No Small Thing

Sometimes, something as small as an ad in the daily newspaper can change your whole life. That’s what happened to Cid, Queenie and me one summer. It was 1977, the year of broken things.
Star Wars
opened and broke the record at the Eastview theatre by running for thirteen weeks in a row. Queenie broke her collarbone. And Cheryl Hanson broke my heart. This is how the ad read:

PONY TO GIVE AWAY TO GOOD HOME. CALL BEFORE 4 P.M.

* * *

“Oh my gosh, phone it!” Cid says, grabbing at the newspaper in my hand.

I jerk the paper away and hold it over my head. “Why do I always have to do all the phoning?” I ask her. “You’re the oldest. Why don’t you phone, for once?” I say this just to bug her. I know that I’ll be the one to phone because I’m a boy and I’m not afraid of anything.

Cid is the oldest, but you wouldn’t know it half the time. If she’s not bossing you around, she’s acting like a suck. She’ll never phone about the ad because she hates talking to people, even if it’s for something as good as a pony for free. I don’t mind talking. I like to read too, which is odd for a boy. I like words and the way they sound. I guess that’s why I skipped a grade in school. It’s not like I go around showing off or anything. That would be the fastest way to get myself beat up. But it gives you power to know words, Ma says. And I can use all the power I can get, because, let me tell you, being a boy with two sisters isn’t easy. Especially a sister like Cid.

Now, Queenie, she isn’t like most girls. She’s as good as a little brother, really. She never squeals on me or makes a big deal when she’s hurt or tries to boss anyone. Some people think she’s different because of the way she goes off in her own world sometimes. It doesn’t mean she’s crazy. It’s just her way of dealing with things, I guess. Anyway, Ma says I cried when Queenie came out a girl because I wanted a brother so badly. But that was a long time ago….

“You’re better at talking than me, Nat,” Cid says in a whine. “You’ve got a paper route and you’re used to talking to people.”

She called me Nat. I know she doesn’t mean it. My name is Nathaniel and people who like me call me Nat. Ma calls me Nat and Queenie calls me Nat, but Cid almost never does because we fight so much. She’s just doing it to get what she wants, but it won’t work. She lunges for the paper again. I move it easily behind my back and around to the side, just to irritate her.

“If you’re not going to phone, then let me do it!” she yells, grabbing my sweatshirt at the neck and twisting it into a knot with her fist. Her short brown hair falls out from behind her ears. Her bottom lip is quivering and her hazel eyes are burning like hot coals—but I don’t care. I’m not afraid of her, even though she’s fourteen. I can get the better of her and I’m only twelve. Queenie is eight.

“You think you can solve everything like that,” I say in the calm, cool voice that she hates.

She pulls her arm back like she’s really going to punch me, but she won’t do it—not with Ma so close in the next room.

“Ma! Nathaniel won’t give me the newspaper!” she yells, as though Ma would care. Ma doesn’t answer. I cock one eyebrow just to show Cid that I’m not worried at all. Her face screws up and her eyes turn all black, and I know I’ve made her really furious.

Just then, Queenie comes bursting into the kitchen through the mud room door. Her face glistens with tiny beads of sweat. I can tell she’s been running. Her long gold hair hangs in two fuzzy braids down her back. She pulls off her worn yellow windbreaker, then kicks off her sneakers in one easy motion. They land against the mud room door with two loud thumps.

“Stop that thumping!” Ma yells from her little bedroom off the kitchen.

I give Queenie the look and then I unfold the newspaper in the important way I’d seen Dad do when we all used to live together. “Someone’s giving a pony away for free.”

Queenie’s face lights up—just like I knew it would. She runs across the kitchen to look at the paper.

“Look. It’s right here: ‘Pony to give away to good home.’ “ I trace the words with my finger so she can follow them, even though I know she can read as well as I can.

“Is it true?” she asks in her small voice, her green eyes all wide like the kids you see in toy commercials on the TV. Just like that. Only Queenie is the real deal—”the genuine article,” as Dad used to say. Those kids on the TV, they’re just acting. You know once the camera stops rollingthey’re screaming for things and yelling at their parents and such. But not Queenie. Everybody loves her. Even strangers on the street. Because she’s sweet inside and out, and everyone can see that. I even convinced her once that spaghetti grows on trees.

“‘Course it’s true,” I say. “It’s in the paper, isn’t it?”

“What colour do you think he is, Nat?” she asks, holding on to my sleeve. “Do you think he’s broke to ride? Maybe someone’s taken him already. Maybe he’s already gone and we’re just getting our hopes up for nothing.”

Her words come out in a rush and she doesn’t even take a breath between sentences.

“I haven’t phoned to find out yet. Cid’s been bugging me, so I haven’t had a chance.”

Cid shoots me a look full of hate.

“Maybe he’s already gone,” Queenie says again, wistfully.

“Why don’t you just phone the number instead of torturing us,” Cid snaps at me.

