“They’ll be a lot of work, Ben. I’m not sure I could cope. Why do you always have to be the one? Why us?”
“I know it would be hard, but I’d help you, Maggie. And so would Agnes. All the family would help.”
“Agnes lives a long way out, Ben. How much help would she be?”
“We could send them over to her when you needed a break.” I could relate to what she was feeling, what she was thinking and saying. I knew she was worried about taking on such a huge responsibility. A part of me was scared silly at the prospect, too.
“Have you even talked to Agnes yet?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you first. I know she’ll help out though. That’s Agnes. I’ll go over there soon and see what she thinks.”
“Have you even met these boys yet, Ben? How do you know you’ll even like them? That they’re good kids? We could be taking on real trouble. We don’t even know what kind of upbringing they’ve had.” She was right, I knew. It was true, we didn’t know. Still, I was adamant, I wasn’t about to give up.
“Well, okay then. We’ll go and meet them. If you like them, if they like us, will you consider it, Mag?”
“Maybe the boys won’t like me. Maybe they won’t like you.” I knew that Margaret was going along only because she wanted me to have what I wanted. And selfishly, I was willing to accept that.
When Mag finally met the two little boys, she couldn’t reject them, took them right to her heart. I had already decided of course. One way or another, they would become my sons and I would love them, regardless. I was determined to teach them their Indian heritage.
So they came to live with us. They attended school in Leffler, which they found difficult at first. They seemed to enjoy church and Cal eventually became a member of the choir. He loved singing. They were both devoted to Lisa, and spent hours with her, two perfect big brothers. They spoiled her and called her their little fairy princess.
For my part, I took them camping and fishing and taught them how to track game and how to hunt and how to shoot. Traditional Indian survival techniques and lore. I spent almost all of my spare time with them. They joined little league baseball and Carmine became an excellent pitcher. Sonny, being younger, was on a different team and although he wasn’t a real athlete, he enjoyed the game too. I became a baseball coach so that I could be with them. I still coach to this day. They also joined the town’s junior soccer teams and were well liked.
I must admit though, life with them was not always without trouble. Both boys bore deep physical and emotional scars. At the beginning, Carmine, who we nicknamed Cal, was often moody and obstinate, particularly when asked to do chores. He was frequently belligerent with both me and Margaret. It was his occasional bouts of real meanness to his younger brother that really concerned us. We were never able to figure out why he had these spells, but as he became more confident and secure, these moods happened less, then eventually stopped altogether. Both of them always expected physical punishment for infractions and were surprised when it didn’t come. We never ever hit them, although I must confess I felt like it sometimes. Cal in particular, he was more maddening. Punishments most often took the form of privileges lost, being grounded, that sort of thing. We believed in reasoning with them and that seemed to work, eventually.
Sandro, whom we took to calling Sonny, often had terrible dreams. He would wake up screaming during the night, sometimes awakening the whole household, and was difficult to calm down. Margaret would hold him close and speak to him in a quiet, calm voice, until he was able to go back to sleep. It often took hours. He was especially upset when told his mother had died, much more so than his brother.
Eventually, though, they settled down and things became easier for Margaret. Cal, approaching thirteen, was less stubborn, more cooperative and doing well in school. Sonny was suffering fewer nightmares and was also getting good grades.
After they’d been with us about three years, Mag and I began to discuss adoption. We approached the boys, who seemed agreeable to the idea, so we finally decided we’d go ahead. We made a big thing of it. Our adoption of Cal and Sonny became a community celebration. Father Dwyer even held a special service at the church to welcome the boys into our family. We threw a huge party with all our family and friends attending. The boys fit right in and seemed to enjoy being a part of the larger extended family unit.
Things were going really well - at least we thought so.
Then Margaret got pregnant with the twins. Both boys and Lisa, who was by that time eight, seemed excited about the new babies coming along. But soon after they were born, Carmine began to revert to his old ways, acting belligerent and crude, using bad language and being verbally abusive to all of us, even Lisa. Sonny sometimes copied his older brother. They started to have problems at school. Cal was hanging out with undesirable boys and we began getting calls from the high school about his unacceptable behavior. Sonny was often mean to Lisa, too, which hurt her a lot. Neither of them were ever physically violent towards her, but we were worried and kept a close eye on her when either one of them was around.
We tried talking to them, tried to find out what their problems were. They were mostly unresponsive, didn’t want to talk about anything. We asked for counseling at the school and got it; asked Father Dwyer to intervene. We even had some of the Elders from our tribe come over to talk with them. Things would get better for a while but then get worse again.
One night Cal came home drunk. We got nowhere when we demanded an explanation. He shut us out, told us to stay out of his life. Margaret, almost overwhelmed with the twins, (who’d been born prematurely, were small and needing a lot of attention), was often beside herself with worry about the boys, who she loved like they were her own.
Finally, one night, Cal didn’t come home for supper. This was no longer unusual, but when he hadn’t arrived home by eleven, both of us were very concerned. When we questioned Sonny, he was uncooperative. He said he didn’t blame Cal for leaving. He told us we weren’t their real family anyhow and neither he, nor Cal, wanted to be here anymore. They’d often told us this when they first came to us, but hadn’t said it in years. We had believed they felt at home and were happy with us.
