The Way Back Home

by Allan Stratton

  This is actually going to work.

  25

  Granny doesn’t drive any faster when we hit the country. It’d be quicker if I pushed.

  “Could we speed up a bit?”

  Granny presses on the gas. We head towards the ditch.

  “Granny!” I point to the road.

  She gets us back in our lane and we carry on, not exactly flying, but fast enough if you’re not in a hurry. Which we are.

  We pass the turnoff to the bridge. “Think Bird Turd can fly?”

  We come up to a tractor pulling a wagonload of pumpkins. Granny slows down. Soon there’s a line of cars behind us.

  “Granny, everybody’s waiting for us to pass.”

  “Let them wait.”

  “There’s no one coming. We can do it easy.”

  The car behind pulls out. So does Granny. The car behind brakes. Granny wobbles between our lane and the passing lane. Cars honk. Granny pulls all the way out. Other cars follow. Only she hardly speeds up. We inch up along the wagon. There’s a hill ahead. The dotted line ends.

  “Granny! Faster!”

  “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  A car speeds over the hill. The tractor slows for Granny to pass — but Granny slows too!

  “WE’RE GOING TO DIE!”

  Granny blinks — jams her foot on the accelerator — and we fly past and into our lane as the oncoming car swerves onto the gravel. Everyone’s fists are on their horns.

  We’re at the top of the hill. A cop car rounds the bend. Did he hear the noise? Is he slowing down?

  “Granny, the farm on our right. Pull off the road. Pretend it’s home.”

  She does. The tractor and cars drive on as if nothing’s happened. The cop keeps going.

  “Well,” Granny says, “that’s enough driving for me today.”

  You think? But we’re still ten minutes from Woodstock.

  “Granny, I’m going to ask that farmhouse to call us a cab, okay?” I take the keys so she won’t drive off without me.

  A woman answers the door. She’s holding a bottle of Windex and a cleaning rag; her hair’s in a kerchief.

  I point to Granny’s car. “Sorry to bother you, but my granny and I have had car trouble and my phone’s dead. Could I please use yours? We need a taxi to Woodstock.”

  She sees Granny waving. “Come in. Sorry about the mess.” She brings me to the phone in the kitchen. There’s a Woodstock Taxi magnet on the fridge.

  I make the call. “We’ll have one there for you in ten minutes,” the guy says. Good. Add another ten minutes to get to the station and that still gives us ten before the train leaves.

  “Will you be wanting a tow truck?” the woman asks.

  “I’ll have Dad get one when he’s back from church.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll keep an eye out for you. If you and your grandmother would like to wait inside …”

  “No, that’s fine, thanks.”

  I go back to the highway and get our stuff out of the trunk. Cars pass. More cars pass.

  What if there’s someone we know? What if they call Mom and Dad?

  I check the time. It’s been ten minutes since I called. Eleven minutes. I kick at the gravel. Twelve minutes. Thirteen. Fourteen. Where’s the taxi? We’re running out of time!

  A camper comes over the hill. That means a young family or seniors, right? It’s safe to hitchhike … right?

  “Granny! Make like we’re in trouble! ’Cause we are!”

  Granny waves her arms like a majorette while I step onto the road, hands up, eyes pleading: Please! Help! I’m a poor girl with her granny!

  The camper pulls over. It’s got Kentucky licence plates. There’s an old couple inside. He’s got an I’ve Been to Disney World T-shirt; she’s in a polka-dot dress and straw hat.

  “You folks in trouble?” the man asks.

  “We sure are,” I say. “We were going to Woodstock, but our car broke down. My parents aren’t answering the phone and we need a ride.”

  “Hop in. Tell us where to.”

  “Thanks. It’s the next town ahead, maybe ten minutes.”

  Granny and I settle into the back seat with our things.

  “We’re Hal and Bette Perkins,” the man says — and boy do Hal and Bette Perkins like to talk. They have three kids and seven grandkids, and they’ve been travelling around North America since Hal retired two years ago from being an accountant for a shingle company in Louisville.

