The Latchkey Kid (21 page)

Now, as Olga warmed to the work, she began to think, as she had not thought for years, about Boyd, about the children round her, even, rather painfully, about Hank, and she forgot about that very important personage, Mrs. Olga Stych.

By half past three Mrs. Stych was ready to drop dead with fatigue. Her blouse was stuck to her back with sweat and she guessed that there was not a scrap of makeup left on her face. The mothers were dressing the children, and a graceful, expensive-looking blonde had dressed both Henny and her own child in their heavy winter clothes. Mrs. Stych thankfully rescued her car coat and boots from the cloakroom.

She took Henny by the hand to try and get her to climb the steps to the front door.

“Ah, you have the idea, Mrs. Stych,” exclaimed Mrs. LeClair, pouncing upon her as she waited for Henny, who, hampered by her snowsuit, was making a not very successful try at climbing the steps. “Always make the child do as much as it can.” She patted Mrs. Stych’s arm. “You will come tomorrow, of course. We need all the help we can get.”

“Well …” began Mrs. Stych, trying to make a determined stand.

Mrs. LeClair clapped her on the shoulder. “Ah, I knew you would! You will feel so rewarded.”

Mrs. Stych opened her mouth again and managed to commence: “But …” when Henny, stranded on the second step up, began to howl, her head winding to and fro like that of a serpent.

Mrs. Stych bent and set the child’s hands firmly on the third step, and laboriously she climbed another. By the time she had got the rhythm of climbing, Mrs. LeClair had darted to the other end of the hall, to assist a mother with a Karrykot.

Mrs. Stych’s lips narrowed to a thin line. She was not accustomed to people rushing off when she wished to speak to them. If Mrs. LeClair had no time for her, she had no time for Mrs. LeClair; she would not come tomorrow – nobody was going to make her work like a slave for a pack of crazy kids.

Henny allowed herself to be buckled into her car seat without demur. Mrs. Stych climbed in beside her and glanced down at her in disgust.

Quite unexpectedly, Henny looked up at her and laughed like a young baby. The empty face with its slightly protruding tongue looked for a moment no different from that of any other tiny girl, and Mrs. Stych hastily looked back at the road.

Dr. and Mrs. van der Schelden greeted Mrs. Stych and Henny, on their return, like long-lost kissing cousins. Dr. van der Schelden was a huge, fair-haired man and he nearly wrung Mrs. Stych’s hand off as he thanked her for all she had done. Mrs. Stych felt so guilty about her dislike of Henny that she blushed and said hastily that she had done nothing at all.

She took gratefully the chair offered to her – she had not felt so tired for months – and accepted the hot coffee pressed upon her by Dr. van der Schelden. It was very pleasant to be made a fuss of, and her face gradually resumed its normal colour.

“Mr. Frizzell took me to the hospital again,” reported Mrs. van der Schelden, “and sat with Michael in the waiting-room while the doctor look at my hand. He also is so good.”

“Yes,” said Dr. van der Schelden. “He has also suggested that he gets together a committee of interested businessmen, to raise funds for a proper school for Henny and the other children. Do you think he could do it?”

Mrs. Stych assured him sourly that Maxie could do anything he set his mind to.

“Would it not be wonderful, Mrs. Stych?” asked Mrs. van der Schelden, patting Mrs. Stych’s hand gently.

Mrs. Stych agreed that it would be, and wondered privately what the hell Maxie had in his head to suggest such a thing. Anything Maxie did always benefited Maxie in the end.

On the doorstep, her conscience pricked her and she said: “I’ll take Henny again tomorrow – your husband will have a lot to do for you and Michael.” Maxie Frizzell was not going to be allowed to outdo her.

Mrs. van der Schelden’s wide blue eyes moistened. “Would you do so? That would be so kind,” and before Mrs. Stych could stop her, she had put her arms round the elder woman’s shoulders and kissed her.

Mrs. Stych could not remember when another woman had last kissed her; they had toadied to her, deferred to her, tried to squash her, fought to keep her down, all with the sweetest of smiles over their teacups, but nobody had kissed her with warmth and gratitude before. Her face was still pink as she walked slowly through the snow across the adjoining lawns to her own front door and let herself in.

On the Frizzell’s front lawn, a baby-sitter and two of the Frizzell grandchildren were making angels in the snow, and Mrs. Stych was reminded uneasily of Hank.

Mrs. Stych felt better after she had taken a shower, put on a loose red housecoat and a pair of red mules, and combed her hair. She felt too tired to paint her face. She did, however, go down to the basement and set the washing machine going with its first load of sheets; then she prepared a supper for Boyd and herself. Brown-and-serve meat chops were soon slapped into a frying pan and frozen chips put into the oven to defrost.

She laid the table in the breakfast nook for two people, and wondered where Hank would eat. A pang of conscience struck her – perhaps she should not have bawled him out quite so hard. Fancy if he had been like one of those kids she had been working with! What would she have done?

