by Ed Kavanagh
Anyway, it didn’t take any Sherlock Holmes to figure out that this dog was either a stray that had wandered up from the lower road, or someone had brought him up to the top of our road and dumped him. Some people does that with dogs they don’t want no more. I’ll never understand it. I don’t know what they lives on—rabbits, I suppose.
“Where’d you get the dog, Pauly?” I asks him.
Pauly screws up his face the way he always does when he’s uneasy about something. “He’s mine,” he says.
“Yeah, I never said he wasn’t yours, but where’d you get him?”
“Found him,” says Pauly. “Up in the crusher.”
“Oh, you found him,” I says. “Then he’s not really yours.”
“He is so,” says Pauly. “I’m bringin’ him home.”
The dog just sat there with his tongue hanging out. He had a tongue on ’im about a foot long. I was just about to tell Pauly not to bring the dog home if he didn’t want his mother to murder him on the spot, when I saw Brigid Flynn coming up the driveway. Suddenly I lost interest in the dog and Pauly and everything else for that matter. Mom is always telling me that I watches too much TV— and maybe I do—although I don’t believe I watches more than the other youngsters. Well, I’ve never seen any TV actress that even comes close to Brigid for prettiness. She’s got this dark, creamy skin, the colour of the caramel candies that Cathy Martin’s mother makes and gives out at Halloween. And the whitest teeth and hair blacker than a crow’s wing. And she’s no sissy either. She’s the fastest runner up our way, and is always one of the first ones picked whenever we has a game of tips. She’s all right. Like one time I was up in the hayloft putting the finishing touches on one of our tunnels. When I was finished and coming down the ladder, I saw Brigid standing up with her back to me. She had her head down and she was sort of bent over a bit. I never stopped to think what she might be doing. I just dropped softly in the hay, crept up behind her, and grabbed her by the shoulders. She gave a squeal and spun around, and declare to God if her top wasn’t all undone and she with nothing on underneath it! I suppose she’d caught it on a nail or something. I nearly died. She grabbed her top together and ran out of that barn so fast! I didn’t know what to do, and I felt some bad over it. The next day when I saw her in the shop I was right embarrassed, but she just smiled at me with all them white teeth and acted like nothin’ ever happened. You see—that’s the kind of girl she is.
Anyway, I went down to meet her, but she’s nuts over animals—especially dogs—and she’d spotted Pauly’s and wanted to look at him. So we went up and looked at Pauly’s dog, and Brigid patted him on the head—the dog, not Pauly—which is more than I would have done. But, like I say, she’s no sissy.
“Who owns him?” she wanted to know.
“Me!” pipes up Pauly.
“He don’t,” I says. “He’s a stray from down the road or somewhere.”
“Oh, he’s sweet,” says Brigid, and she kneels down and starts rubbing the dog’s dirty old pointy ears. Sweet? Girls—I’ll never figure ’em out. The dog put me in mind of those ones you see in the war movies, that the Nazi generals got on the end of a leash. You know what I mean. Sometimes you see ’em in the Sergeant Rock comics, too.
“What’s gonna happen to him?” Brigid wanted to know. “Who’s gonna keep him?”
“Me!” pipes up Pauly.
“G’way, Pauly, b’y,” I says. “Someone owns him. He’s just after talking a longer walk now than he should’ve. Just leave ’im alone. He’ll make his way home all right.” I’ll admit I was trying to impress Brigid, so I figured I’d say something like what the old man would’ve said. And he did say pretty much the same thing when I told him about the dog at supper.
Still, it was no good talking to Pauly. He had to bring that dog home. But, like I say, his mother would just as soon have a pack of rabid wolves howling around the house as a dog, and she made him take it down the road and try and get shed of it. But, according to Pauly, the dog just kept on following him back up again. So Shep (that’s what Pauly was after naming him) started hanging around up our way. The parents weren’t too thrilled—I mean he was a pretty fierce-looking animal, what with being so skinny and dirty. But as far as I’m concerned, all them German Shepherds are mean looking. An Irish setter—now that’s my idea of a nice dog. Shep seemed pretty gentle, though, in spite of his looks. One evening he was down in our back garden, and I brought him down some scraps. He took them right nice and polite. I mean he didn’t try to take hand and all like a lot of big dogs do.
