by Ed Kavanagh
Maria reached Hogarth Road and collapsed on a park bench. Already she felt as if she had lost ten pounds. People stared at her as they hurried by, but she was too tired to care. What she really wanted was to take off her coat. But how could she carry it? Across the street was a cool park— a typical English park, well manicured with a fountain and lovely, top-heavy beeches and limes. The English are so neat, she thought. And they certainly like their fountains. Maria breathed deeply and looked at the people rushing by. She wondered how long it would take before she felt like a Londoner and rushed along with them. She knew it would happen; it was only a matter of time. That cowardly Enrique! And he’s supposed to be a man. A man can always work if he wants to. Just two months and he’s convinced it’s not for him. He wants to go crawling back to momma. Well, not me. I’ve had enough of watching friends and lovers disappear. One just needed a little imagination, that’s all. A little imagination.
Maria stood up and doggedly grasped her suitcases.
“Excuse me, miss. Would you like some help?”
A tall, blond young man looked down at her: a thin, determined-looking young man with tired eyes, but nicely dressed in a tweed jacket and tie.
“I don’t mean to be forward you understand, but . . . well, I saw you coming down the road, and you look like you can use a little help.”
Maria looked into the tired eyes. A little help? Mother of Jesus, yes—I need a little help! But she smiled warmly and said, “Are you always this gallant?”
The young man shifted uncomfortably and brushed back his hair. “Well, yes—I mean no. It’s not gallant or anything. You just look as if you need some help.”
“I guess I do,” Maria said, laughing. “You see it’s impossible to get a cab today—the crowds, you know.” The young man looked quickly into the road and Maria thought immediately, Oh, please God, don’t let him try to get me a cab. She wished she wasn’t sweating so much. “I’m going to Child’s Street,” she said quickly. “Do you know it?”
“Of course. Here let me take those for you.” The young man bent down but then looked up again. “You don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t mind. Thank you.”
He picked up the suitcases and they proceeded slowly along the road. As they approached the residential area, the crowds began to thin out. Maria took off her coat and folded it over her arm. The breeze felt wonderful. As they walked, she glanced sideways at her companion. He was strong for such a thin boy. And he looks like a very nice boy, she thought. Of course it’s impossible to tell for sure. Well, at least he can’t rob me. He could never run away with those suitcases.
“You’re Spanish, aren’t you,” he said, as they waited for a signal light to change.
“No, I’m from Chile.”
“Really? Then you’re the first I’ve met.” He smiled brightly. “I don’t think there are many Chileans in London.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Maria said. “Perhaps some of the people you take for Spaniards are really from Chile.”
He grinned. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.”
They walked awhile in silence.
“You’ve been here long?” he asked.
“Nearly two months.”
“Your English is very good.”
“Yes, thank you. I learned in school and from a boy in Chile. An English boy.”
He nodded. “Immigrated?”
“Yes, immigrated.”
“Alone?”
Maria smiled and looked away.
“I’m sorry,” the young man said. “I guess I was asking a lot of questions.”
“It’s all right,” Maria said, tossing back her black hair. She sighed. “Things are very bad in my country right now. Have you heard of Pinochet? General Pinochet. Sometimes there are stories in the English papers.”
The young man nodded. “I’ve read a little.”
Maria shrugged. “Then you know. I decided to leave. I came here with a Chilean boy, but he is returning to Santiago.”
“I see. Nothing serious?”
“No, nothing serious.”
They turned into Child’s Street and Maria stopped before a shabby, three-storey house. She turned to the young man. “This is it. Thank you so much for helping me.”
“It’s nothing.” He struggled up the steps and placed the suitcases before the door. Maria remained on the pavement. The young man came back and grinned nervously.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Maria said. “My arms were ready to break off.”
“It was no trouble.” He glanced around shyly. “So you live there: Number 27. You know, we’re neighbours.”
“Really?”
“Well, just about.”
