by Sean Cullen
The old man grinned, showing a surprising set of even white teeth. “Sure and you’re a little star.”
Brendan watched as Finbar tore the cellophane packet open and took out a cookie, pinched daintily between rough, calloused fingers. He dunked the cookie in the tea and raised it to his mouth. “Glorious.”
Brendan smiled. He didn’t know where Finbar slept or why the old man hung around on this street corner, but he had struck up a sort of friendship with him, sharing pleasantries and biscuits on his way to and from school these last two months. Finbar didn’t ever go into the mission. He didn’t talk to any of the street people. He seemed to have a home but Brendan didn’t know where it was.
“Off home, lad?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I stroll along with ye a ways?”
“No problem.” Brendan waited for the old man to gather up his thermos and tuck it into his shopping bag.
He’d met Finbar on his way home from RDA the first day. The old man had been sitting on a milk crate at the mission and Brendan had felt compelled to say hello. They’d struck up a conversation. As the weeks went by, he’d learned the man’s name but little else about him.
“Let’s be off then,” Finbar said, hefting his canvas shopping bag. They set off into Kensington Market.
As they walked through the narrow, busy streets, Finbar rattled on about whatever caught his eye. He was very entertaining. Brendan’s mother would have probably had a fit if she knew that her son was hanging around with a strange old man. Brendan didn’t mention Finbar to his parents. He liked the old guy.
“Good day at school then, My Prince?”
“Yeah. It was okay.”
“Ye look like ye’ve got yerself the beginnings of a black eye there.”
Brendan reached up and touched his eye. Wincing, he shrugged. “Yeah. Gym class.”
“Ah, yes. A necessary evil in the growth of any young man.” The old man laughed and Brendan grinned.
Brendan didn’t know why he called him that: My Prince. Just something to say, he supposed. Brendan liked the gravel in the man’s voice and his accent. Finbar said he was from Ireland, but he wouldn’t reveal anything else about his past. Brendan respected the man’s privacy. Brendan had never known his grandfather on either side and he liked to think of Finbar as a kind of surrogate grandpa.
“Well, I should be off now,” Finbar said as they reached the heart of the market. “I’d best be home before dark.”
The man’s clear blue eyes crinkled in a wreath of wrinkles as he smiled and waved Brendan on.
“See ya, Finbar,” Brendan said, watching as the old man headed south, whistling and swinging his shopping bag as he went. Brendan watched until he lost sight of Finbar in the crowd of pedestrians.
A few minutes later, he stopped outside a small cafe. Car seats had been strewn haphazardly around the weedy patio in front of the plate glass window. Gold letters painted on the glass read “I Deal Coffee.” He looked through the window and saw his father finishing a sale, handing a customer a bag of ground coffee beans.
People liked Edward Clair. He made them feel like they were the most interesting person in the world while he was talking to them, not that it helped: Brendan’s dad wasn’t exactly super-successful in any of his many careers. He played music, painted, sculpted, did some freelance graphic design, but working at I Deal was his main source of income. If Brendan’s mum hadn’t been able to pull down a decent living as a designer of window displays for the posh shops on Bloor Street, they would have been struggling. As it was, they had a comfortable home. Brendan and his sister each had their own room.
Maybe Brendan’s dad wasn’t a superstar compared to some dads, but he was Brendan’s favourite person. He was kind. He always had time to talk when Brendan needed him. He had tried to teach Brendan to play the piano and the guitar, but Brendan had been hopeless, as clumsy at that as he was in anything that required some dexterity. Even so, his dad was patient and wasn’t disappointed with Brendan for not being able to master any of the skills he loved.
Brendan’s dad waved at the customer headed out the doors and saw Brendan standing outside. He waved, obviously happy to see his son. He frowned comically and pointed to his wrist where a watch would be, if he ever wore one. This was a joke between them. Brendan’s mum was always exasperated when anyone was late for dinner. Brendan grinned back.
“See you at home,” his father mouthed silently, winked and turned to the next customer in line. Brendan gave the thumbs-up sign and turned away.
