The Latchkey Kid (5 page)

“Always got an A in music,” he replied, still contemplating the portrait. “Paid for lessons out of my newspaper money.” He nodded towards the photograph. “Sorry about Peter.”

She was suddenly tense and her voice came stiffly: “Thank you.”

Seeing her quivering lips, he wished he had not mentioned Peter. What a clumsy lout he was! Desperately he wanted to comfort her, but how does a man comfort a girl crying for someone else, he wondered anxiously. “You’ll feel better later on,” he floundered. “Lousy job – the army.”

She controlled herself with an effort. “Yes, but I think he felt the peacekeeping mission was very worthwhile.”

He tried to change the subject. “Funny to think you’re a Canadian.”

She realized he was trying to lead the conversation away from her husband, to be kind and make up for his blunder. “I suppose I am,” she said. She picked up a New York paper from the pile on the coffee table. “I wanted to show you this.”

He felt a little snubbed and was angry with himself. He took the paper from her, however, and after a quick glance at her set face, read the column she indicated, which was headed “Book Reviews”. He whistled under his breath.

“‘
The Cheaper Sex
… a disgusting book … vulgar pornography … shocking,’” he read in a mutter, and looked at her sheepishly.

She had recovered herself, and tiny humorous lines were gathering round her eyes.

“Now read this one,” she commanded.

He read aloud: “‘Delicate delineation of a boy’s sensations on discovering physical love … powerful and evocative description of adolescent suffering in an unsympathetic society … the best to come out of Canada for years …’ Aw, hell!” He slammed the paper down, his face going pink in spite of his efforts to appear blasé. “Do you think it was a sick book?”

Isobel smiled and said: “No. I told you it was a good book, and I was right. A lot of things which are thought rather wicked in North America are regarded as normal in Europe. The thing is that, in a day or two, the
Tollemarche Advent
will wake up to the fact that you wrote it. There will be headlines – and I don’t think your parents are going to like them much.”

Hank’s voice was sulky as he replied: “What do I care? I started to write it so as to shake them. They never cared about me, did they?”

“They are going to care now.”

“They’re about twenty years too late. Anyway, I did finally send it under a pen name – Ben MacLean – mostly to please you,” he said defensively. Then he added, with a sudden burst of frankness, “I reckoned the news would seep out anyway in time and cause them to lose plenty of sleep.”

“I think in a place as small as Tollemarche it will come out,” she agreed.

“Waal,” he drawled defiantly, “let it come out. That’s what I originally intended. Now, I don’t care either way, Isobel.”

The use of her first name did not imply familiarity, as it would have done in England, though she had never really got used to being on a first-name basis with everyone; she was invariably disconcerted by this custom.

She leaned forward to pick up a cigarette box. When she opened
the lid, it commenced to play a tinkling version of “The Bluebells of Scotland”. She offered him a cigarette from it.

He was charmed by the tune and took the whole box from her while he listened; his face reflected an almost childlike absorption. This was the first time that he had been past the big covered back porch of her house, and everything was new and interesting.

“Say, where did you get that?”

“It belonged to my Welsh grandmother – she bought it in Edinburgh while she was on her honeymoon.” She enjoyed his obvious fascination with it, and it reminded her of another suggestion she wanted to make to him.

“You know, Hank, if you really want to write for a living you should go to London and Edinburgh, go to Europe, too – perhaps try working for a newspaper or magazine. See something of life.”

“I’ve seen plenty already,” he snapped, his face suddenly hardening, though basically he appreciated the personal interest which prompted her suggestion.

She ignored his tone of voice and agreed with him.

“You have in a way – but you know, there are other places than the Prairies and Jasper and Banff – and, by and large, the world isn’t very interested in books about Canada. You will need to branch out and – ”

She stopped, anxious not to offend him. His presence kept at bay the pictures that danced through her mind, of Peter lying in the dust, her Peter who had, she realized suddenly, always had the same slightly defensive outlook that Hank had, of trying to forestall criticism.

“The Bluebells of Scotland” had also stopped, and he put the box down slowly, his eyes turned thoughtfully towards her.

“Branch out and…?” he asked.

