powder. Al looks more like one of those guys from The Godfather. Mobster is the word I’m looking for. What have I gotten myself into? I’m rethinking calling Jer, when Al’s shoulders slump and his face turns back into a marshmallow.
“C’mawn kid, let’s eat while we can.”
Inside, there’s a lineup. We hit the washroom first. As we whiz, Al says, “So, no offense, but your nonna— your grandma—she got a screw loose or what?”
“She isn’t my grandma,” I say. “She’s AmberLea’s grandma. I never met them before today. Her name is Gloria Lorraine and she lives in that retirement home and I just came down to get a kiss from her and film it.” Compared to the rest of the day, it sounds almost normal now.
“And film it? What are you, some kinda—?”
“No!” I say. “It’s complicated. It’s like a last request from my grandpa. She used to be a movie star, his favorite.”
“No way!”
“Really.” I tell Al some of her movie titles as he zips up.
“So you’re honoring your grandpa’s dying wish, huh? Straight up?”
I nod.
“Awright, that’s A-1. Family, loyalty; that’s what it’s all about.” He nods sharply, then flushes with his elbow. I stand a little straighter as I zip and flush.
When I join Al in the lineup, there’s a commotion across the room. I can hear Mister Bones yipping like crazy as GL holds him. He’s all wiggles and ears and big eyes, snapping at a guy in a Tim’s outfit who’s pointing at the No Pets notice in the window. AmberLea, chinless, is standing to one side, holding a loaded cardboard takeout tray and staring at a spot on the floor where she’s probably wishing a hole would appear that she could disappear into.
TWELVE
“Not a bad cruller,” says the King of Cannoli, “but I don’t like the coffee.”
We’re almost back at the car. GL and AmberLea are sitting in the front; Mister Bones is in the back, curled up on what I guess is a Dependable.
“Why are you dragging me along?” AmberLea is saying. “I am so screwed.”
“Because I need your help,” GL says. “I have to do something important while there’s still time.”
“Like what, get to a liquor store?”
GL shakes her head. “You’re just like me at your age. Won’t listen to anyone. And when you won’t listen, you do a lot of things you’ll regret. Take it from me, you’re just getting started. I’ve had three children and I’ve been a terrible parent. Your aunt hasn’t talked to me in years, your mother runs on Valium, and neither one of them would know happy if it slapped them in the face. I didn’t help them; there was no one to help me—well, almost no one—but I can help you. And since you won’t listen, I have to show you something.”
“I thought I was helping you.”
“We’re helping each other.”
“Yeah, right. Great example, Gran. Tell that to my—”
“You’ll be back before he even knows you’re gone.”
“Oh, he’ll know all right.”
“If there’s a problem, I’ll deal with it. First, you need to see this. No one knows about this; not your mother, not anyone. You used to like secrets.”
“I’m not seven anymore.”
“I wish you were. Hush up and eat; we’ve got a long drive ahead. And it’s not as if I’m kidnapping anyone. You came willingly.”
“How about me?” says Al, as we come up behind her. He polishes off the cruller, tosses the coffee at a garbage can, reaches into the car and casually grabs GL’s scarf at the back of her neck. “Let’s cut the crap,” he says, still chewing. “Gun, keys, now.” With his other hand, he snatches GL’s bag from her lap.
I freeze in mid-bite of my bagel and cream cheese.
“Don’t be stupid,” GL croaks. “Let go of me or AmberLea starts screaming.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds to me as if she’d rather call a cab home.”
There’s a long moment where we’re all frozen. People stroll past with coffees. Then AmberLea quavers, “Yeah, let her go or”—she snatches the keys out of the ignition, where we now see they’ve been all along—“or these are gone.”
“Not with Mistah Bones they’re not,” grunts Al. He’s pawing the bag, one-handed, wedging it against the side of the car. “Where’s the gun?” he hisses.
“Not there,” GL gurgles.
AmberLea holds the keys high. Mister Bones jumps up, tail wagging, ready to play. She ignores him. Now she’s all chin. “Let her go.”
“Here!” I say around a mouthful of bagel and cream cheese. I skip away from Al, behind the trunk. AmberLea tosses me the keys. Al makes a pathetic jump, swats and misses as the bag falls to the pavement. Mister Bones loves it; he starts jumping too, and yapping like crazy. GL gurgles again. Miraculously, I catch the keys without dropping my bagel. “Pop the trunk,” I call to AmberLea. “Show the world what’s in there while Al does another Dumpster dive.”
Al turns to me, his hand still twisting GL’s scarf and gives me a look right out of Scarface. “I’ll kill her right h—” Suddenly, his face explodes in a grin and he lets go, waving both hands at me. “Awright, awright.” He laughs. “You can drive. Family joke!” he says over my shoulder. I look around. Half a dozen people are watching, all holding takeout. I grin at them, too, and pump my fist in the air like an idiot, waving the keys. They all smile or nod in a puzzled kind of way and move on.
Al’s good mood disappears. Behind him, GL slumps against the seat, panting. She gasps, “I thought we already dealt with this. Baker, shmaker, you’re on the lam. I’ve been around enough mobsters to know what you are. Right now we’re the best cover you can get…And you owe us for getting you and those bags across the border. So choose right now: team up or split up, but no more of this. What’s it going to be?”
“Awright.” The King of Cannoli—or whatever he really is—sags again. “Let’s go.”
“Spaceman drives,” says GL. “You and AmberLea in the back.”
