Children in the Morning (18 page)

He looked at me for a while, then said: “Do you mean Mount Saint Vincent, the big university we see up on the hill when we drive out the Bedford Highway?”

“The place where I played piano in the music festival?”

“Right.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Maybe you’re thinking of the building on Windsor Street. Saint Vincent’s Guest House.”

“Is that it?”

“Um, I don’t know, sweetheart. Why are you asking about a building?”

“Because I saw one in my, you know, dreams.”

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“Would you recognize it, do you think, if you saw it?”

“I think so.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

I was scared then. “We’re going there?”

“You don’t want to?”

“Not with all that scary stuff going on! They might do something to us!”

“Who, dolly?”

“Those people I saw, in the robes.”

He was staring at me. “That vision you had, or that dream, about the people in the robes, and the . . . baby dying, did that happen at this Vincent place?”

I nodded my head. “And the other little kid screaming and crying.” Daddy looked as if he was mixed up. But he said we were going. “Tell you what. We’ll drive by in the car, have a quick look, and keep driving. Would that be all right?”

No, I didn’t think so. But I didn’t want to say it. Anyway, he took me by the hand and we walked to the car, and went for a drive. We drove around the Armdale Rodeo. That’s what we call it, but it’s really called the Armdale Rotary, for cars to go around. And then we were on Quinpool Road going towards downtown. We went past some stores and restaurants and the movie theatre. He turned and went up some street and then turned again later. Pretty soon we saw the sign for Windsor Street, and we turned again. He slowed the car down, but I just looked at my hands. I didn’t want to see it.

“There’s nobody around, Normie. Just look up, over to your right.

Is that the building?”

I peeked over and looked at the place. It was a big, wide brick building, not very tall, and it had a round porch or something in front, with a white cross sticking up from it. There’s no way it was the same building.

“That’s not it! Not even close!”

Daddy looked as if he was glad.

“What is that place?” I asked him.

“It’s a nursing home. For old folks.”

“Well, it’s not the place I dreamed about.”

“What did the building look like in your dream?”

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“It was made of bricks. But it wasn’t a new building like the one we just saw.”

“What colour were they, the bricks?”

“They were brick colour, Daddy!”

“Okay. Reddish brown, were they?”

“Duh! That’s what colour bricks are.”

“Right. How big was the place?”

“Kind of big. And more old-fashioned than this one. It had churchy-type windows.”

“Why don’t you draw a picture of the windows for me?”

“Okay.” I always had a scribbler and a box of coloured pencils in the car, so I drew a picture of the building and shoved the paper at Daddy. He took a quick glance, then kept his eyes on the road. We were on Quinpool again, heading back to his house.

“Gothic windows, those are called.”

“Oh.”

“Was the place a church?”

“No! How could it be, if it said ‘asylum’ on it?”

“Asylum!”

Oh no, I thought. I went and blurted out that the sign said

“asylum.” Now he’d say something about mental patients, and get the idea all over again that I was crazy. I was stupid to mention it.

But he just said: “So this was a red-brick building with Gothic windows like the one you just drew, and it had the word ‘asylum’ on it?”

I had to admit it now. “Yeah.”

“You have a really good memory, Normie.”

Hmm. Yes, I do have a good memory. Maybe that means there’s nothing wrong with you, if you have a good memory.

“And you said the name ‘Vincent’ was on it too, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’ll ask around. In the meantime, how about a drive out to Bedford for a chicken burger and a milkshake?”

“Really? Great!”

†

I hoped Daddy would forget all about the old building, the asylum, 106

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but he didn’t. He and Mummy brought up the subject that night when we went to a movie and came home afterwards. And they went on about doctors and psychiatrists again. They tried not to sound mean but they kept telling me I needed “help” to get over my dreams and visions. Sometimes “help” is a bad word, like “going on the couch.” They say that stuff in movies, and it means going to a psychiatrist. I thought I had made them believe I wasn’t crazy; now it was happening all over again.

I got really upset and hollered at them: “You guys think I’m nuts!

Well, guess what? You guys are nuts for not being able to see the kinds of things I see. It’s your fault because you can’t see it. All you know is what’s in front of your eyes, when they’re open, and you don’t know anything else. But you make it sound like I’m loony! If you really loved me, you wouldn’t think that!”

I ran upstairs to get away from them, and I slammed the door of my room, and shoved my chair up against it so they wouldn’t be able to open it. But Daddy opened it anyway, and I yelled at him to go away and leave me alone. Finally, he left and went downstairs. I could just imagine the rotten things they were saying about me down there.

It took me a long time to fall asleep, I was so mad. The next morning, Daddy was there when I went down for breakfast. He must have snuck in early from his own house to catch me being crazy again. I would show him! I didn’t even talk to him, or to Mum. They pretended to be really nice and they talked about the concert our school was having that night on tv. I just kept my mouth shut the whole time, till they dumped me off at school. Then I said: “I bet you’re glad to get rid of me!”

They didn’t even hear me. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

I was still upset all through school that day, even though we spent most of the day practising for the concert and skipped all kinds of hard classes because of it, so it should have been one of the best days ever. How would you like it if your own parents thought you were crazy and maybe wanted to put you in a mental hospital? What if they put me in there, and some dangerous mental patient killed me?

Mum and Dad would be sorry then! Or if I ran away, and they didn’t know where I was. If they really loved me, they would be worried to death. It would serve them right.

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We didn’t have Four-Four Time after school that day because it was Friday, but Jenny came by anyway. She said she wanted to hang around with me and then go to the concert. Her aunt said it was okay. So we hung out in the music room, and played the pianos. She played the G and D major scales, practising what she had learned the day before. I wasn’t in the mood for major scales. So I played the sad ones, the minor ones. When I finished them, Jenny came over. She looked sad too. “Daddy came for a visit last night, but he was mad at me.”

