“Please don’t,” I said. “She’ll catch her death.”
Saibal took Gord home and I went to the BIS. Father O’Flaherty said that as a man of the cloth, he had no choice but to have faith in my promise of money, so he gave me the uniform. I put on the Newfoundland tartan pants, a crisp white shirt, and the tartan vest. I thought I’d feel like a dancer, but the only thing I felt like was a leprechaun, not that’s there’s anything wrong with that.
Then I put on the shoes.
They were brand-new, not like Billy’s, which were faded and worn. These were shiny and black and the silver taps clicked like no penny could.
I strutted out of the bathroom and down the hall.
Click.
Click.
Clickity-click.
I entered the practice room with my chest puffed out and took my place amongst the evenly spaced rows of dancers. Father O’Flaherty cleared his throat. When I looked up, he pointed to the door. “The beginners are down the hall, second door on the right.”
I smiled. “Give me a couple of weeks. I’ll be back.”
As I walked down the hall, I chuckled at the thought of me being a beginner. Ha! A beginner doesn’t watch Riverdance two times in a row. Especially when the running time is seventy-one minutes. I mean, that’s dedication.
I walked into the second door on the right. Some of the dancers were barely up to my knees. The tallest barely reached my shoulders.
The teacher introduced himself. “I’m Brian.”
“I know who you are,” I said. He was in the grade below me at school.
We practiced pointing our toes by dipping them in the Atlantic Ocean.
“Brrrr,” said Brian.
The little fellas were having a grand time.
But I wasn’t brrrr-ing. I was grrrr-ing.
We skipped across the room to the Pacific.
“Ahhhh, much warmer,” said Brian.
“No offense, Brian,” I said. “But these infantile shenanigans are beneath me.”
A moment later I was peering through the window on O’Flaherty’s door. They were dancing to “Mari-Mac.” With my hands on my hips, I leapt into the room. I spread my legs as wide as I could and thrust my chin in the air. This’ll show ’em. The bastards. I landed with a thud and continued dancing, tapping in and out through the rows of stunned-yet-amazed boys. Always considerate and thinking of others, I timed my kicks so as not to cause testicular injury. At the end of the third row, Father O’Flaherty blocked my way, but not even his physical presence could stop me. With my arms pinned tight to my sides, I step danced in place.
“Are you done?” he said.
My voice was breathless. “Does it look like it?”
His jaw hardened. “You have two choices,” he said. “Go back to the beginners’ room or go home.”
“You’ve put me in a difficult position,” I panted.
“I’ll make it easy for you,” he said. “Go home.”
I was kind of relieved. My plates of meat were killing me. Things would be better next week when I’d be feeling more refreshed.
I clicked my way to the door.
“Finbar?” he said.
I paused. Maybe this was where he’d tell me I showed potential, where my hard work would pay off.
“Don’t come back,” he said.
My face fell. “What?”
“You can leave the uniform in the cloakroom.”
My jaw hardened. “You, sir, are a dream killer. A hope dasher. A spirit squasher.”
“Perhaps, Squires,” he said, “you’d be better suited to the local acting troupe. You seem to have a flair for the dramatic.”
I didn’t disagree. I probably would excel in theater. But that was beside the point. I refused to be fooled by his flattery.
“Yes, Father,” I said. “I do have a flair for the dramatic. So allow me to leave you with some parting words.”
I cleared my throat.
“Dimes are silver, pennies are brass, why does your face look like your ass?”
The boys roared with laughter. O’Flaherty sputtered. Fearing that he might need CPR, I left. It wasn’t very Christian, refusing to give the kiss of life to a man of God, but neither was crushing the hopes and dreams of a twelve-year-old boy.
I left the uniform in a pile on the cloakroom floor and went outside to wait for Saibal. He’d probably be on his way back by now. I felt bad about the wasted journey. I’d suggest blowing the money at Caines to make up for it.
