by Sean Cullen
“Yeah, right. O-okay,” he managed to stutter. “Thanks. Anyway, I gotta get going.” This guy is seriously weirding me out! “My mum is waiting for me.” Nice. Run to your mummy. What a nerd! “Have a nice day!” Brendan groaned inwardly at his awkwardness. Before he could open his mouth and utter any more inane things, he turned away from the substitute teacher and started off down the path. He could almost feel Mr. Greenleaf’s eyes on his back as he hurried away. The man was probably laughing at his lame escape.
Brendan walked for a few strides until he felt he had put a good distance between him and the substitute teacher. Satisfied he’d left it long enough, he took a sneaky glance over his shoulder to find that Mr. Greenleaf was gone. He was nowhere to be seen. Brendan stopped and scanned the park, right to left, but there was no sign of Mr. Greenleaf anywhere. How could he have left the park so fast? That’s just weird. But he’s weird, so what was I expecting? Suddenly, a tiny bird zipped down from the trees in a streak of colour aimed directly at his face. Brendan held up an arm to shield himself, but there was no impact. He carefully lowered his arm to see a hummingbird hovering a metre away, the same hummingbird Mr. Greenleaf had conjured from a piece of chalk in chemistry class the day before. The minute creature hung in space for a few seconds, its wings humming, then darted up into the branches of a tree and disappeared. Feeling totally freaked out, Brendan set off across the park.
^33 The grey squirrels of Queen’s Park are notoriously fat and friendly. There are more wild and fearsome squirrels in other parts of the city, most feared of all being the albino white squirrels of Queen West who haunt the grounds of the mental health facility. Or at least, I am told they are frightening by the people who live at the mental health facility.
“I see it in you now!”
Brendan hurried across Spadina and followed it as it curved around the island of university buildings stranded in the centre like stone ships.
Leaving the university behind, he passed the elementary school with its paved playground. His thoughts returned to Mr. Greenleaf, who had saved him from a fall moments before. He stopped. How had he managed that? Not that Brendan was big and heavy, but still, Mr. Greenleaf was no giant. He’d flung Brendan around like a bag of feathers.
He found himself stopped beside the huge rock that stood in front of the school. Why did he like to pass it every day, run his hand over it? He could have easily taken a different route home. He wasn’t really sure. The rock had always held a certain fascination for him. Its bumpy black surface was out of place on this busy street. When he was younger, he’d liked to pretend that it was magical and had transported itself to its present spot for a dark purpose.
Brendan snorted. “Yeah, right. That’s one dangerous rock!” he murmured to himself. “You’re just having a freaky day and you’re all freaked out.”
Nevertheless he felt an urgent need to lay his hand on the surface of the stone. He looked right and left. There was no one in the yard or on the sidewalk. The cars rushed by, oblivious. He shifted his books to his left hand and reached out his right hand, leaned over the low metal fence that surrounded the rock, and laid his fingers on the cool, bumpy surface.
Nothing. Just a stone. Idiot. Of course it’s just a stone. What else would it be? Fortunately, the sidewalk was still empty.
“You’re losing it,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s been a weird day, and now you’re mumbling to yourself. Snap out of it.”
His scar itched fiercely. He fought the urge to dig under his hoodie to scratch the spot and set off again on his normal route past the mission and the Silver Dollar. The line of street people was forming, and there, again, was Finbar, sitting on his milk crate. He felt reassured by the old man’s presence.
“Hey, Finbar,” Brendan called with a wave. Finbar just looked at him, head cocked to one side. Brendan slowed down and stopped. “What?”
“I can see it,” Finbar said. “I can see it in ye now, no mistake. You’re becoming your true self.”
Brendan’s heart sank. Was everybody going crazy? He had never seen the old man behave so strangely before. Maybe he’d had a stroke. He didn’t look right. His blue eyes were fever bright.
“Are you okay, Finbar?” he asked.
Without warning, Finbar reached out with a rough hand and clamped down on his wrist. Though he was old, he was not feeble. The grip was vise-like, the skin calloused and rough. It was not painful but it felt firm. He pulled Brendan close. Brendan’s nose wrinkled at the intense smell of the old man’s body. “You’ll be wanting to find it. I know where it is, My Prince. I know. Only I can show ye.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brendan said, trying to pull away, but Finbar wouldn’t let him go. “Cool it, okay, Finbar? You’re freaking me out.”
“Remember. If you want to find it, ye have to find me!”
“Hey!” a harsh voice barked. “Let go of that kid.”
A uniformed police constable suddenly appeared, grabbed Finbar, and pulled him away from Brendan. The old man didn’t struggle. He just stared at Brendan with the same fevered intensity. “Remember!” he said once more and then tore free of the policeman’s grasp. The policeman tried to grab him again, but the old man was surprisingly spry and evaded the cop, hopping out of range of his clawing hand. That’s when things went from bad to worse.
Finbar stumbled and staggered out into the road. Although the traffic was stopped for the light, a bicycle courier was weaving through the stopped cars. He crashed into the old man, sending them both to the pavement. Finbar struck his head against the curb with an audible crack.
