Watching Jimmy (5 page)

A
nd so it must be God’s will that, as I’m coming up our street, I see a blue-and-white Thunderbird convertible parked in front of the house.

Pooh, it’s a mirage
. A
mirage
is something we’re talking about in science, so my brain’s decided to paint a phony picture of my worst fears for me.

It’s a mirage. It’s a mirage. It’s a mirage.

I want so much for that car to be a mirage, I reach out and touch a blue fin before I believe it’s not. My hand flies back as if I’ve touched a hot iron pan.

“Bastard.”

I think about just going home.
Go home, you silly goose. Find your own roost.
But I don’t listen to myself. I’m like a sleepwalker now, opening up Aunt Jean’s front door,
taking off my coat, hanging it up, lining up my galoshes underneath.

“Aunt Jean,” I call. “Aunt Jean?” I wait and listen.

No answer.

Where is she? There’s no one in the kitchen. There’s a half-played game of solitaire laid out on the table, so Aunt Jean can’t have been expecting a visitor. I notice she has three easy moves and I reach to make them for her, but then I remember that I’ve more important things to do. My brain is diverting me.

“Jimmy? Aunt Jean?”

I walk into the parlor. Not in all my days would I have expected to see what I see.

Jimmy and Ted are sitting on the chesterfield, close together like glue. Jimmy is quiet. For once. Aunt Jean is nowhere to be seen.

On the table is a bottle of whiskey. The cap is off and it’s two-thirds empty. Uncle Ted is holding a glass. Jimmy’s holding a glass.

Jimmy has been drinking rye whiskey with Uncle Ted!

I put my hands on my hips. “And what is going on in here?” I say, mimicking Aunt Jean.

Ted and Jimmy look up at me. Jimmy smiles a welcome smile that’s now more crooked than ever. Ted says nothing.

“Where’s Aunt Jean?”

“Where’s Aunt Jean. Where’s Aunt Jean. You sound like a fishwife, Carolyn. Me and Jimmy-boy were just having some fun, weren’t we Jimmy? He was driving me nuts, tearing around the place, so I gave him a sip to settle him down. What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything is wrong with that. You could hurt him …” The words
more than you already have
hover, unspoken, in the air between us.

Ted narrows his slitty little snake eyes. He takes me in as if he’s seeing me for the very first time from my socks, to my ankles, to my knees, up to my box-pleated skirt. I have the feeling he wants to look under that skirt.

No one —
NO ONE
— has ever looked at me like that. I’ve seen men look at my mom that way, but she has bosoms. I don’t.

“Jimmy, put that down!”

He starts to drink faster and begins to choke. Whisky is spraying out of his nose and his mouth and all over the living-room rug.

Ted leans over and clips Jimmy on the side of his head.

“You leave his poor head alone! Haven’t you done enough to his poor head?”

Like a rattlesnake, Ted grabs my wrist and tugs me forward. I stumble into his lap. The bottle teeters on the coffee table and crashes, spilling rye on Aunt Jean’s lace doilies.

“Now you’ve done it!” Ted shouts.

His breath smells like gasoline. The whole room smells like gasoline. I’d be afraid to light a match for fear that the room would blow up. I’m so surprised, that I’m thinking stupid and unimportant things in slow motion.
Wake up. Wake up.

“Let me go!” I tug my arm.

“Let’s kiss and make up,” says Uncle Ted.

My heart stops.

My brain does not.

I pretend to struggle. I pretend to give in. I offer my cheek to him. Then, like a vampire, I bite him on the neck. I’m like a mad dog and I won’t let go.

I knee him in the groin. I have strong pointy kneecaps like spears.

Uncle Ted is holding his neck. I’ve drawn blood. He
drops to the floor on his knees. He looks like he’s praying except his hands are now clutching his man parts.

I yank Jimmy off the couch and run him to the kitchen. He smells like a still and his diaper hasn’t been changed. I can hear Uncle Ted scrabbling around, trying to get up.

“Hurry Jimmy!”

I grab his coat and my coat as I run by the hooks in the hall. There’s no time for boots. I slip my feet into Aunt Jean’s shoes. Jimmy will have to make do with his slippers.

