by William Bell
I liked their house. The furniture was old and the rugs threadbare, but it was comfortable and inviting. I liked to visit my grandparents, too. Normally. But when we were at the dinner table and everyone had a share of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, corn and broccoli—I passed on the broccoli even after a propaganda lecture from Grandma about the wonderful things it would do for my health, pointing out that Dad hadn’t taken any either—I found out that food wasn’t the only thing on the menu.
The four of them ambushed me. It started out with a question from Grandma that was so uncasually casual, alarm bells went off.
“How is your new school, Zachariah?”
Grandpa’s stare bore down on me like a runaway train. Mom nonchalantly speared a piece of potato with her fork but didn’t raise it to her mouth. Dad, who hated confrontation, was suddenly fascinated with the wallpaper.
“Okay, I guess,” I answered. Be noncommittal, I told myself, hoping I could somehow get out of the coming interrogation.
“Have you adapted all right?” Grandma asked in a very nonthreatening tone. “It must be hard, going to a new school, making new friends.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Especially when the school is in a town the size of a tenth-rate golf course and the students know more about horses and fertilizer than good music or cool clothes.
“How are your marks?” Never famous for his patience, Grandpa got right to the point.
“Not so good,” I said, aware that I was about to enter a contest with the odds stacked at three to one, a little steamed at my parents for setting me up. They knew I loved my grandparents and would do anything for them.
Grandpa put down his knife and fork. He took a few gulps from his water glass. “Listen, Zack,” he began in a tone that he almost never used with me, “your education is the most important thing you have. Nowadays, without good schooling, a person can’t amount to anything.”
“You did okay,” I countered, earning a scowl from my mother.
“What okay? A taxi driver? Working twelve hours a day? Putting up with drunks and whores in the middle of the—”
“Paul!” Grandma cried.
“All right, all right, sorry, dear. But you get my drift, Zack. That’s no life. You don’t want that. You can learn. You’re a smart kid. Look at your dad, a university teacher. And your mom, a wonderful musician you can hear her on the radio.”
I didn’t bother to point out that Mom had left school after grade twelve. He’d have told me she had studied music for years, worked as hard as a one-armed wallpaper-hanger—his favourite and corniest expression—and he’d have been right. But I hated it when he criticized me. I felt like I was letting him down.
“I know what’s going on here,” I said, looking at Grandma because my grandfather could always stare me down, no contest. “Mom and Dad got you to hassle me about my marks. But if you want to know why I’m flunking, ask them.”
Savagely, I attacked a chicken leg, slashing the meat off the bone while the silence pressed in on me.
“Listen, Zack,” Grandpa began again after a few moments had passed. “You’re going to let this beat you? You didn’t want to move away from the city, your friends, so you’re punishing your parents by flunking out? I don’t say it’s no hardship for you, okay. Okay?” he said again when I didn’t answer.
“Okay.”
“All right. It’s tough on you. Agreed. We all know that. But let me tell you something. About your mom’s side of the family, I don’t know much.” He shot Mom a look weighty with meaning, and she glanced away, pursing her lips.
“We don’t know much about them. It’s a pity, but that’s another story. On this side, you come from people uprooted from their homes by bigots and murderers. From Romania to Winnipeg, let me tell you something, that’s no holiday trip. But when they came here, may God bless this country, they could start over. And they did. They didn’t give up. Okay, they didn’t get rich or run for office, but they made a place to stand on.”
He was trying to make me feel bad, like I was letting down the whole Lazarovitch clan, whose name became Lane when they came to Canada.
“This is all just Jewish guilt!” I said angrily.
Grandma’s eyes lit up, her hand darted to cover her mouth and she laughed. Grandpa pointed at me as a cloud of anger crossed his features. Then he laughed too, throwing his head back and letting go.
“What a smart alec,” he said.
“Zack, it’s done,” Mom said, her brows set in a firm line, her dark eyes fiery. “Live with it, or don’t. But if you mess up, don’t look around for someone to blame.”
On the way back to our new house, crammed together with my two silent parents in that loser pickup, I looked out the windows as the buildings and expressways gave way to farm land and fence rows, knowing nothing would change.
Chapter 7
In what she thought of as her no-nonsense voice Ms. Song told me to stay after class. “Time for a reality check, Zack,” she added.
It was a few days after the incident at Elora Gorge Park, and our history class had spent the whole period taking up a test on seventeenth-century British North America, not exactly a captivating topic. To say I had failed the test badly would be putting it mildly—which didn’t help my already rotten average. I could just imagine the sermon Song was about to deliver.
Even though I was failing her subject, I liked her. Always in a hurry and often late, she was a tightly wrapped bundle of pure energy who flew up and down the halls like a demented sparrow. Bits of yarn held her long, crow-black hair behind her neck; her multicoloured dresses hung on her like curtains, almost brushing her clunky discount-store running shoes. Not what you’d call a fashion model. But she knew so much history that her students called her The Book.
“Come up here,” she commanded in a not very commanding voice after the last kid had left the room and closed the door.
