When Boomers Go Bad

by Joan Boswell

  I hung up. All day I worked on my scrapbooks. Didn’t eat lunch. Had no supper. No tea. Worked feverishly. I knew what was going on. I didn’t just fall off a turnip wagon, not me. I knew the price of tea in China. He was getting like Marta. Steps would have to be taken.

  Two days later, he called. “Mrs. Wilkins? I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I was away for a few days with Mandy and the baby.”

  “Oh?” I kept my voice steady, cheerful. Mandy and the baby! “I would love it if you and your wife and baby could come for supper, Rob. That would please me very much. You’ve been so kind to me.”

  He told me that his wife and daughter were spending a few day at her mother’s, but he’d love to come by himself. Fine, I said, just fine.

  The following day he was standing at my door, and I was offering him a nice cup of something hot to chase away the winter cold.

  “I have a few more questions for you,” he said taking a sip and pronouncing it good. “About that man that fell off the deck here. It turns out he’d left his wife about a month before he died. Did you know that?”

  “Hmm,” I said, drinking my water and watching him sip tea.

  “Also, the man who died in your church, he’d left his wife, too.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around. Men leaving their wives for younger women.”

  He looked at me curiously. “How did you know they were younger? I never told you they were younger.”

  I shrugged. “Only a guess.”

  I’d made my green bean casserole, you know the one—with the frozen green beans and the dried onion rings and cream of mushroom soup. But since I can’t use my freezer any more, I had to rely on canned, so it wouldn’t be as good, probably. But, it would be highly unlikely that we’d get that far. I’d end up eating that stuff for days and days. He just kept drinking his tea and looking at me. Looking. Looking.

  After I put him in the freezer, and that’s no small feat with a big guy like him, let me tell you, I boiled the kettle and had myself a cup of Earl Grey.

  I’d thrown Rob’s wallet and rings into my computer case, which had become the receptacle for such things. I thought about my coat then, my good wool one that I’d used on Ernie Rodhever. I wondered if I would ever get it back. Well, if I did, I’d add it to the others in the bathtub.

  Later on, after I put plastic wrap on the rest of the casserole, I pulled out another scrapbook from underneath the couch, the one on serial killers. My favorite. I’m especially interested in female serial killers. There aren’t many, you know. Well, there’s that one they made a movie about. Did you see that one? I think she got an Oscar. Maybe someday someone will make a movie about me. Maybe they’ll get an Oscar, whoever they get to play me.

  Linda Hall is the award-winning author of ten novels and seven non-fiction books. She has worked as a newspaper reporter and feature writer and teaches a popular course in writing fiction at the University of New Brunswick. Steal Away introduces her newest series character, private investigator Teri Blake-Addison, who solves cases of missing people. Chat Room continues that series. Her next book, A Good Season for Whales, is scheduled for release in 2006.

  Hopscotch

  Sue Pike

  Elizabeth stood in the driveway of the house where she’d lived for thirty-eight years, watching two men manoeuvre her sofa through the front door and into the back of a yellow moving van.

  A third man opened the attic window and called down to her. “There’s a box up here, way at the back under the eaves. Want me to crawl in there and bring it out?”

  “Sure. I’ll come up and have a look.”

  She climbed the stairs to the second floor and waited at the attic door while the man passed her, carrying two small red chairs.

  “I’ve left it on the floor up there. Other than that, I think we’re pretty well done,” he said. “We’ll head over to the apartment and start unloading.”

  Elizabeth continued up to the small room at the top of the house that many years ago used to be the children’s playroom. It was empty of everything now except a large dusty shoebox in the middle of the carpet. She waited until she heard the moving truck rumble out of the driveway, then sat cross-legged in front of the box on the floor and wiped the lid with a tissue until she could make out the words printed in orange crayon on the top: “Property of Rosie Anne Galbraith. All others KEEP OUT!”

