Boy O'Boy (3 page)

Past the public library where Billy always goes to get books to read.

I don’t go there very often to get books. I read mostly Granny’s old National Geographic magazines or comics or the Ottawa
Journal
.

I’m a very good reader. I could even read before I went to school. My granny taught me.

The first thing I read was what was written on lots of our knives and forks and spoons in our kitchen drawer:

Chateau Laurier Hotel

Billy and me, we pass by the Little Theatre and up King Edward Avenue into Sandy Hill. Playing at the Little Theatre is
Road to Morocco
with my favorite singer Bing Crosby and his stupid friend named Bob Hope. Bob Hope is supposed to be funny but he isn’t. Bing gets to sing “Moonlight Becomes You” to the beautiful Dorothy Lamour. I saw it and tell Billy all about it. I tell him about what Dorothy Lamour was wearing.

“She was wearing only half of a tight nightgown with a split all the way up the side and she had a big beautiful flower in her hair,” I tell Billy.

“SHAZAM!” says Billy.

To get to choir you go down the back wooden steps of the church and in. Then you go to the basement. Ten stairs to the dark landing. Then turn right in the dark and go down five more. Then into the light of the choir hall.

Mr. Skippy is right there.

“Well!” he says. “We’re here, are we? Martin and Billy. My two new summer boys. Well. Welcome. You know you get paid, don’t you? Twenty-five cents for practicing three times a week? Not twenty-five cents for each practice but twenty-five cents for
three
practices. And twenty-five cents for Sunday service and
another
twenty-five cents for Evensong! That’s how much per week? Of course! It’s seventy-five cents a week. For singing! A king’s ransom, don’t you think? Now, if you’re late for choir you get docked one cent a minute for every minute you’re late. Now, you’ll notice that these steps you just came down are made of wood. Some of them creak! If you’re late for choir you’re going to wish the steps didn’t creak. Especially step number nine!”

He winks at a big man standing against the wall with an army uniform on. There are about ten other boys around the hall.

“Right, Mr. George?”

“Right you are, Mr. Skippy,” says the man.

“Yes,” says Mr. Skippy, “number nine squeaks the loudest. If you can remember, it’s good to skip that step. Go from step number eight right over nine onto the landing. Don’t thump on the landing. Then tippy-toe the last five and peek around into the choir hall before you come in. If Mr. Skippy has his back turned you can slip into your place which is right here. Yes, you may call me Mr. Skippy. Then when Mr. Skippy turns around from the piano and faces the choir and raises his hand to conduct the singing maybe he won’t notice. But he sometimes does! And then Mr. Skippy might say this: A miracle! A boy is invisible and only seconds later, he’s
visible
! How can this be possible? An empty bench becomes an occupied bench! Oh, this modern world! What will they think of next! Sing well, my summer boys!’”

Mr. Skippy is called Skippy because of his crippled foot. His ankle is really skinny. It’s like a broom handle almost. And his foot is sort of like a slipper. Floppy like a leather slipper. When he walks, his foot slaps down on the floor with a whack.

Whack-a-whack, whack-a-whack, here comes Mr. Skippy Skidmore.

But the best thing Mr. Skippy does with his foot is when he’s conducting the choir. He slaps his foot on the floor to keep time. You always know the beat when you’re singing hymns because of Mr. Skippy s foot.

We practice some hymns and then there’s a choir recess and then we sing some more.

All the time we’re singing, Mr. George is standing against the wall with his hands in his pockets, looking at us. He’s got thick glasses on and sometimes it looks like he has more than two eyes. He’s got reddish brown hair and a small mouth and his bottom teeth are further out than his top teeth. He’s got a big chest and a big bum but a really narrow waist. Near the end of the practice he looks at me for a long time and then he winks.

