by Ed Kavanagh
The Home’s parking lot was almost deserted when we pulled up. It was a brilliant morning stirred by a moist, freshening wind. Lucy had already said she’d rather not come in.
“You’re sure?”
She twitched her nose and shook her head. “You go.
She’s your gran. Besides, half the time she never knows who I am.”
“Come on. She just gets a little confused sometimes.”
Lucy sighed. “I suppose. Look: you go and have your quality time. I’ll just whip over to the supermarket. Tell her I said hello.”
“Okay. About an hour?”
“Sure.”
I watched as she crossed the parking lot, her dyed ponytail bouncing, her Italian leather purse slung across her shoulder.
My grandmother’s room was at the end of a long echoing corridor. Orderlies were mopping the floor, and the air reeked with the sharp scent of disinfectant. Gran was asleep in her armchair. I opened the window and sat down on the bed.
“Gran, it’s me.”
She stirred a long time before finally opening her eyes. “Well,” she said, “the traveller returns.”
“Yes. I’ve been down the Shore. Down to the house.”
But she didn’t seem to have heard me. “Where’s that girl of yours?” she said. “What’s her name again? Laura?”
“Lucy.”
“Lucy. She’s not with you?”
“No. She’s running a few errands. She says hello.”
“A pretty girl. Do you like her?” Gran laughed and raised a hand to her pale lips. “Well, I suppose you must like her or you wouldn’t be with her. But now your mom said you broke up a while ago.”
“Well . . .”
“Young people—on again, off again.”
“I wouldn’t say that—”
“My God, I’m shockin’. You’re hardly sat down and here I am giving you a lecture. Don’t mind me. I don’t suppose it’s any of my business.”
I laid my hand on her forearm. “I’ve been down to the house, Gran.”
“Have you now?”
“It’s fine. You left it pretty tidy.”
Gran snorted. “That’s what I didn’t. I’m too old for that now. That was your cousin Flo. She said she’d pop over and give it a good cleaning.”
“Well, she did.”
“God love her.” Gran turned her twinkling, bird-like eyes to me. “So what did you think of the house? Your house now.”
“It’s beautiful. I’ve always liked that house. But you know something funny? The first thing Lucy mentioned was how small it is. I’d never really noticed that before.”
“Oh, yes. It’s small—especially compared to some of the monstrosities you see these days. Your grandfather built that house, you know.”
“Did he?” I had never really thought about who had built it.
“Oh, he did,” she said, and her eyes gleamed. “He did indeed. In 1933.”
“But why so small?” I asked. “A big man like that.”
Gran closed her eyes and nodded. “He was a big man. They gave him that awful nickname . . .”
“The Bull,” I said.
She grimaced. “Yes. I always hated that name. But he was the tallest person in St. Mark’s—probably on the whole Shore. And it’s funny, you know, but most people were small back then—I mean compared to now. Take that girl of yours—now she’s a tall girl, too.”
“Dad said he was a hard case,” I said, “Grandfather Mackey.”
Gran fluttered her pale hand toward me. “No. Well, maybe when he was younger. But he grew out of that. And he never liked the rum. Not like some of the men. He had a temper, on times, but he outgrew that, too.”
“But why did he build the house so small?”
“Why?” she said, and her pale lashes trembled. She took my hand and her voice fell to a whisper. “Because he loved me.” Gran burst out laughing and settled back into her chair. “You think I’m off my rocker, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t think that.”
Gran took a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “Your grandfather was younger than me. And he belonged to John’s Cove—didn’t live in St. Mark’s at all, at first. But he’d come to our dances—‘times’ we called them. And he always had his eye on me, was dyin’ to the world about me. I was a bit of a looker then, you know. Not like now: an old woman—all veins and bones. My girlfriends used to make fun of me—Meg and Bonita. They were always asking me where his babysitter was. He was only fifteen. Of course he never had the nerve to speak to me. He’d just look. And I was eighteen. I thought I was a woman. I had my eye on Mikey Flynn—gone now to the mainland these many years. God love him, I saw his death in the paper about four months ago. Anyway, one night after the church supper I felt someone behind me in the lane up to the house. And when I turned around there was fifteen-year-old Peter Mackey. ‘Good evening,’ he said, and I said it was. And then he hummed and hawed and hung his head and shot back down the lane like a streak.” Gran laughed. “My God he was sad. About all he had going for him was that nice red hair. Red hair was rare down our way. Anyway, he got his nerve up and started asking me to go places with him. And I always said no. I mean, I thought he was just a child.