What to do? What to do?
Ted knows where the key is to my house. That will be the first place he’ll look.

“Run, Jimmy. Run!”

We’re running up Windermere Avenue, running, and me with no good idea where to go. Where’s Aunt Jean? Why would she leave?

We’re almost at Bloor Street now. Jimmy’s slippers are flopping through puddles, sliding on leaves. I have to hold onto him so tight.

Maybe she’s in the bank. I peek in the window. The lights are out. There’s no one there.

My mom is working a double shift today. She won’t be home until after midnight!

Jimmy and I have nowhere to go.

“Come on, Jimmy.”

We double back and I slip into St. Olave’s Church basement. I’ve never darkened the door of the place. Ted will never find us here. And I need a place to think.

“May I help you?” the caretaker says.

“O-ooph
. You scared me. Yes. Please.”

“Do you have business with the Church?” He’s leaning on the broom. His nose is wrinkling with the smell of Jimmy’s diaper and the rye whiskey. It’s a breathtaking combination.

My lungs are heaving. My mind is racing. And then it stops. I take a big gulp of air and in my best elocution voice, I say, “We’re here for the audition.”

T
he caretaker hustles us to the minister’s office. The minister is sitting at his desk doing paperwork. We’ve surprised him, but he does very well at trying not to be repulsed by us, by Jimmy’s stench, and my fly-away look. He shakes Jimmy’s hand first and then mine and introduces himself as Mr. MacGregor. He reminds me of my grandpa.

“We’ve … I’ve come for the audition. This is my friend Jimmy. I’m babysitting him.”

“And who are you?”

“Carolyn …”

“Are you members of the Church?”

“Oh, no. We go to St. James downtown, but the General called to see if it would be okay for me to try out for the choir.”

The minister clears his throat and drums his fingers on the desk. “Well, Carolyn, you’re awfully early. Have you had your supper yet?”

“Did Ted … did you have supper, Jimmy?”

Jimmy sways and snorts and cracks a crooked smile. He’s drunk and he’s not answering.

“Well, sir, I didn’t.” All of a sudden I’m tired and overcome. I sit down in a plush chair with a plunk.

The minister picks up the phone and makes a quiet call. He gathers up his papers and stuffs them in his briefcase.

“It’s my sermon for Sunday. It’s not very good.”

He has a nice smile. I want to tell him the whole story. I want to seize the phone and call home. It’s not at all like Aunt Jean to be out at this time of day. Something dreadful has happened, I know it.

“Maybe I could help you.” I think I probably could. The minister doesn’t know that I’m good at making up speeches or that I’ve won all the public speaking championships for the last three years. I won’t tell him because it would sound boastful and boasting is probably a sin right up there with coveting your neighbor’s house — and his ass. But it’s the truth.

The minister laughs. “You already have. Carolyn. Do you and Jimmy have last names?”

“Jimmy! Put on your slippers! You can’t walk barefoot outside!” I deflect the minister’s question about our names.

Mr. MacGregor takes us through the church, out into the garden and down the street to the rectory. When he opens the door, the smell is heavenly, like roast chicken and apple combined. Suddenly, I’m hungry.

The minister introduces us to Mrs. MacGregor who is all bosom and looks like she’s had about twenty children. She takes us into the bathroom where I wash my hands and face and comb my hair with a lavender-scented brush. She draws a bath and, when Jimmy sees the bubbles in the tub, he’s eager to get in and play He’s happy to stay with Mrs. MacGregor.

“Could you rinse me out a glass, dear?” She opens up a medicine cabinet and takes out a Bromo Seltzer tablet and puts it in the bottom of the glass.

I would never have thought of that. Bromo Seltzer!

“Hey, Jimmy. Look at this. You can drink the bubbles, but you have to do it really quick before they disappear!” I say.

Jimmy swipes the glass out of my hand and opens his throat and pours it in.

“
Bleckh
.” Jimmy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins at us crazily.

“We’ll be fine, now, won’t we, dear?”