While we’re still singing he goes over to a big soft chair and looks into the chair. Suddenly I notice there’s a big beautiful black cat sleeping in there. The choir cat. Mr. George leans over and pets the beautiful cat once. Then he goes into the other part of the choir hall where there’s a sort of kitchen and comes back out with a pair of big scissors.

He lifts a long white cape from the back of the chair but the cat’s sleeping on the end of the cape.

Mr. George takes the scissors and cuts off the end of the cape that the cat is sleeping on so he can get the cape off the chair without bothering the cat! Lucky cat!

Then he puts on the cape, waves to all the boys and the last we all see is the cape going out the door with the end cut off of it, and then we hear step number nine do a heavy squeak.

“Amen!” sings the choir, and the practice is over.

Just before he disappeared out the door, Mr. George gave another big wink from behind his thick glasses.

The wink was right at me again.

W
ALKING HOME from choir practice with Billy Batson. Going by the Little Theatre again we see the sign about the movie
Road to Morocco
starring Bing Crosby. I sing some of my favorite songs to Billy like Bing Crosby sings in the movie to Dorothy Lamour: “Moonlight becomes you…It goes with your hair…You certainly know the right things to wear…”

Billy says did I see Mr. George at choir cut his cape so the beautiful choir cat wouldn’t have to disturb himself? Yes. I saw. Everybody saw.

What kind of a person would do that?

A very kind, considerate person, we guess.

I tell Billy about how my father once yanked up his scarf my cat Cheap was sleeping on on the bed and sent Cheap flying against the wall.

What kind of a person would do that?

A mean, cruel person, we guess.

Billy starts telling me again about his father. Billy’s father went away to the war more than five years ago and should be home soon now that the war’s almost over.

Billy loves his father. He says his father was always bringing him presents and taking him places — hardware stores and lumber yards where they’d go to get stuff and bring it all home and build all kinds of things. And how they always dug in their garden together all the time.

And how they’d find worms there and put them in a can with some moss and put them in the icebox and save them until they had a chance to go down to the Ottawa River near the Rideau Falls at night and catch a bunch of catfish and take them home and his mother would cook them and they’d sit down together and have a big catfish feast…

We pass by Imbro’s Restaurant again and stop for a while and watch through the window people gobbling ice cream sundaes. In one of the booths along the side I think I see the back of Mr. George’s head. Or maybe it’s not.

On the corner of Rideau and Augusta Street there’s a sign nailed to the telephone pole:

We can hear the music coming out of the public address system. We go down there to see if we can see the fat ladies have their race but it’s too late, it’s over.

There’s soldiers and girls dancing and kids running around and people laughing and eating.

The horse that pulls a chip wagon is standing there asleep through all the racket.

There’s an Ottawa
Journal
lying on a bench.

I pick it up on the way by.

I read some of the stuff in there to Billy as we walk home.

and

and

There’s a picture of Veronica Lake with her beautiful hair covering one eye. I show the picture to Billy. “SHAZAM!” says Billy.

It’s going to be dark soon.

They’re playing football on Heney Street beside the park. There are two Christian Brothers from Brebeuf school playing with their long black dresses on. One Brother lifts his skirts with one hand and holds the football out in front of himself with the other hand and kicks the football. It goes so high above Heney Park it almost disappears. You can see the Brothers underpants when he kicks.

It’s the other Brothers turn. He tries to kick but his leg goes higher than the ball. He’s not a very good kicker. His leg gets tangled up in his dress and he falls over.

All the kids around laugh.

On Papineau Street Horseball’s big family is spilling out of the windows.

At my place, number three Papineau, I can hear shouting. Fighting. Arguing.

Billy’s looking at me funny. What’s he thinking? Is he thinking about his ideal father?

When my parents fight, my twin brother, Phil, howls and roars.

Phil can’t talk. Phil can’t think. He can’t even eat right. His food is always all over the place. He can’t go to the toilet on his own. Except in his diapers that my mother changes on him every morning and every night. And he’s always hurting himself. Somebody has to be there all the time.

