He said, “Cool, thanks,” and grabbed one of the tips. It was still warm. Angel seemed far more at ease now. She smiled.
He smiled back and immediately focused on scratching at the paper. When the band was off, he raised the tip toward Angel in a mock toast. She reciprocated and more silence followed while they both glanced at everything but each other.
He wanted to reach over and touch her hair. But he didn’t. He was just about to ask something about the house when a car drove down the alley and stopped. A car door thumped and his garage door opened.
“Sounds like your parents are home,” Angel said.
“Uh, they don’t know where I am and I didn’t leave a note. Mom’s gonna freak.”
Angel said, “You should probably go.”
He wondered if a paratrooper landing in enemy territory felt like he did at that moment. “Angel,” he said, her name sighing from his lips.
“It’s okay.” She slid off the table and, with long strides for such a short girl, hurried toward the back fence. He followed at a jog, but when she opened the gate he hesitated. He heard his garage door shut and the muffled voices of his parents heading for the house.
Angel leaned her head on the edge of the gate and said, “Maybe see you again.”
“That’d be cool,” he replied and stepped into the alley. He turned to face her. “But, I’m not just sure how or when.”
How could he even begin a conversation with his mom about this meeting, given her attitude toward this family of Catholic witches?
Angel said, “Mom and Michelle are making me a cake for my birthday on Saturday. Before we go to my grandma’s. Come over at two o’clock. I’ll unlatch the gate for you. Just give it a push.”
He wanted to hug Angel. Maybe even kiss her, if she’d let him. But he didn’t dare try. He extended his arm to shake hands.
She didn’t hesitate.
He savoured the cool, soft feel of her hand in his.
Angel slid her index and middle fingers onto his wrist momentarily and abruptly released her grip. Quietly she said, “Bye.”
He listened to her bare feet padding on the stones; her back door closed seconds later. That paratrooper was now a POW and the compound gate had just slammed in his face. He stared at that awful gate until he heard his mom call his name from their backyard. He turned immediately and sprinted down the alley and across to the floodplain and then doubled back.
His mom was at their gate when he jogged up. “Where have you been?”
“At the creek. I got bored. Sorry I forgot to leave a note.”
“That’s fine,” she replied with a scowl. “It’s like yelling at a deaf-mute from behind when I ask you to do simple things. You didn’t lock the door either. If you were by the creek, make sure you check for ticks.”
“I wasn’t in the grass.”
“Doesn’t matter. Ticks are everywhere.”
“Mom, it’s late July. Most of the ticks are dead.”
“Most,” she echoed. “Some linger until late August.”
“Well, I am kind of sweaty so I’m gonna go in for a bath. I’ll check then.”
“Throw your clothes out the bathroom door. I’ll check them for you.”
Blake struggled to distract himself from obsessing over Angel.
After his bath, he hunkered down in his basement room and tried to lose himself in his Ballantine’s Illustrated History of World War II collection but kept thinking about Angel’s hair, her fingers brushing his wrist, and it wasn’t until 6:00 AM that he finally drifted off, after hearing his dad get up for work. He remained in a merciful, dreamless oblivion until past noon, and waited until his mom was engrossed in her afternoon soap operas before creeping upstairs to use the bathroom and sneak some bread and cold meat from the refrigerator.
Back in his room, he broke out his old World War II Airfix 1/32-scale model soldiers and combat effects charts. He had developed his own charts with Darryl over the last couple of years. They were handwritten on sheets of loose-leaf paper, and individual soldier and squad positions, enemy target acquisition and combat resolution were determined by rolling a die. They’d played lengthy and elaborate combat scenarios, that is, until the big fight.
He managed to lose himself in battles, some of which were based on combat descriptions from Ballantine’s, until he was called upstairs for supper. He smelled fish cooking but he definitely was not hungry.
