Flood

by James Heneghan

  “Andy’s father,” said Uncle Hugh.

  “Do I know him?” asked Granny.

  “He and Judith went away to the west,” answered Aunt Mona.

  “Who?”

  “Vincent,” said Aunt Mona patiently. “Vincent Flynn.”

  “Of course I remember him,” said Granny. “Whatsisname. Vincent. He was Judith’s young man; he made me laugh, and had the loveliest tenor voice — sang ‘Kathleen, Mavourneen’ like an angel — and brought me flowers on my birthday.” She turned to Andy, smiling fondly. “I’ve always had a soft spot for Vincent.”

  They started on their turkey dinner, Andy helping Gran chop her meat and potatoes into bite-sized pieces, trying not to let his disappointment show. He only toyed with his own food. Aunt Mona and Uncle Hugh were almost finished when a knock came on the door.

  Vinny!

  They went to the door to let him in. Andy’s heart leaped up at the sight of his father’s smiling face.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said to Andy, kissing his cheek and giving his shoulder a squeeze. “God save all here,” he said to Aunt Mona and Uncle Hugh. “And a Merry Christmas.”

  No crutches. Though he’d shaved and had brushed his hair, he still looked the same: old raincoat, stained sweater, old frayed cords, battered shoes silvered from age, rain, snow, and neglect. A small new scar decorated his temple.

  “Merry Christmas,” they answered, greeting Vinny in their own ways: Uncle Hugh with a handshake and a quiet smile; Aunt Mona, with a starchy look of truce to make it plain that just because it was Christmas didn’t mean she was about to change her opinion of him, but following it up with a friendly enough greeting.

  They moved into the house, Uncle Hugh with his arm around Vinny’s thin shoulders. Vinny laughed. “Sorry if I’m a bit late. You’d never believe the troubles I had getting here. There was the terrible accident with the bus running over a rabbit — “

  “There are no rabbits on the streets of Halifax,” Aunt Mona snapped.

  Vinny hung his coat in the hall. “Merry Christmas, Ma,” he shouted in at Granny when he saw her seated at the table.

  “Who are you?” asked Granny.

  “Vincent Flynn, Ma; you remember your favorite son-in-law surely?”

  “Vincent? Is it you?” Granny tried to get up out of her chair but was so excited she forgot to press her ejection button and floundered helplessly instead. “What a lovely surprise!” she said. “Where have you been? Come and give an old lady a kiss, you bad boy.” She held out her arms and Vincent kissed her enthusiastically and noisily on both cheeks.

  “My, this is nice.” Granny beamed happily at everyone.

  “Was it killed?” asked Andy anxiously. “The rabbit?”

  “Ah! It was. There was nothing anyone could do to save the poor creature. It hopped out from the pet shop and under the wheels of the bus. Wasn’t it as flat as a pancake there in the middle of the road? With its homogoblin splattered all over the wheel of the bus? There was an old woman sitting in the front seat who saw the whole thing, and she was screaming and yelling for an ambylance when any eejit could see you’d need a spatula to pick the unfortunate beast up off the road. ‘Its vital life signs are terrible low,’ I tells her — trying to calm her down, you understand? And then we’re no sooner back on the bus than the same old woman who’d been yelling for an ambylance, and who hauls herself gasping to the back of the bus so she won’t be asked to bear witness to the violent death of a fellow mammal, ups and collapses into the aisle of the bus with a heart attack. It was a great commotion, so it was, with the driver running about like an American basketball star, and the passengers shouting and screaming for someone to phone for the doctor and the ambylance. ‘The rabbit was a sign!’ a little man in front of me yells. ‘Be quiet, you!’ I tell him, and I kneel down in the aisle beside the poor dying woman, and I give her mouth-to-mouth recitation until the ambylance comes. They lift her up onto the stretcher and she gives a sigh and starts breathing again. ‘You saved her life!’ says the little man. The bus driver shakes me by the hand and has them all singing ‘For he’s a jolly good feller’ as we take off once again, and they kept up the singing all the way down to the end of the road where I got off; can you believe such a mad journey as I’ve had this day?”

