Son of a Critch

by Mark Critch

  “Who would like to play a little game?” Sister asked. Hands shot up all around me. I smelled a trap. Somehow, I couldn’t picture Sister Margaret playing tag. “Let’s play a guessing game,” she continued. Sister Margaret held up a large manila envelope for all to see. “I’m going to pass this envelope around the classroom. There is something inside it. I want you to feel the weight of it. I want you to feel the shape of what is inside the envelope. Don’t open the envelope, but see if you can guess what is inside of it. Wouldn’t that be fun, boys and girls?” She smiled a sideways grin and I started to think that maybe she was enjoying herself after all. I tried my best to casually hold my shirt together as she passed me the envelope. It was much heavier than expected. There was something thick and long inside. It was dense. It was shaped almost like the sole of a shoe, but it was too big for that. Could it be a shoe? I was stumped. I passed it to the kid behind and on it went.

  The children passed the mystery envelope around amid much discussion about its contents. We watched as each kid in turn held it in their hands, turned it around and weighed. Eventually it made its way back into the smiling nun’s hands. “Would anyone like to guess what it is?”

  “Is it a Bible, Sister?” one kid asked. Suck-up.

  “No. It is not a Bible.” Sister Margaret was indeed enjoying herself. She smiled broadly now that the game was afoot. She didn’t seem so bad after all.

  “Is it chalk?” offered a kid in the back. How the hell could it be chalk? Have you ever seen chalk? Idiots.

  “No. It is not chalk.” She didn’t even say it was a dumb guess. She just smiled and picked another kid to take a turn.

  “Is it a Frisbee?” Who were these people?

  “No. It is not a Frisbee. Good guess, though.” No, it was not a good guess. Frisbees were round. The envelope is rectangular and the mystery object is brick-shaped. Get it together, people. This went on for a while with each guess getting more far-fetched. She finally decided to put us out of our misery after one kid asked if it was God in the envelope. “I think that is enough guesses,” she said. “I’ll let you see what it is that you’re all so very curious about.” I leaned forward in anticipation. Must be a shoe. I regretted not putting my hand up, but then remembered that if I had I would have revealed my partial toplessness.

  Sister Margaret opened the envelope and pulled out its contents in a flourish. It was a long, straight, thick piece of black leather. “This,” she explained, “is a strap. Do you know what a strap is, boys and girls?” Only Fox put up his hand.

  “It’s like a belt, right, Sister?”

  “That’s right. A strap is very much like a belt.” Come to think of it, it did sort of look like a belt. It was missing a buckle and didn’t have holes, but it was very much like a belt, only thicker. But why would someone make a belt that couldn’t hold up your pants? Was it maybe for buttons, like a belt for your shirt? Maybe God really was in the classroom and had answered my prayers.

  “A strap is used to discipline boys and girls who misbehave. Bad boys or girls will be sent to the office to be given the strap five times on each hand. And believe me, boys and girls, it will hurt and your hands will be very red indeed, and then you will be sent right back to class with your sore, red hands to remind you of what happens to bad boys and girls.” If I were critiquing her speech, this is where I’d say she lost the room. People often say “You could hear a pin drop.” This was the one time I experienced that to be true. The shock caused the ponytail girl’s eyebrows to rise and the sudden movement rippled through her hairstyle, sending a hairpin flying.

  Having shocked and awed, Sister Margaret slid the terrifying tool, specifically crafted for the sole purpose of beating children, back into its envelope and floated out of the room without another word. Where the hell had my mother sent me? Brothers fighting brothers for food, nuns beating children with specially made belts, and an invisible God-ghost haunting you day in and out.

  Mrs. Fowler did her best to continue. “A is for apple,” she began. She held up a picture of an A next to a cartoon worm wiggling its way out of a red apple. “Let me guess,” I thought, “B is for belt?” A couple of kids had taken to quietly sobbing at their desks, heads down in their folded arms. No one had expected a demonstration of the latest torture device when we’d gotten on the bus that morning. After that, we just went through the motions until the first bathroom lineup. We got in a queue in the hallway and were allowed into the washroom only in groups of five. I’d never peed en masse before and suffered from bladder shyness. Still, the change of scenery did wonders for morale, and pretty soon all hands were joking and laughing. One boy opened up to the rest of us and explained that he had only one testicle. We admired his deformity and offered our sympathies, pointing out that balls didn’t really do anything anyway. Besides, we comforted, if he were kicked in the balls it would only hurt half as much, so clearly this would be a lifelong advantage. Afterward, Mrs. Fowler even stopped to button my shirt back up without a single cross word. We were beginning to gel as a unit.

