“That’s too bad,” said Saibal.
“Yeah,” I said.
The Metrobus rounded the corner.
“See ya tomorrow, buddy,” I said.
“See ya, Finbar.”
I popped into Gord’s room before going to my own. He was asleep but I whispered to him anyway. “I won’t see you after school tomorrow. I have a performance at the nursing home. It’s important. This could be my big break. You understand, right?”
He let one rip. It was long and wet and bubbly. I took it as a yes.
Saibal and I walked against the wind to the One Step Closer to God Nursing Home. Our hoods were up and our hands were stuffed in our pockets.
“I’m froze to death,” said Saibal.
“Me too,” I said.
As we moved out of the downtown area, row houses became detached homes and the steepness of the roads leveled out. We made our way up Portugal Cove Road and when we reached Elizabeth Avenue, we stopped at Regatta Ford to warm up. In the corner of the showroom, there was a candy machine. Saibal put in a quarter and twisted the knob. I put my hand at the bottom of the chute and collected the colored sour candy. We ate them in a Ford Crown Victoria. Red food dye came off on my fingers, so I wiped them on the leather interior.
Saibal was in the driver’s seat playing with the steering wheel.
“Oh, shit,” I said, looking out the back window. “It’s the cops!”
Saibal grabbed the wheel and put his foot on the gas. He made car noises while I held the Jesus bar and said, “Burn rubber! The pigs are gaining on us.”
Saibal bounced around on his seat, his eyes straight ahead. “Why did you have to kill him, Finbar? He was your big brother.”
“That blackmailer was no brother of mine,” I said. “I promised I’d get that ten bucks back and I did.”
“But did you have to rip out his insides and step dance on them?” Saibal said. “It was a bit cruel, even for you.”
“He got what he deserved,” I said.
“Oh no,” said Saibal. “Up ahead! It’s Deadman’s Pond.”
“Step on the brakes!” I yelled.
“They’re not working,” he cried.
We tumbled about in our seats as the car went over the cliff. Saibal died with his head on the horn. I died laughing.
“Ahem.”
A car salesman was standing by Saibal’s open window.
“His parents are doctors,” I said. “They asked us to pick out a luxury sedan on their behalf.”
The man opened the door. “Out.”
We put up our hoods and went back out in the cold.
“Too bad Gord missed that,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Saibal. “He’d have pooped his pants.”
“Literally,” I said.
We continued up Portugal Cove past the Holiday Inn. The nursing home was in the distance.
“I hope O’Flaherty shows up,” I said.
“I’m sure he will,” said Saibal.
“I’m nervous,” I said.
“You could always wait for the September auditions,” said Saibal.
“I can’t disappoint God,” I said. “He gave me a sign, you know.”
“I’m sure he’d understand,” said Saibal.
“What about you, Saibal?” I said. “Do you believe in God?”
“I believe in a few,” said Saibal. “My favorite is Shiva. He’s the god of destruction.”
“Maybe you can pray to him the next time we’re throwing rocks at the school window,” I said. “It’d be nice for the glass to break for once.”
“He only destroys evil,” said Saibal.
“School’s evil,” I said.
“True,” said Saibal. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Patsy greeted us at the nursing home. “They’re waiting for you.”
I took Billy Walsh’s tap shoes out of my backpack. They were two sizes too big.
“Here,” said Patsy, crumpling up the Evening Telegram.
Saibal shoved the balled-up newspaper into the toes.
“Perfect,” I said, rocking back and forth.
The Last Chance Saloon was packed with old people sitting on plastic garden chairs. Uneven Steven waved from the front row. I clicked toward him, waving and winking to the oldies as I passed them by. Saibal followed behind.
“Hi, Steven,” I said.
Steven looked beyond me.
“ ’Allo, Saibal.”
“You two know each other?” I said.
“Saibal organized a sock drive for the Harbour Light Centre last year,” said Steven. “I had warm plates of meat all winter.”
“He means feet,” said Saibal.
“I know what he means,” I said. “I’m not a garden tool.”
“Fool?” said Saibal.
“Bingo!” said Steven.
“Bingo?” said Edie from the second row. “I thought we were here for a show.”
“And that you are, Eeds,” I said.
I stretched my arms over my head and bent from left to right.
“Nice to see you warming up,” said Uneven Steven. “I’d have never kept up with Jagger without a few pre-show stretches.”
“You played with the Stones?” said Saibal.
“Keith Richards had the sniffles,” said Steven. “I was his fill-in.”
“Unbelievable,” said Saibal, sneaking me a wink.
I smiled. It was nice of him to play along.
