“Clyde won’t hear, he won’t find out?”
“Not Clyde. His head’s in the clouds.”
“Hey wait a minute. We set Clyde up with the ladder, the hat and the outfit.”
“Well?”
“Clyde can’t do the roof.”
“Clyde won’t do the roof. Clyde paints. We do the roof.”
“We never done a roof.”
“Clyde’s down there now at the bottom, he does the mailbox with the tiny brush. He’d like that. The exact same time, we goes up the ladder, just the two of us, we bang on the roof with hammers for a bit, then down we come.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Mrs. Ferris, we says, there’s your roof now. No leaks, guaranteed.” “The way you said that, that’s not even a lie. There’s your roof, you said. That’s all.”
“That’s the truth all right.”
“Eighty percent for us? Of the money?”
“That’s right. At least.”
“Then we go back in. Hey, smell that bad odour, Mrs. Ferris, that oil smell?”
“Oh my no, she says, not the furnace.”
“Might just be a faulty burner, we seen that lots. The fuel oil puddles up.”
“Oh my, she says.”
“Trouble with the fuel oil when it puddles, Ma’am, it leads to fumes. Toxic fumes. Die in your sleep fumes. Maybe that’s what happened to Mr. Ferris, when he woke up all dead? There there, my dear, the snuffles.”
“Lucky thing, we know oil furnaces.”
“Let’s go down, we says to her, Mrs. Ferrris, we’ll have a look. Oh my. Look at the puddling there. Smell them fumes.”
“That you, Clyde? Stay out till you got the wall done and finished, we’re fine down here.”
“Powerful fumes, Mrs. Ferris, you could have a fire.”
“You could die in your sleep, Mrs. Ferris, I promise you that, you got no sense of smell left over. Your nose is gone, the nerve endings in your nose.”
“One spark, the whole downtown goes up, like 1892 all over again for the second time. Whoosh.”
“We can fix that burner easy, got a spare in the truck. Thousand dollars is all.”
“Oh my oh my, I do not know, she says.”
“By the by, that’s a real nice old chest of drawers you got here, Mrs Ferris. Shame you tuck it away down here, in the basement. Too damp, it should be up in the dry air.”
“We could take that old chest up, get it checked out for value.”
“Too heavy for the two of us. She’s no help, she’s useless for that.”
“Go get Clyde. The three of us, we can squeeze this up the staircase.”
“It did come down, didn’t it? Has to go back up.”
“That’s right. Go get Clyde.”
“I’ll get him all right. Don’t say nothing about the roof, the furnace or the floors.”
“The floors?”
“The hardwood floors in the hall and the front room. You didn’t see?”
“No.”
“They’re wore off right down to the wood.”
“The shine’s gone off?”
“Right off, down to the bare wood.”
“That’s bad. They won’t last like that. Mrs. Ferris, you seen the state of your floors up there?”
“Oh wait. Here’s Clyde to help. Hi there Clyde, give us a shoulder down here, we got to get this up the stairs.”
“It’s your old grandmother’s chest of drawers, from down Boxey Harbour, that’s what you say, Mrs. Ferris, two hundred years old? Should be worth some money for that. Eighty dollars, maybe more.”
“Push harder Clyde. Trouble with you, kid, you got no muscles. Don’t say a word to the old lady now, you know her nerves is bad.”
“A thousand dollars, Mrs. Ferris? Who told you that? Oh no, I don’t think so, look at the age of the wood. Clyde, what you done? You snap that foot off, down goes the value on this piece of old furniture. Homemade it looks like. Then, we’re upstairs, we say, thanks Clyde. Lift it up in the back of the truck. Then we say, Clyde, go back to work.”
“That’ll be eighty dollars now for the chest of drawers, Mrs. Ferris. Deposit. Sure, cash’ll do. Oh you keeps a bit of handy money there by the stove? That’s a smart thing, the banks, they’re not open every day. Not Sunday. The eighty dollars you give to us is for the care of the chest of drawers. We give you back the same identical eighty dollars later, don’t you fret. We know this man, down Water Street. He sells these things for a living. Oh that’s a nice little writing desk you got there too. No no, don’t cry, we’ll leave the desk, Mrs. Ferris, you need that, to write things out. Cheques and letters. It’s from the other side of the family, from old Mr. Ferris? Well, that looks like gold leaf on the leather, that’s a fine desk. Not too often you see a desk like that, here on Hamilton Avenue these days. Maybe put it in the truck too, after all, save the money on the gas and we get it checked out too. Take that old photo off there, please Mrs. Ferris. That the kids? They look nice. All gone to the mainland, what a shame. Lonely times these.”
“It’s up on the truck now too, the desk. That was easy. You stay inside, Mrs. Ferris, we’ll be back. Hey Clyde, you OK?”
“He’s actually working pretty hard today.”
“He says he likes Mrs. Ferris.”
“He says he reminds her of someone.”
“It sure isn’t his sister, Meta Maud.”
“No way. Why, she’s some pretty, Meta Maud. Clyde lost out there on the looks. Seen Loveta recently, by the way?”