Stomach churning, he trudged up the stairs, certain that his mother would break him the moment she saw him. In a matter of minutes she would extract intelligence about Angel’s party and absolutely forbid him to go. He dragged himself up the last two steps to the kitchen like a wounded and starved POW on a forced march, and launched a pre-emptive, direct assault. He said, “I thought only Catholics had to eat fish on Fridays.”
She harrumphed and banged her spatula on the frying pan. Whirling on him, she said, “They have to eat fish Fridays. We eat fish because we choose to.”
Blake snorted. “I don’t know how the United States can stay together with Catholics running one half of the country and you Lutherans running the other half. It’s no wonder they had a civil war and your family moved to Canada.”
Dad dropped his fork midway between his plate and open mouth. He said, “That makes absolutely no sense.”
His mom said, “I’m Baptist and you know it, Blake. I moved here with your gran and gramps so he could work his ministry. And, and,” she waved her spatula, “we moved here long, long before the Vietnam draft, which Daddy did not evade!”
“I never, ever said Grandpa evaded. But I wouldn’t blame him for doing it. You Americans shouldn’t even be in Vietnam, supporting petty dictators and multinational corporations enslaving the natives.”
“Hey, now.” His dad tapped his fork on the table. “What kind of talk is that? Your mom has her Canadian citizenship. What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with him?” his mom said. “The boy’s turned Commie is what’s the matter. That’s Commie talk if I ever heard it, Dwight.”
She turned on him. “Where do you learn such garbage?”
“It’s on the news every night!”
Dad tried another unsuccessful intervention. “Don’t talk to your mother with that tone.”
Mom’s spatula targeted her supposed ally. “And you. You, Dwight. Encouraging that boy. Indulging him with the crap on TV. Discussing it with him. Those phony pictures from the front.”
“Front? What front?” said Blake. “The Americans are so unwelcome they have enemies everywhere. Even behind their own lines.”
Dad thumped his palm on the table. “Take it easy. Both of you.”
Mom crossed her arms, spatula tight against her shoulder. “Oh, sure. Take his side again.”
“I’m not taking sides, Hannah. This one has gotten out of hand in record time.”
Blake knew his attack had been without provocation and was an absolutely wrong and immoral tactic. He felt he’d jumped up, gun blazing, when his movements should have been stealthy, cautious. But he’d had to protect himself from his mother’s attention; her instincts were too sharp. She could read him like a Ballantine’s and would stop him from seeing Angel tomorrow if he gave her half a chance.
She said, “The American government knows exactly what it’s doing. That is the end of this conversation.”
“The end of it. Just like that?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like a typical American puppet-dictator.”
“You take that back.”
“Make me.”
“That’s enough!” Dad yelled, surprising them. “Blake! Basement. Until you shit out whatever’s crawled up your ass.”
Dwight rarely swore. He rarely yelled. Blake knew he’d pushed too far and immediately trundled down the stairs without another word. He heard Mom say, “I’ll skin that boy alive, Lord help me.”
Dad said, “You shouldn’t always provoke him.”
“Provoke him!? Where were you just a second ag
o? He started it the second he was upstairs!”
So. Tactically, a victory. He’d escaped Mom’s reconnaissance for a few more hours. Strategically, a total failure. He still had no plan for Saturday and the party.
He went back to his Ballantine’s in vague hope of inspiration and again fell asleep reading.
He opened his eyes to the dusky light.
Angel’s hair and her fingers on his wrist immediately flooded his mind. It was Saturday, midmorning. He still didn’t have a plan.
How was he going to manoeuvre his way next door for her birthday? In just a few short hours, no less. He didn’t want to lie. That yard was out of bounds for him. He resigned himself to the fact that he would once again have to conduct a direct attack on his mother. If she knew the truth, she would forbid him to attend the party. He had no intention of remaining a POW. He would disobey direct orders — torpedoes be damned. There was no alternative. Then he heard the back door shut. Silence upstairs.
Could he be that lucky?
He checked his alarm clock. 11:45. Squirming into his jeans and T-shirt, he ran barefoot upstairs.