I was swinging my leg over the back of a garden chair when the elusive Father O’Flaherty walked in. I say elusive because Father O’Flaherty was a man who kept a low profile, and elusive means hard to find. It’s what Mr. McGraw called me whenever my homework was due. Father O’Flaherty had been in town for almost six months now but none of the parishioners really knew him. Our old parish priest, Father Molloy, was out and about all the time—at Tim Hortons having a chat and a double-double, down on George Street having a pint of “medicinal” Guinness, in Bannerman Park sunbathing in his Speedo. Father O’Flaherty, on the other hand, only made himself available during official religious duties. He did spend a lot of time with the Full Tilt Dancers, though. Apparently, like me, he was quite taken with Riverdance. He even flew to Dublin to see one of their shows. According to Billy Walsh, it was O’Flaherty’s goal to make the Full Tilt Dancers the best Irish step dance troupe in Canada. If that’s the case, I thought, he’ll definitely need the likes of me. I clicked over to him.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
He looked me up and down. “Do I know you?”
“You will soon,” I said.
“Who knit ya?” he asked.
“My conception had nothing to do with needles and wool,” I said. “The tools of the trade were more, how shall I put it, biological. But to answer your question, my parents are Brendan and Margaret Squires. From York Street.”
He scowled. “So you’re the infamous Finbar Squires.”
I put out my hand. “The one and only.”
He didn’t shake it.
“Father Molloy told me about you. You’re the youngster who punched a hole though the confessional screen.”
“In one blow,” I said. “But my talents don’t stop there.”
I nodded toward my tap shoes, then raised my eyebrows.
“You’re a dancer?”
I smiled. “Some might call me the best-kept secret in the dance world.”
He looked intrigued. “Really?”
I put a finger to the side of my nose and walked away.
Uneven Steven gave me a thumbs-up. “Good luck with the ol’ Jack Palance.”
“That means dance,” said Saibal.
“Just so you know,” I said, “Cockney is my second language. So I don’t need you acting like you’re so
me kind of goddamn translator.”
Saibal elbowed Steven in the arm. “Someone’s getting themselves into a real cream puff.”
“That means huff,” said Steven.
“I knew what he meant,” I said, even though I hadn’t.
I stood on the X and looked around. “Music, please.”
“Performers usually bring their own equipment,” called Patsy.
“But this is the Last Chance—I mean, the special events room,” I said. “How in God’s name does it not have a sound system?”
“You think this place has money for a sound system?” she said.
I closed my eyes. Focus, Squires, focus. What would Flatley do?
A raspy and somewhat muffled voice rose from the crowd.
“Are you just going to stand there or what?”
I opened my eyes to see an old woman sneering at me through her oxygen mask.
“Take a chill pill, Darth.”
Patsy wagged her finger at me. “You, young fella, are a disgrace.”
So much for “We’re not fussy, my duck. I’m sure you’ll be delightful.”
“I’m going back to my room,” said a man in the front row. “Land and Sea is on.”
“Me too,” said another. “Tonight’s episode is ‘The Trouble with Beavers.’ ”
“Oooooh, beavers,” everyone murmured.
“Wait,” I said. “Don’t go.”
I looked to Buster and Edie for help. Buster gave me a wink and started da-da-da-ing the Land and Sea theme tune. Edie joined in. Soon the whole room was filled with song.
Uneven Steven caught my eye. “What are ya waiting for?” he growled. “Dance.”
I pinned my arms to my sides and danced to the delightful ditty that filled Newfoundland homes on a weekly basis. It was a bit slow, but beggars can’t be choosers. When they were done, I said, “Thanks, b’ys. I really appreciate it. How’s about we do something faster this time?”
Edie started them off.
Beer, beer, beer, tiddly beer, beer, beer!
An Irish drinking song. Perfect.
A long time ago, way back in history,
When all there was to drink was nothin’ but cups of tea,
Along came a man by the name of Charlie Mopps,
And he invented a wonderful drink and he made it out of hops.
Everyone joined in. They swung their arms in unison. I channeled my inner Flatley and kicked my legs high in the air. The singing was so loud you couldn’t even hear the thuds as I landed. It was brilliant.
He must have been an admiral, a sultan, or a king,
And to his praises we shall always sing.
Look what he has done for us, he’s filled us up with cheer!
Lord bless Charlie Mopps, the man who invented beer, beer, beer,
Tiddly beer, beer, beer…
Buster caught my eye and threw me his cane. I caught it with one hand and broke into the Charleston. Then I twirled it like a baton and did my signature moonwalk.
It was time for my big finish. I landed the splits without the pain showing on my face. The room erupted in cheers.
Uneven Steven wiped a tear from his eye.
Saibal started a standing ovation. It took a full six minutes for everyone to get to their feet, but still.
I clicked my way over to Father O’Flaherty. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“How’s about you invite me to join that troupe of yours?”
He laughed. “I don’t think so. There’s no room for temperamental divas in the Full Tilt Dancers.”
My grip tightened around Buster’s cane. “I’m going to tell my nan.”
Father O’Flaherty looked amused. “And what’s she going to do?”
I snorted. “What’s she not going to do, more like.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My nan’s almost a hundred,” I said. “She’ll be dead soon. Apparently she’s willed it all to the church, but one word from me…”
O’Flaherty’s brow furrowed. I moved my mouth toward his ear. “Mark my words. I will be in your dance troupe.”