I stood by her desk, trying hard to work a look of remorse into my face. I knew what was coming.
“What are you trying to do, Zack, convince me that you’re a dope?”
“No.”
“Can you explain your mark?”
“I didn’t study too much, I guess.”
“You didn’t study,” she scoffed. “Listen, my cat could have passed this test. It was all content, memory work. You didn’t have to stretch your brain one little bit.”
She paused, waiting for me to say something. I didn’t.
“So what’s the problem? You don’t like history, is that it?”
Never tell a teacher you don’t like her subject. “It’s okay, I guess. I like it all right.”
“Ah, so it’s me, then.”
“No,” I answered hastily, this time truthfully.
“You don’t like the class?”
“It’s okay.”
“The ambience doesn’t suit you? Your desk is too small? Come on, Zack, give me a clue here, will you?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”
That was true, too. I wanted to get away from that mickey-mouse town so much that my teeth ached, and my only way out was a college or university. To be accepted at those places I needed a diploma, with a decent average. Which meant studying hard and doing assignments diligently and handing them in on time. I knew all that.
But I just couldn’t get down to work. Every night I’d climb dutifully up to my room after supper, full of determination, sit at my desk, open my books and … nothing. All my resolve would fade. I’d have a million excuses, a thousand diversions. I would doodle, get up and fiddle with the radio settings, sharpen pencils even though I always used a pen, go out for a run, watch TV, promising myself after just one show I’d get at the books.
What was wrong? It wasn’t as if I had an active social life. It wasn’t as if I had any social life. Teams and school clubs? I belonged to none. I had no girlfriend, no car, no job, no pets—not even a goldfish. Nothing stood between me and my studies. So why couldn’t I concentrate?
Why couldn’t I get even a little bit interested in Shakespeare or chemical reactions or, heaven help me, British North America?
The Book broke in on my thoughts. “Zack, I’ll make a deal with you. Maybe you can salvage this credit. It’s a one-time offer, take it or leave it. Interested?”
No, I wanted to say. An impending earthquake couldn’t raise my interest these days.
“Yes, Ms. Song.”
Her brows creased a little. “Hmm. Do try to contain your enthusiasm. Okay, the responsibility to pass history, as I never tire of reminding you people, rests entirely on your shoulders. I’m offering you a chance to do an independent study project. Your task is to come up with a research topic, your own choice. The only stipulation is that it has to be something to do with local history. Bring your idea to me within, oh, three days. If I approve it, you use our class time to work on your own project. And if you do a decent job on it, you’ll get your credit. What do you say? Agreed?”
I knew she was throwing me a life-line. Based on my results so far and the time left in the semester, there was almost no chance that I’d pass history.
“Agreed.”
She began to gather up her books and stuff them into an already bulging briefcase. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
On the way out I paused at the door. “Ms. Song?”
“Yes, Zack.”
“Thanks.”
Local history, I mused as I walked across the parking lot to the yellow monster. Around me, kids swarmed, shrieking goodbyes as they headed for their buses. Of all the restrictions Song could have put on me, it had to be that. She offered me a way out, then made it as difficult as possible for me. What could have happened around this tedious town? How could I possibly find anything to research? Maybe Dad could help. He had a whole university library available to him.
“Zack! Zack, wait up!”
Jen’s voice chased me across the parking lot, causing heads to turn in my direction. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, but she had been in homeroom that morning, glancing my way a few times, probably looking for a chance to take a shot at me.
Part of the reason why I had been so surprised by Jen’s reaction to her cousin’s remark that day in the park was that, up until then, she had been friendly and helpful, showing me the ropes. I had even thought of asking her out. But I had seen her kind before. Though not openly hostile themselves, they would stand by and listen or watch while someone trashed a kid because they didn’t have the guts to object. Or they were hearing what they’d like to have said themselves. Teachers referred to it as peer pressure. I called it cowardice.
I ignored her call and reached for the stair railing of the bus. A hand clutched my shoulder from behind.
“Zack!”
I shook her off.
“Zack, I need to talk to you.”
“You going in or not?” a mouthy grade niner asked, pushing past me up the steps.
I turned to face Jen. Her face was flushed and she was breathing hard.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked from side to side, conscious that we stood in the middle of a throng. Behind me, the bus engine rumbled and kids yelled back and forth, opened and closed windows.
Jen took a breath. When she spoke, her voice trembled a little and she hurried her words, as if making a prepared speech.
“Zack, I, um, I want to apologize for my cousin. She’s a real jerk. I don’t even like her. She was visiting with her parents and I got stuck with her all afternoon. I’m sorry about what she said.”
“You laughed, Jen. You thought it was funny. So did Dave.”
“I didn’t think it was funny at all. I thought it was awful. I was so shocked and then embarrassed that I laughed. I didn’t know what to say. But after you left, I told her what I thought of her and her crappy attitude.”
She raked her hair away from her face with her fingers. “Zack, I just want you to know I’m not her.”
“That’s nice,” I said, hearing the hard edge in my voice.
She looked down at her loafers, which were speckled with mud. “I thought you and I were friends,” she mumbled.
