The lounge was big with a large stain on the hardwood floor, hinting a coffee table had once lived there and someone had spilled something. The bathroom was peeling yellow with soap scum embedded in the claw foot bath. And the bedrooms were sad with their drooping curtains and mouse skeletons.
But it was dry, mostly weather tight, and had one queen mattress leaning against a wall in the third bedroom.
My thoughts turned to Della and getting her comfortable enough to fight the fever and stuffiness in a cosy bed in a proper house.
There was nothing to steal, and my raid on the pantry yielded an ancient can of peaches, an out-of-date box of Cocoa Puffs, and a sachet of noodles with a chicken on the front.
Mostly worthless but I could source other food.
I couldn’t find other shelter.
Not in the middle of winter.
Leaving the meagre food on the wooden countertop, I didn’t take them back to Della.
Instead, I brought Della to them.
I took the risk of claiming the unwanted house, bunkering down for the season, and doing what I needed to make her better.
I became a homeowner…however temporarily…for her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DELLA
* * * * * *
Present Day
WOULD YOU BELIEVE the boy and the baby lived three winters in that house?
No one noticed that the farm went from untended to small patches of veggies growing here and there. No one knocked when the chimney was swept and a fire roared, keeping its two illegal inhabitants warm inside. And no one cared when the empty house slowly filled with furniture, salvaged from rubbish piles and back alleys.
You see, humans are funny creatures.
The farmhouse was far enough away from society not to be an immediate concern but close enough that it was a stain on their otherwise perfect existence.
It was forgotten, ignored…just like us.
When Ren would return from scoping out tourists or seeking weaknesses on shop security, he’d smile a secret smile and feed me town rumours about the Old Polcart Farm.
You have to understand, Ren was a ghost when he wanted to be. The older he got, the more invisible he became. To a child, I found it utterly fascinating how adults just flat out ignored him.
He’d see things, hear things, steal things without ever being noticed.
And a lot of what he’d steal was information.
He’d spill unsugarcoated tales about how the son had shot the father before running off with two hundred chickens, geese, and turkeys. The father had rotted on the living room floor of Polcart Farm for weeks until the sweet smell of decay reached the town’s noses.
The local police department removed every shred of furniture, paid a professional cleaner to delete the evidence of death, then put it on the market in foreclosure.
Only problem was, no one wanted to live in a house where a corpse had lain for weeks.
But us?
Ren and me?
Well, we were funny creatures, too, and we didn’t mind the lingering smell or the dark ominous stain in the living room. We covered it with an old grain sack from the barn and placed a crate on top for our coffee table. A few bales of hay covered in blankets was our couch for that first year, while a few pallets beneath the mattress raised us from the floor, and Ren even made a lampshade for the single bulb from bent fence wire and old sheep wool.
He even found out how to turn on the electricity thanks to weathered solar panels and a broken wind turbine meant to operate water lines for stock. Thanks to his problem solving and determination, he learned how to redirect the naturally generated power to service the house.
In the summer, we never ran out of electricity. In the winter, we struggled but we didn’t need much. Ren taught me to be grateful and to enjoy each little thing no matter how awkward or fleeting.
To me, Ren was magical.
He might not have been able to read and write, but he was the smartest person I knew.
Now, I know you’re probably thinking, “Well that isn’t high praise, seeing as you were a baby whose only friend and family was a farmyard boy” but I’m here to clarify that, even now as I’m about to cross the threshold into adulthood, I still maintain Ren is the smartest person I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.
Everything he touched became useful or full of purpose. My days were spent waddling after him (his words, not mine) watching him endlessly, soaking up everything he did, squeezing my ribbon in awe as he wielded axes, planted seedlings, fixed hinges, and constructed fences.
He never stopped working.
He scolded me, berated me, and rolled his eyes at my need to follow, watch, and mimic, but I could tell he liked having me around. He called me a chatterbox, but that was only because he didn’t say much, so I talked for both of us. But when he did speak, wow…my ears would throb for more.
His voice, even as a boy, was husky and low and almost dangerous with things he didn’t say.
He had a fury inside him that scared me sometimes.
A single-mindedness that glittered in his eyes with dark ferocity.
I often wondered if he’d ever outgrow his savage tenacity, but he never did.
His relentless need to work and tend and toil was a product of his past that was so ingrained even I couldn’t fix him.
I wish I could paint a better picture of how much I looked up to him.
How much I worshiped him.
How much I loved him even then.
He was everything to me, and his intelligence didn’t come from book smarts but life itself. He listened to its lessons, he excelled at its exams, and he gave me every piece of himself by sharing all that he knew.
He didn’t shelter me from things like other parents might have done.
He made me kill my first rabbit when I was two. He made me sew up his arm when he cut himself when I was three.
He treated me as capable and brave and bright, and that’s what I became because I never wanted to let him down because he would never let me down.
Simple as that.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
REN
* * * * * *
2004
WINTER CAME AND went.
