Chapter 1 - Who’s the Brat?
“Where the hell is that little brat?” Mike slowed when his grandfather’s voice boomed on the other side of the mudroom door, his hand poised to grab the pitted, brass knob. The tap and clomp of the man caning his way across the kitchen vibrated through the floorboards, up the scarred wooden door separating them.
“He’s not a brat.” Grandma’s voice, quick to Mike’s defence, made him smile. “He’s been trying to get on your good side, but he’s convinced you don’t have one. I’m getting concerned too.”
“I need to make sure he’s not stealing my stuff.”
“And what might you have worth stealing?” She paused, and Mike pictured her working at the sink, peeling potatoes or cleaning vegetables. He wondered what he had done to make his grandfather view him as a thief. A chair scraped on the linoleum floor, another tap, some clomps, another little scrape. Grampa must have sat down. Mike felt a twinge listening in on their conversation like this, but they were talking about him. "And why would you call him a brat? He's been a nice young man since he's been here."
"Just look at the trouble he's caused Julia. She had to go to Mexico to rescue her marriage from all that kid's trouble."
Mike flinched at the mention of his mother’s name.
"Bert, you don't know anything about that. Malcolm was called to Mexico to fix that dam project. Our girl just went with him. I think it's nice they can travel like that."
"Dumping the brat on us."
"You stop that, he might hear you."
The sounds on the other side of the door faded as Mikes mind wandered back a few years. . .
He and his friends, Uwe (a German name, pronounced ‘oova’) and Chuck had spent a summer Saturday afternoon at Fort Henry. The old for was within walking distance of their homes in Kingston and they had been there frequently.
In winter it wasn’t open but the fact that it stood on a bluff, overlooking the city and St Lawrence River made it a frequent destination for sledding. This day though, there was no snow, just a lot of tourists. Mike found it interesting trying to picture how life must have been for the soldiers who manned it more than a hundred years before.
Walking through the battlements, touching the cold limestone of the walls and moat helped Mike connect with the past that fascinated him. The re-enactments, demonstrations, and tours helped feed his imagination, but today’s guards smoked factory made cigarettes and drank from soda cans. This always broke the spell.
“Let’s check out the gift shop.” Chuck gave Mike a poke’.
“What for? I’m broke.”
“Me too, but its cooler in there.” Chuck shaded his eyes as he looked toward the sun.
“And we can check out the cheesy crap the tourists buy.” Uwe offered.
“All right.” Mike touched the wall again, feeling the rough stone rasp against his fingertips. He gave the wall a little kick, then followed his friends.
The store was dim and dank after the mid-day, mid-summer sun. Mike was afraid he would bump into something or someone while his eyes adjusted, so he moved with baby steps. He could hear Chuck and Uwe ahead of him, laughing together.
Tourists pressed in around him, picking things off the shelves, looking at them, then setting them back down. Kids asked for gifts, parents looked serious as though giving the ask consideration before shaking their head no, or guiding the small clutching hands to return the found treasure.
Mike looked over the wares, wondering why anyone would want this stuff. Cheap snow globes, fake beaver fur caps, spoons, plastic bows and arrows, none of this interested him. Then he felt closed in. Too warm, damp, his heart began beating faster. He looked for his friends, saw Chuck through the crowd.
Chuck looked at him, a strange smile bending across his face. Chuck’s face lit up, his mouth opened a bit and he held up a feathered tomahawk. Keeping his eyes on Mike, he opened his jacket and tucked the tomahawk inside. Mike realized he was going to steal it.
Mike’s mouth grew dry and his heart thudded. Why was Chuck doing that? Then Mike saw a brass cannon on a shelf. As though someone else was in control of him, he reached out, picked up the small item, noting its weight. This was no cheap trinket. It was probably real brass.
