Kid Soldier

by Jennifer Maruno

  Richard flipped the box over. In dark black letters, the words “Dead Canary” filled the back. The same message marched along all four sides of the box as well.

  “Amy wouldn’t actually send me her dead bird,” Richard said as he opened his pen knife. “Even for a scatterbrain like her, this is strange.”

  He opened the parcel, tossed the paper and twine to the side of his wheelchair, and put his hands on the lid. The thought of a dead animal of any kind brought the bloodbath of rabbits back into his mind. He left the box on his lap and shut his eyes.

  “You didn’t break the poor girl’s heart, did you?” the nurse asked.

  “No,” Richard said. If you’ve got the courage to be a soldier, he told himself, lifting the lid, a parcel from home shouldn’t be such a scary thing. A flash of yellow made him close it.

  “Well, if it is a dead bird,” the nurse said, “I can’t have its germs in my ward.” She took the box from him, ripped off the lid, and lifted out the soft yellow bundle. An outrageous pair of yellow socks unfolded like Christmas stockings with an orange in each toe. A piece of paper fluttered down.

  Richard caught it with a smile.

  Dear Richard,

  For a quarter we can buy a stamp for a war savings bond. One booklet has sixteen stamps, which comes to $4.00, but guess what? When you cash it in, you get $5.00. Do you think your quartermaster knows about this?

  Remember the bird cage in my front window? Yesterday my canary was on his back with his little legs sticking straight up in the air. His feathers were still bright yellow but his eyes were dull.

  Tommy dumped the cookie crumbs out of one of mother’s tins and I put in a layer of tissue paper. He took the bird from the cage and put him on top of his little white sheets. I stroked his breast before closing the tin. Tommy dug a hole in the backyard and surprised me by cutting one of mother’s best roses. I wrote out an ice cream stick cross since I couldn’t write on the tin. That’s when I had this amazing idea.

  Mrs. Black gave me this shoe box.

  Watch the birdie!

  Amy

  A scrawl of different ink filled the bottom of the page.

  The newest bomb sights used are “hush-hush” instruments and no one on the inside knows their performance. It is rumored they are positively uncanny and Herr Hitler is in for a rude lesson in accuracy if and when the curtain goes up on the big-time show. E. Black

  Richard requested pen and paper from the nurse.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Black,

  On my leave, I went to a place in London near Trafalgar Square where soldiers from Canada could go to relax. At the door there was a barrel full of apples from Ontario and you could help yourself. I ate two, right on the spot. A guy from CBC radio let me send a greeting. Did you hear it?

  A stick of bombs dropped while we were in the movies. One bomb sheared off the top floor of the buildings. I picked up a piece of shrapnel as a souvenir.

  Your war correspondent,

  Richard

  He didn’t tell them that the piece of shrapnel had caused the infection in his leg, he’d lost a few toes, or that the army had deemed him no longer fit for service.

  —

  Months later, when his orders finally came through, Richard barely glanced at the pay packet, letter for the bank, and boarding passes for the train and ship home as he stuffed them into his breast pocket. With one swipe of his hand, everything he owned was in his rucksack.

  Why? he kept asking himself. It’s only two toes. It wasn’t a whole leg.

  “One last letter,” the nurse said, handing him a thin blue envelope before she wheeled him to the front door of the hospital. He took it eagerly. It had been four months since he’d heard from Mr. Black. But seeing the writing on the envelope, his heart missed a beat. It was his mother’s spidery scrawl. That’s odd, Richard thought. She never wrote before. He held it in his hands for a moment, unsure if he should open it in the corridor. Richard decided to save it for the train and tucked it into his uniform pocket. He shook hands with the nurse and left.

  Even though Richard wanted to limp, he took great care to walk upright. The doctor told him the best thing for recovery was walking, but Richard would have done it anyway. He was so used to it being his only way of getting about. Besides, it helped with the restlessness he felt from being so long in the hospital. Along with the loss of his two toes, he had a permanent patch of red welted skin below the knee. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use a cane when it got damp.