  “No,” said Aunt Mona, her patience almost exhausted with having to listen to such a long rigmarole. “I don’t believe a word of your country bumpkin story. You were drinking in Noonan’s and you forgot the time.”

  Uncle Hugh laughed. “It’s hard to believe, right enough, but sit down and I’ll pour you a drink.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, Andy!” Vinny hugged him and kissed him again. “Lookit! The red cheeks on him and the eyes sparkling with health!” He laughed. “Is it in Tir Na n’Og you are, Andy? Did the Faeries steal you away from me altogether?”

  He had brought nothing with him. Andy didn’t care; his father was here, that was all that mattered.

  “Here, Dad, I got you these.” He handed him a big bag of raisins. Dad; he was finished calling him Vinny. It would always be Dad from now on.

  He was delighted. “That’s grand, Andy,” he said. “There’s enough here to keep me out of harm’s way for a whole year.”

  His dad enjoyed the roast turkey. There were roast potatoes, too, and stuffing and green peas and brussels sprouts. Hugh slipped Andy a half glass of wine when Mona wasn’t looking. Andy had never had wine before; it made him feel dizzy; he liked it. Uncle Hugh said a drink once a year would do no harm. Vincent Flynn made a toast to everyone’s health.

  “Good health,” Granny repeated.

  “We’ll all drink to that,” said Uncle Hugh, touching his glass to Granny’s and Aunt Mona’s, then Andy’s and his father’s.

  When dinner was over, Aunt Mona and Uncle Hugh started cleaning up in the kitchen.

  “I’ll help,” Andy offered.

  “No, Andy,” said Aunt Mona. “You go in and talk to your father. It’s a while since you saw him. There must be lots for you to talk about.”

  His father had helped himself to the wine and was sitting back comfortably near the fire, smoking a cigarette.

  “How much longer do I have to stay here, Dad? Did you get a job yet?”

  “I saw a man in maintenance at the Metro Centre; he thinks he can get me in. So keep your fingers crossed. You’ll not be here long, Andy, you’ll see.” He smiled his tilted smile, his eyes dancing with good humor. “We’ll soon be together again. Leave it to me.”

  “Dad? Could you call me? I know you don’t have a phone, but there’s one in the manager’s office you could use. Just so I know you’re all right.”

  “Of course I will, Andy. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. I’m not much of a one for telephones, as you know, but I’ll call you for sure.”

  “Sundays maybe, in the evening. Could you do that?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  Much later, after Vincent Flynn had said his goodbyes to Hugh and Mona, Andy stood with him outside on the street. He gripped Andy’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze, struggling to say something, but then he squeezed his shoulders one last time and turned quickly away. Andy watched him hurry up the street, tilting into the dark. He turned around once to wave, and then he was gone. When Andy turned back to go inside, he noticed that his cheeks were wet.

  The next day was Boxing Day, and his aunt and uncle gave him a box of beer from Uncle Hugh’s brewery. The box was a twelve-bottle carton with Brickers Brewery and India Pale Ale printed in red and yellow and green on its sides and top. The box sat on the kitchen table.

  “That’s for me? Beer?” asked Andy.

  “It is,” said Uncle Hugh gravely.

  Andy opened it and saw the puppy. It was black-and-white and it was lying in the otherwise empty box looking up at him with moist brown eyes. “A puppy!” cried Andy. “For me?” The pup was thin and undernourished and looked too young to have left its mother. It tried to stand, but the sight of An
dy’s astonished face caused it to tumble backwards in confusion.

  His aunt and uncle said nothing but stood looking pleased with themselves.

  For Andy it was love at first sight. He lifted the puppy carefully out of the box and let it hang helplessly in his hand. Mostly black, it had white legs, chest, and throat, with a narrow band of white running along the length of its nose up to the top of its head, leaving the eyes black, so that the face looked like a mask.

  “I can’t believe it! If you knew how long I’ve waited for a pup just like this! He’s beautiful, he’s exactly what I wanted. Thanks, Uncle Hugh! Thanks, Aunt Mona!”

  His aunt and uncle continued to look pleased with themselves.

  Andy thought for a second. “Is he a he?”

  Uncle Hugh grinned. “He’s a he. About three weeks old.”

