by Natalie Hyde
“Lift your foot, Dad.”
He stood in front of the stairs and stared at them blankly, as if he had never seen stairs before. “Up. Up!” Shard said, trying to show him how to bend his knee.
Dad seemed to notice her for the first time. “Who is she?” he said, loud enough for the guy standing at the bus stop just past the apartment building to turn and stare.
“It’s Shard Kent, Dad. From down the hall.” I tried to whisper so no one else would look.
He kept staring at her. “That’s a stupid name,” he said.
Shard’s cheeks turned pink. I felt my stomach twist. Why did he have to say rude stuff like that? And besides, that was quite a statement, coming from someone named Dearing.
“It’s a great name,” I said, meaning it. “And we’re lucky she’s helping, seeing as you’ve forgotten how to lift your leg.”
Shard gave me a small smile.
“I haven’t forgotten anything … see?” My dad lifted his leg and held it there like a dog trying to pee on a fire hydrant.
“Just get up the stairs!” I said through clenched teeth. People were starting to stare from across the street now.
It took forever to get him up the steps, through the front door and then up the stairs inside to the second floor. We almost had to drag him down the hall, and I was never so relieved to open the apartment door. We pulled him inside and dumped him on his bed. He flopped on it face down as limp as cooked spaghetti, bounced once and started snoring.
I took off his shoes and covered him with the covers that weren’t pinned under him. I left the door a bit ajar in case he took the fits tonight. Mom told me they were seizures from drinking. They were horrible to watch. Mom used to take care of Dad when he was like that, but now … well, I did it.
“Thanks for helping,” I said, going back into the living room.
“No problem.”
“You want to watch some TV?”
“Sure. Merle and Reese always hog it at our house. If I have to watch one more episode of Bananas in Pyjamas, I’m gonna put a foot through the screen.”
I didn’t doubt for a minute that she meant it. Shard has problems with her temper. All the Kents do. Sometimes the noises coming from their apartment sound like a herd of bison square dancing.
We sat together on the couch and turned on a ghost-hunting show. I hoped the investigators didn’t find anything that would give me nightmares.
“By the way, sorry for what my dad said.”
“About what?”
“About your name being stupid. It’s not. He says dumb things when he drinks.”
She shrugged as if she didn’t care, but I could see by the way she chewed her lip that she did.
“You’re lucky to have a name like that. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be named after a jagged piece of glass?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not lucky?”
“I’m not named after a jagged piece of glass.”
“S-h-a-r-d. That’s totally a jagged piece of glass.”
“It’s short for Shardonnay.”
I’d spent enough time waiting for my dad in the wine aisle to know what Chardonnay was. “Chardonnay is spelled with a ‘C,’” I said.
“My mom can’t spell.”
“So you’re named after a kind of wine?”
“Mom said it was a private joke between her and Dad. Apparently I was born because of a bottle of Chardonnay.”
Why do parents always screw up when naming their kids? Don’t they know that name will follow them all their lives? Or at least until they are eighteen and can change it to something decent. But by then the damage is done — an entire childhood of trying to come up with a shortened version to deflect teasing, and worrying that your full name will be read out from the attendance sheet. Whenever Mrs. Morton in grade two read my name out, it sounded like Chris Dearie. I took a lot of ribbing for that.
“It’s still a cool name,” I said.
She gave another small smile. We watched the ghost investigators walk around in the dark with digital recorders looking for cold spots. In the end, all they got on tape was a faint noise they said sounded like “Get out!” but just sounded like static to me.
“I better get going,” Shard said. “See you tomorrow.”
I followed her to the door and locked and chained it after she’d gone. I rummaged in the kitchen and found an open box of saltines and some pickles. I sank onto the couch and changed the channel just as the pounding on the door started again.
CHAPTER 4
A WOLF AT THE DOOR
I sat, frozen to the spot. Was Mrs. Family Services back already? Did she bring the police with her?
The banging got louder and louder. It was stupid to just sit there because I couldn’t pretend we weren’t home — my dad was snoring so loud it sounded like a jackhammer ripping up floorboards. I got a kitchen chair and dragged it over to the door so I could look out the peephole.
It must be true that opposites attract because two people couldn’t be more different than Mr. and Mrs. Critch. He is the size of a football linebacker and she is like a toothpick. If I were her, I’d be worried that a hug from him would snap my spine in two.
Despite the fact that he is at least three times as big as me, I have never been so relieved to see the landlord before. He was just looking for the rent, which of course we didn’t have.
I moved the chair and cracked the door open, leaving the chain on. “Hello, Mr. Critch.”
Mr. Critch grunted as a reply. “The rent is two months overdue.”
“Oh, well, my dad’s asleep right now …”
“You mean he’s passed out.” Mr. Critch put a hand on the door, making it clear he could probably snap the thin chain holding it closed with just a push. “Tell him when he wakes up that he’s got twenty-four hours to get it to me. In full. Or you’re out.”
“I’ll tell him.”