I barely close the door behind me when I hear Jimmy vomiting. I can feel my stomach rise up my throat and I begin to gag, too. Poor Jimmy. He hates sick-up.

“That’s a boy, Jimmy. Look what you’ve done now! The bubbles are in the toilet. Are you all finished now? Time for a bath?” Mrs. MacGregor is trying to make a game of Jimmy being sick.

I make my way to the kitchen, where the minister is pouring himself a cup of tea from a Brown Betty pot. There’s a second cup for me. The minister raises an eye-brow in my direction.

“Yes, please.”

I hug the teacup with my hands, hoping the warmth will thaw my toes and the fear around my heart. I need to brace myself for his questions. I must be on guard not to reveal anything that Aunt Jean wouldn’t want me to say. I pull the sleeve of my blouse down so it covers the fingerprint bruises that are beginning to form around my wrist.

“What will you sing tonight?”

I’m flustered because it’s not what I expect from a grown-up. I expect an inquisition about why Jimmy smells like drink. About who grabbed me.

The minister is asking me again what I’m going to sing. All that comes to mind is the song “Mairzy Doats.”

I clap my hand over my mouth. Have I sung this bit of nonsense out loud? Have I? There’s a smirk, a grin on the minister’s face.

“I love that song,” he says. “The men loved it. Sometimes in the mess, we’d sing it
just for the halibut.
It brings back memories, it does.”

“You were in the war?”

“I served in the first war and was a chaplain in the second.”

A chaplain in the war. Wow. No wonder Mr. MacGregor took in Jimmy and me. He’d seen far worse than one harum-scarum girl and her drunken friend landing on his doorstep on a dank evening at supper time.

I clear my throat. “Oh. I’ll sing … whatever you’d like to hear.”

“Do you have some sheet music with you?”

“Sheet music? Sheet music. Golly, I guess I forgot it at home.”

Mr. MacGregor goes over to a drawer in the sideboard. He hands me several sheafs of music. “There might be something in here that strikes your fancy.”

Some of the selections are yellowed with age. Some are newer, but all are popular songs that Grandpa used to sing from the war years. There’s not a church song in the bunch. I flip through without speaking, getting lost in the selections.

“Your socks look wet. I’m going upstairs to find you another pair.”

I’ve no idea how long he’s been gone. I’ve been humming the first two bars of each song. I remember hearing these old songs on the radio.

“Find one you like?”

“Oh, yes. There are lots to choose from.”

He gives me a pair of hand-knit socks, gray and chunky. They must have been warming on the radiator, because when my toes sneak down in, they wriggle with delight. Never mind they are men’s socks and too big.

We can hear sloshing in the bathroom and Jimmy making motor-boat noises with his lips. Jimmy likes blowing bubbles.

“Jimmy seems happy now.” The minister takes a big gulp of tea.

“Yes, he loves to play in the bath.”

“My goodness, I’m hungry.” The minister goes to the cookie jar and hands me two date oatmeal raisin cookies. “You won’t tell on me, will you? Mrs. MacGregor won’t like it if I spoil your dinner.”

“I can keep a secret.”

My response hangs in the air making an uncomfortable silence. I’ve learned that you don’t have to fill uncomfortable silences. You don’t have to rush to spill the beans. Eventually silences pass if you don’t fall into the trap.

The minister speaks first. “Does your mother know where you are? Does Jimmy’s mother?”

This is a trap question. If I say Aunt Jean wasn’t at home when I got there, that will lead to Uncle Ted and the smell of liquor all over poor Jimmy. That will mean that the child welfare people might get called.

“Aunt Jean knows I wanted to try out for the choir,” I say. It’s a true statement. As far as it goes. I change the subject.

“Which of these two songs do you like better?” I sing the first two bars of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” and switch to “I’ll Never Smile Again.”

In the silence after my singing, we hear the sounds of ripping fabric. The minister has a questioning look on his
face, but I know what Mrs. MacGregor is doing. Jimmy is far too big for regular diapers and Mrs. MacGregor is making him new ones from sheets.

Did I say that right then and there, I said a prayer to God thanking him for leading us to Mrs. MacGregor? And for giving her about twenty kids of her own so she’d know what to do. I begin to relax.

