Unhooking the Moon

by Gregory Hughes

  We ate tomato and ham sandwiches, with hot tea, and then we wandered outside where the midday sun was blazing. Dad followed with a bottle and a glass and, sitting on the porch, he poured himself a drink. The Rat shaded her eyes and looked into the horizon. ‘Dad, Harold’s coming.’

  Dad was just about to take a drink but he stopped himself. ‘Oh sorry, Marie Claire.’

  ‘It’s OK, Dad.’

  Dad poured the whisky back into the bottle. ‘I’ll go make you kids some lemonade.’

  Harold was the Rat’s boyfriend and a nicer kid you’ll never meet. Unfortunately he had something wrong with his legs and no matter how many operations he had he still needed crutches to walk on. But you never heard a single complaint from old Harold, not about his disability, not about anything.

  He lived with his mother in a small shack on the other side of the tracks. She was a hardbitten woman if ever there was one. She had nothing and she took nothing from nobody. ‘You can be whatever you want to be, Harold!’ she would tell him. ‘And I’ll have words with anyone who says different!’ But no one did say different. Everybody liked Harold.

  I remember the day Harold’s father left Winnipeg for work. Harold and his mother went to the train station to see him off. He was only supposed to be gone a few weeks, but that was two years ago and they haven’t seen him since. When the Rat got the Red Cross to provide Harold with a driver he took up train spotting. The Rat said he did it in the hope of seeing his father come home, but he doesn’t talk about it much.

  The Rat sat on the back-porch swing-chair and read her magazine until Harold was panting in front of her. ‘Hey, Harold!’ she said as though she’d only just seen him.

  ‘Hey, Marie Claire. Hey, Bob.’

  No matter how hot it was Harold always wore a clean shirt and a tie, and his hair was always neatly combed in a side parting. He was the tidiest kid I ever saw.

  ‘Come sit next to me, Harold.’

  Harold struggled up the steps and placed himself slowly in the swing-chair. When he got settled I took his crutches and put them in easy reach.

  ‘How are you, Harold?’ asked the Rat handing him a glass of lemonade.

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  But it was plain to see that Harold wasn’t fine. He looked exhausted to the point of pain, and sweat was pouring down his face.

  The Rat put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Just rest, Harold, it’ll pass.’

  She fetched a damp flannel from the bathroom and wiped his face and forehead. The Rat rarely helped Harold. Even at school he would struggle to his feet to give her his chair, and she would always take it. I thought it was pretty mean at first. But she told me that all Harold wanted was to be treated as though he could run around the block. So that’s what she did.

  ‘Why don’t you loosen your tie, Harold?’ asked the Rat.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Honestly, Harold, you can be so difficult,’ said the Rat and, reaching over, she undid his tie and top button.

  Harold never liked to be helped. But a little fussing from his girlfriend always brought a smile to his face.

  Leaving them alone, I walked over to Dad’s prairie garden to potter around. It was really nice. It had a small gravel path and an old tree trunk that we used for a bench. And Mom’s remains were buried here. There was a plaque with her name and dates written on it and under the plaque was a stone jar containing her ashes. Dad said he kept the garden to show us how the prairies would have looked had they not been cultivated into farmland, but really it was dedicated to her. She loved prairie plants and the garden was full of them. There was the fiery red Gaillardia with its yellow border and the Stiff Goldenrod with its sticky buds. And the Purple Cone Flower, which was the Rat’s favourite, grew in abundance. I took a seat on the bench and stretched out. It was so silent you could almost hear the grass drying in the heat. That’s the great thing about the prairies, there’s plenty of peace and quiet when you want it.

  Harold must have recovered from his walk because him and the Rat followed me to the garden. I got up and let them have the bench.

  ‘Thanks, Bob,’ said Harold taking a seat. ‘It’s such a beautiful garden. And look at those butterflies. I’ve heard people call them floating flowers and I can see why.’

  ‘Did I ever tell you the Native legend of how butterflies came to be?’ asked the Rat.

  ‘No, but I’d like you to.’

  The Rat knew more of those Native legends than the Natives themselves. She’s such a little squaw.

  ‘Well, there were human twins born to the Spirit Woman. And all the animals looked after them. The wolf hunted for them, the birds sang to them, and the bear protected them. They wanted for nothing. But in time the animals saw that the twins never crawled or walked the way their young ones did, and they never reached for anything. This concerned the animals and so one day they sent the dog to the top of the mountain to see the Great Spirit. “Go to the edge of the river,” said the Great Spirit. “There you will find multicoloured stones. Collect them and place them at the feet of the children.” The dog obeyed these words but it had no affect on the children. In frustration, the dog picked up the stones and threw them in the air. To his surprise, they never fell to the ground. Instead, they floated and fluttered and turned into butterflies. Then, the children reached and crawled for them. And, in time, they waddled after them. But the butterflies always stayed just out of reach. And that’s how butterflies came to be. And the moral of the story is, don’t pamper your children.’

  ‘I like that story, Marie Claire. You know so much.’

  ‘You do as well, Harold … Bob, would you like to get me and Harold more lemonade?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. Normally I would tell the Rat to go jump in the river, but she knew I wouldn’t say anything in front of Harold. But as I took the Rat’s glass from her she began to sway. I knew it was coming. ‘Dad!’ I shouted. She went to stand up but collapsed. ‘Dad!’ Her teeth clenched and she began to shake uncontrollably. I pinned her shoulders to the ground before the spasms grew too violent. Her face cringed with pain and saliva ran from her mouth. I heard a shutter crack and the Old Man’s feet swishing through the grass.

  ‘She can’t breathe!’ shouted Harold.

  I tried to unlock her jaw but I couldn’t. Suddenly dad was kneeling next to me.

  ‘Daddy’s here, sweetheart! You’re going to be OK!’ His face was hard and serious. ‘Can you hear me, sweetheart? Daddy’s here.’ She began to make a strange gagging sound. ‘Try and relax! Breathe normal now, there’s a good girl!’ Her hands tightened into fists and shuddered back and forth. Her heels ripped at the grass. Dad threw his arms around her and held her tight. ‘Come on, sweetheart! Let it go!’

  I didn’t know what to do and so I took hold of her hand. I turned to see Harold. He looked terrified. ‘She’ll be OK, Harold.’ Just as I said it, the spasms became less violent. Her eyes opened and her jaw unlocked.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart. Take a deep breath.’ She was still shaking slightly but she took a breath. Dad held her until the pain left her face and then he held her some more. ‘It’s all over now, sweetheart.’ He said kissing her on the side of the head. ‘And you were such a brave girl.’

  She blinked as she tried to refocus and tears ran down her cheeks. ‘I’m surrounded by monsters. But a warrior in black comes to my rescue. He has silver swords and he fights to protect me.’

  ‘You’ve had too much sun,’ I said. But it’s not the sun. It’s whatever plagues her. They’re like fits and when they happen she says the spookiest things. The doctor said she’s not epileptic and he couldn’t find anything else wrong with her. He wanted her to see a specialist in Vancouver, but she wouldn’t go. The Rat hates hospitals.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Dad. ‘Don’t I fight for you?’

  Her face was pale but her eyes returned to near normal. ‘You always fight for me, Dad.’

  ‘And I always will,’ said the Old Man, smoothing his ha
nd over her forehead. She tried to sit up. ‘Slowly, Marie Claire.’ Dad helped her sit on the bench by Harold and sitting next to her he held her close.

  Harold took hold of her hand. ‘You were really brave, Marie Claire.’

  Dad kissed her again. ‘Wasn’t she, Harold? She’s always been a brave girl.’

  We were quiet for a time, nothing but the buzzing bugs to disturb the silence. I stood there feeling awkward. I felt bad for her, but there wasn’t much we could do except wait for her to recover. She laid her head against Dad’s chest like a child who had just woken up. ‘Them Gaillardia’s are coming up nice,’ she said.

  ‘Not as nice as you,’ said Dad. ‘You’re nicer than any flower that’s ever lived.’

  After a few minutes she pulled away from Dad and sat up. Then she stood up. ‘I’m fine now. It’s OK, Bob, I’ll get the lemonade.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to lie down, honey?’

  ‘I’m OK, Dad.’

  She walked back to the house with the Old Man following.

  ‘She’ll be OK, Harold. It wasn’t too bad.’

  But who was I kidding? I was as worried as the Old Man.

  Chapter Three

  The rising sun diminished my dreams like the dew and my thoughts turned to Miss Gabriela Felipe Mendez, a student teacher on loan from Puerto Rico. I would be starting a new school in the fall and so this would be our last class together. I had become quite fond of Gabriela over the last couple of months and she was fond of me, at least I think she was.

  ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ blasted up the stairs and I ran to beat the Rat to the bathroom. I sang along with Frank as I showered and gave my hair a second wash. Then dressed in my best jeans and T-shirt, I trotted down the stairs. The Rat scurried past me. She was in the school play and she’d been looking forward to it for weeks. She was still a little kid really. She still gets excited over things like the school play.

  That’s why she was wearing her Armani dress, which she was very proud of and usually only wore on Sundays. One of the women in the Red Cross had bought it for her for collecting so much money for the African Appeal. The Rat was as good as a debt collector when it came to collecting money. Most of the volunteers would stand to one side and ask for a discreet donation. Not the Rat, she’d run up to them rattling her tin in their faces. She was a proper little extortionist and I think she embarrassed some people. But it was for a good cause, I suppose.

  Breakfast was over in a flash and we were out the door and pedalling away before ‘My Way?’ was finished; ‘Watch out for the paedophiles,’ fading behind us. We didn’t sit on our seats until we reached the train tracks. But we stopped when a Northern Harrier plunged into the Indian Grass. The Northern Harrier is a hawk with a three-foot wingspan. There’s a lot of wildlife in the greater Winnipeg area. It’s like the Serengeti without the lions. Suddenly the hawk sprang up with two red-sided garter snakes in its talons. It looked great! ‘The early bird catches the early worm,’ I said.

  ‘But are you the early bird who catches the early worm? Or the early worm who gets caught by the early bird?’

  I just gave her a look.

  ‘Anyway, it’s a good omen,’ she said.

  ‘How can you say it’s a good omen after what you said about Dad?’

  ‘Different omens mean different things. A hawk capturing two snakes is a good long-term omen. We’re good for the long-term,’ she stated.

  ‘You’re such a Rat.’

  ‘Everybody wants to be a Rat!’

  ‘It’s cat, you dummy.’

  She laughed. She was just winding me up.

  We were out of breath by the time we reached the river. We pushed the bikes in the bushes, and, firing-up the Marlin, we blasted downriver. It was cool going to school in a boat. And, no matter how tired I was when we started out, I always felt refreshed when we got there.

  We rounded the Red River and continued up toward Luxton School. Me and the Rat could have gone to a school closer to home but we preferred the sophistication of Luxton. It’s a great school with great teachers and it has large playing fields where we did all sorts of sports.

  We docked the Marlin as close to the school as we could and, tying her fast, we ran up someone’s driveway. We slowed to a walk when we saw a couple having breakfast on their patio. They said good morning to us and we said good morning to them, and then we carried on running.

  ‘Harold’s not here,’ said the Rat.

  Harold always waited for the Rat at the school gate. If he wasn’t there it was because his legs were giving him grief. ‘He’s probably taking it easy,’ I said.

  When we entered the playground we saw that some of the parents had already arrived; the last day of school was always a bit of an open day. Little Joe came over with some of the guys: Scott and his brother Steve who were so alike they looked like twins. James, the only black kid in my year, who everyone called Jazzy James because he could almost play the sax. And Fireman Fred who got that name because he burned down his garden shed when he was eight. He burned down next-door’s garden shed the following year, but denied setting fire to the Wal-Mart, even though he was seen in the vicinity.

  Then there were the Hanson girls, Stephanie and Judy, who came with their older sister Jade and her jailbird boyfriend Bono. They really were Winnipeg white-trash and proud of it. They bragged to everyone that their mother was the second-best shoplifter in Winnipeg. Second only to their other older sister Sara who was once Miss Winnipeg and whose beauty dazzled the security guards so much they wouldn’t have caught her if they could. But the girls were always well-dressed and fun to be around. And Judy was so smart she got a scholarship to a private school in the US.

