Somewhere I Belong (27 page)

“Where to?” she asked again. She sounded like she was giving up.

“Find a foothold somewheres,” Uncle Jim said. “You can do it.”

She gasped and whimpered and shifted on the plank, searching for a footing.

“Maggie, dear,” her mother called down. “Please—you're almost
there.”

Maggie moved again. She put a hand out to brace herself against the wall, put a bare foot out, and tested it. She found a single large stone and perched on it. I heard her in-and-out rasping, then a splash and a hushed cry.

“Maggie!” My heart raced as I threw a hand out into the dark and couldn't find her.

“It's okay.” A new resolve had replaced her fear. “I just knocked a stone in with my other foot.” She whispered to herself, urging herself along, scraping along the well wall, and then found another footing.

“I'm off,” she said. “You can move the plank.”

Earth trickled into the water as I pushed the board aside and rolled back stones. They landed on my side with a thud, then I secured the plank back in place.

I saw a knee, bruised and scraped, then another one as Maggie eased herself down and reached out a hand. I wrapped my fingers around it and held on like I never wanted to let her go.

The next day, I came downstairs to find everyone seated around the kitchen table over ham sandwiches and blueberry pie. I knew there had been a lot of food brought into the house the previous day. Still, ham sandwiches and blueberry pie seemed an odd choice for breakfast.

“Slept in, did you, Pius James?” Uncle Jim said. “Forget about chores?”

I looked up at the clock above the kitchen sink—both hands pointed at the twelve.

“Sorry. I'll go right away.”

My uncle's sunburned face broke into a smile. “You've earned your rest, young fella. The way I'm lookin' at it, you've earned a little somethin' else too.”

I pulled back a chair and stared at my uncle. “I didn't…I don't,” I
said, too tired for words.

“I was thinkin' 'bout a little reward. In fact, I never paid you boys for all that work you done while I was away. And now yesterday….”

“All we did was help out,” Larry said. “Just like everybody else.”

“Larry's right,” Ma said. “A reward would spoil it.”

“Well, okay,” Uncle Jim said. “But there's two tickets to a certain ball game in Everett and likely another one where they came from. And I just scared up enough money to accompany both boys down on the train. But you're absolutely right, Martha—a reward wouldn't be fittin'.”

Ma's face lit up as she looked over at my uncle. “I couldn't say no to that.”

In July, we worked two solid weeks bringing in the first cut of hay.
Uncle Jim sat up high on the seat of the big, clumsy mower and reined Big Ned up and down the field. Larry and I followed, picking up wheat stalks, tying them into stooks, and stacking them into little straw huts around the field. The wind blew chaff into our eyes, and it stuck to our hair. The days were long and the work was hard. The whole time, we prayed for sun, for high temperatures, and for the rain to hold off so the hay wouldn't rot in the fields. We waited three days for the stooks to dry, loaded them onto the wagon, and stashed them in the loft for winter feed. Then Larry and I finally got a few days off.

I was on my way to Pat Jr.'s one morning with my bat slung over a shoulder, my baseball glove in hand, and the baseball Ma had bought
to replace the one that had got lost when we moved. My head was full of Babe Ruth and Boston, when I noticed Uncle Jim dressed in
his Eaton's catalogue suit. He was backing Lu up to the shafts of the jaunting wagon.

“Where ya going?” I asked.

“Boughton Island. Takin' Gen home.”

I had been marking the days off the calendar since early July. It was Saturday, August 4. There were five days to the big game; our train left in three. I wondered why Uncle Jim was taking a trip when we were going so soon. I looked straight at him. “Train leaves Tuesday.”

“That so.” Uncle Jim put a hand to Lu's chest and checked to make sure she didn't step on a shaft. “Take Lu's halter, wouldja? I gotta get 'er lined up.” He gave her a firm but gentle shove. “Back, old girl.”

“Maybe she's tired.” I put my bat, ball, and glove down and grabbed her halter. “Maybe she don't want to go.”

“Ornery is all,” Uncle Jim said. “Hasn't done a lick o' work since June.” He strapped her into the harness and checked the buckles and straps.
Then he circled the wagon, grabbed Lu's feed bag from the storage
box, and handed it to me. “Fill this up like a good fella—she'll likely get hungry on the way.”

I took the feed bag and held onto the halter. “You going this morning?”

“What's it look like?”

“The train leaves Tuesday.” It was obvious that he hadn't heard the first time.

“I know when the train leaves.” He stopped and huffed at me. “I
thought I told you to fill up that there bag.”

“You told me to steady Lu.”

“She's steady! I'll hold 'er, you get 'er feed. And be quick about it—I gotta get goin'.”

I raced to the barn, threw open the feed box, scooped oats into Lu's bag, then returned to the wagon and held the feed bag out to my uncle.

“You know where that goes!”