I admit I was hurt by this response, more than I’d ever been by anything before. I felt I’d done my best for them and couldn’t understand why they were turning on us. And I was angry. For sure, I was angry. Hurt and angry that they were ungrateful for what we’d done for them. Angry that I’d provided a good home for them, spent hours with them teaching them about being an Indian. And look at the thanks I got. I felt rejected and very disappointed.
We called the police to report Carmine missing. They promised they’d file a missing report but said Indian kids were always running away and he’d probably come home soon enough. I was disgusted with their attitude. Cal didn’t come home. We searched, drove the streets for days and nights, put up posters in and outside of town, had friends in Seattle keep their eyes open for him, but he never came home. We never saw him again.
Sonny was terribly upset for a long time after Cal left. He moped about the house, wouldn’t do his homework. His grades dropped even lower. No longer interested in sports, he refused to go to baseball or soccer practice. He had really awful bouts of crying.
About a year after Cal left, Sonny disappeared, just walked out of the house one night after supper and never returned. Just like Carmine. Again we searched, but he was gone.
We are devastated, heartbroken really, by the loss of these two boys. We did our best by them, they’d become part of our family and we love them. Mag keeps telling me we have our other children and life goes on, but we’ll never get over Cal and Sonny leaving us. Never.
I’ve never once revealed to anyone that Carmine and Allesandro are my real sons. Only Father Dwyer knows the truth. The boys themselves know, but I asked them when they first came to live with us not to tell anyone, and as far as I know they never have. I explained to them that we didn’t want to upset Ma
rgaret, their new mother, and they promised they never would. As far as I know, they never have. Perhaps it was all a mistake. Perhaps if I had acknowledged them as my real sons, things would have turned out differently.
The second document was a carbon copy, printed on a piece of lined 3-ring binder paper, torn in half.
Oh Lord. Sonny’s been starting fires. First just little ones – a pile of newspapers in the backyard, stuff like that.
But lately they’ve been getting larger and larger and more often. Recently he burnt our garden shed to the ground. Is it rebellion? He’s fifteen now and I don’t know what to do.
Recently, there was a large fire in our neighbourhood, only a few blocks away from where we live, involving a row of stores. Fortunately no one was hurt but there was a serious loss of property. I was involved in fighting this multi-alarm fire and even while I was working to put it out, I wondered about Sonny, where he’d been before. I knew that arsonists sometimes like to visit the scene of a fire they started, gained excitement and satisfaction in watching the fuss they caused. I scanned the crowd of spectators looking for Sonny but didn’t see him.
When I asked him later about the fire he seemed surprised and told us he had been visiting a friend when the fire occurred and didn’t even know there’d been one. I had to accept his explanation, but still, I am suspicious.
“This is just awful!” Marybeth said, pulling a tissue out of her pocket and wiping her eyes. “Those poor people.”
“Are you crying?” Tom’s asked, both slightly concerned as well as embarrassed.
“Well it’s sad, Tom. Really, really sad. Tell me you're not upset?”
“Well, yeah, I guess,” he admitted, then suggested, “Perhaps he wrote it as a sort of catharsis?”
“The one about the boys, yes. But this one about the fires? Why would he accuse his own son? It makes no sense.” Marybeth persisted. “A father wouldn’t do that, would he?”
“And why would it be a carbon copy? A rough draft, maybe?”
“We may never know,” Marybeth replied.
Later, when they asked Lisa if she remembered the fire, she told them she didn’t; she’d been too young when it happened. Since it had been such an unhappy time for the family, they’d all tried to focus on the two new babies, had tried not to talk about Cal and Sonny leaving. “Of course, I know they’re my half-brothers now. I read that confession, if that’s what it was. I was upset. I called Father Dwyer about it and he confirmed it’s true.
“You know, my Dad was often depressed. He was extremely upset on my wedding day when Kennedy was assassinated. Everyone thought that was weird. He became very despondent again after his heart attack. He blamed himself for the baby’s death. Nothing Mom said to him seemed to help. She kept assuring him he’d done his best rescuing the young mother and her child – had almost lost his own life trying. She was so supportive. But Dad was like that. Nothing but complete success was good enough, I guess. I never envied my mother having to deal with him. It couldn’t have been much fun for her.
“Now I think he must’ve been feeling guilty about not telling Mom about Cal and Sonny. He was torn.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Lisa. He never mentioned to you who he thought might have started that apartment fire, did he?” Tom asked.
“You know, it’s really strange. I don’t remember anything at all about Sonny setting any fires. And I’m sure I would have known if he had. The shed in the backyard? It’s still there today. It never burnt down. I don’t know why Dad wrote that. The apartment fire? Rarely discussed – only the odd time when Mom was trying to jolly him out of being so down on himself because of the baby’s death. So that note, or whatever it is, came as a big shock to me. Why did he blame Sonny for the mall fire? Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t believe he started any fires.”