  “We always had the itch to travel, but never the time,” Mr. Perkins says. “Now we can’t get enough of it. Oh, the stories this trailer could tell. I once found a man’s false teeth in a restroom in Oregon.”

  “Is that a fact?” Granny says brightly. “I once saw a man expose himself.”

  “Pardon?” Mrs. Perkins says, like she didn’t hear right.

  “I was five or six in the candy aisle at Kresge’s.”

  “Good Heavens. What did your parents say?”

  “Can’t say as I told them. But it made an impression. First time I’d seen one of those things.”

  “I guess there’s a first time for everything,” Mrs. Perkins says politely.

  “A last time, too,” Granny laughs. “Which reminds me of a joke.” Oh no. “Why is our church stuck with a piano?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Pastor Nolan keeps the organ in his pants!”

  “Sooo,” I interrupt, “we’re coming into Woodstock. Keep straight along the railroad tracks.”

  “I have another joke!” Granny has a million. She started telling them at church, which is why Mom and Dad stopped bringing her.

  “Granny, I’m trying to give Mr. Perkins directions.”

  “Well, it’s a doozy, but you go ahead.”

  “Okay, turn right at the crossover to the train station,” I say to them. “We can walk from there easy.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Perkins says, as we cross over. “We’ll drop you right at your door.”

  “It’s there,” I point to the house on the corner.

  “My, you are close,” Mr. Perkins says.

  “What’s happening?” Granny asks as I get us out of the car.

  “We’re saying goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Perkins.”

  Granny shakes Mrs. Perkins’s hand through the open window. “It was so good to see you again.”

  They wave us goodbye and drive off. There’s a long whistle as the train pulls in.

  “Quick, Granny.” We run for all we’re worth, throw open the station door and race to the wicket. Granny fumbles me money. I grab our tickets. “Wait!” I call to the porter as he goes to pull up the foot step.

  We hop aboard. As we take our seats, the train pulls out of the station.

  26

  Finally. I can breathe. No one knows who we are or where we’re going.

  “I’m hungry,” Granny says.

  “Not to worry.” I hand her some bread and cheese from the grocery bag. “For dessert, there’s Oreos.”

  “You should open a restaurant.” Granny stares at her food for a bit, then wraps it in a Kleenex and slips it into her coat pocket. Not me. After my cheese sandwich, I have the bag of chips and six cookies.

  “Granny … when was the last time you saw Uncle Teddy?”

  “Oh … a while back.”

  “How long is a while back?”

  “Time’s funny, Pumpkin. At my age, everything goes by so fast it’s hard to tell.” She pinches the skin on the back of her hands. It stays up. “See? That’s what happens when you get old.”

  “You’re not that old.”

  “Old enough I bet you can’t imagine I climbed trees.”

  “You climbed the tree beside the Methodist church where you grew up,” I grin. “There was a branch that went over the roof. You hopped onto it and they had to call a fire truck to get you down.”

  Granny laughs. “How do you know so much?”

  “I listen.”

  “And I talk. Aren’t we the pair?” She looks
surprised. “I have to tinkle.”

  I take Granny’s arm and lead her to the bathroom. She steadies herself on the door frame while I line the toilet seat with paper. It’s a habit Mom taught me when I was little. She took me to a restaurant stall and made a nest with half a roll, like we were there to hatch eggs. “You don’t know who’s been sitting here,” she said. I pictured my kindergarten teacher.

  I’ve been laying paper ever since, even at home. I don’t want my bum anywhere near my parents’. I get Granny seated.

  “Stay,” she says.

  “There’s no room.”

  “Please. I’ll get lost trying to find you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be right outside.”

  Granny chews her lip like it’s beef jerky. I leave the door open a crack, stand in front, and bring her back to the seat when she’s done. She glances out the window. Does she wonder why we’re here? Does she remember where we’re going?

  I put my hand on hers. We smile at each other. Everything’s okay, Granny. I’m here for you. I’ll take care of you. Always.

