Stealing Flowers (16 page)

On June 18 of that year, we came home
together with our grade eight report-cards. They were sealed and
Sally and I were in knots waiting to see them. We ran from the bus
stop all the way home. We found ourselves breathless, standing
before Una as she searched for some scissors in the kitchen.
“Hurry, Una,” I pleaded.

She stopped and eyed me. “What are you two
imps up too?”

“You’ll see,” I said slyly.

She grunted and took a sharp knife cutting
them open. She studied both report cards for a minute and then
without warning, swooped down and gathered us up in her big strong
arms, lifting us right off the floor. “By goodness, not a B to be
seen, all A’s, Stan and Mary will be jumping off the planet.”

“Una, we did this to get something,” I said
softly, “but we need your help.”

She raised her eyebrow and returned us to
the floor, instantly sobering. “What is it, my full-grown
child?”

“Dad’s thinking of giving us both summer
jobs. We want to stay home with you.”

She looked at Sally who nodded. Then she
smiled sadly. “Why do you want to ruin Una’s summer?” she asked.
“You both have to start learning the business sometime, this is
your destiny.”

We both nodded and she leaned back on the
kitchen counter, her large frame nearly hiding half of it from our
angle. “If you’ll agree to work in August, I’ll give you the month
of July free and with a late night curfew.”

“Midnight,” I said in a rush, knowing what a
pitiless negotiator she could be. Not as remorseless as Mary, but
still hard-nosed.

She shook her head. “No. Home by ten, in bed
by eleven.”

I frowned, but could see Sally wasn’t going
to hold firm.

“Are there really two complete sets of
straight A’s?” I asked as though it were unbelievable.

This made her frown, but it was immediately
replaced by a smile, as though she recalled with whom she dealt.
“I’ll throw in one whole week in Florida at Disney World.”

Sally whooped in joy. I knew is was over,
and come August, we’d be working at Tappets unless I had some
amazing intervention.

“Una, we’ve worked after school, after
supper, and many weekends, studied, re-studied, did quizzes, and
kissed everyone’s—” I stopped just in time. “We were very
cooperative at school, all for one thing: A free summer.”

“How come you’re so sure you even have to
work or that you won’t like it if you do.”

I knew that she knew 100% that there were
jobs waiting for us. I was even pretty sure that she was the single
force behind it. I’d heard it discussed twice as I’d spied on her
and Mary. I had talked to Lloyd on several occasions about his jobs
with Tappets, of which there were several, and most of them were
hard, tedious, or downright boring. Besides, what’s to discuss with
a twelve year old? It’s work and the world of adulthood! Sally’s
birthday was on June 1, 1961, and for three months we would be the
same age. It might have been our last summer of childhood and I
knew it.

“I’ll be a teenager on September 23,” I said
sadly, “that’s when you’re not a kid anymore.”

Una smiled and the resistance flowed from
her eyes. “I see, and of course, you’re a special case and deserve
unique consideration.”

“I did lose almost four years.”

When sympathy came to her eyes, I knew I’d
won, and without another word, I hugged her. I then took Sally’s
hand and we left. “What happened?” Sally asked.

“I don’t know if we’ve got the Disney trip,
but we aren’t working this summer.”

Sally hugged and kissed me. “You’re the
best, scrumps.”

We came out through the backyard. The pool
remained covered and locked. It had been open since May 15, and the
water was about 72̊C, but it was still too cool outside to swim. We
ran next door, after telling Una, and found Andy on his door
step.

“Do you want to play?” I asked. He nodded.
“Are you okay?”

“My report card wasn’t that good. Dad said I
might have to go to summer school.”

“Everybody says summer school’s easy,” I
said. “Which courses?”

“History and English.”

“We’ll help you with that,” Sally
offered.

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

As we walked along Rookery Street, we passed
four older teenagers smoking weed, three boys and one girl. I hated
weed and tobacco, the bullies all smoked them at Carling Street and
stunk. The girl’s face was full of pimples.

“What’s that smell?” Sally whispered in my
ears as we passed.

“Do you want some Guanghua, all the way from
Yamaica?” one of them said with a chuckle, taking notice of us and
poorly imitating an island accent.

