As Robert went downstairs, he could feel his star buzzing around his neck.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BATTLE BEGINS
As Robert sat with his parents and ate dinner, he tried not to betray his new galactic status. He was acutely aware he was different, not daring to use the word special, and hoped his mother, who could spot a molecule out of place, didn’t notice anything.
Now that he’d had his interstellar revelation, it was critical that he did not miss one single episode of his heroes’ adventures. His mission was simple. He would win the grease contest. It would give him the money he’d need to keep the flow of comics coming, allowing his superheroes to continue their watch over his brothers.
Charlene Donnelly was an obstacle. He, however, would use his skill and cunning to show Crazy Charlie how it was done.
“Robert, stop gulping your food, for heaven’s sake. You’ll make yourself sick.” His mother poured him a glass of milk.
“I have to eat fast Mum. I’m in this contest to collect fat for the war effort and I’m going to canvass the neighbourhood for grease and lard. There must be loads out there and after supper, when busy mothers are cleaning up the cooking mess, I’m sure they’ll be more than happy for me to take the stuff away.”
“That’s a very good thing to do.” His father, William, spoke up in his gravelly baritone. Tall and angular like his sons, his hair had gone grey early, which made him appear older than he was. “Our boys need more bombs and that means we all have to do our part. Tell you what son, I’ll help with the dishes tonight so you can get on with your collecting.”
Robert wondered if he’d heard right. This was an unexpected bonus he wasn’t about to turn down. He’d take advantage of his father’s generous, and highly unusual, offer. He’d also check the sky for a blue moon while he was doing his grease collecting.
For the rest of the evening Robert knocked on every door along his street and explained what he needed and why. Everyone was very generous. Old Mrs. Tate gave him a tub of grease she’d been saving for a donkey’s age and when he went to the boarding house at the corner, Mrs. Johnson forked over a pail that must have weighed three pounds. She said it was lucky he’d come by as she’d been planning to take the gelatinous goo to the collection depot the following day.
He fell asleep that night in the middle of calculating how much fat would go to school with him tomorrow.
_____
The next morning Robert found riding on a bicycle while balancing a load of slimy sludge to be quite a challenge. A couple of times, he had to get off and push so he wouldn’t spill any of the precious cargo. When he hauled his cans into the school, he saw he’d collected way more than the other kids he met in the halls.
Smiling broadly, Robert felt the tiniest bit smug as he pushed open the doors to the home ec room.
The smile died on his lips and took the smug with it.
At the front desk, Charlie Donnelly stood next to a beat-up red wagon piled high with tubs and buckets. There was enough fat to build an entire arsenal, with a pound or two left over for a few extra firecrackers!
“Yow, Charlie – I mean Charlene – that’s a ton of fat!” Robert’s shock turned to irritation when he saw several of the pails had Hamburger Heaven written on the sides. That must be the name of the restaurant where her uncle worked, and with the amount he’d given her, the term “greasy spoon” slid to a whole other level.
Charlie turned to him. “Gee, it might take a while to weigh all this. I seem to have an awful lot. You can leave your little tins and Miss Pettigrew will get to them later.” Her smirk was all sticky sweet sugar.
“Oh I wouldn’t dream of leaving.” He smiled back, turning on his own maple syrup tap. “A couple of these babies are pretty heavy and I wouldn’t want Miss Pettigrew to strain herself lifting.”
Charlie’s eyes glinted like shards of blue ice. “We had the same problem. Simple fix. We moved the scale to the floor, then worked together to drag the heaviest buckets onto the tray for weighing.” Here, she wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. “Phew! There were a couple of doozies.”
Miss Pettigrew raised her head from her calculations. “Charlene, you have fourteen pounds here! I must say, this is a marvellous start. Well done my dear.” She pulled a pencil out of the haystack on her head and marked the number first on a clipboard which she kept hidden, then added the amounts to a giant thermometer chart on the wall. Other students’ contributions were shaded in already.
