Luci and Jen stood off to one side, watching.
Uncle Cory squeezed my hand. I knew he was afraid, but he didn’t run away. Not like I had yesterday. I squeezed his hand in turn. Then Jen and Luci walked over to Uncle Cory and me, and we all joined hands.
I knew then I could face the hateful words and nasty smirks. They didn’t matter anyway.
Can You Keep a Secret?
Anne Laurel Carter
The year I turned five, I went to school dreaming I’d become a cowgirl. During the summer I’d seen a woman stand on a horse and ride bareback around a circus ring. Was school the wonderful place that would teach me how to do that? By nap time of the first day, I’d discovered that instead of riding lessons, I was expected to pretend sleepiness on a gritty rubber mat. The next thirteen years – save one – felt like a series of enforced naps in stuffy classrooms. Maybe it was because I grew up in a time and place where girls only dreamed of marriage, or – for better or for worse – of becoming nurses and teachers.
Whatever the reason, grade six stands out in my memory like the Rocky Mountains erupting from the flat concrete of my childhood Toronto. It was my one exciting year – until I turned seventeen and was finally old enough to escape into the world.
On the last day of June in grade five, I carefully ripped open my report card – addressed to my parents – on the walk home. I knew my mother was standing two blocks away at our kitchen door, waiting for it, but I bravely knelt on the sidewalk and ran the sharp edge of my ruler under its flap; the glue in my pencil case would be my accomplice in hiding my criminal act. I longed to get Mr. L. as my grade six teacher and I had to find out; he’d taught my older, smarter sister two years earlier and, ever since, he noticed me when he was on duty at recess. Though he asked, like everyone else, “Aren’t you Lynn Ovenden’s sister?” I didn’t care that he didn’t know my name. He’d smiled at me! His smile unblocked the auricles and ventricles of my heart – we’d studied the human body in health – and I was in a new world.
That day, looking at my report card, I died and went straight to heaven. There at the bottom was the name, Mr. L., scrawled into the space announcing my class placement for September.
Mr. L. was the most handsome, intelligent, exciting man in Don Mills, probably on the face of the earth. His red convertible sat in the parking lot beside the subdued grays and blacks of the other cars. He often left the roof down and I’d walk past it, just to glance inside and smell the white leather seats. Lynn had told me the ages of his children and I’d hotly debated his age with her. His eldest son was eighteen. I was convinced Mr. L. couldn’t be forty. That was too ancient for the prince of men. No. My idol must have married at eighteen – no, seventeen! – and by my calculations, he was barely thirty-five.
In September I ran to school to greet my first day of grade six. Mr. L. didn’t disappoint me. He’d learned my name.
“Hello, Anne!” he said, and smiled. My heart pounded. “I hope you don’t mind sitting in the back. I expect you’ll be an excellent student, if you’re anything like your sister. I like my best students in the back.”
Usually I hated being compared to my older brother and sister. They’d mastered reading about Dick and Jane, riding a bike, and playing the piano before I even got a chance to begin. Whether it was the result of my parents’ lack of imagination, the 1960s, or our middle-class suburb, I was put through the exact same paces they were, especially those of my sister: Anglican Church choir, a weekly lesson with Mrs. Nelson, the piano teacher on our street, and swimming lessons at the Don Mills pool on Saturday afternoons. In the Christmas pageant at church, my sister was Mary, Mother of God, and sang a solo; I was a silent angel scratching my halo. I painfully memorized “Home on the Range” for Mrs. Nelson’s piano recital; Lynn whizzed through Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” to a standing ovation. I struggled with the belly flop while Lynn perfected her swan dive.
The only thing I silently gloated over was that my sister didn’t get to skip grade two. In grade one students learned to read endless, boring stories about Dick and Jane and their dog, Spot. If we could correctly answer skill-testing questions, we got to miss grade two – further adventures of Dick and Jane and their dog, Spot. Lynn had hepatitis, missed most of grade one, and wasn’t allowed to skip a grade. I was.
