by Bob Leroux
“Well, these kids are sure crazy about it. It’s wild, the way they’ll spend hours shovelling off that pond, then balk at doing the driveway.”
“That’s not the worst of it. I’ll bet young Brian’s father is missing an axe and a pail. They’ve got a hole in one end of the pond. Looks like they’ve been getting water to flood the thing.”
“My God, he’s liable to catch his death of cold. You know what happened last — ”
“He’s not going to fall in, dear. They’re only knocking out a hole big enough to take a bucket. He’ll be fine.”
“God knows I want it to be true, after almost losing him.”
“I know, I know, but you’ve got to stop fussing over him. It’s been almost a year.” He finished his tea as he pondered the next point he wanted to make. “You don’t want to turn him into a sissy, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“And if he’s healthy enough to play hockey, he’s healthy enough to help out at the garage.”
Anna sipped on her tea, measuring her words in her mind before she responded to this touchy subject. “Well, that sounds reasonable enough, but isn’t he kind of young to be helping in a garage?”
“He’s not too young to pump gas.”
“But not this winter, don’t you think? Running back and forth to the pumps, from the warmth to the cold, don’t you think that’s risky? Given his history?”
Angus managed a smile. “You’re always one step ahead, aren’t you?”
She smiled back. “Just wondering.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got to learn to work, like everybody else in this world. Surely I’ll get one worker between the two of them.”
“Now, don’t give up on David, dear. He’s just a scatterbrain. He’ll grow up soon enough.”
“So you keep saying. Anyway, the little guy works hard enough at his hockey.”
“I know,” Anna sighed. “It’s just so hard to imagine he’s all better, after what happened. I wouldn’t wish that on any mother.”
Chapter 2
Romantic Fever
In 1952, when Billy Campbell was nine, a sudden spring thaw blew its warm wind over the winter’s big snow and filled the fields with pools of icy water. It didn’t take long for some ingenious young rascals to come up with a use for one of those pools. The big plan was to camouflage a sinkhole with sticks and dead grass to make a trap, the kind they had seen in the latest Tarzan movie showing at the local theatre. And who could blame them, after all their hard work, for wanting to test their masterpiece on a real live person? That’s why two of the more daring schemers, Gordon McGillis and Eddie Lacombe, were sent in search of a likely candidate.
Billy and Brian Weir were playing marbles against the back wall of the train station that day. Gordon knew which one would bite first. “Hey, Billy boy,” he called out as he and Eddie approached the station. “Did you hear about all that money they’re finding, in the field behind the cheese factory? Everybody’s finding it.”
Brian was skeptical. “Waddaya talking about, McGillis? What money?” He didn’t like Gordon, not since that time he’d caught him throwing stones at his dog.
“Everybody’s finding it. Behind the cheese factory,” Gordon repeated.
“Aw, get lost, will ya?” Brian snarled. “We’re having a good game here.” He bounced his favourite banana split off the brick wall and watched it roll six inches from the hole. “Your turn, Billy.”
“It’s true,” Gordon persisted. “Show ’em the quarters, Eddie.”
Reluctantly, the boys turned from their game and focused on Eddie, who was digging out the three quarters the gang had scrounged to bait the trap. His job was to provide the proof, while Gordon did all the heavy acting. “See,” Gordon exclaimed, “what’d I tell ya. And that’s just what me and Eddie found. Bobby Laporte found two whole dollars.”
“No kidding?” Billy was hooked. “How did it get there?”
“Some drunk must’ve slept there, and lost all his money.” Gordon held up the empty wine bottle he was carrying. “We found this right around the same place where we found the money. See, Muscatel wine, fresh. Why don’t you come and look for yourself? There’s probably lots more money where the drunk was sleeping, where the grass is all flattened down.”
“Yeah,” Eddie finally chimed in with his squeaky little voice. “Come and see for yourself.”
“C’mon, Brian. Let’s go.” Billy was already figuring out what to spend the money on.