“And then I heard he was building a house—I forget now who told me first. But my father heard about it too, and he mentioned it at supper one night. And the next time I saw Peter Mackey I asked him about it. And he said yes he was building a house . . . he was building it for me. Well, I nearly had a stroke when he said that. ‘Why are you building a house for me?’ I said. ‘You got a lot of nerve. I don’t need a house. I don’t want a house, thank you very much.’ And he said nothing to that, just kind of half smiled and turned away. But he kept at that house. He had the men drove crazy because he didn’t know how to do certain things—the more complicated things—hanging doors and the like. But he stuck with it and he built that little house. And all the while he was asking me to step out with him, but I kept brushing him away. The other fellas were always making fun of him. And sure that would set him off and he’d start swingin’. That’s when he had the temper. My father was ready to shoot him. And my girlfriends—well, it was the biggest laugh on the Shore.
“And then he went away for a few years. Came up to me one morning after church with his cap in his hands and told me very formally that he was going fishing— down North somewhere, I believe. As if this was something I just had to know. Well, I put him right out of my mind.” Gran paused and turned her glittering eyes to me. “And when he came back . . . well, everyone thought he was a stranger. I certainly did. No one knew him. If it wasn’t for the red hair it might have been weeks before anyone recognized him.” She leaned back laughing and coughing.
“How come no one knew who he was?”
Gran stifled her cough with a handkerchief. “Because he’d grown about a foot and a half! And put on about seventy-five pounds. When he left he was a child and when he came back he was this man they started calling the Bull. He was—” she searched for the phrase—“a late bloomer. Six-foot-five with that flaming red hair. I mean he was still only eighteen or so.” She shook her head. “And he started asking me out again. And, well, I went. And not long after that he asked me to marry him because he loved me, always had loved me, and sure hadn’t he built me a house to show that he was a man and not a boy and how much he did love me?
“One morning he took me down to see the house. I’d never been inside and he hadn’t either since he’d grown. And sure didn’t he have to dip his head when he went in and out of the rooms? And every time he did he swore under his breath. He said to me, ‘Why didn’t I build it bigger?’ And I said, ‘Sure what odds. How were you to know?’ He kept saying he’d sell it before we got married and build a bigger one. But I wouldn’t hear of it.” Gran settled back in the chair. “No, I wouldn’t let him sell it.”
“Why not?” I said. “Why wouldn’t you let him build you another house?”
Gran clasped her veined hands
and her eyes softened. “How foolish are you. He built the house in the first place because he loved me—to show his love for me.” She turned to me and smiled. “How could I not live in it?”
“Even if he had to dip his head all the time?”
Gran laughed. “Well, that was his own fault. He should have built it bigger in the first place.” She closed her eyes and pulled her dressing gown tightly around her. “Anyway, we got a few good years out of it . . . and a couple of youngsters. He died shaving, you know. On a Sunday morning getting ready for church.”
“I know.”
Gran dabbed at her nose again, and her eyes quivered beneath closed lids. “Besides, I always thought it was a kind of miracle that that hard persistent man . . . boy . . . could build such a soft, beautiful house.”
When I left she had nodded off. The sky had turned grey, stained with racing clouds and the threat of rain. Lucy wasn’t back from the supermarket. I sat in the car and waited. Soon she rounded the corner of the Home and headed across the parking lot. Her plastic shopping bags banged against her legs. She glanced at the darkening sky and hurried her step. Lucy put the bags in the back seat and climbed into the front just as the first drops pocked the windshield.
