by Sean Cullen
Brendan pulled his shirt back over the mark. “Never mind. Let’s just forget it. See you tomorrow.”
“Later on,” called Dmitri, jogging to catch up with Harold.
“Just ‘later,’ Dmitri!” Brendan called at his friend’s back. “Later!”
He watched them go, then turned to look at the ad again. Those eyes. He scanned the poster and saw that the concert was tomorrow night. He studied Deirdre D’Anaan’s face. Like his weird feeling about Greenleaf, he felt he recognized this woman from somewhere. Maybe he’d seen her on TV or something. The memory was just on the tip of his brain. Annoying, he thought. Maybe my dad has one of her albums or something.
He decided to let it go for now. He popped the last piece of crust into his mouth and tossed his napkin in the litter bin. He started walking home.
31 The Michael Lee-Chin Crystal was opened to the public on June 3, 2007. The abstract crystal structure perches on the front of the original stone building and was met with mixed reactions by the public. There were many other suggestions for a structure to embellish the front of the museum: a giant pyramid, an enormous leather hat, and a massive blob of real mashed potatoes. Fortunately, the crystal was chosen over the mashed potatoes because of the ongoing cost of adding fresh butter to the structure every morning.
HOME
He walked along the sweeping turn that was Spadina Circle, where Spadina Avenue split in two to accommodate an old brick building and joined up again for the plunge into Chinatown. He was trying to enjoy the last semi-warm day of autumn. On his right was Lord Lansdowne Public School, an unlovely box with a concrete playground.
Why do they pave playgrounds? he wondered for the thousandth time. What’s fun about falling and scraping the skin off your palms? Brendan had done that too many times to count.
The one thing that redeemed the building was the huge black stone that sat in front of the school by the sidewalk. He always reached out over the fence and brushed his hand across its rough surface for luck.
He picked up his pace and turned the corner as a streetcar rattled and shrieked along the track heading south. He found himself in front of the Scott Mission. This close to dinnertime there was a lineup of people who lived hard on the street. They were all waiting for the hot meal the mission offered every day. He always felt bad for these people. His father always gave them money if they asked for it, which annoyed his mother.
“You shouldn’t give them money,” she would say. “They’ll just spend it on drink.”
“Or food,” his father would answer.
“I’m not just trying to be mean,” she would counter. “I think you should give to a charity that can help them get off the street.”
They would argue back and forth. Brendan couldn’t tell which was the right way to be. Walking down the line of dirty, haggard faces, he always felt slightly guilty that he had a nice home and could buy some pizza while these people had nowhere and nothing to look forward to.
He passed the mission and found himself in front of the Silver Dollar, a seedy little bar that often pumped out loud music.
Brendan smiled and waved when he saw the old guy sitting on an overturned milk carton.
“Hey there, Finbar,” Brendan said with a wave. “Didn’t see you for a couple of days. I was worried.”
“Hallo, Prince Breandan,” said the man, who was wearing a heavy woollen overcoat in spite of the mild weather. He waved back with one large, gnarled hand. He was usually here near the Silver Dollar drinking a cup of tea from a thermos. “I was a little under the weather. Right as rain today, though! Lovely day, in’t it?”
“Yeah!” Brendan waved back.
Brendan stopped and reached into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a packet of shortbread cookies he’d stuck there that morning when leaving the house. “Biscuits?”
The old man grinned, showing a surprising set of even white teeth. “Sure and you’re a little star.”
Brendan watched as Finbar tore the cellophane packet open and took out a cookie, pinched daintily between rough, calloused fingers. He dunked the cookie in the tea and raised it to his mouth. “Glorious.”
Brendan smiled. He didn’t know where Finbar slept or why the old man hung around on this street corner, but he had struck up a sort of friendship with him, sharing pleasantries and biscuits on his way to and from school these last two months. Finbar didn’t ever go into the mission. He didn’t talk to any of the street people. He seemed to have a home but Brendan didn’t know where it was.
“Off home, lad?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I stroll along with ye a ways?”
“No problem.” Brendan waited for the old man to gather up his thermos and tuck it into his shopping bag.
He’d met Finbar on his way home from RDA the first day. The old man had been sitting on a milk crate at the mission and Brendan had felt compelled to say hello. They’d struck up a conversation. As the weeks went by, he’d learned the man’s name but little else about him.
“Let’s be off then,” Finbar said, hefting his canvas shopping bag. They set off into Kensington Market.
As they walked through the narrow, busy streets, Finbar rattled on about whatever caught his eye. He was very entertaining. Brendan’s mother would have probably had a fit if she knew that her son was hanging around with a strange old man. Brendan didn’t mention Finbar to his parents. He liked the old guy.
“Good day at school then, My Prince?”
“Yeah. It was okay.”
“Ye look like ye’ve got yerself the beginnings of a black eye there.”
Brendan reached up and touched his eye. Wincing, he shrugged. “Yeah. Gym class.”
“Ah, yes. A necessary evil in the growth of any young man.” The old man laughed and Brendan grinned.
