Daddy Lenin and Other Stories

by Guy Vanderhaeghe

  So he contacted Groveland’s only landlady, Mrs. Burke, a sour-faced woman who provided room and board for three or four bachelors, to see if she would agree to feed his boy. Unfortunately, Mrs. Burke had been one of those on the receiving end of Mother’s truth-telling spree, been told that none of her four children had even a passing likeness to Mr. Burke, but that they certainly bore a strong resemblance to several of her former tenants. Mrs. Burke made it clear that she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with any child of my mother’s, although she did acidly mention that Delphine Koenig was looking for boarders. If he was desperate enough, he just might try her. Father was desperate enough, and soon he and Delphine had settled on terms. Before he headed back to work, Father gave me a cheque for Mrs. Koenig and ten measly bucks that he grandly referred to as my “emergency fund,” laid an awkwardly consoling hand on my shoulder, and murmured, “Just hang in there. Your mother will come home right as rain. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Watching him drive away in his clapped-out half-ton, I knew in my bones everything wasn’t going to be fine. Far fucking from it. If Mother’s good neighbour policy towards her fellow citizens hadn’t already made me a leper, my clueless father had sealed the deal. But being able to convince him of that was as likely as his shitbox truck rocketing him into the next galaxy. My father always insisted on walking the sunny side of the street, refused to face facts. If I had pointed out what was obvious, that associating in any way whatsoever with the Koenigs was social suicide, Father would have behaved just as he did whenever I dropped a hint that maybe things were going amiss with Mother. He would have said, Wherever do you get these funny ideas, Billy?

  He would have deserved it if I had screamed at him, Don’t tell me you have no idea why the Koenig twins are nicknamed Stinky and Smelly! And do you really think Jennifer Koenig is called Jenny Likes to Play the Squeezebox because she plays the accordion and wails “They Call the Wind Mariah” off-key at talent shows at the Legion Hall, you fucking dope? Not likely.

  Because the Koenigs, right down to the youngest, grimiest, scruffiest little shoplifter and vandal in training, were the town’s number-one pariahs. Everyone knew the Koenig twins were nothing but mean, lying, conniving, cowardly snot-gobblers. Like a pair of foraging jackals, they slunk about Groveland High sniffing for anything they could five-finger discount, and if they happened to get caught helping themselves to somebody else’s property – a transistor radio, money left in an unsecured locker – they cringed and crybabied for mercy before getting a taste of teenager justice, a punch in the chops or a swift boot up their skinny asses. Their home-barbered white-wall haircuts, old coot’s fire-engine red braces, broad-checked polyester pants, and brown oxfords contributed to making them even greater objects of disdain. It was only human nature to assume that Stinky and Smelly, in fact all the Koenig brood, had been put on earth for one reason and one reason only, to make the rest of us feel better about ourselves.

  Except maybe for Sabrina Koenig, who was two grades ahead of me. She was cut some slack and given some sympathy because a bout with polio had left her with a withered leg and a painful-looking limp. Sabrina was also rumoured to be smart, which was regarded as one of nature’s mysteries since the rest of the Koenig crew were a universally dim-wattage crew.

  To tell the truth, I wasn’t going to win any popularity contests myself, but at least I had avoided attracting persecution by keeping a low profile. Association with the Koenigs would end that, so it’s little wonder that for the first three days after Father headed north I stayed well away from them. I had had enough of bad situations. I needed a recess from having to deal with my mother’s recent bizarre, sometimes downright scary behaviour. I could finally get some sleep, could get a break from listening to the bathtub taps gushing on and off all night, from hearing her yell at the overworked hot water tank when it ran cold. Mother imagined the hot water heater to be part of a vast malignant conspiracy to deny her any solace and comfort in her black despair. Nor would I have to swear that I would forever be on call to push the wheelchair she believed was in her future, to pledge that I would never, ever desert her. Every time Mother lost her grip on reality, she became convinced she had multiple sclerosis and was going to end up just like her best friend, Janet Kasper, had. That she would be a woman abandoned by her husband and left to moulder away in a care home.