He was a suet-faced flabby roughneck with
sickly pale skin who I’d seen in the neighborhood before and who I
immensely disliked. He picked on a skinny nine-year-old a few doors
down, a boy who reminded me of me when I was his age. I looked
around for a weapon, but couldn’t spot anything lying about, but
then on a hunch, I stopped anyway. He also reminded me of one of
the ruffians from Carling Street, a boy who had caught me outside
the home and trimmed my hide because I’d refuse to give in to him
one time when Lloyd was away. Besides, he was toked-out and had his
hands in his pants-pockets. It was perfect for a storm attack.

“Do you have any dagga?” I said and stopped
before him, curling my fists into tight balls inside my jacket. I
had long known weed from South Africa was the best.

“What the fuck is dagga, you toothpick?” he
said belligerently.

“Cannabis imported from Africa,” I said
calmly, not looking him in the eye but coming carefully, into his
personal space.

“What do you know, faggot?” he said
further.

I was close enough now to smell his bad
breath. “Lots,” I said, now positioned and catching his gaze. “For
instance, I know that you’re fat and ugly.”

Having said this, I sucker-punched him with
four quick hammer-stabs as Lloyd had taught me, one to the crotch
for intense pain, one to deep inside his soft fleshy stomach, to
double him up, the third to the jaw to straighten him out, and the
last to the stomach again, except this time on the other side with
the other hand, to knock out his wind. This succeeded excellently.
When you’re really afraid and put all your fear into a punch, you
can sting with a wallop. He staggered for a moment, then crumbled
in agony and threw up. I hoofed him with my foot and he fell onto
his side into the puke. I looked over at the other two boys, both
of them who were more my size. They took a few steps back and I saw
the fear in their eyes.

“I know kids who killed people over that
shit,” I said and spit to the ground. “Never mind him, he’s a turd.
We’re going to our backyard to play Kick the Can. Do you want to
join us?”

To my surprise, they both nodded. They knew
who we were, but unlike Sally, this didn’t bother me. They probably
appreciated as well that I’d so easily taken down the neighborhood
bully, of whom they were likely also afraid. They came along with
us and we introduced ourselves as kids do, playing without conflict
for a couple of hours until Una called us in for dinner and then
they left.

When we came into the kitchen, I saw that we
were to have freshly baked garlic bread and spaghetti, one of my
favorite meals. The house smelled delicious, but Una made a lumpy
spaghetti sauce that was horrible and which should ruin any
appetite, and being under her sway longer than I had been, the
Tappets ate it straight up. I didn’t even care to think about it or
what was in it, although you could make out chunks of broccoli and
carrots, if you could imagine. I’d tried it three times. It was
pure spew. The Tappets shook some foul-smelling cheese over it to
hide the taste, but this just made it worse. For my spaghetti, Una
would warm Hunt’s Tomato Sauce straight from the tin, no funny
business added. It was scrump-delicious.

“Can Andy stay?” I asked.

She nodded. Andy phoned his father and got
permission. When Mary and Stan came home, I knew they both had
already heard the news. They perfunctorily congratulated us, and
all three of them retired to Mary’s office for a quick conference.
I’d have loved to have gone to the bunker to listen in, but we were
too busy playing. When we sat for supper, Mary said grace. I
watched as Andy poured the lumpy sauce onto his plate of spaghetti.
He too, had been under Una’s sway longer than me. Over supper, Mary
and Stan happily agreed to everything, including the Disney World
trip in Florida, and also some undisclosed time at Una’s
cottage.

I solemnly thanked them and they all laughed
at me. Una said that I was cutthroat. That evening, Mary and Una
took Sally and me to The Poseidon Adventure in a huge theater on
Broadway. Inside, we walked up a great flight of stairs and sat
high in the balcony, eating buttery popcorn and riveted to the
enormous screen. I knew it would be the best summer yet. The next
morning, Sally performed a concert for us, playing a ditty on the
piano which she had written. Her voice was strong and clear, if not
perfectly melodic.

“Hear the bells chime for two.

They tell time when the bridge goes up,

And the parade begins, so that the dragon can
eat you.

Down in the valley someone raises a cup.

Hear the bells for my closet boy;

Chime the knell for a cuddly toy.

Pop goes the weasel and kisses you on the
face.

Robin Hood comes and saves you from the awful
men.

See the witch come also with haste,

And to the teacher A, B, C and use the
pen.