  She smiled, remembering Rosie’s long-ago habit of squirrelling away treasures, but she was pretty sure she’d never seen this particular box before. As she lifted the lid, her breath caught in her throat, and the room seemed to tilt sickeningly. Inside was a pair of very large boots painted a bright blue. She pressed them to her breast and lowered her head to breathe in the faint aroma of paint and old leather. She remembered finding them in the basement on the morning after Brady left. She’d put them in a bag and hidden them on the top shelf of her closet, but Rosie must have found them and added them to her own collection.

  After a few minutes, Elizabeth put the boots to one side and lifted the other items from the box—the plans for the basement they’d drawn with orange crayon on newsprint, the stub of an orange crayon, a photo of Brady with seven-year-old Sarah and six-year-old Rosie leaning against his knees and at the very bottom of the box, an old bone-handled penknife.

  Elizabeth hugged her knees and howled into the empty house.

  Elizabeth’s first view of Brady Keeler was his size thirteen boots stumping down the steps of the bus one Sunday afternoon in late September of 1970. The right sole had split away and caught when it touched the pavement, causing him to stumble.

  He was well over six feet tall, thin as an old fence post, with pale red hair poking out from under a faded blue bandanna. The legs of his tattered bell-bottoms were covered with peace signs, and when he turned to collect his rucksack, Elizabeth could read “Hell No”, written in laundry marker on one side of the thin material covering his behind and “We won’t go” on the other.

  “Let’s hope that’s not him,” Elizabeth’s husband Walker muttered in her ear. She knew without looking that his lips would be pressed into a hard, straight line. She kept her own mouth shut, hoping another, more prepossessing young man might emerge from the bus.

  When there was nobody left but the gangly boy with big hands and wrecked boots, Walker and Elizabeth moved forward to meet him.

  He told them his name was Brady. He was from a small town they’d probably never heard of in Ohio, and he’d just celebrated his twentieth birthday. Elizabeth, at twenty-six, felt the weight of a generation between them.

  Walker started questioning him on the drive back to the house. Did he have any problems getting across the border? Had he proper papers? What were his plans, now he was in Canada? The boy shrugged and stared at his knees, and Walker frowned into the rear view mirror.

  When they got to the house, her husband drove the baby-sitter home, and Elizabeth introduced Brady to Sarah and Rosie, who stared up at him solemnly, then backed up the staircase until their eyes were level with his. He raised his right boot and wiggled it to make the sole flap up and down, and the girls giggled into their hands.

  A worn canvas rucksack was his only luggage. Elizabeth led the way to Rosie’s room and told him their youngest child would bunk in with her older sister while he was with them.

  “I sure hate to put you folks out.” Brady stood awkwardly in the centre of the room with its pink bunny wallpaper and stacks of blocks and Barbie furniture crowding the shelves.

  “We’re delighted you’re here,” Elizabeth’s voice cracked with the effort of sounding enthusiastic. “Really. It’s Sarah’s seventh birthday today, and she thinks we’ve imported you just for her.”

  But dinner that night was awful. Sarah was too shy to open her gifts in front of a stranger and insisted on having her meal under the table. Rosie shot sly glances at Brady from under half-closed eyelids and kicked her foot out, causing bellows from beneath the tablecloth.

  Walker left most of his di
nner on his plate and strode to the kitchen, returning with a large glass of scotch and ice.

  “There are a couple of organizations you might be interested in.” He said as he sat back down. “The Community Action Committee helps draft dodgers find jobs. You might want to talk to them tomorrow.”

  “Okay. It’s a bit confusing right now.” The boy stirred his mashed potatoes, and a deep blush crept up his neck.

  “There’s another group that tries to put pressure on the U.S. government from here. I’ve been on their board for a couple of years.” Walker began to fold and unfold his napkin.

  “Well,” Elizabeth broke in. “Maybe we could drive around tomorrow. Show Brady some of the sights.” Her voice rose in an effort to sound cheerful.

  Walker frowned at her and began again.

  “Any idea what kind of work you’d like to apply for? I’ve got the forms in my office, but I need to know what you can do.”