  We ended the day with some light colouring and gathered together at Mrs. Fowler’s desk to show her our artwork. So many budding artists came forward that she was forced to make them form yet another line. I sat at my desk watching my new classmates smiling and chatting. Maybe I could get used to this. For the first time since I’d woken up that morning I was truly happy, and felt a warm feeling come over me. After a moment, however, I realized that this feeling wasn’t contentment: it was urine. The lack of stress had relaxed my bladder and now a day’s worth of fountain water and apple juice was making a break for it down my legs. I needed to go the washroom. I raised my hand as instructed, but Mrs. Fowler was too busy pretending to admire terrible art. I stood and walked to the front of her desk. “Miss? Miss?” I pleaded, damp corduroy clinging to my thighs.

  “Wait your turn, Mark,” she said without looking up. A boy was showing her his drawing of his house, with a stick man that represented his father and another that was supposed to be his mommy. The work lacked character, and while plainly primitive was sadly derivative. It would, at best, hang on his desk, or perhaps a fridge, but it would never be displayed alongside important works of the period. “That’s a beautiful drawing,” she lied.

  “But, miss,” I persisted. “I can’t wait.”

  “Mark, get in line, please,” she snapped. Not wanting to risk the strap or the invisible ghost cop, I relented. I took my place against the blackboard right behind the ponytail girl. She was holding a picture of what was either a horse or a dog or a man next to a house. Smoke billowed from a chimney, as it did in all the drawings, but I don’t think anyone in my class had a fireplace.

  “Where’s your drawing?” she asked. I hopped from leg to leg trying not to pee on her.

  “I don’t have one,” I told her. For a moment I envied the boy with only one testicle and wished I didn’t have either, or even a dicky-bird, as I then called it.

  “Why are you in the line at all if you don’t have a picture?” She was making me feel even worse. As I struggled to come up with an answer the extra strain worked itself down from my brain into my stomach, pushing through my dicky-bird, onto my cords, and eventually manifesting itself on the floor in a puddle. The amazing thing was that she didn’t notice. She was engrossed in the emotional gymnastics that were playing out on my face as I went from frustration, to confusion, to fear, to complete relief.

  “Oh, right,” I said, answering her question. “I forgot to draw one.” I no longer needed to ask permission to go to the washroom, so I no longer needed to line up. I left the ponytail girl standing there with my pee slowly inching toward her pink Barbie sneakers. Returning to my desk, I became well aware of the uncomfortable feeling of wet corduroy. I was partway through a drawing of Darth Vader smacking Luke Skywalker with a laser strap when I heard a commotion.

  “Gross!” a boy screamed. “Someone peed!” The children broke formation and ran about. The ponytail girl heard a squis
h and looked down to see her own foot in it. The boy behind her protested that it wasn’t him and everyone looked around for the culprit. “Card well played,” I thought. I would deny any involvement. After all, how could I pee on the floor by the blackboard when I was sitting at my desk? If directly accused I could just say, “Maybe it’s God’s pee.” You can’t see him, so how could you prove it wasn’t his pee?

  Mrs. Fowler snapped to attention. “Who did this? Who peed on the floor?” “Wasn’t me,” I thought. And even if it was, I didn’t “pee on the floor.” That sounds deliberate. Only a psychopath pees on the floor. I peed my pants. My personal responsibility ended once gravity took over. “If nobody admits they peed on the floor I will have to go around and feel everyone’s pants to see who the culprit is.” Maybe she was the psychopath! Who chooses to go around feeling pissy pants? I could see the buses lining up outside through the window. The day was almost over. Just let it go. It was getting a bit late to send out the search party.

