The Latchkey Kid

by Helen Forrester

  Indignation welled up in Mrs. Palichuk. She closed her tired, bloodshot eyes and saw herself again as a young woman, buxom and pregnant, set down in wild bush country, her only asset a husband as young and strong as herself. She remembered how, side by side, they had hacked and burned the underbrush, borrowed a plough and pulled it themselves, working feverishly to get a little harvest to last them through the first arctic-cold winter. In those hungry, freezing years she had born and lost two children in the small sod hut in which they lived, before Olga, coming in slightly easier times, had survived. She had fed the precious child herself and carried it with her into the fields, watching it as she wielded a hoe or a sickle, tears of weakness and fatigue often coursing down her dusty cheeks. A year later Joe had arrived, and the first doctor in the district had attended her in the first room of what was now a complete frame house. She remembered the doctor telling her, as gently as he could, that it was unlikely that she would have more children, and the shocked look on her husband’s face when he heard the news. They would need children to work the land when they became old. Her husband had been kind, however, had kissed her and said the Lord would provide.

  And the Lord had provided, reflected Mrs. Palichuk. The farm was well equipped with machinery and did not need the hand labour of earlier years. Olga and Joe had been able to go to school, though they had plenty of farm chores as well. Olga, the brighter of the two, had clamoured to be allowed to go to college in Tollemarche, and both parents had encouraged her in this, hoping she would become a school-teacher; but she had met Boyd Stych and got married instead. It was not fair to say that her parents had had no time for her or for Joe; all four of the family had worked together, and, as the settlement grew, they had enjoyed churchgoing and Easters and Christmases with their neighbours.

  Her exasperation, added to her feeling of being unwanted, burst out of her, and she almost shouted at her daughter: “Your father and I were always with you, teaching you to be decent and to work. Joe always makes time to play with his kids – he’s got to be both mother and father to them – in spite of having to run the farm alone since your father died. You’re just too big for your shoes!”

  Mrs. Stych was unloading savoury rolls and a bowl of chicken salad from the refrigerator, and she kicked the door savagely, so that it slammed shut with a protesting boom. When she turned on her mother, her face was scarlet and her double chin wobbled as she sought for words.

  When the words came, they arrived as a spurt of Ruthenian, the language of her childhood.

  “I’m not too big for my shoes!” she cried. “You just don’t know what it’s like living in a town – it’s different.”

  Mrs. Palichuk wagged an accusing finger at Olga.

  “Excuses! Excuses!” her voice rose. “You were always good at them. Anything to avoid staying home and looking after Hank. How he ever grew up as decent as he is, I don’t know.”

  Arms akimbo, Olga swayed towards her mother.

  “Let me tell you,” she yelled, “Boyd and I are somebodies in this town, and mostly because I was smart enough to set to and cultivate the right people.”

  “Rubbish!”

  “It’s not rubbish – it’s true.”

  Mrs. Palichuk heaved her formidable bulk off the frail chair and thrust her face close to Olga’s.

  “And what good will it do for Hank, if it is true?”

  Olga drew herself up proudly.

  “His name will be in the Social Register,” she announced.

  Mrs. Palichuk was reduced to stunned silence for a moment. Then she roared, like a Montreal trucker stuck in a lane: “You’ll be lucky if his name’s not on a tombstone – like his friend who killed himself.”

  Olga’s voice was as tremendous as her mother’s as she screamed: “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  Hank materialized silently at the kitchen door, some school books under his arm. He surveyed the two women, who were oblivious of his presence as they tore verbally at each other. With a shrug, he retrieved his black jacket, pinched a couple of cookies from the carefully arranged plate, and drifted quietly away through the front door.

