They went into an empty room
and a bottle of whiskey stole,
and kept that bottle with the corpse
to keep that whiskey cold.
“A corpse is a dead body, Gord,” I explained. “The b’ys weren’t really celebrating Pat Murphy’s life. They just wanted an excuse to party. That’s what I think anyway. I’m not one for lyrics, not really. It’s the melody I like. What about you, Gord? Do you like the melody? What do you think of my dancing, Gord? Pretty good, huh? What’s with your face, Gord? You’re not poopin’, are ya? If ya shits your pants, we’ll have to go home.”
Gord laughed his sweet baby belly laugh, the one that erupted for the first time two months ago when I stubbed my toe on his high chair. I’d hopped on one foot shouting “ouch, ouch, ouch!” and the ha-ha-ha that burst out of his body was hearty and deep. Tears had pricked my eyes—not from the pain that throbbed in my foot but from the happy pain that throbbed in my heart.
I checked Gord’s bum. He hadn’t pooped his pants, so we continued on to Bannerman Park. I tried stuffing him into a baby swing. “You’re some fat, Gord. But don’t worry, once you start walking you’ll lose all that weight. Just don’t go losing your cheeks, okay? That’s what makes you cute. No one likes a baby with skinny cheeks.”
I pushed him high. “Hold on, Gord. If you fall out and die, Mom will kill me.”
The last thing I wanted to do was ruin Mom’s day. After months of the baby blues, she was finally having a good one.
We’d been surprised to see her up before noon this morning. We were sitting around the table eating Nan’s pancakes when Mom appeared. “Are you coming to church with us?” I asked.
She ruffled my hair. “I prefer to pray in the privacy of my own home, thank you very much.” She stole a piece of bacon off Dad’s plate.
“Hey!” he said. She bent over and gave him a kiss on the lips. He beamed. The sight of her—fully dressed and ready to take on the day—raised our spirits.
And when she’d walked out the back door with a basket of freshly laundered clothes, we couldn’t help but smile. Mom lived for laundry. She measured our lives by it: “Look at the size of the underwear I had to get Barry this week—my little boy is becoming a man…Shelagh’s certainly got a lovely figure. 36C was my size too when I was her age. They’re shriveled up a bit now, mind…Gord’s going to need to move up a size in these sleepers. I hope I can get another pair with monkeys on them, they’re my favorite.”
A blast of cold air had filled the house but no one said a word. Nan quietly pulled a blanket over her knees, Shelagh slipped on her dressing gown, and Dad pulled Gord’s high chair out of the draft. Pius, on the other hand, strutted around in his NHL boxers. “Some Newfoundlanders you are.”
We watched as Mom reached into the basket and carefully pinned our clothes to the line. She smiled at us through the open door. “It’s some day on clothes.”
It was a phrase meant for days when the sun was splitting the rocks, but Mom hung out clothes all year long. Sometimes they came in as stiff as a board but we didn’t care. When Mom hung out clothes, she was happy. And that meant that we were happy too.
The line shrieked as Mom yanked it through the pulley.
“That line needs oiling,” said Nan.
Dad gazed out the window. “It’s music to my ears.”
I rubbed my goose-pimply arms. “Mine too.”
Gord and I left Bannerman Park and went back to the bingo hall, where I showed him off to a table of old biddies. Even with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, they managed a “God love him.” They were a talented bunch.
Mom frowned when she saw me. “When you’re fourteen, you can take him farther. Until then I want you sticking close to home.”
“I only wanted to show him the new hall,” I said. “We usually only go as far as Caines.”
It was a lie, of course. I took Gord everywhere. I took him to the Zellers mall once. We rode a horse for a quarter. It wasn’t a real horse. Real horses neighed. This one played the William Tell overture.
