Flood (11 page)

The waterfront cafés were crowded, but they found a warm and sheltered spot outside on the deck with a view of the boats in the marina. Vinny ordered a pint of beer for himself, with a whiskey chaser, and a hamburger and pop for Andy.

“Dad, please? Couldn't we move to a nicer place?” asked Andy while they waited for their order.

His father looked worried.

“Nicer than the Mayo Rooms. Vin — Dad, face it, it's a dump. It's not only the cockroaches, but the building is old and dirty and it's freezing cold, and there's no proper bathroom — “

“The Mayo is fine, Andy, just fine.” Vinny was unusually firm. “We can get something for the cockroaches if they bother you, but rents are terrible high all over. We can't afford to be throwing money down the drain, paying high rent in some fancy condohoonium when all we need
is a place to boil a kettle and rest our heads for a few hours.”

“We need more than a place to sleep, Vinny! I want us to live in a proper home, not a roach-infested garbage dump with no heat and no bathroom of our own!”

“A home?” Vinny scratched his head, as if the idea were new to him. “We will make it a proper home, Andy. But these things just take time. Have a little patience.”

Their order came.
“Sláinte!”
Vinny took a swig of beer from the heavy glass.

“Sláinte,”
Andy replied, raising his bottle of pop and drinking. He poured salt and ketchup on his fries. The burger was a fat one, with lettuce and onions. His mouth watered at the sight of it. He couldn't remember when he'd last had a burger.

He could see that Vinny wasn't about to budge on the idea of a new place, so he said, “You promise to do something about the cockroaches?”

“As soon as I get a chance I'll have the little divils marching out the door, and down to the harbor like the Pied Piper's rats throwing themselves into the river Weser.”

“And get an electric heater?”

“Hmmn. I'd have to sneak it in. If Rooney found out, he'd put up the rent.”

“So you'll get one?”

He looked gloomy, like a kid losing his comics. “I suppose it could be done.”

Andy grinned. “Okay. If we can't move to a nicer place,
but you get a heater and do something about the cockroaches, then I guess we could manage with the Mayo a little while longer. Could we put up a partition on one side of the sofa as well, the kind you see in offices? Where everyone's in a separate cubicle? It'd be like having my own room. Then all I'd need is some small cardboard boxes I could stack against the wall to keep my things in, or a little chest of drawers, a secondhand one would do, and — hey, we forgot to buy me a towel.”

Vinny started to say something, but Andy rushed on, the words leapfrogging out of his mouth.

“I've got a few ideas how we can change things, too, make the place a bit nicer, a cover for the sofa and chair and a few cushions, like Mom used to do, and we could paint the walls, and — “

“Hold on there,” interrupted Vinny. He looked worried again.

Andy waited for him to go on, but he seemed lost for words.

Finally Vinny said, “It sounds brilliant, right enough.” He nodded gravely as though these were all weighty matters requiring serious thought and consideration, then, as though taking medicine, he tossed back his whiskey in one swallow.

“There's just one more thing I'd like.”

“What's that?”

“Something important.”

“Go on.”

“Really
important.”

“Spit it out, why don't you!”

Andy hesitated. “Well, I'm on my own quite a lot.” He paused. “I need… I'd like a dog.” Before his father could say anything, Andy rushed on: “I've always wanted a dog, a pup I could bring up and train, but I've never had one. Mom used to say I was too young to know how to look after a dog. Clay didn't want one in the house either. But I'm old enough now, don't you think? I know how to take care of a dog and feed him and train him to obey signals and he wouldn't be any trouble and…” He stopped. His father stared and blinked as if he didn't know what a dog was, as if it were some alien creature he never knew existed. “Not a big dog,” Andy reassured him, “just a medium-sized dog, and he wouldn't have to be anything special, like…” He stopped again.

Silence.

“Father?”

“A dog,” said Vinny.

“For me to keep and look after, to be my friend.”

Vinny seemed to shake himself out of his stupor. “A dog! Well, why didn't you say? A dog is it? Every boy should have a dog. We'll have to look into it. Leave it to me.”

“When, Dad? When do you think I could get a dog? We could go together to the pound — that's where they keep stray animals — and pick one out. You could help me.”

“We will do just that, we'll go to the pound and pick one out. We will interview every dog they have in the place and inspect their little paws and teeth. We will pick the
very best dog we can find. Let's talk about it again next week, all right? I'll be terrible busy for the next few days trying to find a job.”

Andy saw very little of Vinny over the next few days; he left the apartment each afternoon, often by way of the fire escape, preoccupied, though never forgetting to leave a few fresh raisins on the table, his mind bent on finding a job. Andy reminded him of the heater and the poison for the cockroaches. Vinny said he was working on them. What about the dog? Could they go soon to the pound? Maybe it would be better to wait until he found a job first, Vinny said, before taking on added responsibilities.

Andy watched out the window one evening, waiting for his father to come home. It was raining. He had promised to be back by six with something for supper, and now it was seven. At seven-fifteen he heard the loud
kerthunk-kerthunk
of an old engine; he went to the window and peered down through the fire escape at a battered old truck at the curb, and he saw his father climb out, followed by the driver, Cassidy. They each carried a cardboard box, supported on their stomachs, up the steps of the side entrance and inside the building.

