Totally Unrelated (2 page)

And, of course, there are my parents. My mom's confident, rollicking piano playing and my dad's energetic fiddling are the backbone of the whole operation. If you go back far enough, this is really how things got started. Dad likes to tell the story of how he and Mom met. He was playing at a square dance, and his piano player got the stomach flu and had to bail. My dad yelled into the crowd to see if anyone could carry a tune, and our mom, who'd learned piano sitting on her grandfather's knee, just happened to be there. She stepped up to the plate, and apparently they liked more than each other's playing. Eventually they got married and started popping out musical babies, and the rest is history.

Yep, the Family McClintock is an impressive bunch, that's for sure, and perhaps the most amazing thing about my parents and siblings is that every single one of them is multitalented. They all play at least three instruments. Give Molly a penny whistle and toss a mandolin to Shamus, and they'll both figure out what to do with them. Drag a harp in front of Kathy, and she'll strum like there's no tomorrow. I'm pretty sure that if someone were to throw a didgeridoo onstage at one of our shows, it'd be incorporated into the mix by the end of the set—“Waltzing MacTilda” or something like that.

Kathy is the first to see me, and she rushes over to give me a hug.

“It's so good to see you,” she says.

“You too,” I tell her. Kathy and I get along really well. “What gives, anyway?” I ask her. “I thought your exams ended weeks ago. How come it took you so long to get home?”

“Long story,” she whispers. “I'll fill you in later.”

“Late again, Neil,” says Dad. “Not a good start to the season.” He's a stickler for showing up on time, so I often end up disappointing him. I'm glad that he doesn't make a big deal out of it today. Everybody is happy that Kathy is finally home.

My dad claps his hands. “Okay, everyone, grab your gear. Get into place.”

I'm sure by this point you're asking what exactly it is that
I
do. Well, for one thing, I don't dance, that's for sure. Believe me, I've tried. I can't play a fiddle or a piano to save my life, trying to keep time on a drum confuses my brain, and as for singing…well, let's just say that I'm happy to let the rest of them handle the vocals. The boring truth is that I play the guitar. My parents shoved it at me because they needed me to do
something
, and for years I've stood behind them all onstage, strumming away like some kind of an idiot.

Not to blow my own horn, but I'm actually pretty good. It's just that I don't really get to perform much. I mean, I play the whole time, but it's basically filler. I do a bit of finger picking, but mostly I just bang out the chords and keep the rhythm like a trained monkey backing up an orchestra. At one point or another, I've tried to learn pretty much every other instrument that might fit in with the rest of the noise onstage—mandolin, pipes, piano, even accordion—but none of them stuck. I just don't have the feel for things the way the rest of my family does, so I'm destined to stand behind them all, strumming my guitar and wishing I was somewhere else.

My lack of musical versatility isn't the only thing that sets me apart from my family. A few years ago a reporter for the tourism section of the
New York Times
did a story about Cape Breton Island, and we actually got a mention. “The Family McClintock is the real deal,” the
Times
declared. “A family band in the truest sense of the word. Six children and their parents and all but one of them sporting pale skin dotted with freckles and the brightest red hair west of Scotland. When this rowdy crew gets going onstage, it's a sight to see. Absolutely not to be missed, especially for their dance routines.”

“All but one of them” refers to me, indirectly. Neil, the middle child. Kathy's drop-dead beautiful, and in a few years the twins will look just like her. Shamus is tall and good-looking and has girls falling all over him. It's only a matter of time before Johnny has the same problem. He's younger than I am, but he's already a couple of inches taller. It's no wonder they stick me at the back of the stage. I'm the runty, pudgy, black-haired black sheep of the family, with a distinct lack of moves.