  “Fine,” she said with a shrug. “Just remember that it’s not me doing this to you. You’re the one doing it to yourself.” “No, miss,” I thought, “this is one hundred percent you doing this to yourself.” She knelt down by a student and squeezed his legs. “You’re dry,” she said, moving on to the next kid. I crept closer to humiliation with each pant leg tested. This would not end well. I looked at the hands of the clock, hoping the bell would soon ring, but I couldn’t tell time. Just three kids down from me a young boy broke down crying. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to,” he cried. Even with his startling confession, Mrs. Fowler checked his pants.

  “But, Darren, it couldn’t be you. Your pants are dry.” The boy continued to cry.

  “I know, miss. I’m sorry I lied. Don’t strap me.” The nun had broken him. He was so terrified of being punished that he was throwing himself on the mercy of the court for a crime he didn’t commit. Our teacher did her best to soothe him, but she kept looking back suspiciously at the three of us who remained unchecked. The bell rang and the room erupted into cheers. Realizing she had a classroom of children who needed help with their coats and a hallway filled with overprotective parents, Mrs. Fowler abandoned her quest, ignoring Darren’s false confession.

  I quickly made my way toward the door with wet corduroy chafing my chubby thighs. I was almost to safety when a bright green skirt blocked my exit. “Let me check your pants before you go, Mark.” Curses. I looked at the ceiling. I couldn’t bear to suffer the humiliation. Imagine, a grown woman feeling wet pants. I could hear the squish of damp corduroy being squeezed. “Mark, why didn’t you tell me you had to make your water?” She sounded betrayed, and for a moment I felt like our Lord when Mary Magdalene offered to wash his feet.

  “I tried, miss, but you said I had to get in line.” A flicker of recognition registered in her eyes. This was hurting her far more than it was hurting me.

  “But why didn’t you go when you were in the washroom?” Nice. Victim blaming.

  “Because, miss,” I answered dramatically, “I had a kidney operation.” This was technically a lie. I did not have a kidney operation. When I was a baby, my mother discovered a lump in my groin. The doctor said it was a hernia and I had surgery to remove it. I loved telling people that I’d “gone under.” Old people always talked about their operations, and I felt this personal tidbit helped me fit in. But I could never remember the word “hernia” and had replaced it with “kidney.” By the time I was in kindergarten, I honestly thought I’d undergone a kidney operation.

  “I should have known that, Mark. I’m sorry. I’ll make a note in your file and you can just go to the bathroom whenever you want. You don’t even have to raise your hand. Now, we better get you to your bus.” Mrs. Fowler led me out of the building by the hand. “Poor, sick Mark,” she must have been thinking. “Suffering in silence and me squeezing his knees, making him feel worse.”

  I was last on the bus, but this was perfect because the only seat left was right next to the driver, protecting me from Fox. The return trip followed the same route as earlier, meaning I’d get home last. But I got to see the other kids getting dropped off on their streets. Large groups of children got off together at each stop. I wondered what it was like to live next door to another kid or to have a whole street full of kids to play with. Fox gave me a nasty look as he got off and then ran over to a flock of his brothers, who were entertaining themselves by throwing rocks at one another. He flapped his arms and pointed me out. Right away they began chasing after the bus. I thought I heard “…something something…a duck?” By the time the bus made its way back up Kenmount Road it was empty except for the driver and me. The trip was so long that my pants were almost dry by the time I saw my mother waiting at the end of our driveway.

  The driver stopped on the four-lane highway to let me out and a transport truck honked its disapproval. The door popped open and the driver said, “See you tomorrow.” “Tomorrow,” I thought. “Sweet strapping Christ, I have to do this all again tomorrow.”

  “HiMark! Mommy’s​Big​Boy​Now,Aren’t​Ya. My​God! How​Was​Your​First​Day​Of​School? I​Bet​You​Had​Some​Time,​DidYa?”

  I walked up the driveway, too embarrassed to tell the truth and too exhausted to make up a lie. It was good to be back, but I wanted to experience more. I wanted to make friends. I wanted to get to know the girl with the banana-clip facelift. I even wanted to face Fox again. But right now, more than any of that, I wanted my mommy.