  When he stopped to look back along the road, he saw two cars draw up in front of his home, one after the other. A sleepy grin spread over his face. The bridge-playing girls had arrived, a collection of overdressed, overpainted forty-year-olds. As the sound of their giggling chatter reached him on the wind, his amusement faded and gave way to loathing. There was Mrs. Moore, the dentist’s wife, mother of his friend who had committed suicide because life did not seem worth living; and there was Mary Johnson’s mother looking as prim as a prune, not knowing that her daughter was no better than a streetwalker. Hank made a vulgar sound of distaste, shoved his hands in his pockets and continued on his way.

  He remembered how, as a child, by dozens of small acts of perversity, he had brought his mother’s wrath down upon himself, so that she did at least notice his existence. His father, being a geologist, was away from home most of the time, so that Hank could, to a degree, forgive his neglect. But his mother had nothing to do except care for him, and this she had blatantly failed to do. Instead, she had toadied to these ghastly, grasping women in glittering hats, women who themselves seemed to have forgotten that they had husbands and families.

  As he had grown older, his anger had turned to cold bitterness, and creeping into his mind had come the idea of revenge, something subtle enough to humble his mother, make her realize that he lived, without killing her.

  After long consideration, he had decided that he would try to write a book so outrageous that the Presbyterian élite of Tollemarche would ostracize the whole Stych family, and thus put an end to his mother’s inane social life. He had worked at the idea with all the intensity of youth, and now it was about to bear fruit The book was, apparently, the kind of tale for which all young people had been waiting, and its heavy sales in the United States had amazed him; the first hardcover edition had sold fast enough to surprise even his capable publisher.

  He tried now to think with savage pleasure of the dismay likely to afflict his mother, once her female companions heard of it. He found, however, as he loped along, ostensibly to school, that he could not feel the same bitterness that he had done when he first started to write. Instead, he was glowing with hope of a future which, until recently, had seemed to him to consist solely of repeating Grade 12 over and over again in a remorseless, inescapable cycle of misery. Hank Stych, he told himself smugly, was a success.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mr. Maxmilian Frizzell owned the biggest garage and car salesroom in Tollemarche. It took up half a block of Tollemarche Avenue and was gaily painted in red and white. Above its well-polished showroom windows an electric sign proclaimed to the world his slogan, YOU CAN TRUST MAXIE.

  At the back of his premises he owned a used-car lot which faced on a less fashionable avenue, and here he sold second-hand cars, trucks and motorboats. His salesmen in the front showroom were sleek as well-fed cats, immaculately dressed in dark suits and ties, while the ones on the back car lot were chosen deliberately for their comfortably seedy looks; they leaned more towards coloured shirts and zippered jackets, and their haircuts were longer.

  One Saturday morning, some two weeks after Mrs. Frizzell’s encounter with Mrs. Stych, Mr. Frizzell was seated at his office desk in a glassed-in area above the garage proper, from whence he could see all that was going on at both back and front of his property. He was going over his books and noting complacently that he was doing remarkably well.

  He got up slowly from his chair to stretch himself, and went to the window overlooking the back car lot. It was busy, and all the salesmen were occupied. The autumn sun glinted softly on the pastel-coloured vehicles, most of which Mr. Frizzell expected to sell before winter paralyzed the second-hand car business for four months. To one side of the lot was a collection of European cars, and leaning over a snow-white Triumph was Hank Stych, talking to one of the salesmen. The salesman was just closing the hoo
d, and Hank walked round to the back of the car and bounced it firmly up and down with his hands.

  “Why does Van want to waste his time showing a car as expensive as that to a kid like Hank?” thought Mr. Frizzell irritably. Surely the man had enough sense to take him over to the other corner, where aged Chevrolets lay wearily beside battered Valiants, motorbikes and scooters.

  The salesman and Hank, however, seemed to have reached some agreement and strolled towards the office, where fat old Josh presided over the financing section with the careful rapacity of a born moneylender.

  Mr. Frizzell shrugged his shoulders. Josh would soon cut Hank down to size. He dismissed the subject from his mind and decided to go down to the tiny lunchroom he ran for his employees, to get a cup of coffee.

