Somewhere I Belong Page 3

  When Uncle Jim returned from the barn, we paraded into the dining room behind Granny, the two aunts, and bowls and platters piled with food. Aunt Gert placed the peas at the far end of the table, then continued across a hallway and into what looked to be the parlour. She approached an old man seated in an overstuffed chair and offered him her hand. He clung to it as she heaved him to his feet. He grabbed a cane, scowled, and waved her off. Then he shuffled toward the dining room. Uncle Jim pulled out a chair and offered a hand.

  “I can manage.” The old man waved Uncle Jim off and eased into the chair. “I ain’t dead yet.”

  Somehow I got stuck by the dining room door, and the only empty seat was between Aunt Gert and Mr. Dunphy. So I sat there. We folded our hands and bowed our heads as Uncle Jim said grace. Then Aunt Gert picked up the old man’s tumbler and a pitcher of milk.

  “You remember Mr. White, don’t you, Martha?” she said.

  “Of course I do,” Ma replied. “Jim and I used to land at your back door looking for Isabelle’s…I mean, Mrs. White’s cookies. We were such a nuisance.” She paused and said, “I’m sorry she’s gone, Mr. White. You must miss her.”

  “Youse can call me John,” Mr. White said. “And yes, she was a wonderful woman.” He looked around the table and smiled. “I have to admit that since Isabelle’s been gone, it’d be some goin’ without you Lanigans.”

  “You can say that again,” Mr. Dunphy said.

  Aunt Gert leaned over me, plucked Mr. Dunphy’s tumbler from the table, and filled it with milk. “You drink every drop of this, Charlie Dunphy—it’s good for you.”

  “I know what’s good for me, woman.” Mr. Dunphy leaned across me, and winked at her with a wry smile.

  “Don’t you get fresh with me,” Aunt Gert said. She sounded like Ma when we were over to Aunt Mayme’s for dinner and one of us started stirring up trouble.

  “Let’s have a toast to Martha and the four scamps,” Uncle Jim said.

  “Now there’s an idea.” Mr. Dunphy raised a finger and smiled across the table. “But a proper toast calls for a proper libation, don’t you think?”

  “I couldn’ta said it better myself,” Uncle Jim said.

  “James D.” Granny glared at my uncle. Then she grabbed the bowl of peas and served Mr. White a heaping spoonful.

  Uncle Jim grinned at Granny and edged around the table and into the kitchen. He returned carrying five tumblers and a large glass jug that contained a murky brown liquid. He plunked the tumblers onto the table in front of Granny. He pulled the stopper from the jug, filled a tumbler halfway, and raised it to eye level. He sniffed it and then took a gulp. He swished the liquid around in his mouth, and then swallowed it loudly, his Adam’s apple travelling the length of his skinny neck. He smacked his lips and smiled. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  He filled three more tumblers, placing one on the table in front of Mr. White, and handing the other two to Uncle Ed and Mr. Dunphy. He picked up the last tumbler and filled it with milk. “You get this here into you, Mother. It’s good for the bones.” He grabbed his own drink and the jug and returned to his seat.

  The men stogged their faces and cleaned their plates. Uncle Jim sliced what remained of the ham and Mr. White held out his plate. “You’re the best cook on Northbridge Road, Mrs. Lanigan,” he said. Aunt Gert leaned toward him, pulled his napkin out from his shirt collar, and patted grease off his face.

  Mr. Dunphy helped himself to more potatoes. “I’ll second that.”

  I ate quietly and watched and listened. I felt nervous and alone in that crowded room—swallowed up by the strangeness. This should all have been familiar to me; Ma had brought us here, just five years ago, when Dad was away working with Uncle George. But the memories were too distant. The kindness was real—I could feel it. But there was something forced and unnatural about the stilted conversation, about the pleases and thank yous that were drawn out to fill the silence. Aunt Kate asked us about our trip, as if our whole lives had begun just the week before. Everyone seemed to tiptoe around the real reason we were there. They treated it like china so brittle it could break at the touch. I moved my fork slowly across my plate, trying not to scrape it, and carefully balanced my peas. My chest was heavy with the constant ache that had set in after Dad died. I listened to everybody around me, hoping to hear his name mentioned just once. But the chatter veered off in a different direction as if we kids weren’t even there.