We haven't rehearsed in months, since Christmas vacation, so it's pretty impressive that things sound as tight as they do as quickly as they do. We start off with our classic intro piece, a fast, upbeat tune called “Off to the Dance” that gives everyone a chance to do their thing. The song builds in layers until everyone is part of the action. Shamus gets things going by thrumming out a steady rolling beat on his drum; then I come in with a simple repetitive chord sequence, A–D–G–A, that fills in the sound a bit and sets the stage. My mother is next, dropping into the action with a nice piano run that turns into a bright and cheerful melody line. Johnny and Dad start at the same time, Dad on fiddle and Johnny on penny whistle. They go back and forth for a few bars, “Dueling Banjos” style, and then the girls dance out to the front, Kathy down the middle of the group and the twins on either side. They start dancing gracefully in perfect unison, and the music backs them up nicely as they side-kick and front-step and twirl back and forth across the concrete floor of the garage.

The music comes to a gentle lull, and the three girls curtsy neatly. The audience is meant to get the impression that the song has come to a close, but after a pregnant pause we kick into overdrive. I strum harder and start to do a bit of fast picking, Mom's piano really gets going, and Dad walks out in front with the fiddle and faces the girls, who begin an intricate stepdance routine. At first they dance together, then one at a time, so that it appears as if the music is moving across the floor through their feet, snapping from one to the next. Dad is something to see when he really gets into the music. He's crouching and playing as fast as they dance, and their feet and his bow are moving so quickly you can barely see them. Gradually the rest of us drop out of the song until it's just the fiddle and the feet, playing off one another. Finally, a crescendo of music and footsteps comes to a sudden end, and all of us take a dramatic stage bow, holding our instruments out to our sides and keeping still for a few seconds for the applause.

Obviously, there is no applause during practice, but we know to expect it. Our audiences love this stuff. If I'm being totally honest, I have to say I've never really liked the music we play, but, as my parents have pointed out to us over and over again, this gig is going to pay our way through university. Don't get me wrong. We aren't getting rich from doing this, but if we're lucky and the gigs keep coming, we might just end up with a debt-free start to life. Rock and roll.

Three

After running through a few more tunes, my dad gets my brothers and sisters to line up and start practicing the big dance centerpiece to the show. The routine is elaborate and involves a lot of back and forth between the boys and the girls. It would make sense for me to be included, since it would pair up three guys and three girls, but like I said, I'm not cut out for dancing. My parents did their best to teach me, but eventually they had to throw in the towel and admit that I wasn't a twinkletoes like the rest of the gang. That's why I just hang out in the background and strum away, a big fake smile plastered to my face.

“Are we done practicing after this?” I ask my mom.

“Yep,” she says. “Why don't you go and keep your grandmother company? Scoot before your dad notices.”

She doesn't need to tell me twice.

Gran's in the kitchen, kneading a massive lump of glossy brown dough for her famous porridge bread. There's a turkey in the oven, and the whole house smells amazing.

I grab a seat at the table and absentmindedly strum on my guitar.

“Where's the rest of the dog and pony show?” she asks.

“They're dancing,” I tell her. I don't need to go into detail—everyone knows I've got two left feet.

“I guess they'll be twice as hungry when they come in,” she says. “You'd better come over here and get a couple of these into you before the rest of them have a chance to gobble them up.”

Her eyes twinkle as she slides a plate of her famous cranberry scones, still wafting steam, across the counter. I stand the guitar up against the table and come over to grab one.

“Yum,” I say, breaking off a piece and sticking it into my mouth.

“There's butter in the fridge,” she tells me.

“I like them like this,” I say. There's nothing better than a warm scone straight out of the oven. Gran's the best cook in the world. Her specialty is old-school Scottish food—oatcakes, farm cheese, bread-and-butter pickles. Yes, she makes haggis, but it isn't nearly as bad as people seem to think. It's basically a giant sausage. If that grosses you out, you should show up sometime when she's making blood pudding. It's pretty much exactly what it sounds like, and it's delicious. My dad and I are the only ones who'll eat the stuff.

“Dancing aside, how was practice?” asks Gran. She's forming loaves, putting them into pans and covering them with tea towels to rise.

“Same same,” I say, stuffing a second scone into my mouth.