So, would I sit in the back for Mr. L. and be an excellent student? I’d have sat outside looking in the window if he’d asked me. I’d show him a student like he’d never seen before. In grade six I wouldn’t procrastinate. Up until then I had preferred playing outside to doing homework, but the minute Mr. L. handed out the first assignment, I went home and threw myself into the task.
Our first project concerned the early explorers and trade routes. I raided my mother’s spice rack and sewing cabinet. I made little pouches of cinnamon and cloves and attached them to their source country on my hand-drawn map of the world. I sewed porcelain buttons and squares of silk and cotton between borders. Mr. L. had never seen anything like it. He asked me to give an oral presentation to the class. Skipping a year into a class of older kids had made me shy and self-conscious. My hands shook as I held my handmade map, but I kept my eyes on Mr. L., eager to win his smile.
In October he had to choose two students for a special enrichment class on Friday mornings. He announced the names before recess one Monday. Mine was one. My face fell and being the kind sensitive prince he was, he asked me to stay behind.
I was nervous.
“Something tells me you don’t want to go, Anne. Am I right?”
I couldn’t lie to him. I would never lie to him. I nodded.
“But why? She’s a fabulous teacher. You’ll learn so many things that I won’t have a chance to teach this class. Geometry. A whole new system of counting called bases. You’ll learn about great humanitarians. Have you ever heard of Albert Schweitzer?”
I shook my head. If Albert didn’t live in Don Mills, I’d never heard of him.
“Don’t you want to know about him?”
I thought about it. I did. But I shook my head. I admitted my reason. “I don’t want to miss a minute of your class. This is my only year with you.”
He studied me, choosing his words carefully. “Then do it for me. Try it. Try for a few weeks and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to go.”
For the first time in grade six I dragged my feet to school on Friday, but it took only one enrichment class to hook me. I ran to school as usual after that, even on Fridays.
In the fall and spring of grade six he took us outside, where we were allowed to lie under a great oak tree. He leaned against the rundled trunk and read for hours from Huckleberry Finn and Anne of Green Gables. His voice was deep and wove a magic spell. I was a vivid daydreamer. I lost myself in those hours, living in the Deep South, or becoming a redheaded orphan on the green fields of Prince Edward Island.
I was vaguely aware he didn’t smile at everyone, particularly the boys he placed in the front row. Will Fergus sat front and center before Mr. L.’s desk. He was a rough-and-tumble boy and his hands easily got dirty. If a page in his notebook got smudged after a recess of baseball or wrestling, Mr. L. saw nothing wrong with ripping it out in front of the class and tossing the crumpled work into the dark green garbage pail. I was vaguely aware this might not be the best year of Will’s childhood.
I gradually lost my shyness and made friends. I wouldn’t walk with Will Fergus when he waited for me outside, but he often chased me home. I secretly liked the breathless excitement of it, but I preferred a quiet boy, Derek Anderson, who sat beside me in the back. Derek’s penciled sketches amazed me: pictures of his hands; my arm across my desk; or the back of Andrea’s head in front of him, with wisps of hair escaping her fat braids. Mr. L. sometimes took us outside for art class and I made sure to sit beside Derek then. I didn’t mind that Derek drew far better than me. He inspired me to draw a tree as it really looked: not my usual thick, straight trunk topped by a blob of green, but a trunk that curved and spl
it off in three directions topped by unorganized branches. I’d learned in enrichment class that a mature oak tree could lose a quarter of a million leaves every fall, and I patiently dabbed hundreds of tiny green leaves of paint to represent them. I liked my picture; Derek smiled encouragement at me.
At some point during the first term of grade six, Mr. L. asked me if I played the piano as well as Lynn. “I’d like to have a talent afternoon at the end of June and wondered if you’d like to prepare something?”
I took a new shocking interest in my weekly lessons and actually began to practice. By spring, Mrs. Nelson had to speak to my parents. In six months I’d outgrown her skills; I needed a better teacher. At our Grade Six Tiny Talent Time, I played a Bach invention. Mr. L. gave me a standing ovation.