The thermometer recordings were in different colours, and Robert decided it depended on which pencil his teacher laid her hands’ on and not which student was being recorded since no names were shown on the big chart. Charlie’s total was in bright red, like a big red stoplight – stopping him from winning, stopping him from collecting his comic books and stopping him from helping his brothers!
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Crazy Charlie waltzed out of the room humming, “We’re in the Money.”
Robert set his buckets down. “Would you like me to move the scale to the floor?” he asked, seeing it was back on the counter.
Miss Pettigrew eyed Robert’s offering. “Nope, won’t be necessary.”
His total was seven pounds, which was way less than he’d thought. Crazy Charlie was already so far in front of him, he couldn’t even see her tail lights. He’d have to come up with a better battle plan.
Later that night, as he explained his problem of needing more fat to his comic book commandos, he held his meteorite tightly in his fist and wished for help, squeezing it so hard it left indentations in his palm.
_____
Robert received his help when he discovered no other kids in his neighbourhood were entering the contest, so he could canvass their streets as well. He expanded his search area, collecting every ounce of lard, fat, sludge and goo, but still he was behind his arch enemy. On Friday morning, he was at this locker when Crazy Charlie stopped by.
“I know what I’m getting...ka-ching! I wonder if they’ll have a Thanks for Your Feeble Effort ribbon for the rest of you losers. Unless of course, you’ve got a real fat bomb at home you’re waiting to bring in?”
Robert slammed his locker door shut. She was fishing for information. Silly girl. He wasn’t about to give anything away. “Hey, how’s tricks Char-lean?” He hoped she’d get his subtle reference to her stick-skinny build.
“Cut the rapier wit, Tourond. I saw your total and I’d say things are lookin’ mighty good – for me.”
He wondered how she knew his total, since the all-important clipboard was kept locked in Miss Pettigrew’s desk. He decided his devious and, he had to admit, clever foe must be watching when kids brought their donations in and figuring out their amounts from the coloured bands marked on the wall chart. Actually, this wasn’t a bad idea. Robert decided he would add it to his strategy as well.
“Don’t be so sure...” And here he rubbed his shoulder like it was sore. “I’ve got a load at home to bring in and my arm still aches from lifting it.”
She snorted. “With those pipe cleaner arms, I’m sure it must be all of two pounds.” She tossed her long ponytail over her shoulder and, before Robert could think of a cutting response, waltzed away down the hall. He knew he had an edge: his interstellar pendant. Every time he held the meteorite and really concentrated, something good happened. For instance, several times while out canvassing the neighbourhood yesterday, he’d touched his talisman and poof! the lady of the house would remember a pail in the basement or a can of bacon grease she’d set aside.
At the end of the day, as Robert was slipping the stone back on before he went home, a couple of his classmates came over and said he could have whatever they collected that weekend as they wanted him to beat Crazy Charlie. Robert had a moment of discomfort; he didn’t think the contest was supposed to be about popularity. Then he remembered that lives were at stake and he accepted their offers.
He canvassed all weekend, yet even with the donations of his friends, the bat
tle almost turned into hand-to-hand combat on Monday morning when Charlie hauled in a wagon stacked so high with the precious goop, she’d had to tie it down with ropes.
“Man, I didn’t think I’d make it in. I’m going to have to get a bigger wagon!” Charlie’s hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, like she’d run a race against Jesse Owens.
Robert again noticed the Hamburger Heaven logo. He wished he had a few convenient family connections in the dining industry, but refrained from commenting and dug in for a hard fight.
He’d added a respectable number of pounds to his total, but when Charlie brought another load in Tuesday, he could see he needed to score big. If his nemesis continued to use her uncle’s restaurant, then Robert would have to do something spectacular or he wasn’t going to win, which meant no Maple Leaf Kid, not to mention Sedna or Ice. He thought of his brothers’ being left unprotected and shuddered. He couldn’t let that happen.
_____
Tuesday evening the phone rang and Robert ran to get it. “Hello? Tourond residence, Robert speaking.” When his parents bought their telephone, his mother had insisted he answer in this stuffy way. Personally, he thought he sounded like a butler from Buckingham Palace.