The sun warmed frozen land and sprouted new growth.
The trees rustled in the warm breeze and beckoned me back into their depths, yet whenever I looked at Della, I didn’t have the heart to grab our already packed backpack and leave.
She’d sprouted over the past few winters from curious baby to independent person, and I didn’t want to deprive her of the chance to grow up in a place where a roof meant stability and walls offered solid sanctuary.
She had free roam of the house—safe from drowning in rivers or being mauled by wildlife. I didn’t need to watch her endlessly and enjoyed the freedom that gave me in return.
The veggies I planted in spring gave us enough variety to our diet that with regular hunting and a little patience, we didn’t need to risk ourselves by heading into towns and stealing.
Realistically, it would be stupid to leave.
For over three years, no one had bothered us. No one noticed or cared.
We were as invisible as we’d ever been, and I was determined to give Della a home…if only for a little while.
Our first summer at Polcart Farm, I’d focused on better equipping the house for the next winter. I’d repaired the leaks in the roof; I’d salvaged old drapes from a local dumpster and hauled things back that made a house a home.
A table and chairs.
China plates instead of plastic.
A few discarded toys with tangled-haired dolls and missing-piece puzzles.
And, one night, when I cut through the back streets of the town after sizing up how easy a local corner store would be to break into if we ever needed emergency supplies, I stumbled upon a TV.
The screen was cracked in one corner and the picture jiggled in the other, but when I first plugged it in, using sun and wind
as our power source, and Della snuggled up next to me with joy spread all over her face, it was worth the back-breaking trek back home.
When winter hit the second time, we were more prepared with rations and warmth, but boredom was a problem neither of us knew how to face. I’d already spent the time creating flowing water thanks to redirecting well water with the aid of a stock pump. I’d plugged holes in walls and cleaned dirty appliances.
The house was well cared for and didn’t require much more.
I wished it did—if only to keep my brain from going stir crazy.
I wanted the chores of staying alive, of travelling, of learning a new place and circumstance. And if I couldn’t have that, I wanted farm animals to tend, upkeep to dally with, and general busyness that kept my mind from the past and firmly focused in the now.
As fields were slowly deleted with more and more snow, Della became naughty, exploring areas she shouldn’t, disobeying me, arguing with me, generally being a brat I wished I could toss out onto the frozen deck and teach her a lesson.
When she screamed in frustration because my lack of teaching failed her communication skills, I screamed right back. When she threw a corn on the cob at my face when I ordered her to finish every bite, I made her eat every kernel off the floor.
There were many things I permitted and indulged because she was my everything. My best friend, my little sister, my penance in real life. But if she ever wasted food…that was when my temper wouldn’t be mollified.
We might have it easy now. She might have had it easy in the farmhouse while I wasted away in the barn. But there was no separation between her and me now. We were stuck with each other, and soon, when the seasons thawed and Della was bigger, stronger, faster, we would leave this place.
This wasn’t a permanent solution.
And she had to know the value of things.
A TV wasn’t something to be protected because it was worthless away from electrical sockets and satellites. A mattress wasn’t special because it could never come with us when we ran.
But food? That was infinitely precious.
Our tent? That was priceless.
She might be young, but she was never too young to learn those lessons, and I gave her no leeway when it came to learning them.
She could cry all she wanted. She could hate me for days. We could fight until I stalked from the house and slept in the barn, but she would never win with me.
I was older.
I was in charge.
But I was also aware I was everything she had and wouldn’t jeopardize that for anything.
Once the fire in her baby blue eyes simmered and the rage in my blood cooled, we’d awkwardly sit on our hay bale couches and slowly trade stiffness for solidarity.
She’d inch closer toward me with her ribbon trailing after her, and I’d open my arm for her to wedge tightly against me.
And there we’d sit, our apologies silent but completely heart-felt and true. I knew it was wrong to find such comfort in the sharp relief and drowning affection that came after an ugly fight, but I’d never had the aftermath before.
I’d had the shouting, the screaming, the striking, the kicking, but I’d never been held afterward or kissed on the cheek by an adoring little girl.
Just like we could cause each other’s grief, we had the power to raise the stars. When Della was happy, I was happy. Her smile was infectious. Her eagerness to learn an absolute gift when I was desperate to teach.
To teach the opposite of what I’d been taught.
But I was also keenly aware that what I had to teach was extremely limited.
One dark winter’s night, Della flicked through the TV stations at warp speed. We didn’t get many channels due to bad reception, but sometimes, the weather allowed a snippet of movies and cooking shows, and now, a kid’s channel.
She squealed and bowled toward me where I sat on the couch carving a stick into a lynchpin to be used as a new hinge in the gate I’d repurposed to keep critters out of our veggie patch. My knife scraped and shavings littered the floor.
Quickly, I palmed the sharp blade so she wouldn’t impale herself as she bounced into my lap. I laughed and looked up at the bright TV where fake puppets and badly drawn cartoons wriggled around like idiots.
