Somewhere I Belong (22 page)

Ma gasped at the mention of Dad. Her excitement at Mayme's news seemed to disappear and she breathed out a sigh. “The rest is for me.” She dropped the letter to the table. “News from the neighbourhood…lay-offs at Crandall Dry Dock…orders down, but George still has his job….” She looked over at us kids. “Your father worked there with your Uncle George before he went to Beacon Oil. I wish he had stayed.”

Uncle Jim pulled out a chair and sat down next to Ma. “What's in that there newspaper article?”

“No doubt the same baloney Beacon Oil fed to the newspapers after the accident.” Ma pushed back her chair, got up and left the room.

Uncle Jim watched her hurry up the stairs toward her bedroom. Then
he folded the newspaper article. I caught a glimpse of the headline
before he tucked it into the envelope:
State Fire Marshal to Investigate Refinery Explosion
. “This stuff upsets your mother,” he said. “Can't say as I blame her.”

When we heard Ma's bedroom door close, Uncle Jim held Aunt
Mayme's letter up and read it. Then he put it down and ran a finger over the money order and the ball game tickets that were spread out on the kitchen table in front of him. He picked them up, tucked them into the envelope, and propped the envelope against the sugar bowl. Then he sat back and spoke to Larry and me.

“Sounds like quite a trip. You'd think your mother'd be happy for you fellas.”

“Do you think she'll let me go?” I gave him a pleading look.

“I don't see why not.” The look on his face said he wasn't so sure. Still, I sensed that my uncle had become an ally.

“What about Old Dunphy? What about Pat Jr.?” I asked. I was thinking about how upset Ma was, how she blamed Pat Jr.'s suspension on me.

“Let it set for a while. Maybe your mother'll cool down.” He pushed back his chair and got up from the table. “Give it time.”

After supper, we stayed seated around the kitchen table and watched Ma re-read Aunt Mayme's letter. When Aunt Gert collected up the dishes and carried them to the sink, Uncle Jim turned to Ma.

“I hear tell Babe Ruth is more famous than Ty Cobb even. Hit sixty home runs last season. Set a new world record. Said he had a better year than President Hoover. I reckon he's the most famous man in the whole United States….”

“Dad and Uncle George took Larry and me to see Babe Ruth play at Fenway last year.” I tried to add to the discussion without sounding like I was begging. “He hit a home run clear out of the park. He even autographed my baseball after the game.” I looked at Ma. “That's the one I've been looking for. Have you found it yet?”

“No, Pius James, I haven't,” Ma said. “I have one more box to unpack. It's probably there.” She looked tired and annoyed.

“Maybe I could go and get him to sign another one.” It sounded like a question. But Ma ignored me and kept clutching the letter, her lips moving as she scanned it.

Uncle Jim cleared his throat and leaned toward her. “Those two
boys'll have a grand old time, Martha. The train'll take them straight down to Boston and George'll be right there to meet 'em.”

The look on Ma's face said she wasn't convinced. “Surely you don't think Pius James is going.” She fixed her glaze on Uncle Jim and then glared at me. “Not after what he did to Charlie Dunphy. Not after the trouble he got Pat Jr. into!”

Uncle Jim looked at her, silent.

I didn't say a word.

Larry spoke up in my defence. “Mr. Dunphy's been picking on P.J. ever since we got here.”

Ma pursed her lips. “And that justifies what your brother did?”

“No, Ma,” Larry said.

“I wish I was going,” Helen said.

“I wanna go too,” Alfred piped in. “Can I, Ma?”

“No, Alfred, you can't.” Ma turned to Helen. “Now look what you've started. Take your brother upstairs—it's time for bed.”

Helen grabbed Alfred's hand and pulled him from the room.

“I wanna go,” Alfred hollered. “P.J. gets to go, I'm goin' too.”

“
P.J.'s
not going anywhere!” Ma hollered back.

Alfred screamed all the way up the stairs.

