All the Broken Things (6 page)

“How was work?” he could ask.

A crazy woman died. First she went crazy and then she died
.

“How was work?”

It was quiet today
.

“How was work?”

I don’t remember
.

Every time he asked her this same question, it was a variation on these: Do you love me? Did my father love me?

The TV droned from the little living room—it went to test pattern, the volume low, dull static to keep them company—and his mother so tired. The trains punctuated time with their irregular passage—a loud clanging outside of himself. This was helpful.

“How was Sister today?” Rose asked, this question loaded with some awful truth Bo could not fathom.

It was said that children with severe birth defects, true monsters, often had shortened life spans. They
could not expect to live to be one hundred, or even five, and sometimes not even one year old. A doctor stood beside Bo by his mother’s hospital bed four years earlier, while Rose nursed Orange, when she was just born, and said this, with a tone that suggested relief, that suggested they might be happy to know.

“She walked,” Bo said.

“No,” Rose said. It was not a no of surprise, it was a no of will, as if Rose could stop this from happening. Her statement held such vitality, Bo’s body shocked at it. He was not used to anything so forceful from his mother. Rose slumped at the table, always tired, so
not
right, with no expectation that happiness would ever visit her. She did not seem to think of it or else had given up on it. Maybe mothers did not require happiness.

“Yes, she stepped forward and backward on her bed. I’ve never seen her do that. It wasn’t like my walk or yours but she was on her feet and she went like this—” He showed, with his fingers on the table, Orange’s weird walking.

“Then she has walked.” Rose closed her eyes, so deeply inside herself.

“Yes,” whispered Bo.

Her eyes opened. “Sister may not go outside,” she said, glaring at him as if he had taught her to walk. Had he?

Since she was born, he’d swaddled Orange and smuggled her out into the yard. It was a small transgression—even smaller if he considered that his mum had never
actually said she had to stay inside. It was just that he knew Orange was to stay inside. And so he disobeyed. In the night, through the various stages of the moon, to the heartbeat of the trains pulsing through the backyard, he unwrapped her and let the night air breathe over her, let it whisper, let her know it. He looked at his mother. Of course she had seen.

He said, “No one else ever saw her.”

Rose sucked air in through her teeth. “I don’t want her to cause problems for you, Bo. It’s already so hard,” and then: “Sister walks.”

Bo started to say something, but Rose lifted her palm to indicate she didn’t want to talk anymore. She didn’t want to think about Orange out in the world. She didn’t want to think about Orange at all. Once she had called Orange the devil that came out of her body. She planted a picture in Bo’s mind then of a deformed baby emerging from between her legs. Bo’s mouth dropped open recalling the image. “I made you,” she had said. “And I made Sister. You are both mine.”

But now, she just looked over at him, weary-eyed, sad—his beautiful mother—and said simply, “No one must see her.”

S
ATURDAY MORNING
, Rose answered a knock at the door, and there was Gerry on the porch. Bo watched them from the kitchen table. Rose wore her blue cut-silk sarong, its worn spots almost grey. On top she wore a pink T-shirt and Bo saw she had no bra on. Gerry looked everywhere but there, which Bo understood to mean he had noticed too. Gerry was much taller than Rose so that she had to look up. Orange was asleep. Bo had already checked on her twice.

“How can I help you?” Rose said.

“Are you the mother of one Mr. Bo? I would like to talk to him.” Gerry had a different jacket on, one with stripes, and he wore a huge bow tie the colour of trout
meat. He put his hand out to shake Rose’s, but confused, she bowed.

“Bo is sleeping,” she said.

“I’m awake, Mum,” Bo called from the kitchen, from where it would be easy for Gerry to spot him anyway. Of course she knew this.

“Bo Jangles,” Gerry called, neck craning.

Bo came to the door, not sure what to say, how to bridge this stranger and his mother. But Gerry took over.

“Mrs. Bo,” he said.

“Rose,” said Bo. “Her name is Rose.”

“Mrs. Rose,” Gerry said. “I have a proposal.”

