The Last Season by Roy Macgregor Page B

it. Mr. Riley always had instant coffee, but I doubted Poppa had even heard of such a miracle.
    â€œYour Batcha is very well thought of around here, Felix,” he said.
    â€œShe spooks me,” I said.
    Poppa laughed. Ig joined in, too loud and not even aware of what might be the joke, just wishing to be involved.
    â€œYou’re fifteen years old, son. Has she hurt you yet?”
    â€œWhen’s your birthday, Feelie?” Ig asked. He started singing “Happy Birthday,” high and tuneless.
    â€œNo, she hasn’t hurt me yet. But she’s hardly been nice to me, either,”
    Poppa shook his head. “Batcha loves you in her own way, you know that.”
    â€œIs today your birthday, Feelie?” Ig shouted.
    Batcha’s door opened and the Sikorskis emerged. The wife’s eyes were red but her body seemed to have puffed out with them, as if somehow Batcha had packed her bones with new flesh while they sat praying in Batcha’s room. I saw in Sikorski’s hand at least a dozen poplar crosses; it was the hand of the sign, but the sign against the evil eye was no longer there.
    â€œToday is Feelie’s birthday!” Ig shouted at them.
    Both Sikorskis smiled at me. I shook my head. “No, it’s not.”
    Ig whined. “But you said it was,” he said to Poppa.
    Poppa ignored him. He was setting the Sikorskis’ cups back out. Old Sikorski held out his free hand and indicated that he would be having none. They went straight for their coats. Poppa went and stood by them as they bundled up again in silence. Batcha, without so much as a farewell or a nod, returned to her room. Sikorski looked up when he heard her door click shut.
    â€œYou tell her we’ll be back, Walter.”
    â€œI will,” Poppa said.
    Sikorski nodded to his wife as if she were a chainsaw Poppa and he were trying to figure out. “The doctor in Renfrew,” he said, “he said three weeks.”
    Mrs. Sikorski looked down, avoiding Poppa’s mechanic’s stare. Poppa shook his head, as if it was no use, hopeless.
    Sikorski went on. “They want her in the hospital. People die in hospitals.”
    Poppa nodded.
    Mrs. Sikorski looked up to get her scarf from the spike and I could see her eyes had been watering again. She looked quickly at Poppa, nodded a silent thank you and tied her scarf tight as her husband pulled at the door. It stuck fast.
    â€œYou have to lift it and then pull,” Poppa said. Sikorski did and the door popped open, a gush of cold air that made the hemlock roar in the box stove. The Sikorskis jumped out without a word and the door slammed shut.
    Poppa stood for a while staring straight at the door, then turned and walked slowly back to the table. Puck, dumb enough that he probably figured Poppa was just coming in, wiggled out of his bed and across the floor, tail whipping against the chair legs, and tried to jump up on Poppa. Poppa cuffed him across the nose and Puck cowered down, peeing on the linoleum. Ig giggled and dug his spoon deep into the Quik. Poppa reached over as he passed by and grabbed up the chocolate, capped it and slammed it down on the shelf as he went through into the wood shed, closing the door behind him.
    Puck whimpered in his corner. Ig whimpered at the tabled. The pee began flowing toward the far window, forming a long, thin, yellow trail. The old house had heaved. Jaja, who mitered even a birdfeeder and who carried a small clip-on level like a pen in his shirt pocket, would have been annoyed to see this. The home he had so carefully built had fallen out of balance.
    True to their word, the Sikorskis came back in the late afternoon, two bundled wretches walking up the blue snow of the lane and carrying a burlap sack between them. Puck was squirting all over the floor even before they knocked, sniffing at the door crack and squealing, and when they came in, leaping at the sack and barking until Poppa booted the dog back to