  “I’m not fussy. Anything at all.” Brady blurted the words out but kept his eyes on his plate. “I worked in a feed plant back home.”

  Walker sighed. “Well, that’s fine, Brady, but I don’t believe we have any farm co-ops in the city.” He rolled the napkin into a tight cylinder then let it fall open again on the tablecloth. “Okay. Let me ask around. There might be similar work available. Anything else you’d like to try?”

  But Brady only shrugged.

  Elizabeth stood up. “Why don’t we do this later.” She began to gather up the debris from the birthday gifts and was glad to see Brady stacking dishes. Walker tossed his napkin on the table and carried his drink off to his study without another word.

  Next morning, Brady came downstairs after Walker had left for work and Elizabeth had seen the girls off to school. He’d showered and changed into a clean shirt and jeans. Without the bandanna, his wet hair curled against his shoulders. His boots caught on the carpet, and he lurched into the banister. After he’d eaten, Elizabeth led him down to the basement to show him how to use the washer and dryer.

  Brady watched while she went through the steps, then wandered around the open area, ducking his head to get under the beams.

  “That toilet and shower were installed by the last owners.” Elizabeth waved a hand into the gloom. “Otherwise, the basement is probably just the way it was when it was built in the twenties. We’ve talked about fixing it up but never got around to it.”

  Daylight filtered in through mud-spattered windows, highlighting dust motes and a badly pitted concrete floor.

  “What would you think if I fixed it up and made a place for myself down here?” Brady put the sole of his good boot against the rubble-stone wall, and they both watched as sand and pebbles sifted to the floor.

  “It’s pretty dreary and damp.”

  “It’d be great. I could paint the walls and floor with sealant and put up a screen of some kind, maybe find a cot somewhere.” His face had begun to lose its guarded look.

  Elizabeth found crayons and tore some sheets of newsprint from the children’s art easel, and they sat at the kitchen table working out a floor plan before driving to the hardware store. Together they chose three gallons of blue waterproof sealant, a couple of brushes and a long-handled roller. Brady tried to pay out of his small store of American dollars, but Elizabeth pushed his billfold away.

  “I should be paying you for the labour. I’ll be so glad to get the basement cleaned up.” But by the time the bill was rung up, she had only a few dollars remaining from the grocery allowance Walker had handed her earlier in the week.

  When they left the store, Brady stumbled on the curb, and Elizabeth grabbed his arm. “Are those boots the only shoes you brought?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t have much time to pack.”

  “Well, at least we can get them fixed,” she said, steering him into the shoe repair shop.

  Brady worked in the basement all that afternoon, and when the sun began to fade, Elizabeth carried a floor lamp down from the family room and set it up near the laundry tubs. Walker phoned to say he wouldn’t be home for supper, so she made sandwiches and took them out to the picnic table in the garden.

  Sarah and Rosie found turpentine and rags in the garage and helped Brady clean his hands. They laughed when they saw his boots, now spattered with blue paint.

  “It’s okay,” he told them. “I’ll finish painting them tomorrow, and then I can have waterproof shoes for rainy days.” Their eyes shone with admiration.

  Walker was furious when he got home about midnight and smelled the wet paint. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is supposed to be a temporary arrangement, and you’re encouraging him to fix up a place for himself down there.”

  “Taking in a draft dodger was your idea, not mine.” Elizabeth turned up the TV, hoping to drown out their voices. “I’m just trying to make him feel welcome while he’s here.”

  In the morning, Walker went partway down the cellar steps and stood on the landing for a moment, but only sighed and shook his head when Elizabeth handed him his coffee.

  Brady appeared with a small bag of furry green toast crusts in his hand. “I found this hidden behind a drawer in Rosie’s bureau. I couldn’t figure out why it wouldn’t close all the way.”

  “She’s our squirrel. Always hiding stuff. Who knows why.” Elizabeth took the bag and dropped it in the garbage.

