Rex Zero, King of Nothing

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  “This is when they came to visit us in England,” he says. “She had remarried by then. A bloke named Peter. Good chap. That’s my Austin they’re leaning against. I’ve told you about my Austin, haven’t I?”

  “The one you ran over the cat with?”

  “The very same. Horrible cat.”

  I take the picture from him and hold it with both hands. It’s as if we just stepped off that tightrope and this photograph is the first piece of solid land. I want to hold on to it as tightly as I can.

  “No wonder Annie thought she recognized Erik,” he says. “She was just a little tyke, but she fell in love with him. ‘What’s the nine-year-old doing now?’ she’d ask. Or ‘Can the nine-year-old come out and play?’ She never called him Erik – always the nine-year-old.”

  “Where’s Mum?” I ask.

  “Probably with the children.”

  “No, I mean in the picture.”

  He smiles.

  “Probably with the children,” he says.

  “And Inge’s husband?”

  “He was probably playing the piano. He was quite a pianist. Wait a second.”

  Dad reaches out, takes the photograph from me and holds it to his ear.

  “Yes,” he says. “If you listen very closely you can just hear it. Some awful Strauss waltz, I think, but rather jolly.”

  So I take the photograph and hold it close to me and listen for all I’m worth. And I can almost hear it. The music.

  27

  Stones

  WHEN I GET A CHANCE I ask Mum if it was Inge she wanted Dad to tell me about.

  “Good gracious no,” she says. “Inge wasn’t the problem.” Mum is kneading bread. She gives it a good hard punch. “Sorted him out, she did.”

  I’m not sure what she means but from the way she’s going at the bread dough I figure it best not to go on about Inge anymore.

  She sighs and goes back to kneading. But I can see she’s thinking and I wait patiently, leaning on the counter.

  She pushes her hair off her face with her wrist. She gets a flour smudge on her forehead but I don’t say anything.

  “There were other things that happened in the war,” she says. “Things that are like stones on your father’s heart.”

  It’s such a strange thing for her to say that I’m struck dumb.

  She rolls the dough over and sprinkles it with flour. She’s about to knead it again, but she pauses.

  “Towards the end of the war . . .”

  She stops, as if already she’s gone too far. I hold my breath.

  “They’d heard rumours, of course,” she says, as if I already know what she’s talking about.

  “Rumours about what?”

  “Horrible things,” she says. “Atrocities.” Her face is hard, every muscle tense. Then she shakes her head. “Oh, it’s not for me to say, Rex.”

  Atrocities. I know about atrocities.

  “The camps?”

  She looks at me solemnly.

  “The . . . concentration camps?”

  After a moment she nods. I sit down hard on the nearest chair.

  “Bergen-Belsen,” she says. She looks out the window. A gust of wind blows the snow into a whirlwind and the garden disappears. “British and Canadian troops liberated Bergen-Belsen in 1945. April 15, 1945.”

  For a moment I’m dazzled, thinking of the troops liberating the camp. Was Dad one of them? He must have been. That’s why Mum remembers the exact date. He must have been so happy and proud helping to set free all those prisoners.

  I look at Mum and her face is stony silent. Grey. She’s not one bit happy. She’s watching me, waiting. Making me think for myself.

  And now a movie reel starts clicking in my head. A war documentary I must have seen on television. Photographs of concentration camps. I stare at Mum and she reads my mind. Her voice, when she speaks, is extra soft.

  “He was an engineer, Rex. Someone had to clean the place up.”

  It’s utterly quiet except for the wind in the garden. Then I hear my mother swallow.

  I look at her. She looks worried. I try to let her know I’m okay. I can handle it. I don’t want to let her down.

  Do you know what the best thing in the world is, Rex? To be useful.

  Then I remember something else my father said to me a million years ago when I was pestering him about the stuff my sisters didn’t know – stuff that was not for delicate ears.

  I’m not sure that now’s the time, he said.

  Suddenly I know what he meant.

  It isn’t time. I’m not ready.

  And yet . . .

  I want to help. I want to be useful.