He walked briskly down the street and turned at Crawford, covering the last few metres to his house. He turned up the walk just as his sister was arriving on her bike.
“Hey, Nerdio. How was nerd school today?”
Brendan shrugged. “Nerdy. How was jerk school? Jerky?”
With that bit of wit deployed, he launched himself up the steps to the front door.
FAMILY
Brendan’s house was the third in a row of identical Victorian townhouses, the nineteenth- century equivalent of condos for the working folk of the young city of Toronto. Each had a minuscule rectangle of front yard and black wrought iron fence to ward off intruders as long as the intruders were too small to leap the three-foot height of the fence and had no hands to lift the latch on the front gate. A pensioner in an electric scooter could probably ram the fence and knock it down, if so inclined. Brendan took the creaky wooden steps to the green front door two at a time closely followed by his sister, Delia.
He was just about to clear the top step when he felt Delia swat his ankle, causing his feet to tangle up. He fell with a crash, his books spilling everywhere. His glasses spun across the wooden porch.
“Enjoy your trip?” Delia sneered as she stepped over him. She flung the door open and went into the house.
Brendan painfully picked himself up off the floor. Delia was an expert at using his clumsiness against him. He was easily taller and stronger than she was, but she’d always managed to win every fight they’d ever had. She was sneaky and she cheated. Jamming his glasses back on his face, he gathered his books and followed her into the hall.
Dumping his books on the side table, he set off for the kitchen.
“Shoes!” his mother’s voice admonished from the kitchen doorway ahead. Brendan grumbled and turned back, kicking off his running shoes and reaching for his house slippers. His sister was already pulling on one of hers but had foolishly left the other on the mat. Brendan took the opportunity to throw Delia’s remaining slipper out onto the lawn.
“You are such a child,” she snorted, heading out to retrieve the slipper.
“I know,” Brendan said with a smile. As soon as she was out the door, he closed it and locked it from the inside. Satisfied with his petty revenge, he set off for the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner, Mum?” he called as he headed straight for the fridge.
His mother straightened up and ran a forearm across her sweaty face. She had been peering into the oven. Her pale, freckled face was flushed with the heat. She was still wearing her grey suit, the one she called her prison uniform, but over it she wore a red apron with the words YES, IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE BURNT LIKE THAT! emblazoned across the front.
“Mac and cheese. And don’t eat anything. It’ll be ready in half an hour.”
Brendan opened the fridge and pulled out a can of pop. “Okay. I’m just gonna drink this.”
Delia crashed through the back door and pointed at Brendan with her slipper. Her hair was full of dry leaves. “Mum! He locked me out! I had to run all the way around and climb the fence to get in.”
“You could have knocked on the door,” Brendan suggested sweetly.
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Brendan!” His mother shook her head. “Can’t you two just stay out of each other’s way for one hour? Honestly, it’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?” Brendan’s father came in the front door, catching the last
few words of the conversation. “And who locked the front door?”
“Dad,” Delia whined. “He’s the biggest jerk. He threw my slipper into the yard.”
“After she tripped me on the steps.”
Brendan’s father grabbed them both in a hug that was part affectionate and part wrestling hold. As they struggled in his grasp, he sighed. “Ahhh! There is no joy like a harmonious homestead. It’s familial bliss as brother and sister share a magical moment. Isn’t it wonderful, Ellie?”
Brendan’s mother laughed and joined the clinch, taking the opportunity to kiss both her children while they were relatively helpless. “It warms the heart, Charles, dear husband. It warms the heart!”
Delia squirmed free and wiped her cheek. She was fifteen and totally disgusted with the mere idea of living with other humans who called themselves her family let alone being kissed by them. “Mum. That is gross!” She fled into the hall and up the stairs, wiping her face and making retching sounds.
“Dinner in half an hour,” Mum shouted just as Delia’s bedroom door slammed shut. “You too, Brendan.”
“I’ll be down in the workshop,” Dad said, kissing his wife on the cheek. He headed for the cellar door.
“Can I come watch, Dad?”