  We sit like that for a long time. A cloud crosses her face. She looks back out the window. Me too.

  I’ll bet there are runaways from every town we’re rolling through. Were they running to something, from something, both? What happened after they left? I picture Dad looking for me, Mom at the window in those slippers that look like rabbits.

  When Greenview phones, they’ll call the cops. They’ll find the abandoned car. Did that woman see the Perkins’ camper, get the licence plate?

  I picture fifty squad cars screeching up to it. That’s a better story than finding false teeth in a washroom, right, Mr. Perkins? You’re welcome, ha ha.

  Stop it, it’s not funny. There’ll be Missing Persons flyers at the laundromat. Sniffer dogs combing fields and woodlots.

  So what? Nobody cared about me before. Why should I care now?

  But Mom and Dad—

  They’ll have my note: it says we’re fine.

  Granny snores. I close my eyes and picture Uncle Teddy. I wonder if he’ll have grey hair? A beard? He’ll hug Granny, they’ll cry, then I’ll say, “Can I stay with you, too?” and Granny will say, “Please,” and he’ll say, “Of course.” I wonder if he’ll adopt me?

  I see the CN Tower in the distance. The train slows. We pull into Union Station. People start getting their luggage off the overhead rack.

  Granny wakes up. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. We’re in Toronto.”

  “Toronto?”

  “We caught the train after I got you out of Greenview.”

  “What was I doing in Greenview?”

  “Don’t worry. You’re never going back.”

  “You can say that again. I live at the Bird House, 125 Maple Street. It’s where I’m going to die, too.”

  “For sure. But before that, we have to get to Uncle Teddy.”

  The train lurches to a stop. Everyone fills the aisle. I put our leftovers in my backpack, get Granny’s suitcase, and lead her to the exit door. Getting out of the station is tricky: the crowd rushes in all directions; Granny’s distracted by the shops. Outside, my heart beats even faster. Everywhere — skyscrapers, food stands, people from all over. What a great place to hide in.

  So long, Shepton. Hello, life.

  27

  A dozen taxis are lined up at the curb. I help Granny into one and give the driver Uncle Teddy’s address. He zips through lights, running a red and swerving left onto Jarvis. He tears past a bicycle.

  “You almost picked the ass off that one!” Granny whoops.

  I count the numbers on the buildings. We’re getting close to Uncle Teddy’s. There’s a huge park down a cross street; it must be the one he sees from his apartment. The driver pulls up to the curb.

  Wait a sec. This is it? I double-check the address. This is it all right. Why does Mom call it a fancy condo? Rusty air conditioners poke out of the windows; the bins by the front door spill garbage.

  Never mind. I pay the driver and get Granny to the front door. She sits on her suitcase, surrounded by cigarette butts and dead gum, while I check for Uncle Teddy on the buzzer panel. Barker. Bentley. Carley.

  Where’s Bird? It should be before Carley.

  I check again. Bentley. Carley. Where’s Uncle Teddy? I press the superintendent’s buzzer. Count to twenty. Do it again.

  A voice crackles out of the speaker box, noise in the background. “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking for Teddy Bird.”

  “Can’t hear you — Louise, turn that damn TV down.” He and Louise yell at each other, then: “Who do you want again?”

  “Teddy Bird.”

  “There’s no Teddy Bird here.”

  “This is the address on all his letters.”

  “Not my problem.”

  The speaker goes dead. I buzz again and again; he doesn’t pick up.

  Stomach to throat: He has moved since the letters. Mom said his condo overlooks a park. She never said this park. There must be hundreds in Toronto. Thousands.

  Granny peers up at me. “What’s this about Teddy?”

  “He’s out.”

  “Ha! He pretends to be out. He does it for spite.” She picks up her suitcase. “Let’s go. I can’t think for the noise.”

  I can’t think period. “How about a picnic? There’s a park two minutes from here.”

  “Swell.”

  Granny takes my arm and I walk us across the street, past Sonny’s Family Diner — 24-Hour Breakfast Special — and a block of rundown stores with apartments on top. The park doesn’t look like it did from the cab. The grass is weeds, the wading pool’s full of coffee cups and guys are drinking out of paper bags.