On the last day of grade six, Will Fergus rejoiced and I wept. My special year with Mr. L. was over. Nevertheless, I still had one thing to look forward to. Mr. L. and his wife owned a horseback riding camp and my parents had agreed, after much begging, that I could attend for two weeks that summer. Lynn had never gone; we always went to the Anglican Church summer camp, where Lynn was given the starring role in the camp musicals. She was Alice in Alice in Wonderland. I was the white rabbit who disappeared after scene one.
Ha, ha! Horseback riding would be mine, and mine alone. The circus was just around the corner!
I learned to groom horses and love the smell of a stable. I learned to wait patiently before tightening the saddle, until the horse gave up and let out his drawn breath. Although I didn’t stand bareback on a horse, I learned to ride that summer and loved it.
After a day of riding, in the late heat of the afternoon, we used to all go to the river, taking turns to jump onto a tire suspended by a rope from an old willow tree’s branch. The willow overlooked a steep bank above a curve in the winding river below. The water was deep and slow, but only the brave would sail out over the middle and flip off, spinning through the air for a long second before plunging into the dark water below with a splash. I went there every day until the-last weekend, when Mr. L.’s eldest son came to visit with his girlfriend.
That girlfriend was gorgeous; she was well developed and wore the skimpiest bikini I’d ever seen. There was a pop song on the radio with a line about a teeny-weeny bikini and that became my silent nickname for her. Her dark hair was long and she constantly ran her fingers through it.
On my last Saturday afternoon at the camp, during quiet hour, I sneaked out to the swimming hole alone. We weren’t supposed to, but after years of swimming lessons at the Don Mills pool, I was a good swimmer.
My year in grade six had increased my vocabulary. The river was as languid as the great Mississippi, seeking relief under the cool shadows away from the firey July sun. Without looking left or right, I made a run for the tree and the black rubber tire. I’d perfected my timing. I caught the bottom of the tire. It burned in my hands, but I clung to it anyway. My feet left the ground and I sailed through the air above the bank, out over water. I anticipated exactly the moment I’d reach the top of the arc, transcribed by the line of the rope – I’d learned geometry in enrichment class – and that was exactly when I let go.
It was also the moment I saw them. They’d been swimming together and were just leaving the water, about forty feet from where there was a small sandy beach. Mr. L. stood waist deep with his son’s gorgeous girlfriend in his arms. I recognized the teeny-weeny bikini. Her face was turned away, pressed close to his in a passionate kiss. Her arms were wrapped around his neck. I didn’t flip through the air, or somersault, or try a swan dive. I plunged, feetfirst, straight into the water. My feet touched bottom as my mind thrashed to review the picture. I’d obviously mistaken Mr. L.’s son for Mr. L. Scary thought! I kicked furiously and broke the surface, not needing air so much as the trusty lens of my safe, childhood camera.
I swam toward them, got a footing on the bank, and struggled closer until I stood only a few feet away. I’d learned the word discretion that year too, but its nuances were lost on me. I stared at Mr. L. and Teeny-Weeny, wiping water from my unbelieving eyes. My mouth flapped open like a fish desperate to go back home.
For the very first time, Mr. L. didn’t smile at me.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked. His voice had that threatening tone, the one he used with the boys at the front of the class.
I nodded.
“Then do.”
I waded out of the water, struggled across the beach and began to run. The sun was hot, begging me to walk, but I ran up the bank. The long green grass was mottled with dried dirt and whipped lightly against my bare legs, leaving dusty traces.
At supper that night, our last night, Mrs. L. made apple crumble. My mother used to make it, too. It was my favorite dessert, but I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t look at him. His smile would mean nothing to me. I was secretly glad, when the time came for seconds, to hear Mrs. L. refuse Teeny-Weeny another helping, without offering an apology or explanation.
I turned twelve in September and went to a different school. In grade seven I bravely chose art as my optional course. At the end of the first class, the teacher walked around the room, behind us, to study how well we’d drawn the vase on the table. He stopped behind me.