“Sure, Brendan. Just don’t touch anything unless I tell you it’s all right.”
“Okay, Dad,” Brendan said, inwardly cringing at his father’s delicate reminder of his native clumsiness. “I won’t break anything, I promise.”
“Remember to wash up,” Mum said, turning her attention to the salad.
Brendan followed his dad down the creaky wooden steps that led to the basement of the house. The smell of damp and sawdust was pungent in his nostrils.
The basement was his father’s domain. The space was long and narrow so he’d made dividers out of wood and plasterboard to section off different areas for different purposes. At the bottom of the stairs there was the gas furnace and the water heater. When he was younger, Brendan used to like to pretend the white cylinder of the water heater was a killer robot in an evil space army. He had battled the water heater on many occasions and it still bore the scars from the wooden sword his father had made him years ago. With chagrin, he remembered the time he’d gotten his head stuck under the furnace while chasing a superbouncy ball. His parents had been forced to call the fire department. Delia had a field day with that one.
The next part of the basement was the workshop, a tiny cubicle with a workbench along one wall. Tools dangled overhead like metal fruit. Here, his father did mundane repairs, fixed furniture, and did woodworking. They headed into the next area: his father’s art workshop. Brendan’s father reached up and pulled a chain, turning on a bank of halogen lights overhead.
This is where Brendan’s father did his artistic work, “his real work,” as he called it. Easels held half-finished canvasses. On a low bench sat a block of wood surrounded with shavings. A winged gargoyle was half-carved, captured as though it were in the midst of crawling out of the wood block. In one corner, a glass booth, soundproofed as best as possible, formed a miniature recording studio where Brendan’s dad rehearsed his music and recorded songs. An elderly iMac slept on a table near the sound booth ready to record any tunes Brendan’s father might come up with, its screen dark.
Some might call Brendan’s father a jack of all trades, dabbling in many fields. He managed to sell enough of his paintings and carvings to bring in a steady if modest income. The workshop was Brendan’s favourite place in the house, next to his own room, and he thought his father was just about the coolest person in the world.
Brendan watched as his father picked up his chisel and mallet and started to tap ribbons of shavings from the block of wood. In moments, the leg of the gargoyle was roughed out. Brendan was quietly in awe of what his father could do with his hands. The concentration and precision were beyond him. His father had tried to teach him woodworking, too, but with typically poor results.
“Dad? You ever think you got the wrong kid?”
His father stopped hammering and looked at Brendan. “Why would you say something like that?”
His father’s tone was so sharp, Brendan felt he’d said something wrong. “No reason. Well, I mean, I can’t do anything as well as you can. You’d think I’d have some kind of genetically transmitted talent.” He tried to laugh and lighten the mood. “I mean, maybe they switched the kids at the hospital by mistake and somewhere there’s a kid who builds and plays his own guitars, huh?”
His father didn’t answer him right away. His face was flat and expressionless. Then the moment passed. His father grinned at him. “I can guarantee you we got the right kid, okay?” He went back to tapping at the chisel and muttered, “Your sister? Now, there are some doubts
…” He turned his head slightly and winked at Brendan.
“Dad!”
“Just kidding. So. How was school today?”
“All right.” Brendan shrugged. “We got a new substitute teacher. He’s kinda weird.”
“Aren’t they all?” He turned back to his project. “I have to get this done for the One and Only Craft Show. You like it?” He poked the gargoyle with the head of the mallet.
“Uh… creepy?” Brendan said and he meant it. The gnarled, snarling face of the carving made him a little uneasy.
“Creepy’s good. People buy creepy.” Brendan’s father grinned, placing the chisel on an untouched portion of wood and tapping with the mallet, sending a delicate shaving curling to the ground.
“Dad,” Brendan said, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You know the scar I have on my chest…”
The tapping faltered for an instant, then continued. “Yep.”
“How did it happen again?”
“We’ve told you the story, haven’t we?”
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “Mum spilled tea and I got this burn.”
“Exactly so.” Brendan’s father blew shavings from the wood and began tapping again.