Andy opened the door and stood waiting for them.

His father was the first to appear. “Howyeh, Andy?” he said, smiling at him as he passed through, smelling of smoke and beer, into the living room with the box. The box said
Jameson's Irish Whiskey
on its sides. Cassidy's box was identical. “Howyeh, Andy?” he said as he lowered the
box from his big belly to the floor and turned immediately for the door. “See you later, Vinny,” he said, and he was gone.

Andy looked at the boxes. Twelve bottles in each box. Stale whiskey. He didn't want to know where it had come from. “Did you find a job?”

“Ah, Andy, there's no jobs. It's no use looking.” He shook his head at the hopelessness of it all, then broke into mournful song. “She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen, for they're hangin' men and women for the wearin' o' the green.”

“You can go hang, too, for all I care!” Andy cried. Vinny hadn't even looked for a job. Andy suddenly knew this without being told, and he could do nothing to stop the swell of anger that rose in his chest. “You didn't even look for a job, Vinny!” he yelled, grabbing his new jacket and fleeing out the door, down the stairs, and out into the rain.

He didn't return until much later, and by then he was thoroughly soaked and thoroughly tired.

“Tis a terrible country for harsh rain!” complained a Young One as they all trooped in behind the boy.

“But Vancouver is dreadful wet,” another Young One reminded her.

“Aye, but Vancouver rain is soft.”

“Not as soft as Irish rain.”

“Aye, Irish is softest, right enough.”

They struggled out of their wet things, hung them on the yellow nylon rope to dry, and then sat shivering on the windowsill, damp and dispirited, drying one another off with the grubby curtain.

“I want to go home to the meadow,” the Very Young One cried.

“There, there,” crooned the Old One, patting her slim shoulders. “It won't be long now. We're already halfway to our goal. Duty is a stern master. Soon we will be done. Have patience, my dear.”

HIS FATHER WAS UP by eleven o'clock the next morning. Andy heard the clink of bottle on glass from the kitchen before his father gave his face a cat lick with water and towel. He didn't shave. Then he loaded four bottles of whiskey into his raincoat pockets, two on each side like saddlebags, straining the tired fabric to its limit. A further four went into a shopping bag. “They were a gift,” he explained to Andy, smiling through several days' ginger stubble. “I'll sell them off and then we'll be done with them, and first thing Monday I'll look for a job, I promise.“

Vinny's promises.

“I'll be off on my rounds, then.” Vinny changed the raisins, then stepped out into the hall and stood still for a few seconds, like a deer, ears cocked, listening, nose sniffing the air for danger. He came back in, closed the door and climbed out the window, making his way carefully down the fire escape. “See you in a while, Andy,” he called when he reached the bottom.

Andy watched him move away down the street, his tilt slightly more pronounced because of the saddlebags.

After his father had gone, Andy felt empty and unhappy. His head hurt. He lay on the sofa and fell asleep.

“Dad, would it be a good idea for you to start getting up earlier in the mornings? To find a job? The early bird… you know?”

Vinny laughed. “Ah, I will, I will. I had a few words with a man who might have something coming up in the next week or two. Patience is a great thing.”

“What about the heater? The weather's colder.”

“Didn't I already talk to a man who knows electric fires. He's looking out for one for me.”

“And the cockroaches?”

“Ah! Well, I spoke to a man who knows roaches and he's coming around soon. The night of the full moon is the proper time to catch them, he says.”

“Are you sure? There's an r in the month, don't forget. Aren't cockroaches safe in r months?”

“It must be my influence; you're turning out to be such a clever, witty child, Andy.” Vinny stroked his hair fondly and kissed his cheek. “But we'll solve all our problems, never you fear.”

On the occasional evenings that Vinny stayed home, he sometimes answered coded — two slow, pause, two fast — knocks on the door. He invited nobody in, but talked or whispered for a few seconds with each caller before sending
them on their way with a small slip of paper for the betting shop, or with a bottle of whiskey.

Tonight had been particularly busy, with knocks at regular intervals throughout the evening. At ten o'clock Vinny said, “Bedtime, Andy.”

“Tell me a story.”

“For a few minutes, then.” When Andy was under his new blanket, Vinny sat on the edge of the sofa.

“There's a big old library downtown,” said Andy. “I'm going to join and have something to read in the evenings, seeing as how we've got no TV or radio or anything. Do you think we could get a reading lamp?”

“Good idea, Andy, we'll have a reading lamp. You're lighting up my life, so you are.”

“Tell me a Tir Na n'Og story.”

“Very well. I'll tell you what happened to young Lord Fitzgerald when he swore to love an orphan girl, swore to love her forever and beyond. Are you ready?”

“I'm ready.”

“The Little People were singing and dancing under the hawthorn tree one bright moonlit — ”

“Why does it always have to be moonlight? What's so important about moonlight?”

“Food for the soul. The Little People need to charge their spiritual batteries, same as us, which is why we pray and go to church. Now can I go on?”

“I thought you said they need raisins.”

“They do indeed. Raisins are food for the body. Body and soul is the whole man. If you keep interrupting — ”