Son of a Critch

by Mark Critch

  “If you think I’m going over that fence with this, you’re mad.” No way would I get the cello over that fence without breaking either it or myself. “I’ll have to go back through the house.”

  “Fine.” Fox kicked the baby pool across the yard, earning another disapproving meow from the cat. He pulled the cello toward the back door, motioning for me to take an end. “We better make it quick.”

  This was taking longer than I’d thought. I wondered what would happen when the bus showed up at our house without me. My mother would certainly call the school, and there’d be cops looking for me before the end of the day. “I need to phone home,” I said, emulating E.T. “My mom is going to be worried sick.”

  “Are you nuts?” Fox shouted. “You can’t go in there and use the phone. You’ll wake my dad up.”

  “You’ll wake my dad up” wasn’t something I was used to hearing at four p.m. “I’ll be quiet,” I bargained. “I’ll just be a second. All I have to do is say that I went to my friend’s house.”

  “What friend?”

  “You, ya idiot.” I wasn’t trying to manipulate the situation. At that moment, on our quest, I truly felt that Fox was my friend. The words hung in the air regardless, and I felt like a teenager on prom night who’d professed his love too soon.

  “Whatever,” Fox said, punching me in the shoulder. “Come on. Just be quick.” We slowly pulled the door toward us, dragging out the screech of the hinge for twice as long than if we’d just opened the door normally. Fox motioned to the phone with a tilt of his head and then returned his gaze to his dad. Watching the man asleep in the armchair, I realized for the first time that here was the father of all of the various Foxes who’d been hitting me since my first day of school. This man had unleashed a progeny that had been responsible for more cuts and bruises at our school than hockey and soccer combined. He was the father of a dynasty of destructiveness that epitomized the “red-headed bastard,” but he himself had long brown hair. What must it be like to be the only non-redhead in that house? Did he feel out of place? Is that what drove him to drink? I had so many questions.

  The phone was halfway up the kitchen wall, an olive green rotary model with a coiled cord that hung all the way to the floor after years of being stretched to the armchair to order pizzas. Fox looked at his father, then at me. He gave me the nod and I tried to dial the number in time to the wrestling referee’s call.

  Ref: One…

  I dialled the first three numbers.

  Ref: Two…

  Three more.

  Ref: Three!

  My index finger pulled the dial four more times, as fast as it would carry it. The TV crowd roared their approval as I tried to hear my parents’ phone ringing over my beating heart.

  Booooooooooooop.

  Booooooooooooop.

  Booooooooooooop.

  Mom: Helllooo?

  I leaned into the phone, cupping my hand around the receiver. “Mom, it’s Mark,” I whispered. I was using my lowest possible phone voice.

  “Hellooo? Hellooooo? Who’sThere?” After several years of shouting my mother had deafened herself slightly in her phone ear and she couldn’t hear me.

  “It’s Mark,” I said, pushing it as far as I dared. Fox shushed me from the doorway. On TV, André the Giant raised his hands above his head in the ring and I tried to time my conversation around the cheers of his fans.

  “Dont​Call​Back​Here​No​More,​You​Dirty​Bugger,” my mother chastised. Calling someone and breathing heavily was the 80s version of a dick pic. And now my own mother was about to hang up on me.

  “Mom, it’s Mark,” I said in a normal speaking voice. Poor Fox nearly passed out from worry, and I heard the subtle clink of a beer bottle being knocked over in the other room. “I’m at my friend’s house. I’ll get a bus to the mall and walk home. Bye.” I hung the phone back on the wall, victorious. When the Bakelite headset came down into the cradle the jangly echo of the bell reverberated through the kitchen. Fox gasped, inhaling enough air to have suffocated the cat if it had wandered into the room. The light from the living room changed, the TV’s blue glow momentarily eclipsed as Fox’s father stood. A Styrofoam plate of Yim Kee’s Chinese takeout slid down well-worn sweatpants onto the floor.