“It’s a weird shape though, huh.”
“Sure is.” His father stopped tapping and looked at him. “Why do you mention it?”
“Oh, no reason really. It’s just that… well, it’s been bugging me a bit.”
“Bugging you.” Brendan’s father frowned. “Bugging you how?”
“It’s been itchy and stuff. You know.”
“Hmmm.” Brendan’s dad furrowed his brow. “Let’s see.”
Brendan stood, his head banging into a low beam. “Ow.” He winced and rubbed his scalp with one hand as he unbuttoned his white school shirt with the other. He held the shirt open so his father could look.
“It does look a little red,” he said. “Maybe your mum should look at it.”
“Naw, it’s okay.” Brendan didn’t want his mum to lose her mind as she always did when anyone showed any sign of ill health. He could do without the cloying attention.
“Okay. Well, let’s see if it gets better over the next day or two. But do me a favour”-his father winked conspiratorially as he said this- “if it does turn into something serious, don’t tell her I knew about it. Then we’ll both end up in a hospital. Okay?”
“’Kay.” Brendan laughed. His dad could always make him feel better, which was one of his many gifts. “I’m gonna go wash up for dinner.”
Brendan headed for the stairs.
“Hey, B! I almost forgot!”
Brendan turned back to see his dad digging in his pants pocket. He held up two thin strips of paper. “A friend of mine gave me tickets to a show tomorrow night. He played guitar on her last album so she shot him some freebies. Wanna go with me?”
Brendan stepped closer and took one of the tickets. “Deirdre D’Anaan,” he whispered.
“You’ve heard of her?” His father was mildly surprised.
“Not really,” Brendan said quickly. “Just saw a poster today.”
“She’s playing Convocation Hall. It’s an early show: 7
pm. Your mum shouldn’t mind too much. I thought we could come home for spaghetti night and then go to the show.”
Brendan couldn’t stop staring at the ticket. A coincidence? He shivered.
“Are you all right, B?” his father asked.
Brendan shook off his chill. “Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Sure, I’d like to go.”
“Good.” His dad smiled. “Now go wash up. And tell your mother I’ll be there in a minute.”
SECRETS
The next day, Brendan awoke feeling better. He had slept well, but he knew that his sleep had been filled with vivid dreams. He could barely remember them on waking. He was left with the impression that someone had been searching for him, calling him in a dark and trackless forest, but he had chosen not to make his presence known. He hadn’t been frightened, just not willing to be found.
He met Dmitri and Harold at the corner of Harbord and Spadina and they got to school in time for homeroom. Brendan had hoped to talk to Kim, but she came in just at the opening bell and plunked into her seat without giving him a chance to say a word.
The rest of the morning, he bided his time. In English, French, calculus, and biology, he tried to get Kim’s attention, but she was more focused than he’d thought possible on the teachers and the lessons. He decided he would have to wait for lunch, hoping he might get her alone. He didn’t know why it was so important. He just had a feeling that she knew more about Greenleaf than she was saying.
In gym class, Mr. Davenport was feeling sadistic as usual. He put them through a gruelling session of calisthenics. Brendan didn’t mind the stretching and push-ups. At least there was no chance of him tripping over himself. And when you were doing a push-up, you weren’t a long way from the ground.
Chester Dallaire was at his best, or worst, depending on your point of view. He had no problem with all the push-ups and sit-ups. Brendan had long ago learned to stay far away from him if possible. To begin with, Chester was the first of their class to really develop B.O. and perfect it. To be exposed up close could lead to watering eyes, hallucinations, paralysis, and, in extreme cases, death. The other reason he kept his distance was the prospect of being the victim of one of Chester’s hilarious “pranks.” Pranks in Chester’s repertoire included supergluing shoes to the floor or holding down a victim and farting into his face. Sometimes, like today, he merely settled for a jolly “pantsing.” 32 Chester waited to strike until Mr. Davenport was busy in the equipment room hunting down a medicine ball. The victim was a skinny kid named Miles Horsten, who stood with his head down and his shorts around his ankles as the class roared with laughter.