Lure

by Deborah Kerbel

  My father, of course, hated the way she cared for me. To him, I was an endless disappointment. He never came out and said those words to me, but it was there in his cold silver eyes every morning when he glowered at my skinny body and weak appetite over the breakfast table. I sensed … no, I knew that every part of him wished one of the other sons had survived in my place. But God had chosen to taunt my iron-fisted father with weak, disease-prone children. Since all he had was me, he’d made it his life’s mission to toughen my body and spirit. Unfortunately, Father had come to the conclusion that beatings were the best way to accomplish that task. And he was dedicated in his resolve.

  The memories that remain of my early childhood are a patchwork of scattered events. For it was not until the arrival of William in our home that my life experiences began to take on a more solid form.

  As you might imagine, my early years were quite lonely. I looked forward to school every day, as sharing the company of other children was something I craved. At the end of each school year, I was miserable at the notion of leaving my classmates, whose homes were scattered in every direction across the expanse of our village. In our home on Colborne Street, my only company was Mother and Father (aside for the daily visit from Edward the milkman, which, desperate as I was for friends, I always looked forward to). Of course, I couldn’t include Kate, our hired girl, as a companion of any sort. Although she was merely a few years older than I, Kate had rough red skin and a sour disposition. She shushed me rudely every time I tried to strike up a conversation with her. Before long, I simply stopped trying.

  Yes, in those years summers were difficult for me. When I wanted another child to play with, I was forced to seek out the company of Frankie Wilson, an older boy who lived in one of the neighbouring cottages. On rainy afternoons, the two of us would shoot marbles on his front porch and on sunny ones, we would play hide-and-seek in the barns and horse stalls that stood in the clearing behind his house. Frankie had a marvellous collection of tin soldiers that he would allow me to look at, but never touch. So stingy was Frankie that the only time he ever gave me permission to play with them was on the occasion of my sixth birthday. And only for a period of ten minutes. I was so envious of those tin soldiers that I begged my mother to buy me a set just like them. But Father had strong opinions about toys — he regarded them as infantile indulgences. As a result, the only childhood treats my mother could buy for me were those that could be easily concealed.

  When Frankie discovered this fact, he made an effort to parade his possessions before me with even greater zeal. Frankie Wilson was a dreadful friend, but since I wasn’t in a position to be choosy, I tolerated him the best I could.

  The year he turned eleven, Frankie traded the tiny weapons of those tin soldiers for a real one. As hunting quickly became his new passion, the two of us stopped spending time together. Frankie died in a hunting mishap less than a year after my own passing. His death was no great loss to the world, I assure you.

  My only other companion during those early years was my dear mother. With my father working long hours at the forge, Mother and I spent many of our summer days together. Away from Father’s disapproving eyes, I would help her and Kate prepare the meals in the kitchen, pull weeds in the vegetable garden, talk to her of my dreams and secret ambitions as she sat and sewed in the parlour, and play cards with her for long hours into the evening while we waited for Father to return from the forge. When the weather was pleasant, we would sometimes take hikes through the forests and fields that surrounded our village. During those walks, Mother would usually pick wildflowers to fill the blue porcelain vase that rested over the hearth in the parlour. As for me, I would bring along the insect net that I had fashioned using a stick, a bit of wire, and an old pair of stockings.

  You would be impressed if you could see what I was able to capture with that crude net. Even by the young age of seven, I had amassed a beautiful collection of insects, each one stuck with three pins to a smooth wooden board that was hidden under my bed. There were butterflies, caterpillars, beetles, spiders, and grasshoppers of all different colours and sizes. Under the guidance of my teacher, Mr. Brown, I hoped to collect over one hundred different specimens. So eager a student was I that Mr. Brown had promised to loan me Mr. Charles Darwin’s great book, On the Origin of Species, the following year at school.