His bedroom door banged shut. Then Uncle Jim rested a hand on my shoulder and turned to Ma. “Don't you think you're goin' a bit hard on the boy? This business with Charlie Dunphy'll blow over. And Pius James won't be gettin' himself into any more trouble.” He jostled my shoulder. “Will you, P.J.?”

“I don't believe in rewarding bad behaviour, Jim.” Ma wasn't changing her mind.

I hung my head and fought back tears.

Larry just sat there, staring at her.

Uncle Jim gave it one last try. “All those famous ballplayers playin' in their own neighbourhood. Likely their friends're goin'. Mayme even sent the tickets and the train fare.” He paused momentarily, searching for words. “Lookit how hard he's worked 'round here, Martha. Don'tcha think he deserves a second chance?”

I looked up at Ma; tears streamed down my face. “It's because of Mr. Dunphy, isn't it? It's because he suspended me and Pat Jr.”

“It's because of what you did to Mr. Dunphy, Pius James,” Ma said. “It's because of the trouble you got your friend into.”

“But Aunt Mayme said he could go,” Helen said, coming back into the room. It seemed like everybody was on my side except for Ma.

“That was most kind of Aunt Mayme, Helen,” Ma said. “But if she knew what your brother has just done, she wouldn't have. Larry can go. I'll ask Percy Giddings to take him.”

I turned to my uncle, pleading, but he was already pushing back
from the table.

“You send Larry with Percy Giddings and they'll be lost before they get to Charlottetown,” he said. “I'll take 'im to Boston.” He brushed a hand across my head and went out to the barn.

I stood up and stared at my mother. I suppose she was right to
punish me for what I had done. Still, the trip home, the chance to see all my friends again. To watch all those famous ballplayers playing in our own park. Babe Ruth, even. And Lou Gehrig. And we would get to see this year's Red Sox rookies and two entire major league teams seated on the bleachers at our own ballpark. Uncle George probably even got us seats right beside them. Besides, Ma had lost my Babe Ruth baseball. If she didn't find it, she had better let me go.

All of the events of the past five months welled up inside of me and poured right out. “I hate this place. I hate everything about it.”

I bolted out the door and raced up the back field, looking for Lu. I found her grazing at the bottom of a grassy slope, catching the sun's
last rays. She lifted her head and moved toward me. I wrapped my arms around her huge neck and she nuzzled me. I stroked her and
talked to her, pulled new shoots of grass from the field, and held them out to her. She stayed close, fixing her eyes on me, perking her ears forward. Listening.

“It isn't fair. Ma's just…she's just….” But I couldn't find the words.

Lu lowered her head and nudged me as if to say she understood. I wanted to mount her and ride up the field and away from here. There
was a boulder resting beside a nearby copse. I grabbed Lu's halter
and urged her toward it. I scrambled up the rock, slid onto her bare back, and grabbed her mane. “Gee up, Lu.” I sat on top of that big old Percheron, feeling her huge, muscular body move easily beneath me. We loped up the back field together, me gripping her mane, Lu moving at a gentle pace. A cool breeze drifted down the field. I leaned into Lu, taking in her warmth. Feeling as if she were my only friend.

Clouds soon gathered in the darkening sky. The horizon turned to a blaze of deep pink. When night closed in, I turned Lu back down the field, feeling the grey, empty space around me. When we reached the gate, I dismounted and led her toward the barn. Her water pail was full; a fresh stook of hay had been laid in her stall—I figured it was Larry. I opened the blanket box and grabbed a heavy blanket. I climbed up the ladder to the hayloft, wrapped myself in it, and cried.

About an hour later, the barn door opened. Larry entered, carrying a lantern and a plate covered in a tea towel. He hung the lantern from a hook on a crossbeam and moved toward Big Ned's stall. “Hey, Big Ned.” He spoke in a hushed tone, as if he didn't want to awaken the cows. The big old Percheron lowered his head, and Larry produced a lump of sugar from a pocket. He held one out to his horse and another to Lu. Then he called up to the loft.

