Blue Vengeance (19 page)

 

“I've come up with something,” said Janine.

“What?”

They were sitting on the grass by the empty wading pool at the community club. Girls carrying their tap dancing shoes came and went.

“It's a variation on the fiery shit in a bag.”

“Okay,” Danny said. “Let's hear it.”

“
Danny has a girlfriend
,” two little girls sang as they walked by. “
Danny has a girlfriend
.”

“My dad has these roofers' nails,” said Janine. “They're excellent nails with good flat tops big enough they can stand up on their own.”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, so we place some nails standing up, inside the shit, inside the bag. We pour a bit of gasoline on it. Then we ring her doorbell, set a match to the works, and run like hell.”

“You're talkin' about the divorcée Flood, right?”

“Of course. Who else?”

“Well, I keep hopin' we're gonna be talkin' about Miss Hardass.”

“Relax,” said Janine, “We'll get to her.”

“
You've got Janine's cooties
,” sang another girl as she tagged her friend.

The friend tagged her back.

“No, you.”

“You.”

“No, you.”

“Let's get out of here,” said Janine.

They took off down Lawndale, away from the taunts of the eight-year-olds.

“Remember when I said that Cookie was kind to me?” Janine said.

“Yeah?”

“It was when kids said things like that about me, to me: that whole cooties thing. If she saw it happening she would always come over and kind of make it seem like we were playing together, as if she wanted to be with me. And the kids would back off. It was before she got weird, when she was still half-assed popular back at Nordale.”

“I wonder why she had to go and get weird,” said Danny.

“Probably all kinds of reasons,” said Janine. “And don't forget Hardass. She was on Cookie's back right from the start, from the beginning of grade nine. Always on her about not being any good at anything. I don't know why she picked on Cookie — lots of kids are terrible at sports — but she never gave her a break. Once she…”

“Once she what?” said Danny.

“Nothing.”

“Are you thinkin' about the locker room thing?” said Danny. “Cookie told me about that.”

“Yeah, there was that. It was really horrible. God, I detest that bitch. Did Cookie tell you that she's always in the locker room with us? For no good reason. That's bizarre in itself, right? I mean, we have our underwear on, but still, it's creepy. A couple of the girls took their bras off once and walked up to ask her a question — pushing it, you know, tits all over the place, but pretending nothing was out of the ordinary. And she didn't say anything, didn't tell them to put their bras back on, just drank it all in. Is that perverted or what?”

“Which girls?”

Janine chuckled. “Oh, Danny, Danny.”

He stepped out of reach so she couldn't tousle his hair. Her voice had tousling all through it.

When they got to the river they sat down close to the edge.

“Who's gonna do the placing of the nails?” said Danny.

“I'll do it. I'll wear rubber gloves.”

“Oh. Rubber gloves. That's a good idea.”

“Well, what did you think, I'm going to do it with my bare hands?”

“No, I guess not.”

“This is going to be great. We'll do it after dark. We want her to be sure to see the flames. It'll scare the piss out of her.”

“And we don't want anyone to see us. Maybe we should wear disguises.”

“What sort of disguises?”

“I've still got a Lone Ranger mask and hat.”

“I've got a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with a false nose attached.”

“This is why it's not good that Rock knows that we know about them,” Danny said. “He'll figure it's us and he'll rat us out.”

“She won't tell him about it,” said Janine. “She won't want him to know that anyone hates her that much. Plus, she won't want him to know that she had shit attached to her feet.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mm-hmm. She'll think it'll make her less attractive in his eyes.”

“Will it?”

“Probably. Who wants to suck on toes that have been covered in shit? Even if they've been washed a billion times.”

“No one, I guess,” Danny said. He wasn't sure he would want to suck on anyone's toes no matter what, but he didn't say so. Something else to think about.

“I hope she's wearing flimsy slippers or bare feet,” said Janine. “That's another good thing about doing it late. She's more likely not to have shoes on.”

 

They picked Friday, September 18th. Dot was home on the farm, and Jake was working the three-to-eleven shift at the bakery. The sun set at a little after 7:30. They didn't have to wait long after that for the cover of night, but to be on the safe side they decided on 10:00.

In the late afternoon they searched for dog shit in the grass by the river. They wanted it fresh. Janine had brought an old ladle, rubber gloves, and two plastic bags. They walked slowly, Russell trotting along ahead, till they found what they needed. Russell didn't even try to contain her excitement.

Back at Janine's house she transferred it to a flimsy paper bag, positioned the nails, and put it back into plastic for the journey to rue Valade. She put the ladle and gloves in a bag of their own and tossed them in the garbage out back of the shed.

Danny went home to make supper. It was almost 7:00 but he knew his mum wouldn't care. He wasn't hungry. He heated up some Chuckwagon Dinner for his mum and noticed for the first time how horrible it was. Thin stew, an embarrassment of stew. How could he have eaten it before without questioning it? He threw it out. Not even his mum deserved Chuckwagon Dinner. He heated up some tomato soup and placed a pile of soda crackers beside it on her tray. She put out her cigarette.

“Thanks, Danny,” she said.

“You're welcome, Mum.”

