Childhood

by André Alexis

  Mr Mataf may have thought, briefly, of stopping the car to get over his surprise or to strike her, but he didn’t. He drove on. And after a while, the only sound the sound of the car itself and the air whistling by, he said

  – I’m sorry.

  My mother said

  – You should be.

  I myself had stopped sniffling the moment she hit him. Even I, who had not often been in cars, thought it risky to assault the driver while he was driving, but the violence changed the mood. I was frightened; my mother was calm; Mr Mataf relaxed.

  – Okey doke, MacMillan, cherchons quelque chose a manger.

  Not only did he relax, but he became almost cheerful.

  We stopped in a small town, Alliston or Bradford, I’d guess. Mr Mataf parked on a main street, almost deserted though it was mid-morning and the sun was out.

  – Leave us alone for a minute, please, my mother said to Mr Mataf.

  – Je vous en prie, mademoiselle, he answered.

  He got out slowly, stretching as he walked away from the car. My mother turned to me, her face serious.

  – Thomas, she said, I’d like you to do something for me.

  – Okay…

  – You know, Pierre and I don’t have much money…just enough for gas to Montreal…and we don’t have any food left…you understand?

  – Yes.

  – So…when we go into this store, I’d like you to help me take food for us.

  – We’re going to steal?

  – Yes.

  – But what should I take?

  – Don’t take anything too big, and watch out for anyone watching you…Take whatever you can, anything you can hold under your shirt.

  – Under my shirt? Won’t they see it?

  – Not if you’re careful.

  – But what are you going to take?

  – Anything I can fit in my purse, she said. Are you sure you want to do this?

  – If we have to…

  Not that I believed it would be so simple. As I said, theft was more or less foreign territory to me, and here it was again, though this was different from the Cokes I’d taken the day before. I had a premonition of disaster.

  – Ready? my mother asked.

  And I said

  – Yes.

  (It’s odd. I have a vivid memory of all this, but the details sometimes shimmer. Was Mr Mataf’s car really brown? I suddenly remembered it as blue, and just as suddenly it was brown again and the sky is blue, and the street smells of rain, and I’m walking towards the store with my hands in my pockets.)

  Mr Mataf was already in the store, talking to the tall man behind the counter.

  – Go ahead, my mother whispered.

  And I moved away from her, eyes lowered, to case the store. Well, to look for what would fit under my shirt, anyway.

  The store was dimly lit. There were three short aisles, along which the shelves were stocked with tins and packages not flat enough to take. There was a refrigerator against the back wall, and in the refrigerator there was bologna and mock chicken, both of them compact enough to steal.

  No sooner had I decided what it was I was going to steal than I could feel myself being watched. Mr Mataf and my mother were both near the front of the store; my mother’s purse was open.

  The man behind the counter stood by expressionlessly, waiting and, I distinctly felt, watching me closely, though whenever I turned towards him he turned his head away.

  The problem was there was no one to distract him. And then, finally, a tall man with a crew cut entered, a distraction for precisely as long as I needed to take a package each of bologna and mock chicken. Before I could think twice, I slipped them under my jacket and shirt, one tucked into my pants in front, the other tucked behind.

  How long did it take me? (How long were we in the store, for that matter?) That I don’t know at all. I felt exhilarated, embarrassed, proud, and focused on escape, on getting away before one of the packages slipped from my waist.

  I almost ran from the store and, as it turns out, I should have run, but there were at least two impediments to flight: first, despite my lack of experience, I knew that running would be an admission of guilt; second, the faster I moved, the more likely I was to lose the luncheon meat. So I moved slowly towards my mother.

  – On y va? said Mr Mataf as I approached.

  And I walked with them to the counter, relieved that we were finally going. Mr Mataf bought a package of gum.

  – Do you have anything to mention, Thomas?

  My mother was speaking to me, but I didn’t understand why. I looked up; three faces looked down at me. The proprietor’s face was stern, one eye closed. Mr Mataf’s face was unreadable, blank. My mother looked at me with what seemed to be…disappointment.

  – No? I asked.

  – Are you sure?

  – Yes? I answered.

  – An’ hin your pocket? asked Mr Mataf.

  I’ve never felt such confusion. They both knew what I’d done, of course, but I thought I’d done it for them. Was it possible I’d so misunderstood her that I’d done the opposite of what my mother wanted? No answer from the expression on her face.

  I emptied my pockets, more and more upset as each of my belongings clicked on the countertop: all my money (small change), the key to my grandmother’s house, the key to the Schwartzes’, a genuine leather wallet…

  The adults looked on impassively, joined now by the Crew Cut. He looked amused.

  – Very good, said the proprietor, now lift your shirt.

  I looked up at my mother.

  – Go ahead, she said.

  The package was there in my waistband.

  – I’m ashamed of you, said my mother.

  – But you…

  That was all I managed to say before she slapped my face. (The only time she ever slapped me, except in jest.)

  – Please don’t talk back.