  His appearance caused a rapid scattering of employees who had outstayed their coffee break, and he sat down contentedly to munch a doughnut with his coffee. A few minutes later, Van entered, looking very pleased with himself.

  “Sold that Triumph,” he called to Mr. Frizzell.

  Mr. Frizzell stopped munching.

  “Who to?”

  “Hank Stych.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Nope. He bought it all right.”

  Mr. Frizzell swallowed a piece of doughnut whole.

  “How’s he going to pay for it?” he asked, trying not to appear over-anxious.

  “Traded in his jalopy, put a thousand down and the rest over six months.”

  “Now I know you’re crazy,” exploded Mr. Frizzell. “What the hell – ”

  “It’s O.K., Boss. It’s O.K. I tell yer. He wrote a cheque and Josh okayed it with the bank – phoned Hnatiuk, the manager, at home.”

  Mr. Frizzell slowly dunked the remains of his doughnut into his coffee. “You’re kidding?” he said without much conviction.

  “No, I’m not. Ask Josh. Hnatiuk at the bank said he’s always had quite a good balance in his savings account – for a kid – and he’s deposited quite a bit more recently. He’s got the money, all right.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Mr. Frizzell, forgetting for a moment his Presbyterian upbringing. “Where’s he get it from?”

  “Dunno. Ain’t our headache.”

  Van swallowed down a scalding coffee and got up. “It’s my lucky day,” he said cheerfully. “Go see what else is cooking.”

  “Sure,” said Mr. Frizzell bewilderedly, “sure.”

  Hank drove the gleaming little Triumph out of the lot. She was a peach, he thought lovingly, a perfect peach, and all his, provided he was satisfied after giving her a run on the highway. He drove her carefully in and out of the busy Saturday morning traffic and wondered idly how he was going to explain about her to his mother, without saying where he got the money from. She was going to learn the hard way about the book, he was determined about that. His father wouldn’t even notice the car, he thought, without much bitterness – too busy with his oil hunting. Probably wouldn’t be home for weeks anyway.

  Well, his book, his beautiful, shocking book, was published at last, and being bought by every kid in the States, so the balloon was bound to go up one of these days. Judging by the latest letter he had received from New York, care of Isobel Dawson, it was going to go up with a bang – there had been sufficient talk of banning it to make sure that everybody bought it, without any real danger that it would be banned from the bookstores. Maybe it might just make his mother realize he was alive. At any rate, everybody would think she had condoned his writing it, and that should raise a fine storm for her. He clenched the steering wheel so hard that the car wobbled, and he hastily righted it. It would serve her right.

  He had given up his Saturday job in the supermarket some time back, so today he would just drive and drive, drifting along the miles of highway toward Edmonton.

  He stopped for a red light, prepared to make a right-hand turn as soon as the arrow flicked green. He knew the change would be slow, so he took out and lit a cigarette while he waited. He whistled mechanically at the back view of a girl waiting to cross the intersection, though of late girls seemed to have lacked their usual charm for him. The girl turned her head and half smiled at him behind her glasses. He knew her. Her name was Gail Danski, a prim-looking chick, but not so prim when you got her into a dark corner, as he had once discovered when taking her home after a school dance.

  “Hi,” he shouted. “Like a ride?”

  She hesitated, and was lost.

  She cuddled in close to him as they tore along the highway. Hank was fun, even if it did look as if he would never make Grade 12 and never earn much. He knew how to give a girl a good time.

  “Where we going? Mother will be looking for me.”

  “Let her look.”

  She rubbed her leg against his.

  Since it was obviously expected of him, he took his right hand off the wheel and put his arm around her shoulders. She laughed and took off her glasses, then gently slid her hand into his pocket.

  “I haven’t had any lunch,” she complained.

  “We’ll stop at a drive-in, and then what say about a nice, quiet park?” He might as well make hay while the sun shone, he told himself.

  She giggled and looked sly. “O.K.”