She squirmed inwardly as she answered her own question. She knew she would have repudiated him and put him in a home. As she worked, she uneasily compared the care given to Mrs. LeClair’s exceptional children with that given to the children in her own circle.

“It’s ridiculous,” she told herself defiantly. “So much fuss spoils kids – it isn’t good for them – they gotta learn to be independent.”

Absorbed in her own reflections, she did not bother to greet Boyd when he came into the kitchen, grey and tired. He went straight to the refrigerator to get himself a glass of rye.

He eyed her tentatively over his glass, surprised to see her arrayed in her best housecoat. He reminded himself that he had yet to tell her that Mayor Murphy would not part with one of his lots in Vanier Heights, because he was waiting for the price to rocket even higher. He slumped down in a chair and finished his drink quickly, after which he felt strong enough to say “Hi” to his wife.

“Hi,” she said back.

“Where’s Hank?”

“Dunno”.

“Didn’t see him this morning. Mebbe he’ll be in for supper.”

She looked at him, and her lips curled. “I doubt it,” she said.

“Why not?”

She took the potato chips out of the oven before she replied. Then she said carefully: “Said he’d eat out.”

Boyd sensed that something was wrong. He spun the ice cube round and round in his empty glass. The rye was warming him, and he felt better.

“Something happen?” he asked, pouring a little more rye onto the ice cube. He guessed that Hank was doing one of his usual fast retreats from an unpleasant situation. Presumably Olga was still mad about the book. He watched his wife out of the corner of his eye as he drained his glass again. Her face had hardened, and he felt an unexpected pity for his son.

“I just told him he must pay his board now he’s working.”

Boyd ran his tongue round the tips of his teeth. It was not an unreasonable request for a mother to make. He wondered, however, how she had approached the subject.

“What did he say?”

She put a plate of chops and chips in front of him, following it with a knife and fork and a bottle of ketchup. He put down his glass and picked up his fork, still watching her.

She filled the coffeepot and put it on the stove to percolate.

“Said he’d pay rent and eat out,” she said as laconically as she could, under his distrustful gaze.

Boyd slowly laid down his first forkful of chop and said in a shocked voice: “Now, Olga, he’s not some student boarding with us. That won’t do.”

Mrs. Stych brought her plate to the table and sat down. “That’s what he wanted, that’s what he got.”

Boyd stared at her. He had never taken much interest in Hank. He had been away from home so much that he had, in fact, frequently forgotten the boy’s existence for months at a time. But this upset his sense of propriety. It savoured of his grudging his son food from his table, which he did not. It offended his sense of western hospitality, a hospitality which demanded that even strangers be fed like fighting kings, and his bulging refrigerator kept full for the use of the family.

His wife was looking mutinous, so he said heavily: “I’ll talk to him when he comes in.”

“You’ll have to be quick,” she snapped. “Says he’s goin’ to Europe soon.”

He knew that the smallest spark would light the fires of temper and she would start a tantrum, so he tried to eat his dinner.

The long evening he and Hank had spent together, when Hank had first told him about his literary success, had established a friendliness between them, quite separate from any fatherly feeling which Boyd might reasonably be expected to harbour for the boy. Boyd had first been amazed, and then had felt a sneaking admiration for a youngster who could defy a whole town and its heavily paternal school board, and make a small fortune out of it. He knew that Olga had lost some friends through Hank’s choice of subject, but he had no desire to see the boy bullied out of the house because of it.

Olga ate her dinner and then retired to the basement, to sulk over the washing, leaving Boyd to wash the dishes.

A stony-faced Hank came home about nine, to find his mother had gone to bed. His father was, however, sitting smoking in his den, with the door open. He got up as Hank came through the living-room, and stood at the door of his room.

“Hi, Son,” he said tentatively; and, in spite of his own preoccupation, Hank noticed the weary droop of the elder man’s shoulders and his general air of anxiety.

“Hiya, Dad.”

“Come in here. I want to talk to you.”

Hank was immediately on guard, but went in and took the chair indicated by Boyd.

“What happened between you and your Ma this morning about board money?”

Hank relaxed, and told his father what had occurred. Finally, he said: “Honest, Dad, I just forgot. I’m not mean. Only she didn’t ask so nice.” He grinned sheepishly. “Guess I’m not altogether used to being independent.”

Boyd laughed. “It’s O.K. I’ll fix it with your mother. You had better pay something – you have to get used to standing on your own feet – and one day you’ll be having to make your wife an allowance.” He changed the subject. “Your mother said you’re going to Europe?”

“Yeah, thought I’d travel around for a while. I got a book coming along just fine. Feel I oughta see sumpin’ before I settle down.”