I shut the door and leaned against it, breathing like I had just run a marathon. Two months? How did that happen? I thought Dad had paid last month. This was worse than I thought. My dad was too proud to accept welfare and if he did go to work, day labourers made minimum wage — it wouldn’t even make a dent in two months’ rent.
I pushed the chair back under our half-circle kitchen table and curled up on the couch. I felt the pricking of tears behind my eyes, which I ignored, and wondered what we were going to do when the landlord came back tomorrow looking for his money.
A knocking woke me. I didn’t even know I had fallen asleep, but when I managed to open my eyes, it was dark outside. The news was on so I guessed it was after eleven. Dad was still snoring, but more softly now. Who would be at the door at this hour? It couldn’t be the landlord yet, and Mrs. Family Services would have to be home asleep. The cops? Nah, they would pound with their fists.
The knocking started again. I dragged the kitchen chair back over to the door and had a look. There was a man standing on the other side. He looked kind of familiar but I couldn’t place him. He knocked again.
I kept the chain on and unlocked the door. This time I thought of the tips Shard had given me about answering doors to strangers, and I opened it just a crack with my foot behind it so he couldn’t jam it open and I could slam it shut in a second if I needed to.
“Yeah?” I said.
The man’s face smoothed into a smile. “Hiya, kid. Just wondering if your dad and you made it home okay tonight.”
Now I knew who he was. He was one of the guys at the table with my dad in the bar.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Oh, good. Good. Well, your dad left his wallet in the bar and I thought I’d drop it off.”
Every antenna in my body went on silent alarm. It was my dad’s wallet but I’d dragged him out of enough bars to know that the kind of people who sat with him don’t return wallets to guys who are too drunk to remember leaving them behind. Every one would have kept the money and tossed the wallet in the garbage. Even Fiona. This smelle
d worse than the Dumpster on garbage day.
“Gee, that’s really nice of you,” I said, trying not to sound like I was onto him. “How did you know where we lived?”
“Fiona told me.”
That sounded fishy. Fiona did know where we lived because she helped me get my dad home once when he had one of his fits right in the bar, but I couldn’t really believe she would tell this guy. But then, Fiona was a bit of a mystery.
“Well, thanks a lot, uh …” I said, holding out my hand through the crack for the wallet, not knowing his name.
“Randy.”
“Right, Randy,” I said. I wondered if he knew his name meant “Wolf.” A wolf at the door … that couldn’t be good. “I’ll give it to him.”
“I’d rather give it to your father personally. Can I come in?” he asked, pulling the wallet out of reach and pasting a fake smile on his face again.
Shard would take a strip off me if she knew I was even thinking of letting him in. But I was torn. If there was any money left in the wallet, it might at least buy us a bit of time with Mr. Critch. And it was also plain that Randy wasn’t going to pass the wallet in through the door. Maybe I could wake my dad long enough to get his wallet and get rid of this guy.
“Just a sec.” I closed the door and ran into the bedroom. Dad was lying on his stomach, his head turned to the side, his mouth hanging open, his breath stinking of booze. It was the same position he had landed in hours ago when we dumped him there. I shook him. Hard. The snoring stopped briefly and he grunted and tried to open his eyes.
“Dad. Dad! Wake up.”
“Mmmmph,” came the reply.
Well, that was a waste of time. I knew it was a bad idea, but we needed the money. I went back to the door, undid the chain, swung the door open and let Randy in.
“Thanks, kid,” he said as he went to the bedroom.
I didn’t like this at all. I followed him in. “He’s still sleeping, but I’ll take his wallet,” I said, holding out my hand.
Randy gave me a lopsided grin. “Yeah, sure. Here you go.” He tossed the wallet so that I had to use two hands to catch it.
I opened it to check for cash. There was a fifty inside. I got a sick feeling when I saw it. The money my dad had taken from the tea tin was all in twenties. Someone else had put this money in here.
When Randy’s back was turned, I slipped the fifty into the waistband of my underwear, in case he changed his mind and snatched the wallet back. Then I set the empty wallet on top of the TV.
Now all I had to do was get this guy out of here, but he didn’t seem in much of a hurry to leave. He was leafing through some of the letters on top of the dresser. What was this guy looking for, anyway? And what gave him the right to paw through our things?
“That’s my dad’s stuff,” I said, trying not to let my anger show and talking really loud, wishing Dad would at least move on the bed. Randy was twice my size and his muscles bulged like ropes on his arms.
“Oh, sorry,” Randy said.
He dropped the letter, gave a lopsided grin again and ambled out into the kitchen and headed for the fridge. He opened it and pulled out the half-empty jar of pickles. He twisted off the lid and put his grimy hand right into the jar to pull one out. I was seriously grossed out. No way I could eat the few that were left after his filthy fingers had been in there. He sat down on the creaky chair and crunched, pickle juice dripping onto the floor. I stood by, unsure of what to do. I wished desperately that my dad would wake up. When he went to work, he spent his time doing heavy lifting, digging and hauling. Even drunk, I’m sure my dad could still get this guy to leave.
“So, it’s just you and your old man?” Randy asked, taking another bite. “Where’s your mom?”
I hesitated before answering. Who was this guy to be digging around in our business, anyway? Sitting there like he owned the place.