  School was out, nothing had any claims on my time, and I was able to take it easy, do exactly as I pleased. In his rush to get Mother on her way to the hospital, Father had overlooked to pack a carton of her cigarettes. That and the forty-ouncer of Canadian Club, which Father kept stashed in the linen closet in reserve for special occasions, was all I needed to celebrate in style. If this wasn’t a special occasion, I didn’t know what was. I figured both parents owed me.

  For the next several nights I sat up watching television into the early morning, chain-smoking cigarettes, guzzling rye and Coke, stroking and petting my self-pity. I staggered off to bed drunk, slept until noon, idled away afternoons reading James Bond boner-popping novels until five o’clock rolled around and I headed for The Hot Spot, a café haunted by hairy-eared retirees, a place no self-respecting teenager would be caught dead in. It seemed to me the safest location to gobble a couple of hamburgers and chug a milkshake without being noticed. But even there attention proved inescapable; the coffee-row crowd either stared at me with disapproval or, worse, flinty-eyed sympathy. I was That Dowd boy. The one with the crazy mother who called up my Myrtle and gave her what for.

  Soon enough I had done the math and realized that café dining would shortly run dry the “emergency fund” Father had left me. And I knew he was going to be seriously pissed to learn I hadn’t honoured his arrangement with Mrs. Koenig. The more I thought about it, the more I came to see that eating with the Koenigs would not only free up cash for cigarettes and racy paperbacks, but also might even be marginally less painful than getting gawked at by the regulars of The Hot Spot. If I was very careful and had some luck, I might even be able to slip in and out of the Koenigs’ house without being spotted by some kid all too eager to spread the news that Billy Dowd was consorting with untouchables.

  The Thursday after Father returned to work, I took a deep breath and set off to keep my supper date with the Koenigs. I didn’t give much thought to the fact that I had already missed three meals without giving notice to the cook. But I assumed some vague lie about having been “under the weather” and Father’s cheque would give me a pass on that score.

  I got there by a circuitous route, by skulking down alleys. It was a scorching, breathless day, the leaves of the poplars hanging on their branches like tiny washed-out rags. The sun-stunned neighbourhood dogs didn’t even have the energy to bark as I went by. The Koenigs’ property was unfenced; a jungle of weeds and volunteer Manchurian elms fondled my legs as I waded through them to the back step. I rapped on the screen door and Delphine Koenig suddenly loomed before me, a massive, wheezing middle-aged woman who let loose a laboured sigh and said, “Well, he’s here,” and cracked open the door just enough for me to scoot through and trail her swaying hams into the kitchen. Mumbling my lame alibi, I passed her the cheque. She tucked it away in a drawer without a word of thanks. I saw no evidence of supper, caught not even the faintest whiff of home cooking. Towering pyramids of dirty dishes were haphazardly stacked on the counter and the table was covered in pots encrusted with the cysts and tumours of ancient leftovers. The whole house smelled like a laundry hamper stuffed with clammy, dirty undergarments.

  “It’ll be a while,” Mrs. Koenig said. “Go in the living room and make yourself comfy.”

  I acted as per instructions. A quartet of the younger family members were sitting on the floor of the living room about a foot from the TV. Their towheads swivelled as one, levelled a glazed, eight-eyed stare on me, then swept back to the screen in perfect synchronization. Neither Stinky nor Smelly were anywhere to be seen and neither was Jenny Likes to Play the Squeezebox. That was a relie
f. As for making myself comfy, all the furniture in the room was buried under piles of soiled clothing, the source of the smell that had penetrated as far as the kitchen. Pushing laundry to one side of the sofa, I sat down and joined the Koenig youngsters in their mute, glassy-eyed worship of the television.

  A few minutes later, Sabrina Koenig hobbled into the room, a book clutched in her hand. As soon as she saw me, alarm flickered on her lips, alarm that she quickly tried to hide by ducking down to shovel a heap of clothes out of an armchair and onto the floor. She settled down and began to read, a look of utter absorption pasted on her face.

