Somewhere I Belong Page 4

  Larry and I were expected to pitch in right away. After breakfast on Saturday morning, Uncle Jim scribbled out a long list of chores and posted them on a bulletin board in the kitchen. He specified which ones were for mornings and which ones were for after school. And he told us how we could spend all of those idle hours we had on Saturdays. He laughed and said, “We wouldn’t want you fellas gettin’ soft on us,” like he thought it was funny. Then he took us both out to the barn.

  “Animals need lots of attention,” he said as we followed him across the yard. “The bigger they are, the more they need. They’re a huge responsibility.”

  The barn was as bad as the outhouse, only bigger. The moment I stepped through the door, it hit me straight on. All those big animals doing their business in their stalls through the night built up a powerful stench. I couldn’t walk anywhere where there wasn’t a cow patty or a clump of horse turd. Uncle Jim ploughed right over it all in his thick gumboots. Larry and I found patches where the manure had hardened into the floor and stepped around the fresh stuff.

  “Now Lu, here, just loves to be fussed over.” Uncle Jim opened her stall. “She’s just like a woman.”

  He slipped on her halter, led her out to the aisle, and tied her to ropes that hung from posts on each side of it. Lu took up so much space there was barely room to move around her. She seemed even bigger closed up in that barn than she did outside.

  “When you groom these here horses, you gotta check ’em for cuts ’n’ sores. When you clean out their hoofs, you gotta make sure everything’s good ’n’ firm—no cracks, no growth. When you feed ’em, you gotta wet down their hay so it ain’t dusty. You measure out their grain morning ’n’ evening. And they’re big, so they need plenty o’ water, so you’re always refillin’ their pails. But you leave that to me. I don’t want neither o’ you boys goin’ near that old well—it ain’t safe. And I haven’t gotten around to fixin’ it.

  “The thing with any animal is getting to know ’em real good,” he continued. “You should know their habits—how much they eat ’n’ drink; when they rest; whether they lie down or stand up to sleep; ’n’ whether they’re calm ’n’ sociable. If any of this changes, you know there’s somethin’ wrong.

  “Lu’s real friendly. If she don’t come right up to you when you go up to ’er stall, or if she’s walkin’ ’round in circles and noddin’ ’er head up and down, that’s when somethin’s wrong. The trick is to find out what.”

  He took my hand and placed it over her halter. “Take a hold of ’er. Pat ’er, talk to ’er. You gotta make eye contact with ’er, Pius James. Get ’er to trust you. You take good care of ’er and she’ll be your best friend.” He nudged me closer to her. “Don’t be scared—she won’t hurt you. I want you to get to know ’er real well, ’cause you’re gonna be lookin’ after ’er.”

  Lu stood perfectly still as I held her halter and stroked her. Uncle Jim showed me how to get her to lift up her huge hoof by running a hand down her leg. When he pinched it just above her fetlock, she lifted her hoof without a fuss. He rested it on a knee, grabbed a pick, and dug mud and manure from it. He watched as I did the same with the other three. Then he handed me the brush and showed me how to groom her thick winter coat, stroking it hard down her huge girth and under her belly. I stepped up onto a stool and groomed her back and neck.

  Our uncle seemed bent on teaching us everything there was to know on that first afternoon. It seemed like a lot to remember. Ma hadn’t told us how long we were staying. But I figured we’d be going home soon, so I didn’t see the sense in learning all that farm stuff. But the next thing I knew, I was grooming Lu and talking to her and thinking how working in the barn with the animals wasn’t so bad. Larry tended to Big Ned in his stall.

  When I had finished, I stood next to the horse and waited anxiously as Uncle Jim checked her over. “You got her tidied up nice, Pius James.” He handed me a shovel. “Now let’s get after that stall.”

  As hard as it was, Uncle Jim whistled through the work and encouraged Larry and me to whistle too. He said it made the time fly. But whistling required that you take in a great big gulp of that horse-cow-pig-poop air before you could produce a sound. It was disgusting, and how Larry managed to do it without throwing up, I’ll never know.

