Unhooking the Moon (2 page)

I was into poetry myself. Someone had to have a little culture and that chore fell to me. I was just about to go up and get started on my new book when dramatic music blasted around the living room. Dad turned off the lights and as it felt cosy on the couch I decided to give
King Kong
ten minutes of my time, even if it was in black and white. Well, I ended up watching it right through to the end. And I don't mind saying I felt more than a little emotional when they shot him down.

Dad went outside when the movie had finished, and we followed him. He walked away from the house-lights and, taking a drink, he stared up at the starry sky. ‘If you ever have trouble believing in heaven, kids, just look at the stars and you'll see it for yourself.'

Me and the Rat stared up at them.

‘If people looked at the stars more often they'd see how big the universe is and how small we are in it, and then their troubles wouldn't seem so large … Anyway, it's getting late. You kids better hit the hay.'

‘See you in the morning, Dad,' said the Rat.

‘Good night, Dad,' I said. And, kissing him good night, we climbed the stairs.

‘' Twas beauty killed the beast,' said the Rat. ‘The
beast was killed by beauty. Beauty and the beast killed Bob … Hey, Bob, you know what I don't understand? If they built a wall to keep King Kong out, how come they built a gate to let him in?'

‘You think too much,' I told her. I still wasn't speaking to her, not really.

I went in my room, got into bed, and opened my book. I hadn't been reading for more than ten minutes when the Rat knocked on my door. She sat on the bed waiting for me to put the book down. I never stopped reading but I could feel her eyes burrowing through the paperback. ‘What?' I asked.

‘Nothing.'

‘You should be ashamed after what you said!'

‘I don't want him to die. I just think he will.'

She could get on my nerves sometimes. ‘You're just a dumb kid! What do you know?' But any time I shouted at her I felt guilty and then I felt sorry for her. The Rat could do that. She could get you feeling sorry for her. She was quite manipulative in that way. ‘He's not even sixty,' I said. ‘He's got years to go.'

‘I'd do anything for my dear Papa,' she said in aristocracy. ‘I love him dearly.'

‘Stop talking like that,' I told her. But she did love him and she would do anything for him.

Not so long back, Dad got beat up. He got drunk and played poker in some bar with this white-trash called Pluto. The next day Pluto came to the house and demanded that Dad pay him the $10,000 he'd lost. Dad never had the money and he wouldn't have paid him if he did, and so Pluto beat him up. Dad's kind of skinny. He'd never stand a chance against a brute like Pluto. And the way I heard it Pluto tricked Dad by telling him they weren't playing for real stakes. When we got home from school Dad told us he'd fallen down the stairs. He tried to make light of it, but I could see his pride was hurt.

When I found out what really happened I told the Rat and she went ballistic. She ran around the house slamming doors and shouting in French. The Rat always spoke French when she was angry, she thought it was more dramatic.

‘I'm gonna take care of that creep!' she said. And she said it in such a bitter tone I half believed her.

‘What are you going to do?' I asked.

‘I don't know but he'll never hit my father again!'

Well, the next day we're cycling to school and we pass by the Pluto place. And there he was sitting on his porch, all the junk of a scrap yard decorating his lawn.

‘Tell your pa I want my money,' he shouted. ‘And he'll pay me if he knows what's good for him.'

The Rat stopped her bike. ‘And you'd stay away from my father if you knew what was good for you!'

Well, that pig Pluto was up and off his porch. ‘What did you say?'

‘Come on. Let's go!' I said.

But the Rat put her bike on the ground and folded her arms. ‘You heard me.'

Pluto stopped in front of her and lowered the top half of his body like an ogre from a bedtime story. ‘Listen, little girl. If I don't get my money, there'll be trouble.'

I hated that Pluto for hitting Dad. But I was so scared I was on the verge of apologizing for her. But the Rat put her hands on her hips, looked up into that big ugly face, and said, ‘If you go near my father again, I'll go to the cops and tell them you put your hand up my dress.'

I near fell off the goddamn bike!

‘That's not true!' said Pluto taking a step back.