A few days later, the stuff that Jerry had gotten to know so well hit the fan, as Grandfather says. Sitting down to supper on Friday night, the first bit of news out of the old man was that he’d been talking to Albert Murphy, and Albert was all up in arms after finding three of his sheep dead in the field. Killed, according to Albert, by a dog or dogs.
“What happened to that old German Shepherd you were telling me about? You seen him around lately?”
“No, sir,” I says, and it was the truth. I hadn’t seen him since that evening in the garden.
“Albert’s got his mind made up that he’s the culprit,” says the old man. “He’s out looking for him now.”
“I suppose they’ll have to do away with ’im,” says Grandfather.
“Sure they got to,” says the old man. “You can’t leave ’im roamin’. That could be a youngster next.”
“How will they . . . do away with ’im?” I asks.
“Well, they’ll have to shoot ’im, won’t they?” says the old man. “That’s the most humane way. They’ll bring ’im back in the woods somewhere. One shot and it’ll all be over. Now don’t you go gettin’ all worked up over it. It’s all that can be done. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I says.
“Well, it’s no harm to know who’ll do the shootin’,” says Mom. “That’s right up Albert’s alley. That’ll make his day, that will.”
How long did that meal drag on? You see, the old man won’t let anyone leave the table until all hands are finished—and Grandfather’s not exactly Speedy Gonzales. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I felt right bottled up stuck there at the table and old Albert out on the prowl. I had this . . . sinking feeling that something awful was going to happen.
As soon as I got clear, I jumped on my bike and headed down the road to hunt up Pauly Jackman. He was sitting on his front step with a face on him like he’d just lost his best friend—which I suppose he had, or was about to.
“Where’s Shep, Pauly? You seen Shep around today?”
Pauly just looks at me with these wide eyes and starts blinking really fast; then his lower lip starts quivering, his eyes gets right watery, and then his whole face just caves in with crying.
“Shep never killed no sheep!” he sobs, his face all twisted like a mask he’s crying so much.
“Did Albert find him, Pauly? Did Albert find Shep?” But poor old Pauly was bawling too much to answer. Finally, I gave up and went over to Brigid’s. She hadn’t seen Shep either, but she knew Albert was out looking for him.
“He was down talking to Dad suppertime,” she said. “He says Shep killed three of his goats—”
“Sheep,” I says.
“What?”
“Sheep. It was sheep that were killed.”
“Oh, I thought it was goats.” She stops and thinks for a second. “He don’t know it was Shep though—I mean not for sure?”
“I don’t think that’s going to make much difference to Al—”
“I mean it could of been another dog . . . couldn’t it? Or a lynx?”
“Sure . . . I suppose it could of been,” I said. But I don’t think I sounded too convincing. Just then Jerry comes tearing up the road on his bike.
“Guess what!” he yells. “They got Shep and they’re gonna—” But then he saw the look on Brigid’s face and he shut up.
“Who got Shep?” Brigid asks him, her voice sounding all funny.
/> “Walter Densmore,” says Jerry, all out of breath. “Walter spotted him up in his turnip field and he put some food out for him and caught him. He’s tied up down in Walter’s yard this very minute.”
“What’s he gonna do?” Brigid asks in this really quiet voice.
“I dunno,” says Jerry, “but I heard them say that Albert’s goin’ down as soon as he finishes supper.”
“Oh, what’s he going to do?” asks Brigid, knowing damn well what he was going to do.
“Brigid,” I says, “if he really did kill them sheep, they’re gonna . . . look—they’ll have to take him to the woods and . . . and shoot him. They got to—you knows that.”
