Flood (17 page)

The rain stopped and the weather got colder. There was frost on Andy's bedroom window. Aunt Mona gave him a hot-water bottle to take up and put in his bed an hour before bedtime every night. He also took down an extra wool blanket off the shelf in the closet and threw it on his bed, a comforting weight.

Uncle Hugh had said nothing about the dog; Andy reckoned he must have forgotten. Or hadn't understood. Or Aunt Mona had said no, more like.

Interfering old busybody.

Old cow.

Another week had gone by without a word from Vinny.

“Are you sure he didn't call?” Andy asked Aunt Mona when he got back one evening after kicking a ball around in the park with a bunch of the kids from school.

“He didn't call.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Andy, I'm sure.”

“Maybe Uncle Hugh took a message and forgot — “

“Hugh took no message.”

Andy went up to his room and lay on the bed in the half darkness, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling.

“I sent word to your father to come for dinner,” said Aunt Mona. “Edna Rooney at the Mayo Rooms passed on my message.”

Andy said nothing. He hadn't heard from Vinny in three weeks. They were sitting in the living room, talking
about Christmas. It was getting late, and Andy's eyes felt heavy; he had already put the hot-water bottle in his bed and he would soon have to climb the stairs. Uncle Hugh was doing the daily crossword, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose; Aunt Mona was darning Uncle Hugh's socks; Granny had fallen asleep watching the news.

“That'll be lovely,” said Uncle Hugh. He looked up and smiled at Andy.

“Off to bed with you, then,” Aunt Mona said to Andy. “I'll come up in a few minutes to say good night.”

AUNT MONA HELD CHRISTMAS DINNER BACK for over an hour, waiting for him to come, but when he hadn't shown by two o'clock, they went ahead without him. Aunt Mona shrugged her shoulders. “If I didn't know him as well as I do, I'd be as mad as a bag of cats,” was all she said.

The table was set for five, the empty place like a gap in a hedge.

“We'll save him a plate in the oven,” said Uncle Hugh.

“He might come yet.”

He wouldn't come; Andy knew Vinny wouldn't come; he'd be too busy, or he'd forget, or he'd be unconscious in bed from a long night out with his friends. He sneaked a glance at his new digital watch, from Mona and Hugh.

“Who is coming?” Gran wanted to know for the second time in ten minutes.

“Andy's father,” said Uncle Hugh.

“Do I know him?” asked Granny.

“He and Judith went away to the west,” answered Aunt Mona.

“Who?”

“Vincent,” said Aunt Mona patiently. “Vincent Flynn.”

“Of course I remember him,” said Granny. “Whatsisname. Vincent. He was Judith's young man; he made me laugh, and had the loveliest tenor voice — sang ‘Kathleen, Mavourneen' like an angel — and brought me flowers on my birthday.” She turned to Andy, smiling fondly. “I've always had a soft spot for Vincent.”

They started on their turkey dinner, Andy helping Gran chop her meat and potatoes into bite-sized pieces, trying not to let his disappointment show. He only toyed with his own food. Aunt Mona and Uncle Hugh were almost finished when a knock came on the door.

Vinny!

They went to the door to let him in. Andy's heart leaped up at the sight of his father's smiling face.

“Merry Christmas,” he said to Andy, kissing his cheek and giving his shoulder a squeeze. “God save all here,” he said to Aunt Mona and Uncle Hugh. “And a Merry Christmas.”

No crutches. Though he'd shaved and had brushed his hair, he still looked the same: old raincoat, stained sweater, old frayed cords, battered shoes silvered from age, rain, snow, and neglect. A small new scar decorated his temple.

“Merry Christmas,” they answered, greeting Vinny in their own ways: Uncle Hugh with a handshake and a quiet smile; Aunt Mona, with a starchy look of truce to make it plain that just because it was Christmas didn't mean she
was about to change her opinion of him, but following it up with a friendly enough greeting.

They moved into the house, Uncle Hugh with his arm around Vinny's thin shoulders. Vinny laughed. “Sorry if I'm a bit late. You'd never believe the troubles I had getting here. There was the terrible accident with the bus running over a rabbit — “

“There are no rabbits on the streets of Halifax,” Aunt Mona snapped.

Vinny hung his coat in the hall. “Merry Christmas, Ma,” he shouted in at Granny when he saw her seated at the table.

“Who are you?” asked Granny.

“Vincent Flynn, Ma; you remember your favorite son-in-law surely?”

“Vincent? Is it you?” Granny tried to get up out of her chair but was so excited she forgot to press her ejection button and floundered helplessly instead. “What a lovely surprise!” she said. “Where have you been? Come and give an old lady a kiss, you bad boy.” She held out her arms and Vincent kissed her enthusiastically and noisily on both cheeks.

“My, this
is
nice.” Granny beamed happily at everyone.

“Was it killed?” asked Andy anxiously. “The rabbit?”

“Ah! It was. There was nothing anyone could do to save the poor creature. It hopped out from the pet shop and under the wheels of the bus. Wasn't it as flat as a pancake there in the middle of the road? With its homogoblin splattered all over the wheel of the bus? There was an old
woman sitting in the front seat who saw the whole thing, and she was screaming and yelling for an ambylance when any eejit could see you'd need a spatula to pick the unfortunate beast up off the road. ‘Its vital life signs are terrible low,' I tells her — trying to calm her down, you understand? And then we're no sooner back on the bus than the same old woman who'd been yelling for an ambylance, and who hauls herself gasping to the back of the bus so she won't be asked to bear witness to the violent death of a fellow mammal, ups and collapses into the aisle of the bus with a heart attack. It was a great commotion, so it was, with the driver running about like an American basketball star, and the passengers shouting and screaming for someone to phone for the doctor and the ambylance. ‘The rabbit was a sign!' a little man in front of me yells. ‘Be quiet, you!' I tell him, and I kneel down in the aisle beside the poor dying woman, and I give her mouth-to-mouth recitation until the ambylance comes. They lift her up onto the stretcher and she gives a sigh and starts breathing again. ‘You saved her life!' says the little man. The bus driver shakes me by the hand and has them all singing ‘For he's a jolly good feller' as we take off once again, and they kept up the singing all the way down to the end of the road where I got off; can you believe such a mad journey as I've had this day?”

“No,” said Aunt Mona, her patience almost exhausted with having to listen to such a long rigmarole. “I don't believe a word of your country bumpkin story. You were drinking in Noonan's and you forgot the time.”

Uncle Hugh laughed. “It's hard to believe, right enough, but sit down and I'll pour you a drink.”

“It's lovely to see you, Andy!” Vinny hugged him and kissed him again. “Lookit! The red cheeks on him and the eyes sparkling with health!” He laughed. “Is it in Tir Na n'Og you are, Andy? Did the Faeries steal you away from me altogether?”

He had brought nothing with him. Andy didn't care; his father was here, that was all that mattered.

“Here, Dad, I got you these.” He handed him a big bag of raisins. Dad; he was finished calling him Vinny. It would always be Dad from now on.

He was delighted. “That's grand, Andy,” he said. “There's enough here to keep me out of harm's way for a whole year.”

His dad enjoyed the roast turkey. There were roast potatoes, too, and stuffing and green peas and brussels sprouts. Hugh slipped Andy a half glass of wine when Mona wasn't looking. Andy had never had wine before; it made him feel dizzy; he liked it. Uncle Hugh said a drink once a year would do no harm. Vincent Flynn made a toast to everyone's health.

“Good health,” Granny repeated.

“We'll all drink to that,” said Uncle Hugh, touching his glass to Granny's and Aunt Mona's, then Andy's and his father's.

When dinner was over, Aunt Mona and Uncle Hugh started cleaning up in the kitchen.

“I'll help,” Andy offered.

“No, Andy,” said Aunt Mona. “You go in and talk to your father. It's a while since you saw him. There must be lots for you to talk about.”

His father had helped himself to the wine and was sitting back comfortably near the fire, smoking a cigarette.

“How much longer do I have to stay here, Dad? Did you get a job yet?”

“I saw a man in maintenance at the Metro Centre; he thinks he can get me in. So keep your fingers crossed. You'll not be here long, Andy, you'll see.” He smiled his tilted smile, his eyes dancing with good humor. “We'll soon be together again. Leave it to me.”

“Dad? Could you call me? I know you don't have a phone, but there's one in the manager's office you could use. Just so I know you're all right.”

“Of course I will, Andy. I don't know why I didn't think of it. I'm not much of a one for telephones, as you know, but I'll call you for sure.”