  Andy held him up in the air. Tiny pink tongue, tiny black silky ears. He cradled the pup in his hands.

  Aunt Mona snapped, “He’s your responsibility now. You will have to take care of him, feed him, teach him how to behave. Can’t have him doing his business all over the house. Otherwise he will have to go.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him all right, I really will. He’s perfect! Thanks for getting him for me. Don’t worry, Aunt Mona, he’ll be no trouble to you, I promise.” He put the pup down on the kitchen floor and kneeled beside him, tickling and stroking and talking to him, but the poor thing was so young and weak he could barely move. He would be fine once he’d put on a little weight, Uncle Hugh said. Andy lay on his back, the pup on his chest, and looked up at his uncle. “What kind is he?”

  Uncle Hugh pulled a face. “A mixture, I’d say. The mother was a mixture, but he’s border collie mostly, by the look of him; belonged to one of the men at the brewery. This one is the runt of a litter of five, and the last to find a home.”

  “Will I be able to go see the mother sometimes?” asked Andy. “So I can take the pup and show her?”

  Aunt Mona bit her lip.

  Uncle Hugh’s face flushed. He sent Aunt Mona an awkward glance.

  “The mother’s name was Trixie,” he explained to Andy. “She was run over by a brewery truck on Christmas Eve, before her pups were ready to leave.” He held up a baby bottle. “You’ll need to feed him from the bottle for a while, a couple of weeks or so maybe.”

  “Warm milk,” said Aunt Mona. “I’ll help yon with the bottle.”

  Andy looked at the pup sprawled weakly on his tiny chest and stroked his smooth coat with two fingers. No mother. We’re the same, you and me, he thought. He noticed again the name on the beer box: Bricker’s Brewery. He spoke the name aloud. “Bricker. Do you think that might be a good name for him?” He looked up at his uncle.

  Uncle Hugh smiled. “Bricker’s a good name.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll call him,” Andy said happily. “Brick for short.”

  21

  THERE WAS NO CALL from Vinny on the Sunday following the dinner. Andy was itching to tell him about Brick, so was doubly disappointed when he didn’t phone. Nor was there a call on New Year’s Day. Then it was back to school. School in Halifax wasn’t very different from school in Vancouver, but already Vancouver seemed to Andy a distant memory, another life lived in another time. He missed nothing of Vancouver. Except his mother; he still thought of her often, as a finger finds a sore, worried, wondering where she was, a constant scab inside him.

  This coming into a new school just before Christmas had aroused much interest and curiosity among the other kids. But now he found himself accepted. He had already put his name down for the soccer team. Many of the boys wore Moosehead shirts. One of them, John Bowman, crazy about hockey, was amazed that Andy had never played, and offered to coach him. There was lots of equipment at the school, he said.

  Already Brick, stronger and healthier, was starting to show an interest in his surroundings. Andy joined the library and borrowed a book on dog training, He and his uncle shopped for puppy things: a rubber bone to chew on, a collar and a leash, food, special vitamins. Soon Brick would need shots.

  At home, Andy helped with Gran now, walking her to the downstairs toilet and helping her back again. Sometimes it took the two of them, Andy and Aunt Mona, to support her, for Gran’s leg muscles were deteriorating from lack of use, though some days were better for her than others. On her good days she was bossy and noisy, demanding attention, and could hobble on Andy’s arm without any trouble. Brick followed awkwardly, dodging their feet. But on her off days Gran dozed in front of the TV, and even when awake seemed insensible to most of what was going on around her. Her doctor said she should walk around the house for exercise, but she didn’t like it and wouldn’t do it, protesting loudly if Aunt Mona tried to make her.

  “She seems to like me,” Andy said to Aunt Mona one afternoon after school. “Maybe I could walk her about a bit; what do you think?”

  “You can try if you like, but unless it’s the toilet she wants, she’ll scream at you, wait and see.”

  But Gran didn’t scream at him. Andy and Brick walked her a few times around the small living room through the clutter of furniture, out to the hallway, around the potted aspidistra in her parlor bedroom, back to the hall, out to the kitchen, then back to her chair in front of the TV, Andy holding her under the elbow, taking some of her weight as she wobbled feebly along, imagining he was like a gas pump, pouring some of his own strength into her. Gran collapsed into her chair with a sigh at the end of it all. “Twice a day, Gran,” Andy told her. “We’ll do it twice a day, and as you get stronger we can try increasing the distance, okay?”