“Oh, they can’t,” says Brigid, and then she starts crying, which amazed me half to death. I’d never seen her cry before—not even the time Dougy Mullins let go of the baseball bat and caught her right between the eyes with it. “They can’t,” she sobs. “That’s a mortal sin. That poor old dog couldn’t kill any sheep.”
“Brigid—”
“Listen, we’ve got to stop them.”
“Stop them? How are we going to stop them?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Brigid. “You works for Albert sometimes. Can’t you do anything? You could at least ask him.”
“Ask Albert? . . . I dunno. I don’t believe it’d do any good.”
“Well, we should do something,” says Brigid.
“Come on!” I says, and we all took off towards Walter’s. That was a big mistake. I knew there was nothing we could do. If them men had their minds made up that Shep was after killing those sheep, then nothing was going to save that dog. And if Albert Murphy had his mind made up, then it was double certain. I tried to think of something kind that Albert had ever done, and all that came to mind was the time he hauled Jerry out of the pit. And I suppose he had to do that. I guess I was thinking there was no harm in trying to save Shep from the woods and a bullet, but the more I thinks about it now, the more I believe that I was just playin’ Robin Hood for Brigid. Showin’ off.
Halfway there who should we meet but Pauly, and of course he wanted to come, and of course I didn’t have enough sense to tell him he couldn’t. By the time we made it down to Walter’s we’d picked up three or four more kids. Poor Mrs. Densmore must have thought she was gettin’ invaded when she saw the whole crowd of us traipsing up her lane.
We went around to the backyard. Shep was still there, chained to one of the clothesline poles. There was a bunch of men standing around talking: Walter, Bob Foran, Peter Simpson’s old man, and a few more. But I didn’t see no guns or no Albert.
Walter looks up and sees us. “Now ye youngsters, ye go off and play. Go on now, make yerselves scarce.”
“Don’t shoot him, Mr. Densmore,” says Brigid. “You don’t know if he killed them goats or not. That could have been any—”
“Now listen to me,” says Walter, but not mean. He didn’t yell or anything. “I’m not gonna tell ye again. Ye kids shift outta here.” But even as he was saying it, I saw Albert coming around the corner of the house. He had his .303 in his hands. He just walked past the rest of the men, gave one quick look over to where we were, and raised the rifle up to his shoulder.
“Jesus,” I said under my breath, “he wouldn’t . . .”
Walter Densmore yells, “Christ, Albert!”
Shep got up, shook himself, and went towards Albert, wagging his tail. Then he froze in his tracks, laid his pointy ears flat against his head, and I swear he shrank right before my eyes.
I tried to call out to Brigid and Pauly to tell them to turn away, but the words got all tangled up in my throat.
The Strayaway Child
Marcia,
I hope you don’t mind that this is written in pencil. And I apologize for my poor penmanship. Do you still call it “penmanship” even if you write in pencil? All those years ago at St. Joseph’s, Sister Katherine was always in despair about my handwriting. She used to say I had a “poor fist.” Do you know that expression? I suppose it’s after dying out now like everything else. Meg Kielly was down for a cup of tea the other day and she used another expression I hadn’t heard in years. We were talking about the old days in St. John’s, and at one point she said, “Ivy, you grew up rough, didn’t you?” Well, I couldn’t argue with that. But I certainly wasn’t the only one who grew up rough. Meg herself didn’t have a bed of roses. And at least I did grow up. There were lots who didn’t. I still think on poor Margaret—your great-aunt Margaret. She barely lived a year and here I am close to ninety. So I suppose I shouldn’t complain. And I am sorry I couldn’t agree to the filming. I know you’re disappointed and that the university people would have liked a film for their records, but I would have frozen up. Even that little camera you showed me that looked no bigger than a cigarette lighter—how do they make things so small these days?—well, it would have put me right off. I’ve never even liked getting my picture taken. You wouldn’t think I’d be self-conscious at my age, but there you go.
And there’s just something about putting words down on a page. One thing stirs up another. I always liked what some wise man once said about why he wrote: “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?” That’s me all over. I need to see what I say. It must be the poet in me. Sacred Heart! That sounded awful grand—poet. I was never much of a poet. A couple of skinny chapbooks, a few awards in the Arts and Letters Competition. But I do think it’s better that I did this my way—poor penmanship notwithstanding.