“I should have brought sunscreen,” says AmberLea.
“There’s some in my bag. And Al, hat and wig on. You’re already pink up top.”
Al touches the top of his head. “Aw, geez.”
I get behind the wheel and start up the car and the GPS, still chewing the last of the bagel.
“Torrance, Ontario,” says GL, “Ten fifty Keeler Road. If we can get that far today, we’re fine.”
As we get back on the highway, AmberLea says from the back, “Gramma, did you say you had three kids?”
GL doesn’t say anything.
THIRTEEN
Torrance sounds familiar to me. The GPS gets us on the QEW highway and we head toward Toronto. Al slouches in the back, chin on chest. Mister Bones snoozes on his Dependable. AmberLea puts in earbuds and slathers on more sunscreen. In the mirror I watch the wind whip her hair. GL hasn’t said a word since Tim Hortons. For a while she watches the landscape. There’s not much to see; it’s glarey and flat. I wish I had clip-ons for my bent glasses.
After a while I can’t tell if she’s still watching or if she’s snoozing. Then, as we rumble off the Burlington Skyway, she reaches in her jacket pocket and says, without looking at me, “Tell me about your grandfather.”
Oh, man. What am I supposed to say? I know it sounds bad, but I haven’t thought much about Grandpa since he died, except for this assignment stuff. What pops into my head now is a time when I was maybe seven or eight. Grandpa was sitting on the couch between me and Bunny and we were watching Bugs Bunny, and Deb came in and said, “You know how Jer and I feel about the violence in those, Dad,” and Grandpa said, “They didn’t do you any harm. C’mon, we’re having fun here.” Bun yelled, “Fun!” and Grandpa snuggled us closer.
That’s not going to cut it, so I say, “Well, uh, he was pretty big. Tall, I mean, not like me. He ran a business and he traveled a lot for work, but we always saw him on our birthdays and holidays at the cottage. And he’d come to Bunny’s soccer games.” And our middle school graduations and school plays, and he babysat us when we were younger. I bet that’s where the Bugs Bunny thing comes from. I’d forgotten a lot of that stuff.
“Who’s Bunny?” GL asks.
“My brother. He’s two years younger than me. His real name is Bernard. We just call him Bunny, to not mix him with our other grandpa, Bernie.” The wind flattens out our voices and whips them away.
“Uh-huh. But your grandpa—David, is that right?—where did he live?”
“Toronto, but like I said, he traveled a lot. He owned his own airplane because he loved to fly. He was a pilot in the war. He’d fly to see my cousin in Buffalo or up to the lake or, well, all over.”
“Ahhh,” says GL. “Good. I’m glad. Did he take you flying?”
“A couple of times. Bunny loved it, but I didn’t. First time, he did this loop thing. Bunny laughed like crazy. I barfed.” I don’t have to tell her how scared I was and how I started crying. I shouldn’t even have said this much.
“What did he say about that?” GL shifts in her seat to look at me.
“Oh, he said he’d seen guys do worse in planes during the war and that one time he’d been so scared he peed himself.”
“Well, there you go.”
I shrug. “Yeah, but I knew he was mad. I mean, none of my cousins barfed. At least I don’t think they did. And Grandpa had war medals and all, so how scared could he have been?”
“Hmph,” GL says. “Plenty, would be my guess. Anyway, I don’t think he was the one that was mad at you.”
I’m not even going to ask what that means.
GL asks, “How many cousins are there?”
“Six,” I say. “No, wait, the lawyer said there’s one cousin none of us has ever met, but there are six of us who know each other.”
GL frowns. “Lawyer?” she says.
“When Grandpa died.” I tell her about the will and how we all got our sealed envelopes.
“And you got me,” says GL.
“Well, he left me another envelope too. In case you were dead or, like, a vegetable or something.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t supposed to look in the other envelope unless I had to. It’s in my camera bag. I was going to read it if you were—”
“I get the picture.” She punches the lighter button. “Let’s cut to the chase. What did your grandfather say about me?”
I shrug again. “Just that you were his all-time favorite movie star and that you were still alive even though you’re older than he was.”
“Never talk about a woman’s age.” She lights up the cigarette. “And that’s all he said?” She sounds a little disappointed.
“Well, Mom said that she and her sisters all had to watch your TV shows when they were growing up, and he’d always watch when your movies were on TV. And that he went to see Drive-In Savages even though everyone told him not to.”
“Very sweet. Not even I saw that stinker. What can I say? I needed the money.”
I glance over. Sure enough, GL isn’t smoking the cigarette, she’s posing with it. Like an old-time movie star. She looks straight ahead and says, “What does your grandmother think of all this?”
“My grandma died when my mom and her sisters were little.”
“Well, why didn’t—oh, never mind.” She waves her cigarette, brushing away whatever she’s thinking. “Your mother. What does she do?”
“She teaches philosophy. At York University.”
“Very impressive. What about Rip Van Winkle back there?”
“My dad? Um, he writes a column called ‘Front Porch Farmer,’ for the Parkdale Advertiser. It’s about—”
“I can guess. What else does he do?”
“Well, he’s writing a novel. And refinishing the stairs. And he does a lot of baking.”
“Of course. And his father’s Grandpa Bernie. Let me guess, Grandpa Bernie was an orgasmic farmer or whatever they’re called.”
“No, he’s a potter on this place called Saltspring Island. It’s out west. He had a mime troupe in San Francisco. He was really good. You should see his ladder climbing; he—”
