Jailbird Kid Read online

  “Where?”

  “You know Grandma has always raised chickens,” Mom continued. “She’d wait until the snow was deep and the temperature real low in early winter before she slaughtered them. Then she’d chop off their heads over an old log and stick the bodies into the snowbank.”

  “The yard was fenced real good to keep out dogs or coyotes,” Gemma added.

  “So she’d bury the chickens in the snow and then dig one out when she wanted to cook it for supper,” Mom said. “I went over once when the temperature suddenly turned warm. There was Grandma up to her knees in slush, looking for her buried chickens. She’d find one, pull it out, and throw it into the washtub — feathers, feet, and all. Then she covered them with ice she bought from the gas station.”

  “Gross,” I said.

  “That was what it was like in those days,” Grandma said. “We didn’t have running water and electric lights till long after the city got them. And we didn’t have money, either. Couldn’t go to the store and just buy everything.”

  “Mamma could make us a meal out of wild greens and berries if she had to,” Gemma said. “I still get a craving for them.”

  “My mamma and poppa came from the old country,” Grandma said. “They were poor and couldn’t afford doctors. She taught me lots of things about homemade cures that she’d learned from her mamma.”

  Gemma giggled. “Remember when Connie came berry-picking with us? She was so prim and proper — until she cut her foot. Blood everywhere. Mamma yells, ‘Connie, whip off your halter top!’ Connie, she didn’t know what for, she’s all embarrassed, but she does it. Mamma ties it like a tourniquet around her foot. Then Mamma sends me to find a puffball, and we sprinkle the dust on Connie’s foot.”

  “The bleeding stopped just like that,” Mom said. “I could hardly believe it.”

  “Better not get puffball dust in your eyes, though,” Grandma warned. “It’s no good at all for eyes. Now where do you think those men have got to? It’s getting late. Hank has to work at midnight, and I have to make his lunch yet.”

  “It’s only nine o’clock,” Gemma said. “Almost party time.”

  “Maybe for you,” Grandma said. “Not for me. And not for Angela. The young and the old need their beauty sleep, right, Angel?”

  I nodded, but I didn’t want to go to bed yet, either. It was hot and still mostly daylight. And I had a feeling that when Dad and Hank came back, they wouldn’t be alone.

  8

  Party

  I was just getting ready for bed when Dad came roaring back.

  “Grab your guitar, Con!” he yelled to Mom. “It’s party time!”

  Something, likely a case of beer, was plunked onto the table, and I heard people coming up the walk. The voices of two of Mom’s old musician friends, Calvin Major and Conor Gill, were familiar. They’d likely brought their banjo, harmonicas, and guitars.

  When I heard Mom tune up her guitar, I threw on my clothes again and snuck into the living room as she and the musicians broke into a bluegrass tune. Mom had a great voice, and the musicians were really lively. Dad saw me standing against the wall, came over, snatched my hand, and whirled me into the room.

  “Nick, take it easy!” Grandma cried, but she was laughing.

  Dad was a good dancer, and so was I. In the country and small towns people took their kids to lots of socials. Grandma and Hank got up and took a turn, too. I danced with Dad, then with Hank. After that Gemma grabbed me, and we twirled around the room.

  “Can you take over the music, Angel?” Dad asked. “I want to dance with your mom.”

  I picked up Mom’s big Gibson flat-top guitar and started to play. Calvin called over, “Key of G,” and away we went.

  Everyone was having a great time. Dad did some fancy steps, and Mom shook her skirt like a flamenco dancer. I laughed and sang along with Conor and Calvin.

  Finally, Mom was breathless from dancing and took the guitar from my hands. “That’s enough for tonight. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. Angela’s way overdue for bedtime, and the rest of us have to get up early. Hank has to be at work in an hour. Last song!”

  Mom and I sang “Grandpa” in harmony, made popular by The Judds. We looked right at Grandpa Hank, and he got teary-eyed. Then the musicians packed up their instruments, and everyone said good-night.