When he’s happy he likes to run around in a circle. Or he likes to wag his head. He holds on to the end of his iron bed and throws his head, wags his head back and forward in a sort of a circle, looks at the floor, the wall, the ceiling and the floor again except his eyes are closed, again and again and again.

I ask Billy if he wants to do something. Trade comics maybe, go to his place maybe.

No, he can’t. Billy never invites me to his place. I’ve never been inside number seven Papineau. I’ve been at Horseball’s house many times even though you have to stand up against the wall it’s so crowded in there.

And everybody’s been in Buz Sawyer’s place. Buz was always inviting everybody over — giving treats and telling stories.

And I’ve been in Lenny Lipshitz’s house, number nine Papineau. The time I went over to give him back the money from the GAMBLING.

His mother gave me some gefilte fish. I didn’t like it but I didn’t say anything.

Lenny said he really liked gefilte fish but I didn’t believe him.

But I’ve never been in Billy Batson’s house. My mother told me once that she thought Mrs. Batson was ashamed of something.

Or was hiding something. I forget which.

I’d like to see a picture of this ideal father he has.

And so, in my place, Martin O’Boy’s, I have to go. There’s yelling and hollering.

My brother Phil is probably under the bed barking like a dog.

I
’M SITTING on the edge of my mother’s bed. My father slammed out of the house after the fight. Phil’s asleep in our room.

My mother gets me to feel the baby inside kicking.
Kick, kick.
Like a little fist punching under a soft blanket.
Kick.
He wants to get out. Let me out. I want to be in the world!

I tell my mother about the fat ladies’ race at the street dance.

“My God, what will they think of next! Those parties are getting out of hand. What self-respecting woman would go in a thing like that? All that flab jiggling and flopping and bouncing around!”

My mother tells me about the two ladies the other day. The ketchup lady and the turkey lady.

“They think we’re not taking proper care of you. They said that at school last winter you weren’t dressed warm enough with just your big sweater and that you were caught GAMBLING and that you planned some violent summer activity in art class and they saw your rubbers instead of shoes. You’ll go first thing in the morning to get the shoes. I gave you the dollar.”

Cheap comes in and jumps on the bed with us. He looks sad with his missing ear.

I’m wondering if he worries about anything like I do. Does he ever wonder about anything? Or does he just wait around for something to come along?

“You’re the perfect one,” my mother says, stroking my head. “You can’t be causing trouble now, can you, sweetheart? Phil is trouble enough, don’t you think?”

Cheap is starting to purr. Getting comfortable.

The baby is kicking.

“You’ll have to mind Phil tomorrow, you know.” “Why?”

“Granny’s funeral. We have to go to the funeral.” “Why can’t I go to Granny’s funeral?”

“Because you have to mind Phil.”

“Maybe Mrs. Batson or somebody could mind Phil.” “I couldn’t ask her to do that. You can’t ask anybody to do that.”

“What about Horseball’s mother or one of the older sisters? Maybe one of them.”

“No, I couldn’t. And don’t call him Horseball. It’s not nice. Call him by his real name. What’s his proper name, anyway?”

“Horseball.”

“No. His real name.”

“Horace, I think. Something like Horace.”

Back in my room I look at Phil there asleep in his bed. He looks so calm. I go in the bathroom and in the mirror there, I try to look like Phil.

I open my mouth wide like I’m howling and I make my eyes as big as I can and I pull my hair back hard until what I see in the mirror scares me.

Back in my bed, Cheap sleeps with me. Half on the pillow beside me.

I think I love Cheap. Do I?

I don’t know if I love anybody else.

I sing “Moonlight Becomes You” to Cheap.

He wiggles his only ear. He likes Bing Crosby.

When I talk to Cheap he squeezes his eyes shut. And if he’s on the bed, he pulls on the blanket with his claws — first the right paw, then the left. Just like you see kittens doing when they suck milk from their mother.