I turned on my heel and stormed out of the room. Out in the lobby, I swung Buster’s cane like a baseball bat, knocking three table lamps to the floor. They smashed into a billion pieces.
Uneven Steven came barreling behind me.
“Bloomin’ heck, Squire! Have you gone Patrick Swayze?”
In the distance, we heard a mass shuffling.
Steven grabbed the cane. “Make yourself scarce, Squire.”
I ran like the wind to York Street.
Every click was a stab to the heart.
I sat on the floor and put my hand through the slats. I put my hand on Gord’s arm and matched my breathing to his. I’d missed our bedtime song, so I wiped my eyes and sang:
Beer, beer, beer, tiddly beer, beer, beer…
CHAPTER SIX
I thrust the tap shoes into Billy Walsh’s chest. “Here.”
“How did it go?” he said.
“Swell.”
He looked at his crotch. “Wish I could say the same.”
“Were you thinking about God?” I said. “He likes to invade impure thoughts.”
“It wasn’t God,” he said. “It was me mudder invading my underwear drawer. She found the Playboy and dragged me to confession.”
“Jesus Murphy,” I said. “What did Father O’Flaherty say?”
“He said he’d have to confiscate it but Mom had already burned it. He seemed disappointed.”
“Better luck next time,” I said.
When I walked into Mr. McGraw’s class, he told me Mrs. Muckle wanted to see me. I walked into her office like I owned the place.
“Can’t get enough of me, can you, Judes?”
She pointed at the chair across from her. “Sit.”
She said she’d heard about the incident at the nursing home.
“I’m sorry it didn’t go as planned, Barry, but you must control that temper of yours. Apparently you were so upset, you ran out of the home and accidentally knocked over three lamps.”
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“Steven Morris.”
“Steven who?”
“Steven Morris. You know, the homeless man?”
“Oh. Uneven Steven.”
“Don’t call him that,” she said. “It’s cruel.”
“Cruel is having one leg longer than the other,” I said. “Or a port-wine stain across your face.”
“Oh, Barry,” she said.
Her voice had gone soft and I wanted it hard again.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I said. “I whacked the lamps with a cane.”
She sighed. “In any case, Steven has offered to replace them.”
I clasped my hands behind my head and relaxed back. “Well, there you go,” I said. “Problem solved.”
“No,” she said. “Problem not solved. That man doesn’t have two pennies to rub together. You should be the one taking consequences for your actions. Not him.”
“You know,” I said, putting my feet up on her desk, “this incident is not a school issue, and quite frankly this conversation is starting to feel a little bit inappropriate.”
She pushed my feet to the floor. “Father O’Flaherty felt it was his duty to inform me of your behavior. It takes a village, you know, Finbar.”
“Oh, please. What does Father O’Flaherty know? He certainly doesn’t know a good dancer when he sees one.”
“Actually,” she said, “it was your attitude that bothered him. He said your dancing has potential.”
I sat up. “He did?”
She studied my face. “Why do you want this so bad, Barry?”
“Everyone wants to b
e known for something,” I said.
She opened her mouth and closed it again.
“Go on,” I said. “Tell me. What am I known for?”
The answer was written all over my face.
“Your humor. Your smarts. Your way with words.”
I sighed. “In adult circles, perhaps. But with the other students?”
Again, she had no answer.
I stood up and leaned forward.
“You know exactly what I’m known for, Judes.” I pointed to my cheek. “You’re looking at it.”
“Barry,” she said. “Sit.”
I sat back in my seat.
“Not there,” she said. “At your desk.”
I smiled. “My desk?”
“Your name’s on it, isn’t it?”
I sat down at the desk in the corner and ran my fingers along the FTS I’d scraped into the wood. Mrs. Muckle passed me a piece of paper.
“Father O’Flaherty’s a reasonable man. Write him a letter. Plead your case.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Judes.”
I began.
My dearest Father O’Flaherty,
Some of the greatest artists in the world are the temper and mental type. Ozzy Osbourne bit the head off a bat live onstage. Van Gogh cut his own ear off. It kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it? When you think about it, my behavior was nothing more than a little tantrum, and let’s face it, it was kind of justified. I mean, how can you have a musical performance without music? But I—
“Judes? What’s the word you use when you want to change the subject? Begins with d? Sounds like digest?”
“Digress,” she said.
But I digress. This dancing malarkey is about more than being temper and mental. It’s about being chosen. You see, Father O, I received a message from God himself. He told me to dance. There was an almighty glow and everything. So you see, you don’t really have a choice in all of this. I was meant to be a Full Tilt Dancer. God said so.
Sincerely and with the utmost of respect and gratitude,
Finbar T. Squires
Mrs. Muckle read it over.
“It’s temperamental, not temper and mental,” she said. “And don’t call him Father O. It’s the height of rudeness.”
Barry Squires, Full Tilt Page 8