  Being given the silent treatment by the smaller Koenig kids was one thing, but receiving the cold shoulder from a girl I passed almost every day in the school hallways was a bit much. I had never spoken a word to Sabrina Koenig before, but as a paying guest I felt I was owed a smidgen of courtesy. I fidgeted irritably on the sofa, trying to catch her eye. “Hey,” I finally said, my voice as sharp as I could make it, “school’s out if you haven’t heard.”

  Sabrina slowly lowered her book. “Thanks for the news flash.” The book went back up, but now I had a clearer view of her. Sabrina Koenig was no beauty, but her abundant strawberry-blond hair was surprisingly clean and shiny-looking. Small pale freckles lazily drifted down her cheeks, and her teeth were of a normal shape and size, unlike Stinky and Smelly’s, which were huge and rat-like and looked capable of chewing clean through heavy-duty electrical wiring.

  I squinted at the title of the book. It had something to do with Abraham Lincoln. “What I want to know,” I said, “is why you are reading a boring book like that when it’s summer vacation?”

  This time she didn’t look up. “I’m reading it so I don’t stay a moron like everybody else in this town,” was her answer.

  This was something that might have come straight out of my mother’s mouth, and recognizing that, I felt an arrow to the heart. It shocked me to hear somebody who wasn’t certifiably nuts, like Mother was, slag the old home town. In my experience, if you couldn’t say something nice about Groveland, you had better not fucking say anything at all if you knew what was good for you.

  The aroma of superheated grease began to challenge the dirty-underpants odour. Cooking appeared to be underway. From the kitchen, Mrs. Koenig hollered, “Bert, go get your lazy so and so of a father up!”

  None of the television watchers moved a muscle. The mystic communion with the screen continued.

  “Bert, now! And I mean it!”

  Little Bert grudgingly hoisted himself to his feet and moved out of the living room, casting regretful glances over his shoulder at the TV. Sounds of coughing, grumbling, and cursing came from somewhere off in the back of the house. Bert reappeared, sullenly sank back down on the floor, and lapsed into his former semi-comatose state.

  In a bit, Mr. Koenig appeared in the doorway and shot me a vaguely hostile stare, a bald guy nearly as fat as his wife. Stinky and Smelly had clearly got their fashion sense from their father, although his windowpane polyester pants were even more crotch-baggy and severely distressed looking than his sons’. Yawning hugely, he gave a conspicuous scratch to his balls before plodding off to the kitchen, where a low-voiced, heated discussion started up between husband and wife. I presumed it had something to do with me, the stranger in his house.

  I wanted to bolt. Minutes crawled by as I struggled to come up with a plausible reason to offer Mrs. Koenig for having to excuse myself. I had taken too long. Suddenly she hollered, “Come and get it!”

  The TV-drugged kids sprang to life, scrambled up from the linoleum, and stampeded for the kitchen. Sabrina, however, didn’t move; her nose remained buried in her book.

  I got up and dragged my feet after the others, pausing beside Sabrina’s chair to ask, “So what gives? I mean, aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I guess not,” she snapped. “I make my own suppers.”

  “What do you mean you make your own suppers?”

  “Just what I said. I buy my own food, make my own suppers.”

  “You buy your own food?”

  “Yeah, with the money I make from babysitting. So I don’t have to eat the crap they do. Any more stupid questions?”

  This was both astounding and intriguing. But the best I could produce as a follow-up inquiry was, “So who do you babysit for?”

  “What’s it to you? You need somebody to babysit you with Daddy gone?”

  The message was clear. Get lost. As I left the room, Sabrina flung after me, “Oh yeah and if you’re wondering, I do my own laundry too. None of this is mine.”

  The family was clustered around the stove, where two cast-iron fry pans were sending up smoke signals. Mrs. Koenig was loading slabs of fried baloney and charred potatoes, as black and hard-looking as the skillets she was scraping them out of, onto the plates her brood were eagerly thrusting at her. As soon as the food hit their dishes all the Koenigs, Mr. Koenig included, scattered for the living room at top speed. I was the last to be served, and once I had been doled out my share of charcoal and grease, the enormous Delphine immediately fell to it, forking up her supper straight from the pans.

  The kids were back on the floor in front of the TV, bent double over their plates, filling their faces. Mr. Koenig had expropriated the place on the sofa I had earlier cleared. I hovered in the doorway, wondering where I was going to plant myself.