 

He felt okay about the dog shit; it was a good prank. But the nails made him uneasy. He didn't like imagining how it would feel if he was the one doing the stomping. And what if they got caught? This wasn't his fight. What a waste of getting caught if it wasn't even something he wanted to do.

But then, Miss Hartley wasn't Janine's fight, and she was gung-ho about that. At least she used to be. Maybe she just needed any fight, it didn't matter whose.

They mustn't forget that Miss Hartley lived upstairs. They had to keep an eye on her apartment as well as Mrs. Flood's for any sign of interference.

He put several kitchen matches in his pocket and said goodbye to Russell at the back door. There was no room for a dog in the plan.

Janine was ready with the bag and a small jar of gasoline. They had a little time to kill so they played a few hands of rummy. At 9:30 they hopped on their bikes and cycled slowly over to rue Valade, stopping across from Saint Boniface Hospital to don their disguises. At 9:45 it was as dark as it was going to get.

“I hope that stupid wiener dog isn't around,” Janine said, as they parked their bikes on rue Dollard by the fir tree across from the house.

Danny felt as though he hadn't been much help so far.

“Do you want me to be the guy to do it?” he said.

“We'll both do it. I'll position the shit and pour the gas, and then you drop the match and ring the bell, simultaneously if possible. Christ, I forgot matches.”

“I've got lots.”

“Really?”

“Yup,” said Danny, a hero for a moment or two.

“Okay, let's just stand here and get our bearings.”

“We better not stand for long. There's no one around right now. We oughta take advantage of that.”

“The lights are on in her apartment,” said Janine. “That's good.”

Danny looked up and saw the stream of light running the length of the second floor.

“And none are on in Miss Hardass's,” said Danny. “That's also good.”

“Be sure to ring the right bell,” said Janine. “The middle one.”

He was tempted to ring the wrong bell to pay her back for thinking she needed to remind him to ring the right one.

“Will we wait to see what happens?” he said.

“Can't. We have to be gone.”

“What's the point then, if we don't get to see how it goes?”

“We'll hear how it goes. That's good enough for me.”

The golden light up in the rooms looked as if it should be welcoming someone home, not housing the screams of a divorcée.

“What if someone else answers the door?” Danny said.

“We have to take that chance.”

“What if no one answers, and we burn the whole street down?”

“Danny, for Christ's sake.”

“What if...”

“Shut up.”

They stood under the branches of the blue spruce. A car drove by towards Taché. Two teenagers walked past on the other side of the street. They were holding hands, and the girl's head rested against the boy's shoulder.

“Okay,” said Janine. “We'll wait till those two lovebirds are out of sight and then, if there's no other action, we'll make our move.”

There was no other action.

“Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three.”

It went off without a hitch. The flames shot up higher than Danny had anticipated. Janine's arm shot out and pushed him back. They ran to their bikes and were in a back lane a block away before they heard the howls of pain.

They kept on riding, Janine with a devilish smile on her face, Danny with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His only thought was that he was glad he hadn't eaten any supper. If he had he would have spewed it all over himself.

 

Janine spied in the coming days. Danny didn't have it in him to join her. She reported that Mrs. Flood was using one crutch. It delighted her. Danny didn't want to see another roof nail as long as he lived.

It puzzled him that the imagined sensation of stomping on nails didn't bother Janine. He admired her for it one minute, and the next wondered if it was such a good thing. Maybe she didn't let herself imagine it.

His plan for Miss Hartley didn't allow for physical suffering, but he admitted to himself that he hadn't thought about it before now.

 

On Wednesday afternoon of the following week Danny found a perfect stone in the back lane behind Birchdale Betty's house. It was smooth, round, and the perfect size for his task. He carried it around in his pocket to help him with his continually threatened focus.

Dot returned on Friday. On Saturday afternoon Danny was upstairs when he heard hisses rising up from the living room. He crept into the hallway and sat at the top of the stairs.

“Barbara, we've been over this so many times over the years. I find it unconscionable that you haven't told him.”

“Well, I haven't.”

“You've said you would countless times. You convinced me that you meant it.”

“I did mean it, Dot. It has just never seemed like the right time.”

“Believe me, Barbara, I don't like harping on at you. But I can't believe that
the right time
hasn't presented itself in so many years.”

“It's hard to believe you don't like harping at me.”

“That's not fair, Barb. It's because I love you and Danny and want what's best for you both. You should tell him, so he understands there was more to it than his being born, and you getting sick. He might be dwelling on it, for all we know. And he doesn't have Cookie anymore, his ally in all things father-related.”

“Jesus, Dot. Could you at least sit down so I don't have to strain my neck?”

Danny heard Dot's voice come up from a slightly different location.

“When we told him all those years ago that Art was alive, I was under the impression that he thought it was somehow his fault that his dad left. That may still be the case.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“No. It isn't.”

“You tell him then.”

“It's not my place to tell him.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“We can tell him together.”

Danny snuck down the stairs and out the back door.

Art? Was his dad's name Art? He could scarcely believe he had never known, never asked.

He wanted whatever they were arguing about to disappear. It sounded bad; it sounded like an avalanche. He didn't want to smother under an avalanche. That would be worse than drowning.