“How nice. I don’t know many English people.”
The young man offered his hand. “My name is Simon.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Simon,” Maria said, shaking his hand firmly. “You are a very gallant boy.”
Simon blushed. “And you’re . . . ?”
“Maria,” she answered, but she was thinking, Oh, he’s such a nice boy. So shy and nervous. No, he isn’t handsome like Enrique, but he’s a nice boy. A very nice English boy.
“Would you like some tea, Simon?” Maria asked. “If you have time? It’s the least I can do.” Yes, he does, she knew immediately. He would love to have tea with me.
“Oh, but I couldn’t bother you?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s no bother. If it wasn’t for you I would still be down the road somewhere—and probably in tears by now.”
“Well, all right. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. But I warn you, there’s hardly any furniture. Actually, there isn’t much of anything yet. I’m moving my things little by little. But when I’m finished the flat will be a glorious place—a palace.”
Maria fumbled for her keys. These English, she thought. A Chilean boy would have agreed to tea immediately—or asked me. She thought of Enrique. From the beginning he had been so eager and pitiful. When they had made love for the first time she had laughed and hurt his feelings. But what could she do? He was so funny with his serious expression.
The flat was hollow and stark. In the living room there was only a torn mattress and a tumbling, dried-out spider plant. Simon sat awkwardly on the mattress, and as Maria made tea they chatted. He told her he was in law school.
“Just two years left,” he said. “And what about you, Maria? What do you do? How do you keep body and soul together?”
Maria handed Simon his tea and considered. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” she said. “Whatever it takes.”
“You’re a jack of all trades,” Simon said.
“I’m sorry? I don’t know that expression.”
“It means . . . that you’re capable of doing any number of things. You aren’t restricted to one job.”
Maria smiled and nodded. “Yes, I’m a jack of all trades.”
“You have a beautiful smile, Maria,” Simon said suddenly. He blushed and looked startled that he had spoken. “I suppose that isn’t the first time you’ve heard that?”
Maria laughed softly. “Maybe once or twice,” she said.
Simon finished his tea, went into the kitchen, and washed out the cup; then he set it on a cloth on the counter. Maria thought, This is such a nice English boy to wash out his own cup.
“I should go now,” Simon said. “You have a lot of unpacking to do.”
Maria showed him to the door. And just when Simon had found the nerve to ask if he could see her again, Maria said, “You must come back tomorrow for supper. I will make you a meal from my home. And you won’t recognize this place. It will be just like a palace. Just like your Buckingham Palace.”
Simon looked surprised and pleased and, as much as he tried, he couldn’t hide his pleasure. He blushed and stammered that that would be very nice; there was no reason why he couldn’t take a few hours from his studying; it would be interesting to see what she could do with that bleak flat.
&nb
sp; And when he arrived the next evening, exactly on time, Maria noticed with pleasure that he was dressed even more nicely than before. The flat did not look like a palace, but it was very pleasant bathed in the glow of a dozen penny candles. The air was scented with the soup Maria had made, a Cazuela de Ave, one of her specialties, which Simon liked very much. They drank the Sauvignon Blanc he had brought and listened to a Mozart symphony on Maria’s crackling transistor radio.
And later when they had finished the wine and moved closer so that she felt Simon’s heart race, Maria turned to him to kiss her. And of course he did, and his heart raced even faster. And in a little while when Maria sat up on her knees and opened her blouse, his face went very pale and funny.
But Maria never laughed. She pulled him toward her and laid her head gently on his shoulder. “You’re such a nice boy,” she murmured. “Such a nice English boy.”
The Red Merc
Aunt Joan is always asking me what I remembers about the old man. First when Mom died, she used to ask the same thing about her, too. I don’t remember much about either one of them to tell the truth. The old man used to be on the road a lot, and I was pretty young when Mom died.