  I went to bed feeling great. We could have a lot of fun together. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard Mom and Dad talking as they cleaned up the living room.

  “Great party, eh, babe?” Dad said. “All that music and dancing.” He paused, and I was nearly asleep when his next comment brought me wide awake again. “I wonder where Uncle Al is? I haven’t heard from him. He around?”

  That familiar ache started in my stomach, sharp, hollow, filling my body with dread.

  Mom’s voice was tense as she said, “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him and I don’t want you to see him.”

  “Aw, Connie, I wish you’d change your mind about Uncle Al. He’s —”

  “A jerk!”

  “An okay guy. He can come up with bail money faster than anyone.”

  I heard Mom slap something down on the table. “It took me a year to pay him back for your lawyer, plus interest!”

  “Uncle Al’s a businessman.”

  “I’ll say. It was his rap you took. I’ll never forgive him — or you for being so dumb.”

  “It got complicated, that’s all. But it’s over.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Dad said, softer now, “You know, Connie, lying on my bunk in that cell all those months, I used to wonder what you ever saw in me, why you picked me.”

  Silence.

  “Why did you?”

  “Who knows?” Mom sounded tired. “I think Grandma pulled a ‘snow job’ on me, talking about how good-hearted you were, how misunderstood. And then I met you — and you seemed to walk different.”

  “I what?”

  “You walked different. You see a litter of puppies; you don’t know which one to pick. Then one trots over and something about him makes him stand out from the rest. And you’ve got to have that one.”

  “Maybe a little cuter than the others, eh?”

  “Or a little crazier. Or more pathetic. I guess I was rebelling, too, from my parents, and you seemed to be on my side.”

  “Everyone needs someone. Needs a break. Now if I could just get one good break-in.”

  “You mean break. You said break-in.”

  “What? Yeah. Break. I meant break.”

  Mom’s voice became hard again. “Do me a favour, Nick. For me and for Angela. Just don’t, okay?”

  “Sure, it’ll keep. You ready to go to bed?”

  I heard Dad go into the bedroom. Mom shut off the lights and went to the bathroom. The ache receded a bit and I fell asleep.

  9

  Betrayal

  Patsy’s singing woke me. I’d slept in! It was 9:30! Sunlight streamed through my window. There were no sounds in the house. Why hadn’t someone wakened me? I was late for school!

  I had just touched my feet on the floor when I heard a sharp knock on the front door. Was I the only one home? I pulled on my housecoat, planning to answer it when I heard footsteps cross the living-room floor. Opening my bedroom door a crack, I saw Dad peering through the curtains, checking to see who was there. He gave a shout and flung open the door.

  A huge man stood on the step. He was wearing a black trench coat, a shirt open at the collar, dark dress pants, and patent leather shoes and was carrying a briefcase. He looked rich ... and scary.

  Uncle Al had come to call.

  Dad and Uncle Al hugged, held back, sized each other up, and punched shoulders.

  What could I do?

  I didn’t have time to decide. Uncle Al s
potted me peeking out my door. “Angela!” he called. “Hey, Nick, what’s the little gal doing home? Doesn’t she go to school anymore?”

  “Oh, no!” Dad whirled around. “Sorry, Angel. I got up with Connie. She told me to let you sleep another half-hour. Guess I forgot to look at the clock.”

  “We’re having a math test today!” I yelped. “It’s our year-end final. I’ll fail if I miss it.”

  “Quick! I’ll make your lunch. You get ready.”

  I brushed my teeth and hair, washed my face, and pulled on a skirt, tank top, and sandals. I grabbed an apple and the baloney sandwich Dad had thrown together and was out the door in ten minutes, wondering if Mom would be told about this visit from Uncle Al. Should I tell her if Dad didn’t?

  Before going into the classroom I had to get a late slip from the secretary. They’d already begun the test, so Mrs. Madsen motioned me to wait by the door. In a moment she came out, looking cross. “Where have you been, Angela? How come you’re late?”