  Richard passed a long row of brick houses, but they weren’t houses anymore. The hunk of mortar missing from the end of the row looked as if someone had taken a giant bite. When he turned the corner he faced an endless mass of rubble, brick, smouldering timber, and broken chimney pots. The smell of dust and powdered brickwork still hung in the air.

  Across the street, he could see the morning sunlight filtering through the backs of the destroyed houses. Like Amy’s old doll house, the entire front wall was gone. Curtains flapped in the breeze, crooked pictures hung on wallpapered walls, and a ceiling light swung in the breeze. It was the staircases that bothered him most. So many sets of stairs going to open sky.

  At the sound of crunching glass, Richard looked at his feet. Millions of fine slivers of glass coated the road.

  A woman across the road held her coat over her arms, staring up at the place where she most likely used to live. Gazing at the shrapnel-spattered walls, Richard tried to imagine what it would be like if his home town had been bombed.

  Past a small park, the surprising smell of tree sap made him stop and gaze about. The bombs had blasted the bark and leaves from the trees leaving their branches covered with clothes and debris.

  Richard waited at the bus stop, watching the red double-decker drive around the huge potholes in the road. Outside the train station, people hauled away bricks in wheelbarrows. He paused to stare at a pair of men’s dusty shoes still sitting on display in a broken shop window.

  The short blast of the train made him jump.

  The rain blurred the view of the dark wet countryside as they travelled in silence.

  Richard remembered the letter in his pocket just as the train stopped with a lurch and went into darkness. Knowing they would be staying put for the night, Richard stretched out on the floor to ease the ache in his leg. His mother’s letter would have to wait until morning.

  Chapter 26

  Home

  As the train made its way into the Niagara station, the pre-dawn city lights made Richard feel like he was heading for a circus. At the platform he stopped to breathe in the river air and listen to the roar of the falls. The station master, seeing his uniform, grabbed his hands and pumped them like he had a fish at the end of a pole. Then he pounded him on the back and welcomed him home in a hearty voice.

  Richard walked along Queen Street, trying not to limp. He hesitated outside a men’s clothing store. He could certainly do with some new clothes as there’d be no chance the ones he left in his closet would still fit. That was if there still was a closet for him to open.

  What would he do if another family was living there? He supposed he could go over to Tommy’s place. They would know where his mother was.

  As he got closer to home, Richard felt an emptiness beneath his ribcage. It was like homesickness, which didn’t make sense because he was almost there. Then he knew. It was Mr. Black.

  Half way up Maple, he spied the cherry tree. The hedge was in need of a trim. Richard stepped up onto the porch, put his hand on the knob, and turned.

  The house was so quiet he could hear the desk clock ticking in the front room. Lowering his rucksack to the floor, he looked into the dining room. All the same furniture with the smell of lemon furniture polish. On a small round table, under the window, the fern in its dimpled brass pot looked wilted. Richard reached for the small green watering can beside it and gave it a drink. Beside it sat a double-hinged frame. He picked it up.

  The photograph of his uniformed father jolted
him into remembering the loud steady rhythm of his own boots as his troop marched to the St. Catharines train station. Their belts, buckles, and badges gleamed in the sun, as they all stared straight ahead.

  The other side of the frame held a photograph taken at the end of the day they had all gone to Niagara-on-the-Lake. There was a touch of flour in Richard’s hair. He put the frame down and went into the kitchen. It looked larger without the clothes horse and galvanized buckets.

  At the back of the house, where the closed-in porch protected the back door, Richard was surprised to see the long narrow window, where the clothesline came through, shut.

  His mother had been so precise about hanging her laundry. She took two corners of a bed sheet out of the basket and folded it in half. Then she placed the clothes pegs at equal distance along the line. Grace hung the pillow cases from the seam so that they would billow in the breeze. All socks had to hang by the toe, in pairs, with heels in the same direction. He smiled. It was as if a random assortment of different sized coloured socks on the line indicated a mad woman lived here. She would have done well in the quartermaster corps.