“Acquire a veneer of civilization,” she said unexpectedly, with a brutal honesty possible only with someone she regarded as an old friend.

Impulsively she put her hand over his and said with passion: “You are going to have to deal with a smart, slick world, quick to ridicule those who do not understand its manners – a world where you want friends, not enemies. You can’t defy the world as you can your parents; you have to work with it a little – and be polite to it.”

The hand under hers clenched on the settee cushion, his face
went red, and his eyes flashed such vindictive rage for a moment that she thought he would hit her, then he controlled himself, sitting silently by her on the settee, until she felt his hand gradually relax.

“Hank,” she said rather hopelessly, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He slowly lifted the hand which had been clutching his, opened it and very gently implanted a kiss on its palm, and laughed when she gasped at the caress. She was too innocent, he thought.

“I kiss the hand which beats me,” he said melodramatically, and put it down firmly in her lap before he had any further ideas.

“Yeah, I know I’m a savage compared to your itsy-bitsy English world.”

She was still shaken that anyone should calmly kiss her when she had not been long widowed, but his remark stung her into retort.

“It’s a very tough world,” she said defensively. “English people are generally very well qualified, and if you are not good at your work you’ll soon go under, there.”

He had quite recovered his good humour, and said: “O.K., O.K., what do I do now, ma’am?”

“It depends on whether you have any money left.”

“‘Bout five hundred bucks – from working in the store and from the articles you helped me to place.” He paused, and then said, “I used the advance payment for the book to get the car.”

His eyes twinkled when she told him he was rich.

“When does High School finish?” she asked.

“In June next – but I’m quitting right now – I’ve had enough.”

She was still telling herself she should not be put out by a kiss from a youngster who did not realize what he was doing, and she tried to nod her golden head with an appropriate display of adult wisdom, as she said: “Yes, you’re wasting your time. Has your publisher asked you to go to New York?”

“Yeah, he has. Next week. Mostly about the film – and they want to talk about another book.” He pulled a crumpled letter out of his shirt pocket, opened it and handed it to her to read.

“Sent me a cheque for expenses, too.”

She was immediately businesslike and succeeded in putting some suggestions to him in her crisp English way, which banished from her mind again any other thoughts.

“What about asking Albert’s to set you up with a really quiet-
looking business outfit for New York? Take the clothes you have on with you, so that if he wants you dressed up as a teenager you have the proper clothes for that, too.” She paused, looking at him reflectively, and then asked: “Don’t you think you had better speak to your father about all this?”

Hank chuckled. “I’d have a job. He’s away up the Mackenzie in a canoe – with a prospecting party.”

“Oh, dear. Well, what about your mother?” She looked imploring, and he realized that her eyelashes were golden, too. She was a true blonde. “Hank, you really ought to tell her.”

He withdrew his mind from contemplation of her eyelashes, and asked heavily: “You kidding?”

“No.”

“I just hope the shock rocks her to her Playtex foundations.” He sounded malicious, and then, as Isobel made mild noises of protest, he went on in more conciliatory tones: “Aw, I’ll just tell her I’m going on a trip right now – an’ don’t you tell her.”

“I don’t really know her. I’ve met her twice on formal occasions, but I am at work all day, so I don’t often see my neighbours. And I don’t intend to meddle in your family life – if you can’t talk to each other, it’s none of my business.” She smiled at him. “You have always been a careful tenant in the garage. If you have a table and a typewriter in there, I don’t mind – I’ve known you for years. I know you write under the pseudonym of Ben MacLean and wish to keep your literary activities secret, so I have never seen anything wrong in taking in your mail.” She leaned back against the settee, her eyes regarding him quizzically, and said: “There. I’ve done my best to square my conscience for your sake. How’s that?”

“And what about all the times I’ve asked your advice while you were doing your yard work?” he teased.

“Well – um – the students who live with me sometimes ask advice, too.”

“Oh, brother!” he exclaimed, looking suddenly troubled. “They’ll be coming back from church soon – and Dorothy, too – and I don’t want you embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” She was surprised.

“Yeah. You know. Neighbours talkin’ and that kinda thing.”