  We should go home. We can’t, so breathe. I’m not the only kid who’s run away. With her grandmother?

  I get us to a free bench. Across the street, a guy on a cardboard sheet sprawls beside the front door to the E-Zee Rest Hotel. He’s got a cup and a sign that says Free Smiles. I try not to stare at him.

  Granny puts her hands in her coat pockets, blinks, and pulls out her cheese sandwich. “Look what I found. Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” Cross fingers she doesn’t see the guy peeing against the tree behind us.

  Granny breaks off some bread, tosses it to a pigeon, and puts the rest of the sandwich back in her pocket.

  Uncle Teddy, where are you? How do I find you?

  Pigeons flap all around. “Shoo, that was for him, not you,” Granny scolds. She glances over. “What’s wrong, Pumpkin?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good.” She drumrolls her knees. “We should be getting home.”

  “Not right now.”

  “Why not?”

  Because, because … “We’re on a trip.” I point at her suitcase.

  “So that’s what that’s doing here.” She looks around. “You know, I have a feeling I’ve been here before. Something reminds me of something.”

  “Maybe you visited Uncle Teddy.”

  Granny shakes her head. “No. I visited Teddy in Toronto.”

  “That’s where we are now.”

  “Well, that explains it then.”

  Granny, please be quiet. I have to think.

  She fidgets. “So where have your parents gone off to?”

  “They’re back home.”

  Granny blinks. “What are they doing there?”

  “Granny, this is hard to say, but Mom and Dad put you in Greenview.”

  “What?”

  “I know. So I got you out. And we ran away. Only now we’re in Toronto and things are falling apart, only we can’t go back ’cause they’ll lock you back up, and I’ll be in so much trouble, and I don’t know what to do — I just, I just — I wish I was dead.”

  “Don’t ever say that. Where would I be without you?”

  “Oh, Granny, why do you love me? Why would anyone love me?”

  “Because you’re you. Don’t fret. Things always turn out.�
�

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Okay, they don’t, but we’ve got each other and that’s a start. Have a Kleenex.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her sandwich. “Why, look what I found.” I laugh despite myself. Granny laughs, too. “I think you’re just tired. We should have a lie-down.”

  I look across the street at the E-Zee Rest Hotel. We have to stay somewhere. At least it looks cheap.

  The man on the cardboard by the entrance has a rumpled suit with a toothbrush in the jacket pocket. “Free smiles.”

  “Thank you.” Granny gives him a smile back. We go inside.

  The lobby smells of air freshener and bug spray. The lights are low; I’m guessing that’s a good thing. The woman at the reception desk looks like a prison guard. “Can I help you?”

  “Maybe.” Granny turns to me. “Are we here for a room?” I nod. “We’re here for a room.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “A couple of nights.” Granny reaches into her purse and pulls out the pantyhose. “How much?”

  “Two nights? Two hundred and forty, plus tax,” the receptionist says like she sees this every day. “Do you have a credit card?”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  The receptionist gives us the once-over. “Guess you’re not likely to trash the place.” She takes Granny’s cash and gives her a registration form.

  Granny squints. “My glasses are acting up. How about you deal with this, Pumpkin.”

  I write: Madi and Emily Oiseau, 123 Rue de la Maison, Montreal.

  The receptionist hands me the swipe key. “Room 304. Enjoy your stay.”

  28

  Room 304 is like the lobby, only smaller as in just-enough-room-to-turn-round smaller. The carpet’s a grubby brown check, there’s black stuff growing between the bathroom tiles and the window looks over a sketchy alley. At least it’s not the street.

  Yeah, well, we’ll be there soon if I don’t find Uncle Teddy. After the hotel, train and cab, we only have a hundred bucks.

  “Want to watch TV?” I ask.

  “Up to you,” Granny says.

  I squeeze two chairs in front of the television and turn on music videos. There’s so much dust on the screen I could write my name.