Brendan didn’t know why he called him that: My Prince. Just something to say, he supposed. Brendan liked the gravel in the man’s voice and his accent. Finbar said he was from Ireland, but he wouldn’t reveal anything else about his past. Brendan respected the man’s privacy. Brendan had never known his grandfather on either side and he liked to think of Finbar as a kind of surrogate grandpa.
“Well, I should be off now,” Finbar said as they reached the heart of the market. “I’d best be home before dark.”
The man’s clear blue eyes crinkled in a wreath of wrinkles as he smiled and waved Brendan on.
“See ya, Finbar,” Brendan said, watching as the old man headed south, whistling and swinging his shopping bag as he went. Brendan watched until he lost sight of Finbar in the crowd of pedestrians.
A few minutes later, he stopped outside a small café. Car seats had been strewn haphazardly around the weedy patio in front of the plate glass window. Gold letters painted on the glass read “I Deal Coffee.” He looked through the window and saw his father finishing a sale, handing a customer a bag of ground coffee beans.
People liked Edward Clair. He made them feel like they were the most interesting person in the world while he was talking to them, not that it helped: Brendan’s dad wasn’t exactly super-successful in any of his many careers. He played music, painted, sculpted, did some freelance graphic design, but working at I Deal was his main source of income. If Brendan’s mum hadn’t been able to pull down a decent living as a designer of window displays for the posh shops on Bloor Street, they would have been struggling. As it was, they had a comfortable home. Brendan and his sister each had their own room.
Maybe Brendan’s dad wasn’t a superstar compared to some dads, but he was Brendan’s favourite person. He was kind. He always had time to talk when Brendan needed him. He had tried to teach Brendan to play the piano and the guitar, but Brendan had been hopeless, as clumsy at that as he was in anything that required some dexterity. Even so, his dad was patient and wasn’t disappointed with Brendan for not being able to master any of the skills he loved.
Brendan’s dad waved at the customer headed out the doors and saw Brendan standing outside. He
waved, obviously happy to see his son. He frowned comically and pointed to his wrist where a watch would be, if he ever wore one. This was a joke between them. Brendan’s mum was always exasperated when anyone was late for dinner. Brendan grinned back.
“See you at home,” his father mouthed silently, winked and turned to the next customer in line. Brendan gave the thumbs-up sign and turned away.
He walked briskly down the street and turned at Crawford, covering the last few metres to his house. He turned up the walk just as his sister was arriving on her bike.
“Hey, Nerdio. How was nerd school today?”
Brendan shrugged. “Nerdy. How was jerk school? Jerky?”
With that bit of wit deployed, he launched himself up the steps to the front door.
FAMILY
Brendan’s house was the third in a row of identical Victorian townhouses, the nineteenth- century equivalent of condos for the working folk of the young city of Toronto. Each had a minuscule rectangle of front yard and black wrought iron fence to ward off intruders as long as the intruders were too small to leap the three-foot height of the fence and had no hands to lift the latch on the front gate. A pensioner in an electric scooter could probably ram the fence and knock it down, if so inclined. Brendan took the creaky wooden steps to the green front door two at a time closely followed by his sister, Delia.
He was just about to clear the top step when he felt Delia swat his ankle, causing his feet to tangle up. He fell with a crash, his books spilling everywhere. His glasses spun across the wooden porch.
“Enjoy your trip?” Delia sneered as she stepped over him. She flung the door open and went into the house.
Brendan painfully picked himself up off the floor. Delia was an expert at using his clumsiness against him. He was easily taller and stronger than she was, but she’d always managed to win every fight they’d ever had. She was sneaky and she cheated. Jamming his glasses back on his face, he gathered his books and followed her into the hall.
Dumping his books on the side table, he set off for the kitchen.
“Shoes!” his mother’s voice admonished from the kitchen doorway ahead. Brendan grumbled and turned back, kicking off his running shoes and reaching for his house slippers. His sister was already pulling on one of hers but had foolishly left the other on the mat. Brendan took the opportunity to throw Delia’s remaining slipper out onto the lawn.
“You are such a child,” she snorted, heading out to retrieve the slipper.
“I know,” Brendan said with a smile. As soon as she was out the door, he closed it and locked it from the inside. Satisfied with his petty revenge, he set off for the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner, Mum?” he called as he headed straight for the fridge.
His mother straightened up and ran a forearm across her sweaty face. She had been peering into the oven. Her pale, freckled face was flushed with the heat. She was still wearing her grey suit, the one she called her prison uniform, but over it she wore a red apron with the words YES, IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE BURNT LIKE THAT! emblazoned across the front.
“Mac and cheese. And don’t eat anything. It’ll be ready in half an hour.”
Brendan opened the fridge and pulled out a can of pop. “Okay. I’m just gonna drink this.”
Delia crashed through the back door and pointed at Brendan with her slipper. Her hair was full of dry leaves. “Mum! He locked me out! I had to run all the way around and climb the fence to get in.”
“You could have knocked on the door,” Brendan suggested sweetly.
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Brendan!” His mother shook her head. “Can’t you two just stay out of each other’s way for one hour? Honestly, it’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?” Brendan’s father came in the front door, catching the last few words of the conversation. “And who locked the front door?”
