Somewhere I Belong Page 10

  I stared at him in disbelief, and stepped away. “But why, sir? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Hold it out.” He lunged forward and grabbed my left hand. The strap landed with a crack, stinging the tender flesh of my palm.

  “What is it, then? Tell me.” He was a deep purple now. His spittle sprayed across my face.

  “I don’t know, sir, honest.”

  He let my hand go.

  I stepped back and hugged it to my chest.

  He was almost shaking now, both hands gripping the pointer. “You’re consorting with the devil, that’s what you’re doing.”

  My mouth fell open. I backed away and stood by the dummy desk, wondering what to do. I went to church; I said my prayers. I received the Holy Eucharist every Sunday, a blessing at Mass, and another one during the week when Father Flynn and, now, Father Mullaly came to visit. Then there was the rosary, which I said every evening on my knees in the parlour while first my dad, then Ma led the way through the mysteries. I never ever had anything to do with the devil.

  Old Dunphy lunged toward me, his face raw with anger.

  I let out a shriek. One that Larry told me, later, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Whatever effect it had on Old Dunphy, it seemed to work, because as quickly as he had stepped toward me, he backed away.

  “Go on over to the desk,” he hissed. Shaking his head, he returned to his own desk and replaced the strap. He picked up a piece of foolscap, found a pencil, and crept across the platform. He seemed conscious that the whole room was still watching him and moved as noiselessly as his shoes and brace would allow. He put the foolscap and the pencil on the desktop in front of me. “Here now.” He placed a shaking hand on my shoulder. “Here’s a clean sheet of paper and a brand new pencil. Why don’t you give it another go. And you’ll be wanting to write with your right hand. You can trust me on that one. It’s for your own good.”

  It didn’t take Uncle Jim long to figure out something was wrong. It could have been the way Larry, Pat Jr., and Thomas escorted me across the schoolyard. Or maybe it was the look of desolation on my face as I exited through the gate. He was waiting in his box sleigh while Big Ned and Lu stood quietly in their traces, blinking back the newly falling snow.

  “What happened to you?” He looked straight at me. And before I could answer, he asked again. “Pius James, what’s goin’ on?”

  My hand still stung from the strapping. But worse was how everything my teacher had done to me seemed to collect in my chest. It sat heavily, making it hard to breath. It clogged up my nose and made me gasp for air. “Nothing.” I raised a mittened hand and caught a tear.

  “Musta bin somethin’,” Uncle Jim said. “You look none too happy.” He waited a moment. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere ’til somebody tells me.”

  “Mr. Dunphy,” I snivelled. “He…I….” My hands flew up and covered my face.

  “Larry?” Uncle Jim asked.

  “P.J. was writing with his left hand and Mr. Dunphy caught him,” Helen offered.

  “What the devil!” Uncle Jim exclaimed. “What difference does it make what hand he writes with?” He drew a breath. “What’d he do?”

  “He took him up to the front of the classroom and bawled him out,” Larry said. “Then he gave him the strap.”

  “And,” Thomas interjected, “he tore up his work and made him do it all over again.”

  “He made him sit in the dummy desk again too,” Pat Jr. said.

  I could almost hear Uncle Jim’s teeth grind. “You fellas watch them horses. Charlie Dunphy and I are gonna have us a little chat.” He jumped down from the sleigh, and stormed through the gate and across the yard.

  Later that evening, when we were supposed to be asleep, Granny, Ma, Aunt Gert, and Uncle Jim sat in the parlour and rehashed the day’s events. Somehow the women had heard part of the story, and now they wanted to hear the rest, especially Ma. I crept out of bed and leaned out my doorway as their conversation drifted through the grate in the floor of the upstairs hallway.

  “So, what was his excuse, Jim?” Ma asked. “Why did he strap Pius James?”

  “The same nonsense all over again—Pius James bein’ left-handed. Charlie tryin’ to teach ’im how to write proper,” Uncle Jim said. “He made a big deal over it; goin’ over that stupid superstition. Sayin’ he was tryin’ to save the boy’s soul. I’m afraid I didn’t get the whole story—his side of it, anyhow. I was so mad I coulda tore his head off.”

  “But Pius James’s penmanship is good,” Ma said. “It’s always been good. I suppose Charlie Dunphy thinks my son’s spiritual well-being is part of his duty in the classroom.”

