Going back to school after a long weekend was always hard, but I managed to arrive at Mr. McGraw’s class on time and hungry for taffy.
“Good morning, sir,” I said. “I do hope you have a pastel blue on hand.”
Mr. McGraw smiled. “I’m sure I do.”
Halfway through the class, Damian Clarke passed me a picture of Mikhail Gorbachev. There was an arrow pointing to the port-wine stain on his bald head. Written across the top were the words “Finbar Squires’s long-lost dad.”
I smiled. “That’s funny,” I said. “Real funny.”
Then I tipped Damian’s desk over with him in it.
The upside was Mrs. Muckle had a package of Purity Ginger Snaps on her desk, so even though I had to write “I will control my temper” one hundred times, I had some cookies for energy.
After school, Saibal and I took Gord to Fred’s Records. We asked Tony to put on The Wiggles’ “Big Red Car” and to our surprise, he did. We pushed Gord around the store and Tony sang along. Gord shrieked to the toot-toots and the chugga-chuggas, and customers looked at him like he was the cutest thing on earth, which he was. Afterwards we walked to Lar’s Fruit Store—but we didn’t buy fruit, we bought custard cones, and when Gord tried to hold his, I said, “Look, Saibal. He has dimples where his knuckles should be,” and Saibal said, “He’s some cute.”
On the way back to York Street, we found a pay phone and looked up Bob the Schnoz’s number. It wasn’t under Schnoz, though. It was under Myrick, which was his last name.
“It’s ringing,” I said.
“Hello?”
The voice sounded motherly.
“Do you have Robin Hood by the bag?”
“Um…yes, I do.”
“God almighty, woman! You’d better let him go!”
I hung up.
It was Saibal’s turn.
“Hello?”
“Do you have Aunt Jemima by the box?”
The motherly voice turned not-so-motherly.
“Don’t call back here again, you little shaggers!”
We doubled over laughing. Gord too.
“That’ll teach ’em,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what.
Saibal opened the phone book. “What’s your bully’s name, Finbar?”
I grinned. “Damian Clarke. Why?”
He smiled. “You’ll see.”
He flipped to the Cs. I scanned the listings and pointed. “That one.”
He dialed the number and held the receiver to both our ears.
“Hello?”
It was Damian.
“Oh, hello,” said Saibal. “Can I speak to Mrs. Wall, please?”
“Sorry, wrong number.”
“How about Mr. Wall?”
“I said wrong number.”
“What about Harry Wall? Is he there?”
“No.”
“Sally Wall?”
“How many times? You’ve got the wrong number!”
“I don’t understand,” said Saibal. “There are no Walls in your house at all?”
“None!”
“That’s weird,” he said. “What’s holding up your roof?”
He slammed the phone down and we burst out laughing.
“Thanks, Saibal,” I said. “That made my day.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Anytime.”
We were just leaving the pay phone when a man with a bottle in a brown paper bag staggered toward us. He stopped in front of me and said, “With a face like that, I’d walk backwards.”
“Piss off,” said Saibal.
“Shut up, wog,” said the man.
For once I was speechless.
Saibal grabbed the stroller and almost mowed the man down. “Come on, Finbar.”
When we got home, he told Nan what had happened. “You poor little things,” she said. She sliced off two huge slabs of her homemade bread and slathered them in partridgeberry jam. Saibal dug right in but I just stared at mine. It was funny how you could know something and not know it at the same time. Like the word wog. I hadn’t heard it before, but I knew what it meant by the way it was said.
“Saibal?” I said.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Eat your bread.”
I took a bite.
“I’m okay too,” I said, in case he was wondering.
“I know you are, Finbar,” he said. “You’re hard as nails.”
He invited me to his house for supper. Pius pulled me aside before we left. He said I should bring a banana, because banana was good for cooling down hot and spicy curry. Turns out they served Jiggs Dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Sharma were really nice. Out of the blue, because they were doctors, I said, “How much would it be to get this taken off my face?”
Mr. Sharma said he was no expert but he did a dermatology residency once. He said laser surgery was a possibility but he wasn’t sure if it was covered by the government. Mrs. Sharma said I was a beautiful boy and I should leave my face alone.
Later, at home, I sat next to Gord’s crib. He was already asleep. I watched his breath go in and out, in and out. I hoped he’d never hear the word wog. I reached through the slats and stroked his cheek. He’d be beautiful no matter what.
It was blowing a gale and the whole house shook. I had trouble falling asleep but eventually I did, and when I woke it was dark and my life had changed.
I couldn’t see Pius but I could sense him. He slid one hand behind my lower back and the other onto my shoulder blade. As he pulled me toward him, I knew something bad had happened. I could feel it in the tremble of his hands. In the tremble of his breath. In the tremble in the air around us.
He moved a hand up to the back of my head and pulled me into his cold, bare chest. He’d have spoken if he could but how could he speak the unspeakable?
The wind rattled the window. I imagined myself outside. When I looked to the heavens, they opened up. Hail pelted my face. I said, “It’s okay, God. I’m hard as nails.” I stayed in that moment until Pius started rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth. He said, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” and I said, “Nan?” and he made a sound that was a gulp and a sob, and when he said, “No, not Nan,” I knew. I wrapped my arms around his waist and said, “But he’s just a baby.”
Pius pulled a blanket around us. “The wind woke Mom, so she decided to check on him. She knew he was gone right away.”
I didn’t ask how. I didn’t want to know.
The paramedics and police were still in the house when Pius took me downstairs. Dad’s nose and eyes were red. He was thanking the paramedics. I didn’t know what for.
When Dad saw me, his bottom lip shook. “They said it might be cot death.”
I said, “Cots don’t kill babies.”
It was almost May but it felt like December. I shivered in my pajamas. Dad turned up the heat and reached into a laundry basket. He grabbed a shirt that was folded on top, a green plaid flannel, one of his. He helped me into it.
Pius said, “I’m going back up.”
“I don’t want to go,” I said.
Dad sat with me on the couch. He had a hand on my leg. We stared at the coffee table.
After many minutes Dad took my hand. I didn’t want to follow him but I did.
Mom was sitting in a rocker by the window. The Humpty Dumpty blanket was in her arms. I assumed Gord was in it.
Nan stood above her. Her eyes were puffy and swollen.
Shelagh was in the corner, rubbing her swollen belly like it was a crystal ball. That’s when I started to hate her.
Mom looked up. Her face looked different. It was longer. Like her muscles had stopped working.
“Come here, love,” she said.
I felt a growling, deep in my belly. “No.”
“Barry,” said Dad.
Shelag
h reached for me. She had a nerve, the traitor. Having a baby when Gord was gone.
“You,” I growled. “You stay away from me.”
I felt Pius’s hands on my shoulders. “This might be your last chance.”
I twisted away, almost knocking him over.
“Barry,” he said. “Stop.”
“Let him go,” said Dad.
A paramedic blocked my way at the front door. “Son—”
My hands formed fists, so I started to punch him. He grabbed my wrists. I wanted to fall into his chest and cry but that would mean someone died, so I kneed him in the groin.
I ran to Bannerman Park and sat on a swing. It was dark and cold and the wind howled. I hoped Gord wasn’t scared of the rattling at his window. I sat till the sun came up. Dad’s shirt was a hug. My stomach growled. Gord would be up soon. I’d make him his oatmeal, just like usual. I sat some more. I wondered why Pius had been hugging me while I was trying to sleep. Must have been a dream. Kids passed in the distance, schoolbags on their backs. Shit. Gord’s oatmeal. Never mind. Nan would have made it by now. She’d have sprinkled it with cinnamon. He’d have liked that.
After a while, I walked to school. Everyone stared.
“Barry,” said Thomas Budgell. “What are you wearing?”
I looked down. My pants had Spiderman on them. Like they were pajamas or something.
I went to Mr. McGraw’s class. I remembered some kind of deal. A reward if I was good. I took my seat. When Mr. McGraw saw me, he said, “Barry, can I talk to you outside?” It was a familiar feeling, being pulled out of class. I said, “Did I do something bad?” And he said, “Barry, I’m so sorry.” My hands formed fists, so I started to punch him. He grabbed my wrists and I fell into his chest. He put his arms around me but I don’t know for how long because the world wasn’t spinning properly, not since I’d had that bad dream about Gord dying.
Dad took me home. He said, “Gord’s at the funeral home.”
They cried all day long. The bastards. They didn’t have to believe it. No one was forcing them.
I went to the war memorial. When Saibal saw me, he put his head in his hands.
I stroked his hair. “Don’t cry. It didn’t really happen.”
He looked up. “It didn’t?”
I pulled my hand up my sleeve and wiped his tears.
“Of course it didn’t.”
He wanted to believe me, so I said, “Come on. I’ll show you.”
The house was busy with visitors.
“That’s weird,” I said. “There must be some kind of celebration.”
I snuck inside. A moment later I was pushing the stroller toward Saibal.
“Gord is so glad to be out of there,” I said. “Houseguests make such a fuss over him.”
Saibal looked at the stroller.
Then he looked at me.
“Jesus, Finbar. You left his coat wide open.”
My eyes filled with tears.
He bent down and zipped up the imaginary zipper.
“Let’s take him up Signal Hill,” he said.
Passersby stared as we made our way up.
“Your turn, Saibal,” I said. “He’s getting heavy.”
Saibal took over. “You’re some fat, Gord. You’re like a tub of lard.”
At the top of the hill, Saibal tightened Gord’s seatbelt. “You ready, Gord?”
I ran ahead and braced myself. “Okay, Saibal. Let him go!”
The stroller raced toward me.
I could see him.
Plain as day.
Gummy smile.
Wisps of hair blowing in the wind.
Big blue eyes staring at me.
I caught him around the waist.
“I gotcha, Gord. I gotcha.”
I fell on my knees and draped my arms over the empty stroller.
Saibal draped his arms over mine.
“What are we going to do, Saibal?”
“I don’t know, Finbar.”
We sat cross-legged on the sidewalk.