  I handed her the note. On it was my excuse — slept in.

  She frowned. “This is really too bad. There’s not enough time for you to score more than forty percent at the most.”

  “Please, can I write it, anyway? I’ve studied.”

  “All right, but I’ll have to send a note home to your mother about this. It could mean a low grade in math, which will pull down your grade-point average. And you were up for the Honour Roll, you know ...”

  I nodded, took the test paper, and sat at my desk. Hannah raised her eyes and quickly lowered them again. I glanced across the room at Ryan. He gave me a quick smile. I managed a weak one in return and started the test.

  When the bell rang, we all handed in our papers. Mine was half-finished. It wouldn’t be enough to pass because I probably hadn’t gotten everything right.

  Hannah waited for me at the door. “How come you were late, Angela? I waited for you under the tree until I was nearly late myself.”

  “Dad was supposed to wake me, but he forgot.”

  Ryan was talking to someone else, so Hannah and I walked outside and stood at the edge of the school grounds.

  Hannah studied her shoes. “Angela, there’s something I have to tell you. Dad asked me last night about your father. I guess he came into Dad’s bank yesterday with a cheque that wasn’t good.”

  I felt my face flame. “How could he? He just got home.”

  She sighed. “Maybe he went there on his way home. Anyway, the cheque your dad tried to pass was on an account that had been cancelled two years ago! Really, Angela. We’re friends and everything, but I don’t know why your dad would try to rip us off.”

  I could hardly breathe. “It must have been a mistake.”

  “Well, maybe. But when Dad asked me about him I had to tell him, you know, what you told me yesterday.”

  “You what? That was a secret! I trusted you!”

  “He’s my father, Angela. And it’s his bank. He’s the manager. He’s responsible. I can’t lie to him, not even for a friend. It’s not right.” She stopped to let that sink in.

  I gazed out over the schoolyard. Kids were running around having a good time, sitting on picnic tables, planning their summer vacations, gossiping about boys — all the things I wasn’t doing. Some were throwing a basketball through an outdoor hoop; others were kicking a soccer ball around the field. I wanted to join them. I wanted to run and yell and kick the ball so hard that it exploded. My stomach was on fire, and my throat felt as if I’d swallowed my heart. I blinked fast. No way would she or anyone see me cry over embarrassment about my dad.

  When I could finally speak, I said, “So what did your father say about what happened at the bank?” I continued to watch the kids playing ball. My eyes flitted back and forth like my Felix clock.

  “Well ...” Hannah scuffed dust with the toe of her shoe, making little trails in the ground.

  “You can’t hang around with me, right?”

  “Not exactly. He just said I wasn’t to go to your house anymore, that’s all. You can still come to mine.”

  “So I guess the idea of you coming to my house for a sleepover is out.”

  Hannah looked away.

  I thought about going into their fancy house, saying hello to her parents and to her older brothers, everyone knowing that my dad was an ex-con who had tried to pass a bad cheque.

  “We could meet at the pool or at movie theatres,” she suggested.

  I could sense that now she was trying hard not to cry. I was past that. The lump in my throat had gone into my stomach where it sat hard and hot. Jailbird’s kid. So that was what it meant. I blinked back another wave of shame.

  Then I thought of last night, dancing with Dad while Mom played her guitar and sang. I thought of Grandma telling stories about the old days, of Grandpa Hank sitting beside her, happy to watch and listen, tapping his toes to the music. Calvin and Conor and I playing songs on harmonicas and banjos and guitars. Gemma whooping and hollering around the room, her strong perfume and cigarette smoke making the room smell all close and homey.

  Tears now spilled from my eyes. I turned to Hannah. “I love my family!” I said, choking out the words. “My dad isn’t a bad person. This is the first time I’ve seen him in two years. We don’t know each other that well, but I’m going to give him a chance.”