  Mr. Dunphy grabbed the jug and refilled his tumbler. He took a huge gulp and wiped his hand over his mouth. “Wa’s fer dessert?”

  “We’ve a lovely apple pie from Jaynie Giddings, next door,” Granny said.

  “Percy Giddings brought it over ’imself,” Uncle Ed said. “I saw ’im struttin’ up the drive, dressed to the nines. And Gertie here wouldn’t let ’im in.”

  “Poor bugger, sloggin’ through all that snow,” Uncle Jim laughed. “You’re a cruel woman, Gert.”

  Mr. Dunphy leaned across me, breathing potatoes and cider over my face. “I’d say you’re a smart woman to stay away from the likes of him, Miss Lanigan.” I sat back in my chair as his huge bulk pressed up against me. “Percy Giddings is nothing but a hooligan.”

  “Percy Giddings is a nice young man,” Granny said. “All the Giddings are. They’ve been a real help to me since my William died.” She was talking about Grandfather William; he died before I was born.

  “Not that Percy.” Mr. Dunphy raised his voice. His ruddy face turned a deeper shade of red. “He’s no end of trouble.” He was all over me now, as if I weren’t even there. I pushed my plate aside as he placed an elbow on the table in front of me.

  “I don’t see the trouble with young Percy.” Mr. White smiled at Aunt Gert. “Seems he’s sweet on Miss Lanigan here, anyhow.”

  Aunt Gert blushed and stared at her plate.

  “Have a bit of cider, Gertie,” Uncle Jim said.

  “I will not,” she replied.

  Mr. Dunphy held out his tumbler. “A fella would die of thirst without you Lanigans.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Charlie?” Aunt Gert said.

  Mr. Dunphy stared straight at her. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

  Aunt Gert and Granny disappeared into the kitchen under a load of dirty dishes. They returned with the apple pie and served it. Alfred fell asleep with his face in his plate. Ma plucked him out of his chair and carried him upstairs. Aunt Kate followed with Helen. The men and the jug of cider retreated to the parlour for cards.

  Mr. Dunphy grabbed Uncle Ed’s arm and staggered across the hallway. “Tell Mrs. Giddings her pie was delicious.”

  Mr. White eased out of his chair and waited for Larry. “You look like a big, strong fella. You wouldn’t help an old man into the parlour, wud’ja?”

  Larry obliged. At a loss for anything else to do, I followed.

  Larry helped Mr. White into the same overstuffed chair Aunt Gert had retrieved him from before supper. Uncle Jim placed the jug of cider on the coffee table; the remains of a game of solitaire lay strewn over it. He moved to an armchair next to the pot-bellied stove and sat opposite Mr. White. Mr. Dunphy hobbled toward the settee and sank into it, dead centre. Uncle Ed squeezed in beside him, forcing Mr. Dunphy to yield some space. Larry and I knelt on the hand-hooked rug on the other side of the coffee table, facing Uncle Ed and Mr. Dunphy.

  Mr. Dunphy poured himself another drink, sat back, and sipped it. Then he slammed his tumbler onto the table. “Have you heard this one?” He grinned at Larry and me, then lifted his hands into the air and started singing. “The farmer in the dell, we’re all going to hell. Hi-ho the Derry-o, we’re all going to hell.”

  “Hold on, now, Charlie,” Mr. White protested. “You’ll get us all in trouble.”

  “Not in front o’ the boys,” Uncle Jim said. He laughed so hard, I wondered if he was serious.

 
Mr. Dunphy ignored them and kept on singing.

  “Cut it out, Charlie; you’re loaded,” Uncle Ed said.

  “You fellas have no sense o’ humour,” Mr. Dunphy said. He heaved himself out of the settee and staggered through the parlour and into the kitchen. Several minutes later, Aunt Gert shrieked, and Uncle Ed rushed from the room. He helped Mr. Dunphy on with his coat and escorted him out the back door.