  I stare at my mother kneading, kneading. She glances my way.

  “What do I do?”

  She stops. Shrugs.

  “I don’t know, Rex,” she says. “He has nightmares. Even now. I thought he should talk to someone. But he won’t see a doctor. You know what he’s like. And he won’t go down to the Legion – talk to other old soldiers.” She pushes the dough around. “I wasn’t sure who to turn to. Then when he asked you to go to the service at the War Memorial . . .”

  She looks at me with this hopeful look.

  Has she forgotten what happened on Armistice Day? No, I don’t think so. Dad wanted me to go with him. That’s the point. Sure, I blew it, but this is my chance to make up for it.

  “Should I ask him about it?”

  She smiles at last and rolls her eyes.

  “Rex, I think your father has had quite enough of you for the time being.”

  “I know. But some time – some other time?”

  “Yes,” she says. “That would be good.” She takes a knife, cuts off a section of the dough and plops it in a bread pan. I carry it to the hearth in the living room where it’s warm and the dough can rise. I wait and take the next and the next. Six loaves rising.

  “Many hands make light work,” she says. It’s something she says a lot, especially when she wants us to help clean up. I take a tea towel and wipe the flour smudge off her forehead.

  28

  Many Hands Make Light Work

  MANY HANDS MAKE LIGHT work. That’s what I think about as Friday approaches. There are lots of things to think about, but right now there is one last battle still to fight. The battle of Friday night. The battle of the Lavenders.

  I can’t help thinking about Natasha Lavender. I see her in my mind’s eye the way I saw her that first time, standing at the window of twenty-nine Quigley Street, staring out at the darkness, looking so sad.

  Then I see her saying goodbye to Larry. Hear how mean he is. See the black eye he left her with as a going-away present.

  I see her in the Two-by-Four, the time when I warned her and Mr. Dance that Larry was on his way. I see the fear in her face.

  Then I see her the other time at the Two-by-Four, when she tried so hard to explain what had happened between her and Mr. Dance and between her and Larry.

  Last of all, I hear her telling me on the phone about how much fun Larry used to be and how she hopes when he gets back he’ll have a story or two to tell her. If he doesn’t – if he’s mean and miserable – then they’ll have to have a good long talk. That’s what she said.

  And that’s what worries me.

  I phone Wilfred Dance. He’s worried about Natasha, too, but he can’t go over.

  “If she asked me, I’d be there in a shot,” he says. “But I shouldn’t interfere. It would make matters worse. You can see that, can’t you, Rex?”

  I guess I can. My own interfering has already got me into big trouble. I’m not sure I want to poke my nose into any other people’s business. But then I remember what Dad said. How the best thing was to be useful. What am I supposed to do?

  Then I get a sign.

  Wednesday night. The Magnificent Seven is on TV – the best cowboy movie of all. These hired gunmen root out the bandits who are devastating a helpless Mexican town. They work together and nothing can stop them.

&nbs
p; “Larry sounds mean and sneaky like a bandit,” says James, when I tell him my plan the next day.

  “So is Natasha the helpless Mexican town?” asks Buster.

  “Kind of.”

  There are even seven of us, just like in the movie: James, Buster, Sami, Kathy, Donnie, Zoltan, and me. Donnie’s got a broken arm and I’ve got a sprained wrist, but who cares?

  “What is plan?” asks Zoltan.

  “We listen,” I say.

  “That’s all? Listen?”

  I nod. I tell them about the entranceway at number twenty-nine, how there’s room for all of us as long we’re quiet, so we don’t have to stand outside in the cold.

  “And you can hear good?” says Zoltan.

  “If he starts yelling or throwing stuff, we’ll hear it, all right.”

  “If he does start throwing stuff, what then?” says Donnie. He looks excited, as if throwing stuff is right up his alley.

  “We’ll knock on the door,” says James.

  “Boring,” says Buster. “How ‘bout I bring my Bowie knife?”

  “No way!”

  “We’ll keep knocking until he comes down,” says Kathy.

  “And?”

