Somewhere I Belong (9 page)

He bent over my scribbler and ran a finger under each line. He
picked it up, separated the pages I had written on, and ripped them
out. Then he crumpled them up and nodded toward the platform.
“Start again, up there—neater this time. You're going to get very used to this if you don't learn.”

The room fell silent as I stepped into the aisle and moved toward the platform. I caught a glimpse of Helen with her hand to her mouth and her eyes tearing up. I eased into the dummy desk and looked toward the back of the classroom. Larry sat, red-faced, shaking his head.

At the end of the day, I waited on the platform for the schoolroom to empty. Then I grabbed my jacket and went outside. Larry and Helen waited near the stoop. Thomas and Pat Jr. stood by the gate.

“You'll soon beat the Daleys to the dummy desk,” Thomas laughed.

“Shut up, Thomas,” I said.
He was one to talk about being a dummy.

“It ain't funny, Thomas,” Pat Jr. said.

“What got into Old Dunphy?” Larry asked no one in particular.

“Likely had a rough weekend,” Pat Jr. replied. “But, you can never tell.”

“I don't get why he's making such a big deal over P.J. being left-
handed,” Larry said.

“Nobody cared back home,” I said. “Nobody ever said anything.”

“You never know what Ol' Dunphy's gonna pick at,” Pat Jr. said. “Only thing is, when he's in a mood, you can count on it bein' something.”

“That left-handed stuff's just stupid,” I said. “My favourite baseball player's left-handed, and he holds the world record for home runs.”

“Babe Ruth!” Pat Jr. said.

“You know him?” I said.

“We listen to the ballgame on the radio sometimes,” Pat Jr. said.

“P.J. and I saw him at Fenway Park last summer,” Larry said.

Pat Jr. and Thomas's mouths fell open. “No!”

“Sure did,” I said. “He even signed my baseball.”

“Can I see it?!” Pat Jr. said.

“Ma packed it away when we moved,” I said. “I'll ask her where it is.”

“Someone as famous as Babe Ruth is left-handed and you wonder why Mr. Dunphy's makin' such a big deal of it,” Pat Jr. said.

“That's what I want to know,” I said.

Ma waited at the back door as we straggled across the yard. I moved past her, dropping my satchel onto the mudroom floor. I hung my jacket over a hook, pulled off my boots, and walked into the kitchen. Granny and Aunt Gert were sitting at the table, sipping their tea. Uncle Jim was leaning against the counter, cradling a steaming mug. Alfred was kneeling on a chair, stuffing his face with cookies.

“What's goin' on, young fella?” Uncle Jim asked. Somehow, my uncle could tell when things weren't right.

“Nothing.” I forced a smile, then slid my lunch tin onto the counter and headed toward the upstairs stairway. I felt so low after what had happened that day, I didn't want to talk about it.

“Pius James,” Ma said. “What's the matter?”

Ma was the last person I wanted to talk to. I was beginning to feel that everything about the Island was all her fault. I grabbed the banister and took the stairs two at a time.

“What's up with P.J.?” Alfred piped in.

“Mind your own business, Alfred,” I hollered over the upstairs railing. Alfred was always sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. Sometimes he was even worse than Helen.

“Mr. Dunphy's making a big deal over P.J. being left-handed,” Larry said, his deep voice travelling up the stairs. “He makes him write with his right hand. Then he gives him grief when it's messy and sends him up to the dummy desk.”

I slumped down on my bed feeling sorry for myself. The conversation continued to drift through the grate in the upstairs hall floor.

“No one ever made a big deal over P.J. being left-handed back home,” Helen said.

“It's just some silly superstition,” Granny said. “It's nonsense.”

“Some idiot got it into their head that if you were left-handed you were in cahoots with the devil and you'd go straight to hell,” Uncle Jim said. “Backward thinkin' in my view.”

“Is P.J. going to hell, Ma?” Alfred asked.

“No, Alfred, he isn't,” Ma said. “Jim, watch your language in front of the children.”

“Oh, sorry…I only meant….”

“How that means a thirteen-year-old boy should get punished is
beyond me,” Granny said.

“Charlie likely got into the sauce,” Uncle Jim said. “He gets a few
drinks into 'im and he's foul for days.”

“Surely he wouldn't be drinking on a Sunday,” Granny said.

“The day of the week never stopped Charlie,” Uncle Jim replied.
“He'll say his prayers in the morning and be drunk by the afternoon.”

There was a pause for several moments, then Aunt Gert said, “If it wasn't that, it would be something else.”

“What do you mean?” Ma asked.

“I don't suppose you remember when Charlie Dunphy got sick?”
Aunt Gert asked.