“Hi Robbie, it’s Katy.”
Kathryn Tourond Thibault was Robert’s first cousin once removed, and although she was older even than his father and they didn’t see each other nearly often enough, Katy was his all-time favourite relative. She was also the only person on the planet who called him Robbie. Kathryn was a lawyer, a rare thing for a woman. She lived in River Falls, several hours drive from Calgary. The long-established shantytown perched precariously in cleared areas on each side of the road and had few amenities for these people who lived on the edge of society. In recent years, though, conditions had improved a lot, and his cousin was in a large part responsible. She fought for something called “civil rights” and Robert envied her bravery. Katy was the very definition of a true superhero.
“Hey cuz. What’s up?” he asked cheerily.
“I’ll be in Calgary on Thursday with work and thought I’d come for dinner and stay the night, if it’s agreeable with your mother.”
“Mum will be over the moon! She’s done with her experimental cooking using Spork: ‘the meat of many uses.’ She has a new recipe called Shipwreck – seven layers of all the macaroni, hamburger, corn, peas and other assorted flotsam and jetsam you can handle,” Robert joked. He continued listing their probable menu. “This will be followed by her famous eggless spice cake. It really sticks to your ribs and will take up homesteading in your stomach. And you’ll also have all the tea you can drink. Rationing is in full swing here in Calgary and Mum says we’re down to bare bones.”
“Well, that sounds better than fricasseed gopher, the tough-times dish you get around here.” Kathryn’s joke had a dark edge, referring as it did to her beloved road-allowance people; then she brightened. “Your mother’s recipes sounds delicious, Robbie! I can hardly wait to be shipwrecked. And the cake? Well now, I call any cake my friend. How about you – what’s new?”
Robert touched his pendant. “I’m glad you asked. I found an actual meteorite. Mr. G, our neighbour, thinks it’s mostly iron and it is heavy. It’s the neatest thing I’ve ever had. He made it into a sort of necklace and I wear it all the time.” He was excited to talk to someone about it and could hardly wait until Thursday so he could show it to her. He’d leave out the comic book connection, though. Even she wouldn’t believe him and they’d been friends since Moby Dick was a guppy!
“A real meteorite! That is fascinating. I look forward to all the exciting details. Have you heard anything from your brothers?”
“Yup. They’re all doing fine and having so many adventures that Mum is in a constant panic. You know how she gets when she thinks any of her boys are having too much fun. It’s...”
“Practically sinful!” Katy and Robert both said this at the same time, then burst into laughter.
“And, speaking of your brothers, I have something special for Patrice. Your grandmother Belle and I have been doing some fall cleaning at her place and found something we think he would love to have.”
“Katy,” Robert interrupted, “You know he goes by Patrick.”
This was a long-standing family battle. Patrick said Patrice sounded foreign: the name Patrick was more English and easier for people to say. But Robert thought his brother was worried that people would ask him about his family’s ancestry. The Tourond’s were Métis, a mix of Native and French Canadian. Robert was proud they could trace their roots to the days of the fur trade and the Hudson’s Bay and North West Companies, but Patrick was not. Families were complicated and so were family histories.
“I know all about hiding our roots, Robbie.” The darkness in her voice was back. “My father did exactly the same thing with his name and for the same reasons. Passing for all-white makes things go smoother. It’s a shame Patrice –” she stopped herself – “Patrick feels he has to hide his heritage, which is why I’m bringing him a gift.”
“A gift? What is it?” Robert was curious now. “Come on, you can tell me”
“You’ll see,” she trilled, the regretful tone gone.
Once his cousin made a decision, it was “discussion over” time. He’d have to wait and changed the subject. “How’s Grandma? Still working harder than any three lumberjacks?”
“Of course!” Kathryn confirmed. “She sends her love and asks if you’ve been out hunting yet. She feels no self-respecting Métis boy should pass fifteen without bringing down his first jumper. That’s a deer to you city slickers.”
Robert harrumphed in a manly fashion. “Well, then I’ve still got a few months to bag my trophy winner.”