“It’s something we need to look into, anyway. You have no idea where your brothers might have gone, do you? Maybe your Aunt Agnes might have heard from them?”
“She’s never mentioned them to me. We don’t see her all that often anymore, to tell the truth. She’s getting older now and her memory isn’t as good as it was, you know?”
“How is your Aunt Nancy?”
“Nan passed away last year. She was really old, over 90, as you may recall from when the kids were found over there. A real character, wasn’t she? We miss her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. She was a funny lady. Remember that day she told the kids she didn’t eat children any more because they gave her indigestion?”
“Yeah. But after she got deaf, it got hard to communicate with her.”
“What about Nick? How is he?”
“Oh, he’s good. Both he and Agnes are fine really, just getting up there in years.”
“Lisa, would you mind if we had a look through the rest of these things?” Marybeth asked, pointing to the box. “Could we take it with us?”
“Sure. I’d like to get it back, though.”
“No problem. We’ll give you a receipt for it.”
“Thanks,” Lisa said, as Tom handed her the receipt. “I’m not sure what we’ll do with all that stuff, but you never know. Maybe the boys’ll come back some day and we can give it to them.”
“It just occurred to me, Lisa, do you know if Father Dwyer is still at the Episcopal Church?” Marybeth asked.
“Oh, yes. He is. Do you think maybe he might be able to help?”
“It’s possible,” Tom replied. “If you ever hear anything about the boys, you’ll let us know, won’t you?”
“I will,” Lisa promised sincerely, wondering what Tom and Marybeth must think of her family now, her father in particular.
Chapter 6
Tom's Passion
Tom followed Marybeth home after work to see if the space in her garage was suitable to build his furniture. He’d spent the previous evening looking at lumber at a couple of the local yards, to make certain they had appropriate stock for his projects.
“You’ll never guess whom I saw at The Lumber Mart last night, MB,” he said, as Marybeth opened the garage door.
“Who?”
“Terry Sloane and April Arneson.”
“Together? Maybe he’s going to help her sell her house or something.”
“I’d say they were pretty intimate for that. He had his arm around her waist.”
“You’re kidding! I wonder if Lisa has any idea? What a jerk!”
“I guess we’ll hear all about it sooner or later,” Tom said, looking around the inside of the garage. “This is really large. Do you want to keep parking your car inside, or can I use the whole space?”
“I hardly ever park in here, usually park in the breezeway. You can use the whole thing.”
“How much rent do you want?”
“Nada.”
“No. I won’t use it unless I pay you something. Name an amount.”
“I’d rather not. Why don’t you just pay me what you want? Whatever you think it’s worth?”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay you twenty bucks a month – for now. Then, when I start making some money, we’ll renegotiate.”
“Fair enough. This door here leads into the house, into the laundry room and the washroom. You can use them whenever you need to.”
“Thanks, ” Tom said, giving her a hug. “You’re a doll.”
“You’re welcome, Tommy,” she said, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek. “When will you move your stuff in? I can’t wait for you to get started!”
“Me too. Hmmm… this is encouraging! I’ll probably go over to my folks’ place this weekend to pick up some of my equipment. I’ll need to rent a truck, I guess.”
“You can borrow one from somebody at work. Ask around tomorrow. Want to come in for a glass of wine or a cup of coffee? Maybe we could go out for Chinese later?”
“Sounds good. You go ahead. Pour me a glass of wine will you? I’ll be in shortly. I’m going to take a few measurements.”
* * *
&nb
sp; Later, while sitting in the local Chinese restaurant, eating from the all-you-can-eat smorgasbord, they looked up to see April Arneson and Terry Sloane walk in.
“Geez. I hope they don’t see us.” Marybeth said. “This could be embarrassing.”
“Not for us, MB. For them, maybe.”
April and Terry sat down in another section of the restaurant and fortunately didn’t spot them. It was obvious they had eyes only for each other – their heads together, holding hands, whispering sweet nothings, completely oblivious to anyone who might be watching them.
“That clinches it. He’s a jerk,” Marybeth said quietly. “He’s after her money.”
“How romantic,” Tom said sarcastically. “Do you remember me telling you about his wife going missing a few years back? I said we might take a closer look at that situation if we ever had time?””
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, one of these days...”
“Yeah, one of these days,” Marybeth was enjoying the Chinese food too much to even consider discussing business before she’d finished eating.
“It was only a small ‘missing person’ report, as I recall. Might not be much to go on.” Tom was like a dog with a bone.
“I’m sure you’ll find something we can start with,” Marybeth said, dismissing the subject. “Did you try this Szechuan Shrimp? It’s scrumptious.”
“Spicy, right? I’m not so much into hot, spicy stuff, MB.”
“Wuss,” she said, grinning, “Can’t be too spicy for me. I like strongly flavoured foods.”
* * *
Early Sunday morning, Tom borrowed a truck to fetch his woodworking equipment. Helping him move it all into her garage, Marybeth was surprised at how much there was. Tom explained the functions of each of piece of equipment as they carried them in.
So many saws! I’ll never going to remember what all this stuff is for.
Smoke Screen Page 5