‘So what!' said the Rat taking a step forward. ‘Who are the cops going to believe? Me or an ex-con like you?'

Pluto began to walk backwards.

‘And you know what happens to paedophiles in prison, don't you? They'll put a dress on you and they'll all have a dance!'

Pluto ran for his front door. ‘You lying little witch! You stay away from me!'

‘Go on, you goddamn paedophile! You big white-trash bully! You're gonna get yours! You're not getting away with hitting my dad!' When Pluto's front door banged shut she picked up her bike. ‘I'm gonna make a doll of that beeping pig and stick pins in it!' I was kind of speechless so I never said anything. But then the anger left her face and she smiled. ‘Told you I'd take care of him.' Then she rode away like nothing had happened.

When I tell you the Rat could be scary I'm not even joking. As for Pluto, he must have gone in his house, packed a suitcase, and dropped off the edge of the world because he was never seen again.

‘What do you think happened to that creep Pluto?' I asked.

‘Maybe the Windigo got him,' said the Rat.

‘You got him more likely.'

‘Ah beep him. He hit my dad. Goddamn paedophile!'

‘Just because he hit Dad that doesn't make him a paedophile.'

‘Yeah, well, he looks like one.'

‘You can't tell what they look like.'

The Rat gave me her scary kid look. ‘Sure I can, Bob. They can't hide from me.'

I never said anything then. She was starting to freak me out.

‘And even if that creep Pluto wasn't a goddamn paedophile he hit my dad. And so that puts him down there with them.'

The Rat could be stubborn at times and she could be really irritating, but she was right. Anybody who hit our dad was a goddamn paedophile. And that's all there was to it.

The next morning I awoke to the one and only Frank Sinatra singing ‘Mack the Knife', accompanied by my dad of course. Dad's a big Sinatra fan and that's how he got us up in the morning. There was no shouting up the stairs or banging on doors. There was only Frank singing as loud as the system would let him. And no matter how much Dad drank the night before, no matter how late he went to bed, he always got up on schooldays to cook us breakfast. He must have been really soused last night because today was Saturday.

The Rat rolled her eyes on her way to the bathroom and I trotted downstairs to tell the Old Man he could go back to bed.

‘Dad, it's Saturday,' I shouted.

‘And a beautiful Saturday it is too,' he shouted back.

I was annoyed over being woken so early, and for no reason! But the smell of Dad's blueberry pancakes
wafted around the kitchen and since I was out of bed anyway I took a seat and waited to be served. Dad came towards me doing this shifty little dance as if to imitate old Mack the Knife himself. You could never stay mad with the Old Man, he was too nice, but I could see where the Rat got her craziness from. Then she came in and sat herself down at the table. ‘It's Saturday, Dad.'

‘I know it's Saturday,' said Dad slapping a wad of cash on the table. ‘I want you kids to go to town and treat yourselves.'

It was the surplus from the Old Man's welfare cheque. You see, Dad used to be a farmer and quite often the government would subsidize him not to grow certain things. Now they gave him a welfare cheque, which was like subsidizing him not to grow anything at all, which he didn't, not unless you count the secret garden. It was just a few acres where he grew fruit and vegetables. He sold them around town or at the side of the road, did pretty good at it too. And so he didn't really need the welfare money. But rather than going to all the trouble of giving it back to the government, who probably didn't need it either, he gave it to us kids. I have to say that me and the Rat lived pretty well on welfare.

‘Try buying some clothes this time,' said the Old Man sliding the pancakes on to the table. ‘I don't want people calling my kids white-trash.'

The Rat mouthed the word
cellphone
; she'd been after one for some time.

‘We'll never be white-trash,' said the Rat dividing the money. ‘We don't curse or swear and we're far too sophisticated.'

‘Of course. What was I thinking?' said Dad. ‘Well, you kids eat up and head to town.'

He never had to tell us twice. We swallowed breakfast, showered, and we were outside on our BMXs before the sun had a chance to turn yellow.

The Old Man came out to see us off. ‘Look after your sister, Bob.'

‘I will,' I said riding away.

‘Try and be back for lunch. And watch out for the paedophiles.'