Before he knew what he was doing, the cannon was tucked into his back pocket and he headed for the door still wondering why he was doing this. Chuck and Uwe followed him into the bright sunlight, laughing, Uwe clamping Chuck’s shoulder. Before his eyes had adjusted to the sun, Mike heard a voice behind them.
“Just a minute there, boys.”
And that was that. They were caught. He was a thief even though no one discovered that cannon in his pocket. He was in the company of thieves, Uwe had taken a package of Canadian flag stickers, so he was a thief by association. Had his grandfather heard of that? Had his mother shared that shame?
Mike backed himself up to the outside door, picking his steps with care to not make a sound. He pushed on the door and let it slam. With heavier steps, he headed back to the kitchen door, grabbed the doorknob, twisted it then pushed the door open.
“Hi Grandma, hi Grandpa,” Mike hoped he sounded as though he was just coming in from outside and wasn't aware of their recent exchange. He glanced at his grandfather sitting at the old Formica kitchen table, one hand wrapped around a bottle of beer, the other holding his cane. Green linen shirt and green canvas pants, Grandpa wore the same clothes every day, like it was his uniform. They reminded Mike of the janitors at school. Old serious men, too serious to smile. He wondered when men became so serious. His father sometimes became serious, but he also spent lots of time smiling. Perhaps serious crept up on men when they weren’t looking, took them over, like the pod people in the horror movie. Was Grandpa a full-fledged pod person? He wondered why this man thought he was a thief. It was true that he had a habit of getting himself into trouble, but he hadn’t stolen anything in years, nothing he’d been caught for anyway. It was a question he couldn't ask without revealing his eavesdropping. Pushing it from his mind, he focussed on the issue in front of him.
“Hello dear,” Grandma was working on a bundle of green leaves in the sink. 'Spinach', Mike thought, 'yum, spinach salad.' “What have you been up to?” but it came out ‘whatcha bin up to?’
“Picking up around the yard, hanging the garden hose and stuff. If its ok, I’ll cut the grass tomorrow.” He looked toward his grandfather.
“Have you used a power mower before?” the large woman asked without turning. Her shoulders rocked as she washed and tore at the leaves in the sink.
“You’ll cut your foot off.” Gramps snarled.
“I cut the grass at home sometimes.” Mike lowered his voice and looked at the floor. “Dad’s watched me.”
“Well, he’s not here. Too busy flying to Mexico.”
“Bert, “Grandma’s voice was sharp, the word shooting across the room. The old man sat silent. “Mike, go wash up. Supper will be soon.” Gram continued but in a softer tone.
Mike headed into the bathroom, glad to be out of grandpa’s sight. ‘Grumpa’, he thought, ‘what a grump,’ then smiled at his reflection in the mirror. The smile drooped into a frown as he remembered his parents leaving him for the summer when they went to Mexico. Dad had to supervise a dam construction project there that had gone bad, and Mom had gone to spend time with him. Mike knew part of the reason she had gone was so they could work on their relationship. By sixteen he had witnessed enough of their arguments and late-night discussions to know divorce had come up several times. He knew too, that some of their problems were a direct result if his own actions, misbehaviours. He wasn't sure just why he did some of the things he did, but he knew some of them were seriously bad. He also didn't know how to fix them. If spending the summer at Grumpa’s kept his parents together, maybe he could endure it. Hoping that if he made himself helpful, Grandpa would like him, wasn’t working. Grandpa didn’t seem to like anything, except beer.
Mike turned on the taps as he looked at himself in the mirror. He made a face and watched his smile break wide open, but it felt heavy, fake. Rubbing his hands under the water, he didn’t wait for the hot to make its way from the tank in the basement. The tank was old with rust spots, sitting on cinder blocks to raise it off the dirt floor. The cool, musty basement was full of spider webs. Mike turned the tap off before an eight-legged creature could crawl out of the pipe. Putting his happy face back on, he headed to the kitchen for supper.
Before bed, he flashed an email off, Mom, can I come to Mexico with you. Grandpa hates me.
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