  I drifted between wakefulness and sleep on the hard, lumpy mattress most of that first night. Alfred whimpered and sucked his thumb beside me. He rolled over and hogged the covers, forcing me to fight for my share. The brick Aunt Gert had heated in the cookstove, wrapped in a tea towel, and placed at our feet soon went cold. And I shivered between the cool, damp sheets. Before long, a rooster crowed in the distance. Someone shuffled along the upstairs hallway and lit a kerosene lantern that cast light through our open bedroom doorway. Muffled sounds drifted up from downstairs. It felt like I had just gone to bed, and already it was morning. I buried my face in the feather pillow and tried to block out the light and the sound. The smell of kerosene seeped in as I drifted off to sleep. Soon I was back home, sitting on that bottom step, hanging onto the banister. Everything around me moved in slow motion, in black and white and grey. Everyone was there except Dad.

  Ma was standing in the kitchen, staring at the broken window with a hand to her face. Her lace curtains were sheared and the curtain rod hung at an awkward angle. Her good china lay in shards across the floor amidst the shattered glass from the window and broken jars of her homemade preserves. A single unbroken teacup sat on the floor beside her. It teetered back and forth and then stopped.

  There was an eerie silence in the house and in the neighbourhood around us. Grey light seeped through the broken window, bringing in the cold winter air. Ma lifted Alfred away from the broken glass. He clung to her neck and wrapped his bare feet around her waist as she held him and edged toward the window. Larry, Helen, and I stepped around the broken shards toward the kitchen counter and peered over Ma’s shoulder.

  The sky was as cloudy as it had been when we walked home from school. The house next door hugged the sidewalk, partially blocking our view. It looked unharmed as did the houses that lined the other side of the street. Our place seemed more shaken and wrecked than anything outside. In the distance, grey-black smoke mushroomed into the air.

  Then we smelled the fumes of burning oil.

  Ma clutched Alfred and put a hand to her face. “Mother of God.” She didn’t so much say it as breathe it out.

  Alfred tightened his grip on her. Helen’s face drained to a deathly shade. Larry bit his lip and straightened his glasses. I shifted slightly to get a better view and stared in disbelief. The only sound I heard was the beat of my own heart as the five of us stood and stared out that window.

  Thick, black smoke gathered in dark clouds above where Dad had gone to work that morning. It billowed across the sky and blackened it. Flames shot up and disappeared into the smoke.

  There was a second blast. It went off like a cannon and the house shook again. We fell against the counter and clung to it. A single chair toppled over by the kitchen table. Ma grabbed the counter to steady herself. Larry gripped her elbow. Helen put a hand to her face to stifle a cry and moved closer to Ma. Smoke poured up in a second stream so that it looked like there were two huge fires in the distance. It mushroomed skyward, then floated down and into the neighbourhood like a black, ghostly fog. A siren rang out.

  A kettle screamed, startling me awake. I rolled over and smelled smoke so thick I could taste it. It stung my eyes and made it hard to breath. I pulled back the covers, sat on the edge of the bed, and wondered why nobody had sounded an alarm. Someone rushed through the front hallway and into the parlour.

  “Heavens, I forgot that damper again.” Aunt Gert.

  I eased out of the bed, tucking the covers around Alfred, then picked my clothes off the floor, pulled them on over my long johns, and crept out of the room and down the stairs in my stocking feet. The familiar smell of molasses and oatmeal mingled with the sooty smell of smoke from the pot-bellied stove. Aunt Gert was standing at the front door waving smoke out with a rug. Granny was standing by the kitchen sink waving a tea towel at an open window. Helen was shivering by the cookstove, still dressed in her bathrobe and slippers. A book Larry had been reading lay open, face down, on the table, but he was nowhere in sight. The mudroom and the back doors stood wide open, airing the place out.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Where’s Ma?”

  “Well, look who’s up.” Granny closed the window and placed the tea towel on the counter. “How’d you sleep?” She moved to the mudroom and closed the back door.

  “Fine,” I lied. My back ached and I was tired from the long trip and the lousy sleep. My eyes still stung. And nobody had told me where Ma was. I asked again.

  “Your mother’s still in bed,” Aunt Gert said. “She’s likely tired; we’ll let her sleep.”

  Uncle Jim banged through the back door, followed by Larry. Their cheeks were raw from the cold; steam rolled off their clothing.

  “It’s freezin’ in here,” Uncle Jim said. He sniffed the air. “Someone tryin’ to burn the place down?”

  Larry pulled off his boots and lined them up in the mudroom beside Uncle Jim’s.