Dad was alone in the kitchen, counting the money in his wallet. He shoved the wallet in his back pocket and said, “Well, well. If it isn’t the afternoon shift.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“Opening the garage door.”
“Are you guys going out?”
“Yup. Going downtown to Simpson’s to get that new Black and Decker lawnmower on sale. Then we need groceries. For some reason, your mom doesn’t want to have anything to do with you today. I can’t begin to figure out why.”
Blake was dumbfounded. In such moments, he almost believed his grandfather’s and mother’s stories about an all-powerful being guiding human destiny. He just as quickly rejected the idea in the belief that no superior being would plausibly manipulate things on behalf of a non-believing freak of nature such as himself.
Regardless, he wanted to shout, jump up and down, but he restrained himself.
His dad scrutinized him before saying, “I was your age once, remember? I know how complicated things get. I don’t know exactly what those things are right about now, but I get it. And I’ll help you through it.”
Blake said, “Thanks for covering my rear flank, Dad.”
Dwight sauntered down the back steps and waved over his shoulder and stepped outside.
Ecstatic, Blake took another bath and put on clean clothes. It was only 12:15. What to do for the next couple hours? Can’t just sit around and wait for this birthday party. Birthday party? He slapped his forehead.
He grabbed his house key, bolted out the back door and speed-walked to the corner confectionery. He had no idea what to get a girl. Wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles, he felt lost in a foggy no-man’s land between fronts until he spied packages of gummy worms on an endcap.
Gummy worms? Is that appropriate? She’d get the reference. He did a tour of the store again, stopping at a bin of small stuffed animals and other cheap toys. Typical and lame. But gummy worms?
He rummaged through the bin and found a panda bear, posed in a sitting position. The little stuffed bear fit in his palm and was pear-shaped, its tummy sticking out. Its button-eyes were dark brown and it looked like the panda was wearing sunglasses because of a black patch across the bridge of its nose.
It was the best he could do. Mom always said it’s the thought that counts.
Back at home, he scoffed a couple of green bows from the Christmas wrap stored in the basement. His plan was to get to Angel’s party and back before his parents came home. But then what? Would he have to continually plan these sneaky missions until he left home? There had to be other options. But he couldn’t think of a single one. Fretting more and more, with still an hour to go, he needed to distract himself.
He absently fiddled with his Airfix soldiers still strewn around his room. Bored and anxious, he studied individual faces on the moulded figures. There was a surprising amount of detail, including wrinkles in the plastic to represent facial hair.
But the expressions were all the same. The eyes all blank.
Those blank eyes reminded him of the war-weary soldiers in his Ballantine’s. Or casualties from Vietnam on the evening news. Haggard faces in wide-eyed shock. He turned a figure over and over in his hand. He could not imagine being in combat. What an awful thing.
Then he remembered the red flashing over the helpless turtle. And what he almost did. Could he execute an act of real violence? If he let that flash overpower him? He suddenly had to urinate.
He peed, then scooped up all of his Airfix figures and tossed their storage box back in the closet. He studied his effects charts a moment. He tore them up and threw them in the kitchen garbage. Slouching against the wall on the back landing steps, he let thoughts of Angel wash over him.
Two O’clock.
He grabbed his gifts, bolted out the back door, and almost forgot to lock up. He sprinted to Angel’s gate and pushed. The gate was unlatched, just as she had said it would be. He stepped through the threshold and closed the gate behind him. In the coolness of the backyard, he stopped to let the soothing rustling of the leaves slow his pounding heart.
The backyard was vacant. He headed to the door and stepped onto the patio. The door was open and he waited outside the screen door, hiding the gifts behind his back.
As if she sensed him, Angel came outside.
She smiled and he smiled back.
“Come,” she said and sat cross-legged on the tabletop once again. “What’s behind your back?”
“Pick a hand.”
“Left.”