  “You boys are seeing the lazy part o’ the year,” Uncle Jim said. “These horses might be doin’ a lot of standin’ around ’’ eatin’, but come spring, it gets plenty busy ’round here. They’ll show you what they’re worth.”

  There wasn’t anything about the place that seemed lazy to me—it was a load of hard work. My hands soon blistered and my shoulders ached. And the only source of heat in that barn was the animals. Steam rolled off their bodies in a steady stream, but it was still damp and cold.

  We got to play a game after each task. This I liked. For mucking out the stalls and laying down fresh bedding, we got to swing on the rope tied to a rafter in the barn. When we finished milking the cows, we got to ride the horses bareback around the yard while Uncle Jim held the lunge lines and directed them in a slow circle. He held on tight to those lines, slowly turning, keeping an eye on the horses and us, and clicking his tongue and saying, “Walk on, Big Ned” or “Walk on, Lu,” when either of them got lazy.

  “Get a good grip onto ’er with those scrawny legs o’ yours, Pius James. Larry, you show Big Ned there who’s boss, or he’ll take right over.”

  Lu felt strong and steady beneath me. She loped around in a large circle, head up, ears forward, her huge hooves breaking through crusty snow. Even so, it felt a little scary being so high up on her. I sat with my legs stretched over her broad back, hung onto her thick mane with both hands, and tried not to show her how nervous I was.

  Ma expected us to start school on Monday. I would have given me more time. Except for Thomas, I hadn’t met any of the local boys yet. And my new teacher seemed like the kind of guy you just couldn’t figure out. At first, at Granny’s, he’d seemed swell. Then he got into Uncle Jim’s cider at supper. He got edgy and peevish, like he was holding back from boiling over. I thought it was funny when he got pie-eyed in the parlour and talked dirty. But he really annoyed Aunt Gert in the kitchen, and Uncle Ed had to practically toss him out the back door. I’d never seen anything like it back home. Added to this was the prospect of facing thirty new kids, in nine different grades, all crammed into one room. Besides, we hadn’t even unpacked. And I was sure I was coming down with something, after the long trip. To move things along some, I decided to try a trick my best friend, Jimmy O’Connor, had pulled on his parents back home—one that, for sure, got him a day off school.

  I slipped out of bed and eased the covers over a sleeping Alfred. Then I tiptoed across the room, picked the porcelain jug off the washstand, and carried it down to the kitchen. Granny had put a large pot of water on to boil for what Uncle Jim called “the morning’s ablutions.”

  “I’ll bet you can’t wait to see your new school, Pius James,” she said as she poured steaming water into my jug. When I moved to pull it off the counter, she touched my hand. “You’ll scald yourself; we’ll put some cold in.”

  “I like it hot.” When I eased the jug off the counter she didn’t suspect a thing.

  I carried it cautiously, being careful not to slosh scalding water over my hands. Steam rolled up my face, half-blinding me, forcing me to feel around with a foot to find each stair. I quietly re-entered the bedroom and slowly poured the water into the basin. I found a facecloth and dipped it into the water. I held it up by a corner and let it drip until I could wring it out without scalding my hands. I folded it, placed it across my forehead, felt the near-burn, and left it there for several seconds. I did this a second time and a third, leaving water on my face so it looked like sweat. I checked in the mirror. Satisfied that my face looked flushed and my forehead and cheeks were damp enough, I returned downstairs.

  Uncle Jim and Larry came through t
he back door, each carrying a load of firewood. They trod across the kitchen floor, trailing snow behind them, and dropped the wood into the box by the cookstove. Ma sauntered into the kitchen in her bathrobe and poured a mug of coffee. When I was sure everyone was there, I moved toward the sink. Aunt Gert was working the handle of the faucet and filling the kettle. I edged in beside her, leaned over the sink, and coughed loudly. Everyone kept right on doing what they were doing, like I wasn’t even there. So I turned, faced the room, leaned back, put a hand over my mouth, and coughed again. Louder this time. Then I let out a long, sorrowful moan. It was tough sounding hoarse when my throat wasn’t dry.

  “That’s quite a cough, Pius James,” Aunt Gert said.

  I covered my mouth and forced a sombre look.