A crowd of pedestrians immediately gathered. The policeman hauled out his radio and called for assistance and an ambulance. “Give him some air,” the cop was shouting. The cyclist was cursing at the state of his bent wheel.
“Crazy old man! What was he doing? He’s totally wrecked my bike!”
Brendan stood in shock, looking down at the slack face of the old man he’d been saying hello to every day for the last two months. Finbar’s cap was off, lost under the crowd’s feet. Brendan could see he was still breathing. An off-duty nurse was lending a hand, cradling his head in her lap and pressing on a cut that oozed blood between her fingers.
Brendan felt sick. He couldn’t help feeling responsible. He had no idea what Finbar had been raving about and the old man had kind of scared him, but he didn’t like to see him hurt.
The ambulance arrived, and the emergency workers brought out a stretcher. They placed a backboard on the ground and carefully lifted the unconscious man onto the board and then onto the stretcher, strapping him safely into place. Someone found Finbar’s cap and placed it on his chest.
The policeman lowered his radio. “Where ya takin’ the old guy?”
“Western General,” one of the ambulance workers replied. In all the confusion, the policeman had forgotten about Brendan and got into a police cruiser to lead the ambulance to the hospital. Brendan was left to wander home on his own.
He arrived at his house to find that dinner was almost ready.
When he came into the kitchen, his mother didn’t see him at first. She was bent over the stove, her face inches from the steaming saucepot, sniffing and critical. She nodded once and straightened up, obviously satisfied. Seeing Brendan, she pointed a warning finger at him. “You better not have piled your books on the hall table.”
When Brendan didn’t answer, his mother looked at him more carefully. The expression on his face immediately put her on the alert. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
Brendan shook his head. “I was walking home, and I saw this old man get knocked down by a cyclist.” He was reluctant to tell her everything, how he knew Finbar and what the man had said.
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. They took him to the hospital.”
“Oh, dear.” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. “I know this must be hard for you. You’re such a sensitive little boy.”
“Mu-um! I’m fourteen. I’m not a little boy!” But she was kind of right. He had never liked seeing anybody hurt. When he was really little, she’d found him crying while watching an episode of The Three Stooges.
“I’m sorry. I just worry about you. Can I get you anything?”
“A diaper maybe?” Delia’s voice piped up as she entered the kitchen.
“Delia!” his mother snapped. “Your brother just wit-nessed an accident! He needs a little sympathy right now.”
“It’s okay, Mum.” Brendan gently extricated himself from her arms. It had been a long time since she’d held him that way. It felt good, but it was strange when he now stood almost a foot taller than she. “What are we having?”
“Spaghetti with puttanesca sauce! Your favourite! That should cheer you up. I must have had a premonition that you’d need a lift.”
“Cool!” Brendan smiled for his mum, but inside he was still shaken up from the accident.
“And you didn’t leave your books on the hall table?”
“No way, Mum,” Brendan lied. He’d have to grab the books off the hall table as soon as dinner was over. He plunked down in his chair and reached for a piece of bread from the basket in the centre of the table. Hopefully, his mum would let the incident drop.
“No bread. Not until your father gets here! He called to say he’s on his way.” She picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the sauce again. “How was school?”
Brendan frowned. Well, not the greatest. I’ve had a couple of massive head traumas over the last two days. My scar is turning into melanoma. The girl I adore laughs at me compulsively. Aloud he said, “I’m fine, really.”
Delia sat down opposite him. She snapped open a can of diet pop. “Mum, I’m going to the rec centre tonight with my friends Katie and Jenn.” All her friends hung out at the rec centre where they could giggle and watch boys playing basketball. Girls!
“Is that so?” Mum opened the cupboard over the sink and took out plates. “Homework first.”
“Mu-UM…” Delia began to whine in the annoying way she had.
“Yes. Homework!” Mum turned away to fill the plates with pasta from the strainer in the sink. Delia sneered at Brendan and reached for a piece of bread, digging into the butter with her knife.
“We’re waiting for Dad!” Brendan said loudly.
“Yes!” Mum whirled around and pointed the pasta lifter at Delia. “He’ll be one more minute!”
Delia dropped the bread and glared at Brendan, who grinned back. Sadly, when Mum’s back was turned again, Delia flicked her knife and sent a gob of butter sailing across the table to splat on the front of Brendan’s shirt.
“Hey!” he began to protest, but at that moment, Dad came in through the door, his pant leg held tightly in a bicycle clip and a shiny silver bike helmet on his head. His hands were covered in black grease, and he headed straight for the sink to wash them.
“Darn bicycle chain. It falls off every ten feet!” He rinsed his hands and dried them. Satisfied, he turned with a flourish and a bow. “Clairs! I am arrived! Let the rejoicing commence!” He took his wife in his arms and spun her around once, eliciting a shriek from her as she tried to avoid spilling the contents of the plate she was holding. He set her back on her feet and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Gross,” Delia protested. “We’re going to be eating here in a minute!”
Her father made a pouty face. “What’s the matter, Delia? Oh, I know! You want some kisses, too!” He reached for his daughter. She reared back in horror, brandishing her butter knife. Her face conveyed a disgust reserved for plague carriers and affectionate fathers.