I ignore her and turn to Queenie. “I’m going to phone about the pony right now, but you have to promise me something. You have to promise not to tell Ma, do you hear me? She’ll just say no and talk about how we can’t afford it and everything.”

Queenie makes a motion to button her lips and crosses her heart with her finger.

We move into the hallway and I pick up the phone. “Read the number out to me,” I say, handing Queenie the paper. She reads the number out and I dial. The phone rings three times before someone picks it up. It’s a woman with a beautiful light voice like the women in the black-and-white movies Ma sometimes watches at night.

“I’m calling about the pony,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Yes.”

I nod my head excitedly at Queenie, who grabs my sleeve.

“Would you like to come and see him?” the woman asks.

“Oh, yes,” I say, because now I’m getting hopeful too. It may seem funny for a boy to get hopeful about something like a pony, and I can’t explain it, really. I suppose I’m doing it for Queenie more than anyone, and people will just have to accept that explanation. But all the same, I’m hopeful….

The woman gives me directions to her farm. I repeat them to Cid, who scribbles them with a pencil on the back of the phone book. I’m a betterwriter than she is but I don’t want to listen to the woman and write at the same time. Besides, Cid has to do something to help, even if she doesn’t like to talk to people.

“Ma’am,” I say softly when she’s finished with the directions. “Will you promise not to give him away until we have a chance to see him? We can’t come until this afternoon, so will you promise to keep him until then?” There is a terrible silence and I know that she is thinking about what she should do. But then she promises at last and asks for my name, and I give it to her. Nathaniel Howard Estabrooks. I thank the woman and hang up the phone.

“She’s going to hold him for us.”

Queenie throws her arms around me. I untangle her and look into her face.

“Don’t tell Ma where we’re going,” I tell her. “It’ll be okay. She’ll just think we’ve gone to the park like we always do.”

Queenie nods, then hurries into the mud room to grab her sneakers. Cid follows her. I tear off the piece of phone book with the instructions and cram it into the back pocket of my jeans, then sneak upstairs to get my money. The pony may be free but we’re going to have to pay to rent a stall and get him a few other things he mayneed—like hay, and a halter if he doesn’t have one already.

I keep my money hidden in a cigar box behind my dresser in my bedroom. Dad gave me the box, but that’s not why I use it. I just don’t have anything better. I reach behind the dresser and pull out the box. White Owl cigars. His favourite. I sniff the box before I open it. It still smells earthy and kind of sweet from the tobacco.

I open it and grab the wad of money from inside. It’s rolled in a bundle and held together with a green rubber band. I count it, just to be sure it’s all there, and it is: 95 dollars and 36 cents. I managed to save it from my paper route. It took me almost a year. I’d never tell anyone I have it, not even Queenie. It’s not that I’m selfish or anything. I just think it’s best to keep quiet about it. I did try to give some to Ma once. She wouldn’t have it. She told me it was mine and that I’d earned it. I know she could have used it to help out with groceries and things, but pride wouldn’t let her take money from her own son. It made me feel good to be able to offer it to her. But secretly, I’m glad she let me keep it….

I roll the money back up, secure it with the rubber band, then push it into my pocket. When I go downstairs I find Cid and Queenie sitting on theback stoop. Queenie sees me and starts talking all in a rush again.

“I can’t believe the pony is still there. She said he’s beautiful, right? I wonder what colour he is. How come no other kids got him? Why is she giving him away? Maybe he’s meant to be ours … and how are we going to get out there to see him because Ma sure won’t give us money for a taxi?”

With this last question, Queenie and Cid both look at me. I turn away like I’m thinking, even though I already know the answer.

“We’re going to walk,” I finally say in the matter-of-fact way Ma does when she tells us there’s no milk in the house and there won’t be any tomorrow, either. She says it like this so we’ll be strong about it and not complain.

“Walk?” Cid moans. “It’s way out past the Tenth Line! We won’t get there until next week.”

“Not if it’s up to you,” I scoff. “Get your shoes on and let’s go.”

Cid rolls her eyes and sighs. She knows I hate when she does this.

“You can come along with us and have fun or you can stay here and stew.”

I know this will shut Cid up and it does. She stuffs her feet angrily into her shoes.

“We’ll have to get the pony some hay andoats,” Queenie says, pulling her sneakers over her floppy socks. Her socks are always floppy.

“Fix your socks or you’ll get a blister,” I tell her. “We’ll get him everything he needs.”

“With what money?” Cid demands. “And how are we supposed to get him home?”

I ignore her question, tying my shoes very carefully with a double knot because I know we have a long way to go—way out past the Tenth Line and then some. I smooth my hair to one side and pull up my own socks. Queenie is waiting patiently for an answer but Cid is ready to smack me.

“We’re going to ride him home.”

Sometimes, something as small as an ad in the daily newspaper can change your whole life. That’s what happened to Cid, Queenie and me one summer. It was 1977, the year of broken things.
Star Wars
opened and broke the record at the Eastview theatre by running for thirteen weeks in a row. Queenie broke her collarbone. And Cheryl Hanson broke my heart. This is how the ad read: