Children in the Morning (34 page)

Dad was still holding the woman, and he called out to Mum and Monsignor that there was a little boy lying hurt on the pavement.

Mum looked at the boy, Cody, then she disappeared for a second, and came out with a white cloth. She and Monsignor went over to Cody and talked to him. He wouldn’t answer them. Mummy sat down on the pavement and gently moved Cody’s head till she was cradling him sideways across her knees. She didn’t mind about the blood. They looked like that statue by that famous guy, showing Mary holding her Son, except this was a dusty parking lot and it was just my own mum who isn’t holy like Mary, and this little guy from a bad part of town. Cody’s voice cracked when he talked to Mum and swore at her: “Fuck you! Leave me alone!” But Mummy ignored that and wiped the blood off his face with the cloth and looked at him as if she loved him even though she never saw him before.

That’s when we heard loud sirens and saw lights flashing, and two police cars came speeding into the parking lot.

Dad and Mum looked over at me and then at each other, and made signals with their eyes. I could tell they were upset because I saw all the stuff that happened. They never want me to see bad stuff like that. But I did see it, and I will never forget it.

Then the ambulance came. The emergency guys lifted Cody up from my mum and put him on a stretcher. I saw Father Burke take a hold of his hand and talk to him really softly before they loaded him into the ambulance. Father smoothed back his hair and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. Cody’s evil mother and that boyfriend of hers were shoved into the police cars. I hoped they’d be thrown in jail for the rest of their lives. The police made us all give

“statements,” even me, and then they zoomed away in their cars.

After all that, we went back to the dining room. The grown-ups just sat there at the table and didn’t say anything. That’s what happens in books and movies when people are “in shock.” Or maybe they didn’t want to talk about it in front of me, because I’m just a kid.

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The only lucky one was Dominic. He was fast asleep in his stroller as if nothing had happened. He doesn’t know yet about bad people. Bad parents. I wish he could live his whole life and never know. Suddenly I got up and grabbed him out of the stroller and — I couldn’t help it, maybe I was in shock too — I kept clinging to him and rocking him, and I said over and over again: “How could they hurt their little boy like that?”

(Monty)

It was a subdued crowd of dinner guests that left the rectory Sunday night.

A wisecrack about supper with the boys without Mrs. Kelly’s supervision died on my lips. I had a sleepy girl on my hands. I had taken Normie for a late-evening treat at the Dairy Queen because she was so upset after the scene in the church parking lot, she couldn’t eat the Baileys cake. Brennan assured her that he would save it in the fridge for her, and she could sneak over from school on Monday and have a gigantic piece of it with a glass of milk. We decided that she would spend the night at my place. I drove her around the city to calm her down and make her sleepy, and it worked, just as it had when she was a baby. After we got home, she curled up on the chesterfield beside me in the den downstairs, wrapped in a soft blue cotton blanket.

“Normie, it’s past your bedtime, dolly.”

Her eyes were at half-mast, her voice dreamy. “I’m too tired to move. I’ll sleep here.”

“No, you’ll be more comfortable in your room. I’ll carry you up.”

“I’m too sleepy . . .”

I wanted to catch a bit of the CBC News, so I switched on the tele -

vision. My attention was caught by something Peter Mansbridge said about one of the upcoming Democratic primaries in the U.S. I tuned in to a report from Washington and let my daughter off the hook for the time being. When it was over I heard her mumbling: “Matthew.

It’s Matthew.”

I looked at Normie. She was asleep but she was visibly distressed.

Her fingers clutched the blanket and pulled it up around her neck. I 221

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remembered Maura telling me the name Matthew had come up before. Normie had been mumbling that name in her sleep. I didn’t want to wake her, so I said in a quiet, conversational tone: “Could you remind me who Matthew is, sweetheart?”

Her eyes didn’t open. She responded: “It’s Matthew, not David.”

“Right. It’s not David because . . .”