“I have and I count my lucky stars I have.”
“Hey, you ever notice something? Like we talk a lot but we don’t seem to think?”
“That’s us, that’s normal.”
“I think I know why. Got a smoke?”
“There you go. Why?”
“Because Clyde is making all this up now.”
“Our Clyde?”
“Our Clyde. Clyde Grandy.”
“What do you mean, making it up?”
“I mean he wrote it all down, made it up in his head.”
“That’s not true. It was our idea.”
“Set him up as a painter, that was our idea?”
“I think so, that was us. Sure it was.”
“I think somewhere along the line, it became Clyde’s.”
“Maybe he heard what we said.”
“To the old lady in there.”
“We know he got big ears.”
“He can hear a pin drop in Carbonear, that’s what Meta Maud says.”
“Oh no. If Clyde heard what we said to the old lady, he’d be mad.”
“The roof, the floors, the furnace.”
“Real mad. He’d think of some way to get us back.”
“I didn’t even mention the electric.”
“He’d write things down I bet.”
“He’d make things up.”
“He does that.”
“That’s all he does, Clyde Grandy. Useless for everything else.”
“But that’s him up there now, on the ladder.”
“He heard us, I know he heard us.”
“Look at him up there. He’s looking our way. Peering down.”
“Twenty per cent of twelve thousand dollars, that’s all for him.
For us, five thousand each.”
“He don’t think that way.”
“No.”
“He is not financially motivated.”
“Maybe go back into the kitchen, get some of that money from the lady’s juice can? Before Clyde wises up?”
“He knows already. He’s writing down what we say.”
“Right now?”
“That’s right. I’m pretty sure.”
“He’s putting these words in our mouths.”
“That’s right.”
“We are the puppets of Clyde. Not the other way around.”
“That’s what I think now.”
“Writers, they make things up.”
“That’s right, for the social good is what he said to me once.”
“I don’t think we’re the social good.”
“Well, we are for Clyde. Otherwise he wouldn’t have a job.”
“It was our idea to set him up.”
“He had no money at all, no ideas to boot.”
“We felt sorry for Clyde, now look.”
“He’s gone turned us into one of his stories.”
“That’s what I think. I’m not in charge anymore of the words that are coming out of my mouth.”
“Me neither, I know what you mean.”
“I think it all started with the desk.”
“The one we put in the truck?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s when Clyde took over?”
“I think so. Try saying something on your own.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“I told you, we are the puppets of Clyde Grandy.”
“What if someone finds out?”
“No way. Not from Clyde. He’s got no talent, that’s what I heard.”
“He types a lot.”
“That’s true.”
“He could be getting better.”
“That’s true.”
“Better not take a chance is what I say.”
“What’ve we done that’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I don’t think. Made her cry a bit.”
“That’s all we did. Made her cry.”
“There’s the eighty dollars cash. Deposit we said.”
“That was for us, right?”
“It was but we’re still here. Leaning on the truck.”
“Not too late for us.”
“The long arm of the law.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fraud.”
“That’s what we did?”
“Almost.”
“Let’s give the money back to the old lady.”
“Let’s do that. Knock on the door.”
“What about the stuff in the truck?”
“Take it off, give it back.”
“What about the roof?”
“Forget the roof.”
“The furnace, she’ll think about the furnace.”
“I don’t think so. Her memory’s gone.”
“Die in the night, she’ll think. That’s what we said. Fumes.”
“Should be in a home.”
“That’s right.”
“I feel better now.”
“So do I. Knock on the door. Watch out for the wet paint.”
“Clyde’s finished up.”
“He’s coming down the ladder.”
“I think I’m myself again.”
“Too bad we have to give back all the money.”
“That’s right. Well, eighty per cent of it.”
“Tidy sum for us all right, you add it all up. We have to give it back? We earned it, sort of.”
“Shut up, here comes Clyde. Hey Clyde, give us a hand with this desk, boy, it’s going back.”
“Floors are bad in there, aren’t they Clyde. Wore out right down to the wood. Maybe the old lady, she’s so nice, we buff ’em up free of charge?”
“Why not I say, eh Clyde?”
“She’s a widow after all, these ten years.”
“Don’t say that, says Clyde, I think she’ll cry again.”
“My lips is sealed.”
“Thanks for the help, Clyde.”
After that, the time he saved the old lady, Clyde Grandy began to write more and more. It seemed now that words came naturally to him. All those plays he’d seen at the L.S.P.U.? They made a lot more sense to him now. Mind you, there was no money in it, in writing, none at all, so the housepainting, that was good too. The bosses he had were the best in St. John’s, it turned out. They’d drop him off in the mornings, usually there on Hamilton Avenue, with the sun coming up, and they’d leave him there alone all day. If it rained, they’d swing by and pick him up. It couldn’t be better for the mind, all the quiet time, the fresh air, the hat with the brim. “Hi there, Mrs. Ferris,” he waved at her every day. He felt different, like he could breathe, like he’d been popped open like a new can of paint.
otto
bond
OTTO BOND, EVEN though he’d been up late the night before, rose early on the morning of the championship game. The twittering of the birds woke him up. Twittering, that was the only word for it. They didn’t call out or sing or moan like pigeons, they made their own little racket, but he didn’t mind. The sun was shining and there was a nice breeze already coming up from the harbour, and the white curtains in the window, the common kind, the kind you could buy anywhere, swayed back and forth in such a pleasant way that he thought, languorous, that’s it, that’s the way those curtains move. They brushed back and forth on the windowsill and on the radiator and on the books he had piled there. Jeez, Otto Bond thought, this is the kind of day that everybody should be alive on, forever.
“Hey doggy-oh,” he said to the little white dog who lay stretched out on the bed, “let’s go.”
Right away the dog jumped down onto the floor and Otto Bond opened up the door of the bedroom and the two of them walked out. Everybody else was eating breakfast already. Shawn Blagdon, the goaltender for the team, had his green soccer uniform on already because he was the type that had to get psyched up early. It was twelve hours before they blew the whistle and the game started.
“Hey there, Otto Bond,” said Justin Peach.
“Hey,” said Otto Bond. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He got the dog leash down from beside the door and the others heard him whistling as he walked down the stairs, and the door closed. They lived across from a park.
“What time did he get in?” said Shawn Blagdon. “Three a.m.’s my guess.”
“So much for the curfew,” said Justin Peach.
“Bridie, the pizza girl, she’s the problem,” said Barry Rose.
“Give me that problem,” said Johnny Drake.
Otto let the dog go from the leash and he got up on a park bench and balanced on one foot on the back.
“Gyroscopic,” he said, and he spun around.
It was one of those solid benches they sank in concrete. That way, nobody could come by late at night, tip it over, throw it in the river, burn it up in a bonfire with liquor running through their crazy heads, out of control. He’d seen that done a few times, as an observer.
Then he jumped down and he and the little dog went back inside.
“Great day,” he said.
“Three in the morning, Otto Bond,” said Shawn Blagdon.
“All-Halifax,” said Otto Bond, “that’s us tonight, the champions, the best.”
“We need you, that’s for sure. You’re the man,” said Justin Peach.
“A recipe for disaster,” said Shawn Blagdon, “you get whacked out by the pizza girl on the night before the game. Three a.m. That’s why the curfew we made.”
“Please pass the Special K,” said Otto Bond.
He picked up a magazine that was there on the table, and as he ate he flipped through the pages. Then he laughed out loud.
“Listen to this you guys.” he said, “In 1955, after the suspension of the superstar Maurice “The Rocket” Richard, fans in Montreal rioted and destroyed dozens of businesses along Ste. Catherine Street. A policeman who was injured in the riot said, I don’t know, they’ve all gone ape-shit.”
Otto Bond laughed again.
“What’s ape-shit?” he said.
No one knew, they’d never heard of that.
“It must mean wild, crazy, that sort of thing,” said Justin Peach.
“I don’t know,” said Otto Bond, “I think it must mean wild, sure, but maybe wild and free, uncontrolled. Could even be happy. I like that, ape-shit.”
Two blocks away, Bridie had already changed the baby’s diaper twice that morning.
“Oh my darling,” she said to her baby who laid on his back, k
icking his arms and legs, “what’s up with all this mess? Eat something bad? Oh, that babysitter! I should have known. That’s the last time for her, I promise you that.”
It was her own mother who was the babysitter. There was no way that her own mother would slip up, not in a thousand years. All she had to do, which was all that Bridie had to do, was give Liam the bottle of formula after she heated it up.
“Hi there,” Otto Bond said to Bridie, the first time they met.
He’d walked into the store and just leaned on the counter with both elbows. It was three weeks ago, early on in her shift, and there were no other customers there at all.
“Hi,” Bridie said back to him.
He looked right at her. His eyes didn’t shift away and he didn’t jiggle from foot to foot.
“Pepperoni, if that’s on the menu,” he said.
Also, he smiled. There was nothing about that smile that made her feel uncertain. It was just there, his smile.
“Small, medium, or large?” she said.
She’d had a dream that, someday, someone like Otto Bond would walk into the shop, but it had never happened.
“Small pizza, that’s for me, I like the small kind. The flavour stays better.”
“It does?”
“Might be the small size of the box. Traps the aroma inside.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
She punched a few random numbers on the cash register so the drawer flew open. The internal bells rang cheerfully and then she pushed it closed.
“It’s science,” he said, “it’s simple, the small box retains the heat and the molecules of cheese and pepperoni and crust that float around inside. There’s less dissipation. No room for the flavours to vanish into the larger atmosphere.”
“That’s crazy. If everybody thought that, that’s all we’d sell, the small ones. And the opposite is true.”
Then she turned around to the back of the store and she raised her voice.
“Hey Jules, a small pepperoni.”
“You got one of those out there already,” said a voice from the back.
“We need a fresh one. This one’s been here a while.”
“Just heat it up.”
The face of Jules then appeared in the opening from the back. He looked at Otto Bond.
“Since yesterday morning, Jules,” she said.
How Loveta Got Her Baby Page 7