  “And we’ll tell him we’ll call the police.”

  “We should at least take a baseball bat or something,” says Donnie.

  “We don’t need weapons,” I say. “There are seven of us.”

  * * *

  It snows again on Friday from early in the morning until late afternoon. It’s beautiful. By evening, the clouds have scudded away and the moon has come out. Perfect.

  We trudge over to Quigley Street in high spirits, as if we’re going bowling or to a movie. It’s hard to think things might get dangerous. But as we approach the apartment building, the butterflies inside me wake up and start doing the Watusi in my stomach.

  The lights are on. It’s seven-fifteen. We stamp the snow off our feet outside on the front porch and then head inside.

  “Shhhhhhh!”

  But we aren’t anywhere near quiet enough. Seven people in a small entranceway is as good as a herd. In no time the door to apartment 1A opens and a tiny old lady with her hair up in curlers peers out at us.

  “Carollers!” she cries, clapping her hands together. “What are you going to sing?”

  We look around at each other. Then Donnie starts, “Speed Bonnie Boat.” I join in, but the old woman in apartment 1A is not amused.

  “That’s no Christmas carol,” she says.

  “That’s because it isn’t Christmas,” says James.

  That’s when the door to apartment 1B opens and a fat man with suspenders over a stained T-shirt peers out at us.

  “What is this?” he says, rubbing his belly.

  “Uh, we’re just visiting,” says Kathy.

  “Visiting who?” says the fat man. “There ain’t no kids in this place.”

  “My aunt,” I say. And I point at the door to 2B.

  The man doesn’t look convinced. But James steps forward.

  “Sorry, Mr. Derouin,” he says. “We didn’t mean to make so much noise. But our aunt doesn’t seem to be home yet.”

  The man looks suspiciously at James and then back at me. “She’s your aunt, too?”

  “She is all our aunt,” says Zoltan.

  The man makes a sour face, shakes his head and closes the door.

  “How’d you know his name?” I whisper.

  “The mailbox,” says James.

  “Shhhh!” says Sami. “Listen.”

  Sure enough, we hear raised voices. Buster puts his ear up against the door to 2B and his eyes grow wide.

  “It’s them, all right.”

  “Or it’s him, anyway,” says James.

  I take a turn at the door. Larry is hot about something.

  “What’s he saying?” says Sami.

  “Try door,” says Zoltan. He reaches through the crowd and slowly turns the knob.

  To our surprise it is unlocked. He pulls it open just a crack. Now we can hear everything

  “Don’t tell me you weren’t seeing him.”

  “For a coffee, Larry. We’re friends.”

  “Friends, my foot. Why I oughta...”

  “No, Larry,” says Natasha, raising her voice. “You ought not to!”

  “Don’t you ever tell me what I can or can’t do!” he says.

  Then there is a loud smack and a cry.

  All of us start pounding on the door and stamping our feet and shouting up the stairs. In no time 1A and 1B are out in the entranceway again, yelling at us and threatening to call the cops.

  “Good idea,” says Zoltan.

  Then we hear footsteps coming from above and everyone goes quiet and steps back. Larry appears at the bottom of the staircase, tucking in his shirt.

  “What the...”

  “These kids,” says 1B. “They friends of yours?”

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” says Larry. He looks us over. “You think I hang out with the seven dwarfs?”

  “I’m not dwarf,” says Zoltan, stepping towards Larry. He’s almost exactly Larry’s height and he’s not afraid of him, either. Larry steps backward on to the first step of the staircase to make himself taller.

  “What is all this rumpus?” says old Mrs. 1A.

  Kathy points at Larry.

  “He was beating up his wife,” she says.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” says Larry. “What’d you say?”

  “You heard her,” says Donnie.

  “You hit her,” I say.

  Larry looks at me with my bandaged wrist and at Donnie with his arm in a sling and at Kathy. It’s as if he’s considering the odds. He smirks. Then Zoltan presses closer, his fists at the ready. And the smirk vanishes from Larry’s face.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he says. “The lot of you.”

  “No,” I say.