“Someone wrote to me about it, in Everett—maybe you did, Mom,” Ma said. “That was years ago.”

“Charlie and I went to school together,” Uncle Jim said. “Percy and I were in the same grade, William was two years ahead o' us, and Charlie was a year ahead o' him. But I remember that he was a good fella back then; treated us younger kids just fine, got on swell with everybody. And he was real popular with the ladies.”

“He was particularly fond of Ellen McGuigan, if I recall,” Aunt Gert said. “Maggie's mother.”

“I remember that,” Uncle Jim said. “He was set on her; followed her 'round like a hound dog. You hardly saw the one without the other. But that was before Charlie got that terrible fever. Started talkin' jibberish. Got so hot and seized up we thought he was gonna die. I remember
him bein' carried out the front door on a stretcher and loaded into
an ambulance. Straight off to Charlottetown, he went. Spent the next six months in an iron lung. Then he came home with weak lungs, a shrivelled leg, and an iron brace.

“Ellen stuck around for a while. Then she up and married Frankie MacIntyre. Charlie moped around for a while. Then he got angry.”

“I remember that,” Aunt Gert said. “He was only twenty then. Seemed like he blamed the whole world for him being a cripple and for Ellen taking off on him. That's how he got that terrible temper.”

“He's been that way ever since?” Ma asked.

“Pretty much,” Uncle Jim said. “He has his good days. But from what I see, he has more bad than good. The more he drinks the worse he gets. He takes it out on people he has power over. First he picked on the altar boys when he was deacon at the church. But Father Mullally reported 'im to the bishop and they put the run to 'im. Then he started pickin' on his pupils—one at a time. He's right evil to 'em. Starts when they hit sixth grade. Picks on the boys, mostly. They either quit school or hang on 'til ninth grade. Most of 'em don't hold out—it's that bad. Then he moves on to his next victim. Seems like he's feedin' a need.”

“And there've been rumours,” Aunt Gert said. “You know…people
saying things…mostly about how he is around the younger kids.”

“Be careful with those rumours, Gert,” Granny said. “It's a small
community and you don't know where they came from.”

There was silence, and then Ma said, “And he's teaching school?”

“Uh-hum.” It was Uncle Jim.

“The parents don't complain?” Ma asked. “Nobody says anything?”

“There've been letters and petitions to the superintendent,” Granny said. “But they don't go anywhere. Jaynie Giddings wrote one herself when he started picking on Pat Jr.”

“I remember that,” Uncle Jim said. “William raised a real stink.”

“William?” Ma asked.

“Trotted right down to the schoolhouse; paid Charlie Dunphy a little visit,” Granny said.

“Wish I'da bin there,” Uncle Jim said. “Woulda bin interestin'.”

“Well, we can't go interfering.” Ma paused for a moment. “Could
make matters worse.”

“I wouldn't call it interferin' when someone's pickin' on your own
flesh 'n' blood,” Uncle Jim said. “If William Giddings can straighten
Charlie Dunphy out, I don't see how's I can't.”

“Jim,” Granny said.

“I didn't mean it that way,” Uncle Jim said. “I'm just sayin' I could remind Charlie Dunphy whose dinner table he sits at every other Friday evenin', that's all.”

“Maybe we should wait and see?” Ma said.

That night I fell into bed, grabbed the covers, and shoved Alfred. I didn't care if I woke him. When he squealed, I hissed at him to shut up and left him whimpering against the inside wall.
Wait and see, right,
I thought.
Right!
The Ma that didn't want to interfere with my lunatic teacher was nothing like the Ma I remembered from back home.

Whatever it was Mr. Dunphy had drunk on Sunday seemed to wear off over the week. He spent less time slumped in his chair scowling over his tea. The notes he scribbled across the blackboard were easier to read. And when he clobbered up my aisle and stuck his pig nose into my work, he just grunted and continued on his way. Even so, what I had seen of him over my short time there told me his calm demeanour was just a thin shell. Thinking about him made my head ache. My hands shook at the sound of his brace rattling up my aisle. When he bent down and ran a fat finger over my work, the smell of him made my guts churn. And I suspected it wouldn't be long before he was picking on me again. I didn't know when it would happen and what it would be, but I knew for sure it was coming.

Every morning on my way to school, I tried to think up ways to
stay clear of the old grump. When Thomas struggled over a word at
reading, I'd just point to it and keep my mouth shut until he got it
right. No matter how much he whined, I didn't offer a hint. When we copied notes from the board, I gripped my pencil firmly in my right hand and rounded out my letters as best I could. It felt slow and clumsy. It was painstaking work, and I usually fell behind. When Old Dunphy approached, I slid my arm over my work and put my head down, so he couldn't see what I had missed for going so slow. I caught up later by copying Larry's notes at home. And for some odd reason it seemed to work.