“It’s Matthew Halton, not David Halton.”

Oh! That’s all it was. David Halton was a senior correspondent with CBC News. I had just heard his report from Washington. She had obviously heard it too, as she drifted towards sleep. But wait a minute. Matthew was David Halton’s father. How did Normie know about him? He had died years ago, long before my daughter was born.

“Can you tell me about Matthew, Normie?”

“This is Matthew Halton of the CBC.”

I leaned close to her. “When did you hear Matthew on the CBC, Normie?”

But she was out, fast asleep. I stood there for a minute or so, then tiptoed away and went up to the kitchen to use the phone. I dialled Maura’s number.

“Hello?”

“She just mentioned Matthew again.”

“Oh!”

“Listen. This is going to sound weird, but bear with me. Do you know if there have been any retrospectives on CBC radio or television about Matthew Halton?”

“David Halton’s father? The war correspondent?”

“Exactly.” I repeated what Normie had said.

“Well, she must have heard it someplace. On the CBC or maybe at school. Something about World War Two. Tell you what: I’ll call my friend Kris at the CBC and you call Brennan.”

“Brennan won’t know what they’ve been talking about in class, unless it’s music or religion.”

“Does he strike you as someone too shy to track down the grade four homeroom teacher and find out?”

“Um, no, he does not. I’ll make the call and phone you back in a few minutes.”

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I called Brennan and he said he’d ask Mrs. Kavanagh. I heard back five minutes later. No, there was some discussion from time to time of the two world wars, but nothing about Matthew Halton or any other journalist. I gave Maura half an hour, in case Kris had to do some checking, then I dialled my wife’s number again.

“Nothing,” she told me. “Kris said there’s been nothing broadcast in recent times about Matthew Halton, but she thanked me for the suggestion!”

“Jesus! Where would Normie have heard it? I’m going to see if I can get her talking again.”

“Keep me posted. Never mind what time it is.”

“Will do.”

I went downstairs and checked on Normie. Still fast asleep. I decided on a bit of subterfuge. Changing my voice to what I hoped was that of a broadcast journalist, I said: “David Halton, CBC News, Washington.” No reaction. I waited a few seconds and said it again. I saw her squirm around in her blanket. She licked her lips and started to speak. I couldn’t make it out, so I put my ear up against her mouth.

“Matthew Halton. CBC.”

“Tell me about Matthew, Normie.”

“We’ve got Jerry on the run now! Jerry on the run!”

Great. Just when we got Matthew identified, we were faced with a Jerry.

“We kicked their ass! What are you blubberin’ about? What are you blubberin’ . . . Put him in the army, make a man out of him!

We’re gonna kick a little ass right here if he doesn’t stop . . . Shut up!

Take that! You little . . . no! no! no!”

I looked at her in horror. Her face was contorted with fear. Tears streamed from her eyes. I couldn’t let this go on.

“Normie, sweetheart, wake up. It’s Daddy. You’re having a nightmare. Everything’s all right. Wake up.”

“No!” Her eyelids flickered open. She stared at me without recognition. Then her expression softened and she reached up for me with both arms. I held her and told her she was safe.

Once I got her settled in her bed, I called her mother and reported what had happened.

“Jerry? I’ve never heard of a Jerry. Back to the clippings file.”

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“Maybe not,” I said. “If she’s somehow in tune with Matthew Halton’s wartime broadcasts for the CBC, she may be hearing talk about the Germans, commonly called Jerry by our boys during the war.”

“Oh,
that
Jerry. But would that have been Halton’s style?”

“Probably not, any more than he would have been saying ‘kicked their ass’ or ‘make a man out of him.’ That must be another voice altogether.”

“My God. What’s going on? It’s not surprising that she’d have a nightmare tonight about someone being hurt, but what’s she doing channelling the war?”