  “Who’s that?” his father bellowed, his afternoon sleep interrupted. Fox disappeared from the doorway, his look of terror turning my legs to lead. “Who the f— is in this house?” I’d never heard an adult swear before, and the effect was terrifying. Fox’s father turned the corner and his eyes locked with mine. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to sixty, depending on the effect that alcohol had had on his body. His long, scraggly hair and beard obscured his face, making it difficult to gauge his reaction. His left forearm was covered in a tattoo of an anchor. This was the first time I’d ever seen a real tattoo, and I stared at it until he was close enough for me to smell the alcohol on his breath. I backed away into the corner. “How did you get in here?” he demanded, his bare belly inches from my chin.

  “He just came in to use the phone,” Fox said, jumping between his father and me. Fox’s old man smacked him straight across the cheek. I was completely frozen. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even piss myself.

  “Who the hell said he could do that?” Fox Senior turned toward me and I could feel my every muscle tense, waiting for my turn. “Coming in here, racking up my phone bill.”

  Fox turned to me. “Just go,” he said. His eyes were wet with tears, but he wouldn’t let a drop fall while I was still in the house. I could tell he laid the blame on me for every bit of bad luck that had befallen him that day. I regretted pushing my way into his house, and I knew now why he’d been so resistant. I brushed past his old man, heaved the cello from the hallway, and walked out.

  I could hear his father yelling at Fox as I struggled down the street. “Who said he could come here? Who said you could? You tell your mother that my house isn’t a f—in’ daycare.”

  I made my way to a bus stop in silence. I rode the Route 2 all the way to the Avalon Mall and eventually, drenched in sweat and exhausted, back to my house. When my parents asked me what I was still doing with a cello, I told them sixty-five percent of the truth. My father said, “People often confuse the cello with the stand-up bass. But they’re different,” and buried himself back in his paper. I tried to make him feel my cold stare on the other side of an ad for a “Blowout Carpet Sale.” How could he not have some words of wisdom like the TV dads did? What would Mr. Drummond say to Arnold if he were in the same situation?

  “Oh,” he suddenly added from behind his paper. “I’m never home, am I?” All thoughts of fatherly advice left me as I began to fear for my life. “Your principal called me at work. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but it ends now, okay?” He turned a page without revealing his face.

  “Yes. Yup. Okay,” I said. Fair deal. I wondered what would happen to Fox if the principal called his house. I shuddered at the thought, grateful to live where I did.

  The next day at school, I finally gave Sister Elizabeth my father’s note. She gently let it slip into the garbage can, and I left the music room without a word spoken. Fox and I never talked about that day at his father’s house, but we never fought again either. Even his brothers left me alone for the most part. I felt as though I was finally starting to fit in. I got a forty-nine percent in math, but I was bumped ahead anyway. I couldn’t play cello and I sucked at math. The world was as it should be.

  8

  LACK-OF-FAITH HEALING

  I KEEP SAYING THAT I come from Newfoundland, but that’s not true. There is no such place. When the events of this book took place I did indeed live in Newfoundland. But in 2001, in a desperate bid to do what Newfoundlanders love to do—which is try to please everyone—the province officially changed its name to Newfoundland and Labrador. So wherever in the province we were born, we all became Newfoundlanders and Labradorians. This complicated things.

&nbs
p; For instance, Newfoundland and Labrador happens to be the only place on earth to have two breeds of dogs named after it: the good-natured, black-bear-sized Newfoundland dog and the hardworking, ever-popular Labrador retriever. But since there’s no longer a Newfoundland or a Labrador, these dog names are now effectively meaningless. Should a Newfoundland dog now be referred to as a Newfoundland and Labrador dog? And should a Labrador retriever be known as a Newfoundland and Labrador retriever? And what about a Newf-Lab mix? Would that be a Newfoundland and Labrador Newfoundland and Labrador retriever? These are the things that keep me up at night.

  Clearly, Newfoundland and Labrador is a unique place. We have our own time zone exactly half an hour later than Atlantic time. This is great for tourism: if there were ever a nuclear war, the news anchors could all report, “The world will end at twelve o’clock, twelve-thirty in Newfoundland,” and the airport would be blocked with world travellers hoping to gain an extra thirty minutes of #EndOfTheWorld selfies.