Hear the bells for my closet boy;

Chime the knell for a cuddly toy.

I know Yankee Doodle went to town riding a
sow

The big bass drum comes onto a roller coaster
in-side-out

And the sun comes up on the pow-wow.

The boat goes sailing, nick-nack-paddy,
out-and-about,

A Mexican hat dancer performs on its shining
bow.

I thought it truly funny, and laughed. Of
course it made absolutely no sense to me, then I supposed nothing
more about it. Una didn’t laugh and Mary whispered something in her
ear, like, ‘Good grief,’ and left for work. We played in the
backyard with Andy and drove our bicycles around the block. Since
I’d flattened the neighborhood-bully, no one ever bothered us.
After supper, Stan took Andy and me to Long Island to see a
formerly free-standing tall hydroelectric tower which had collapsed
and fell into a department store building completely destroying it,
and killing two shoppers.

“Look at all the people,” Andy said in his
low soft voice. We were both in the backseat, struck more by the
crowds, hundreds of people had gathered around the scene, than the
accident itself, which we really couldn’t see well anyway. Stan
pulled up in front.

“It was built and cross-braced with steel
girders,” he said. “God, how could this happen?”

Stan was normally bright about these things,
but this struck me as an easy deduction.

“It rusted out,” I said.

He glanced over a moment and stepped out of
the car. “Stay here.”

I watched him introduce himself to the
officers who were securing the devastation from the casual
onlookers. He passed through the barrier and disappeared into the
wreckage. A moment later, he returned and got behind the wheel of
his Lincoln.

“You’re right. The cross-braces buckled,
they’d been weakened by rust.”

I felt very proud, but also understood Stan
hadn’t driven here strictly as a mere observer. “Do we own that
tower?”

“Thank goodness, no,” he answered, not
stopping to reflect on the fact that I had used the word ‘we,’ “but
Tappets supplied parts for the steal girders. We’ll have to advise
our customers and come up with a maintenance scheme.”

The next day, Stan became sick, and was ill
for two weeks. He was admitted to the hospital and had his
gall-bladder removed. I visited him every afternoon and read to him
a chapter of a new book I’d discovered in his den at the mansion,
The Theory of Money and Credit, by Ludwig von Mises.

Mary had bought it for him. After fifteen
chapters he was released, but I knew much more about capitalism
than I felt I needed to know. By middle July, he was back to his
regular self, but this time, Una’s mom, Clara, became sick again.
Una made plans to return to Jamaica. “Who will look after us?” I
asked her as she packed.

“Aunt Gayle.”

“Does she have any kids?” I asked, having
never met the woman.

“Her children are in university now,” Sally
said.

“Is she nice?” I asked.

Una was checking off a list that sat on her
dresser and stopped for a moment to reflect.

“I’d not cross over to Sally’s room in the
middle of the night,” she said sternly, “if that’s what you mean.
I’d be careful to follow all of the rules you can remember. She’s
strict.”

This sounded bad. “Why can’t we come with
you.”

She sighed. “I’d take you both, truly, but
it’s an indeterminate stay.”

“You’re just trying to get away from us,”
Sally said in a hurt voice.

“Listen to yourself,” Una said with a laugh.
“You know in your heart that isn’t true.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Sally said.

“Me neither,” I added.

Una sat on the bed and gathered us in her
arms. “When I come back, we’ll go to the cottage, just the three of
us.”

I could hardly wait and I hugged her with
all my might, and so did Sally. The next day was Saturday and we
accompanied Una to the airport. That night as I lay in the bunker I
remembered the warning words of Jesus that Lucifer would send
someone to bring me into his fold and that I should stick close to
my guide.

If Una was in Jamaica and Lucifer attacked,
I would be in plenty of trouble. I slept the whole night through in
the bunker. The next day, Aunt Gayle arrived and I saw no
resemblance to Mary. She seemed to be much older. Her eyes were
unaffectionate towards me and I immediately disliked her. She was a
short plump woman who dressed as sloppily as her shape and had
dull, almost insipid eyes. In contrast, she lacked any of the
fineness and intelligence which I’d straightaway seen in Mary. I
wondered if they were truly blood sisters, listening in the bunker,
I could discover little, of course I couldn’t very well ask Mary,
and Una wasn’t around.