  “You’re the one who should get out of here,” says Kathy.

  1B grins.

  “Looks like they got you outnumbered, Larry,” he says.

  “Shut up, fatso.” Larry raises his fist and shakes it at his neighbour, who backs towards his door. Then Larry turns towards us and holds up a finger. “I’m gonna count to five,” he says.

  “Wow!” says Donnie. “So high?”

  Larry’s eyes go all squinty, as if he just stepped into some episode of The Twilight Zone and nothing makes sense anymore. He takes another step back up the stairs.

  “I didn’t touch her, okay?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  It’s Natasha. She’s standing at the top of the staircase. Now she comes down slowly, holding the railing tightly. She’s wearing a red cocktail dress. Her cheek is red, too.

  “Yes, you did, Larry,” she says again. “And it’s the last time you’ll ever hit me.”

  “Hey,” he says. “Come on, hon. It was just a little tap.”

  That’s when little old Mrs. 1A barges her way through the bunch of us and pokes Larry in the chest.

  “Little tap, my Aunt Fanny!” she says. “You think I don’t hear what goes on up there?”

  “Ah, can it,” says Larry.

  But Mrs. 1A taps him in the chest again so hard he winces. By then, Natasha is standing right behind him. I notice she’s carrying his plaid jacket, a scarf, gloves and a pair of boots.

  “Here,” she says. Then she shoves the clothes at Larry so hard, she knocks him off his step. “I tried, Larry. I really tried. But it’s no use. So just go.”

  Larry pulls himself up tall. He rubs his nose.

  “Yeah, well, maybe a little air would be good,” he says. “It sure stinks around here.”

  He shoves us aside and heads towards the door. He stops and pats his pockets.

  “My wallet,” he says.

  “It’s in your coat.”

  “And my house key?”

  Natasha shakes her head.

  “Call me,” she says. “We’ll arrange a time for you to come and get your things.”

  �
�You can’t do this to me,” says Larry. He looks furious.

  “You want me to get the lease?” she says. “It’s only got my name on it, Larry.”

  The fury drains out of him like dirty water from a sink. He’s standing right in the middle of us and he doesn’t look scary at all anymore.

  “Ah, Larry,” says Natasha sadly, almost affectionately. “You’re not so tough when you’ve got a crowd of witnesses, are you?”

  He peers at us one by one, as if he’s memorizing our faces. He’s trying so hard to look tough. Kathy is standing by the front door. She opens it and cold air pours in. She taps him on the shoulder.

  His eyes fly to her hand as if maybe she’s got a weapon or something. Then he brushes his shoulder where she tapped him. He looks at her – at all of us – a little sorrowfully. And, as crazy as it sounds, I can almost see why Natasha liked him once upon a time.

  Then he’s gone.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting. I turn to Natasha as if maybe she’ll invite us all up for a Coke. But she’s crying. And so we leave. Just like that.

  We head over to Buster’s and get there in time for Shock Theatre. It’s Plan 9 from Outer Space, and we laugh ourselves silly.

  I walk home, alone but happy, through the thick snow.

  This snow isn’t going to melt. Not soon, anyway. This is the real thing.

  Epilogue

  MISS GARR DOESN‘T COME BACK. After Christmas she starts teaching grade one at another school and is very happy. Our new teacher tells us all about it. She wonders if we would like to send Miss Garr a card or flowers or chocolates or something. We send a card.

  Kathy’s mom marries Dr. Arnold Schwartz right before Christmas and then all four of them go away together on the honeymoon. When they get back, they move into Dr. Arnold’s big house. It takes Kathy some getting used to. We help out by coming over to eat pizza and watch TV. Missy feels like she got herself a whole big family!

  And that’s not all. Cassiopeia is engaged to Mr. Odsburg. She can’t stop looking at her diamond ring. I ask him if he got it for free because he works in precious jewels. He says no, but he got a good price on it. They’re going to get married in the summer.

  * * *

  Winter sets in shiny and cold, and by mid-January the Rideau Canal is safe to skate on.