But I remember some stuff. Like when we had the ’59 Merc. I remember the day the old man turned her into the driveway. She was so red, and she purred like a kitten, and she had whitewall tires. Well, one of them was whitewall, anyway.
I didn’t think she was ours. I just thought the old man had gotten a lend of her to go up the Shore on business or something. He used to borrow cars sometimes. Once he borrowed a car and took us fishing. But the car broke down so we didn’t get any fishing done. That was okay, though. That was the day he explained to me about carburetors. He blew the horn and waved me over.
“Ain’t she a beauty?”
“Yeah. Where’d you get her?”
“Bought her.”
“Bought her? You mean she’s ours?”
“Sure she’s ours,” he said, grinning.
“Jeez, I don’t believe it. Can I sit in her?”
“Sit in her? Sure you can sit in her. Come on, let’s go for a drive. Where’s Petey?”
“I don’t know. Playing somewhere, I guess.”
“Well get him!” the old man says.
I can tell you it didn’t take me long to track down Petey. The two of us piled into the front seat. Petey wanted to sit by the window, but I didn’t care. It was wicked to be sitting next to the old man, watching him shift gears in our car. Of course she wasn’t new or anything, but she still sort of smelled new, and there wasn’t a scratch or a messed up carpet anywhere. The old man said the guy he’d bought her off had taken real good care of her. She was “immaculate” the old man said. That first day he said it about twenty times.
“Ain’t she immaculate, Tommy?” he’d say.
“Immaculate,” I’d say.
Aunt Joan used to make fun of him saying that. She called the car the “Immaculate Contraption,” and then her and the old man would have a good laugh.
“Yes, sir,” the old man said, “she’s immaculate. I was lucky to get her.”
I sort of wished he hadn’t said that—talk about luck, I mean. You see that was something the old man never had.
Once I heard a song on the radio, and the chorus went, “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.” That just about summed up the old man. Everyone was always saying it. He even used to say it himself sometimes. At his wake, I heard about five people say the same thing: “He was a lovely man, but he never had the one bit of luck.” I learned a lot about the old man at his wake—overhearing people, eavesdropping I suppose you’d have to call it. All about businesses he’d started that didn’t go anywhere, or the ones he got out of that went on to do good. Wakes are funny things. At wakes people let spill with what they really thinks about a person. Stands to reason. You can’t very well sit in the same room with a dead person and lie about them. At least not mean lies. You either tells the truth or you shuts up.
I know the old man was never lucky enough to keep a steady job. That’s why he was hardly ever around. He’d have to go off to Labrador to work in the mine or on some other job he’d picked up. Petey used to get really upset: he hated it when the old man wasn’t home. Once he said the old man didn’t love us, that if he loved us he’d be around more. I said it was because he loved us that he went away to work: to get money to buy us things.
“Yeah?” Petey said. “What things? What did he ever buy us?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not his fault. He’s just . . . unlucky.”
“No he’s not,” Petey said. “We’re the unlucky ones.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. You take a real little kid, half the time there’s no point talking to him.
Anyway, I always knew the old man was unlucky, so I wondered how long we’d be able to keep the Red Merc before he wrapped her around a pole or someone ran into him. But on that first day when the old man was so proud of her, and she smelled so new, and she was so red, and the chrome gleamed so silvery, it was easy to think she’d be ours forever.
I couldn’t wait to tell Breen we’d finally gotten a car. They owns this big farm, and his father had this brand new right-out-of-the-box green Chev. And two trucks. Breen was always saying, “We picked up your old man this morning.” And I’d always say, “Oh, yeah?” But I knew Breen would be impressed by the Red Merc. He knew a good piece of machinery when he saw it.
That first day me and Petey drove around with the old man for about an hour. I kept hoping we’d see some of my friends so we could blow the horn at them. But no such luck: everyone was having supper. One scary thing happened. Just when we were clippin’ along the road heading home, the hood flew up. What a start I got. One minute you’re looking at sky and fields and barns, the next thing there’s this red bonnet shaking in the wind. The old man was pretty cool, though. He just eased her off onto the shoulder. Then he got out and shut the hood down tight. “I guess I didn’t close it properly when I checked the oil,” he said. It made me uneasy all the same. I’m the superstitious type.
