Shattered (6 page)

“I hope not,” somebody said, “because I don't think we even have an army.”

“We have armed forces. Not large but very professional and well respected,” Mrs. Watkins said. “The question was, do we believe in war?”

“We were in both world wars,” Kelsey said hesitantly. “We were a major player,” Mrs. Watkins confirmed. “And there was the Korean War and the Gulf War, but the question isn't have we
been
in wars but do we
believe
in war?” Mrs. Watkins said. “What do you think, Ian?”

I jumped at the mention of my name. That was one of her annoying, chalk-like qualities, calling out your name when you thought you were being left alone.

“Well?” she asked, looking directly at me.

“I'm not really sure … but I guess not really. We're peaceful,” I said. I looked at the words looking back at me on the board. “We're peacekeepers not war makers.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed. “Now who was Lester B. Pearson?”

“I thought we'd answered that one already,” Justin said. “He was a prime minister.”

“But what else?” she demanded.

“Maybe he was the one who started us being peacekeepers,” I offered.

“Right again!” Mrs. Watkins exclaimed. “He put forward a plan, when he was foreign minister, to send peacekeepers to the Middle East. These peacekeepers were almost all Canadians and they separated the two warring sides, averting a war in the Suez. And after the success of this first mission he created the legacy of peacekeeping that has marked Canada's role on the international scene and saved literally hundreds of thousands of lives around the world.”

That did sound impressive … well, not to me, but I'm sure to some people.

“For his efforts he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Peace in 1957,” she continued. “He was subsequently elected by the United Nations as—” Her words were cut off by the loud ringing of the bell marking the end of class. Everybody, en masse, grabbed their books and bags and rose to their feet.

“I want everybody to read their textbooks, pages 145 to 155 tonight!” Mrs. Watkins yelled out over the din. “There just might be a test tomorrow!”

I'd try and remember—maybe I should write it down. There was no point in doing these volunteer hours if I didn't at least pass the rest of the course. I pulled out my pen and started to write myself a reminder on my hand.

“You should try using paper,” Mrs. Watkins suggested. “It's a wonderful new invention. I think it was the Chinese created it … about three thousand years ago.”

“At least I'm writing it down,” I replied.

“I guess you're right. So how did things go at your placement … you did go, didn't you?” she asked.

“I went and things went okay.”

“Just okay?”

“The placement was fine. It was just that it was, I don't know,
different
.”

“Different as in not what you are used to or not what you were expecting?”

“Both.”

“I'm sure it was all pretty overwhelming.”

I nodded. “It was. It all just kept going around and around in my head after I left. I even had trouble concentrating in class today.”

“Well, at least you had a valid excuse for not concentrating today.” She smiled. “Cheap shot. Seriously, it really is a different world out there, isn't it?”

“Not a different world. A different
universe
.”

“That's what this course is designed to do, to open your mind up to other perspectives. So when do you go back?” she asked.

“Friday night. I'm going to help with set-up, then dinner, then help clean up.”

“If you need to talk about things, feel free to give me a call,” she said.

“A call … like on the phone?”

“That would be the right way. I'm in the book if you need to talk.”

“You want me to call you at home?” This was all very strange. I didn't even think she liked me and now she was offering to let me call her at home. I got the feeling that a whole lot of teachers didn't even want to talk to me when I was in class.

“A big part of my course is asking you to move beyond the classroom. It would be very hypocritical of me to ask you to do that while I stayed safely within the confines of my class. If you need to call, then call.”

“I'll be fine.”

“I'm sure you'll handle it.” She paused for a few seconds. “Just remember, a sign of strength is asking for help.”

Strength or weakness, it didn't matter because I wasn't going to be calling her at home.

“I've got to tell you that I was most impressed, and somewhat surprised, with your decision to pursue that particular placement. Most kids went for the easy stuff— reading to kids in a local elementary school, or going to the humane society to walk dogs, or even visiting seniors at the local nursing home.”

She'd described most of the placements my friends were doing.

“Not that there's anything wrong with those placements,” she said. “They all make a contribution. What you're doing, though, is different. Almost noble. Now you better get going or you're going to be late for your next class.”

Five

“ARE YOU SURE
you have to do this?” my mother asked as we drove along.

“Are you sure you want me to pass civics?”

“There have to be more pleasant places in a better part of town where you could have done your hours.”

I had to agree that
pleasant
and
better
certainly weren't words that I'd use to describe either the soup kitchen or the streets that surrounded it.

“I started it so I'm going to finish it.”

“I just wish you hadn't started it working at a place like that.”

That would have been my wish as well—unfortunately most of what I wished for didn't come true. At least one of the few benefits this placement had was that it offended my mother. She always liked things to be so proper. So precise, so tidy and organized. This was none of those things. That it bothered my mother almost made up for me having to give up a Friday night—almost. I'd rather be out with my friends but I had to do the hours as soon as possible.

It was a shame I didn't get credit for the time I'd spent thinking about the soup kitchen or I'd have already been through with my community hours. I couldn't get it out of
my mind. And the more I thought about it, the less real it all seemed. It was like I'd watched a movie about it instead of actually being there.

Tonight I was dressed better. By that, I mean I dressed
worse
—old coat, as close to beat up as I could find. It sort of belonged to my father. It was what he used to wear when he did yard work—at least when he used to do yard work. It had been years since he'd cut the grass or raked leaves or shovelled the snow. Now there was a landscape company that did all of that. And another company that took care of the pools, and another that washed the windows. He was far too busy—and too important—to do any of those jobs. Now if he could just find somebody to parent, he wouldn't have to show up at all.