“Don’t listen to the likes of Father O’Fart-ity,” said Saibal. “He wouldn’t know talent if it hit him in the face.”
“I know,” I said. “It still hurts, though.”
“Let’s drown our sorrows with a couple of birch beers.”
“And some chips and a Caramel Log?”
“Why not?” said Saibal.
We took our stash to the bandstand in Bannerman Park to shelter from the rain, drizzle, and fog. We sat on our knees to keep from freezing our arses off and pulled our hoods up over our heads.
“I like this weather,” said Saibal.
“Me too,” I said. “It makes me feel alive.”
“Warm days are boring,” said Saibal. “It’s the same outside as it is in. But on damp days, the cold on your cheeks lasts for ages and when your mudder touches them with the back of her hand, she makes you a cup of tea with bucketloads of sugar.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “when the fog is as thick as pea soup, I go downtown and walk in the alleys and imagine getting murdered by a serial killer with a machete. It’s never happened, though.”
“I’ll come with you next time,” he said. “We can get killed together.”
“That’d be nice,” I said.
A seagull landed on the bandstand steps. Saibal threw it a chip.
I closed one eye and stared into the opening of my birch beer. I had no reason to do this. I already knew it was pink.
“How about we go to the nursing home?” said Saibal.
It was the perfect suggestion. A dance with the oldies was just what I needed.
“You, sir,” I said, “are like a blast of Newfoundland weather.”
Saibal grinned. “I make you feel alive?”
“No,” I said. “You’re as thick as pea soup.”
Saibal threw a chip at me. It bounced off my nose.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go have ourselves a good old knees-up.”
We sat in the Last Chance Saloon with Buster, Edie, and a handful of others. They’d been in the lobby when I’d arrived but as soon as I said, “Let’s dance,” they got to their feet and followed me down the hall like I was the Pied Piper of Hamelin, except they weren’t rats and I didn’t have a flute.
Buster tapped his cane against the floor. “Are we going to have a song and dance or what?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “But first—”
Saibal and I pooled our change together and set about taping coins to the soles of everyone’s shoes, including our own. Once we got everyone to their feet, we moved to the middle of the room, where we had a good old-fashioned Newfoundland kitchen party. Our shoes sounded way better than the ones I’d been wearing earlier. It must have been the acoustics of the room.
We sang “Lukey’s Boat” and “Rattlin’ Bog.” We tapped, shuffled, boogied, and waltzed. Edie’s hands were like two chunks of ice, but I held them anyway as we stepped side to side, clicking in unison. More people came and joined in. Saibal was spinning someone around in a wheelchair and a little old lady in orthopedic shoes was doing a slow but impressive Charleston. They formed a circle around me, and Buster said, “Take it away, Barry!” I did the fastest step dance in the history of man and my face wore the world’s smuggest look, and I thought, “If O’Flaherty could see me now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
There was a freak snowstorm in April that lasted three days. It came over Easter, and on Good Friday I suggested we bond as a family by painting eggs but everyone had an excuse. Shelagh said she couldn’t even look at an egg without throwing up, Pius said decorating eggs was for morons, and the adults were watching Jesus Christ Superstar. The only person mildly interested in painting eggs was Gord, but he had no fine motor skills. I asked Mom if she’d managed to buy any Easter chocolate before the storm. She said no but all was not lost because at least she had a turkey.
“All is not lost?” I screamed. “If I don’t get a Mr. Solid, there’ll be hell to pay.”
The Easter Bunny had been bringing me a Mr. Solid ever since I had teeth.
Mary Magdalene was on the TV singing “Everything’s Alright” to Jesus. Mom joined in and sang it to me.
“Everything is not all right!” I screamed.
“Bah!” yelled Gord from Dad’s lap.
I stormed into the kitchen and looked in the fridge. There were four eggs left. One for each kid. I found a magic marker and wrote our names on them: Pius, Preggo, Finbar, and Gord. I went outside and threw them at the window. That’ll teach ’em.