  Brady stopped painting when the girls came home from school. They took turns running their hands over his shiny blue boots. He fetched a softball and mitt from his duffel bag and challenged them to a game in the backyard. Elizabeth found an old bat in the garage, and Brady taught the children how to throw the ball and when to swing. The bat was too heavy for Rosie, so he pulled a dead branch off the crabapple tree and carved a grip the diameter of her hand.

  “What a beautiful penknife.” Elizabeth watched as paper-thin slices curled away from the wood.

  “It was my grandfather’s. I never go anywhere without it.” He passed the knife to her, handle first, and she ran her fingers over the deep grain on the bone handle.

  For the rest of the week, while the children were at school and as soon as her housework was finished, Elizabeth perched on the cellar steps to watch Brady work. They talked a bit and listened to tapes on the portable cassette player. On the second day, he told her about the events that had led to his coming to Canada.

  “I came home from work a couple of weeks ago, and there’s my folks sitting in the parlour waiting for me.” Brady poured more paint into the roller pan. “I could see the draft notice lying on the coffee table. They hadn’t opened it, but they sure knew what it was.” He worked the roller back and forth in the pan, until a thick layer of blue covered it. “My dad looked weird. Sort of frightened and proud at the same time.”

  He stood up straight, and his voice became so quiet that Elizabeth had to lean forward to hear. “We had one godawful fight. I said I couldn’t see the point in going to Vietnam and killing people who never did us any harm, and my dad said some stuff about letting my country down. And then my mom starts crying. My little sister comes in from playing and pretty soon, she’s crying too.”

  Elizabeth waited, saying nothing.

  “My dad’s a big cheese in the VFW. The Veterans of Foreign Wars. Fought in the South Pacific and never stops talking about it. Best days of his life, he says.” He lowered himself onto an unopened gallon can. “So anyway, I went to my room and grabbed some stuff and took off. When I went past the parlour, they were all still where I’d left them. My mom crying and nobody else saying a goddamned thing.” Brady drew in a deep breath. “When I was out on the sidewalk, my dad came out and told me I was through being a part of the family. If I deserted, that’s what he called it. If I deserted, they never wanted to hear from me again.”

  Elizabeth sat still, a tight feeling in her chest.

  He’d walked around town for a long time, he told her, eventually ending up at a bar on the outskirts where he found two other boys who were also being called up.
They had some beer then around midnight, piled into a car and drove north. At some point, they pulled over and slept for a while, then crossed the border early the next morning, telling the customs officer they would be visiting friends for a couple of days. The others had the phone number of an organization in Toronto that directed them to a church, where they were given a meal and some Canadian money. His friends were billeted in Toronto, and he’d been given a bus ticket to Ottawa and told that someone would meet him at the terminal.

  “I think your husband was hoping for someone different, though. Someone with better reasons, maybe.”

  Perhaps that was the moment she could have told him it wasn’t his fault—that few things measured up to Walker’s expectations. But Elizabeth was only just starting to figure it out for herself, that the joy for Walker was in the anticipation, never the reality. Marriage, children, the law firm, none of it was quite what he’d hoped for. And now Brady, whom Walker had hoped would be his intellectual equal and planned to show off as proof of his own social awareness, had turned out to be just an ordinary, inarticulate boy.

  Each afternoon that week, Sarah and Rosie would leap off the school bus and rush upstairs to change into play clothes. Elizabeth put Buffalo Springfield on the stereo, and Brady showed the girls how to ride their two-wheeler up and down the driveway and how to shoot a basketball.

  “Draw us a hopscotch, Brady, please!” Rosie wheedled, her face pinched with longing. Brady took the chalk she handed him and drew a perfect series of squares and numbers on the driveway. The girls laughed when he threw a stone and then made exaggerated leaps from one square to the next.

  “Wait till Daddy sees it. He’ll murder him,” squealed Sarah. “He never lets us put marks on the driveway.”

  On Thursday, Brady said he’d like to fix some things around the house. He changed the washers on the hot water taps and cut the frayed section of cord away from the toaster and replaced the plug.