The doctor came into the hall and handed a clipboard to her. “They’re all clear,” he said, “but this one’s still a little underweight.” He pointed to Josh. He looked fine to me.
Josh asked more questions, but we got no answers about our dad or mom. The lady just kept telling us that we were lucky, and that our ride to our new home would be along shortly.
We were cleaned up—teeth brushed, hair combed, shoes tied—and had our belongings packed up. I had the leather Adidas bag Mom had given me before Dad took us from Saskatchewan, and Jerry and Josh had theirs, too. Our names were on them and we always kept them ready just in case we had to run at night—it was a fun game Dad played with us when we moved. The police must’ve brought them when we first came to the red-brick building, but they forgot to bring our old clothes.
I was glad to hold my bag again; it meant I was going somewhere new. And it was filled with better clothes now, even a brand-new Mighty Mouse T-shirt. I was excited even though I knew my brothers were worried.
We went outside, and an old man drove up and got out of his car.
He said, “Nice to see you, Gladys,” to the black lady, and told us his name was Clive. He smelled like old cigars and had grease on his overalls. He was way bigger than Dad, and I thought he was at least a hundred years old, judging by his grey hair and fat belly.
Gladys shook Clive’s hand then knelt down and pinched Jerry’s cheek. “I’ll miss you boys,” she said, picking the lint off his yellow-and-brown-striped sweater. “But I’ll miss you most, Jerry.” I could see he almost burst into tears. They hugged while Clive loaded our bags into the trunk of his car, and with that, we were off.
The car ride to our new house took forever. We drove until nighttime, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. When we pulled up to Clive’s place, a woman and girl came out to greet us. They had big smiles and balloons, and a small dog was barking its head off beside them—it was about the size of a beaver and had scraggly brown hair.
“This is my wife, Cynthia,” Clive said. “And my daughter, Matilda.” Cynthia looked so old to me, like Clive, and Matilda was around the same age as my cousin Suzanne back in Saskatoon—around nine years old. Her hair was curly, down to her shoulders. I could see her braces when she smiled. The dog continued to bark and sniff as we made our way inside.
My memories of the time inside that house are misty. Like a shroud of fog not yet lifted just before dawn. The wild shapes of things black and blue, bleeding into one another. The sunlight not yet strong enough to make out what lurks in the tall azure grass ahead, the line of spruce just out of view at the other end of the meadow.
What I do remember, though, is grease, pressure, that yapping dog, and wishing it would end.
I remember my brother Jerry fighting off the giant wolf that came into our room and floated over our beds and ripped him apart.
Jerry’s tiny fists punched up and into the darkness, right before his little body was dug out and broken.
He would put himself between me and the Monster. He would rescue me from whatever it was that had him and Josh squealing in the next room while I cried myself to sleep.
I would turn my head and try to hide from it all, but it always found me.
Jerry and Josh changed after that. They lost their superpowers, they peed the bed every night. But they were still my protectors.
The fragments of that time blend and refract light in a way that blinds me, but I do know that one day the black lady showed up, and that before we left the house, Josh shut the door in the dog’s face. Its whining is the last thing I remember from that horrible place.
THE BEAST
WE RACED BY JUTS OF rock and small Jack pines. My eyes tried to keep up with the jagged landscape, but the blurred tracers of green and black just made me feel sick.
My grandparents Cyril and Jackie Thistle looked exactly like they did in the pictures Dad used to show us. Grandpa, who was driving, had a brown moustache like Dad’s, but it was trimmed neatly around his upper lip. His hair was slick and parted like Alfalfa’s from Little Rascals, but not down the middle. Grandma had a grey-black Afro that wobbled with the motion of the van.
She leaned back to offer me a sandwich. I was hungry, so I took it.
Grandpa smiled at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes gleamed like blue sapphires, the light catching them just so through his glasses.
My grandparents didn’t say much to us boys on the drive to Toronto, but I could make out that my grandmother was mad at my parents by the way she complained to Grandpa. Her fury at our dad for leaving us alone. Her anger when she talked about our mother. I didn’t understand that, though. Dad had talked Mom into letting us go in Moose Jaw. It wasn’t her fault the way things ended up.
