Pure Spring
PURE SPRING
BRIAN DOYLE
Pure Spring
Copyright © 2007 by Brian Doyle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit
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Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press
110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801, Toronto, Ontario M5V 2K4
Distributed in the USA by Publishers Group West
1700 Fourth Street, Berkeley, CA 94710
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the Ontario Arts Council.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Doyle, Brian
Pure Spring / by Brian Doyle.
ISBN-13: 978-0-88899-774-6 (bound). â ISBN-10: 0-88899-774-4 (bound).
ISBN-13: 0-88899-775-3 (pbk.) â ISBN-10: 0-88899-775-2 (pbk.)
1. Pure Spring Company â Juvenile fiction.
I. Title.
PS8557.O87P87 2007Â Â Â Â Â Â jC813'.54Â Â Â Â Â C2006-905940-3
Cover photography by Tim Fuller
Design by Michael Solomon
Printed and bound in Canada
To Shelley Tanaka
Like all great editors, she can make
just about anybody look good.
Contents
1. Dump the Lie
What Happened â One
5. Sap's Running
What Happened â Two
8. Honee Orange and Tulips
What Happened â Three
13. Everything Reminds
What Happened â Four
16. The Plan
What Happened â Five
18. Goodbye, Mr. Mirsky
What Happened â Six
1
“N
AME
?”
“Martin.”
“Gotta last name?”
“O'Boy.”
“O'Boy?”
“O'Boy. Martin O'Boy.”
“People call you Boy? Boy O'Boy?”
“Sometimes. But I don't like it.”
“You don't like it?”
“No. No, I don't.” Am I being rude?
“Why? Why don't you like it? It's a nickname. All kids should have nicknames. I always wanted a nickname when I was young. But nobody would tag one on me. Come over here...”
If he asks me again I can tell him that I don't like it because I think they're making fun when they call me that.
He's got a nice face, Mr. Mirsky has. Kind, soft eyes, large nose and forehead. Granny always used to say that a
large forehead showed you were very smart. Lots of brains in there, lots of room...
I go around the desk where he's sitting and he stands up. He puts his hands on my shoulders and then he squeezes my arms.
“You're big enough. Should be strong enough to lift crates of soft drinks on to a truck. Why did you come to Pure Spring for a job?”
Funny, but I don't feel very big. Not big at all. Small, in fact.
“I like the trucks. The shape of them. The color. And I like the drinks. Specially Honee Orange.”
He likes what I just said. His eyes are smiling now. He's proud.
“Now, you have to be sixteen years of age. Are you sixteen? It's against the law for me to hire people who are under sixteen. You don't want to get me in trouble, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Well? Are you sixteen or over? What's the answer?”
My dead granny told me never to lie. Lying poisons your soul, she said. She also told me that I was too beautiful to be a boy and my curly blond hair and large blue eyes will be a curse I'll have to live with the rest of my life.
But now I'm going to lie. I'm not sixteen. I only maybe look sixteen because I'm big for my age and I guess I'm pretty strong. I have my birth certificate right here in my wallet in my pocket.
I put my hand in my pocket and hold on to my wallet.
I don't want my birth certificate to jump out on to Mr. Mirsky's desk while I'm telling my lie.
Grampa Rip got me this pocket-sized birth certificate when I first came to live with him. He said that if ever I forgot who I was all I had to do was look in my wallet and there the answer would be.
He knew that sometimes I'd get so scared I'd lose myself and I'd become nobody, a blank.
Me and my cat Cheap live with Grampa Rip. Cheap has only one ear. My father bought him for ten cents for my birthday a few years ago as a joke. Ten cents. Cheap. Really funny.
Well, he won't be making jokes like that any more. Or any kind of jokes.
Grampa Rip is pretty smart sometimes. Especially when he got all the information about me and got me my birth certificate. Very smart. But sometimes his brain goes away â far, far away â and he's not smart any more. That's when I have to take care of him. Make sure he's all right. Our old neighbor, my hero Buz Sawyer, suggested that I go and live with his grandfather Rip Sawyer for two reasons. One, so's I'd have a place to live, and two, so's I could take care of Grampa Rip when his mind went away.
Back to Granny again.