“How was she?”
“Fine. Top form, really.”
“Good. I picked up some lamb for supper.”
I pulled out into the street and glanced at Lucy. She was peering into the rain and drumming her fingertips on the window. I could smell her perfume: it hung in the air between us. And we drove home to a house with airy rooms and winding, polished staircases that, even with all the fires in, always felt cold.
Pot of Gold
Look, I want to say right off the top that it wasn’t my idea. I’m not saying I shouldn’t be punished for it— I’m not saying that. I’m just saying it wasn’t my idea, that’s all. It was Schumann’s brainchild if you want to know the truth. I just made the mistake of listening to him and going along with him. I don’t know why—I mean everyone knows he hasn’t got the brains God gave a louse. Anyway, I did listen to him—and look where it’s gone and landed me.
It all started when Schumann called me up one night. I guess it was around the middle of February. I know it was as cold as hell.
“Morris,” he says, “Morris, I gotta talk to you.”
I should’ve just hung up—I mean he’s such a dope— but he sounded real excited. So I says, “What about?”
“Meet me in the parking lot in the plaza in twenty minutes.”
Now I got nothing better to do, but I certainly don’t want to go to no parking lot with no dope like Schumann.
“Schumann,” I says, “it’s two o’clock in the morning, and it’s freezing out. Can’t you just tell me on the phone?”
But oh no. Schumann can’t be swayed. “It’s important,” he says. “Really big stuff.”
“Well, Schumann,” I says, “how about a hint?”
Schumann thinks for a second (no mean feat for him), then he says, “Pot of gold,” and hangs up.
So there I am with the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Pot of gold. The first thing that came to me was that Schumann was after ripping off some shipment of chocolates—probably hijacked a truck or something. I was expecting to get down to the parking lot and see a big eighteen-wheeler stuffed to the ceiling with Moir’s choice selection. I wouldn’t put anything past that Schumann. Once he stole a whole railway car, brought it two miles up the track (no one knows how the hell he did it), and cleaned it out. Only you know what he cleaned out? About fifty boxes of potato chips. Schumann wasn’t even pissed off until he found out they were salt and vinegar. He just said if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was salt and vinegar chips. No kidding. He’s a madman if there ever was one.
Anyway, I put on my coat and drive down to the plaza. I figure, What the hell? I can probably use a few boxes of chocolates for Christmas presents. When I get there, Schumann’s sitting behind the wheel of the same old wreck he always drives. It was easy to spot him. No one else was in the parking lot at two in the morning. I get out of my car and climb in with him. He’s got a grin on his face like the cat that just swallowed the canary.
“Okay, Schumann,” I says. “What’s up?”
Schumann pulls on the headlights and points straight ahead. “That,” he says. I look, and what do I see? The goddamn bank.
“See ya later, Schumann,” I says, and I climb out of the car.
Schumann starts yelling at me: “Morris, come back! At least gimme a minute, willya?” But I just keep walking. I ain’t ever tried to knock over no bank, and I got no intention of starting now—especially with no two-bit jug-head like Schumann. So I keep walking. But Schumann, he runs after me and grabs me by the shoulders.
“Morris,” he says, “one minute. Please?”
“Schumann, it’s two-thirty in the morning, and I’m freezing to death. This better be good.”
Schumann winks at me. “Oh, it’s good,” he says. “It’s real good.”
We go back to his car and get in. “Okay,” I says. “Shoot.”
“Morris,” Schumann says, “did you ever notice anything fishy about that bank?” I just look at him. “I mean, anything out of the ordinary?”
I look at the bank. “Looks like an ordinary bank to me.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” Schumann says. “But it ain’t. There’s something fishy about that bank.”
Now at this point I’m really wondering what the hell I’m doing there. I mean everyone knows what the chances are of knocking off a bank in this day and age. You try anything in a bank these days, and the tellers have got more buttons to push—silent alarms, direct lines to the cop-house—than you can shake a stick at. They’ve even got video machines for God’s sake. Great way to become a TV star.