  My mother loved to hear me speak of school and all that I was learning there. I missed my time at the schoolhouse during those summer months. Reading was one of my favourite subjects, regardless of my father’s stern opinions on books. I loved borrowing novels from school and losing myself in the pages of those magical worlds. Treasure Island, Through the Looking Glass, and Gulliver’s Travels were all favourites of mine and I’d spent many lunch hours reading and rereading them. Although I’d never read anything by the formidable Charles Dickens, Mr. Brown had told our class that he was one of the most important authors the world had ever known and that the entire British Empire had been caught up with his stories. I was aching for a copy of one of his books.

  My father, however, held a completely opposite opinion on the subject of learning. To my great dismay, he considered it womanish to sit around idle with a book in one’s hands. As far as he was concerned, education was a dangerous waste of time. He was always grumbling about how the over-educated scientists and intellectuals of the world were ruining society with their plans and inventions. How machines would soon be replacing people and what a crime it was to steal the livelihood from honest working men. Father was determined to have me follow in his footsteps. I was destined to learn his trade and inherit his blacksmith shop. It was the duty, after all, of a family’s only son to carry on where his father left off. Some called it a birthright.

  As for me, I called it a curse.

  The day that Father discovered my secret insect collection was beaten into my memory. I will never forget how his face erupted with a dark purple rage as he crushed all of my painstaking work under his heavy boot. When it was sufficiently ruined, he proceeded to take a switch to my backside. The following morning, before my wounds had the chance to heal, he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up the road to where his blacksmith shop stood on Yonge Street. Then he forced me to sit immobile on a hard stool in the corner of the shop to watch him work for the rest of that day. The next morning, he hung a stained apron around my neck and set me to work fanning the bellows over the coal fire. I can only assume that Father believed that I would come to my senses if I spent enough time in his company. As if exposure to the black coal smoke would somehow ignite a love in my heart for the forge.

  As you might imagine, I loathed every moment of it.

  It was horribly dismal in there. By covering up all the windows with heavy curtains, the shop was kept dark so that the various colours of the hot metal could be clearly identified for work. And the constant fire from the forge combined with the summer heat outside resulted in sickeningly sweltering conditions. Because of the excessive smoke inhalation, I endured violent coughing fits all day. These became so bad that eventually my nose and eyes began to run with oily, black stuff. And with my father’s constant yelling and criticism, the entire experience was eerily similar to how I envisioned hell. In my young mind, it seemed to match identically with the way our pastor described it during his weekly sermons at the Trinity Church.

  Father dragged me to the forge every day for the month of July that year. I’m certain that he thought this experience was going to harden my spirit and help prepare me for my imminent destiny. But in truth, the only result was that it caused me to despise the idea of becoming a blacksmith more than ever.

  The problem was that I didn’t know how to tell him how much I hated his shop without incurring more of his anger. So I did the only thing I could think might save me — I confessed to my mother and begged for her help. Finally, one day in early August, Mother was able to put a stop to my torment. I happened to be listening from
the stairwell as they carried on the conversation in the parlour.

  “But he’s so young, Robert,” I heard Mother plead. Her voice always had a soft quality to it, but it had somehow become even more silken that afternoon — as soothing and melodic as a lullaby. “Let him enjoy these years without the burden of work,” she continued. “There will be ample time for him to learn from you after he’s grown a bit more.”

  “You spoil the child, Elizabeth,” I heard my father growl. “Just look at him! Some physical labour will do him a world of good. It will help toughen up all the softness you’ve instilled in him.”

  “But, Robert … you must consider his health! All that black smoke from the fire can’t be good for a young, growing body.”

  I heard my father snort with disgust. “Smoke bad for you? Ridiculous, woman! I breathe the smoke from the coal fire all day and I’m as strong as an ox. Since when did you become a physician, Elizabeth?”

  There was a long pause during which my heart must surely have stopped. Had my mother given up the fight? Was I doomed to work in the forge for the rest of my life? My stomach began twisting into a painful nest of tight knots at the very thought. And then I heard her speak once more, her words lilting like the song of a small bird.

  “Please, Robert … just a few more years.”

  Tempted by curiosity, I crept forward and peeked around the corner into the parlour where my parents were engaged in their discussion. As usual, I cringed at the mere sight of my father. He was a dark, surly man, not at all like the smiling jovial fathers I’ve seen shepherding their children through the library in these modern times. Years of frowning and scowling had etched their marks permanently upon his face until the twin furrows between his eyebrows had grown so deep that coal dust often collected there after a long day of work. They looked like black horns rising out of his face. Of course, this only further emphasized his menacing looks as did the empty spaces between his teeth where dental rot had set in. Mother once told me that when they were married, Father had been a handsome man. As honest and forthright a woman as my dear mother was, I must confess that I found that quite impossible to believe.

  Father was pacing back and forth across the room whilst lighting his pipe. I watched with trepidation as the flame from the match rose up from his hand. Then he drew in a deep breath, removed the stem from his mouth, and blew out a long stream of ghostly, grey smoke. My father’s fingers were permanently blackened by the smith trade and, even now, I can vividly remember just how grimy and stained they appeared as they grasped the clean, white bowl of his pipe. While I concentrated on keeping my breaths silent so as not to give away my hiding place, Father smoked and considered his reply.

  The pipe had been his wedding gift from my grandfather. It had a large, carved ivory bowl depicting a medieval hunting scene and a long, ebony stem that curved gracefully upward like the neck of a swan. Although Father never let on, I could tell how much he cherished it by the uncharacteristic tenderness he used when he carried the pipe down from the mantle. Memories of Father’s pipe have stayed with me over all these years because it was the only article of any value that he kept. This was quite against his nature. Father didn’t believe in owning material possessions. He likened unnecessary purchases to throwing money upon the rubbish heap. We didn’t even own the house at 10 Colborne Street, choosing to rent it from a local family instead. My father was a man who was firmly set in his ways. I was painfully aware that changing his mind would not be an easy task.

  “Please, Robert,” Mother said again, placing her small, pale hand on his large, dirty one. I bit my lip while he took another puff from his pipe and considered her request. His black bushy side whiskers seemed to grow longer as I waited for his answer. Finally he stopped pacing, let out a rattling sigh, and gave the slightest of nods.

  “Fine … a few more years, then.”

  I wanted to cry with relief, but fear held me back. If my father saw tears, he would surely get angry and change his mind. So instead, I crept back upstairs to continue with the painstaking task of salvaging what I could from the ruined mess of my secret insect collection. Mother had proposed the idea that my teacher, Mr. Brown, might allow me to keep it at the schoolhouse when the new term began in September.

  Whether it was the threat to my health that caused Father to relent or Mother’s melodic lullaby voice, I’ll never know for certain. But to my knowledge, it was the first argument on the subject of my future that my mother had ever won.

  And as I was to find out in the coming years, it was also to be the last.

  4 - Max

  I couldn’t help myself. I just had to laugh. “What do you mean, a ghost?”

  Caroline’s eyes locked with mine. “Exactly what you think I mean,” she replied, her voice cool as ice.

  Was this girl serious? I couldn’t tell by the mysterious look on her face. Her smile was frozen and her gaze steady and firm. She’d probably make an awesome poker player.

  “Okay … well, since ghosts don’t exist, I figure you’re talking about a Halloween prank or something?”

  “No prank. I’m talking about a ghost … spirit, phantom, spectre … take your pick of words if you like. But it all means the same thing. This library has been haunted for years.”

  Man, she was serious. I swallowed hard, wondering what to say. This morning was getting weirder by the minute … maybe ditching school wasn’t such a good idea after all. From under the daisy patch, I could hear the sound of Peanut’s high-pitched whine.

  “If you don’t believe me, you can ask my grandmother,” Caroline added, ignoring the pug’s cries. “Nana’s seen and heard a lot of strange stuff since she started working here.”