And I’m sorry it took so long. You’d think someone like me who’s housebound most of the time would have no trouble scribbling a few lines. But it seemed there was always something interrupting me—not the least of which was that new girl, the new worker. I can never get her name straight—Clarice, Claris, Clarissa? Something like that. I don’t know where she’s from, what bay, but she’s got a lovely accent, uses all the old expressions. So I suppose it’s not all dying out. But she can’t seem to open a tin of milk without making some godawful racket. And she’s an odd duck, that one—cheerful and all smiles to my face, but she’s expecting me to keel over any minute! I’ve heard her on the phone talking about me to her friend. She never says her friend’s Christian name, just calls her “My dear,” as in “Yes, my dear, the clay is callin’ that one. No, my dear, she’s fit to be prayed over. I doubt she’ll see her ninetieth.” That’s the thing about those workers: they all assume you’re as deaf as a post.
I’ve started this whole thing off with apologies and now I have to make another one—perhaps the most important one. I know you wanted me to talk about the Thirties—the Depression and all that—but I’m worried that I might have strayed too far from the topic. And, anyway, what can I really say? I was just a child for most of it—only ten years old in 1932. Turned eleven, as you know, on December 21st. And we left the city in June, not long after my mother died. Got “out” as Father put it. I know you’re probably laughing at that. I’m making it sound like we boarded a steamer to China. But back then Kilbride really did seem far away. More like five hundred miles than five.
And it was certainly a different kind of life, especially for my poor father. City to country. Longshoreman to farmer. It must have made his head spin. And the six cents a day dole ration, the workers’ parades and protests, the crowds of sad, bitter men thronging the street corners—doesn’t anyone who’s interested already know about all that? And, if they don’t, I’m sure there are lots of books that describe it much better than I ever could. I know, I know. You want the human, the personal touch. And it’s true that Father was one of those men huddled on the street corners. That he hated taking the dole. Did I ever tell you that he was actually at the Colonial Building riot? Oh yes. He ended up with a broken nose. No, he wasn’t fighting. He got jostled hard in the crowd and someone’s elbow struck him. His nose never did set right. You can see how it slants if you look carefully at the old snaps.
Anyway, as I started thinking about the Thirties, it wasn’t the even
ts or the politics that I most remembered. Why would those things stick in the mind of a child? It’s true that when we were in St. John’s I was often hungry, and always cold, but to me that was just the way of the world. I certainly didn’t lose any sleep wondering about the whys. So, writing this, it was more the places and the people that came back to me. Myself, of course. And it was interesting for me at nearly ninety to call up images of who I was at eleven or twelve. Ivy of the winter of 1932. That sad, silent little nobody. Who was she? Annie called me the strayaway child—a good description. God knows there was lots I wanted to stray away from.
I just mentioned Annie—Annie Foran. Well, Dooley was her married name, but I always think of her as Annie Foran. Back then she was ninety years old, the age I’m soon to be, and she’d come home to Kilbride to die. And I was just eleven years old and wondering when I would finally start to live. As I was writing this I kept seeing Annie: her slight, delicate frame, her knowing, mischievous wink. The expression on her face when she was lost in some thick book. I remember our conversations. How people gossiped about her. I remember the night she died. Oil lamps were all she had in her old house and Annie died by lamplight. I can still see her face on the daybed.
Annie was born in 1842. Can you imagine? Wordsworth was alive! Yeats wouldn’t be born for another twenty-three years. If Annie was still around she’d be 170 years old—which is how I sometimes feel these days. I don’t know. Maybe what’s-her-name is right. Maybe the clay is calling me. That dark December clay. The clay that felt so foreign to my poor father. Ah well, when it’s time, it’s time. It’s like another wise person said: “You’ve got people who want to live forever who don’t know what to do with themselves on a Sunday afternoon.”