  The handwringer still stood on the floor but the wicker basket beside it was gone. Amy was right. There wasn’t a sign of laundry business anywhere.

  Richard went out into the backyard. Raspberry canes and currant bushes lined the back fence. The small leaves of carrots and radishes sprouted in a patch. At the side of the house, the bamboo rake rested beside the push mower. He walked around the house to the front.

  With great difficulty, Richard climbed the cherry tree. The old railroad lantern was right where they left it, tucked inside the apple crate they used for a table. Richard lifted it. The sloshing sound that came from the base told him it still had oil. He removed the glass flue and turned the coin-sized dial to lengthen the wick. He felt for the small metal tin of matches, struck one, and lit it. The smell brought back memories of tents, bomb shelters, and trips to outhouses. He stretched out on the platform and as he thought about the 1st Canadian Division heading overseas and fell asleep.

  When he woke, it was almost dark. Entering the house he heard his mother humming a tune in the kitchen. She placed a brown teapot on a blue and white checker cloth alongside a can of evaporated milk. Her hands were no longer reddened and calloused from the soap and scrubbing board. Her hair was different as well. Cut to the chin, it was dark brown. Instead of her usual flowered housedress, she wore a long-sleeved navy dress with small pleats down the front and a pearl necklace. She looked like she had been somewhere special.

  “I told you not to sign up,” she said to him in a quiet voice.

  “I know,” he replied, almost whispering.

  “The whole time I waited for a telegram.”

  Richard said nothing as he sat down.

  Grace appraised her tall son with his father’s corn silk hair and sky blue eyes. He had grown taller, his chest and shoulders broader. She pulled out a chair, sat down, and pushed the teapot towards him. Richard lifted it, filled her cup, and then his own. She pushed the sugar bowl toward him. He shook his head. He had gone so long without, there was no need.

  “You left me all alone,” she said, “with nothing but laundry.” She made it sound as if all the dirty laundry in the house had been his.

  Richard sipped his tea, watching her over the rim. He put the cup down. “When did you lose your job?” he asked.

  “Lose my job?” she repeated in astonishment. “I got a better one.” She took her tea cup to the sink, rinsed it, and turned it upside down on a folded tea cloth. “Mr. McLaughlin took me on at the bank.” She turned to Richard and gave a weak smile. “I should have stopped doing laundry as soon as you went to school.”

  Grace Fuller picked up the navy hat sitting on the enamel ledge of the counter, removed the long pearl-tipped pin from its brim, and put it back in. Then she moved to Richard and placed her hand at the side of his cheek. “Don’t you ever go away like that again,” she said to him softly. “You’re the only family I’ve got.”

  “We’ve got family in Plumstead,” Richard said.

  Grace sighed and put down her hat. “Edith wrote,” she said as she unpacked the paper grocery bags on the counters. “But you know it’s not the same.”

  That didn’t surprise Richard. Edith was the type to write to newspapers, church councils, members of parliament, and probably the prime minister himself.

  “You better visit the McLaughlins,” Grace advised him. “News travels fast.”

  “I thought they would have been here by now,” he said, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.

  “Tommy won’t be by until he finishes up at Vogel’s,” she said. “And you didn’t think Amy would let you see her in anything but a new dress?”

  “I’ve got somewhere to go first,” Richard told her. He had promised Mr. Black he would be the first person

  he’d visit when he got home. Despite the circumstances, he intended to keep that promise.

  Richard walked up the street to the bakery. Mrs. Black stood in the front window, pulling on her sweater as if waiting for him. Before he knocked on the door it opened. Her face was thinner, black circles sat above her cheeks, and her skin had lost its lovely pecan shine.

  She took Richard by the hand and they headed to the cemetery. His mother’s letter had broken the sad news.