  Quebec feels that it’s the most unique place in Canada and claims to be a “distinct society.” However, I think Newfoundland and Labrador has an equally uncommon culture. This argument over who’s the special kid in the Canadian family bubbled over in 1990 with the Meech Lake Accord.

  The Accord was a set of proposed constitutional amendments that would give the provinces greater control over Supreme Court appointments, a veto over constitutional changes, and more control over federal spending on education and health care. It also would have recognized Quebec as a distinct society within Canada. Newfoundlanders heard “distinct” and thought “dis stinks.”

  The two provinces have always had a “l’amour/hate” relationship. In 1969, Newfoundland entered into a bad marriage with Quebec. The dowry we gave included the development and subsequent sale of electricity from the Churchill Falls hydro site, one of the world’s largest. Almost all the power must be sold to Hydro-Québec on a very long-term basis and at an extremely low price, giving Quebec billions more than us for our own power. We’re now paying for the terrible lighting in Quebec’s strip clubs.

  Quebec borders Labrador, and, like a horny neighbour, it’s always trying to steal our wife away from us. Quebec is constantly inviting Labrador over for drinks and cheap smokes, and she’s always threatening to leave us for him if we don’t treat her better. So Newfoundland and Labrador have grown apart over time, and we aren’t even connected by land. Meanwhile, Quebec has gone so far as to include Labrador as part of the province on its maps and licence plates! “Hey, buddy! She’s with me! Can’t you see the AND on her finger?”

  Quebec really wanted Meech Lake to go through. They couldn’t wait to be distinct so they could lord it over Saskatchewan at family reunions and Christmas dinners. But Clyde Wells, our premier at the time, was a vocal opponent. He argued that Meech Lake would give Quebec greater legislative powers than the other provinces, that it would make it almost impossible to enact future constitutional reforms, and that it would undermine federal funding to Canada’s poorer provinces—but mostly he just wanted to piss them off. Prime Minister Brian Mulroney argued that defeating the Accord would threaten national unity by reviving the separatist movement in Quebec. Newfoundlanders argued that this was okay because if they separated we’d be even more distinct! In the end, Meech Lake failed without the necessary support from Newfoundland and Labrador and Quebec marked us down in the “Never Let Céline Dion Play There” column.

  But come on! Quebec isn’t that distinct. Sure, they speak French, but we have our own language in Newfoundland, too. Canada has two official languages. English and French. In Newfoundland we have three official languages: English, French, and “even we don’t know what we’re saying.”

  French and English aren’t that different. If you’ve had too many beers in the bar, in French, you might need to uriner. In English, you’d need to urinate. But in Newfoundland, if you used “urinate” in a sentence it would be “Missus, my buddy told me you were a ten, but now that I sees ya up close, urinate.”

  It can be a difficult language to learn. In French and English, words can sometimes be the same. If I wanted to have a night out dancing in English, I’d go to a “disco” and watch ladies “twerk.” In French, I’d go to a disco and watch people twerk. Same thing. But where I come from, those words have a much different meaning. In Newfoundland I’d say, “Buddy, I know where dat goes but where does disco?” and “I don’t have time to help ya now, anyway I gotta go t’werk.”

  Quebecers demand that all government signs be bilingual. Imagine how annoying it would be if the signs had to be in English, French, and Newfanese. You’d want to complain to your member of Parliament and you’d go to Ottawa. One sign would say “Government of Canada,” another would say “Gouvernment du Canada,” and the third would say “Arseholes!” It’s confusing.

  French Canadians are much more passionate in defending their language than are English Canadians and even Newfoundlanders and Labradorians. They have the language police in Quebec. I don’t think French is in danger of dying out. I mean, there’s a whole country called France, after all. They have French there. We in Newfoundland and Labrador don’t spend time worrying about our culture dying out. We know there will always be an Ireland to protect the fiddles and accordions and alcoholism. It’s fine!