  “I’m too old for all this running about, Andy,” Gran whimpered. “My legs hurt.”

  “Wonders’ll never cease,” said Aunt Mona afterward.

  “What’s a word that means both ‘space vehicle’ and ‘pill,’ beginning with a c and ending with an e?” Uncle Hugh had started involving Andy in his evening struggles.

  “How many letters?”

  “Seven.”

  Andy thought hard. “How about ‘capsule’?”

  “That’s it, Andy. Thanks.”

  Andy and Aunt Mona and Brick — who had his own special bowl — were eating breakfast together on a Tuesday morning in the middle of January. Uncle Hugh had already gone to work and Gran was still in bed. Aunt Mona said, “I got this letter yesterday. It’s from the lawyer in Vancouver, about your stepfather’s estate.”

  Andy listened. His aunt, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, explained that “estate” meant what had been left in his mother’s and stepfather’s will, and that everything was to come to Andy in trust.

  “What’s ‘in trust’ mean?”

  “Nobody can touch it. It’s normal. The money from their bank accounts and from insurance and from the government flood relief fund will stay in the bank gathering interest until you’re eighteen. Then you can do what you like with it.”

  “How much is there?”

  Aunt Mona showed him the letter.

  “That’s a lot of money!”

  “Not so very much. But with the interest it will be enough to start you off in life, pay for your education perhaps, if you decide to go to college.”

  “Can’t I spend any of it now?”

  “Not a penny. Nobody can touch that money, not even yourself who owns it, for seven years.”

  “That doesn’t seem right. You spend money on me, and you need things here.”

  “Nothing is needed here,” she snapped, standing abruptly. “Help me clear away the dishes.” She pointed to the clock. “Lookit! You’ll be late for school if you don’t move yourself.”

  He helped with the dishes and then pulled on his parka and his boots. “See you later,” he yelled into the kitchen, ready to fly out the door, Brick bouncing excitedly about his feet.

  “Don’t forget your lunch,” Aunt Mona yelled back.

  Andy grabbed his lunch bag off the sideboard, crammed it into his bag, and turned to run. “G’bye,
Brick, see you later.” But Brick didn’t respond, for he was busy chasing his tail, something he’d just started doing lately; he ran around in circles, barking happily, as if trying to bite some imaginary tormentor.

  “Wait! Let me look at you.” Aunt Mona came hurrying from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel.

  “I’m late!” Andy protested. “Una’s waiting for me.”

  Aunt Mona made a quick inspection of Andy’s boots, pulled his parka down at the back, and fussed rapidly with his hair. “You need a haircut. Don’t go racing across the road. Watch out for traffic. Don’t be late home.”

  And he was gone.

  He walked home from school with Una and John Bowman and a few others who lived in the same direction.

  “Are you looking forward to living with your father?” Una asked him when only she and Andy were left and the other kids had gone their different ways.

  “Of course. But I’ll miss my aunt and uncle. And Gran.”

  “When will your father send for you, do you think?”

  Andy looked up at dark gray banks of cloud massing over the houses. “I’m not sure. Soon, I expect.” He didn’t mention that Vinny hadn’t phoned.

  Una said, “Uncle Hugh and Aunt Mona are good people.”

  “Are you saying my father isn’t a good person?”

  “No, I am not saying that at all. Don’t get angry for nothing.”

  “You’ve heard your mum and dad talking, haven’t you? About my father. What do they say?”

  “It’s nothing, just that your father is used to living alone. And he’s away a lot. You’d be on your own sometimes —”

  “You’re talking about him going to jail, aren’t you? Well, he’s finished with all that. He’s getting a job soon — ”

  “The swings are empty,” said Una. “Let’s sit a minute.”

  “It looks like it’s going to pour.”

  “Let’s live dangerously, Andy, in the wild, remember? Come on.”

  They sat idly swinging while the air grew still and cold about them and the clouds gathered black and menacing over their heads.

  “Andy? Promise you won’t get mad at me if I ask you something.”