‘If I find any, I'll let you know,' shouted the Rat over her shoulder.

The Old Man was always telling us to watch out for paedophiles. But I don't think there were any in Winnipeg, not as far as I know. But the Rat was always on the lookout for them. She's a little strange, like I say.

We rode off our land and on to the dirt road that ran to the train tracks. Far in the distance a four-by-four cut a trail of dust across the horizon, and way beyond that we could see the trees that grew along the riverbank. We passed various fields, brown with wheat or yellow with sunflowers, and then we bumped over the train tracks, which marked the halfway point between our farm and the river. From then on the road turned to tarmac and we covered the same distance in half the time.

The sun was golden when we reached the trees. Its rays were warm and mild for now but later it would dry the ground to a crisp. Believe me, Winnipeg's as hot as the Sahara in the summertime.

Dismounting our bikes, we made our way down the slope to the river and our beloved
Marlin
. It was a long lightweight canoe with a square back and an outboard motor, and it went like the wind. But we never used the motor on the weekend; we paddled downriver to save fuel. I positioned the bikes in the boat, the Rat cast off, and we pushed ourselves away from the bank.

I like the morning time; it's special, but it's made more special by the river. The Assiniboine River was our Amazon. It even looked like it in parts with
tall trees blocking out the sun and bright beams of light blasting through for the butterflies to play in. The silence was broken every now and again by the shrieking of an almost exotic bird or the swish of a catfish's tail. Apart from that there was only the rippling of the oars.

Not wanting to disturb the tranquillity I paddled smoothly. But then the Rat sang ‘La Vie en Rose' as loud as she could, in French, her voice echoing around the river. All of a sudden the butterflies left, the birds flew away, and the catfish sank to the riverbed. I turned to see her small face straining with the notes, but I said nothing. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. Every time we paddled downriver she sang that same damn song, and what got me was that the Rat knew the words to every song ever written. She was only doing it to wind me up. And she was worse when she was with the Old Man. They both fancied themselves as a couple of crooners and doubled up every chance they got. The Rat, the Old Man, and Frank Sinatra, it was as much as a twelve-year-old boy could take.

She didn't stop singing until we reached the Forks. The Forks is the place where the Assiniboine and Red Rivers meet. If the Assiniboine was our Amazon, the
Red River was our Mississippi. Later it would bustle with paddle-steamers, water-taxis, and tourists strolling along the riverbanks. But for now it was quiet except for the few families having breakfast in the riverside restaurants.

‘I want a mocha,' said the Rat. ‘Keep paddling.'

What that meant was she wanted to hang around the French Quarter. I didn't mind because it was still early, but even if I did mind I'd have no choice. Whether it was that thing with Felicia I don't know but the Old Man never liked me to let her out of my sight. She was ten and tough and could look after herself but he worried, so what could I do?

She guided the
Marlin
to the opposite bank and we docked at the jetty below the St Boniface Cathedral. I jumped out and tied the
Marlin
fast. ‘Lock the bikes to the boat,' I told her. You can't be too careful. There's a lot of petty crime on the mean streets of Winnipeg.

We ran up the stairs to street level and looked across the river towards the downtown skyscrapers, not a single cloud above them. In the centre stood the Fort Garry Hotel, quite famous in these parts, and just upriver stood the Esplanade Riel, a splendid name for a very splendid bridge. It mightn't have been the biggest bridge in the world, but it's white and pretty
and it gleams in the sunshine. And we're very proud of it here in Winnipeg. I met some people from Saskatoon who said it looked tacky. I'm not going to be childish and say something bad about Saskatoon. There's no need. And if you ever go there you'll see why.

Entering the green graveyard, we made our way towards the St Boniface Cathedral and the gaping circular hole that hovers in its centre. The cathedral burnt down long before I was born but nothing could destroy the stone walls. The hole is from where the stained glass used to be, of course, and above the hole sits a bishop. He looks like a piece missing from a chessboard. Me and the Rat like to position ourselves until all we can see through the hole is sky. It's just something we do. The Rat said it could be a portal to another world. She's crazy, but I've always thought of the cathedral as being a magical place.