“Yeah, well, so did I,” I said, and turned to climb aboard the bus.
Chapter 8
When I got home and pushed open the front door with more force than was necessary, slamming it behind me, I heard the blues floating from Mom’s studio. She was working up a new song—I didn’t recognize the tune. I dropped my books on the table by the door, kicked off my high-tops and went to tell her I was home. When she was composing, a nuclear bomb could go off in the next room and she’d never notice.
Mom had spent a lot of money sound-proofing the room and installing recording equipment so she could do most of her work at home rather than rent a professional sound studio. The thick, insulated door was open, so I knew she was rehearsing, not recording. Like my father, she didn’t like to be disturbed when she was working, so I stuck my head around the corner and waved. Fingers skittering from fret to fret as the notes wove themselves into patterns, Mom smiled, nodded, causing her earrings to sway, and closed her eyes. Too bad, I thought, I hadn’t inherited her powers of concentration along with her nose.
As I turned to leave, the guitar broke into a traditional blues chord progression.
“Now here’s the handsome stranger,” she sang, calling up her best Chicago street sound.
“Coming home to see his ma,
His momma says, ‘Hey, son of mine,
It’s time to mow the lawn.’”
Ah, hell, I thought, then laughed, despite my sour mood. I walked into the room and picked up one of the guitars that sat like a waiting butler in a stand. Copying her chord pattern and attempting to mimic her accent, I sang right back at her.
“‘Oh,’ said the handsome stranger,
‘I just ain’t in the mood,
I’ll mow the lawn some other time,
Now, I need solitude.’”
A pretty lame rhyme, but the best I could do. I put down the guitar and turned to go.
“She says, ‘You may be handsome,’” I heard behind me,
“She says, ‘You may be strong,
With money and a fancy car.
You still got to mow the lawn.’”
And without missing a beat she switched back to the tune she was working on.
Talking my mother out of something was more trouble than pushing a dump truck uphill, so I went to my room, changed into shorts and a T-shirt and walked to the garage to haul out the ancient gas-powered lawn mower.
That’s another thing I hate about this damn country-style living, I thought as I pushed the rackety mower back and forth. In the city a lawn is a sensible size; here it’s like mowing a farm.
By the time I had assassinated the last blade of grass in the back yard, careful not to yield to temptation and accidentally mow down Mom’s new lilac shrubs, Dad was home. He was lifting his briefcase out of the truck, his cardigan draped over it, when I shoved the mower into the garage.
“Hey, Farmer Zack,” he said. “How’s things on the back forty?”
I had no idea what he meant by the back forty and no intention of asking.
“Hi, Dad. Mom’s making me do slave labour again,” I said grumpily.
Dad looked at the uneven stripes on the front lawn and the tufts of grass I had missed in my careless swipes to and fro. “Well, you got most of it,” he said.
“You should be grateful. I’m the son of a musician and an academic. You’re lucky I didn’t run over my feet.”
“Right,” he said. “Good point.”
I followed him into the house and headed for the shower.
My lawn mower martyrdom did not exempt me from clean-up detail after dinner—my parents refused to buy a dishwasher. I was putting the last plate in the cupboard when the doorbell rang. A moment later, Mom came into the kitchen.
“Someone’s here for you,” she said with a grin from ear to ear. “Where have you been keeping
her?”
“Keeping who?”
“Oh, I see. It’s a secret thing, is it?” she said, and walked into the studio.
Standing inside our front door, wearing a school sweatshirt and baggy warm-up shorts, was Jen. Her hair was pulled back from her face, held in place with two gold barrettes. I could smell her floral perfume across the room.
“I didn’t like the way we left things,” she began while I was trying to think of something to say.
Neither had I. While I was mowing the lawn I had replayed our conversation a dozen times. Had I been too hard on her, refusing her apology like that?
As if in answer she took a step towards me, moving in close, and before I could speak she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.
Since I had met Jen I had wondered how her lips would feel, and now I knew. They were even softer than I had imagined or hoped, and the firm press of her breasts against my chest put all thoughts of anger out of my mind. Sometime during the long kiss I put my arms around her and pulled her closer, tasting the minty flavour of her mouth, breathing in the fragrance of her hair.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” she said, breaking the kiss but not the tight hold of her arms.
“Me, too,” I croaked. “Maybe we should do it again.”
Jen flushed as she looked behind me. Dad was passing through towards the kitchen, an empty mug in his hand.
“Don’t mind me,” he said in his playful voice. “I didn’t see anything. I’m not even here.” And he disappeared.
“Great timing, Dad,” I muttered.
Jen laughed. “Well, I guess I’ll be going. I just wanted to—”
“Can’t you stay?”
“I’m running an errand for my mother. She’ll wonder. You mean a lot to me, Zack. I wanted you to know.”
“Y’all done kissed a nigra,” I drawled. “What would y’all’s cousin think?”
“If she knew what she was missing, she’d be jealous. Well, bye. Call me later if you want.”
“Okay.”
I walked her to her car and stood in the driveway, happily confused, as she drove away, then went back into the house.