  She turned to the proprietor and gently pushed the package across the counter.

  – We’re so sorry, she said.

  And then, to Mr Mataf

  – Would you please take Thomas back to the car?

  I was still stunned from her slap.

  – But…

  – Ça va, ça va, said Mr Mataf. Ferme ta gueule un peu, Tom.

  And he pulled me away from the counter, after casually sweeping my belongings back into my hands.

  I didn’t know what to do – cry, run, stand still. Small details stood out from their surroundings: the light-brown fringe on Mr Mataf’s jacket, the texture of the wooden floor, the clinking of the chimes as the door opened, the cool of the mock chicken I’d forgotten to return, my mother’s words to the proprietor

  – I can’t thank you enough.

  Outside: sunlight, a steeple, mud on the pavement. And then everything was swept away as I began to cry; not whimper, not sniffle. I cried as one cries in dreams, convulsively, breathless, everything in the world, from steeples to sunlight, adding to my despair.

  – Mais qu’est-ce que t’as à pleurer de même? asked Mr Mataf.

  And he offered me a stick of gum.

  When my mother came back from the store, she said

  – Thomas…calm down.

  I sat in the back seat, inconsolable. And, as we drove slowly from Alliston or Bradford, my mother began to take things from her purse, from Mr Mataf’s jacket: sardines, a tin of condensed milk, a can of soup, peanut butter, crackers…

  – You were wonderful, she said. That fool was so busy keeping an eye on you, we took everything we needed.

  – But why didn’t you tell me?

  – How could I? Pierre told the man I wanted to teach my son a lesson. He told him you were tricky and he’d have to keep an eye on you. If I’d told you, Thomas, you’d have taken things just
to take them. This way, the man saw you were sneaky, and he was so glad to help with your education. I’m sorry…Here. This will make you feel better.

  She turned around to give me something to eat.

  – Really, she said, you were so wonderful it broke my heart.

  I couldn’t decide whether to eat or go on crying. I believed her when she said it broke her heart, but it was all so unfair.

  * * *

  —

  From here, it still looks unfair; a humiliation I could have done without. Though, when I try to imagine a better plan, I see both her point and her daring. The intimacy of helping a woman with the education of her child must have been irresistible to the man behind the counter.

  And it was part of my education.

  I rarely do what anyone asks me to do without scrupulously thinking it over, and up to now I’ve avoided beachfront property in the Everglades and coins commemorating the fall of Troy.

  So when you have asked me about myself, perhaps it’s prudence that has kept me from speaking. (Prudence, reticence, and no idea where to begin.)

  I do not think my mother had any of this in mind when she slapped me, but, all the same, her slap is an enduring caution.

  2 Misunderstanding

  One puts so much stock in the small details of love: a touch on the wrist, a hand on the forehead, a certain inclination of the body, all the signs of yearning in proximity…

  But the signs of a broken bond are even more revealing: exaggerated inclination, a touch whose violence is hidden in humour

  – Mais…tu vas pas prendre ça au sérieux…a turning away, sentences unfinished not from blissful and mutual understanding, but from understanding tout court.

  I mean, if it’s in its death-rattle that one feels the depth of love, my mother and Mr Mataf had been in love.

  * * *

  —

  We had stopped to eat and then gone on. The indescribable taste of peanut butter and sardines lingers in my memory.

  I don’t recall if there were bitter words, but, despite the victory in Alliston (or Bradford), a kind of stress wormed its way into the car.

  My mother turned her attention to the passing world, the blue lakes that appeared suddenly and were gone, the watery fields, the fields in which horses, cows, or sheep grazed, and trees, trees, trees, gnarled, thin, and so starved for light they curled around each other.

  From time to time, Mr Mataf said

  – On l’a bien eu, celui-là

  to no one in particular.

  It must have been agony for him to be with two people who found it so easy to keep quiet. He was naturally talkative, demonstrative, gregarious. To make up for the lack of company, he turned on the transistor radio he kept in his pocket and set it on the dashboard.

  – Shuger bye, ’onee bunsh…

  He sang along, sporadically, turning songs I knew into a beautiful near English, improving things like “California Dreamin’ ” immeasurably, I thought. And, from time to time, he would speak not to me but with me in mind.

  – C’est pas si pire, des fois, ton Ontario…

  or

  – Le ciel est si bleu, si calme…

  On one of our stops to let the radiator cool, he even came out to walk with me, distractedly asking the names for some of the stones by the side of the road.

  – C’est quoi ça?

  – Schist.

  – Pas vrai…et ça?

  – Limestone…talc…slate…

  It must have been a relief for Mr Mataf to have what could pass for conversation.

  – Schist…schist…talc…quartz…quartz…limestone…

  – T’as une mémoire vraiment prodigieuse, toi.

  And then, because I was embarrassed and because I was curious, I asked

  – Où est-ce que vous avez rencontré ma mère?

  – Où que j’ai rencontré ta mère? À Vancouver.

  – La connaissez-vous depuis longtemps?