“Good heavens! One can be friends with men without that sort of gossip. What do they think I am – a baby snatcher?”

He was hurt to the quick.

“Not here you can’t,” he almost snarled. “And I’m no baby.”

She looked up at the six solid feet of him, at the huge, deep chest under his black shirt and at his bulging arm muscles. Then she raised her eyes to his cross, slightly plump face, its high Ukrainian cheekbones and sallow skin, now flushed with anger, and finally at the intelligent, black eyes, almost pleading to be told that he was a man.

She pitied him, and said, smiling gently: “No, you have grown up in the years you’ve had my old garage, and you are very much a young man.” She hesitated, and then said very sweetly to comfort him: “And it was nice of you to think of my reputation.”

He did not tell her that hers was the only female reputation he had ever given any thought to, and that he did not know why he bothered. He just stood looking down at her for a moment, his eyes still pleading, and then abruptly he turned and picked up the tray and carried it into the kitchen for her.

“I guess I’ll go and do some work,” he said heavily. “I got the rough outline of another novel in my head.”

She forced herself to be cheerful. “That’s the spirit. You’ll go from strength to strength, I know it.”

He felt happier. She could surely be real sweet when she tried, he ruminated. He saluted her, went through the screen door, vaulted the balustrade protecting the steps, and swaggered down the garden.

The Triumph was soon garaged, with its nose almost touching the back of his chair. He sat down at the old table by the window and put a new sheet of paper into the typewriter.

“Mother and Son,”
he typed, “By Ben MacLean.”

On Sundays Maxie Frizzell caught up with the various jobs his wife Donna required him to do. He sometimes thought it would be pleasant to lie in bed with his wife on Sunday mornings, now that there were no children to interrupt them, but Donna reckoned they should be through with all that kind of stupidity, so he was resigned to the sporadic consolation of his Métis up north.

Donna’s latest demand was that he should extend the patio and then roof it over.

“I helped you by clearing all the leaves in the yard,” she told him half a dozen times, “and I got a cold while I was doing it. Now just you get busy on that patio.”

Maxie made himself some coffee and took it out to the patio, where he surveyed the work to be done. He had already prepared the ground for the extension of the concrete flooring, and, since this was likely to be the last Sunday of the year when it would not freeze, the next job was to prepare the concrete mixture, which lay against the wall in a large bag.

He worked slowly but efficiently for nearly two hours, fearing that, if he did not finish the work quickly, frost would make it impossible for him to continue; then, tired and sweating, he went and sat on the front doorstep to rest.

Next door but one, new neighbours had recently moved in, and a man was at work in the garden, slowly digging a flower bed, while a small boy pottered about trying to help him. They were both very fair complexioned, and they chatted sporadically to each other in a language foreign to Mr. Frizzell, who imagined that they must be Dutch or German. He remembered his wife mentioning to him that some immigrants had moved into the street, and, because he knew that neither Donna nor Mrs. Stych would bother to call on immigrants, he felt vaguely sorry for the newcomers’ isolation. When the man looked up from his digging.
Frizzell lifted a tired hand in salute, and the man gravely acknowledged it.

Closer to hand, the white Triumph was standing outside the Styches’ house, and Mr. Frizzell gazed at it uneasily. Though he did not like Stych much – too stuck up by far with his university degree and his oilmen friends – he hoped that Hank had not stolen the money for the car.

He saw Olga Stych go off to church an hour early, and deduced that she must be helping with some small church chore before the service. Then Hank came out and drove off, and he cursed him quietly. That young so-and-so might easily have got his Betty into trouble, if he had not caught them in time. Children, he muttered fervently, were just a curse sent by God.

This reminded him that it was nearly time for church, so he heaved himself to his feet and went to make some more coffee, this time for Mrs. Frizzell as well.

She was sitting up in bed, her glasses already adorning her gaunt face and her hair curled up tightly on rollers. She accepted the coffee with a grunt and told Maxie not to sit on the bed, because he had cement on his jeans.

He lowered himself gingerly to a gilt chair and stirred his coffee, the spoon circulating slowly until it finally stopped and he sat staring at it.

Mrs. Frizzell drank her coffee quickly, then scrambled out of bed and proceeded a little unsteadily to the kitchen, her cotton nightgown drooping despondently round her. She took a roast from the refrigerator, put it into a baking tin, wrapped two potatoes in tinfoil and put both meat and vegetables into the gas oven. Having adjusted the heat and thus satisfactorily disposed of the problem of lunch, she went to the bathroom for a shower and then returned to the bedroom.

Maxie was still staring at half a cup of coffee.

“You sick?” she asked, as she struggled into her best foundation garment. Her body was still damp and the garment was too tight, so she was pink with exertion by the time she had managed to zip it up.

“No.”

“You’d better shower or we’ll be late.”

“Yeah.”

He got up reluctantly, put the cup down on the dressing table,
and walked slowly towards the bathroom. At the bedroom door he stopped. His wife was painting her eyelids green.

“You know Hank next door.” He made it a statement rather than a question.

Mrs. Frizzell turned. She looked weird with one green eyelid and one a veined pink. “Sure,” she said.

“Has he been left any money by somebody?”

“Not as far as I know. She’d surely have told me if a rich relative had left him somethin’ – I’m sure she would. Why?” she inquired, as, tongue clenched between teeth, she carefully finished her second eyelid.

“Nothin’. I just wondered.”

Mrs. Frizzell stopped half-way into a bone-coloured skirt – bone had been last year’s fashionable colour, according to the
Tollemarche
Advent
.

“Maxie Frizzell! What do you know that I don’t?”

He was sorry that he had brought up the subject and hastily departed for his shower, shouting that he would tell her while he was dressing.

By the time he came back she was ready, looking like a spangled Christmas doll, her bone suit augmented by a scintillating green, three-tier necklace and bracelet, a startlingly flowered green hat, tight, incredibly high-heeled shoes of shiny green, and her fox stole.

She was sitting tensely on the gilt chair.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Say, you do look nice.” He went over to her, holding a towel round his middle, and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek.

She pushed him off irritably.

“What’s this about Hank?”

He let the towel drop and dug around in a drawer for some underwear.

“Maxie, cover yourself! You’re not decent!”

He ignored this, and leisurely got into his undershirt.

“Hank,” she reminded him, her anxiety to know apparent in her rapt attention.

“Well, he bought a Triumph off us yesterday.”

“So what?” She was disappointed.

“You don’t get a Triumph one year old for cents.”

Mrs. Frizzell digested this truth, and the import of it slowly became clear to her.

“That’s right,” she said thoughtfully. “Mebbe his father got worried about him driving that old jalopy – it weren’t safe. He might have helped Hank buy a new one – he’s making enough money.”

“His father don’t hardly know he’s born yet,” said Maxie scornfully.

“How’s he payin’ for it?”

“A thousand down and the rest over six months – plus his old wreck, of course.”

“Cash?”

“No, cheque – but it’s good – Josh checked with the bank, called Hnatiuk at his home. Hnatiuk says his savings account has been in good shape for a boy this past two years.”

Mrs. Frizzell licked her finger and smoothed her eyebrows with it. This was truly a mystery. She pondered silently, and then was suddenly alert. Hank must have done a robbery to have so much money – he must have – there had been one or two bad ones recently – a Chinese grocer had been shot to death, in one instance.

She was filled with excitement. She would get hold of Mrs. Hnatiuk after church and see if she knew anything about it. No good asking Olga Stych; she’d just stick her nose in the air and say that Boyd was doing very well.

“Hurry up,” she said, as if the church service would be over all the quicker if Maxie got a move on. And then she said: “Mebbe he’s one of that gang that has been holding up grocery stores.”

“Mebbe,” said her husband. “I don’t care what he’s done. None of my business. The finance company will pay us, and they’ll soon squeeze the balance out of him.”

“For heaven’s sake!” Such a scandalous-sounding mystery, and he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything, except cars and trucks. A fat lot he even cared about being late for church, and she trying to keep up a good style.

“For goodness’ sakes, hurry up,” she exclaimed, standing up and folding her stole around her. “I’ll go get the car out.”

