For all the writers whose stories are waiting to be told
Contents
Foreword
Marthe Jocelyn
Father’s Day
Teresa Toten
Simple Summer
Susan Adach
The Golden Darters
Elizabeth Winthrop
I Don’t Have to Tell You Everything
Loris Lesynski
The Gift
Julie Johnston
Dream Girls
Gillian Chan
The Thunderbird Swing
Nancy Hartry
Uncle Cory’s Smile
Anne Gray
Can You Keep a Secret?
Anne Laurel Carter
Tales of a Gambling Grandma
Dayal Kaur Khalsa
How It Happened in Peach Hill
Marthe Jocelyn
Road Trip
Martha Slaughter
Meet the Authors
Foreword
Marthe Jocelyn
Everybody has a secret.
You do, don’t you?
Most people have more than one. And we usually keep the biggest secrets from those we are closest to – our families. Why do we hide things?
The stories in this book make us think about that question. Some secrets are like precious jewels held in the palm of our hand. Some secrets are lies, told to make or avoid trouble. Some secrets are scary, like a creaking door when no one is home. Some secrets cover up shame. Some secrets are special little moments you never mention to anyone. Some are part of a surprise. Others are like soda pop, waiting to burst out in a flood of giggles.
Sometimes only one person knows the secret. Often, the best part of keeping a secret is finally being able to tell someone else.
I am delighted to invite you to turn the page and share these Secrets….
Father’s Day
Teresa Toten
Class hadn’t even started and already the chalk dust was swirling and somersaulting, trying to break out of those long skinny shards of light. It can make you mental if you try to track those things. I stood in front of the teacher’s dilapidated old desk. Chalk, erasers, paper clips, and a box of HB pencils were in the first drawer on the left. A strap was all by itself in the second one, and a King James Version Bible and pink crystal rosary beads were in the bottom drawer. Each drawer on the right-hand side was locked. We all knew it.
“But see, the thing is … the nuns are always the worst!” I shifted from one foot to the other. “No offense, or anything.”
“None taken.” Sister Rose smiled. “And just why is that, Katie?”
“Well, you know, they … you, all make such a big deal about it, especially, especially, on the Friday before Father’s Day. Everyone gets to feel all sorry for me and give me these looks of fake pity.”
Sister raised one pretty eyebrow.
“And some real pity too, I suppose, but that’s even worse, especially, especially, from the kids with dads but dads who aren’t there, or dads who aren’t even really, for sure, properly married to their moms in the first place.”
This would have been enough for Mrs. Cotter, my grade five teacher back at St. David’s.
“But lying is a sin, Katie.”
Sister Rose was a lot tougher than she looked.
“Yeah, but, Sister, it isn’t really a lie, not really. All I’m asking is that I do what I do every year, which you thought was really touching and everything when I told you about it a while ago. Remember?”
Sister nodded.
“I still make my Father’s Day card, just like the rest of the class. Then, after school, I still walk over to Winston Churchill Park, which used to be our favorite, and then, then, I still bury the card in the flower bed nearest St. Clair and Spadina. And then, finally, I wish him Happy Father’s Day.” I gave her the smile I’d been practicing since 6:20 A.M.
Sister raised her eyebrow again.
“After I’ve prayed for the deliverance of his immortal soul, of course.” I checked the clock – 8:25. The bell would ring at 8:30.
“So, all I’m saying, I mean asking, is that since this is a new school for me, couldn’t we please, just this once, not announce to the whole class that, tragically, poor Katie O’Brian’s father has passed away? And that the rest of us have to count our blessings by saying fifteen rosary rounds at recess? So, not only do they feel real sorry for me, but they hate me too because of the stupid rosary rounds. No offense. Sorry, Sister.”
“None taken, Katie.” She patted my hand.
Sister Rose has soft cool hands, all the time, no matter what. All nuns have soft cool hands. I don’t know how they do it. It’s like a holy thing.