  Then came Vernon, whose real name was Archibald but who went ballistic if you mentioned it, and Peter, who turned up with his born-again parents who watched over him like he was the next coming. But he never wanted to be a Christian, or to have his parents follow him around. He just wanted to hang out with his best friend Fireman Fred to see what burned down next. And last but not least came the two James boys: Frank and Jessie. But their name wasn’t James it was Johnston. They were the coolest because their big brother played hockey for Colorado and their sister had been dated and dumped by the lead singer from the Darkness. He said he’d kill her if she ever came near him again and so straight away she was in both Winnipeg newspapers.

  I stood with them, boasting as boys do, while the Rat stood with the Hanson girls, no doubt getting tips on how to shoplift. All the talk was about the upcoming summer and what we were going to do. Little Joe had so many plans. There would be horseback riding on the reservation, camping around Lake Winnipeg, and hiking along the Red River. There was even talk of a trip to Toronto.

  When the bell went we made our way inside. I walked ahead of the guys and, weaving my way through the other kids, I headed straight to class. My first two lessons were with Miss Gabriela Felipe Mendez and when I entered her classroom she was writing on the board. I took a seat without taking my eyes off her.

  ‘OK, everybody, take a seat and try to keep the noise down,’ she said turning to face the class. ‘Now, today being the last day of school, I’ve put some easy exercises on the board; just underline what is a noun, a pronoun, and what is a verb and then make a sentence out of each.’

  She had such a beautiful accent.

  ‘When you are finished make your way out of the class. The boys head to the gym, where I believe you are going to play games. And the girls can go help with the school play.’

  ‘Marie Claire’s in the play, isn’t she?’ asked Little Joe turning around.

  ‘Couldn’t keep her out,’ I said.

  ‘I’d like to play with Miss Gabriela Felipe Mendez,’ said Fireman Fred.

  ‘That’s no way to talk,’ said Little Joe. ‘Have some respect.’

  That’s why I never told the guys how I felt. They were way too immature.

  ‘Quiet now, and when you are finished make your way quietly out of the cla
ss.’

  Everybody’s head went down, but mine didn’t. It’s hard to describe Gabriela’s beauty. She’s like … She’s like Miss Puerto Rico. I could just see her standing in her swimming costume, holding a sceptre and wearing a diamond tiara. I saw her in a swimming costume once. I was doing backstroke at the pool and when I got to the deep end I saw her standing above me, swimming costume on and everything. She looked great!

  After a while the kids who had finished put their papers on her desk and left. You could hear the girls giggling down the corridor and Little Joe’s booming voice asking them to keep quiet. Most of the kids finished quickly so as to be out of the class, but I was in no rush. I looked at the page while listening to Gabriela’s shoes tapping towards me and then away from me. When she was close I could smell her perfume. She smelled nice. And when she walked away from me I watched her from behind. I don’t want to be rude, because I really like Gabriela, but she had a better butt than Jennifer Lopez.

  Soon there were only a few kids left in the classroom and I found myself sneaking glances at her. But then I looked up and she was looking right in my eyes. And for some reason I couldn’t look away.

  ‘Are you having trouble, Roberto?’

  She calls me Roberto. ‘Well,’ I said.

  Next thing I know her bronze face was inches away from mine. ‘You have done these so many times and you never get them wrong. Look … ’

  She started to explain what to do but I heard nothing. All I could feel was her breath puffing against my cheek and the smell of her perfume wafting around me. It made me kind of dizzy at first. Then it made me very dizzy. And boy was it warm! Why they never had a window open I’ll never know! It was as hot as hell outside!

  ‘You understand, Roberto?’

  When I turned to look at her, I could see my whole face in her big brown eyes.

  ‘Roberto?’

  ‘I do.’

  She laughed a little and giving me a smile she walked away. I felt so exhausted my head fell into my hands. But I knew she liked me. She was always asking me to do stuff for her like carry boxes or wipe the board, and she never asked anyone else. And it’s not just a schoolboy crush. If I were twenty years older than Gabriela I’d still like her. And I’ll be thirteen soon. It’s about time I started dating.