He said he wanted to take Bo for the day. They’d drive west and north to Fergus. Gerry took a map out and showed Rose the exact route, even where they might stop for a gas-up and a doughnut. He outlined how he would feed Bo lunch and possibly dinner, how they’d be home by nightfall.

“Fighting,” Gerry said, “but more
play-fighting
. Theatre.”

Rose waved her hands as if to make him stop. “How do you know my son?”

“I met him just yesterday,” said Gerry. “I thought he might want a job.”

“I don’t want Bo to fight.”

“Well,” said Gerry. Bo could see him thinking,
Too late for that, lady
. But instead he said, “You don’t understand, Mrs. Rose. I’m paying him. Now it’s true I can’t pay him
a full salary today, since he’s just watching. But if he thinks he might want to work with me, he’ll get more. It’s a fine deal, and I wouldn’t like for you to pass it up. Ten dollars for today—” And here he slid his wallet from the pocket of his trousers, pried the leather carefully open, wet his thumb with his tongue, and separated one bill out from the rest, making sure that Rose had seen the wad of money nestled there. “But double should he fight, and triple should he win. It’s a damn fine deal.” He stooped over her, and for Bo, the world seemed to wait. “My boss and me, we’re looking for a more permanent home for the events, of course. Someplace classy, you know?” He seemed to think this might weigh in her decision.

“No,” said Rose. Her cheeks twitched a bit and Bo did not know whether she was torn about the money, or upset to be reminded of his fighting. “No fighting.”

“No fighting,” said Gerry, mimicking, trying to figure a loophole.

Then, Teacher peered up at them all from the walkway: she had just appeared. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

Gerry turned to look down at her. “Well, hello!” he said. He took her in, glanced from Bo to Teacher.

She dressed differently on the weekends. She looked messier, younger. It was like she was two people. Teacher carried a placard upon which was written something about peace, and N
O
S
TAR
W
ARS
. Bo knew she protested down at City Hall or somewhere most every Saturday.
She had once asked Bo whether he knew that Canada had supplied the United States with the defoliant Agent Orange. She said it just like that:
the defoliant
. As if he cared. “Are you angry?” she said. He didn’t know why he should be. “Your sister,” she added, to be helpful. But Orange was Orange. Why would he be angry?

Gerry ruffled Bo’s hair, then stepped down onto the sidewalk and extended a hand to Teacher. “I’m Gerry,” he said.

“This is Miss Lily,” said Rose. “She’s Bo’s teacher.” She made a little bow toward Teacher and Miss Lily returned this in a clumsy sort of way.

“Teacher?” said Gerry. “Well, nice to make your—”

“Nice to meet you too,” said Teacher, but her eyes narrowed. “Thao, do you need any help here?”

Gerry smiled wide at Teacher.

Bo said, “Mum?”

Rose looked down at the ten in her hand and frowned. “He wants Bo to fight.” It was like she was talking to the money.

“Fight?” said Teacher.

“It’s more theatre, really,” said Gerry. He kept his body still and his smile so real, and his eyes shone. Then he cocked his head and said to Rose, “Forget about it.” He reached for his ten-dollar bill.

Rose pulled it back, Teacher watching. Rose turned to Bo. “Be back by night. For Sister. Good day, Teacher.”
She did not look back at Teacher as she turned away.

Bo knew she was ashamed to take the money. But she also did not want to be beholden, did not like to owe—they needed any money he might earn. Bo ran in behind her to get his shoes. His mother was slouched over the sink, running her fingers along the surface of the oily dishwater. She smiled at him, a tiny sad smile.

“Bring a coat,” she said. “It will get cold.” He wore cotton running shorts and socks to his knees. It was a warm day.

“I’m okay.”

“Bo, it will get cold.”

He weighed pleasing her, and then grabbed his jacket. He went to his room and came back with his school rucksack, put the jacket in there with a few other things he thought he might need.

“Be careful, Bo,” she said. Worry veiled in worry.