“So, you see? We’re not lying, not really, not even with that ‘by omission’ thing because it’s not like anyone’s asking. See? We just don’t have to advertise it. We don’t have to enter the Katie O’Brian pity party sweepstakes. Please, Sister?”
Sister Rose looked down at her hands. Her lashes seemed to shade half of her face.
“And, and … I’ve been praying on it for weeks, real hard … and, well, it just came to me yesterday that I bet that Jesus would be okay with this.”
Sister bit her lower lip and frowned. She did this whenever she was trying to stop herself from laughing. We all knew it.
“You are impossible, Katie Magdalene O’Brian.”
“That’s just what my mom says, Sister.”
She shook her head. I had her.
The bell rang.
“Okay, Katie,” she sighed. “We won’t make an announcement about your deceased father. No rosary novenas, but you’ll do each and every single one at home.” She put her soft cool hand on mine again. “This will be our little secret, Katie. Not a lie, just a secret.”
You had to hand it to me – I was good.
We got to the card-making right after Religious Studies and French. Mary Catherine and I worked on ours together. Mary Catherine has a deeply superior creative artistic soul. Just like me. So, we’ve been best friends since practically my first week at St. Raymond’s. Mary Catherine knows about it all, about absolutely everything. Well, except for the part where I really, really want Mr. Sutherland – that’s Mary Catherine’s father – to be my father.
Sometimes I want it so much, I feel like I’m vibrating.
He is such a nice dad.
Mr. Sutherland is an important businessman. He has four different suits and a dark brown briefcase with worn handles. He works in an office with a door, in one of those big black towers on King Street. His office is on the 34th floor! One day, when school’s over, Mary Catherine and me are going to meet him in his office and then we’re going out for lunch.
He said.
Mr. Sutherland calls me Slugger because I’m on the Christie Pits Pirates softball team. I’m deeply artistic and athletic. It’s a rare combination, Mr. Sutherland says. Sometimes, when he gets home early, he pours the three of us a big tall glass of Coca-Cola with lots of ice and then he asks us about school, or our friends, or just stuff. And he asks me too, not just Mary Catherine.
I hate Coca-Cola.
But, I drink it right down and I always say, “Thanks, Mr. Sutherland!” and he always winks at me and says, “Well, you’re welcome, Slugger.”
Mr. Sutherland is an Aqua Velva man. That’s a shaving lotion. He’s an Aqua Velva man because Mary Catherine first bought it for him in grade one and she hadn’t turned even a little creative yet. I would buy him Old Spice because Mr. Sutherland looks just like their sailboat man in the magazines. It smells more like he should smell too. I take a whiff every single time I’m in the perfume department of Eaton’s.
Anyway, Mary Catherine and I were making, hands down, the most elaborate fancy cards in the whole
class. We are like that for all our projects. Father Bob says that God is in the details. Our stuff is always bursting with God. My card had an origami cross on the front and the whole thing was edged with cutout daisies. It said YOU ARE MY HERO in big 3-D letters on the front and HAPPY FATHER’S DAY TO THE BEST DAD IN THE WORLD over a pop-up striped tie on the inside.
I headed straight over to Winston Churchill right after school. Straight to the little rose garden in the corner.
I looked all sad.
You never know. Sister Rose could go right by on the streetcar, or something.
There was a newly turned spot of earth behind the orangey roses and just in front of the bushes with the green-and-yellow speckled leaves. I dug a hole with my six-inch ruler, then I folded up my card into four and buried it.
I made a sign of the cross. Not a little fast one in the middle of your chest – a big one, just in case.
I prayed.
Not for my father.
For Mary Catherine’s.
I prayed that God in His infinite wisdom would figure out how to make Mr. Sutherland my father. And that He would do this without hurting Mrs. Sutherland, who is nice enough; or Mary Catherine, who is my very best friend; or my mother, who, Lord knows, has been hurt bad enough already. Thank you very much. Amen.