Late Thursday afternoon, Old Dunphy made his final rounds of
the classroom, then mounted the platform and stood dead centre. He slapped his pointer onto an open palm, and said, “We've a spate of bad weather coming. But you're to prepare for tomorrow just the same. Everybody is to review their math for the week. Grades six to nine, you'll be writing an essay for civics.” He paused and smiled, his thin lips nearly disappearing into his fat face. Old Dunphy always smiled
when he was barking out orders. “Tomorrow's math and the essay
will count for fifty percent of the mid-term mark, so I'd advise you to review your notes. And if the weather shuts us down, you'll be writing Monday—no excuses.”

On Friday morning, we awoke to a frigid cold that swept in from the north and settled all around us. Larry and I pulled an extra layer of clothing on under our coveralls before heading to the barn.

“It's torture out here this time o' the mornin',” Uncle Jim said, as we hurried across the frozen yard. This time he wasn't laughing. “I'll be runnin' you fellas to school today—they're callin' for a storm.”

A chill breeze chased us across the yard. The clouds that gathered on the horizon looked like a snow-capped ridge of mountains.

The barn felt colder than the outdoors. Ice crystals had formed on the walls and the beams. Steam rolled off the animals. Their breath condensed in thin puffs of translucent cloud. We moved quickly through
chores so we could get back to the warm house. We fed the horses
their grain and laid down extra bedding and hay for them and for
the cows, even though we knew we would be coming back later that afternoon. Uncle Jim hauled in the usual amount of water as any extra would freeze.

After breakfast, Larry and I helped Uncle Jim hitch Lu and Big Ned up to his box sleigh. Helen climbed up onto the front bench and disappeared under a buffalo rug. Larry and I settled in behind her and
covered ourselves up too. Those rugs were stiff and cold, and they
smelled of must. But they covered us from head to toe and blocked the bitter wind. Uncle Jim climbed onto the bench next to Helen, slapped
the reins, and hollered, “Gee up!” Larry and I planted our boots on
the floorboards to steady our bench. Big Ned and Lu leaned into their traces and hauled us across the yard.

We picked Thomas and Pat Jr. up at the end of the drive. Uncle
Jim slowed the horses at the Daleys', but there was no one in sight. Further along the road, Maggie MacIntyre picked her way down the path from her house. Snow blew in thin wisps across her yard. It stuck to her tam, her coat, and the thick woollen socks she wore over her shoes. When we reached the open gate of her drive, Uncle Jim whoa'd the horses. He climbed over the side and handed Maggie's books up to Larry before helping her aboard. She was no sooner seated, than Helen started jabbering.

“Do you want to come over after school? Uncle Jim's coming to get us. We could—”

“Today wouldn't be so good, little missy,” Uncle Jim cut in. “If the weather gets nasty, I'd just as soon keep the horses in. You girls can get together another time.”

Even when he was being practical, my uncle was nice about it. But Helen just stuck her nose in the air and pouted the rest of the way to school.

Old Dunphy was at the blackboard, preparing our math test as we entered the classroom. When he finished, he waited while we hung up our jackets and found our seats. Then he led us through the Our Father and “God Save the King.” This time, I got all the words. We sat down, and he picked a pile of foolscap off his desk and signalled to Curtis Murphy.

“Hand these around, would you, Curtis—there's a good fella,” he
said, in an even tone.

Curtis laid a single sheet of foolscap on top of each desk. Old Dunphy folded his arms and stared across the room. “I don't suppose I should bother asking where the Daleys are. And does anyone know whether Mr. Condon plans to attend today?” He was referring to Johnnie Condon, a ninth-grade boy who hung tight with Patrick Daley. When nobody answered, Old Dunphy let out a sigh. “They seem to come down with some affliction every Friday. I'll be letting their parents know they're writing Monday, just the same. Report cards are due in a week.” He looked up at the clock. “You can start now.”

The math looked way simpler than the lessons we had been doing over the past two weeks. Even Maggie easily solved the twenty-five lines of rudimentary fractions that constituted our test. I copied each problem as neatly as I could and quickly completed them, making sure not to skip a step. Then I checked them over. When I had finished, I kept my head down and pretended to work. Any idleness could have meant an invitation for Old Dunphy to saunter toward my desk.

We ate lunch inside. When it was over, Old Dunphy grabbed a pile of foolscap and asked Larry and Pat Jr. to hand each one of us a sheet. Then he stood at the edge of the platform, his glasses perched on his forehead, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk selecting its prey.

“I'd like everyone to write with a pen this afternoon—it's good prac
tice. And you'll be marked on neatness as much as on content, this
time. So pay careful attention to your penmanship.”