She also told me that people want to believe somebody who has a beautiful face. That's why some movie actors can tell you anything and you'll believe it.
“What's the answer?” Mr. Mirsky says.
I dump the lie into his kind face.
“Yes,” I lie, “I'm sixteen.”
“When is your birthday?”
“When they dropped the atomic bomb and killed all the people. August 6.”
He's looking at me.
“You didn't take that personally, did you? The bomb. All the people who died?”
“I hated it,” I say.
“So you'll be seventeen on August 6,” he says.
I don't answer. Is silence a lie, too?
I know he likes me. I don't let the shame of my lie show in my shameful eyes.
He blinks his kind eyes. “I don't suppose you have any proof of age with you? Birth certificate or something?”
“No, sir,” I lie again, squeezing my wallet, squeezing it until it bends in my pocket. Squeezing my name, my date of birth. Squeezing myself.
“No, I didn't think so. Hardly anybody has that kind of proof at your age...I think you are honest, Martin O'Boy. You're hired, hired as a helper. You know, we're honest here at Pure Spring, too. We are a trusted company. We are a proud company. We have good relationships with our customers in the Ottawa area. And our drivers are honest. They don't steal from the customers. And our helpers, too. They are honest. Like you, Martin O'Boy. You will be a helper. You, of course, will not steal drinks to drink free from the truck.
“We have, though, I should tell you, a special privilege for a helper that even the driver doesn't have. The helper
may have
one
free drink of his choice. You'll probably choose Honee Orange to drink, to wash down your lunch. I see you have your lunch with you. That brown bag?”
“Yes. That's my lunch.”
“And may I ask, my young friend, who made that lunch for you?”
“I made it.”
“Your mother didn't make it?”
“No, sir.”
“Your father, then?”
“No, sir. Not my father.”
“Who, then? Who do you live with?”
“Grampa Rip.”
“Is he your mother's father, Grampa Rip? Or is he your father's father?”
“He's Buz's grandfather.”
“Who's Buz?”
“My hero neighbor. He's gone back to war again. In Korea this time. The Korean War. He's a pilot. He flies airplanes. He's my hero.”
“Wait a minute. Grampa Rip. Is his last name Sawyer? Rip Sawyer?”
“Yes.”
“I know him. I know Rip Sawyer. A fine and cultured gentleman. He used to work for my father when he first started this business. Took care of my father's horses, wagons and sleighs. Ottawa. Everybody knows everybody in Ottawa and the Ottawa Valley. Wonderful thing, that!”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“I guess you don't go to school. It's April 1. School isn't out until June.”
“No, I don't go to school.”
“Did you quit school?”
“Sort of.”
“Why did you quit?”
“I couldn't go.”
“Why?”
“Because I got sick.”
“Where are your parents?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Something happened.”
What Happened ⢠One
Y
OU WERE
up to your father's shoulder now. He said you were growing like a weed. You didn't like it when he said that. A weed. You didn't like anything your father said. A weed is a thing you don't want. That you don't like. It's something you pull out by the roots and throw out of the garden because it's sucking all the good things that the good plants in the garden want.
“Don't be so touchy,” your father said. “It's just an expression. Unless you think you are a weed. If you are, then you could pull yourself out of the garden and toss yourself over the fence right now!”
Your granny always told you to pay attention to people's words, the way they choose to say things. The words that people say can show a lot about those people. You can find out a lot that way. A lot about what they think. A lot about what they don't say with their tongues out loud
but they say inside with their brains. Behind the words they say out loud.
You looked at the scar between his eyes while you were discussing weeds.
The time he was full of beer and was shaking your twin brother Phil to get him to stop howling and your mother was shrieking and Phil's head was going to fly off and you picked the ketchup bottle off the table and hit your father right between the eyes with it.
You threw it as hard as you could, like you'd throw a baseball. The bottle turned in the air once and then the heavy bottom of it hit him square between the eyes.
The blood spurted straight out of your father's forehead like the stream you see in pictures of those fountains where they have the statues of those cute little boys pissing up and over and down in a nice rainbow arc.
The glass in those ketchup bottles is very thick and that ketchup bottle was very heavy.
Your father stumbled into the kitchen and after a while came back, silent, with a blood-soaked towel around his head.