  All at once, Sabrina erupted, boosted herself out of the armchair with an exasperated, “Oh for chrissakes, here!” and lurched out of the room. None of her family paid her explosive exit the least attention.

  We all ate in silence. When I had made a polite and minimal dent in my food, I excused myself, Mr. Koenig grunted, and I carried my plate back out to the kitchen. Mrs. Koenig was nowhere to be seen; her hunger appeased, she had disappeared.

  The prospect of another dining experience at the Koenigs’ kept me on edge all the next afternoon. Around four o’clock I heard a knock at the door. This was surprising, my family never had visitors. I parted the curtains, looked out, and saw Sabrina Koenig on the step, visible to anyone who might be passing by, a brown paper bag clutched to her chest. I rushed to the door, wrenched it open, and barked, “What!” straight into her face.

  She didn’t flinch; she grinned. “Hello, Billy Dowd, today’s your lucky day,” she said.

  “Get in here.” The instant she crossed the threshold, I slammed the door, panicked somebody might see me and her together.

  “Where’s the kitchen?”

  I pointed. I didn’t know what else to do. She set off in her halting, wincing stride. After a few moments of bewildered indecision, I followed, found her unpacking canned goods, fresh vegetables, and a package of meat.

  I asked her what she thought she was doing.

  “Making a trial run.”

  “Trial run of what?”

  Sabrina toyed with the groceries, shifting them about on the countertop as if she were trying to arrange them in a pattern that matched the logic of her thoughts. “I thought I’d cook for you tonight. You like your supper, then we can work out a deal. Maybe.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Ma cashed your daddy’s cheque today. Fifty bucks. Which is way, way too much money. She took him to the cleaners. What is he, stupid?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “I pinched the money out of her dresser, used some of it to buy these groceries.”

  My mind was revving frantically, but it wasn’t going anywhere, was still stuck in neutral. “And what kind of shit are you in when she finds out you stole it?”

  Sabrina dismissed that with a wave of the hand. “I’ve got a clean record as far as Ma’s concerned. She won’t suspect me. It’ll get pinned on the twins. They deserve some payback; the creeps have been helping themselves to my babysitting money for years.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Okay, so here’s what I was thinking,” she said, adopting the bright, chirpy tone in which things get explained
to very small children. “What if I make you your suppers over here? I’m a decent cook, better than Ma. We can both eat pretty well on fifty bucks, and there’ll be a little cash left over for me. You know, call it wages. Plus, I get some peace and quiet for a few hours of the day. It’s a madhouse over there.” Sabrina faltered for a second at the comparison, probably recalling where my mother happened to be, then resolutely kept going. “And your old man has already paid for it all so he isn’t out anything. Just Ma. And she was screwing him anyway.”

  I considered this. “Yeah, but aren’t they going to miss you at home? Wonder where you are?”

  “It is to laugh. Everybody comes and goes just as they like at our house. Maybe you noticed that last night? No twins, no Jenny. Nobody gets missed over there.”

  I had one more objection, a big one. “But someone’s going to see you. I mean, going in and out of here.”

  Sabrina lifted her gaze to the backyard, surrounded by an eight-foot-high lilac hedge Mother never let Father trim because she said she didn’t want anyone spying on her. A Great Wall of China to hold the snoopy barbarians at bay.

  Sabrina gave me a knowing smile. “I watched you leave last night, Billy Dowd. Weaving and ducking down the alley like some cat burglar making his getaway. Just so nobody would see you’d been at our place. You think I can’t do likewise? Those lilacs will give me all the cover I’ll need. Don’t worry, your precious reputation is safe with me.”

  I flushed and blurted, “You’re wrong. I wasn’t weaving and ducking because –”

  She cut me off. “You think I was born yesterday? Hey, I’d do the same thing in your shoes. No problem.”

  And that was how Sabrina Koenig tangled her life up with mine. That first night she made me a tasty beef stew, a supper Father would have approved of, something suitable for a growing boy. She did the dishes, left the kitchen spotless, then went out the back door, across the yard, and out the gate like a cat burglar. Full marks there.