†

I couldn’t answer that question, but we had a bit of comic relief the next day, which served to distract Normie from her troubles. She called me at work to tell me about a social engagement we had that evening. This was one of those events the details of which were con-tained in a note sent from the school and crumpled up and stuffed in the school bag, only to be retrieved the day of the event. Too late to bake the goods, buy the raffle tickets, or register for the bonspiel.

But this time we were going to make it.

The choir school was having a party for the students and their parents, to give everyone a bit of relaxation before final exams began the following week. It was originally supposed to be in the gymna-sium but one of the families had offered to have it at their house instead, if people didn’t mind squeezing in to small quarters. This prompted another set of parents to offer their house in the suburbs.

More space, apparently. Normie was on the phone now, taking care of the logistics.

“Mummy is staying home with the baby, which is okay. Dominic’s too young to have fun at the party anyway. So it’s you and me, Daddy.”

“Sounds good. Do you have directions?”

“Yeah, Richard Robertson gave us a map.”

“Richard and I are old buddies.”

“That’s right, you know him, Daddy! He sings in the men and boys’ choir.”

As young as he was, Richard was quite a character, with a mischie-224

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vous sense of humour, and he could do a very passable impersonation of our choirmaster behind the master’s back. Of course Brennan knew all about it, having caught him at it several times. Didn’t faze him in the least; in fact, Richard was one of his favourite students.

But — I tried to think — wasn’t there something about the mother?

I couldn’t remember. Anyway, Normie and I hooked a ride with Brennan and headed for the party. I was the navigator, charged with locating 152 The Olde Carriageway, in a subdivision that hadn’t existed two weeks ago, west of the city.

It didn’t take long before I remembered what it was about the mother. Seeing her severe geometrical haircut and equally severe facial expression brought it all back. I had witnessed more than one encounter between her and Father Burke, during which she expressed her disapproval of whatever it was the choir school was doing or not doing at the moment. Mrs. Robertson met us in front of her mon-ster house on The Olde Carriageway. The place was festooned with numerous ill-proportioned gables and fake-Palladian windows; but the most notable feature of the building was the enormous double garage that was stuck on to the front of the house and nearly blotted out the sight of the front entrance. One of the garage doors was open, displaying a huge collection of, well, stuff. A bmw, a snow blower, several kayaks and canoes, camping gear, electronics. Was it just coincidence that the brand names were all displayed facing forward?

Mrs. Robertson greeted everyone with a tight smile, told us to call her Lois, and urged us to make ourselves at home. We all trooped into the house and dutifully wiped our feet. A couple of dozen guests were already there, perched on fussy-looking chairs and loveseats with teacups in their hands. The furniture looked as if it had all been bought the same day, as if someone had said: “Fill my house with furniture,”

and that’s what was done. There was flowered paper on the walls, a contrasting paper border around the room, and another contrasting pattern above that. Magazines were artfully displayed on gleaming coffee tables. There wasn’t a book, or a dirty glass, let alone a toy or an old pair of sneakers, in sight. Something that sounded like elevator music was playing in the room, elevatoresque in content and in the quality of the sound. I realized it was coming from a giant stereo system built into a pricey-looking set of oak cabinets and shelves.

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Richard came skidding into the room from outside, in a pair of khaki shorts with grass stains across the butt. His hair was a mess and there were a couple of twigs in it. “Sorry I’m late, but there was this really big —”

“Hey, Richard, your hair’s all sproinked out all over your head!”

one of the little boys exclaimed. “Where were you?”

“What do you say, Richard?” his mother demanded.

“I saw something crawling under a pipe . . .”

“Richard.”

“Uh, oh yeah. Good evening, everyone. Sorry to be late.”

“Very well. Now go clean yourself up, change your clothes, and present yourself back in here, fit for company, in five minutes.”

“Okay.”

I spent a few seconds thinking Richard must have inherited his sense of fun from his father. But I was disabused of that notion when the father arrived. If they had said to the furniture salesman “Fill ’er up,” they had said to the purveyor of pricey, trendy casual clothing