  – Mais qu’est-ce que c’est tout ça? Un interrogatoire? D’un côté ça fais pas longtemps, d’un aut’ ça fais une éternité. La réponse convient-elle à monsieur? Good.

  These were the only intimate moments I shared with Mr Mataf and, to our mutual disappointment, I’d brought up the one thing about which he wanted to be silent.

  3 Night

  As we’d done the day before, we travelled on narrow roads and small highways from morning until the first sign of sunset.

  We stopped near Marmora, by a lake. We ate more of the pilfered groceries, and then, to my surprise, Mr Mataf left the car, took the tent from the trunk, and set up some distance from the car, alone.

  I was alone with my mother.

  – I’m going to sleep here tonight, Thomas. I hope you don’t mind.

  I did mind.

  – I don’t mind, I said.

  It was awkward. There were too many things to say, or too many things to ask. We settled in, she in the front, myself in the back, and we said goodnight.

  It was a cold night, and quiet. I couldn’t sleep.

  I had been looking up at the moon and the stars for what seemed hours when my mother asked, softly

  – Are you sleeping, Thomas?

  – No, I answered.

  – It’ll all be better when we get to Montreal.

  – Why are we going to Montreal?

  – Well, Pierre knows people there. We’ll find work.

  –…

  – It’s a wonderful city. I know you’ll love it.

  – Lillian said you didn’t like your mother.

  – Lillian seems to have said a lot about me.

  – Didn’t you?

  – Of course I did. I wouldn’t have left you with her if I didn’t love her.

  – What about Lillian? I thought she was your best friend.

  – Anne Maurice was my best friend.

  – Didn’t she drown?

  – No, not really.

  (What a strange evening it was for Lillian Martin. My mother now admitted her existence, yes, but as an acquaintance. What’s more, she admitted she’d spent a night or two with the Martins, yes, but there’d been no swimming, not that she could remember. Yet, despite the contradictions, there are aspects of Lillian’s Katarina that make more sense than my mother’s versions of herself. It’s never been clear who to believe about whom.)

  – But why didn’t you take me with you?

  – I was very young, Thomas. If I’d kept you we’d have had no home, no clothes, no food.

  – Couldn’t you have stayed in Petrolia?

  – No.

  – Didn’t I have a father?

  – Of course you had a father.

  – Couldn’t he have helped us?

  – No, he couldn’t.

  – Wasn’t he a good man?

  – Of course he was.

  – And you were in love?

  – Where do you hear things like that?

  – But you were in love?

  – Thomas, you’re too young to use that word. Really, it’s too difficult…

  (It was dark and quiet. My mother spoke in a near whisper. I wondered if my father were monstrous. Eyeless? Fingerless?)

  – Do you love Mr Mataf?

  – I don’t know how I feel.

  – You don’t know if you love someone?

  – I don’t know if I love Mr Mataf.

  (Of course she loved him. He was her own special misery.)

  – What was grandmother like…before?

  – Mother…She was…consistent.

  – But you loved her?

  – Of course I did. She and Father always got along.

  – Why didn’t you visit us?

  – Listen, Thomas, Mother was a capital “B” rhymes wit
h itch, sometimes. After Father died, we didn’t get along at all. It would have made things worse if I’d visited.

  – How?

  – I’d have strangled her to death.

  * * *

  —

  Macabre as it sounds, those were the most reassuring words my mother ever spoke.

  We were united in our experience of Edna’s ill humour. When we snickered, it was like siblings who dared to call their mother “a bitch.”

  From then until deep into the night, we exchanged memories of what had been home.

  Did I realize the small hole beside my bedroom door was one she’d made with a pencil? And then: a name carved in the baseboard, a broken door, a cracked pot handle, a stain on the kitchen wall…all her doing.

  If I’d only known where to look, I’d have seen her marks everywhere.

  And did she learn to read as early as I, sitting at the kitchen table, sounding out the difficult words: odiferous, complexion, Phoebus? (Yes.)

  And did she remember her Lampman? (No, not a word.)

  And did I remember my Donne? (Yes.)

  Since I am coming to that holy room

  Where, with Thy choir of saints for evermore,

  I shall be made Thy music;…

  We said those lines together, and I heard my grandmother’s voice as I said them. But it seems it wasn’t her poem at all. It had been my grandfather’s favourite. My mother heard his voice as she spoke, as Edna must have.

  – What was my grandfather like?

  – Well, he was tall…and he was gentle…

  – And you loved him?

  – I loved him very much.

  – Tell me how he died.

  – Thomas, it’s too late for that now.

  We had been talking for hours.

  I’d asked my last question on the verge of sleep, and it was like a single question spoken in two worlds. I went from a dark place to a light one, from Mr Mataf’s car to my dream of Mr Mataf’s car.

  Here the moon was brighter, and there was a lake nearby, an immense circle on which the moon floated. We had decided to get out of the car, my mother and I, to put our feet in the water, the night was so warm.