  “You know what I think?” Uncle Jim said. “I think it doesn’t have anythin’ to do with what hand Pius James writes with. I think Charlie’s lookin’ for an excuse to pick on ’im because it makes ’im feel big.”

  “Did you tell him that?” Ma asked.

  “I did,” Uncle Jim said. “And I told ’im a few other things, too.”

  “Such as?” Ma asked.

  “I reminded ’im of the man he used to be and then I told him, flat out, what he had become,” Uncle Jim said. “I also told ’im that if he bothered any of my kin again, there’d be hell to pay.”

  “Jim, really!” Aunt Gert said.

  “Well, I said somethin’ like that.” Uncle Jim’s voice trailed off. “I was good and mad, anyhow.”

  “So are we done with it?” Ma asked. “Can we count on Charlie to leave Pius James alone?”

  “For the time bein’,” Uncle Jim said. “I made a little deal with ’im.”

  “And what would that be?” Ma asked.

  “Pius James is to write with his right hand at school. Then he’s to bring his work home and copy it over. And I’m to sit with ’im and help. Anyhow, I doubt if the boy will have any more trouble with ’im.”

  “Not until the next time,” Granny said.

  “What do you mean, Mother?” It was Ma.

  “The man’s unpredictable. One day he seems perfectly normal, the next he’s a raving lunatic. You’ve seen how he puts on a show around here—playing the gentleman, making nice with everybody. Then he gets all riled up with Pius James over nothing.”

  “Charlie’s up and down like a jackrabbit,” Uncle Jim said. “He ain’t right in the head.”

  “Best if Pius James quits school then,” Aunt Gert said. “What you do think?”

  “We won’t be doing that,” Ma said. “That man is not going to interfere with my son’s future.”

  Uncle Jim’s visit to Old Dunphy seemed to work. The old codger steered clear of me after that. When he made his rounds, he stayed by the front row, the middle, or the back of the classroom. And when he passed up my aisle, he stopped at the desk behind me, checked over Curtis Murphy’s work, then skirted around me and kept right on going. He never once glanced my way. The nervous feeling I got around him gradually disappeared. Even so, I suspected Old Dunphy wouldn’t hold for long to the new arrangement he and Uncle Jim had agreed on.

  At Granny’s, the steady list of tasks Uncle Jim gave Larry and me “to keep us out of trouble” seemed to get easier. We finished up morning chores in no time before heading in for breakfast. Afternoon chores didn’t seem to take so long either. My back didn’t hurt anymore. My hands toughened up so the handle of the shovel didn’t bruise so much. And my body didn’t ache all over when I rolled out of bed in the morning. In all, I was starting to get a sense of settling in or at least of acceptance around the place. Sometimes, it even felt like fun.

  Helen didn’t fare so well. Uncle Jim kept Larry and me busy in the barn, and Alfred traipsed around after Granny, Aunt Gert, and Ma all day. But my sister was at loose ends. Her early attempts at forming a friendship with Maggie MacIntyre were proving to be frustrating. She spent most of her time, outside of school, hanging around th
e kitchen, getting in the way.

  We had been there for about a month when I came in from the barn one morning to find her leaning over the cookstove holding her hands out to the heat. Ma was standing at the counter making peanut butter sandwiches for our lunches. Aunt Gert was filling the kettle at the sink. Granny was hovering by Helen, stirring a pot of oatmeal. Helen’s dress hung on her; her skinny legs shivered under her heavy winter tights. My sister was always cold at Granny’s. It was as if she had arrived from Everett half frozen and stayed that way.

  “We had a coal furnace back home,” she whined to no one in particular. “Dad stoked it every morning, so it would be nice and warm when we got up.” Ma had told us to stop comparing everything at Granny’s to home. She said it was rude. But Helen was at it again.

  Granny gripped the wooden spoon and turned toward her. “We keep turnips in the basement, missy.” Her voice strained like she was trying not to raise it. “And potatoes and carrots and cabbage. There’s no room for a furnace.” Until then, Granny had managed Helen’s whining with a sigh and a shake of the head. This time she was plain fed up. She gave the oatmeal a vigorous stir. She slid the pot off the stove, skirted around Helen, and plunked it onto the wooden counter. Then she spooned the oatmeal into bowls and slammed them onto the table. I got the feeling things were hard enough around the place without my older sister complaining and getting in the way.