I knew it was a really tall order, but Sister always says that it is not for us to ascertain the infinite mercy that is within the mind of God. So, that means that it’s up to Him to figure out the details.
I practically flew home. I felt just tons better after my little ceremony. I’d have to remember to tell Sister about that part on Monday. It was the true part of our little secret.
Mom and I live on top of the ALWAYS OPEN hardware, electronics, and variety store on Bathurst Street that is closed on Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays. We moved here last August and it’s my favorite place so far. You’d never know it from the street, but most of those apartments over stores are really, really beautiful. Ours sure is. Mom and me have our own bedrooms; there’s a kitchen in the back, a dinette, and a massive huge living room that looks right onto Bathurst. Our apartment is loaded with charm and personality. Mr. Sutherland says so practically every time he drops me off from a late night at Mary Catherine’s.
Mom was in the hallway before I even got my key out of the door. Why was she home so early?
“Katie, honey?”
I couldn’t really see her in the soupy darkness of the hallway, but I could tell she was still in her white dental assistant’s uniform.
“Hi, Mom, how come you’re –”
“Katie? I have great news, honey.”
She was using her chipped china voice. High and cracked.
There was a crash, then rattling in the kitchen. I stepped towards her, my heart racing and pounding at the same time.
“Yes, that’s right, honey,” she said, nodding. “Your father’s home. Let’s go into the living room.”
Daddy?
He found us.
Mom grabbed me by the arm and mouthed, “He’s a little drunk.” The whole left side of her face was red and angry looking.
A little drunk was bad.
Very drunk was better – he’d miss you two out of three shots.
Passed out was best.
Daddy lumbered in heavily. Mom whispered, “I’m sorry, honey, I told too much,” and then moved away. She said it so fast and low, I wasn’t sure what I heard.
“Katie! Hey, look at you, huh!” He wasn’t weaving, hardly.
Just a little drunk.
“How’s my baby, huh? Give your old man a hug.”
He yanked me to him. I was instantly smothered by rye and Coca-Cola. I didn’t mind the reek of the Player’s unfiltered cigarettes, or even his sweat. It was the dark syrupy smell of the Coke that made me gag.
Daddy rubbed my back and started to chuckle. “I’m here for the big Father’s Day picnic at St. Raymond’s on Sunday. Whaddya say to that, huh?”
My stomach filled up with ice cubes.
“Daddy can’t wait to meet all your new friends and your new teacher. You landed a real live nun this time, eh?”
“Stephen, don’t.”
“Sister Rosie, or something, right?” He hugged me tighter.
“Stephen, please.”
I decided not to breathe. That’s how you die. From not breathing. I wondered how long it would take.
Daddy snorted and chuckled again, except it sounded more like gurgling. “S’okay, sweetcheeks. Your mom told me about your whole scam.” He let go of me, thought better of it, and grabbed me by the back of my hair.
“So, I’m dead, eh?”
“Stephen!” Mom’s face was beginning to swell up.
Daddy reached over to the side table and picked up his glass with his left hand, still hanging on to my hair with his right.
“You little con artist,” he said, pulling my head from side to side. “You got the best of both worlds. You get a whack of sympathy from your Holy Roller nun and the rest of the class doesn’t know, so if I turn up with you, no one thinks anything of it.”
He took a big swig of his drink.
“Bloody brilliant.” He was oozing Coca-Cola.
“You’re a chip off the old block.” He yanked my head back.
“Ow, Daddy, ow.”
He looked down at me. “I’m proud of you, sweetie. Eleven years old and lying to a nun for God’s sake, what balls!”
“No, it wasn’t like …” My eyes welled up. “It was more like a deeply superior, creative, secret, kind of…”
“You mean a lie. Katie, you’re mine. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel a thrill when she bought it.”
Oh God.
“Fruit don’t fall far from the tree. You’re just like me, through and through.”
Like him? No. I tried to find Mom. She was way off across the living room, by the window.