  It was just too easy, he ruminated, as he bit into a huge hamburger at the drive-in. All you had to do was write about it afterwards, and you could make a real fast buck. Then he remembered the long, toilsome months when he had worked to perfect a style of writing, giving hours to his literature and language assignments, more hours to dissecting other people’s novels. No, it was not that easy, he decided, smiling a little ruefully to himself, and there was a lot more hard work ahead.

  His friend regarded him curiously over her hamburger. It was strange how Hank had a way of withdrawing from one’s company at times, just as if he had forgotten one was there. Still, he looked fine when he smiled like that, almost handsome, with his wide mouth and perfect teeth.

  “Wotcha laughin’ at, Hank?” she asked.

  “It wouldn’t interest you, hon.”

  It was midnight when he finally eased the Triumph to a stop in front of his parents’ house and swayed gently up the steps. He could not, at first, unlock the door, though the porch light was on; the keyhole kept moving. He should not have had that last drink or that last kiss. That girl was unbelievable. Who would imagine that a thin, stuck-up-looking type like that could know so much? And yet, unaccountably, he had not been happy with her. Finally, he had felt sick at his behaviour and had dropped her off at her home with a feeling of relief that she was not the clinging type and perhaps he could avoid her in future. Girls like that were toys, and he was fed up with toys.

  He found the keyhole, opened the door quietly, and crept into the living-room. His mother must have gone to bed. He went along the passage as silently as he could, and, safely in his room, flung himself on his bed without undressing. He felt dirty and his head ached.

  He hauled a pillow out from under the bedspread and arranged it to ease his throbbing temples. He had had enough of this kind of game, he decided. Maybe he could settle down a bit now, quit high school, travel – and write. It would be good to get out of Tollemarche, out of Alberta, and see the world a bit. Suddenly, he was asleep.

  He woke up only when his mother slammed the front door as she went out to church. He lay quietly, with a comfortable feeling of pleasant anticipation of the day before him, imagining his mother in her pale blue Sunday outfit getting her European car out of the garage and manoeuvring it down to the United Church. Time was, he remembered, when she had attended the Greek Orthodox Church, where he also had gone when small, but its splendour had palled when she had realized that more fashionable people belonged to the United Church. Hank chuckled, and then winced when he moved his head suddenly. Even God could be fashionable.

  He got up, took a shower, combed his hair with care and put on a new black T-shirt. Then he ate a dish of cornflakes while wandering around the kitchen, and went out to loo
k at the Triumph, still parked in front of the house. His mother would imagine some stranger had parked his car there. But the car was his and she was beautiful. He loved her like a woman and he ran his hands lightly over her as if she would respond to his touch. She was silent and acquiescent, however, so he climbed in and drove her round several blocks, just for the joy of it, taking the sharp corners so fast that her tires shrieked in protest. Then he went slowly back to within two blocks of home, drove up the back lane and stopped before the old wooden garage which he had rented for so many years from Isobel Dawson.

  As he entered the garden through the back gate, Isobel got up from in front of a flower bed where she had been planting bulbs. He was pleased to see her looking less pale than when he had last seen her, and she grinned at him with something of her old cheerfulness. She wore a shabby, tweed skirt and a turtleneck sweater which had shrunk slightly, making her look even smaller than usual. She had no makeup on and her long fair hair was twisted into a knot on top of her head. Hank could not imagine how she managed to look so elegant in such an outfit; the concepts of breeding and natural grace were unknown to him, and the quiet air of command she had scared him slightly. All he knew was that compared with the trollop he had been with the day before, she was like a princess, a very untouchable snow princess seven years older than he, who had recently lost her husband.

  Fear of hurting her in any way made him abrupt. “Got something to show you,” he announced without preamble.

  “Oh?” she queried in her soft, clipped English voice. Dorothy’s voice held a distinct Welsh singsong, but years in London had worn away any trace of it from Isobel’s speech.

  “Yeah, come on outside.”

  Still holding a trowel in one dirty hand, she followed his huge, droopy figure into the lane.