  5

  THE STRAP

  IN THE COMING WEEKS, I did absolutely everything I could to avoid getting on that bus. I pleaded. I cried. I hid. And I became an expert at faking sick.

  I’d place my head on the heater until it was hot to the touch. I’d wear a winter coat under the blankets when I went to sleep so I’d wake up in a sweat. I’d fake dizzy spells. I’d spill cereal onto the carpet and claim I’d gotten sick. Sometimes I’d even try reverse psychology.

  Mom? Why is it so dark?

  G’Wan​Mark,B’y. It’s​Not​Dark​Out. Sure​It’s​Morning.

  Oh. It looks so dark. I can hardly see you. I’m sure it’s nothing.

  Mark,​Are​You​All​Right? My​God​I​Thin­kYou​Might​Be​Blacking​Out.

  I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’d better get dressed for school. I’ll be in my room. Oh, dear. This seems to be a closet. Where am I? Who are you?

  Mark. You​Better​Get​Back​To​Bed. My​God​You’re​Burning​Up. That’s​Strange. How’d​Your​Snowsuit​Get​Mixed​Up​With​Your​Blankets?

  Even a slight delay in getting dressed would mean sweet salvation. Once I’d missed the bus, I was home free. There was no other way to get me to school. Neither of my parents drove. Dad had a licence, but I never once saw him behind the wheel. He said he only got his licence so he’d have the ID. To him, a car was just a big box of Cracker Jacks and the ID was the prize. Mom had no idea how to operate a motor vehicle, but she did, somehow, get a licence. She drove a car the way someone might fire a starter pistol for the first time: eyes closed, and facing away. We did have a car for a while. It was a used silver Chevy with a blue roof, a big road boat that I named the Silver Bullet.

  Kenmount Road was no place for a novice driver. Most people don’t have driveways that turn onto busy sections of the Trans-Canada Highway. Big rigs didn’t expect to see a metallic whale slowly cutting them off as they barrelled down the road. Mom was a very nervous driver, and with good reason. She was so nervous that she wouldn’t go past the Avalon Mall. The mall was three miles in a straight line from our house, meaning she had to make only two turns: one right onto Kenmount Road and one left into the mall parking lot. From there we’d catch the bus and sometimes transfer at Parade Street to a second bus to get just about anywhere we needed to go in town. If we were going to the Village Mall, we’d drive to the Avalon Mall and get a Route 6. If we were going downtown, we needed the Route 3. This meant that a ten-minute drive in the car would turn i
nto a forty-minute ride on the bus. Mom figured she could make it as far as the mall without killing us, but to go past that was tempting fate. Even so, Mom’s expertise at driving was such that even the short ride to the mall could prove deadly.

  I remember sitting in the back seat, stretched out with a few toy cars while Mom attempted the turn into the mall’s busy parking lot.

  “MyGod​LookAt​All​The​People​Driving​InThe​Wrong​Lane! What​Are​They​Doing​At​All​I​Wonders?”

  The next thing I remember was waking up in the back of a much smaller car. I sat up and saw my mother in the front seat talking to a policeman.

  “Sure,They​Were​All​Coming​At​Me! I​Don’t​Know​Why​You’re​Giving​Me​The​Ticket!”

  “Because,” the officer explained, “you were the one in the wrong lane, ma’am.”

  The car was no advantage at all in winter. My parents “put it away” for the year around November. Letting my mother drive in winter was akin to giving a loaded AK-47 to a monkey. A couple of years after my mother’s ticket for driving in the British style, my brother called for a ride from a friend’s house. Bad weather was coming and there was no way he’d make it home before the storm started no matter how many buses he took. After much deliberation and a good twenty minutes of negotiations from the telephone-table command centre, a rescue mission was approved. Mom would attempt a launch at 1600 hours. Dad gave the vehicle a routine check. He put on his galoshes and old army coat from Greenland. Tires were kicked. Snow was brushed from the windows. He carried his cookie tin in one hand in case last-minute repairs required masking tape or odd buttons. The ground crew gave thumbs up and retired to the kitchen for a smoke. Mom donned her coat and gloves and entered the capsule. I didn’t dare ask to come along. I hadn’t seen faces this tense since Evil Knievel attempted to jump the Grand Canyon.