“I don’t want Shelagh’s baby to have the stroller.”
Saibal looked around. “We could throw it in Deadman’s Pond.”
We pushed it through the bushes and to the water’s edge. Saibal took one end and I took the other.
“One, two, three.”
One big splash and it was gone.
We walked back home. All around us the world ticked along. People went about their business and I thought, “Don’t they know? A baby died today.”
Saibal hugged everyone in my family, even Shelagh. Mom hugged him the longest. She said, “Gord loved you. Did you know that?” and all he could do was nod. The kitchen was full of food brought by neighbors. I wasn’t hungry but Nan said I had to eat. Saibal and I sat in the kitchen eating beef stew. When Shelagh came in, I dropped my spoon. Saibal followed me to my room.
“I hate her,” I said.
He nodded. “I know.”
We played Go Fish until it was time for him to leave.
Before he left I asked him to keep going to the war memorial.
“I don’t want things to change,” I said, even though everything had.
“I’ll be there every day,” he said. “Promise.”
I went to sleep.
When I woke it was still dark.
I went to Gord’s room.
I sat on the floor and put my hand between the slats.
I moved my hand around the empty space.
Then I went to my parents’ room and climbed between them. They wrapped their arms around me. I prayed in my head. Please, God, tell them to tell me it’ll be okay. They didn’t pass on his message. Maybe they didn’t believe it. Or maybe God never told them in the first place. Maybe he’d failed me again.
Nan was a machine. Cooking, cleaning, making and taking calls. I walked past the bathroom. She was on her hands and knees. Shelagh passed by too. She said, “Scrubbing that toilet won’t bring him back,” and I said, “Shut up, Shelagh,” not because I disagreed but because I hated her.
For the next few days, blood and breath ran through our bodies but we were barely alive. We were half dead. Maybe three-quarters. A big fat chunk of us was missing. A ginormous tub of lard.
I saw Dad sitting on his bed, his wristwatch in his hand. He said, “I wonder what time he died.”
It was a weird thing to wonder. What did it matter?
“What time was he born?” I asked.
My father was as surprised by my question as I’d been by his.
“2:33 a.m.,” he said. “He was a chubby little thing. Thighs like a speed skater.” Dad smiled just a bit. He strapped his watch around his wrist. “I miss him, Barry.”
“I know,” I said. “Me too.”
Saibal was at the war memorial with two birch beers.
“What do you want to do today?” he asked.
“I want to kick the shit out of the floor.”
We went to the nursing home. They all knew. It was in the paper. They didn’t say much. I got a few sorrys, and a hug from Buster and Edie, and that was it. I appreciated that. I wasn’t there to talk.
We went to the Last Chance Saloon. We were so loud, we drew a crowd. The songs were lively—“Squid Jiggin’ Ground,” “Aunt Martha’s Sheep,” “Feller from Fortune”…When I pictured the Humpty Dumpty blanket, I danced harder. When I pictured Gord dead, I sang louder.
Before I left, Buster asked when the funeral was. I said, “Don’t know. Don’t care.” He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. As I walked out the door he told me to take care and I said, “Will do.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was a visitation at the funeral home. I went to the Harbour Light Centre instead. Uneven Steven told me that when he was little, his sister
died. She was born with a disease and died when she was two.
“Did you see her after she died?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I held her.”
“I didn’t hold Gord. If he’s an angel, he’s probably mad.”
“Gord? Mad?” he said.
I smiled. Gord was the happiest baby on earth.
We spent the rest of the day playing cards around the big kitchen table. The men talked about their lives. They were tough and broken and soft and hard, and they said they wouldn’t be defined by their pasts, and I hoped I’d always be defined by Gord because if I wasn’t, he might get forgotten.
“I’m not going.”
I said it ten million times.
Nan threw her hands up in the air. “We can’t force him. What are we going to do? Tie him to the car?”
“Don’t be an arsehole, Barry,” said Pius.
Mom and Dad were too tired to argue.
Shelagh rubbed her belly. “Come on, Barry. You have to go.”
I picked up a vase of flowers and threw them against the wall.
“Fuck you.”
I wanted Mom to call me Fin-bear, but she stared at the flowers. “Those were from the O’Briens.”
“Clean that up, Barry,” said Dad.
Then they left.
I sat in the front window and stared out at York Street. A car pulled up. Saibal got out. He was wearing a suit. He waved to me. “You coming?” I shook my head. He stared at me. I stared at him. He got back in his car and drove away.
I went to Caines. Boo said, “How are you doing, Barry?”
“I’d like a sour key, please.”
“Here ya go,” he said. “On the house.”
I wandered around downtown sucking on it.
I was at the intersection of Duckworth and Prescott when I heard the beep-beep-beep of a car horn. I turned around. The One Step Closer to God minibus was careening toward me.
“God almighty!” I yelled.
The bus jumped the curb and came to a stop near my foot. The door opened.
“Quick,” yelled Buster. “Get in!”
I hopped on board and took a seat next to Edie.
“I didn’t know you could drive a bus,” I said.
Barry Squires, Full Tilt Page 11