When we got home we watched Rugrats until Mom came back and put Gord down for a nap. When Dad and Nan went to the kitchen for a cup of tea, I loaded the Riverdance video into our VCR. Dad had given it to Mom for Christmas because Mom had a thing for Michael Flatley, who was the lead dancer. He wore bolero jackets over his shirtless torso and thin headbands across his forehead. Pius said he looked like a tool. Mom said he was making a statement. “Yeah,” said Pius. “ ‘Look at me. I’m a tool.’ ”
In order to master the art of Irish step dancing, I watched the video not once, but twice. I pinned my hands to my sides and did what I figured was a pretty good rendition. Every now and then I added a quick flick of a leg in the air. It seemed to be a Riverdance signature move. I made it my own by adding a wink. I danced in this fashion from one side of the room to the other. There was no way I could wait until September for the Full Tilt auditions. I was too good. And how could I deny the troupe what was clearly a God-given talent? It wouldn’t be fair.
So that night, after one of Nan’s Sunday pot roasts, I cleared the living room and gathered everyone around. I brought in an extra kitchen chair for when Mom and Dad invited Father O’Flaherty over for an encore. O’Flaherty was relatively new to town, having taken over for Father Molloy, who’d brought shame upon the Full Tilt Dancers by using money they’d earned at a competition to buy himself a rabbit fur fedora down at Chafe and Sons. Mom and Dad hadn’t had the chance to have a one-on-one with Father O’Flaherty yet, so not only would I be fulfilling a dream by becoming one of his dancers, I’d be bringing people together.
When everyone was seated, I went to the back porch and taped pennies to my shoes.
“Hurry up,” said Shelagh. “I’ve got a chemistry test tomorrow.”
“And I’ve got a life to live,” said Pius.
In a spur-of-the-moment decision, I took off my shirt and put on the faux-fur shrug that hung on the coat rack. I tied a shoelace around my forehead. With my inner Flatley successfully channeled, I clicked into the living room with my head held high.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said Mom.
Nanny beamed. “God love him.”
Dad looked grief stricken.
“Look,” said Pius. “It’s Dorkel Fattly.”
I sucked in my gut and struck a matador pose in the doorway.
The room fell quiet.
Too quiet.
Shit.
I’d forgotten the music.
Without breaking character, I shuffled toward the stereo and pressed Play with my toe.
Then I shuffled back again.
“That was smooth,” said Pius.
A Celtic reel danced out of the speakers. I stayed perfectly still.
“Are you going to dance or what?” said Dad.
Didn’t they know? Flatley never made an entrance till halfway through the song.
It was hard to hold my matador pose with Shelagh huffing and Mom tutting and Pius swearing under his breath. They’ll be sorry, I thought, when their cold, dead hearts come to life at the sight of me soaring over the sofa.
“Why’s he just standing there?” said Shelagh.
“Because he’s an idiot,” said Pius.
I could feel a growling, deep inside my belly. I tried some deep breathing.
“An idiot with asthma, by the sounds of it,” said Shelagh.
“Are you going to start or what?” asked Dad.
“It’s not my turn,” I said. “I don’t come on till the other dancers leave the stage.”
“What other dancers?” said Mom.
Nan looked around the room. “I see them,” she said. “Their costumes are as green as the rolling hills of the Emerald Isle.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” said Dad.
“Bah-gah!�
�� yelled Gord.
I put my finger up to silence them. We’d reached my favorite part and I wanted to savor it. Drums rolled in like a musical snowball, the sound growing bigger and bigger as it filled the room.
In three…
In two…
In one…
The fiddles burst in with a frenzy and so did I.
With my hands on my hips, I leapt into the room. I spread my legs as wide as I could and thrust my chin in the air. This’ll show ’em. The bastards.
The china cabinet shook when I landed.
“Lord dyin’ Jesus,” said Mom. “There goes my great-grandmother’s tea set.”
A clickity-click to the left.
A clackity-clack to the right.
A few spins here.
A couple of twirls there.
God, I’d picked a long song.
I put my hands on my knees and did some kind of crisscross motion with my arms.
Then I did the Charleston.