At the mention of hunting, a wild idea started to swirl in his brain. Wild, yes, and one he’d gladly turn into a giant kaboom! for Charlie Donnelly. He gripped the receiver a little tighter. “Cuz, speaking of deer and bear and other greasy beasts, I have a huge favour to ask. I’m in a contest at school to see who can collect the most fat for the war effort. I would really appreciate it if you could ask your neighbours if they have any left over from all their wild meat.”
There was a pause on the crackly line. “I don’t know, Robbie, lots of folks here don’t have the luxury of electric lights. They use the tallow to make candles. I’ll ask, but I can’t promise anything. Now, I’d best talk to your mum about staying.”
Robert called his mother to the telephone. He felt very satisfied with himself despite Katy’s caution. With luck, she would come through and Crazy Charlie would discover what the term “blown out of the water” meant. As a reward for his brilliant thinking, he decided to reread the Maple Leaf Kid’s latest adventure for the hundredth time. As he entered his room, he touched his meteorite and felt it buzz in response.
CHAPTER NINE
A COUSIN COMES CALLING
Thursday morning, Robert’s total fat amounted to thirty-eight pounds while Charlie’s was more than fifty. It wasn’t looking good for him and his enemy sniffed victory like a bloodhound after a fox.
“I think I’ll go to the pictures tonight,” she said coolly as they both scrutinized the thermometer chart on the home ec wall. “I positively adore the movies and I certainly don’t have to collect any more grease. There’s probably no room for it in the storage closet anyway.”
“Yup, probably not an inch of space. You may as well go.” Robert agreed. He hated to admit he was getting a little nervous. Soon, the new editions of his superheroes’ exploits would be in; he needed to have his deal with Mr. Kreller in place so he could bring his friends home, safe and sound.
“What’s this? The Superhero’s Guide to Losing?” Charlie snatched the copy of The Maple Leaf Kid sticking out of his back pocket. “I don’t see what the big deal is with these things. There’s no more than ten words on a page. Not exactly War and Peace.”
For Robert, this pushed the wrong button and pushed it hard. “You don’t get it bec
ause your puny brain can’t make the leaps it takes to follow the story without a million words. Anyway, the Maple Leaf Kid is a true Canadian hero. He’s super smart and can solve any problem. He makes tools and complicated devices from ordinary stuff you’d find anywhere, like a crystal radio set out of pop bottle glass and wire. Best of all, the Kid is a teenager.” He realized he was sounding a little insane and stopped talking.
“Ho hum,” Charlie yawned as she paged through the comic. “So what’s this stuff at the end of the book?”
Robert thought about clawing back his property and walking away, but decided to continue his rival’s much needed education. “The Kid goes beyond the pages of the comic; he communicates with the readers themselves. See this...? He pointed out the final page. “It’s the Maple Leaf Kid Fan Club. The Kid asks a question about something that happened in one of the earlier episodes and fans write in with their answer. If your letter is drawn and the answer is correct, you get a prize in the mail.”
“So, have you ever sent in a right answer?” Charlie asked as she read the rules.
Robert hesitated and then figured there was no harm in admitting the truth. She was the first girl he’d ever known to show any interest in his comics, even if she was mocking them. “I’d rather keep the price of the stamp and put the money toward buying new comics instead.”
He didn’t bother telling her that a fan who did something super to help the war effort was spotlighted with a short feature article in the national comic book.
Robert slid a sideways peek at Charlie and thought of the Great Grease Roundup. When he won, this time he would write the fan club and tell them how he’d supported the war effort by collecting enough fat to build dozens of bombs. He’d be spotlighted for sure. That would be something! His brothers would be thrilled to see how hard he was fighting for them on the home front.
Charlie caught him looking at her. “I bet you’re so lame, you imagine yourself in one of these.” She tossed him back the comic. “You could be the Maple Leaf Kid’s sidekick, the Poplar Punk or, more likely, the Unstoppable Wonder Weed. Yeah, that’s you; Wonder Weed.”
The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War Page 5