  “That’s enough, Helen,” Ma piped in. “Everybody’s doing their best.”

  “Sorry,” Helen mumbled. She shrank back from Granny, pulled a chair back from the table, and stood there, searching for sympathy. Then she rushed out of the room and up the stairs.

  When Ma turned to follow her, Granny said, “Let her go, Martha. It’s time she stopped moping.”

  Granny’s flying off the handle at my sister was sudden and unexpected. Thinking back on it, Ma and all us kids moving in on her like that must have been hard. And if she was annoyed at all about it, she had done a good job of hiding it. Until Helen pushed just a bit too far.

  I didn’t feel at all sorry for my older sister. Sure, living on a farm wasn’t easy. The way I figured, if you dug in and helped out, you’d do just fine. Whining wouldn’t get you anywhere. But I was soon to find that my troubles would far outweigh Helen’s.

  We had awoken to a grey sky and snow that spread to the horizon. It buried the fences and covered the ground, the road, and every rooftop and tree around us. Since our arrival we had seen nothing but grey sky and snow. Larry, Helen, and I met Pat Jr. and Thomas out on the road, as usual, and walked with them to school. It was mid-March. The ruts on the road had softened, so we could walk straight through them and crunch them down with our boots. Larry talked excitedly about learning how to hitch Big Ned up to Uncle Jim’s jaunting sleigh, so he could take Ma, Aunt Gert, and Granny into Montague when our uncle was busy on the farm. This was to be a new experience for my older brother and he went on about it all the way up Northbridge Road.

  We passed a typical day at school—Larry dodging the mean-spirited Patrick Daley, me keeping my head down, avoiding Old Dunphy. Helen blending into the dull, whitewashed walls around her and spending every minute outside of the classroom hanging around with Maggie.

  At the end of the day, we emerged to the thickening clouds and cool breeze that warn of heavy weather. Pat Jr., Thomas, and I pulled our scarves over our faces and scurried to match Larry’s long strides. Snow began to fall. It was light and soft and it barely covered the ground. Even so, Maggie made moving through it look like an effort. I couldn’t tell if it was because it stuck to her thick, woollen socks, which she still wore over her shoes, or if she was just plain tired. Helen lagged behind with her. We stopped at the end of the MacIntyres’ drive and waited for the girls to catch up.

  As they approached, Helen asked, “Do you want to come over to Granny’s?” It was the same question she had posed, over and over again, ever since we got there. She smiled eagerly, her eyes hopeful, like Dodger’s when he sat up and begged for one of Granny’s stale biscuits.

  Maggie hugged her books and stared down at road. “Maybe tomorrow—I’ll ask Mom.”

  Helen’s smile disappeared as she watched Maggie turn up her drive. “Okay, then, see you tomorrow.” She waved once, grabbed the straps of her satchel, and turned back to the road. “She always says the same thing: ‘I’ll ask Mom.’ But I wonder if she ever does.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t bug her so much, Helen,” I said, wishing right away I hadn’t.

  “Shut up, P.J.” She wiped a tear from her cheek and stormed up the road ahead of us.

  “Go easy on her,” Larry said. He sounded like Ma.

  “Mind your own business, Larry.” I stopped short of telling him to shut up in order to stoke my wounded pride.

  “Helen is my business,” Larry said. “And she’s yours, too—so be nice.”

  Larry was right. Of the three of us older kids, Helen had tried the hardest to make a friend. And she was the only one of us who still didn’t have one.

  “I didn’t mean it,” I mumbled.

  “Then you need to apologize,” Larry said.

  I glanced over at him and nodded, thinking I would, later.

  When we neared Granny’s, I pulled off a mitt, placed a forefinger and thumb between my teeth, and whistled. A moment later, a shrill whinny sounded out from the backfield. Then Lu bounded around the corner of the house, ears perked, head high, blond mane and tail flowing in the wind. Her hooves pounded over a thin layer of snow as she thundered down the front pasture. Her muscles rippled under her thick, chestnut coat. She moved directly toward me and stopped at the fence. She stretched out her neck and whinnied again. When I moved to pat her, she raised her head up and snorted, her breath condensing into thin puffs of cloud. Then she turned, trotted back up the field, and disappeared behind the house.