As Grandma railed on, I realized there was a force in her that was more powerful than that of my grandfather. Grandpa listened and nodded, careful to watch the road, but it was clear Grandma was in charge. In between sentences, Grandma turned to face me, and, with the taste of ham and cheese thick on my tongue, I could smell the scent of charred wood and tobacco coming from her direction. Somehow, the odour told me I could trust her enough to share my words.
“Thank you for the sandwich, Grandma.”
She rubbed my leg. “You’re welcome, Baby Boy.” She peeled an orange, and I shared it with Jerry and Josh, who fell asleep soon after, but I remained awake, fascinated by Grandma and her campfire smell. I stared at her as she smoked her cigarettes and flicked them in an empty coffee cup she kept between her knees.
I’d later learn from my aunties that Grandma’s people came from a place way up in northern Ontario called Timiskaming, and that she was part Native and part white like us boys—Algonquin and Scottish, and that her dad was from a reserve near Notre Dame du Nord in Quebec.
As I examined her features through the cigarette smoke, I recognized that Grandma was a little Indian, but her hair was all curly, not black and straight like my mom’s and aunties’ out west. Her skin was more tanned than my grandfather’s. He had the same tone as a freshly opened cube of Spam—pink through and through—like Dad and me. Not Grandma. She was lighter than Josh, but almost looked the same beige mix as Jerry.
“Look,” Grandpa said after hours of driving along what seemed like a never-ending road. We crested a hill and the landscape opened up before us. “That’s Toronto—that’s where our house is.” He lifted his bear paw from the wheel and pointed to a cluster of buildings on the approaching horizon. The toothy jumble of grey concrete in the distance was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Way bigger than anywhere else I’d ever been.
“You see that needle-looking structure right in the middle?” Grandpa asked. “That’s the tallest building in the world—the CN Tower.”
I almost fell forward off my seat trying to get a better look.
Grandpa laughed. “We live over there,” he said, motioning to a smaller cluster of buildings. “In a place called Brampton. But I’ll take you boys to see the tower after we’re all settled in.”
The houses in Brampton were set in neat little rows, with perfect lawns and freshly paved roads. Everything looked so clean, orderly, and taken care of. Blue jays and robins sang to each other in the treetops; squirrels ran everywhere collecting things; and cats walked, surefooted, along fence tops. There was so much sunlight. It comforted me to see so many parents walking with their kids. I thought of my mom and dad—but in a good way, when we were happy and together.
This new place was so beautiful.
We rounded the corner, pulled into a driveway on the coziest street I ever saw, and Grandpa declared, “We’re home.”
“Just be careful of Yorkie,” Grandma said as we got out and made our way to the front door. “He likes to jump.”
Bounding out the door came a beast of a dog. He had brown and black fur with flecks of silver down the sides, and his ears were erect like a German shepherd’s. He looked like a wolf and stood as tall as the middle of my chest. His tail wagged so hard th
at his bum shot from side to side—even while he charged at us. He leapt at me, I fell backward, and he started licking my face until I couldn’t breathe. I started to cry.
But Yorkie kept licking, yelping with glee. He was doing his best to welcome us home.
TOUCH OF HOME
“CYRIL,” GRANDMA SAID TO GRANDPA. “My catalogues are missing again.” Her permed hair bobbed as she lifted the chesterfield cushions. “One of the boys keeps taking them and hiding them all over the house, and I need to order something.” She stood, mouth open.
“Maybe they have to order something, too, Jackie.” Grandpa smirked at me and returned to his egg-and-bacon breakfast. The fork and knife looked tiny in his elevator-mechanic hands. I peered at my feet, which dangled from the chair next to him. His thumbs were about twice the size of my big toes. My eyes barely rose above the kitchen table. Grandma left to go down to the laundry room. Her slippers slapped against the hard yellow calluses on her heels, like leather against wood.
“What’s the verdict, Jesse? Do you have something to order?” Before I could answer, Grandpa delivered a swift karate chop to my leg. “Hiya!”
My knee jerked. I squealed with glee as eggs spilled out of my mouth and down the front of my PJs.