It was the gummy worms. Damn. He offered both hands. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to.” She examined the little bear a moment and said, “Kinda looks like Mom.” He liked the way her lips curved when she smiled, the way her nose wrinkled ever so slightly. He said, “Pretty lame presents, huh?”
She ripped open the gummy worms, stuffed one in her mouth, and offered him the package. “How did you guess I liked these?”
He shook his head no and replied, “Just lucky. I guess.”
“Come. Sit down.”
Blake sat on the bench, facing the back door.
Angel said, “I’m glad you came.”
“I didn’t think I’d be able to.” He could easily reach the mere few inches and put his hand on her knee. He didn’t. Not without permission.
Angel touched the bear’s head. “I’d have understood if you couldn’t come.”
“Would you be mad?”
“Disappointed. But sometimes there are things you can’t do anything about.” Her tone was gentle. She said, “I suppose your folks don’t like us much?”
He was unable to read her. He said, “The only thing I know is they don’t talk to you. They want me to do the same.”
Angel’s brow furrowed.
“Mom says you’re Catholic witches.”
Angel just laughed her rasping laugh. “We’re definitely not Catholic. Do we look like witches? Because we’re not. We’re Wiccan. Just because mom and I dress in black doesn’t mean we eat toads.”
“What’s Wiccan?”
She briefly described the religion and finished by saying, “Mostly we care for Mother Earth and use herbal remedies.”
Just then Gloria and Michelle barged through the back door, yelling “Happy birthday.”
“Welcome,” Gloria said. “We weren’t sure if you would be here.”
“I really wanted to come.”
Gloria carried a small chocolate cake with no icing. She wore an oversized black Joan Baez T-shirt. Michelle followed with plates and utensils. She wore another loud flowing skirt and blouse ensemble. Maybe the same outfit as before, but he wasn’t sure. The only clear difference was that she wasn’t wearing a bandana. Her straight hair cascaded over her shoulders.
Michelle and Gloria sat down together. Angel slid off of the table and sat right beside him, touching he
r leg against his. He looked at her hair, listened to the leaves rustle.
“It’s awfully nice of you to invite a stranger,” he said. “Thank you.”
Gloria said, “You’re not a stranger. You’re our neighbour.”
He just breathed. Closed his eyes a second, concentrating on the sound of the leaves.
Gloria touched the panda. “Very kind of you, Blake, but just for future reference, we don’t believe in giving presents.”
Her tone was gentle and not accusatory. He did not feel reprimanded. But why was no one else at the party? How did Angel feel about that? How would she have felt if even he hadn’t shown up?
Michelle cut the cake into four equal parts and put a slice on each plate. “Happy Birthday, Angel.” Then she said, in that soft voice of hers, “So, Blake. What’s the deal?”
“Deal?” Blake replied, confused.
“Angel said you climbed a ladder to look in our yard. What for?”
He glanced at Gloria but couldn’t tell what she might be thinking with her eyes camouflaged behind sunglasses. He turned desperately to Angel, but she had her head down.
“Well, uh, Mom said I shouldn’t dare bother with you. So I wanted to find out why she would say something like that.”
“And?”
“And, what? Everything’s cool. I don’t know what her problem is.”
Michelle shrugged. Gloria, very much to his relief, shifted the conversation to the upcoming school year. Angel was going into grade ten at Luther High School, a few blocks away.
Blake said he was going into grade nine at Sheldon Williams Collegiate. Then he and Angel agreed that they were looking forward to meeting new people and making new friends.
“We’re from completely different galaxies, you know, Blake,” said Michelle. “I hope you appreciate the differences between your family and ours — as well as our commonalties.”
A back gate slammed in his mind’s eye. He didn’t like this POW feeling at all. He set his fork down beside his half-eaten cake and said carefully, “Well, everybody’s different, aren’t they? So we should all live and let live, shouldn’t we?”
Gloria nodded. “You know that Angel’s father doesn’t live with us, right? He and I are divorced and he’s gone for good. The three of us here are a family and we’re quite different from yours.”
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