  She was right … I didn’t believe her. But I wasn’t going to come right out and call her crazy. I’d figured out enough about girls to know that wouldn’t go over too well.

  “So, what kind of strange stuff?” I asked, playing along.

  Her blue eyes narrowed into slits. “You don’t believe me, do you, Max?”

  Perceptive, too. I’d have to watch myself around her …

  “Well, um …” My tongue suddenly felt like it was too big for my mouth. Instead of trying to finish the sentence, I reached under the daisy patch and pulled the dog up into my arms. He stopped whining immediately, but his narrow little body was still quivering with fright.

  A look of determination suddenly flashed across Caroline’s face. She reached for the library door. “Come on in and I’ll take you on the ghost tour. Then we’ll see if you believe.”

  But that just set Peanut off again. The poor little guy started barking and growling like there was a demon after him. It took all my strength to hold onto him so he wouldn’t kamikaze onto the pavement.

  Seeing the dog’s distress, Caroline let go of the door handle and ran over to calm him down. “Okay, okay … we won’t go inside,” I heard her murmur into Peanut’s ear. “I’m sorry, little guy.” Then she looked at me and shook her head. Her golden hair swung gently from side to side. “I don’t think he’s going to let us go into the library today, Max. We’ll have to do the tour another time. Are you going to have next Wednesday off, too?”

  Next Wednesday? Was she trying to make some kind of a date with me? And then I remembered my lie from before. Something about a spare class … oh, yeah!

  “That’s right,” I replied, the lie sliding across my lips like melted butter. “I don’t have classes on Wednesday mornings.”

  “So, maybe I’ll just show you the grounds today and we’ll do the library next time. There haven’t been any ghost sightings out here in the garden, but it’s a special place. Kind of like a little piece of country right in the middle of the city.”

  She flashed me another smile before turning toward the garden. Seriously, why was this girl being so nice to me? Right up until this moment, I’d been convinced that ever
yone in this town was a first-class jerk.

  “So, this is called a heritage garden,” she said, walking ahead of me and flourishing her hand in a wide arc. Just for a quick second, she reminded me of a used-car salesman proudly displaying the contents of her lot. “It was planted to recreate what a garden would have looked like back in the 1890s. The designer used all kinds of old-fashioned seeds to make it as authentic as possible for the time period. If there was a garden on the property back then, it might have looked like this.”

  Then she began pointing out the different varieties of plants around us. “That’s balsam over there … and that plant is called Bridal Wreath. There’s a patch of herbs behind them. And this pink coloured shrub is called Anthony Water … um … Water …”

  “Anthony Waterer spirea?”

  Her pointing finger fell to her side as she spun around to stare at me. Her mouth was open so wide I thought a bug might fly in.

  “How on earth did you know that?”

  I shrugged, secretly pleased that I’d shocked her so easily. “My grandfather was a half-time gardener back in Vancouver. I used to work with him on his landscaping jobs every summer.”

  “A half-time gardener?” Her nose crinkled like she’d just smelled something bad. “That doesn’t have anything to do with football, does it?”

  I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “No, it means there’s not much gardening business to be done in the winter months. So from November to April, my grandfather worked as a half-time handyman. I helped him with that, too. But only on weekends.”

  “Wow, so you must know a lot about plants,” she said, looking more relieved than impressed. I got the feeling she was just happy that I wasn’t going to start talking about football.

  “Yeah, and old houses, too,” I added quietly. But I’m not sure if she heard that part or not.

  As we made our way toward the back of the building, Caroline pointed out the last few varieties of plants. She mispronounced a couple of the names, but I didn’t say anything. Instead I just listened patiently, waiting for her to get back to the topic of the ghost as she led me past a stone fountain to a small wooden bench at the edge of the grounds. We sat down on opposite ends with Peanut stretched out between us. He immediately flipped onto his back and whined for me to rub his belly. Which, of course I did. He wriggled and grunted with pleasure.