Boyd sat silent. He had gone away from home to university at eighteen, so he supposed Hank would be all right. He remembered he had promised to help Hank invest his earnings, and thought he had better mention this.

“Do you want me to do anything about the money you’ve got, while you’re away?” he inquired.

“Sure, Dad. Not all of it’s in yet, of course.”

“Do you like to give me power of attorney?”

Hank had been considering this for some time, but his distrust of both parents was so great that he had not been able to convince himself that this would be a wise move. Boyd could see that his question was causing some confusion to Hank, though he fortunately did not realize why.

The boy stirred uneasily. “Think I’d sorta like to sign everything myself. I’ll be in London, and stuff don’t take so long by air mail.” He hastened to add: “I think your advice was great – and I wanna do just what you suggested – but I’d have a better picture of how I stood if I signed everything myself.”

“O.K.” said Boyd. “I’ll fix it – you give me an address. Would London be where Mrs. Dawson has gone?”

Hank flushed crimson and Boyd had to laugh, despite his anxiety that the boy might marry too young.

“O.K., O.K.,” he smiled, “I won’t ask. Just be careful what you do. She’s a real nice girl and you have to give a girl like that a square deal. She’s no Betty Frizzell.”

The colour which had suffused Hank’s face drained as rapidly as it had come. Boyd’s idle remark had hit a raw nerve; Mrs. Stych was not the only member of the family who had noted the appearance of Betty’s eldest boy. Hank had seen him and had felt thoroughly sick; he wondered how he could have gone near such a girl, and he wondered, too, how he could ever approach Isobel after the kind of life he had led up to now. He felt like crawling on his knees to her; he could understand how men could humble and humiliate themselves before women to gain their forgiveness.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Dad,” he said, his expression so desolate that Boyd began to worry about him as he never had before.

Two days later Hank left for New York, on his way to London. He hardly spoke to his mother and did not bid her goodbye. She was surprised to find after he had gone that he had cleared his room and packed all his possessions into cardboard boxes, which he had transported into the basement storeroom, stacking them neatly in a corner, so that she could hardly complain that they took up too much space. His bedroom looked like a hotel room, without a personality.

She told herself she did not care; he was nothing but a quarrelsome interruption in the mainstream of her life. Then she remembered that her life’s mainstream had dried up. No amount of attendance at public functions or entertaining new people could put her back into the exalted position she had previously enjoyed. The real residents of Tollemarche had rejected her out of hand – and all because of Hank. Suddenly, in the horrifying vacuum her life had become, she was thankful for Henny.

When, after his conversation with Hank, Boyd had climbed the stairs to their bedroom, he had found Olga lying awake in the middle of the three-quarter bed they shared, staring at the gilt stars on the ceiling. The bed had a hollow in the middle where she had for years slept in it by herself, and she had absent-mindedly crawled into it.

While he was getting undressed, he thought he might as well tell her about his interview with Mayor Murphy.

“About that lot in Vanier Heights,” he commenced, his voice muffled as he removed his undershirt. “Murphy won’t sell.” His stomach felt constricted and he wondered if he was starting an ulcer.

His wife’s voice was listless when she replied: “Well, we gotta home, so we don’t have to worry. Mebbe a riverside lot, one of those you got down by the creek, would be nicer.”

At first he could not believe his ears. “You don’t mind?”

“Why should I?” She sounded as if she was not really attending to his words.

He was stunned. He had expected a tirade lasting most of the night, and she was not even really interested; he wondered if she was well.

Thankful for small mercies, he got into bed and she reluctantly moved over to make room for him.

He usually smoked a last cigarette before turning over to go to sleep, and Olga watched with disgust the cloud of smoke that soon obliterated the gilt stars.

“What did you do today?” he asked.

Olga was immediately more alert. “I worked with Mrs. LeClair,” she announced smugly.

“Our LeClair’s wife?”

“Yeah,” she said, half turning towards him, and she went on to tell him about her day with Henny.

“You should go again,” he said, quick to see the advantage of a closer association with his company’s president. LeClair had holdings in a dozen first-class mines in Canada. With tips from LeClair, Boyd saw himself rising into the tight inner circle of businessmen who, working closely with their American associates, had made themselves millionaires.

He lifted himself on one elbow, so that he could see her face to face. “See here, Olga,” he said confidentially, “you’ve seen how difficult the LeClairs are to get to know personally. They’ve always kept themselves to themselves. They’re mighty hard to really get to know – you get to know her real well and we’re made.”

Olga, who had just been about to say that nothing would induce her to spend another day with those horrible kids, changed her mind. Anything that was in her self-interest was to be considered carefully. She stared thoughtfully at her husband, and then said: “I suppose I could go again – they sure need help.”

“Sure you could, honey,” he wheedled, and bent and kissed her.

So Henny found herself again escorted by Mrs. Stych, a Mrs. Stych who seemed a bit easier to get along with than she had been on the previous day.