“You obviously didn’t see the guidance counselor. You picked the wrong option. Why don’t you try sewing or typing instead?”
It would be another six years before I left Don Mills and dared to sketch anything again. During that time, whenever I saw a red convertible driving around Don Mills I glanced, but the driver always looked so much older – more like a hundred. By then, I’d made myself forget too many things: how his smile used to inspire me; and that I had a dream of riding horses bareback in the circus.
Tales of a Gambling Grandma
Dayal Kaur Khalsa
My grandma was a gambler. This is the story of her life as she told it to me and as I remember it.
Grandma was born in Russia. When and where exactly, she did not know. She only remembered that one night the Cossacks charged into her village, brandishing their swords and scaring all the people.
My grandma (who was only three years old) jumped into a cart full of hay and covered herself. Somewhere she lost her shoe. And so, she escaped to America wearing only one little black shoe, hiding in a hay cart drawn by a tired white horse, all the way across the wide, slate-green Atlantic Ocean. At least, that’s how she told the story to me.
She landed in Brownsville, Brooklyn.
There she grew up.
When she was old enough to get married, my grandma borrowed a balalaika. She couldn’t play the balalaika, but she could hum very loudly.
Every evening she sat down with her balalaika on the front steps of her building, trying to catch a husband.
One night, Louis the plumber, trudging home weary from work, saw her. She made such a pretty picture with her balalaika and her long golden hair and rosy cheeks that he dropped his heavy leather bag of plumbing tools – clank – and asked her to marry him.
And she, actually strumming the balalaika – plink, plank, plunk – said, “Yes.”
And that’s how our family began.
They had two children.
My grandpa got a job fixing the pipes in Dutch Schultz’s hideout. Dutch Schultz was a big-time gangster, and though he broke the law a lot, he was very kind to my grandpa. He paid him lots of money and always gave it to him on time.
But good jobs like that were hard to find. To help make extra money, my grandma learned how to play poker.
She was very good – sharp-eyed and quick with her hands. She could mark a card with her fingernail and hide aces in her sleeve. And, most important, she liked to win. Wherever there was a hot card game going on in Brooklyn, my grandma was there – winning money.
Her children grew up.
Her son moved out to California. Her daughter (who was my mother) married a handsome man from Queens. They bought a brand-new house.
When my grandpa died, my
grandma moved into their house in Queens. Then, I was born; a pink little girl for her to hug and squeeze.
My parents worked all day, so right from the start my grandma and I were always together.
We spent most of our time under the great weeping willow tree in our front yard. My grandma sat like a flowering mountain in her big green garden chair. All day long she knit scarfs and shawls and socks. She told me stories of her life and gave me two important pieces of advice.
One: Never, ever go into the woods alone because the Gypsies will get you or, should you escape that cruel fate, you’ll fall down a hole.
Two: Just in case the Cossacks come to Queens, learn to say “Da” and always keep plenty of borscht in the refrigerator.
Whenever I had a cold, Grandma let me stay in her bed. She made a tent from a sheet and an overturned chair. All day long we kept busy together polishing pennies bright copper.
When I became bored with this, she’d slowly slide open her bedside table drawer.
I liked that drawer.
First there was the smell of sweet perfume and musty old pennies. Then there was a tiny dark blue bottle of Evening in Paris cologne, shaped like a seashell; a square snapshot of my grandma holding me as a baby; big, thick, wriggly-legged black hairpins; and stuck in corners so I had to use the hairpins to get them out, dull brown dusty pennies.
But most fascinating of all were my grandma’s false teeth. I never saw her put them in her mouth. She always kept them in the drawer, or if she were going visiting, they stayed smiling secretly in the pocket of her dress.
My grandma let me touch everything, even the teeth.
And she’d promise if I would get better really fast, she’d take me somewhere.
To the midway at Coney Island.
To a vaudeville show, starring Rosie, the Beer-Drinking Hippopotamus.
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