  Uncle Jim pulled his boots off in the mudroom and entered the kitchen. “You look a little flushed, young fella.” He laid his jacket and mitts across the back of a chair, leaned over me, and put his hand on my forehead. “You got a real sweat goin’ on there. You feelin’ okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Jimmy O’Connor had advised me to add a little drama. So I let my eyelids sink to half-mast.

  “Perhaps we’ll get old Granny to take a look.” My uncle took me by the shoulders and trotted me over to her.

  Granny held my head in both hands and gave me a grave look. “Tilt your head back.”

  I did.

  She brushed the hair off my forehead and held her hand to it. “Hmm, doesn’t feel hot.” She pulled down my eyelids, one at a time. “Look up at the ceiling.”

  I did that too.

  “Show me that tongue.”

  Out it went.

  “Could be a sore throat.” From the serious look on Granny’s face, I figured my plan was working. I waited for the bit about no school, but it didn’t come.

  Uncle Jim turned to the icebox, opened the door, and retrieved a small, brown, translucent bottle that contained a thick liquid. Then he winked at Granny. “I’ve got just the thing.”

  “Now, Jim,” Granny said.

  “This here’s good stuff.” He poured some of the liquid onto a spoon and held it out to me. “Down the hatch.”

  “Blahk! What is this stuff?” It was as thick as snot and it went down hard. I tried not to gag.

  “Castor oil.” Uncle Jim smirked and poured me a glass of water. “General all-round good for what ails you.”

  I gulped down the water, then slid into a chair next to Helen. Uncle Jim poured a mug of coffee and leaned against the counter, still smirking. Granny placed a bowl of hot oatmeal in front of me. I poured milk over it, heaped on brown sugar, and took a spoonful. Despite the sugar, it felt like mud after the castor oil. The cold, gooey liquid clung to my throat. Several minutes later my guts churned, then I felt a sharp pain. I pushed away from the table and bolted for the back door.

  “I’d button up if I were you,” Uncle Jim laughed. “It’s freezin’ out there.”

  I pulled on my boots and jacket and raced out the back door, not bothering with the buttons. I flew across the yard toward the outhouse.

  “Tear off a piece a that ol’ Eaton’s catalogue and rub it between your hands,” Uncle Jim hollered. “It’ll soften it up.”

  I hoisted myself onto the counter in the stinker and felt a hot, liquid burn as I emptied my guts. Then I sat there, shivering, humiliated, my backside stuck to the icy counter and bitten by the frigid air that rose up through the hole.

  When I returned, Uncle Jim had resumed his place at the kitchen counter, his smirk stretched to a full-out grin. “That’s gotta be the oldest trick I ever seen. I tried it myself one time. But I’d bet you’da beat me to the outhouse.”

  I didn’t respond. I just headed up to my room to get dressed.

  Ma had unpacked the church ladies’ box in my and Alfred’s room. She had pulled its contents out in bunches and dropped them into piles. She had picked up a sweater, poked a finger through a hole, and muttered under her breath. “Destitute…insulting. What was Mayme thinking by all this, anyhow? Rags for clothes and shoes with no laces?” She was so steamed she could have clobbered somebody.

  Still, Ma was frugal. She had separated rags for the kitchen and the barn and saved a worn-out leather shoe for Dodger to chew on. The things that needed mending went into a separate pile. The good pile consisted of a single long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of brown corduroy trousers, which she had neatly arranged on the floor under the bedroom window. They were still there on Monday morning, so I picked them up and checked them over. The shirt was neat and crisp. It reminded me of the one Dad wore under his good suit jacket for Sunday Mass. And the trousers looked way better than any hand-me-down I ever got from Larry. If Ma had left them in my room, I reasoned, they must be for me. Besides, my own clothes were still packed in the trunk in the downstairs hallway, and if I was going to a new school, I had to make a good impression. So I pulled the corduroy trousers on over my long johns, slipped on the white cotton shirt, buttoned it, and tucked it in. There were buttons for a collar, but no collar. The shoulder seams reached halfway to my elbows, and it billowed out at the waist. The pocket sagged and the cuffs flapped open. I brushed the shirt down in front so it didn’t puff up so much. The trousers touched the floor, so I rolled up the cuffs. I stood up on a chair in front of the mirror above the washstand and checked myself over. I turned to the left and to the right and made sure everything was tucked in smooth. Then I went downstairs.