She smiles at me, shaking her head. “I don't know how you people do it,” she says. “When your parents told me that they were thinking of putting you all onstage, I didn't believe it. I definitely didn't think it would last this long. Now look at you.”

“Yeah, lucky us,” I say.

“Well, you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family,” she says. “As long as you're stuck with them, you might as well make nice music together.”

“Stuck is a good way to put it,” I say.

“How do you think I feel?” she asks. “I'm not gonna graduate from high school in a few years with my whole life out there waiting for me. I'm here in the zoo for the long haul, or at least until they put me on an ice floe and push me out to sea.”

“I never thought about that, Gran,” I say. “Maybe we should start making plans to escape.”

“Save up those music bucks, boy. We'll go online and buy a secondhand motorcycle with a sidecar and then hit the road for Argentina. You can teach yourself gaucho music, and I'll find some wealthy retiree with a cattle farm who's looking for a nice Canadian lady to settle down with.”

“I didn't realize you were in the market, Gran.”

“The only reason I haven't remarried is because all the eligible bachelors in this town are widowers, and I was friends or enemies with every single one of their wives. I can't stand the thought of them gossiping about me up in heaven. Or wherever they are.”

I'm still laughing when the rest of the family comes tumbling into the kitchen, all of them talking over each other.

“Who's hungry?” asks Gran.

Stupid question. Just as she predicted, the scones are gone in about ten seconds flat.

“Everyone listen up for a minute,” yells Mom. “I need you all to give me a list of your current measurements so I can get our stagewear finalized.”

We begin calling out our sizes at her, but she holds up her hand and pulls a piece of paper and a pen from a drawer. “Write it all down,” she says, handing the paper to Shamus. “I'm not a dictation machine.”

Supper is typically delicious. Gran's gone overboard, and the table is packed with food. You'd think it was Christmas.

“So are you going to fill us in on why we barely heard from you this semester, Kathy?” asks Dad.

“You heard from me,” she says.

“Once a week, if we were lucky,” says Mom.

“Once a week is a lot, Mom. How much did you want me to call? I told you, school was really busy. I had a big research project that I worked on for almost three months.”

“The kind of research project that makes you blush,” says Shamus, and he's right. Her face is beet red. Kathy can't hide anything. None of the rest of them can either. One of the advantages of my darker complexion is that I don't look like I'm going to cry or freak out every ten minutes.

“Is there a guy?” I ask her.

“You could say that,” she says. “His name is Casey.”

“Weird name,” say Maura and Molly at the same time.

“Not really,” says Kathy.

“Is he the reason you were late coming home this year?” asks Johnny.

“Pretty much,” she says. “He needed help with a project he's been working on, so I stuck around for a few weeks to give him a hand. Anyway, he's gone.”

“What do you mean?” asks Gran.

“I mean he graduated a couple of weeks ago. I was helping him tie up some loose ends, but he's gone to Africa to do development work.”

“For good?” asks Dad.

“For a few years, anyway,” says Kathy.

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Kathy,” says Mom.

“It's okay,” says Kathy, although she doesn't look okay. “How's Delia?” she asks, turning to Shamus and changing the subject.

“He doesn't go out with Delia anymore,” Maura says.

“Oh no,” says Kathy.

“I'm going out with Mary Sexton,” says Shamus.

“I thought you were dating Laureen Shea,” says Mom.

“That was before Mary but after Delia,” says Johnny.

“Wow, Shamus,” says Kathy. “You've been busy.”

“Listen up, guys,” says Dad. “I think we need to talk about scheduling. We have a lot of shows booked for the next couple of months, and I expect we'll have more soon. It's important that we're all on the same page.”

Scheduling. Ugh. The worst thing about being part of the Family McClintock is listening to Dad drone on about schedules. He goes into great detail about what shows we'll be playing, the acoustics of the venues, the types of audiences to expect, blah, blah, blah. None of it matters, as we don't remember any of this crap and we always put on the same show, more or less.