“Supper, P.J. Chicken—it's good.”

I'm not hungry.

Larry waited, then carried the plate up the ladder. He put the plate down on the edge of the loft, then returned for the lantern and hung it from a nearby beam.

“How you doing?” He slid next to me and sat cross-legged, resting the plate on a knee.

I sat up and faced him, still wrapped in the blanket.
How the heck does he think I'm doing?

“I talked to Ma.” The flame of the lantern flickered, casting shadows across his face. “I asked her if she would, maybe, change her mind.”

I didn't move.

“I asked her if you could write Mr. Dunphy an apology, offer to do some chores around school. Maybe apologize to Mrs. Giddings too.”

“What'd she say?”

“She said, ‘I'm not sure.'”

That means no.

“Look, P.J.,” Larry said. “That was a crazy thing you did to Mr. Dunphy.
And you shouldn't have involved Pat Jr. If I had known about it, I'd
have stopped you.”

“I'd like to know who told,” I said. “Besides, I thought Old Dunphy liked Uncle Jim's cider.”

“I think it was the cider and the castor oil together,” Larry said.
“Someone called Ma this morning and told her Mr. Dunphy was short-taken all night.”

I looked up at Larry. “You mean he had to squat over the thunder bowl all night? That's bad.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Think Ma'll ever cool down?” I asked.

“Eventually,” Larry said.

“You think maybe she'll cool down before that baseball game?”

Larry shrugged his shoulders. “You should eat—supper's getting
cold.”

I wasn't hungry. Ignoring Larry and the food, I picked up a stook of hay, untied it, and spread it over the floor. Then I laid the blanket over the hay and smoothed it out flat. “I'm tired.” I wrapped myself in the blanket, closed my eyes, and pretended to sleep.

Larry sat beside me for a long time. Eventually, he put the plate
beside me and climbed down the ladder.

The animals shifted in their stalls as Larry moved past them. A barn cat pushed up against my face and purred loudly. I pulled it under the blanket, wrapping my arms around it.

My stomach growled with the sickening feeling of being empty. And I itched from the coarse woollen blanket and the brittle hay. Sorrow and regret sank in as I drifted into a troubled sleep. I felt the kind of dull ache you get when you miss home.

Sometime in the night, the barn went eerily quiet. The cat stopped purring and stiffened in my arms. A cold mass sank from the ceiling and settled around me. Then the loft lit up in a bright, hazy light. It was night, and there were no windows in the loft. So I wondered how the light had got in. Clutching the cat, I eased back the blanket and peered at the misty orb that loomed several feet away. A dark shape formed at its centre. My heart pounded and I broke into a sweat. The shape drifted across the floorboards, still surrounded by the orb. Soon, Dad was hovering over me. This time, he didn't ask his usual questions. Instead, he came right out and told me exactly what was on his mind.

“You don't honestly think your mother would let you go to that ball game after what you've just done.”

“You know already?”

“Of course I do—I'm your father.”

“So you know what I did to Old Dunphy? You know about Pat Jr.? Ma's really steamed.”

“It's
Mr.
Dunphy to you, young fella. Mind your manners. And, no, your mother isn't steamed. She's disappointed. She puts a lot into you kids and she expects more. And she's not about to reward that kind of behaviour. What kind of example would that set?” He drifted closer and hovered right next to me. “Your mother loves you—you know that. If she didn't, she'd let you go and hang yourself.”

“Huh?” I didn't quite get his meaning.

“Raising kids isn't easy. You have to make tough choices. And now that I'm not there anymore, your mother's got to decide what's best for you on her own.”

“I know what I did and I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have done it. But, Mr. Dun—”

“There's no excuse this time, Pius James,” Dad said. “I could see it if you had played a little trick on him. But castor oil? And cider? And bringing a trusted friend in on it?”