Flood (7 page)

He was cold. He wondered if there was an extra blanket in the bedroom, but didn't get up to search.

He was almost asleep when a knock came to the door.

“Who is it?” Heart jumping.

“Vinny?” A man's voice, harsh and impatient.

Andy got up. “He's out,” he called through the door.

The man clumped away down the stairs.

Andy groped for the light switch. His fingers found it. The naked bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling lit the room poorly, but it was enough for him to see the swarm of insects — cockroaches. There must have been hundreds of them, all sizes from tiny brown to huge black, fleeing from the light back to their nests behind the baseboards. In the few seconds he stood frozen with horror at the door, and before he could move, they had all disappeared into cracks in the walls. His chest thumped as though he'd rushed up twenty flights of stairs.

There were more of them in his father's bedroom when he switched on the light, swarming at the edges of the baseboards. He watched them scurrying for cover and waited until they'd all disappeared, then searched for an extra blanket. There was no closet, only an old chest of drawers. He pulled the drawers open. His father's worn and faded shirts and underclothes were crammed in untidily. He found an old wool blanket, thin and gray, under the chest, and carried it gingerly to the other room and shook it vigorously, looking for cockroaches. He was starting to shiver with the cold. With a cushion for a pillow he tried to make himself comfortable again on the sofa. He hadn't switched off the light: the thought of cockroaches scurrying about the room in the darkness and climbing up onto the sofa while he slept gave him the shivers.

Had cockroaches crawled over his unconscious body downstairs in the broom closet?

He tried to put the cockroaches out of his mind, but it was difficult. He thought about what people in Vancouver would be doing right now. They were four hours behind. Ten o'clock in Halifax would be six in the evening in Vancouver. Rush hour. Gridlock on Lions Gate Bridge. His friends at Monteray Elementary School would be having their supper. It was strange to think of it being suppertime there when it was bedtime here. Did Ben miss walking home from school with him? How many other kids had lost their homes in the flood? He didn't know, hadn't thought to ask in the hospital. He and Ben had usually walked home together down the steep hills and past the impossibly steep driveways to Ben's house, where they usually said goodbye, leaving Andy to angle over to Canyon Drive and walk along the path above the creek alone. The creek that had changed and become a killer. He thought about the flood and the hospital, his mother dead. Clay gone, too. Why hadn't Ben come to see him in the hospital? Maybe he had, but Andy couldn't remember. Nor could he remember if he'd seen other flood survivors in the hospital. The two weeks were an almost blank slate. He remembered his face in the bathroom mirror, though, when he first saw the bruises, the eyes unnaturally large and black, remembered the priest coming one afternoon to tell him that his aunt was coming from Halifax to take care of him.

And now here he was in Halifax with the cockroaches.

His eyes searched the floor, expecting to see them, but there were none; the dim light was enough to keep them in their holes.

Vinny. Lord of the roaches.

Vinny was a funny name. But it suited him.

He closed his eyes. He mustn't call him Vinny, even to himself; he was his father, after all; he would soon get used to calling him Dad.

Could cockroaches sense when a person was asleep? Would they come out of their nests into the light? He opened his eyes again and peered at the baseboards. Nothing. He closed his eyes again.

It would take a powerful lot of getting used to, living with cockroaches in this small bare, cold place after being accustomed to his own clean, warm room in their big house, the kitchen of which had been bigger than the whole of Vinny's — Dad's — place. But he was with his father, his real father, not Clay, and he was funny and great and Andy was glad he'd run away from rotten mean old Aunt Mona to be with him.

His belly hurt. He suddenly remembered he was hungry. They hadn't eaten much all day, just the tea for breakfast, and a bag of caramel corn at the game, and tea tonight, with a few stale potato chips. No wonder his father was so thin, living on tea.

He tried to forget about cockroaches and food and eventually fell asleep dreaming of skating with his father and the Mooseheads, and scoring the winning goal, and his father laughing and dancing and slapping him on the back
and them both eating a jumbo-sized pizza, tomato sauce smeared over their happy faces.

The Young Ones were homesick for their meadow. One of them said, “Surely we can go. The boy is safe. What harm can come to the wee lad with his own father taking care of him?”

“There is nothing more we can do here,” agreed one of the others.

“The father is not too bad a dancer,” said a Young One who sometimes had difficulty following arguments.

“There's more to happiness than dancing,” said the Old One.

“But the boy is safe now,” the Young Ones chorused.

“Perhaps. We'll wait and see,” said the Old One.

HE WOKE IN THE NIGHT and wondered about the time. The place was quiet. And cold. The light was still on. He scanned the floor and baseboards. No cockroaches. He got up and crept over to his father's room and looked in. Empty: he hadn't returned home.

He was hungry. He looked in the fridge but saw only raisins and the usual stuff for tea. He finished off the raisins and went back to bed but couldn't sleep knowing he was alone. With only cockroaches to keep him company, he lay on the hard sofa, wrapping the blankets tightly around himself to keep out the cold, trying to sleep.

But it was no good. He got up again, watching for cockroaches, and went to the window and tugged at the bottom, opening up a narrow gap. It was raining. The place was icy and silent and scary as a graveyard. He climbed back into bed, trying not to think of screamer films: a kid or woman alone in a dark place; horror; evil forces outside preparing to break in.

Someone was coming up the stairs. His heart started
racing. He sat up, the blankets pulled about him. Key fumbling in the lock. Of course! It was his father coming home. But what if it was someone else? He waited, muscles tensed, ready to leap and run.

The door opened and his father came in backwards, holding the door open with foot and elbow and dragging a large cardboard box. Andy was so relieved to see him, but before he could say anything his father had left the box near the table and gone out again. A few minutes later he came clumping up the stairs with another box, which he dragged in and stacked on top of the first. He locked the door, and then saw Andy clutching the blankets and staring at him.

“It's only me, Andy. Go back to sleep now, there's the boy.” He patted Andy's head gently, then glided past him into his own room and closed the door.

When Andy finally fell asleep, wrapped in blankets like a larva in its cocoon, it was to the persistent but comfortable sound of the rain drumming on the fire escape and the comforting knowledge that his father was home.

He woke to the sound of loud thumping on the door.

Daylight. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There were two large cardboard boxes near the table that weren't there last night. And then he remembered his father coming in late.

The heavy thumping came again.

His father appeared in a panic, in tartan boxer shorts, hopping on one bare foot like a circus clown, trying to get
his second leg into his trousers, almost falling. He hopped over to the window, pulled up his trousers, and jerked the window wide open. The rain blew into the room, fluttering the grub-by curtains. The room couldn't be any colder if it were in the Arctic.

The thumping came again, louder, rattling the lock-works. A man yelled, “Open up, it's the police.”

The police! They had come to take him back to Aunt Mona.

His father grabbed the top box and thrust it out the window onto the fire escape.

“Open up!” The man was trying to kick in the door with his boots.

His father frantically pushed the second box out onto the fire escape, then closed the window and hurried to answer the door.

Two plainclothes policemen pushed their way into the room and immediately started searching. Vincent Flynn lounged in the easy chair and yawned, and scratched his skinny bare chest, watching them unconcernedly. “How-yeh?” he asked them.

The men ignored him.

“It's dreadful early to be waking people up,” said Vincent Flynn, “but I know what it is to be a public servant doing his unpleasant duty. Somebody has to do the dirty work so we law-abiding citizens can sleep safe in our beds, even on a Sunday. I'm a great supporter and admirer of the police. Tell me what it is you're looking for and I'll help you find it.” He yawned elaborately, threw one leg over the arm
of the chair, and leaned back, stretching, yellow nicotine nails scratching at his unshaven chin and untidy mop of ginger-brown hair. “It's not that old biddy downstairs complaining of the dancing on the floor, is it? Nellie Doyle has no appreciation of the dancing arts. Doesn't she drive me frantic with her constant complaining.”

One policeman, slow and ponderous, black mustache, looked in the kitchen while the other, wearing thick glasses like the bottoms of Pepsi bottles, quick on his feet, disappeared into the bedroom.

Andy noticed that his father hadn't drawn the curtains; he could see the edges of the boxes out on the fire escape. The policemen were sure to see them. Suddenly there was a brisk wind and the curtains closed with a snap. Andy blinked in astonishment.

“You were seen, Vinny,” Glasses shouted threateningly from the bedroom, “so it's no use denying it.”

“Where are they, Vinny?” Mustache growled as he came back into the living room.

“They're right here, boys,” said Vincent Flynn cheerfully. He got up and went to the kitchen and brought back a bottle of whiskey. He put the bottle on the table.

The two policemen stopped searching and stared at the bottle of whiskey as if it were the Koh-i-noor diamond.

Andy's father went back to the kitchen and fetched three glasses, which he put on the table beside the bottle. He slowly poured an inch of whiskey into each of the glasses.

The policemen hadn't taken their eyes off the whiskey.
In a calmer, quieter voice, Mustache said, “You and Cassidy were seen hanging around Maloney's warehouse, Vinny.” He removed his cap, smoothed his hair, put the cap on again, and reached for the whiskey.

“Maloney's was broken into last night,” Glasses said quietly as he took the glass from Vincent Flynn's outstretched hand.

“Maloney's is it?” said Vincent Flynn, his blue eyes wide with innocence. He raised his glass.
“Sláinte.”

The policemen raised theirs.
“Sláinte,”
they murmured in unison.

“Old Maloney has things awful hard,” said Vincent. “With all that money weighing him down and a wife with a tongue on her like tripe in vinegar, there's no wonder he's always in the sunny Carribean away from it all. And you poor fellers out in the cold rain on a Sunday morning looking after his money for him; my heart bleeds for yiz. The life of a guard is terrible hard — there's the poet coming out in me — don't I know it well, having been a military man myself. But you're mistaken, boys, if you think it's meself who was at Maloney's, for I didn't budge out all night.” He turned to Andy. “Did I, Andy?”

The two men turned and looked at Andy as though seeing him for the first time.

Andy clung to the blankets, wishing the men would go.

“Och! I didn't introduce you to my son!” said his father proudly. “This is Andy, my own flesh and blood, dear to my heart. With his midnight hair in sweet disarray and the face of a sleepy-eyed angel, isn't he the finest
young lad you ever saw? I'm the proudest father in all of Nova Scotia — here, let me replenish those glasses.”