Focus, Squires, focus. What would Flatley do? I pictured him in all his shirtless glory. “You got this, Finbar,” he said in my imagination. It was all that I needed. With my arms glued tight to my sides, I tapped the bejeezus out of the floor. I stared straight ahead at the soon-to-be-filled-with-Father-O’Flaherty-chair and hoped to God I had an encore in me.
I tried not to look cocky as I bowed.
Gord clapped his hands.
“Bravo, bravo!” yelled Nan.
The rest of them doubled over laughing.
“Someone call the doctor,” said Shelagh. “Barry had a fit.”
Pius pinged my makeshift headband as he left the room. “If I ever see you doing anything like that again, I swear to God I’ll punch your face in.”
I picked Gord up and slung him on my hip. The little snot-rag was the only one I could stand to be around. (Well, Nan too, but I could hardly storm off with her in my arms.)
I sat on my bedroom floor and peeled the pennies off my shoes. Gord tried to put them in his mouth. I grabbed them. “Dirty,” I said. “Bah,” he said back.
I stretched out on my bed with Gord on my chest. He tried to pick up my nipples.
“No, Gord. They’re attached.”
He reached out and touched the raised patch of purple that splashed across my cheek.
I pushed his hand away. “No!”
I felt bad. How was he supposed to know about birthmarks? I played pat-a-cake to make up for it. As I sang about the baker’s man, I reflected on my performance. Maybe, instead of a live show, I should’ve videotaped myself, and added lots of cool edits and slo-mo in the post-production. It worked wonders in Riverdance. Who knows? It could’ve made all the difference.
There was something about Sunday nights that made my bedroom ceiling really interesting. Pius was in the bed next to me reading Gretzky: An Autobiography and I could hear Fawlty Towers reruns from downstairs and “Wonderwall” on repeat from Shelagh’s room. I pictured Gord asleep in his cot and all around me was the smell of our Sunday supper, corned beef and cabbage, still strong in the air. Everything around me—what was in my ears and up my nose—was comforting, but Sunday nights meant Monday mornings. I stared at the bumpy texture of the ceiling. We’d had a leak the year before and the whole thing had to be redone. The painters recommended stucco because it hides imperfections, unlike the smooth surface we’d had before. They called it a popcorn ceiling but it didn’t look like popcorn. It looked like crushed meringue. I thought about school the next day. Soon I’d feel like a frayed puzzle piece—no matter how hard I’d try to fit in, there’d always be bits sticking out.
I remembered that time in the dumpster. The older boys had said my face was dirty, so they chucked me in like a piece of trash. The parish hall curtains broke my fall. They were old and worn and smelled of smoke. The boys got suspended, but they were only trying to put me in my place. No one likes a puzzle with bits sticking out.
I looked up into the crushed-meringue sky and heard fading laughter, the dumpster boys’ and then my parents’. Fawlty Towers came to an end and there were footsteps on the stairs. “Wonderwall” faded to black.
CHAPTER TWO
Getting to school on time was pure guesswork because there were no clocks in our house—Dad couldn’t stand the ticking. As a clockmaker at Just a Matter of Time, he said his days were filled with a “bloody cacophony of ticks and tocks.” He only owned one timepiece, a wristwatch, which he kept in his bedside table and checked just once in the morning, so he could gauge when to leave for work. I left shortly thereafter and hoped for the best.
As always, Uneven Steven greeted me on the corner with a big “ ’Allo, Squire.” I used to correct him by saying “It’s Squires, with an s,” until he told me that calling someone squire in England was the same as saying buddy or fella. It was just one of our many lost-in-translation moments.
We first met on the corner of Cochrane and Duckworth—I was walking past it, he was sprawled across it. I had no problem with the disadvantaged, I was always praying for them at mass, but did they need to take up the whole sidewalk? My foot got caught in his rucksack and I ended up doing a crazy hokeypokey until I was finally freed. I said “arsehole” as I stumbled away. He shouted, “Oi, who you callin’ a merry old soul?” I knew nothing about Cockney rhyming slang back then—I just thought he was deaf. The next day as I passed, he gathered his things and said, “Good day, Your Highness. Is the sidewalk to your liking?” I said, “No. You forgot the red carpet.” He laughed his head off. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Uneven Steven spent his mornings on the corner of Cochrane and Duckworth, having spent the night at the Harbour Light Centre. Visiting him required a bit of a detour but I figured school could wait—a top o’ the morning to the disadvantaged was far more important.