“She’s away. She’ll be back soon.”
Another grin. Another bite. Then, “Maybe she’s up in the Yukon working the family gold mine?”
Are you kidding me, I thought. What family gold mine? Don’t tell me this guy believed my dad’s wild drunken tales from this afternoon.
“There’s no family gold mine. My dad makes up stories when he’s drunk.”
Randy set the pickle jar down on the table. “Sounded to me like it was for real. Knew directions, coordinates, everything.”
“I’m telling you, it’s all made up,” I said. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about when he drinks!”
Randy looked around. “Then what’s that?”
He pointed to a black-and-white photo hanging on the wall over the TV. It was a picture that had been hanging there for years.
“That’s just my granddad.”
“Looks like he’s holding a pan.”
“A pan?” I looked closer at the photo that I’d seen my whole life. My granddad was squatting down near some water wearing a long-sleeved shirt, jeans and a wide-brimmed hat. He had a full black beard and in his mud-caked hands was a flat metal pan partly filled with water. “So?”
“Don’t you know anything? That’s for panning gold.” Randy shook his head at me. “I think I’ll just have a little look around, okay?”
NO! I yelled in my mind. It’s not okay. But outside I was quiet. Randy’s smile was gone and I was smart enough to know when I was out of my league. This guy could knot me up like a pretzel without breaking a sweat. I decided for my personal safety to take the innocent route. “What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you.”
“Where’s your dad keep his important papers?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I dunno. Maps, deeds, certificates.”
I snort-laughed. “Deeds? Do we look like we own property?” I spread my hands out to indicate the cramped five-room space we called home: two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom, a galley kitchen and a living room.
He grunted at that, went through all the kitchen cupboards and then moved to look behind the TV and under the couch cushions. I stood helpless, watching him. I hated that feeling.
“Look, whatever it is you’re looking for, we ain’t got it,” I said, trying again.
I had to get rid of this guy. Randy headed toward the kitchen again, probably to finish off the pickles. As he walked by, he snatched the old black-and-white photo of my granddad off the wall. He sat down at the kitchen table and turned it over. There was writing on the cardboard backing: Wallace Dearing, Cottonwood Creek.
He grinned. “Not a real story, huh?” He flung the picture at me and I caught it just before it landed on the floor and the glass smashed into a thousand pieces.
“Who. Are. You?!” a voice rasped. My dad, red-eyed and with two day’s growth of beard, stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Both hands held on to the door jamb as he swayed gently back and forth.
“I’m Randy. From the bar,” he said, getting up and extending a hand.
“What bar?” my dad asked, ignoring his hand.
“The Bull and Brambles. You were there this afternoon.”
My dad stared and said nothing. It was hard to tell if he was trying to remember where he had been that afternoon, or whether he was actually asleep, standing up with his eyes open.
“I, uh, brought your wallet back,” Randy said, pointing to the black leather billfold sitting on top of the TV.
Dad left the safety of the door jamb and shuffled closer to the table.
“Get. Out.”
Randy opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then saw the look on my dad’s face darken. He closed his mouth and went to the door.
“Thanks again, kid,” he said with a smirk. I guess he had everything he needed.
When he was out I locked the door and pulled the chain across. Dad staggered back to bed. I collapsed on the couch.
CHAPTER 5
THE MAN WHO LOST EVERYTHING
The sunlight pierced my eyelids and forced me awake. For a brief moment I let myself believe that Mom was in the
kitchen and any second I would feel the touch of her hand gently on my shoulder to nudge me and tell me she was making chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. The moment passed as the emptiness in the apartment settled on me like a fog, pressing on my chest.
I forced myself up from the couch, still in my clothes from the day before, and shuffled to the kitchen for a drink. Granddad’s picture was still on the table.
I picked it up and studied it. Funny, but I had never noticed the pan in his hands before, and I had been staring at that picture forever. To me it always just looked like he was washing dishes in a creek or something. Who knew what those pioneer types did before dishwashers and plumbing.
“Fool.”
I spun around. My dad was standing in the doorway. I was so focused on the picture that I hadn’t heard him come into the room.
“Who? Granddad?”
Dad just grunted and went to the cupboard.
“Why was he a fool?”
Dad didn’t answer.
I stared at the picture again. “Is it because he wasn’t a very good prospector? I mean, if he had a rich gold mine, and was a good prospector, he wouldn’t have died so poor, right?”
Dad dumped something out of a mug from the cupboard — I didn’t want to know what it was — and spooned in some coffee crystals.
“No,” Dad said, “he found gold.”
“He did? Then what happened?” I asked. Knowing our family, there was a good chance he just drank all the money away.
Dad filled a dented pot with some water and put it on a burner. “He was told that claim was worthless, but then one day he said he found a vein of gold as thick as his leg. It went on into the hillside as far as he could follow it. Wouldn’t let anyone near it, not even me.”
“So, Granddad got rich?”
“No,” he said, adding sugar to the mug.
“Why not?”
“Because he was swindled out of his claim,” Dad said, his voice getting hard.