My uncle seemed anxious and hurried. I knew this wasn't time for talk. I also knew that the minute he saw Gen MacCormack, he'd fall
under some kind of spell and maybe even forget all about our trip.
Uncle Jim got light in the head when Gen was around. Didn't notice a darn thing around him. If he was going to make it back from Boughton Island on time for us to catch that train, I needed to keep him on track. I stepped around the back of the wagon, opened the storage box, and deposited the feed bag.

“When're you coming back?”

“Monday evenin', likely.”

That's cutting it close. By my calculation, he could get to Boughton Island by the late evening tide, drop Gen off, and return the next day. One likes a good margin in these situations. “Uh…you going to be on time?”

Uncle Jim circled the wagon again and checked the wheels, the shafts, and the straps that secured the storage box. Then he laughed and shook his head. “Don't you worry: I'll be back before you know it, and we'll have us the best time ever.”

That evening, I went to bed, and in my sleep Uncle Jim's trip ran
through my head. I saw him, sitting tall in his seat, riveted on Gen.
And her clutching his arm. The reins lay slack in his hands as Lu sauntered down the drive and took a right turn onto the road. I saw a ferry floating on rippling water, then its gangway lower to a cement launch. Beyond it lay a blank horizon where Boughton Island was supposed to be. Uncle Jim was taking Lu by the halter and directing her down the launch. When the ferry embarked, they were the only ones aboard. Then dark clouds moved in from the east and the wind picked up. But Gen and Uncle Jim stared off in the distance, oblivious. Black water swelled, then peaked, and splashed over the gunnels. It flooded the floorboards and rose up to Lu's knees. Somehow, they docked. Then Uncle Jim urged Lu along a gravel road and out onto a narrow brick trail. As soon as Lu stepped onto those bricks, she sank into mud and water and disappeared.

Then the recurring dream I had had since Maggie's ordeal in the well came back. I saw her frightened face, her standing in water, shivering. But this time there was no board holding her up—just the chill water below her. I was back in the tunnel, surrounded by darkness and damp, tepid air. There was red mud everywhere and my hands sank into it. Then the boards above me heaved and creaked and gave way. I heard a familiar scream. I saw a flash of Maggie's frightened face as she slipped below the surface. The water rippled, then went eerily still, and I felt the weight of something pressing down on my shoulder, shaking me.

“Wake up, Pius James—you're having a nightmare.” Ma pulled me off my pillow and wrapped her arms around me. “What was it? What did you see?”

“Water. Black and choppy.” I turned and looked at her. “It was everywhere.”

“What else did you see?” She spoke in a hushed tone, coaxing me.
“People?…Someone you know? An animal, perhaps?” Ma really be
lieved in dreams.

“Uncle Jim. Gen and Lu.” I thought hard. “Something falling into the water. I'm not sure.”

“What was the last thing you saw, Pius James?”

“Maggie.”

Ma sat up for a moment, then turned from me. Across the room, the thin, white curtains billowed in the early morning breeze. Dust
danced through a stream of sunlight. “It's just a nightmare,” Ma said. “Maggie's fine.”

On the overnight train to Boston, Larry and I placed bets on who would
spot Uncle George first. When we pulled into North Boston Station, I leaned out the window, scanned the waiting crowd, and spotted him towering over everybody.

“Uncle George!”

He stood with his back to our passenger car, looking hard in the
wrong direction. I leaned out further, and called again.

“Get your head in here,” Uncle Jim said. “Wait 'til we're stopped.”

The train screeched to a halt, and I pulled my bag off the rack above our seat and bolted down the aisle and out the door. Holding my bag in front of me, I squeezed through the crowd and found Uncle George. Uncle Jim and Larry were close behind.

“There you are, you rascal!” Uncle George threw his arms wide open and hugged me. Then he reached out a hand and grabbed Uncle Jim's. “How was your trip?” And before anybody could answer, he slapped Larry on the shoulder and checked him over. “You've stretched out, haven't you? They're sure feeding you well up there.”

Uncle George led us through the station and out onto Front Street
toward his big black Buick. We threw our bags into the trunk and
climbed in—Uncle Jim in front, Larry and me in back.

“Your Aunt Mayme's been looking forward to this for weeks.” He
sounded as excited as I was. He checked for traffic, then eased the car out onto the street. “All she talks about is you fellas coming down to watch the ball game. She still can't believe Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig are coming to Everett.”

I had forgotten how crowded and noisy Boston was. Front Street was a stream of cars. Engines chugged and horns honked. The sidewalks were filled with people hurrying to get where they were going—they spilled across the intersections even before the traffic lights changed. Back home, Lu could pull Uncle Jim's big old wagon for miles without stopping. But in Boston, we stopped and started all the way through the downtown.

There were buildings everywhere. They lined every block right up to the sidewalk, and they were huge. I hadn't seen a single building on the whole of Prince Edward Island as big as the ones in Boston. And aside from the grassy boulevard in front of the train station, everything was cobblestones and cement. Northbridge Road seemed like a great wide-open space compared to Boston.