The Reverend Bruce Mackay, the patient and acquiescent minister, went on to “fifthly” in his sermon, and Mrs. Frizzell was sure he would never end. Mrs. Hnatiuk, who was wearing a fast-looking white jockey cap, was only two rows in front of her, and Mrs. Frizzell did not know how to bear the suspense. The final hymn had eight verses, not to speak of a chorus of Hallelujahs at the
end of each one; Mr. Frizzell enjoyed this and sang in a pleasant tenor voice.

Across the aisle, Mrs. Stych expanded her tremendous bosom to shout to the Lord in a wobbly soprano. Borne along by the music and the comforting sermon, she was happy.

It was over at last. The minister stood at the door and shook the hand of each member of his congregation, with a kindly word for each boy and girl. The children viewed him with wary respect, since, in spite of his air of benignity, he frequently exploded when faced with old chewing-gum stuck under the pews, the choir guardedly shooting craps during the sermon, and similar juvenile straying from the path of righteousness.

Mrs. Frizzell eased herself – it could not be said that she exactly pushed – through the crowd so that she was next to Mrs. Hnatiuk, while Maxie stopped to talk to clients.

Out on the pathway, Mrs. Hnatiuk was surprised to find her hand gripped enthusiastically by Mrs. Frizzell, who was normally so condescending, and her health solicitously inquired after. Mr. Hnatiuk had taken one look at the approaching Mrs. Frizzell and had dived for cover into a knot of other businessmen. Mrs. Hnatiuk was cornered.

Mrs. Frizzell circulated painstakingly through all the usual conversational openings, the weather, the forthcoming Edwardian Days Carnival Week, the coming winter and what winter did to the car trade, wondering how to get round to Hank’s Triumph. She was unexpectedly helped along by Mrs. Hnatiuk, who said: “Ah, there’s Mrs. Stych. I just love her little car.”

“Yeah,” said Mrs. Frizzell, with satisfaction. “Maxie just sold her Hank another nice one, a Triumph.”

“My! They must be doing well,” said Mrs. Hnatiuk. “Three good cars in the family, counting Boyd’s Dodge.”

“Maxie said Hank paid for it himself,” dangled Mrs. Frizzell hopefully.

The fish failed to rise.

“Did he?” exclaimed Mrs. Hnatiuk. “He must be working at something good.”

“He’s still in high school. Doing Grade 12 again.”

Mrs. Hnatiuk’s five little girls were still in elementary school and, consequently, she did not come into frequent contact with high school students. She was, therefore, unaware of Hank’s
reputation for being rather irresponsible. She said maddeningly: “Say, that’s a nice stole you’ve got. Mrs. Macdonald’s got a blue mink, but that one of yours sure is nice, too.”

Mrs. Frizzell nearly screamed. Either Mrs. Hnatiuk really did not know much about Hank or she was just being perverse.

“Where do you think he got the money from?” she queried.

“Who?”

“Hank Stych.”

Mrs. Hnatiuk’s pale blue eyes opened wide. “From his father, I suppose. Where else?”

“He might have stolen it.”

Mrs. Hnatiuk’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Do you think so?”

It was obvious that Mrs. Hnatiuk was not telling. Mrs. Frizzell mentally crossed her off her list of guests – she’d never really be anybody anyway – and abruptly made her farewells.

She moved down to the curbside, smiling graciously as she elbowed her way through the crowd. Mrs. Stych was having difficulty starting her little car, so Mrs. Frizzell bobbed her flower-decked head down until her hawklike nose was level with the half-open window.

“How does Hank like his new Triumph?” she asked.

Mrs. Stych ceased her frantic turning of the ignition key for a moment, and looked perplexed.

“Triumph?”

“Yeah. His new car.”

Mrs. Stych pursed her heavily painted lips and looked at Mrs. Frizzell as if she feared for Mrs. Frizzell’s mental health.

“He hasn’t got a new one. You know he’s not working yet.”

She gave the ignition key another desperate turn and the engine burst into song.

“But,” Mrs. Frizzell began, “he – ”

Her words were lost in the sound of grinding gears, and the car leaped away from the sidewalk, knocking Mrs. Frizzell’s hat askew and leaving her mouthing furiously at nobody.