“Grandpa!” I shouted, half shocked, half laughing, ketchup smeared all over my lips and chin. He just winked, looking like Popeye without his corncob pipe. His forearms were bigger than Popeye’s for sure.
“Watch it, buddy,” he said as he put up his dukes. I put mine up like a little fighting Irishman.
Grandma called upstairs. “Cyril, wait till you see this.” I heard her heavy rhino steps, then saw her. She had the missing catalogue in her hand. “I found it behind the toy box. Look.” She opened it and held it up. “Just like the last few times it went missing.” She placed it in front of my grandfather and pointed. “The women’s underwear section is ripped out—the whole section.”
“Well, I didn’t do it. Must’ve been one of the boys,” he said and laughed. “At least they took the best part.”
“Cyril!” Grandma looked disgusted.
I pushed my eggs around to avoid eye contact, but she leaned forward, crossing her arms over the damaged magazine. “Jesse. Do you know who did this?” Her brown-rimmed glasses magnified her eyes. Grandpa turned to face me.
“No, Grandma—”
Yorkie the Wonder Dog, who’d become my most trusted friend and ally, came in and pooped near the fridge, saving me from saying more. Grandpa pushed aside his breakfast, and Grandma ran over as Yorkie scurried away with a guilty-dog smile, his tail tucked between his legs.
“You see what happens when you boys don’t walk him enough!” Grandma grabbed a grocery bag from under the kitchen sink and dangled it in my direction. “Come clean it up.”
I usually woke up early, and often was the first one up. It was something I’d learned while living with Dad. The first one up and to the cupboards or fridge was the first one to eat. And the first one to eat was often the only one to eat. But this morning at my grandparents’ I stayed in bed, cozy in my own room, buried under my blanket, not worried about breakfast. My grandparents had lots of treats, and my instinct to be the first one up was giving way to a desire to sleep in.
I awoke to find Grandma in my room.
“Jesse. Time to get up.” She put an armful of clothes on the chest of drawers and began folding sweaters. “Aunt Sherry and Uncle John are coming over and we’ve got to get you ready.”
My aunt Sherry was my grandparents’ only daughter, and Grandpa’s favourite child by a long shot. She was the youngest and was pretty with long flowing brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes. She always made us the best food when she came over—fried chicken, pasta with salty cheese, and chocolate cake. Uncle John, her husband, was strong like a lumberjack—he cut wood with an axe, beard and all, at their house in the country, and I imagined he was so powerful because of all the delicious foods Aunt Sherry made him.
I cleared the sleep from my eyes and sat up. Yorkie ran in, his tail wagging and tongue hanging out. He jumped on the bed to lick my face, and the sound of crunching echoed throughout the room. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. Everywhere he put his paws on the bed, the sound resonated.
“What the hell?” Grandma said and turned to investigate the strange noise.
Stop moving, dog, I pleaded silently.
Yorkie continued to romp about. Grandma grabbed him by the scruff, threw him off the bed, then reached down and pulled my covers back. I tried raking them back up, but she’d already seen. Strewn all around me were pages and pages of the Sears catalogues. There must’ve been about seventy-five beautiful young underwear models nestled in my bed.
“It was you,” Grandma said. “Why?”
I tried to hide. “I don’t know. They . . .”
Grandma pushed the ripped pages aside and sat beside me.
“I like them,” I whispered. Yorkie put his paws up on the bed again. “They remind me of my mom. They’re beautiful.”
Grandma’s scents, curves, and soft voice had taken the place of my mother’s. But they weren’t the same. Mom’s body was brown and lean. Grandma’s was beige and chubby, with wrinkles and moles all over. I missed holding on to my mother’s leg, nuzzling her breast, cuddling against her stomach. I missed feeling the strength her being possessed, the sense of warmth and protection. No matter how hard I squeezed, Grandma just wasn’t home.
“Oh, baby,” Grandma said and hugged me.
GODZILLA
WHEN I WALKED INTO CLASS the first day of kindergarten, I saw a kid standing alone by the tinker toys and coloured blocks in the corner near Mrs. S.’s desk. He was much shorter than me. His hair was dark brown, cut into a strange kind of bowl cut, and his nose was large and hatchet-shaped.