“Dad,” Delia whined. “He’s the biggest jerk. He threw my slipper into the yard.”
“After she tripped me on the steps.”
Brendan’s father grabbed them both in a hug that was part affectionate and part wrestling hold. As they struggled in his grasp, he sighed. “Ahhh! There is no joy like a harmonious homestead. It’s familial bliss as brother and sister share a magical moment. Isn’t it wonderful, Ellie?”
Brendan’s mother laughed and joined the clinch, taking the opportunity to kiss both her children while they were relatively helpless. “It warms the heart, Charles, dear husband. It warms the heart!”
Delia squirmed free and wiped her cheek. She was fifteen and totally disgusted with the mere idea of living with other humans who called themselves her family let alone being kissed by them. “Mum. That is gross!” She fled into the hall and up the stairs, wiping her face and making retching sounds.
“Dinner in half an hour,” Mum shouted just as Delia’s bedroom door slammed shut. “You too, Brendan.”
“I’ll be down in the workshop,” Dad said, kissing his wife on the cheek. He headed for the cellar door.
“Can I come watch, Dad?”
“Sure, Brendan. Just don’t touch anything unless I tell you it’s all right.”
“Okay, Dad,” Brendan said, inwardly cringing at his father’s delicate reminder of his native clumsiness. “I won’t break anything, I promise.”
“Remember to wash up,” Mum said, turning her attention to the salad.
Brendan followed his dad down the creaky wooden steps that led to the basement of the house. The smell of damp and sawdust was pungent in his nostrils.
The basement was his father’s domain. The space was long and narrow so he’d made dividers out of wood and plasterboard to section off different areas for different purposes. At the bottom of the stairs there was the gas furnace and the water heater. When he was younger, Brendan used to like to pretend the white cylinder of the water heater was a killer robot in an evil space army. He had battled the water heater on many occasions and it still bore the scars from the wooden sword his father had made him years ago. With chagrin, he remembered the time he’d gotten his head stuck under the furnace while chasing a superbouncy ball. His parents had been forced to call the fire department. Delia had a field day with that one.
The next part of the basement was the workshop, a tiny cubicle with a workbench along one wall. Tools dangled overhead like metal fruit. Here, his father did mundane repairs, fixed furniture, and did woodworking. They headed into the next area: his father’s art workshop. Brendan’s father reached up and pulled a chain, turning on a bank of halogen lights overhead.
This is where Brendan’s father did his artistic work, “his real work,” as he called it. Easels held half-finished canvasses. On a low bench sat a block of wood surrounded with shavings. A winged gargoyle was half-carved, captured as though it were in the midst of crawling out of the wood block. In one corner, a glass booth, soundproofed as best as possible, formed a miniature recording studio where Brendan’s dad rehearsed his music and recorded songs. An elderly iMac slept on a table near the sound booth ready to record any tunes Brendan’s father might come up with, its screen dark.
Some might call Brendan’s father a jack of all trades, dabbling in many fields. He managed to sell enough of his paintings and carvings to bring in a steady if modest income. The workshop was Brendan’s favourite place in the house, next to his own room, and he thought his father was just about the coolest person in the world.
Brendan watched as his father picked up his chisel and mallet and started to tap ribbons of shavings from the block of wood. In moments, the leg of the gargoyle was roughed out. Brendan was quietly in awe of what his father could do with his hands. The concentration and precision were beyond him. His father had tried to teach him woodworking, too, but with typically poor results.
“Dad? You ever think you got the wrong kid?”
His father stopped hammering and looked at Brendan. “Why would you say something like that?”
His father’s tone was
so sharp, Brendan felt he’d said something wrong. “No reason. Well, I mean, I can’t do anything as well as you can. You’d think I’d have some kind of genetically transmitted talent.” He tried to laugh and lighten the mood. “I mean, maybe they switched the kids at the hospital by mistake and somewhere there’s a kid who builds and plays his own guitars, huh?”
His father didn’t answer him right away. His face was flat and expressionless. Then the moment passed. His father grinned at him. “I can guarantee you we got the right kid, okay?” He went back to tapping at the chisel and muttered, “Your sister? Now, there are some doubts …” He turned his head slightly and winked at Brendan.
“Dad!”
“Just kidding. So. How was school today?”
“All right.” Brendan shrugged. “We got a new substitute teacher. He’s kinda weird.”
“Aren’t they all?” He turned back to his project. “I have to get this done for the One and Only Craft Show. You like it?” He poked the gargoyle with the head of the mallet.
“Uh … creepy?” Brendan said and he meant it. The gnarled, snarling face of the carving made him a little uneasy.
“Creepy’s good. People buy creepy.” Brendan’s father grinned, placing the chisel on an untouched portion of wood and tapping with the mallet, sending a delicate shaving curling to the ground.
“Dad,” Brendan said, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You know the scar I have on my chest …”
The tapping faltered for an instant, then continued. “Yep.”
“How did it happen again?”
“We’ve told you the story, haven’t we?”
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “Mum spilled tea and I got this burn.”
“Exactly so.” Brendan’s father blew shavings from the wood and began tapping again.
“It’s a weird shape though, huh.”