  If there was any advantage to barn chores, it had to be Lu. In the morning, she nickered at the sound of the barn door unlatching. The moment she saw me, she moved to the side of her stall, and stuck her head over it, begging for a lump of sugar. Soon, she started meeting me by the fence along the road and we played our new game.

  I hitched my hands inside the straps of my satchel and ran eagerly along the road. I passed Helen and her long, sour face and caught up with Larry as we both turned onto Granny’s drive. Lu waited at the fence at the far end of the barnyard, her head hung over the latched gate. Big Ned lounged in the back field, uninterested. When I reached Lu, I pulled a lump of sugar from my pocket and held it out. She nuzzled it out of my hand and waited for another. Big Ned raised his huge head and trotted up beside her. He leaned over the fence and snorted, his barrel chest threatening to take the whole thing down. He nudged Lu aside, buried his wet nostrils in my woollen jacket, and nipped at my pocket. He wouldn’t play the game, but he wanted the reward just the same.

  Behind me, Dodger bounded and yelped toward Helen. “Hello, Dodger.” Helen’s pout disappeared as she bent and patted his face and neck with both hands. She pulled a biscuit from her pocket, held it up, and waited for him to sit up and beg. The only time I had seen Helen happy since we moved was when she was with Dodger. For some reason, she had become his favourite since our first day there. Maybe it had to do with the steady supply of stale biscuits she kept in her pocket.

  “Tell Ma we’re putting the horses in,” Larry hollered to her, as he rushed across the yard. By now, snow was blowing in solid pellets directly at us. It bit our skin and stabbed at our eyes. Larry and I each grabbed a lead line, opened the gate, and led the horses toward the barn. They followed us willingly, no doubt eager to get out of the rising wind. Further up the pasture, half a dozen black-and-white Holsteins raced ahead of Uncle Jim, trying to beat the weather to the barn.

  The last of the laying hens scurried into the coop, but two stray turkeys huddled next to the back stoop, catching warmth from the kitchen. Helen dashe
d through the back door, grabbed a broom, returned to the yard, and shooed them toward the coop. “Off you go, you stupid old birds.” She sounded just like Granny did when she chased the turkeys around the yard. Only Helen’s pitch was higher and she didn’t go quite so near. Like she was afraid they’d turn and nip her, even though she was the one carrying the broom. Dodger danced and yelped around the turkeys, herding them.

  Uncle Jim tethered the Holsteins into their open stalls. “If we’re battening down, we’d best make sure these animals have enough feed and water to carry them over.” He grabbed a pail and made several trips to the well, while Larry and I dropped hay and bedding down from the loft and apportioned them amongst the stalls. Then we circled the barn and the house and helped Uncle Jim latch the shutters over the lower windows. Ma and Aunt Gert latched the upstairs shutters from inside.

  The wind whistled and screamed all that night. It shook the house and rattled the shutters. It beat snow, by the bucket, against the house. Aunt Gert fed wood into both stoves and Granny added more quilts to the beds. By morning, snow had banked up to the top of the back steps and there was no sign of a break in the weather. Larry and I bundled up, grabbed shovels from the mudroom, and followed Uncle Jim out the back door. We dug a path to the barn. Larry shovelled at equal strength with Uncle Jim, pitching snow high over his head. I followed, picking up any slabs left behind. It was hard going. The snow kept falling, filling in our work. The wind kept lashing at my face. The cold seeped from the ground and through my boots. My fingers froze.

  When we finally reached the barn, Uncle Jim cleared around the door and pried it open. We quietly entered and moved steadily around the animals, tending them. We hauled water, lay straw, and heaved bails of hay. When we had finished, Larry and I returned to the house to make mash. We were worried that Big Ned and Lu would get pneumonia, even though we had put them in dry, rubbed them down, and blanketed them the evening before. Larry and I went straight to the kitchen and cooked oats and bran on the cookstove. I waited for Granny’s back to turn, then grabbed the jug of blackstrap molasses from the counter and added some to the mixture. Larry carefully poured the mash into a small crockpot and covered it. Then we flew back out the door.