The snow was deep but I had on my big snow boots, so I trudged all the way from York to Springdale. I threw snowballs at the Harbour Light Centre till somebody answered the door.
“Uneven Steven, please,” I said.
“Whom shall I say is calling?” asked the man in the doorway.
“The one he calls Squire,” I said, to add an air of mystery.
A moment later Steven appeared.
“Come in, Squire,” he said. “We’re about to have a cup of Rosy Lee.”
I followed him to a big kitchen and joined a group of men at an oversized table. A man with a tattooed face put a Mr. Solid in front of me. “Here ya go, fella.”
“You, sir,” I said, “are a scholar and a gentleman.”
I took off the wrapping and bit the ears off. Turns out, the center had received a box of donated Easter chocolate.
“Listen, fellas,” I said. “The Easter Bunny’s been a bit distracted this year ’cause her teenage daughter is preggers. How’s about I shovel the driveway in exchange for seven Cadbury cream eggs?”
“Deal,” said the man with the tattooed face. “But I’ll help. It’s a big job.”
We went outside and as we shoveled side by side he told me he’d just been released from the pen.
“Six years for armed robbery,” he said. “Whatever you do, kid, don’t do drugs.”
When we got inside, a man with a long, yellowed face filled a Sobeys bag with way more than seven cream eggs.
“Thanks, buddy,” I said.
Uneven Steven made me hot chocolate to warm up and spoke to the group about the hardships of being a performer
“I hear ya,” I said. “I think I’ve got a blister developing on my big toe.”
Then he told us about the time a photo of him ended up in Rolling Stone magazine.
“It was ’79,” he said. “My buddy Joe Strummer pulled me up onstage during one of their gigs. Let’s just say my dance moves stole the show.”
He got up and limped to the kitchen sink. The tattooed man gave me a wink. I felt bad for Steven, with his made-up stories. I’m sure he did wonderful things in his life. Why didn’t he share them instead?
I followed Steven to the sink and whispered, “Why would someone tattoo their face? I’d do anything to get rid of this mess on mine.”
“Where would I be if I got my leg fixed?” he said. “It was what I was known for. Like Jagger’s lips. In my opinion, you should stick with what you’re born with. Imagine if Freddie Mercury got his teeth fixed. It could have changed the whole structure of his mouth and affected the way he sang.”
I stuck out my front teeth and sang “Another One Bites the Dust.” It sounded terrible.
“Give us a dance then, Barry,” said one of the men.
The man with the tattooed face lifted me onto the table. Another played the fiddle. It felt good to entertain down-and-outs. I hoped I’d added a little something to their humdrum lives.
On the way home, I stopped at the Hanrahans. Mrs. Hanrahan’s husband killed himself because he’d grown up in the Mount Cashel Orphanage. The news had come out years earlier that the Christian Brothers had been abusing the boys. It was enough to make Mom stop going to church. Dad still went, though. He took us with him while Mom stayed home and cooked the Sunday dinner. I felt bad for Mrs. Hanrahan. Her kids were the kind you’d see out in their pajamas at the crack of dawn, pulling up the neighbors’ potted plants.
When she answered the door, I said, “You get out to the stores this week?” And when she said no, I gave her the contents of the Sobeys bag, minus the seven Cadbury eggs. “Happy Easter.”
“Thank you, Finbar,” she said. “Between you and Mrs. O’Brien, I’m all set. She brought a turkey over this morning.”
I said, “This storm’s screwing everybody over,” but truth be told, she’d have struggled regardless.
When I got home, Dad was cleaning the window. I could barely see him through the snow, which had begun to fall quite heavily again.
“I don’t need this, Barry,” he said. “I’ve got enough problems.”
“What do you mean, problems?” I said. “Mom’s on happy pills and so what, Shelagh’s pregnant. It’s not like she’s been diagnosed with cancer or anything.”
I had hoped that would put things in perspective for him. Instead, his face turned purple.