“Do not touch me!”
“Oh no, Brendan. She has a knife! Watch out!” Dad laughed and sat down in his customary chair as Mum set a steaming plate of spaghetti drenched in the fragrant sauce in front of him. He picked up a fork and began winding noodles around it. “So, children, how was school?”
Brendan opened his mouth to tell his father about Finbar, but Delia interjected. “Dad, can I go to the rec centre? Everyone’s going to be there.”
“I’m not going to be there,” Dad said, stuffing a forkful of noodles into his mouth. “How can you say that everyone is going to be there when I’m not going to be there?”
“Da-ad.”
“What did your mother say?”
“She said I could.”
“No, I definitely did not. I said you have homework to do.”
“But if I get it done? Then can I?”
Mom and Dad exchanged a glance, psychically connecting as mothers and fathers have since the beginning of time. “Fine. But the homework has to be done!”
Delia practically danced in her seat. She picked up her fork and dug in.
Brendan toyed with his food, adding grated cheese and pushing the noodles around. His father frowned. “Brendan? Everything all right?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
“He saw an accident today,” Mum offered.
“Really? What happened?”
Brendan reluctantly repeated the censored account he had given his mother earlier. When he was done, his father shook his head. “Poor old fella. Hope he’ll be okay. People used to have someplace to go when they were losing their marbles. Now they just end up on the street.”
“Was there a lot of blood?” Delia asked. “Any brains or things like that?” She was really into slasher horror movies, the gorier the better.
“Just leave it,” Brendan snapped. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
An uncomfortable silence hovered in the room until his father eventually broke it by repeating his question: “Apart from the mayhem, school good today?”
“Um… yeah, I guess. The substitute teacher, Mr. Greenleaf, was weird again.”
His father laughed. “Then everything was as it should be, eh?”
“Yeah.” For an instant, Brendan was tempted to tell his father about Mr. Greenleaf, the walk in the park, the weird feelings he had been having, but he decided against it. They wouldn’t get it. Delia would rip him mercilessly. His parents would think he was just having some teenage freak-out or something, and make him sit through a prolonged analysis. Ugh. He shovelled some pasta into his mouth. It tasted good. He felt a little better. He started to relax. After all, everything was right with the world: his sister was being a total brat, his dad was cracking horrible jokes as his mum shook her head and rolled her eyes. This was his family. This was normal.
Still, as he looked around the table at the people he’d known all his life, he couldn’t suppress a feeling that things were going to change, that his life would never be the same. Something was coming that would alter the life he had known.
Brendan, would you chill? What is wrong with you? One smack with a ball and a kooky teacher and you totally lose it. Come on. He made a conscious effort to throw off his gloomy state of mind, concentrating on his father’s accounts of the strange customers he’d served that day. Usually, his father’s hilarious stories cheered him up, but the dark feelings lingered all through dinner.
The dinner ended with Brendan washing the dishes and Delia drying. He was just putting the last dish in the cupboard when his mother said, “Wow. Have you been using something new on your skin?”
“No,” Brendan replied, confused. “Why?”
His mother frowned and reached out to touch his cheek. “It just looks clearer today than usual.”
“Yeah,” Delia interjected. “Most days your face makes me want to barf, but today, I just gagged a little.”
Brendan whipped the wet dishtowel at her, but his sister ducked easily out of reach. “Too slow, Dorko!”
“Why are these people my children!” Mum sighed.
Delia laughed and ran out of the kitchen, in a hurry to get her homework done and get to her rendezvous at the rec centre.
“You need any help with anything else, Mum?” Brendan asked.
“No, you go do your homework. And your skin does look a lot bet
ter.”
Brendan felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment. He wasn’t used to compliments from girls, even if the girl in question was his mother. He went back down the hall to retrieve his books. As he passed the mirror on the wall by the coat rack, he decided to take a look to see what his mother was talking about. He leaned in close to the mirror and studied his face.
“She’s right,” Brendan whispered. The usual cluster of zits that plagued the corners of his mouth was fading. The giant angry, potential- Siamese-twin 34 pimple between his brows was half the size it had been that morning. “Wow.” Well, one thing had gone right today, even if he had absolutely no control over it. Brendan grabbed his books off the hall table before his mum saw them and went up to his room.
Brendan’s room was at the very top of the house, a converted attic that he reached via a steep set of narrow stairs that were more like a ladder than a real stairway. Brendan had begged for the room even though his mother and father had been dubious. The steep steps and his natural clumsiness were a dangerous mix. In the end, he’d prevailed. Delia was fine with him taking the attic room. She had a room with a tiny balcony to herself looking out over the street.
Brendan hoisted himself up into the room and tossed his books onto the small single bed. He stood up and immediately cracked his skull on the roof.
“Ow,” he grunted aloud, rubbing his scalp. He’d lived in this room for years and he still banged his head every day like clockwork. Shaking his head in self-disgust, he went to his desk and sat down at the computer, being careful to duck beneath the slanted wooden beams that sloped overhead. He’d cracked his skull even more lately as he had shot up a foot in the last couple of years.