“Sundays maybe, in the evening. Could you do that?”

“Leave it to me.”

Much later, after Vincent Flynn had said his goodbyes to Hugh and Mona, Andy stood with him outside on the street. He gripped Andy's shoulders and gave them a squeeze, struggling to say something, but then he squeezed his shoulders one last time and turned quickly away. Andy watched him hurry up the street, tilting into the dark. He turned around once to wave, and then he was gone. When Andy turned back to go inside, he noticed that his cheeks were wet.

The next day was Boxing Day, and his aunt and uncle gave him a box of beer from Uncle Hugh's brewery. The box was a twelve-bottle carton with
Brickers Brewery
and
India Pale Ale
printed in red and yellow and green on its sides and top. The box sat on the kitchen table.

“That's for me? Beer?” asked Andy.

“It is,” said Uncle Hugh gravely.

Andy opened it and saw the puppy. It was black-and-white and it was lying in the otherwise empty box looking up at him with moist brown eyes. “A puppy!” cried Andy. “For me?” The pup was thin and undernourished and looked too young to have left its mother. It tried to stand, but the sight of Andy's astonished face caused it to tumble backwards in confusion.

His aunt and uncle said nothing but stood looking pleased with themselves.

For Andy it was love at first sight. He lifted the puppy carefully out of the box and let it hang helplessly in his hand. Mostly black, it had white legs, chest, and throat, with a narrow band of white running along the length of its nose up to the top of its head, leaving the eyes black, so that the face looked like a mask.

“I can't believe it! If you knew how long I've waited for a pup just like this! He's beautiful, he's exactly what I wanted. Thanks, Uncle Hugh! Thanks, Aunt Mona!”

His aunt and uncle continued to look pleased with themselves.

Andy thought for a second. “Is he a he?”

Uncle Hugh grinned. “He's a he. About three weeks old.”

Andy held him up in the air. Tiny pink tongue, tiny black silky ears. He cradled the pup in his hands.

Aunt Mona snapped, “He's your responsibility now. You will have to take care of him, feed him, teach him how to behave. Can't have him doing his business all over the house. Otherwise he will have to go.”

“Don't worry. I'll take care of him all right, I really will. He's perfect! Thanks for getting him for me. Don't worry, Aunt Mona, he'll be no trouble to you, I promise.” He put the pup down on the kitchen floor and kneeled beside him, tickling and stroking and talking to him, but the poor thing was so young and weak he could barely move. He would be fine once he'd put on a little weight, Uncle Hugh said. Andy lay on his back, the pup on his chest, and looked up at his uncle. “What kind is he?”

Uncle Hugh pulled a face. “A mixture, I'd say. The mother was a mixture, but he's border collie mostly, by the look of him; belonged to one of the men at the brewery. This one is the runt of a litter of five, and the last to find a home.”

“Will I be able to go see the mother sometimes?” asked Andy. “So I can take the pup and show her?”

Aunt Mona bit her lip.

Uncle Hugh's face flushed. He sent Aunt Mona an awkward glance.

“The mother's name was Trixie,” he explained to Andy. “She was run over by a brewery truck on Christmas Eve, before her pups were ready to leave.” He held up a baby bottle. “You'll need to feed him from the bottle for a while, a couple of weeks or so maybe.”

“Warm milk,” said Aunt Mona. “I'll help yon with the bottle.”

Andy looked at the pup sprawled weakly on his tiny chest and stroked his smooth coat with two fingers. No mother. We're the same, you and me, he thought. He noticed again the name on the beer box:
Bricker's Brewery
. He spoke the name aloud. “Bricker. Do you think that might be a good name for him?” He looked up at his uncle.

Uncle Hugh smiled. “Bricker's a good name.”

“Then that's what I'll call him,” Andy said happily. “Brick for short.”

THERE WAS NO CALL from Vinny on the Sunday following the dinner. Andy was itching to tell him about Brick, so was doubly disappointed when he didn't phone. Nor was there a call on New Year's Day. Then it was back to school. School in Halifax wasn't very different from school in Vancouver, but already Vancouver seemed to Andy a distant memory, another life lived in another time. He missed nothing of Vancouver. Except his mother; he still thought of her often, as a finger finds a sore, worried, wondering where she was, a constant scab inside him.