  “Where’d you go?” I asked.

  Larry tossed me a sheepish look. “Chores.” He unwrapped his scarf in an offhand manner. “Feeding and watering Big Ned and Lu, and the cows. And milking them.”

  “You could have woke me up, you know.”

  “I don’ know.” Uncle Jim winked at Larry. “Pius James here wouldn’t be up to it. What d’ya think?” I figured he was joking, but I felt excluded just the same.

  Larry smirked and shook his head.

  I swallowed hard. This was the first time I had seen my older brother come close to bragging.

  “Don’t you worry, there’s plenty to do for the both o’ youse.” Uncle Jim put a hand on my shoulder and gently squeezed it. “We’ll take another trip out to the barn after breakfast.”

  Granny’s place seemed like something from the olden days, like from even before Ma was born. For starters, there was no electricity. Back home, we had ceiling fixtures in every room, lamps on bedside tables in the bedrooms, and a floor lamp in the parlour. Granny’s place depended on kerosene for light. There were fancy brass lanterns with heavy porcelain shades that hung from the ceilings in the kitchen and in the dining room and sat on solid pine side tables in the parlour. The lanterns in the bedrooms and the upstairs hallway were plain tin with long, loopy handles. These ones could be carried from room to room and out to the outhouse after dark.

  Alfred was mesmerized by the flame that danced behind the delicate glass cylinder of the lantern Ma used when she took him upstairs to bed. But as soon as he had said his prayers and she had read him a story and tucked him in, she carried it off, leaving me to grope my way upstairs in the dark. She didn’t trust me to carry it alone. She said I’d singe my fingers or, worse, drop it and burn the whole house down.

  Back home it was only really cold early in the morning before Dad got the furnace up to a full roar. I’d lie in bed and listen for the groan of the cast-iron radiators as the hot water began to flow through them. Soon the whole house was warm, and it stayed that way for hours. At Granny’s, it took forever for the cookstove in the kitchen and the pot-bellied stove in the parlour to warm up the downstairs. Heat rose through a single grate in the upstairs hallway floor, but it never reached the bedrooms.

  For water, Aunt Gert filled a pail from the kitchen faucet in the evening and set it in the pantry. In the morning, she took an axe to the ice that had formed overnight, poured water into the hand pump, and cranked the handle to prime it. The one hand pump and faucet provided water for cooking, drinking, and washing. And it came out in a great, freezing gush.

  Th
e bathroom situation was worse. At home we had a porcelain toilet you could do your business into and flush. At Granny’s, there was a shabby little stinker of an outhouse some thirty feet from the back door and an enamel-coated thunder bowl under the bed for emergencies at night. The outhouse had a hole cut out of a wooden counter, at bum height—if you were an adult. If you were a kid, you had to hitch yourself up with both hands and hang on tight so you didn’t slip back and get jammed in that hole. There wasn’t even a real seat. There were cobwebs across the ceiling and in the corners. Which made me wonder where the spiders were when I suspended my backside over that hole. A bucket of lime sat on the floor. And no matter how much of it you poured over all that business down there, it still stank like holy Hannah. But I much preferred using the stinker behind the house than squatting over the thunder bowl in the same room where Alfred and I slept, smelling it for the rest of the night, and trotting it out the back door in the morning.

  And the chores were endless. Back home, I grumbled about having to clean up my side of the room and Alfred’s, while all Larry and Helen had to do was clean up their own messes. Larry got to read books all the time. And Helen’s only other job was to catch the wet clothes on washday when Ma put them through the ringer. When we needed food, Ma wrote a list and telephoned over to McCormack’s Grocer next door in the morning. The groceries were boxed up and delivered to our front door in the afternoon. There was lots of time for making snow forts in the backyard. And depending on the season, we played hockey on the outdoor rink or baseball on the diamond at Glendale Park. Even Ma put her feet up in the parlour in the afternoons and listened to Ma Parker on the radio. And Dad smoked his pipe and read the Everett Leader Herald in the evening. At the Lanigans’, one task fell directly onto another, and the entire series moved in a continuum just to keep everyone warm, fed, clean, and clothed. Then there were the barn chores and the general upkeep of the buildings, the fences, and the equipment.