Anyway, Schumann is sitting there grinning at me like he’s just figured out how Cadbury’s get the gooey stuff into the little chocolate blocks. He’s really enjoying himself.
“Morris,” Schumann says, “I’ve been looking at banks for years, and sooner or later, with any bank, you always see some armoured car—you know, some Brink’s truck or something, come to take the money away.” I have visions of Schumann trying to highjack an armoured car and I’m about to leave again. “But this bank, this bank is an exception. I ain’t ever seen no armoured car anywhere near this place—and I bet you haven’t either.” He’s right, I haven’t. Not that I go out of my way to look for them. “There’s something very fishy about that bank,” Schumann says again.
“Schumann—”
“I mean what do they do with the money? They can’t just leave it there. How do they move it? Sooner or later they’ve got to move the money to the main branch in the city. All banks do that.”
I hate to admit it, but he’s right.
“Well,” I says, “maybe they move it late at night or something. I mean you can’t be sure. Not unless you sit out here and watch the place, day and night, for about two weeks. And who the hell is crazy enough to do that?”
Schumann grins at me. “I already have,” he says.
“So what are you telling me, Schumann? You telling me you watched the place for two whole weeks? When did you sleep?”
Schumann looks offended. “It was easy,” he says. “I’m living in the Regent Apartments. My front window looks right over here. I’ve got a bird’s-eye view of the whole place. That’s when I first noticed. Patterson helped, too. We took shifts at night.” Patterson was this guy I’d seen once or twice with Schumann. He thought Schumann was a criminal genius. “And I asked around. I made up this story about the driver of the Brink’s truck being a friend of mine, and I needed to give him this message when he got to the bank. I asked Murphy—you know that old guy who owns the grocery store two doors up? Murphy said he ain’t ever seen no armoured vehicle anywhere near this place, for as long as he can remember.”
“Well,” I says, “what do you figure they do with the money?” I must admit
I was getting interested.
“I dunno,” Schumann says. “But I’m sure as hell going to find out.” Schumann turns to me. “Look, we gotta watch that bank for any sign of anything fishy. Sooner or later, we’ll find out what’s going on. Are you in?”
It was then and there that I made one of the monumental mistakes of my life. “Yeah, Schumann,” I says. “Count me in. But only if we figure it out, and only if it looks like a sure thing.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Schumann says. “We’ll figure it out.”
So Schumann and me start watching the bank for some clue as to what they do with their money. The first thing we did was, we opened an account in the bank. At least I did. Schumann was broke, and I only deposited thirty bucks. I wasn’t exactly rolling in dough either. Anyway, I figure with an account there, we can go in sometimes when it’s real crowded and take our time and look the joint over—you know, without seeming too suspicious or anything. So we do. But I don’t notice nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just your typical bank, with a fat manager and an even split between the number of good-looking tellers and ugly ones. But then one day when Schumann and me are outside in the parking lot, I notice this girl, one of the good-looking tellers, coming out of the bank. At least I think she was good-looking. It was hard to tell because of all the goddamn makeup she had on. If she was an Indian she’d be on the warpath. Anyway, it’s only four o’clock, and usually the staff don’t leave until five or five-thirty. What’s more, she’s carrying this big suitcase. She goes over to this little car—a Honda I think it was— puts the suitcase very carefully in the back seat and gets in. She pulls out; Schumann and me follow. She takes the road into the city, and, sure enough, she pulls up in front of the main branch. She gets out taking the suitcase with her. She’s in the bank about twenty minutes. When she comes out, she’s still got the suitcase. She gets into her little car and drives off. Schumann grins at me. “Morris,” he says, “I think we just found our pot of gold.”
We keep watching the place, and the next Friday at four, the same girl comes out with the same suitcase, gets into her little Jap car and drives off to the main branch. We follow, and the same thing happens. And it happens the Friday after, too. I admit it looks a bit odd, but I still have doubts.