I had also dug up an old pair of sneakers. They were scuffed up and worn out. I was sure nobody would want to steal them, and if they did I'd gladly give them up without a fight.

“I still don't know why you couldn't have dressed a bit better,” my mother said, repeating the refrain I'd heard since she first saw my outfit.

“Like I said, it's better to dress down. If I look like I might have money, then somebody might want to try and get that money from me.”

“Then by all means just give them a dollar or two so they'll leave you alone,” she said. “Your father always gives those squeegee kids a dollar so they won't scratch up his car. It's not like we can't afford it.”

“Can we afford for me to have my wallet ripped off, or my shoes or jacket stolen, or for me to be bashed over the head?”

“Please, Ian, don't be so dramatic.”

“I'm
not
being … Fine … whatever.”

I was tempted to tell her what had happened the other night in the park, but I stopped myself. I'd save that for later and spring it on her at just the right time.

“And it's such a long distance from home, such a long way to drive,” she said.

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” I said icily.

“It's not that.”

“You don't even have to drive me. I can get there and back on my own. If it's such a big hassle, I can take the subway home tonight.”

“Not from this part of the city and certainly not at night.”

I was so happy she said that. I'd only been bluffing. A drive was a lot nicer, and safer. They'd just have to keep driving me places until I got my licence and my own car—that was the reason I was going in the first place. It was important not to lose sight of that.

“You can let me off anywhere along here,” I suggested. We were within a block now.

“I'll drop you off right out front where I picked you up the other night. I'd rather not have you on these streets by yourself.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You think you can take care of yourself, but you have no idea what goes on in this part of town.”

“Sure, fine, whatever.”

Actually I was a little embarrassed to be driven up to a soup kitchen in a Mercedes that probably cost more than all the meals that had been served there for the past year.

I grabbed a toque off the seat and pulled it low over my head. It was an old ratty one and it was a tight fit … although it certainly would help me fit in down here. Was it some sort of rule that every street person had to wear a toque?

My mother pulled the car over to the curb directly in front of the building. There was no lineup in front—I'd been hoping that was the case. It was still early—not even five o'clock—and I was here to help with the set-up.

“You'd think they could do something about this place,” my mother said. “Fix it up a little or—”

“They spend their money on other things … like food for the street people.”

“I just think a little bit of paint wouldn't cost much and it would certainly improve the image.”

“Appearances don't mean that much down here,” I said. “Judging from
your
appearance that's pretty obvious.” “I think they believe it isn't what you look like, but what you do.” I opened the car door and climbed out.

“Call when you know what time—”

I slammed the door shut, using the fine German engineering of the car to close
her
out. I turned and walked away without looking back. I'd gone no more than a few steps when I heard the car pull away, leaving behind a small squeal of rubber on the pavement. She was obviously mad. Good. It shouldn't just be me who was mad all the time.

I grabbed the handle of the door to the Club and tried to pull it open. It rattled but didn't open. I knocked. It echoed loudly. I waited, listening for an answer. There was none. I knocked again. This time louder and longer.
Still nothing. I'd be awfully ticked off if I'd come down here early—like we'd agreed—and Mac wasn't here. Either way, though, whether I was in there working or out here standing, I was still counting this as volunteer hours. I knocked again. No answer. Either Mac wasn't here or he was just ignoring the noise. He probably got a lot of people pounding on the door wanting to get inside to eat. It wasn't like most of the homeless people had watches. Maybe there was another way in.

I circled around to the alley at the side of the building. I'd gone no more than a few feet when I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of two legs sticking out from beside a dumpster. Was somebody dead or … I gave my head a shake. It was probably just somebody waiting for supper. They would have figured this was a good place to get out of the wind. I walked forward, angling out and away from that side of the alley. I glanced over and then stopped for a better look. It was an old man, sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, a halfempty bottle in his hand. As I stood there, he opened one eye and looked at me. He mumbled something I couldn't hear and then his eye fell shut again. He certainly wasn't dead. Not unless you counted dead drunk.

As I got to the end of the alley I saw a large truck, backed in so it was tucked close to the open rear door of the building. At that instant Mac came out through the door and grabbed a box from the back of the truck. He looked up, saw me, and waved.

“Just in time!” he called out. “Grab a box!”

I rushed over. The truck was piled high with crates and cardboard boxes and bins. I picked one up.

“What's in all of these?” I asked.

“This is a place where people come to get food … so …” “This is all food?”

“Bingo!”

I trailed after Mac, and as we entered the building a man came out.

“Extra hands is good,” he said. He had on a shirt emblazoned with Second Harvest Trucking on the front so I assumed he was the driver.

Mac set his box down on the table that was already piled high with other boxes. I went to put mine down when he stopped me.

“That one goes in the freezer. Follow me, I'll show you.”

Mac led the way to a large metal door. He opened it up and gestured for me to enter. I was immediately hit with a wave of cold. It was a gigantic walk-in freezer. The walls were lined with shelves and the shelves were filled with boxes and cartons and containers.

“Put it right here,” Mac said.

“There's a whole lot of food in here.”

“Enough for eight or nine days.”

“There's got to be more than that.”

“Second time here and the kid thinks he's an expert,” Mac said.

“No, it's just that—”

Mac started laughing, his breath coming out in little white puffs in the cold. “You gotta lighten up, kid. I was just pulling your leg.”