Maybe his dad was in jail; maybe he was a murderer; maybe he fought on the side of the Germans and was a torturer; maybe he was the newly dead Adolf Eichmann and had been hiding behind the name Art Blue. He fingered the stone in his pocket as he trudged along the riverbank with Russell galloping ahead.

His mum had said it was ridiculous that he thought Art leaving was his fault. That was good news, anyway.

When he got home, Aunt Dot was the first to speak.

“Danny, could you come into the front room, please? Your mother has something she'd like to talk to you about.”

His mum was in a chair with a blanket over her knees. An invalid still, but an upright one. He wondered if what she had been doing since Cookie's death qualified as a nervous breakdown.

“What's my dad's name?” he said.

“Arthur,” said his mum.

“That's my name. That's my middle name.”

“Yes.”

“Arthur what?”

“Arthur Scirrow.”

“Is his last name Blue?”

“Yes.”

“Sit down, honey,” Dot said.

“I don't think I want to sit down.” He leaned against the archway between the front room and the hall. “This is something bad, isn't it? Something big and bad.”

“It's something that happened, dear, at the time you were born.”

Dot looked at her sister. “Barbara?”

Barbara lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out straight in front of her. Maybe she thought that was talking.

“It's hard for her,” Dot said. “She doesn't want to tell you, but I more or less insisted on it, so I guess it falls to me.”

“You don't have to tell me,” Danny said. “I'm fine with not knowing whatever it is.”

“When you were born,” said Dot, paying him no mind, “there was another baby too. Another baby boy.”

Danny slid down the archway and sat on the floor.

“Your mum and dad called him James.”

Danny stared at the hardwood. The lines inside the wood were sinuous and lovely. He had never noticed them before. He waited for the rest of it.

“The baby died,” said Dot. “A few days after he was born.”

“Six days.” It was his mother's voice now.

“I'm a twin,” said Danny.

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“St. Vital Cemetery.”

“Near Cookie?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She uttered a squeak of annoyance.

“I don't know, honey,” said Dot. “It doesn't really matter, does it?”

“I don't know. I don't know what matters.”

“It was about space,” said his mum. “There wasn't enough space beside James.”

“Who came first? Him or me?”

“What?”

“Who was born first, me or…or James?”

“You.”

“Why did he die?”

He stared at the lines in the wood. No one answered.

“Why did he die?”

“He…” Dot stopped.

“He was dropped.” His mum's voice quavered. “And his tiny head hit the floor.”

Danny heard a ringing in his ears that he'd never heard before. He stood up.

“My dad dropped him.”

“Yes, honey,” said Dot. “He didn't mean to, but he dropped him. It was an accident.”

He walked out of the room and out the back door. The first order of business was to get away from the ringing.

Dot called after him, but he ran. If he ran far enough and fast enough it would stop, and he would be able to think clearly about the two pieces of information he had been given. One at a time. He wished he just had one for now. The first one: he had a twin brother. A dead one, but that seemed secondary at the moment.

He stopped running. He wished he hadn't asked why James had died.

“James,” he said.

He shouldn't have asked. His mum would have been happy never to tell him. Dot probably would have made her, eventually, but he would have been safe from the information today.

When Janine's house came into view the ringing stopped, but he didn't want to see her or anyone else. He went home for his bike. As he rode to St. Vital Cemetery, he took in nothing of his surroundings.

And then he roamed. Roamed and roamed.

Finally there it was: a small slab of stone.
James Scirrow Blue. June 24 1950 – June 29 1950.

Danny didn't want him to be so far away from Cookie; he wanted them side by side.

His brother lay in the shade of an oak; Danny lay down beside him. He looked up at the deep blue sky through the changing leaves and felt the solid earth beneath him.

He wondered if he were to find his dad and tell him that it was okay, that as far as he was concerned it was okay, if his dad would have him.

When he stood up and looked around he realized that he was standing pretty much where the Cadillac man had stood when they had looked at each other over the graves. That had been on his birthday. His and James's birthday. He tried to picture the man but couldn't.

Danny walked over to speak to Cookie. Just a few words, there was too much in his head. He wanted to tell her that Janine liked her and would have been her friend. Maybe she already knew. Who knows what kinds of things girls tell each other? Especially messed-up, unsettled girls. Then he retrieved his bike from the parking lot and rode home.

The sun was low in the sky by now, the sunset a fiery background for the world across the river.

 

His mum was alone in the living room.

“What kind of car does my dad drive?”

His mother coughed out the last drag of a cigarette.

“I don't know.”

Dot's kitchen clattering grew quiet, and she scooted into the living room, drying her hands on a tea towel.

“Does he know that Cookie died?” said Danny.

“Yes,” his mum said. “He knows.”

He stared at her. “Why do we have his last name if you hate him so much?”

“I don't hate him, Danny.”

“He didn't mean to drop the baby.”

“I know that.”

“Can't you please forgive him and let him come back?”

“It's not that simple.”

“Could you please explain it to me then, so I get it better and stop wanting him to come home?”

“No, not today, I can't.”

“Some day?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe.”