  I stopped talking and took a deep, shuddering breath. Hannah was silent. I glanced over, but her eyes were fixed on other people in the schoolyard. I, too, watched the soccer game, which was getting rougher. The ball made loud thunks as it was being kicked.

  “Hannah, I’m going inside to talk to Mrs. Madsen about the math test. See you.”

  I turned and walked into the school, not looking back.

  10

  Class

  The front door to our house was wide open when I returned from school. Flies buzzed in and out. Country music blared from the radio. Gemma and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking beer, talking, and smoking.

  “Hey, kid, how are ya?” Gemma yelled when she saw me. “Your old man and me are having a good day. I beat him three straight games at crib.”

  I smiled and went into my bedroom. It was hot even with all the windows open. Patsy sat still on his perch, greeting me with a couple of drowsy cheeps.

  Tomorrow I had a geography exam and had to study for it. All year I’d had good marks, but I was worried about the finals, especially after the math test today. I wanted to be on the honours list. Hannah and I always did our homework projects together. I wished I could go over to her house to study, but I couldn’t, and it was hard to concentrate here with the noise and heat.

  I called Ryan, but no one answered, and I didn’t leave a message. Lying back on my bed, I opened a book. I’d been reading the same page over and over when I became aware that the only sound in the house was coming from the radio. I got up to investigate.

  Dad and Gemma were sitting at the table with their heads bent together: Gemma’s hair was no longer bleached blond but dyed brown with tinges of red; Dad’s was rich dark brown and buzzed short, the kind of criminal cut I’d seen in movies.

  “What are you doing?” My voice startled them, and they looked up.

  On a sheet of waxed paper were a bottle of black calligraphy ink, some sewing needles, and a spool of white thread.

  “Your dad’s giving me a tattoo!” Gemma shouted over the music. “He’s good! I want one before he gets famous and charges for it!”

  They both laughed. Dad focused on winding thread around two needles. Curious, I sat down to watch.

  “Just where my little finger starts, Nick,” Gemma said. “That’s where the bird’s wings should go, so I can make them flap.”

  “Hold still.” Dad bent his head, concentrating on his work. He dipped the bound needles into the ink and th
en punctured them into her hand, following a picture he’d outlined in pen. Over and over. Gemma didn’t seem to feel the pain, but I did.

  “One wing reaching up to this knuckle, the other up the next. There. It’ll fly!” He held her hand up toward the light to check his work.

  “You gonna write something under it?” Gemma asked.

  “Naw. Looks classier, just the picture. You don’t want writing.”

  “Mamma’s gonna have a fit,” Gemma said. “She said no more tattoos. One’s all right, but more than one looks cheap. You remember that, Angela.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Aw, don’t worry about Mamma,” Dad said. “You are what you are.”

  “Connie’s teaching me and Angela to be classy,” Gemma said, with a wink at me.

  Dad glanced up. “Yeah? How?”

  “Well, once when I was going through the Avon catalogue, I was buying this lipstick for myself, and Connie says, ‘No, Gemma, pay a dollar more and get the gold tube with the flowers on it.’ I was gonna buy the one in the pink plastic tube, see. Same lipstick, dollar cheaper.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But Connie says, ‘You buy the expensive one, and every time you take it out — in the can at the hotel, or in a café or at work — people will notice it and say it’s nice.’ Isn’t that right, Angela?”

  “Sure. Mom says we might be broke, but we don’t have to look poor.”

  “Now I advise my customers at the store to buy the more expensive things. My manager likes that.”

  “Yeah, Con, she’s always been like that,” Dad said. “She buys good stuff. She likes fancy dishes and things, too.”

  “And she told me, ‘Gemma, buy lace underwear.’”

  Dad laughed and opened another bottle of ink — red this time. He sterilized the needles in a pot of boiled water, rewound new thread around them, and dipped the needles into the red ink. “This is an oriole. Need a touch of red for the wings. They’re nice birds.”

  “How come Uncle Al hasn’t come around?” Gemma asked suddenly.