  Richard had never really known his dad. That’s why it was so easy for him to visit his grave. But this was different. Mr. Black was a real person. Beneath the grass, in a row of stones, there was a real man he’d known and admired.

  Mrs. Black held a linen handkerchief to her eyes. Richard’s throat went dry. “He was such a good man,” she sobbed as she leaned against Richard. Richard wanted to say he shouldn’t have left, but there was no point. It wouldn’t have changed anything. All he could do was stand and stare at the tall granite slab adorned with a sheaf of wheat.

  Walking back towards the house, Richard saw the curtained windows of the bakery and the closed sign. He placed his hand on the hood of the black car. “How is she running?”

  “You know, I don’t understand anything about cars,” Mrs. Black said with a small smile. “I’ve got something for you inside,” she told him as she opened the bakery door. The sun streamed through a chink in the curtains, casting a stripe across the dusty wood floor. The aroma of fresh bread had disappeared. Now there was just mustiness.

  The two draped squares in the walls drew Richard’s attention first. “You don’t use the ovens anymore?” he asked.

  “It was the rationing,” she responded in a quiet way. “Once gasoline, butter, and sugar went, he couldn’t operate properly. He shut the bakery and went to work at a plant.”

  Richard looked at her wide-eyed. “He never told me anything about that.”

  “Welland Chemical took him on the basis of his military record,” she said, leaning against the large dusty baking table. “They made explosives. He didn’t like to talk about it.”

  She lifted Richard’s hand, placed the set of car keys into his palm, and closed his fingers around them. “There’s plenty of gas in the tank. You can drive it home now. We’ll transfer the ownership later.”

  “I can’t take his car,” Richard stammered. “You should sell it or something.”

  “I never argued with him while he was alive,” Mrs. Black said, “and I won’t now. My husband told me you were to have it.” She pointed to the string-tied bundle of letters on the mantelpiece. “He was so proud that you wrote to him.”

  When Richard entered his own kitchen, a small chicken waited in a roasting pan. He watched his mother move about, setting the dining-room table.

  “Mr. Vogel stopped by the bank to ask how you were doing,” she said. “He’s planning to sell the farm and live with his brother in Toronto.”

  Richard slumped into his chair. No farm, no peaches, no bakery, no pies. The world he had looked so forward to coming back to was gone. He put his head in his hands.


  “We’re going to the McLaughlin’s after dinner,” she told him. “Amy’s talked the Ladies’ Auxiliary into giving you a welcome home party.” His mother busied herself mashing potatoes. “I can’t stay too late. I’ve got to be at the bank first thing in the morning.”

  Richard remembered the paperwork he was to take to the bank. Something lifted in his chest. “I’m going with you in the morning,” he said, standing up.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not old enough to put my name down on a mortgage,” he explained.

  “For goodness sake, we don’t have to mortgage the house!” his mother exclaimed. “I’ve worked hard to pay the bills,” she said with a sniff.

  “Oh there will still be plenty of hard work,” Richard said ruffling his mother’s hair. “I’m going to buy Vogel’s farm. The three of us can manage it. We’ll do the work, you can keep the books.”

  “Mr. McLaughlin won’t be happy if I quit,” she said, wiping her fingers across her eyes and then on her apron.

  “You could stay on at the bank if you like it,” Richard said.

  “I do,” she said, with a small twinge of a smile. “But how am I going to get back and forth to work from a farm?” she asked. “There’s no bus.”

  “Women are just as good drivers as men,” Richard said. “In London I saw a woman driving a fire engine.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need a fire truck,” she said with a much larger smile.

  “We’ve got a car!” Richard yelled. He picked his mother up and twirled her around the kitchen. “You can drive yourself to work!”

  Author’s Note

  Most young men, like my father, participated in the Canadian Army Summer camps for excitement and adventure. Details of this story come from my father’s diary. Having trained under the assumed name of Chester Lee Huston for one year, he joined up underage.