  Ma was standing at the kitchen counter in her bathrobe and slippers, making peanut butter sandwiches for our lunches when I entered. She turned and took in the whole of me.

  “Pius James, wherever did you get those clothes?”

  “They were in my room; I’m wearing them to school.”

  “That shirt’s too big for you, dear. You go look in the trunk and find something else. I’ll unpack today, I promise.”

  “But it’s just like Dad’s.” That would get her. Besides, all it really needed was to be tucked in more and for the cuffs to be buttoned up. I ran a hand down the front of it, avoiding the sad look in Ma’s eyes at the mention of Dad.

  “Oh, all right. But you can’t go looking like that.” She buttoned the cuffs and folded them up. She pulled out the shirt, turned it under, and tucked it in so it didn’t bunch up so much. “We’ll find you a belt and a bow tie, then you go comb that hair. We want to make a good impression on Mr. Dunphy, don’t we?”

  After Mr. Dunphy’s drunken behaviour in Granny’s parlour three evenings before, I wasn’t so sure.

  “Turn left at the end of the drive and keep on going to the crossroads,” Granny said. “You’ll find it.”

  I followed Larry and Helen out the back door and across the yard. Thomas Lanigan met us on the road. His satchel hung low down his back, and his lunch can dangled to his knees.

  “Mom said I’m to show you the way.” He was less timid than he had been when we first met. And the way he was trying to sound big reminded me of Alfred. But I had to admit that I was genuinely glad to see him. At least I wouldn’t be walking alone into a room full of thirty unfamiliar faces and Mr. Dunphy.

  Sleigh runners had cut narrow ruts through the snow. We followed them down Northbridge Road, past Granny’s front field and the Giddingses’ next door. A boy who looked to be my age slammed through the Giddingses’ front door, hollered to us, and raced down a path. Thomas Lanigan introduced us to Pat Giddings Jr., the younger brother of the man Mr. Dunphy had bad-mouthed, over dinner, on our first evening at Granny’s. Pat Jr. offered a solid handshake and a friendly smile. He seemed far from the hooligan Mr. Dunphy had made the Giddings out to be. And it wasn’t long before he recounted his whole life’s story.

  “My dad’s workin’ over to the shipyard in Nova Scotia. Me and my brothers look after things when he’s away.” He turned directly toward us. “Percy’s mostly fine, but you want to watch out for William.”


  I thought hard to find something to say by way of conversation. But it was tough listening to someone talk about their dad when I had just lost mine. Instead, I fell in beside Larry and Helen and continued up the road.

  There was an awkward silence. Pat Jr. slowed down, glanced at me, and then looked away. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  Thomas stared down the road and mumbled, “Me too.”

  “Thanks,” Larry said.

  Helen and I just kept on walking, not saying a word.

  Talking about Dad got me all choked up and sent my sister into a sulk. At least she knew enough not to blubber in front of strangers.

  We continued along the snow-packed road, past fallow fields, covered in white, and half-buried post-and-barbed-wire fences. In the distance, two boys and a girl sauntered down a drive. The bigger boy swaggered out onto the road and kept right on going as if the other two weren’t even there. They all wore heavy woollen socks over shoes, instead of boots. Their hands were shoved into their jacket pockets, so I supposed they lacked mittens too.

  “Them’s the Daleys.” Pat Jr. pointed toward the drive. “Them are Michael and Nora. And that big fella’s Patrick. You want to watch out for ’im—he’s none too friendly.” Michael and Nora seemed in no hurry to catch up with him.

  “None of ’em are friendly,” Thomas said. “Mom says it’s ’cause all they gots to eat is potatoes and point.”

  “Potatoes and what?” I asked.

  “Potatoes and nothin’,” Pat Jr. said. “That’s when the only thing on the table is potatoes, and if you want somethin’ else, you got to point and pretend it’s there.”