  You can’t be too concerned about losing your language in a world where everyone is losing their language. The Internet has taken care of that. A one-sided text conversation looks like a tablecloth after a kid has vomited alphabet soup. “OMG, BM & Y you’re my BFF! BRB! K. IDK…TGIF! IMHO – TMI!! J/k! LOL!! WTF?” How will Québécois language cops police emojis? “That smiley face: it’s not French! He doesn’t look smug enough! Add a wineglass!”

  The French even dominate in the sky. You can’t fly from St. John’s to Calgary without hearing everything a flight attendant says in both French and English. Nobody flying from St. John’s to Calgary is going to be speaking French. Just imagine if every time you flew you had to hear the same thing rattled off in Newfanese.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Welcome aboard Air Newfoundland flight 695 to Montreal. At this time, make sure your seatbacks and tray tables are in their full upright position and that your seat belt is correctly fastened. Also, your portable electronic devices must be set to airplane mode.

  What are y at, b’ys? Smoke ’em if ya got ’em and if ya don’t got ’em and want ’em just give me a wink, my son, and I’ll spark ya up. Don’t worry about having an old seat belt on or not walking around. My house is your house, now, my love, and you can do whatever you wants! If ya got nowhere to stay when ya get where yer goin’ to, you can stay with me, no worries. Your life vest is under your seat but don’t mind that, that’s not gonna do you no good bouncing around the Atlantic Ocean, my love, now is it? You ever see anybody hugging a plastic pillow, floating around like Rose in Titanic after a plane crash? No! We either lands safe or we all dies together! Flip of a coin here tonight! Now’s the time to turn yer phones back on and add me onto your Facebook. What’s your name? What’s your father’s name? How’s he spell that? I think we’re related!

  Despite our differences, there are still many similarities between the two provinces. Quebecers, like Newfoundlanders, love their debauchery yet still make it to church on Sunday morning. They love their Catholicism in Montreal. Montreal is the only city in the world where you’d see a stripper named Chastity, and you’d believe it.

  The one big difference between the two cultures, however, is the food. Quebec is jam-packed with incredible restaurants. Newfoundland, being an island that is basically a big rock with some sod on it, did not have the best selection of fresh produce. These days, the best restaurants in the world demand that everything they serve be organic and locally grown. Growing up in Newfoundland, I wanted my food to be from as far away as possible. Our soil is about as deep and fertile as a pan of kitty litter. If we had to source local food we’d be eating fog and rocks. One time the ferry got stuck in Sydney, Nova Scoti
a, and the Hostess Chip truck didn’t make it across for a week—thirty-nine people died.

  Meals in our little house on Kenmount Road were kept fairly simple. Mom’s recipes all came out of the Newfoundland cookbook.

  Step one: Kill it.

  Step two: Boil it until the colour drains out.

  Step three: Cover in gravy and serve.

  Bon appétit.

  Almost all the meals in our house were boiled. I knew supper was ready when the windows had completely steamed over. Food was for sustenance, not to provide joy. You ate to get full, not to experience new cultures or express yourself. If the food wasn’t boiled then it was fried. Newfoundland was the safest place in the world to raise a family as long as your kids didn’t eat anything. There are only three ways to die in Newfoundland: heart attack, stroke, chip-fat fire.

  My mother didn’t cook to artfully play with colours and flavours. She cooked to make damn well sure the animal we were eating was dead. There was no such thing as steak in our house. She called that “meat fried up in a pan.” If a cow detective ever showed up to investigate the disappearance of her friend, she’d note that the corpse had been burned beyond all recognition. She’d need to consult a cow dentist to identify the body.

  I was invited to a friend’s house for dinner in high school. Her family was Italian and they made their own pasta. I remember thinking, “Wow, they must be pretty poor if they can’t afford to buy pasta.” They were making a salad out of ingredients from their own garden. The vegetables looked nothing like the yellowed, trucked-in things I grew up with. They were bursting with colour. They were crisp and flavourful. I saw the lettuce and tomato and thought, “Oh, good, we must be having hamburgers. They got the toppings out.” I’d never eaten a salad before in my life.