I returned Steven’s ’Allo, Squire with a “What’s the time, me ol’ trout?”
Steven looked at his watch. “8:49.”
School didn’t start till nine. I dropped my schoolbag. “Loads of time. Congrats on the job, by the way,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t work at the bingo hall anymore. Frankie McCall fired me after my first shift.”
“How come?”
“The Sullivan sisters complained when I called eighty-eight.”
“What’s eighty-eight?”
“Two fat ladies.”
“You didn’t look at them when you said it, did you?”
“Couldn’t help it, mate.”
“This’ll cheer you up,” I said.
I took a homemade roll out of my pocket. “Have a squeeze of me grandmudder’s buns.”
He took it in his grubby paw and grinned. “Cheeky devil.”
I liked giving the disadvantaged a laugh.
“Guess what?” I said. “I’m gonna be a Full Tilt Dancer.”
“Irish step dancing?” he said. “If you want to be a dancer, mate, you need to be a bit more rock and roll. I can show you some moves, if you like.”
Uneven Steven claimed he was a popular rock star in the sixties and seventies, known for his signature moves. No one believed him. Not when his left leg was three inches shorter than his right.
“I don’t like rock and roll,” I said. “I like Irish music.”
“Ireland is the armpit of Great Britain,” said Steven. “And why you’d want to look like a bloody leprechaun dancing around in a tartan vest is beyond me.”
I was disgusted. Since when was leprechaun an insult?
“Step dancing,” I said through gritted teeth, “is cool.”
“Cool? You need your ’ead checked, mate. All that clickin’ and clackin’. It’s a bloody racket, that’s what it is.”
I whacked the bun out of his hand like an archer shooting an apple off somebody’s head. “What would you know, you stupid limey? You don’t know nothi
ng about nothing.”
He picked up the roll and flicked off the gravel. “Don’t know nothing about nothing?” he said. “That’s a double negative, Squire. Double negatives don’t make no sense.”
For someone who left school at fifteen, Uneven Steven was incredibly smart.
He patted his cardboard square. “ ’Ave a seat, you silly teapot lid.”
Teapot lid. That was a new one.
“Tell me,” he said. “Why do you really want to join Father O’Flaherty and his poncy dancers?”
I took the dirty roll from him and gave him a new one from my lunch bag. “The thing is,” I said, “I need a thing.”
“A thing?”
“Pius is a jock. Shelagh’s the president of student council. And you,” I added to humor him, “you got that whole rock star thing going. I just want to be part of something.”
“And you really want this step dancing malarkey to be your thing?”
“Nanny Squires says I need to do something physical, to get all my angst out.”
His blue-gray eyes sparkled through lashes that Shelagh would kill for. “Angst, eh?”
“And I really do think it looks cool. Their feet move so fast and the taps are so loud. It’s almost…violent. It’s like they’re kicking the shit out of the floor. The problem is, they audition only once a year—in September.”
Uneven Steven took a bite of my grandmother’s roll and looked to the sky.
“ ’Ere’s what you do,” he said after a minute or two. “Get yourself down to the nursing home and offer to do a performance. Make sure it’s a Thursday night, that’s when Father O’Flaherty visits. If he sees potential, he might arrange an audition. Better yet, he might invite you to join on the spot.”
“A performance?” I said. “In public? I’m good, but I’m no Michael Flatley.”
“Don’t worry, mate. They’re gonna love you.”
“My own family laughed their arses off. These old people, they might boo me right off the stage.”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“There is no stage. According to Alfie Bragg, you stand on an X in the Last Chance Saloon.”
Barry Squires, Full Tilt Page 2