“Because of the Hells Angels?” I blurted out, then wished I had shut up instead.

“I don’t know why. He didn’t say anything, just kept giving me weird looks. Like he wanted to say something but changed his mind.”

“Oh, don’t worry then.”

“Why did you ask about the Hells Angels?”

“No reason,” I said.

“You didn’t tell anybody, did you?”

“No,” I lied. Then I remembered: “But Father Burke knows! We asked him that time.”

“Oh, yeah. I hope he didn’t tell my dad.”

“You never know!”

Then I said: “I’m mad at my parents.”

“Why? What did they do?”

“They think I’m crazy. They may try to lock me up.”

“No!”

“Yeah.”

“Are they coming to your concert tonight?”

“I guess so. It would be too bad for them if I didn’t sing in the concert. If I wasn’t even there!”

“You mean you’re going to hide?”

“Yeah, but more than that.”

I thought of something, a plan. Jenny’s mother had talked about the Hells Angels. And I always had a secret wish to see what a Hells Angel really looked like, close up and not just speeding by on a motorbike. How could you be good enough to want to call yourself an angel, but bad enough to say you belong in hell? Why would you brag about it by pasting that name on your jacket? Would you look 108

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good and evil at the same time? Well, now was my chance to find out!

I said to Jenny: “Let’s do something that will make everyone appreciate us for how smart we are.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s solve the
Mystery of the Hells Angels
!”

“How can we do that?”

“I know where they live. I’ve been out for drives with Tom and Lexie. She’s my brother’s girlfriend. On the way to her place there’s a big house with all these motorcycles outside it, and Tommy always slows down to gawk at them. And Lexie always teases him by singing this song about motorcycles, ‘Born To Be Wild.’ That place is the Hells Angels clubhouse, ever since their other place burnt down.

Tommy told me. Let’s go there, and find out if they had something to do with your mum and how she died!”

“But they won’t tell us if they did. They’ll kill us!”

“No they won’t. Because we’ll tell them our parents know where we are and if we don’t show up at home, they’ll know where to find us.”

“They won’t believe our parents let us go there!”

“Okay, we won’t say that exactly. We’ll say our parents let us go for a walk in that neighbourhood because our friend — no, our babysitter! — lives near there. It’s not completely a lie because Lexie lives near there, and I would be allowed to go for a walk. And if they think our parents will be driving all around there looking for us, they’ll be scared of getting caught if they do anything bad to us.”

“I don’t know . . . How are we going to ask them about Mum?”

“I’ll think of something. Let’s sneak out of here and get a taxi.”

“A taxi!”

“I have some money. It’s supposed to be a donation for the poor at the concert tonight, but I’ll give them some later.”

So when the teachers weren’t looking, me and Jenny snuck out and started walking towards downtown. A couple of taxis came by and we waved at them, but they kept going. Then one circled around and came back.

“You looking for a cab, girls?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do your parents know where you are?”

“Yes, they want us to meet them. That’s why we need a taxi. My 109

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dad broke his leg and can’t drive. So he can’t come pick us up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Take us to Saint Malachy’s church.”

Jenny looked at me as if I really was crazy, but I wasn’t. Lexie was the choir director at her church, St. Malachy’s, and she lived really close to it. So finally the driver let us in, and drove us away from downtown, out to where Lexie lives. When we got to St. Malachy’s church, there was nobody around, and the taxi driver gave us a weird look.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Dad will be here.”

“How’s he going to get here, with that busted leg?”

“My mum is really big. He’ll lean on her and they’ll both hobble over here. It will take them a while.”

“What are your names, girls?”

“I’m Cindy and this is Alicia.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How much is it?”

“It’s thirteen dollars.”

Uh-oh. I only had ten. “I don’t have that much.”

“Have you got ten?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me that. And here, take a couple of quarters back in case you need a pay phone.”

“Thank you!”

So there we were, in Lexie’s and the Hells Angels’ neighbourhood.

When the taxi disappeared, I told Jenny: “Let’s go.”

We had to walk around a bit till we found it. But you couldn’t miss it once you got the right street. There were a whole lot of motorcycles and there was loud music blaring out of the house.

“I don’t think we should go in there, Normie.”

“It’s okay. Did you ever hear of a biker doing anything bad to a kid? No! They ride around on motorcycles and sell drugs. We won’t take any if they try to get us to buy some.”

“We don’t have any money.”

“Right. So they won’t give us drugs for free and they won’t rob us, because we don’t have anything.”

Just then a motorcycle rumbled up with a really loud motor noise.

A huge guy got off it. I thought Jenny’s dad was big, but this guy was 110

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a giant. With long straggly black and grey hair and a scary face. He had on a leather jacket that said Hells Angels on the back.

“You steal that bike, girlie, and you’re dead meat!” he said to us, then laughed and started to go inside the house.

“Can we come in?” I said, and he turned around and stared.

“Say what?”

“Can we come in?”

“Want to sign up?”

“No! Not really.”

“Why not? You got something against motorcycles?”

“No! I think they’re cool.”

“Good answer. So whaddya want? You selling Girl Guide cookies or somethin’? How ’bout you bring the cookies in, we’ll add a special ingredient, and you go out on the street again tonight and sell them for a higher price. That sound good?”

“We don’t have any cookies. We’d just like to talk.”

“Fuck!” (The only way to tell this story is to use bad language.

That’s just the way it is.) After the F-word, he said: “I don’t believe this. Excuse my French, ladies. Okay, why don’t you come in to Big Daddy’s house? Never too young to learn the facts of life, eh?” He laughed again.