Daddy turned my head back and up. He is eleven feet tall. Like him? No. No. It wasn’t like that, not like how he said. Not exactly. I just didn’t want Sister Rose to know, about… about him, about this. It’s bad when they know. And maybe it was kind of smart to convince her to keep “our secret” from the rest of the class, just in case, but that wasn’t it. Not all of it. Not really. I was hazy about how my secret lies got all started up in the first place. The details somersaulted each other, just like the classroom chalk dust. I thought, maybe, yeah, I remembered that, maybe, I sort of believed that if I told an actual real live Sister that Daddy was dead … that somehow … maybe … God would make it true.
Oh. God.
I was worse than him.
I’m sorry.
“You’re sure not like your simpering mother. No, sir. You’re all me, sweetcheeks. Daddy’s little con, Daddy’s little liar. Admit it, Katie.”
Sorry, sorry. It was true.
No.
It was true. WAS. Not after this, no sir.
I tried to remember the Act of Contrition, but the prayer got tangled up in my head right after the I confess to Almighty God part. Okay, okay.
Our Father, who art in heaven. … I would march right in on Monday morning and tell Sister Rose the whole thing. Hallowed be thy name. Everything. Thy kingdom come.
Daddy didn’t move.
He was waiting.
I didn’t move.
I knew better.
Sister would have to tell the principal. Thy will be done. There’d be, like, major serious big-time penance. Something, daily bread something…. That’s okay, I deserved penance; I could take it. But Sister would hate me. And forgive us our trespasses…. No, no, she wouldn’t. As we forgive those who trespass against us. … Nuns take a vow about that sort of thing. And lead us not into temptation. It’s got to do with lost sheep and Joseph and his multicolored coat, or something. But deliver us from evil. And then, and then, I would never lie again. Amen.
“Admit it, Katie.”
Ever. Suddenly I was indestructible with the white hot truth of it. I was all pow
ered on and lit up from the inside.
“Daddy’s little con.”
Never again.
“Admit it and I’ll tell ya what, sweetie.” Daddy checked his watch. “Admit it and I’m out of here. Gone. No picnic. There’s an oil rig with my name on it in Alberta and my Greyhound could leave at 9:30. Deal?”
Never.
He let go of my hair, turned me towards him, and crouched right down. “Katie, let me know, I’m leaving a piece of me behind and I’m off. Give me that.” Daddy’s eyes were tearing up. He’d done that kind of thing before. A lot.
Mom started crying for real, though. Quietly. You wouldn’t even know if you didn’t know.
Daddy put his hands on my shoulders, really gently. “Katie girl, you’re my little con, my little liar, aren’t ya?”
I looked straight into his wet eyes.
Just … once … more….
“Yes, Daddy,” I said.
Simple Summer
Susan Adach
I loved summer because it was simple.
Not complicated like school – who to eat lunch with, does this top make me look like a dweeb, will they laugh at my crummy speech on the Loch Ness Monster? Summer was way easier. Only one bathing suit to choose, should I have my hot dog with or without ketchup, make sure you cash in enough pop bottles for change for the popcorn man and the Yummy Man ice-cream truck. The only rule: Be in by the time the streetlights come on. Good and simple.
That summer, it seemed like all of Thames Avenue was away. No problem, even when my dad canceled our holiday. We usually went to my Aunt Molly and Uncle George’s, and their Tastee Freeze Ice Cream store in Huntsville, but my mother was having a baby soon and my dad said the long drive wasn’t a good idea. We’d have to “tough it out at home.” It didn’t matter. I made plans to spend the entire summer with my across-the-street best friend, Janice Muncaster. Her dad had just started a new job and they weren’t going away either. Perfect.
The first week, just like we planned, Janice and I stretched out on two canvas cots in the shadow of the giant black walnut trees at the end of her backyard and read mystery books until our eyes were burning slits. Heaven.
The following Monday, Janice concentrated while putting white polish on her now tanned toes. She finished her toenails and picked up her book, but didn’t open it. “Susan, you’re going to hate me,” she said.
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