“My name is Leeroy,” the kid said. “I’m a Newfie. My parents come from an island called Newfoundland.”
I knew where that was because Grandpa came from Cape Breton. I imagined a land of Newfies with big noses, just like my new friend. I soon found out that he lived on my street, right around the corner from my house. In all, it was around fifty metres from his door to mine.
Leeroy and I got along right from the beginning. We’d jump our bikes off the curbs after school, and he was the only kid on our block who could beat me in a race. But I was tougher and could get the best of him most times—having older brothers gave me an advantage. He took me to cool spots like the gravel pit where we’d catch frogs and crayfish. Jerry would come with us, too, but it was clear Leeroy and I were best friends.
Leeroy had a big sister named Sylvia who was in Grade 2 with my brother Josh. She was twice the size of me and Leeroy.
“We need to watch out for her,” Leeroy said. “She’s a bully.”
There was a wall that separated the kindergarten section from the older kids’ playground out back. Whenever Sylvia came into our area, we’d whistle to warn each other, and then take cover behind the bushes. Most times we escaped her wrath, but sometimes she’d catch us by surprise and beat the pulp out of us. Her strength was unreal—like some real-life version of Godzilla, but with dirty-blond hair and a frilly pink dress. Her footsteps seemed to shake the very earth beneath our feet, and her nose was even larger than Leeroy’s—when she’d throttle me, I thought it resembled the snout of a T. Rex, roaring and full of dinosaur teeth.
One day, Leeroy and I had had enough. We decided we were going to fire a giant wad of gum into Sylvia’s hair at recess. She’d beaten and embarrassed us too many times. The moment the wet gum left the sling and slapped the side of her head, we knew we’d taken it too far.
She reached back and tried pulling it out, but that only made things worse. The gum stuck to her fingers and formed thin strands that blew back with the wind. A whole spiderweb of gum clung to the side of her face and neck. Her hair would have to be cut to get the gum out. Tears filled her eyes and she let out the most monstrous screech I’d ever heard. Her very body seemed to grow
larger and larger the louder she yelled. Then she moved with lightning speed, cornered us, and began pummelling us in front of everyone.
Our classmates began screeching, “Save them, Mrs. S., Sylvia is going to murder them,” as she tossed us in the air like rag dolls.
It felt like I flew five feet in one direction, Leeroy, four in the other. We knew we’d probably die if we stuck around, so we decided to make a run for it.
The playground was boxed in on one side by the school, and surrounded by fences on the others, and Sylvia blocked the way back toward the main road, so the gravel pit on the other side of the playground seemed like our only option. I signalled to Leeroy with my eyes, he did the same back, and the instant our sneakers hit the ground, we bolted. Sylvia may have been bigger and stronger than us, but we were faster, and we ran like our lives depended on it. When we thought we had a good lead, we turned to see how much earth separated us from the gum-haired Godzilla. She was about a half-kilometre away, screaming, crying, and cursing. For now, we were safe from the beast’s clutches. For now, victory was ours.
From then on, Leeroy and I were inseparable.
LEEROY AND THE BROWN POP
LEEROY’S PARENTS BOTH WORKED DAYS, and he stayed in the after-school program until his mom or dad picked him up at 4:30 p.m. Sylvia also stayed after school, and Leeroy didn’t like being in an enclosed space for two hours with his big sister and the other kids.
“The class breaks out into wrestling matches,” he said, “and I always get the worst of it from Sylvia.”
“Come play at my house,” I said to him one day. Once 4:20 hit, he could walk back to school for his 4:30 pickup, like he’d never left at all. He jumped at the chance at freedom.
None of the kids usually liked coming to our house to play. Who could blame them? It was like stepping into a time machine. We had blocks of wood to play with; bits of steel my grandpa brought home from his construction job; some old dinky cars; a couple of beat-up hockey sticks from my uncles; and a few beach rocks we’d picked up in Cape Breton on our yearly trips. I knew my grandparents loved us; they just didn’t have a lot of money.
From the Ashes Page 4