bickering about something. I got the shit for it.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You probably didn’t know. The old man found out. Then I ran away. You remember? I come in late one night, shortly after the fire. He says he’s putting me on a curfew. Says he knows how the fire started, et cetera. Says, ‘When the eight-o’clock siren goes off in Mulgrave’—remember how it used to every evening in the summer? You could hear it at home—he says, ‘I want you in your room.’
“I just ignored him. I remember going to the fridge. He says, ‘I’m talking to you.’ I just pretend I’m not hearing. Then he says, ‘Take that cap off your head when you’re in the house.’ He had a thing about caps. Would always be telling me, ‘Tip your cap to a lady’ or to an old person or ‘Tip your cap going by the church.’ Me just shaking my head. Cap on.
“Then he says it again. Something like, ‘Get that gaddamned cap off your head while you’re in the house.’
“I say something like, ‘You can bite my arse, you’re only a visitor here anyway.’”
The wind blows up outside again.
“People talk about the lights going out when you get hit. I never saw him move but it was like every light in the universe suddenly came on. And me on my arse in the corner.”
“He hit you?”
“Something did. Anyway, I scramble out of there like a four-legged spider. Never stopped running till…Well, you know.”
He was gone for three days. Nobody knew why. Everybody out looking for him, even the Mounties. Day two I found him hiding in our barn. But didn’t tell. I owed him. He saved my life once. From drowning. He persuaded me that Jack was trying to kill him. So I helped him hide until Grandpa accidentally discovered him. I remember Jack hugging him closely afterwards, saying nothing.
“You look back now,” he says, “it was a big turning point. We never got close after that.” He slowly blows out smoke. “There was something about him. All of them. They really didn’t seem to…fit. Nothing prepared them for families,” he says. “It wasn’t just my own old man. They were all like that. That generation. Always seemed kind of out of place around the wife and kids. Uncomfortable, like. Then it was kind of natural to assume, when he was always gone, that it was because there was something about us.”
“It’s beyond me,” I say. “I just know Jack cared. About you.”
“Maybe, but I never knew it. So what the hell?”
7
I know it wouldn’t kill me to share with him the things that I know. But, God forgive me, it feels good sitting here with something that he craves. After all he took away from me.
He joins me at the sink.
“Enough heavy stuff,” he says. Opens a cupboard door looking for a dishtowel, spies a fresh forty-ouncer of rum. Brightensconspicuously. “For a guy on the wagon you’ve got a pretty good supply.”
“That’s the secret,” I say. “You’ll always have it if you don’t use it.”
“What do you say, huh?”
I look at the bottle.
“What the hell,” he says, plucking two clean glasses from a shelf. Uncaps the bottle, pouring free-hand, singing: “Oh mein papa, to me you ver so vunderful.” He hands me my glass, raises his own, taps mine with a clink. “Down the hatch,” he says. Tosses it off in one gulp.
Then: “You can’t imagine how weird it is, being here. I’m talking to little Johnny. But I can’t get it out of my head how much you’ve become…both of them. You’re the image of Uncle Sandy, but you’re so much like the old man. Must have been all the time you two spent together. In the bush. When was it you two went away? Nineteen…?”
“Sixty-four.”
“Of course,” he says. “Just after Uncle Sandy…”
8
“What really happened to Pa’s head?” I asked Ma.
“What did he tell you?” she asked back.
“Snakes,” I said, smiling. “Two-legged snakes.”
“I suppose you’re old enough to know,” she said.
I don’t remember how old I
“Oh, yeah?”
“You probably didn’t know. The old man found out. Then I ran away. You remember? I come in late one night, shortly after the fire. He says he’s putting me on a curfew. Says he knows how the fire started, et cetera. Says, ‘When the eight-o’clock siren goes off in Mulgrave’—remember how it used to every evening in the summer? You could hear it at home—he says, ‘I want you in your room.’
“I just ignored him. I remember going to the fridge. He says, ‘I’m talking to you.’ I just pretend I’m not hearing. Then he says, ‘Take that cap off your head when you’re in the house.’ He had a thing about caps. Would always be telling me, ‘Tip your cap to a lady’ or to an old person or ‘Tip your cap going by the church.’ Me just shaking my head. Cap on.
“Then he says it again. Something like, ‘Get that gaddamned cap off your head while you’re in the house.’
“I say something like, ‘You can bite my arse, you’re only a visitor here anyway.’”
The wind blows up outside again.
“People talk about the lights going out when you get hit. I never saw him move but it was like every light in the universe suddenly came on. And me on my arse in the corner.”
“He hit you?”
“Something did. Anyway, I scramble out of there like a four-legged spider. Never stopped running till…Well, you know.”
He was gone for three days. Nobody knew why. Everybody out looking for him, even the Mounties. Day two I found him hiding in our barn. But didn’t tell. I owed him. He saved my life once. From drowning. He persuaded me that Jack was trying to kill him. So I helped him hide until Grandpa accidentally discovered him. I remember Jack hugging him closely afterwards, saying nothing.
“You look back now,” he says, “it was a big turning point. We never got close after that.” He slowly blows out smoke. “There was something about him. All of them. They really didn’t seem to…fit. Nothing prepared them for families,” he says. “It wasn’t just my own old man. They were all like that. That generation. Always seemed kind of out of place around the wife and kids. Uncomfortable, like. Then it was kind of natural to assume, when he was always gone, that it was because there was something about us.”
“It’s beyond me,” I say. “I just know Jack cared. About you.”
“Maybe, but I never knew it. So what the hell?”
7
I know it wouldn’t kill me to share with him the things that I know. But, God forgive me, it feels good sitting here with something that he craves. After all he took away from me.
He joins me at the sink.
“Enough heavy stuff,” he says. Opens a cupboard door looking for a dishtowel, spies a fresh forty-ouncer of rum. Brightensconspicuously. “For a guy on the wagon you’ve got a pretty good supply.”
“That’s the secret,” I say. “You’ll always have it if you don’t use it.”
“What do you say, huh?”
I look at the bottle.
“What the hell,” he says, plucking two clean glasses from a shelf. Uncaps the bottle, pouring free-hand, singing: “Oh mein papa, to me you ver so vunderful.” He hands me my glass, raises his own, taps mine with a clink. “Down the hatch,” he says. Tosses it off in one gulp.
Then: “You can’t imagine how weird it is, being here. I’m talking to little Johnny. But I can’t get it out of my head how much you’ve become…both of them. You’re the image of Uncle Sandy, but you’re so much like the old man. Must have been all the time you two spent together. In the bush. When was it you two went away? Nineteen…?”
“Sixty-four.”
“Of course,” he says. “Just after Uncle Sandy…”
8
“What really happened to Pa’s head?” I asked Ma.
“What did he tell you?” she asked back.
“Snakes,” I said, smiling. “Two-legged snakes.”
“I suppose you’re old enough to know,” she said.
I don’t remember how old I
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