He stood and waited for everyone to be seated and for the last desktop to close. Then he slapped his pointer onto the blackboard.
“Grades five to nine, you've two choices: The first one is, you're the
father of a family of six and you've lost your job. Write to Premier
MacMillan, ask him for a job on a government project in Charlottetown, and explain why you need it.

“You could start by telling him how much education you have—what grade you've completed. Then you can tell him about any work experience you might have and what you think you'd be good at. Then tell him about your situation. Try to put yourselves in your father's place. What would he say to the premier? Remember, there are lots of men out of work on the Island and not so many jobs to go around, so you need to be convincing.”

He stepped away from the blackboard and held his pointer up in both hands. “Your second choice—and I particularly want the grade nines to tackle this one—is to write a letter to Prime Minister Bennett. Tell him about the dire situation on Prince Edward Island. Explain how many farms are going out of business—yes, a farm is a business—and how important our farms are to the nation. It's always best to begin on a positive note. So you should start by thanking him for the assistance he has already sent. Then you could remind him of the shipments of produce and feed we've been sending to the Prairies for free. So we're doing our bit for the nation, but if we want to continue to do so, we're going to need help. The thing you should keep in mind is that Prince Edward Island is the smallest province in Canada, which means we don't have much say in Ottawa. So this will take some convincing.”

He put his pointer down, took his glasses off, and leaned against his desk. “The thing I'm looking for is the way you approach your topic, be it the letter to the premier or the one to the prime minister. I want to see that you've been reading at home and paying attention in school. Show me that you know what you're talking about. Remember to write an outline—I don't want your argument going all over the place. And write it in letter format. I'll jot the addresses on the board.” He waited momentarily. “Are there any questions?”

Pat Jr. raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Giddings.”

“I thought we were writing a letter, sir.”

“Didn't I make that clear?”

“First you said it was a letter, then you said it was an argument. Does that mean I'm supposed to argue with the premier, sir?”

Mr. Dunphy let out a breath and brushed his fingers through his oily hair. “I did say you were to write a letter, yes. But an argument, in this sense, is a discussion. So you are to discuss the issues with whomever you choose to write to, be it the premier or the prime minister. The argument part of it is when you give him the facts and tell him your story. You're to set all this up before you make your request. The argument gives the person you're writing to your point of view; it makes the case for your side of the issue. Are we clear on that now, Mr. Giddings?”

I had never heard Old Dunphy give anyone such detailed instructions. And I wondered what it was that had made him look so nervous. Whatever the case, Pat Jr. did not appear to have been taking advantage.

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he replied.

“Anybody else?” Old Dunphy asked. He looked up at the clock—it said 12:30. “You can pick up your pens and begin.”

I read through the questions on the blackboard. The first one looked easy. I knew something about the unemployed because it had been all over the newspapers back home. It comprised a major part of my parents' conversations at the dinner table and in the parlour.

I remember my dad poking his head up from the
Everett Leader-Herald
one evening, and saying to Ma, “Is there no end to it? There's so many men out of work.” He cupped the bowl of his pipe in a hand and sucked in the smoke. Then he blew it out in a great puff and watched it thin out across the parlour. “I feel a little guilty sometimes, particularly when I see men lined up at the manager's office at the plant, begging for a day's work. Most of them look as if they haven't had a decent meal in weeks. It's tough walking by them, especially on pay day.”

My dad was always talking about the problems in the community, trying to figure out ways to solve them. He spent most Saturdays volunteering at the church. Larry and I often went with him and helped put packages together for families whose fathers were unemployed.
When we were done, Dad reminded us that we weren't to mention
any names.

“You work hard, Joe,” Ma had said. “You earn your pay.”

“Yes, well.” He thought for a moment. “There are men injuring them
selves on purpose so they can get into the hospital for a bed and a
meal. They're eating pigeons, for heaven's sake. It's a crying shame is what it is.”

“We do what we can,” my mother replied.

“I suppose.”

Two weeks later, my dad was dead.

I opened my desktop and rummaged around for my pen, ink, and
blotter, and put the ink bottle in the holder. I opened my scribbler to the middle, loosened the staples, and tore out a piece of scrap paper.
I looked up at the blackboard and re-read the questions. I knew a
little bit about Prince Edward Island from the conversations I'd heard around the kitchen table at Granny's and from listening to Pat Jr. and Thomas on the way to school. But if I had to put myself in my dad's place, like Old Dunphy said, I'd be six feet under in a plot in Holy Cross Cemetery back home. So I decided to pretend I was Ma. She had work experience from before she met Dad. And now she had four kids and a dead husband. Surely that was a good argument for a job.