“Ren, look!” She waggled her ribbon-clutching fist at the TV. “Toons!”
“Cartoons.” I pushed her gently off my lap so she sat beside me on the couch. It wasn’t that I didn’t like being touched; I just became overwhelmed whenever she did. It’d gotten to the point where I was afraid that one day, I wouldn’t be able to breathe unless she touched me all the time.
She was my one weakness, and I was determined to stay immune to her for her own protection.
The TV squawked some stupid song, parading out knives and forks and bowls and fruit, flashing letters on the screen and screaming the name along with it.
Della jiggled to the song, repeating household items.
I returned to my carving, keeping one eye on her and one eye on whittling.
Time ticked on, and we fell into a comfortable rhythm; that was until Della exploded from the couch and ran to skid to her butt in front of the TV. Her little eyes danced over the brightness, her fingers drawing in the air the letter on the screen.
“A is for apple. A is for ape. A is for a great big albatross. Can you say albatross?” The cartoon puppet blinked as if we were a bunch of morons who couldn’t say A.
I rolled my eyes, then froze solid as Della yelled, “Albwatloss.” Turning to face me, she pointed excitedly at the screen. “Ren! A. It’s A for appwle.” She stood and traced the letter on the screen, then twirled around with her blonde ringlets bouncing and her blue ribbon twirling.
My heart stopped with how perfect she was. How smart. How kind. How brave. I’d never look at the colour blue again without thinking of her. I’d never hold another ribbon again without wanting to hold her.
Up until that moment, I’d kept a hardness inside me.
I’d treated her dearly, but I’d kept a piece of myself tucked away. But there, as she repeated the alphabet and started to excel me in every way, she nicked the fortress around my stupid heart, and I had no choice but to give it to her.
She was my Della, my ribbon, and I couldn’t stop myself as I placed the knife back into its holder in my boot, crawled across the floor, and sat beside her.
She beamed and pointed at the letter S on the screen.
The one of four I knew thanks to Mclary and his compass lesson.
I repeated along with her and the stupid cartoons. “S is for snake. S is for snow. S is for a bright yellow sun!”
We lost track of time as we soaked up the knowledge gifted by ugly puppets. I didn’t cringe at the childish songs. I didn’t roll my eyes at the baby talk. I put aside my ego and imprinted every letter into my brain.
I did it for me but mainly I did it for her.
Because eventually, I would need to be more than the illiterate boy who’d carried her away in a backpack. I’d have to be a role model, counsellor, and friend. And I was determined to be a friend who could read and write.
As the night wore on and my eyes scratched and head throbbed, I glanced at Della, who’d turned drowsy and soft.
Normally, she was the one who instigated affection.
But that night, I was the one who dragged her droopy, sleepy body close and kissed her cheek. I nuzzled her sweet-smelling hair and murmured, “You’re the one teaching me now, Della Ribbon. Please don’t ever stop.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DELLA
* * * * * *
Present Day
OOPS, I TOTALLY forgot to finish that last chapter.
It was a little off tangent I’m afraid, but at least, hopefully, it will help show you how special Ren was and how unique a man he became.
Now, before I lose my train of thought to such bittersweet memories again, I want to tell you three events that are so real to me.
I don’t kn
ow if I recall them from my own experiences or if Ren was such a master storyteller, he manufactured the history to suit his own ends. Either way, they’re some of my favourite, and this tale wouldn’t be complete without them.
I suppose I’ll begin with the very first one made at Polcart Farm where we lived for over three years. There were so many memories created there: antidotes Ren would tell me, jokes he’d spin from things I’d done, and lessons he’d remind me of from prior mistakes.
I knew Ren was happier in the forest away from society, but he put that need aside for me. He watched cartoons with me as we learned to read side by side. We cowered together when a hurricane threatened to tear the roof off, and celebrated when we cooked our first meal entirely self-sufficient.
So many things.
Too many things to mention in this assignment, so I’ll only mention the three that totally stand out.
The first was when he finally called me something other than Della Mclary. I didn’t have the words at the time to tell him how much I hated that name. That whenever he called me that, it was if he reminded himself that we weren’t meant to be together and did his best to create distance.
But that night, when he finally called me Della Ribbon as we watched educational cartoons, he never once called me Mclary again. From then on, every time he called me Ribbon, my insides turned gooey, and I’d do anything he said—even if I didn’t want to.
Amazing what love can make someone do, right?
In my toddler brain, I associated him calling me Ribbon with his admittance of loving me. He’d accepted me as his own. He no longer needed to remind himself that I wasn’t born to be his.
The power of that nickname could stop my tears, cease my anger, soothe my fears, and to this day, he doesn’t know how much it still affects me. How the gooeyness inside has morphed from child infatuation to adult intoxication. How gradually, over the years, my love has turned less pure, and I’ve kept that secret for years.
The Boy and His Ribbon Page 8