He could hear Teacher’s and Gerry’s voices outside. “Mum,” he said, “I am not fighting today. Don’t worry.”

Rose ran the kitchen faucet instead of answering, and handed him the ten-dollar bill.

“No, Mum.”

“Take it,” she said. “It’s not mine. I don’t want it.” Owing was terrible, he knew.

“Okay.” He took the money, stuffed it in the pocket of his shorts, and went outside.

Teacher’s placard was leaning upside down against her leg. She blinked when she looked at him.

“Bo,” she said. “Do you want to do this?”

He felt the money in his pocket, and said, “Yes, Miss Lily.”

“Are you sure?”

Her asking made him feel more strongly that he did. “Yes.”

Teacher looked at a small business card she cradled in her palm. Bo looked too. On it was the head of a bear with writing in fancy script:
Gerry Whitman, Carnival Proprietor
. Under that a phone number. Teacher nodded.

“Okay, Bo,” she said. “Do you know what a collect call is?”

He did not. And so she explained to him how to reverse the charges, and how he should call her if anything went wrong and she would help. She looked directly at Gerry as she told him all this.

“Do you understand?” she said. It was as if she were asking Gerry, and so they all laughed when Gerry answered that he did understand. She wrote her number with a ballpoint pen on the back of Bo’s hand so he wouldn’t lose it. She told him to have a great day, and looked at Gerry’s card again, then at Gerry.

“N
ICE MUM YOU GOT THERE
,” Gerry said, leaning forward to turn the keys. Bo grabbed the door handle
and swung up. The height of the cab pleased him in spite of the fact his feet dangled an inch from the floor. He plunked his rucksack beside him, kept his hand on it. Gerry winked and said, “Nice teacher. Pretty too. She said if she were your mum, she’d never let you come with me.”

Bo’s tongue pressed at his teeth. He was too shy to shrug, not sure at all how to respond. “She’s a peace activist.”

“Uh-huh.”

As the truck bumped down off the curb, Gerry’s laugh suggested something Bo could not even imagine. To correct this, he said, “She saved my life. She sponsored us,” wondering why he should feel the need to defend her.

“Nice work if you can get it.”

Bo didn’t know what to do with that either, so he stared at the windshield. The truck was a Chevrolet, greasy blue, with flecks of other colours so that it was also gold and purple and silver. Bo hunkered in the bucket seat—it was cream, cracked leatherette, seamed in four-inch-wide strips. The stick shift came out of the floor, and the whole cab reeked of minty smoke. The ashtray was open and full, the smelly butts of a deck of mentholateds stumped out there. Gerry navigated through the Junction toward the highway, and Bo felt the sideways movement of a swaying boat. Sometimes,
his dad was everywhere. He worked to shut down that line of thought.

“You check out the box, boy?” Gerry jabbed his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the back of the truck.

Bo cranked his head to see a covered cage of some sort. There was a small tear in the canvas tarpaulin wrapped around the cage bars and he tried to see in. It was pitch black.

“What’s in there?”

Gerry laughed. “You’ll see soon enough,” he said.

Something sparkled deep in a corner of the cage—eyes, maybe, but Bo couldn’t be sure.

“How far is it?” he asked, and Gerry told him, so he settled into an almost-comfortable spot between the seat and the door, tucked his hands into his armpits, feigned sleep, and struggled and failed to stop himself from recalling the boat, always the boat. There was a girl huddled against her mother, younger than Bo by a few years, and she sniffled and cried the entire five days. He’d wanted to smack her for it. Later, in the camp in Malaysia, they became friends, played at hiding from the soldiers. At the end of three months, when Bo and Rose were about to leave, she ran up and gave him a candy twisted in a piece of plastic cellophane. He wondered how long she had saved it. He told her he would not forget her, but he almost had. He didn’t like to think what had happened to her. He didn’t like to think how
she might have gotten that candy. He wished he was not thinking of this now.

Gerry turned on the radio and they listened to music. They drove west, the radio going over into talk shows and news and weather, until finally Gerry cleared his throat, reached in and switched the radio off.