We soon crossed the Mystic River into Revere. When we passed
by the Beacon Oil Refinery, I saw the black empty yard where the oil tank had blown up. I thought about Dad and wondered where he had been when it happened. Wondered if he had been trapped in the blaze. Father Flynn told us God took him right away and that he hadn't felt any pain. But priests sometimes say things to make your feel better—Ma calls them little white lies. Seeing the burned-out refinery and driving through the old neighbourhood where the fire had been made me miss him more than ever.

When we turned off Alford Street and onto Broadway, someone
ran across the road right in front of us. Uncle George slammed on the brakes and hollered out the window, “You trying to get killed?” But from the way my uncle raced through intersections even after the light had turned red, I wondered if he was the one trying to get killed. I had forgotten what a lunatic driver he was. Bumping along Northbridge Road with Uncle Jim and Lu might have been slow, but at least it felt safer than travelling with Uncle George. I was relieved when we finally drove down Hancock Street and saw Aunt Mayme waiting for us on the front steps of their house.

“You boys sure have been missed around here,” she said, giving
Larry and me each a big hug. “The telephone's been ringing off the hook all week.”

Aunt Mayme's house was a whole lot cheerier than it had been the last time I was there. Flowers were blooming in the boxes under the windows and in the front garden. The black cloth that had been draped over the mirror in the front hallway for my dad's wake was gone. The winged-back chairs that had been moved to the kitchen to make room for his coffin were back by the fireplace in the parlour. The curtains were now open to let the sunshine in. And it smelled like bacon and eggs and homemade bread.

“So, how do you like living up in Canada?” Aunt Mayme asked as she served up breakfast. “How's your new school?”

Larry answered, “Fine” to the first question and “Okay” to the second. I didn't want to get into any particulars, especially not in front of Uncle
Jim. And I didn't figure Aunt Mayme would understand about Old
Dunphy anyhow. So, I just ate my food and listened to Uncle George.

“The game's sold out,” he said. “If we do well at the concessions, I figure we'll hit our target.”

“Your uncle has worked really hard on this,” Aunt Mayme said. She poured coffee for the men and herself, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “He's had one thing in mind the whole time—your mother and you kids. That's what this is all for.”

“Really?” I said. I couldn't believe all those famous ballplayers were coming to Glendale Park just to play for us.

“Well, it's a bit more than that,” Uncle George said.

“What I meant to say was that your Uncle George volunteered because of you fellas,” Aunt Mayme said. “Of course the game's for all the families who lost men in that terrible explosion.”

“It's going to be something, I tell you,” Uncle George said. “I got us seats right next to the Red Sox.”

“Ain't that somethin',” Uncle Jim said.

“You mean we could be sitting right next to one of them guys?” I
imagined sitting next to Buddy Myer or Jack Rothrock and getting
their autographs. And bragging to Pat Jr. and Thomas about it when I got home. I hoped I would even get a chance to meet Babe Ruth and get another autograph from him.

“Speaking of baseball,” Uncle George said. “Don't those boys have a game somewhere this afternoon?”

“Oh yes,” Aunt Mayme said. “Jimmy O'Connor telephoned and said for you boys go to his house as soon as you got here. Glendale Park is closed—they're getting it ready for the big game.”

Jimmy O'Connor's house sat two blocks away, on a big corner lot on Swan Street. His family were huge baseball fans. They always bought season's tickets to the Red Sox games at Fenway Park. Jimmy's dad even built a baseball diamond in their side yard. He cut a dirt path through the lawn, placed sand bags on each base, and a sheet of plywood cut
in the shape of a perfect pentagon for home plate. Lawn chairs sat
along one side for bleachers. And there was even a net behind it, so kids wouldn't hit baseballs onto the street.

The minute Jimmy saw Larry and me, he dropped his bat and practically raced across the yard. “You're here! I don't believe it!” It sure was good to see him again.

We shook hands and slapped shoulders. Then Jimmy asked about everything that had happened since we left.

He said, “Swell” to the train ride up and the ferryboat that crossed the Northumberland Strait. He said, “That's gotta be the best,” when I told him about Lu. When I gave him the details of Northbridge Road School, he said, “Huh, you're all stuck in the same room?” And he had one word to say about Old Dunphy: “Knucklehead!”

I tried to keep my chest from puffing out when I went into the details of mucking out stalls, milking the cows, and turning them out.

Jimmy's mouth fell wide open. “That sounds like hick stuff. You
mean, you don't hang out or nothing? You don't get a ball game going?”

“Sometimes we do,” I said. “When we finish up chores.”

“When we finish up chores?” Now he was faking a Tennessee accent. “Cripes, P.J.—you even sound like a hick.”

When I told him I even got to see a baby cow get born, he turned and walked toward where the other fellas were waiting by home plate. “That's gotta be the grossest thing I ever heard.”

I looked at Larry and sucked in a lip.

“Never mind, P.J.,” Larry said. “He doesn't mean it.”

Even so, this was a new kind of hurt. And it really stung.