“Naw, I’m not going all the way up there. So what if a drunk lost a few quarters? How do you know there’s any left?”
“You never know till you try. There might be all kinds of money, just lying around.”
“Yeah, Weir, don’t be a scaredy-cat,” Gordon taunted, and gave Eddie the eye to start moving away. “You coming, Billy?”
Billy reached over and tugged Brian’s arm. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“Nope.” Brian jerked his arm away. “You shouldn’t go, either. Your mother said not to stay out too long.”
“Aw, she always says that.” Billy handed Brian his prized marble bag, the purple Crown Royal sack his father had given him, with the golden draw strings. “Hold these for me?”
Brian took it reluctantly. “You’re crazy if you think you’re going to find any money.”
“Eddie has some,” Billy yelled back, already racing to catch up with the two older boys, who had been careful not to get too far ahead.
When they finally reached the spot where three other boys were combing the long grass on hands and knees, Billy was quick to join the hunt for the drunk’s lost fortune. Gordon smiled and offered some advice. “Try over there, Billy, by that big rock. That’s where we found the wine bottle.”
Billy was grinning as he worked his way in that direction, spreading the matted brown grass apart with his fingers. He searched for a glimpse of silver in the dark roots, surprised at how easily it started to come away. Suddenly, the ground shifted beneath him, and he lurched forward, wet up to his elbows. Then the sticks under the grass gave way completely, and he found himself floundering in ice-cold water. It happened so fast that he still wasn’t aware of the danger he was in. When all of the kids got to their feet and started laughing, it dawned on him that this must be a joke. But somehow it didn’t feel like a joke.
Clenching his teeth, he pawed his way through the water, grabbing handfuls of sticks and grass, dragging them under and reaching for more as he tried desperately to pull himself upright. He clutched at one stick that seemed solid, but it let go and he fell backwards, the water rushing over his head. He surfaced in a panic, coughing and spitting, thrashing wildly about with his arms, wondering when this crazy joke would be over.
Then he felt something poking him in the chest. “Grab it,” he heard someone yell, “hurry up and grab it.” His hand found the end of a stick, and he felt himself being hauled to the edge of the sinkhole.
He crawled onto the dry grass and looked up. At the other end of the dead spruce tree he was holding was his big brother, David. “H-hey, h-how did you get here?”
“Brian told me where you went, stupid. How could you believe those liars?”
Billy tried to smile, and saw Brian come running up behind David. “It was j-just a j-joke,” he protested, as he watched the backs of his so-called friends disappearing over the hill. He tried in vain to stop shivering; he got to his feet and shook off some of the water. “Anyways, it’s not that c-c-cold.”
“Not c-cold?” David mocked. “Then how come your lips are b-blue?”
Billy tried to change the subject. “Why d-did everybody l-leave?”
“Why do you think, dummy? C’mon, we better get home. You look like a drowned rat.”
As the two brothers started down the hill toward home, Brian went in the opposite direction. Billy called after him. “Hey, where ya going?”
“To look for those jerks,” his friend called back.
David laughed. “I hope those jerks
can run.”
“Jeez,” Billy protested once more, “it was only a joke.”
“Yeah, some joke. Ya coulda drowned.”
“Do you think there was any money, for real?”
“Are you nuts?” David was shaking his head in disgust.
“But Eddie had some.”
“That was part of the trick, Billy. You’re lucky Brian didn’t believe them.”
Billy shook his head in dismay. “I guess it was a pretty dirty trick, then.”
“You wanna believe it,” David agreed. “Now, we better walk faster. You don’t look so good.”
After stopping a couple of times to empty his boots, they finally made it home. Their mother saw them coming from the parlour window. She waved them to the kitchen door and went to meet them with a blanket.
Before she could question him, Billy sputtered through blue, shivering lips, “Hi, M-mom. I got wet ’cause Gordon and Eddie tricked me, and I fell in a waterhole, but David pulled me out with a Christmas tree over behind the cheese factory — and there was n-no money, either.”
His mother did not react with the sympathy he expected. “Get in this house, Billy Campbell,” she snapped, as she half dragged him into the kitchen. “And get those wet clothes off. You’ve had a sore throat three times in the last month. What do you think will come of this?” She hurried off, then, to draw a hot bath, while David helped him peel off his wet clothes.
For the rest of the afternoon, he was treated to intermittent nursing and scolding. His mother put him to bed with plenty of woollen blankets and a hot drink. “And you’ll stay in that bed till I’m sure you’re all right, Billy Campbell.”
If there was ever a prediction a mother would have taken back, that was the one. When Angus came in from towing a car across town, the boy was sleeping fitfully. The following morning, he woke with a painful, raw throat and a fever that worried away any thoughts of punishment. The next few days passed as cloudy images, with vague memories of huddled whisperings at the foot of his bed, spoonfuls of hot soup, cold face cloths on a fevered forehead, and threatening smells of strong medicine.
His only clear recollection was one of long, sharp needles that seemed to pierce him to the bone. In one of his more lucid moments, after the doctor had given him another of those torturous needles, he concluded he was suffering from something called “romantic fever.” At least that’s what it sounded like, when he heard his parents talking to the doctor in the hall outside his room.
“Are you sure that’s what he has, Doctor?”
“Yes, I’m reasonably sure it’s rheumatic fever.” The doctor was looking through the door at the little guy lost beneath the mountain of blankets. “But don’t start thinking the worst. There are many forms of rheumatic fever and they’re not all life threatening.” The tall man paused and combed his fingers through his thinning hair. He hated this part of his small-town practice. He wished he had access to a hospital with laboratories and special equipment, but a trip to Cornwall might hurt more than help. He would have to trust his instincts.
Doctor MacMillan turned to the parents. “Look, I’m confident that’s what he has: the severe inflammation of the throat, the fever, the sore joints. So, I’ll treat him here, if you agree.” He watched Anna’s eyes for a sign. If he was sure of the mother’s support, he would take the chance.
Anna trusted Tom MacMillan. He had been looking after her family, the MacDonnells, for thirty years. “All right, Doctor. Whatever you think is best. What will we have to do?”
“More of what we’ve been doing, Anna. I’ll continue with the penicillin — thank God we have it. But you’ll have to keep him very quiet and well rested, for as long as it takes. Right now it’s easy; he’s still a sick, little boy. But when he starts feeling better, he’s going to be a problem. He’s never been one to keep still, has he?” The doctor smiled at Angus, who was obviously more upset than Anna. “What’s troubling you, Angus? Are you unsure about this? You must tell me, if you are.”
Angus shook his head, but his eyes gave him away. “No, I’m just worried, that’s all. How dangerous is this? Is it like TB?”
“Not at all, but it is serious.” The doctor cleared his throat and continued. “I understand your concern, and I’m sorry I can’t give you a simple answer. We’ll just have to wait and see. Rheumatic fever is a serious illness, but Billy is not symptomatic of the worst aspects of the disease; so far we’re only dealing with the throat infection and swollen joints. In severe cases, it can involve the heart, with potential damage to the valves. But there is no way of predicting that, now. It’s strictly a wait-and-see situation.”
At the sign of alarm in Angus’s eyes, he quickly added, “The important thing is to watch him closely, and ensure that he recovers completely before we let him leave that bed.” Angus still didn’t look convinced. The doctor continued. “And you don’t have to worry about his brother. He has no history of susceptibility to this type of infection — and we do have the penicillin, now.” He turned to Anna. “You’re still rinsing all his dishes in boiling water?”
She nodded. “How much longer will he need the penicillin shots? He cries when he knows you’re coming.” Anna’s eyes moistened at the thought of her child’s pain.
“Then I’ll have to risk another enemy in the world, because I have to continue the injections. Twice a day, for at least another week. Then we’ll see.”
In the days that followed, Billy counted the needles. And when he was finally well enough to feel brave again, he would tell his friends how he survived the torture of eighteen needles in nine days. The needles also figured strongly in his mother’s strategy for keeping him quiet during his six weeks of convalescence. The mere mention of more shots was enough to settle him down for the whole afternoon.
By the time the colour was back in his cheeks, there was no room left in the bed, what with the toys and comic books that seemed to collect by the end of each day. David was in charge of entertainment while Billy was at his worst. When he began to improve, Brian Weir was allowed to help, and the comic books were supplemented with school work. To Brian’s amazement, Billy actually welcomed the delivery of fresh assignments from his teacher.
Billy never did go back to school, that spring of ’52. Sister Mary Thekla, the principal of St. Joseph’s School, decided he should be passed into the next grade and get extra help in the fall. As the pain of the romantic fever began to fade from memory, he came to appreciate all the attention his illness afforded him. But it was not enough to compensate for the agony of going to bed while the sun was still shining, all that long summer. In August, Doctor MacMillan declared him fit enough to return to school in September. He could find no permanent damage, he assured Angus and Anna.
To Billy’s great joy, the doctor also lifted the restriction against leaving his own yard. Stickhandling on an old piece of linoleum and taking shots against the shed wall can lose their allure pretty fast, when that’s all you’re allowed to do. He had mixed feelings about Brian’s regular updates on the grove: how the gang had built a second floor on the tree house in the cedars, how Gordon and Eddie had tried to take it over, and how the squatters had been driven away with a massive bombardment of green apples. It was all he could do, not to sneak off and visit the two-storey wonder in MacLennan’s bush. Only his mother’s threats of more penicillin kept him in line until the doctor gave the okay.
And here it was, Anna Campbell thought. Another winter was upon them, and they had to let Billy play hockey again. She knew she wouldn’t be able to quit worrying, not until he got safely through the winter and another spring. But at least he was back to his old self. “Hockey, hockey, hockey,” she finally said aloud. “Doesn’t that boy think of anything else? Imagine, sneaking over there to play until dark every night.”
Angus shook his head. “I told you. He’s a tough little guy.”
“We know where he gets that from, don’t we?” When Angus nodded, she continued. “But I wonder where he got that weakness
for avoiding the truth?”
Angus pursed his lips. “You mean that stuff about lying by omission? Jeez, Anna, don’t you think that’s a little much?”
“No, I certainly do not. That’s exactly what his catechism teaches him.”
“Maybe it does, but do you think he’s more prone to lie than any other kid his age? You should have heard some of the whoppers I told my old man at that age.”
“Perhaps, but I hope you’re not the same man your father was. He was not an ideal father, to say the least.”
Angus laughed. “You mean he was a tyrant, who wanted us working from dawn till dusk.”
“I’d like to think our boys will have more freedom in their lives than you did.”
Angus frowned at that implication. “Right, freedom — to shovel the driveway for two weeks. That’s what I’ll give Billy. And I’ll hide those skates where he won’t find them.” Then he smiled. “For a week, at least.”
Anna smiled with him. “He loves to get out on that ice, doesn’t he? I just hope the rheumatic fever hasn’t robbed him of the strength he’ll need to keep up with his friends.”
Chapter 3
Bold as Brass
“A rink-a-rink-a-rink, a rink-a-dink-a-doo.” Anna Campbell laughed as she listened to her son singing his way up the walk, rattling out the rhythm with a stick against the picket fence. At the end of the walk, he turned and hurled the stick at the woodpile by the shed, then bounced up the steps and banged open the door.
“Mom! Guess what? We’re gonna get a real rink. Sister Thekla said, a real rink!”
“And how many times have I told you to open that door by the handle before you start pounding it with your shoulder? And don’t slam — ”
She was too late. Billy had already slammed the door hard enough to shake the wall. He looked back at the crucifix above the door, and then at the window that was rattling above the sink.
“You’re going to break that glass someday, and your father will have a fit. Now what’s so important?”