I nibble around the edges of a cookie, savoring every morsel. Mr. MacGregor dunks his in his teacup.

“I think singing is important. I believe that mankind sang before it spoke,” says Mr. MacGregor. “When I read the Creation Story, I sing it to myself.” He takes another slurp. His cookie is getting mushy. “Yes, music, all music, every kind of music, has the power to speak to people everywhere, Carolyn. I discovered overseas that people aren’t much different, dear, no matter where they happen to live. Egypt or Britain, or yes, even Germany. People want the same things. Family. Work. A roof over their heads …”

Aha! Clever man
. He’s enquiring again about my family. He wants to know where’s the roof over Jimmy’s and my heads, without coming out and asking.

I’m not biting.

When Jimmy runs out of the bathroom, his cheeks are apple red. His hair is damp and gleaming, but best of all, he smells like rosewater and talcum.

“My, you’re a handsome lad,” says Mr. MacGregor.

Jimmy smiles.

Mrs. MacGregor pours Jimmy a big glass of water.

“Slow down, Jimmy,” I warn. “You don’t want to spill on your new clothes.” Jimmy’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of corduroy pants. He has fluffy pink slippers on his feet.

I can see that the dining room is set for dinner.

“It might be better if we eat in the kitchen,” I warn. “We’re not fancy folk.”

Mrs. MacGregor and the minister lock eyes.

“I think you and your brother will be just fine in here,” she says.

“He’s not my brother.” It sounds disloyal so I add, “He’s my friend.”

The minister continues lighting the candles on the table. He puts the record player on low, then turns the lights off. He helps Jimmy to his seat and me to mine.

Jimmy is mesmerized by the candles. He seems sleepy now, more old Jimmy than new Jimmy. He rests his head on the table and the minister tousles his hair.

The dinner is like a Sunday dinner. Roast potatoes and roast chicken. Squash, green beans, and yellow beans shiny with butter. There’s raspberry pie and ice cream or apple crisp for dessert. Or both. Jimmy and I have both.

I remember my manners and scramble to clear the table.

“You don’t need to help, dear,” says Mrs. MacGregor. “You’re our guest.”

I take my dishes into the kitchen. Then I go back for Jimmy’s and Mr. MacGregor’s.

“Jimmy, do you have to use the toilet?” Normally, I don’t take Jimmy to the bathroom, but I really don’t want him to have an accident. These people are so nice.

I grab Jimmy’s hand and begin to babble. “He needs an operation on his brain. Aunt Jean can’t afford it. She tried to mortgage her house to pay for it, but her brother … well, there’s already a mortgage on her house.”

We all look at Jimmy. He smiles a goofy smile and twists his hands together.

“He used to be perfect,” I say.

“I don’t mind taking him to the toilet.” Mrs. MacGregor reaches for Jimmy’s hand. Mr. MacGregor clears his throat and pushes himself away from the table.

“May I please use the phone?” I’m worried about Aunt Jean.
What has Uncle Ted done with Aunt Jean?

I dial the number. It rings and rings and rings. Ted finally answers. His speech is slurry.

I hang up without speaking. When I turn around, Mrs. MacGregor is watching me. She’s been listening.

“Nobody is home,” I lie.

Mrs. MacGregor hugs me to her and at first I’m stiff and unyielding. But Mrs. MacGregor is a force and I’m tired of struggling. I press my face into her apron that smells so sweetly of cinnamon. I concentrate on loving the feel of Mrs. MacGregor’s plump, soft arms and pillowy bosom. I’m so tired that I think that in my mixed-up mind, I’ve substituted Mrs. MacGregor for Aunt Jean who is also very pillowy.
Where, oh where could Aunt Jean be?

“Thank you for a lovely dinner, but I have to go now.”

Mrs. MacGregor releases me.

“I’d better go.”

I stand like I’m nailed to the linoleum floor.

“I’m going.”

Mrs. MacGregor’s voice turns from being motherly to all business.

“Of course you are, dear. Mr. MacGregor will take you to the audition. Jimmy can stay with me.”