That ’59 Merc was our first and only car. The old man figured she was an investment. “Now that I got a car,” he told Aunt Joan, “I can go around and see more people.” I don’t know what that really meant. I just know it had to do with business and money. Like I say, the old man didn’t usually have a regular job like most fathers. He’d try it every now and then, but it never stuck. People said he was too nice. That probably sounds funny, but it was true. Like once he used to run a service station, but he got fired because everyone was robbing him blind. Half the time he wouldn’t take the money. I know, because I used to help out washing windshields and stuff.
There was this one guy in particular. He’d come in and fill up, and the old man would say, “That’ll be ten dollars, Fred.” Fred would reach for his wallet. Then he’d try another pocket. Then another. Then he’d snap his fingers and slap his hand against his forehead.
“Jeez, Len. Can you believe that? I’ve gone and left my wallet home. Can you believe that?” I certainly couldn’t. It was the stupidest acting job you’d ever see in your whole life. But you didn’t need to be a great actor to swindle the old man.
“Sure, Fred,” the old man says, and Fred or whoever it was would drive away. I guess you can see why the owner of the service station got upset. “Too nice for his own good,” was how Aunt Joan put it.
Aunt Joan is the old man’s sister. She’s lived with us ever since Mom died. I don’t remember much about Mom. Petey says he hardly remembers her at all. But I remember once when she was making a cake and she got her hand caught in the mixer. I’d never seen a grown-up cry. That scared me a hundred times more than the blood. She was also the one who spilled the beans on Santa Claus.
One Christmas I asked for a pair of Toronto Maple Leaf hockey gloves—what they call “authentic”: like the players really wears. They were sort of expensive so I d
idn’t really expect to get them, but I dropped a line to Santa just to see. When I pulled out my present on Christmas morning, I didn’t think it could be the gloves because the package was too light. I was wrong, though. Well, half wrong. You see there was only one glove. It was Toronto Maple Leaf and all, just like I asked for. But there was only one. Mom came in with her pink dressing gown on and all her yellow hair down around her shoulders. She had a big smile on her face.
“Do you like your hockey glove?” she asked.
I looked at the glove and slipped it on. It was the left hand. “Yeah,” I said. “Sure. But there’s only one.” Boy, did the smile evaporate off her face in a hurry.
“Isn’t there only supposed to be one?”
“Well,” I said, holding it up, “I got two hands.”
You could see she was all confused and didn’t know what to say. Finally she says, “Maybe Santa didn’t know.”
That’s when everything started to come clear. “Do you know how many kids must have asked for hockey gloves for Christmas?” I said. “Must’ve been hundreds. Maybe even thousands. Santa knows.”
“Maybe it’ll turn up,” she said.
It did, too. The first thing the next morning she says, “Go out and look under the tree.” I went out and there was the other hockey glove. “I found it down in the basement,” Mom said. “I think Santa must have dropped it.” It crossed my mind to ask her what Santa was doing down in the basement, but I didn’t.
“Right,” I said.
I remember wishing the old man had been home, though, instead of up in Labrador. He’d have known you’re supposed to have two hockey gloves.
The other thing I remember about Mom is the time the old man brought this stray dog home. That was the only time I ever saw them fight. Well, Mom fought and the old man sort of listened a lot. But he finally convinced her to let him keep the dog. He kept saying it was a beautiful dog—purebred. I just thought the dog was too fat to be a stray. The old man said that was because he was a smart dog who was good at fending for himself. We took him out to the shed and locked him up for the night. The next morning when we went out, there was the dog hove off on its side and seven pups sucking away. The old man closed his eyes and said something under his breath.