“Barry. Do you ever think about things before you say them?”
“Well, duh. You have to think in order to form words, otherwise you’d say nothing at all.”
I continued toward the house.
“By the way,” I said, holding up the Sobeys bag, “I saved Easter.”
The power went out on Saturday, but it turned out to be the best day ever. We sat around the fire and when we got hungry, we put a skillet in the flames and fried bologna, and when we played Scrabble, they even scored my made-up words, and during Trivial Pursuit, when Dad asked the Arts and Literature question “Who painted The Birth of Venus?”, Shelagh placed a hand on her tummy and Mom reached over and said, “Any kicks yet?” and Shelagh smiled and her eyes went teary.
When the power came back on, my eyes went teary too.
The adults slept in on Easter morning because it was too snowy for church. Not that Mom would have gone, but Dad and Nan would have dragged us there. I took Gord downstairs and placed a cream egg in each of our spots on the table. I put one on the tray of Gord’s high chair. “This is symbolic because you’ve only got one tooth,” I said. “But don’t worry, I’ll give you a lick of the center.”
At ten o’clock they were still asleep, so I shouted, “Jesus rose from the dead today. The least you bastards can do is get out of bed!”
A few moments later, they appeared.
“Look,” I said. “The Easter Bunny came.”
Nan tightened the belt on her dressing gown. “Oh, Barry. How lovely.”
“A single egg,” said Pius, biting his in half. “How delightful.”
A splodge of yolk dropped onto his chest.
Shelagh held her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Mom nodded at Dad. “Go get the Zellers bag from upstairs.”
“I thought you didn’t get out to the stores,” I said.
“I was only teasing,” she said. “Has the Easter Bunny ever let you down?”
Dad came back and Mom passed us each a Mr. Solid and a chocolate egg. Each of the eggs came in their own cardboard box, and through the plastic window we could see our names written in white icing. I opened it up and cracked off the F. Mom ruffled my hair. “Sorry the Easter Bunny slept in,” she said. “The pills make her sleepy.”
T
hat night we sat around the table, all seven of us, stuffing ourselves with turkey. I was grateful that God was being good to us. I hoped he was being good to the Hanrahans too.
It stopped snowing overnight and the next day the city got dug out. The plows were loud but the sound I liked the most was the screech of the clothesline. It was cold but sunny, and Mom was in her element.
“It’s some day on clothes,” she called to Mrs. O’Brien, who was shoveling her back step.
Mrs. O’Brien laughed. “Indeed it is.”
Nan spooned some oatmeal into Gord’s mouth.
“Did you see his tooth?” I said. “It looks like a Chiclet.”
“He’s some boy,” she said.
Mom came in looking satisfied. “When the roads are clear, I think I’ll go get some sleepers for the new baby.”
Just then Shelagh came downstairs. Her hand was on her stomach and she was crying. We jumped up, all three of us.
“What’s wrong?” said Mom.
Shelagh’s voice was a whisper. “Bob broke up with me.”
Pius said he was going to punch Bob’s schnoz in again.
Dad told him he was going to do no such thing.
“His family thinks I’m a slut,” said Shelagh. “They want to know how they can be sure the baby is Bob’s.”
“Well, it’ll be pretty obvious if it comes out with a giant nose,” I said.
“Finbar!” said Nan. “You of all people should know it’s never nice to make fun of people’s appearance.”
“How dare you bring up my cheek at a time like this,” I said.
Mom put her arms around Shelagh. “Things will settle down,” she said. “They’ll come around.”
“And what if they don’t?”
“You have us,” said Mom. “And we’ll always be here for you.”
“Hair, hair,” I said, wondering if it was here, here.
Dad waved a VHS tape in the air. “I think we could all use a laugh.”
We gathered around the TV and when Fawlty Towers came on, we chuckled because the sign outside the hotel said FARTY TOWELS.
Barry Squires, Full Tilt Page 10