Down Sterling Road. Adrian Michael Kelly
stops.
Bobby stops.
But, Jacob – Ach– waves them off.
Yeah, Dean yells, run.
Jacob just keeps going.
I could catch you from here if I wanted!
Jacob keeps going.
Faster.
And doesn’t stop till he’s at the top of the stairs, his hands over his stinging ears. Stuffing falling out his armpit. Hard to turn the key in the lock. Hard to hold the key. Has to use two hands.
Just when Jacob comes in, Dad comes out of the bathroom. Looks like he woke up from a thousand years, but eyes Jacob up and down, says Look at the sight of you, boy.
Heat prickles Jacob’s face. Fingers, tingling. I’m okay, Dad.
Okay nothing. It’s bitterly cold out there. That’s you Monday, new togs.
Sundays are distance. Long, slow distance. Past the park. Past Potts’ farm. Almost to the big limestone house that belonged to the dead lady doctor who left all the books to the Glanisberg library. Jacob’s been meaning to get down there. And will, tomorrow. The library’s right next to the Sally Ann. Meantime, get the head up, boy. Focus. Replenish your fluids. Maintain your form.
Dad holds the jeans to Jacob’s waist, lets the legs flop flop down. Jesus Christ, boy, will you stop?
What?
Groan, you’re groan like a weed.
One of the little old ladies who minds the thrift shop looks up from her hemming. Hard to believe the size of him, John.
Eats me out of house and home, love, house and home.
Can’t keep him in clothes that fit, I’m sure.
Dad folds the Levi’s, grabs GWGs. No point in buying him new, dear. Kid grows so quick the clothes’d be down here before he wore them thrice.
No harm in second-hand, John, isn’t that right, Jeanie?
The other old lady just nods and folds a T-shirt and Dad says Right you are, love. Eyes the hem, speaks lower. These’d be about right, no, son?
Jacob looks along his leg and says Guess so.
Go and try them on then, while I have a look round.
’Kay.
On his way to the changing area, Jacob keeps an eye on Dad, wonders if he still looks, too. Just last spring Jacob thought he saw the green pullover. Hanging there. Nothing where feet and hands and a face should be. Just holes. Could have kept all those clothes. All of them. Worn them. But boom Dad pounded the patio table. Bugger it, it’s down the Sally Ann with the lot, the lot. And he broke down the other bed and yanked the drawers right out and stuffed garbage bags. That one’s mine, Dad. How would I bloody know, there’s two the same of everything. The name tags, Dad, Mum wrote C on his. What’d she write on yours? Nothing.
Jacob blinks hard, draws the big bone-white curtain, steps out of his trainers. Sock feet cold against the concrete floor, he unzips and shivers and tosses his trousers over the rickety stool. Between the gap in the curtains he sees Dad looking through the winter coats, this one no, that one no, this one maybe, then he stops, holds up the sleeve of a Toronto Argos jacket, takes a quick look at the tag. Makes like he’s not had a fright when the old lady with the needle and thread says Goose down, John.
Eh, too small for that galoot of mine. Dad points toward the curtains and Jacob ducks away. Pulls on the jeans. Looks down his legs. Sees his ankles. At school Dean Spielman’ll point and laugh and ask Jacob when the flood is coming.
Son?
Yeah, Dad?
How’s it goan in there?
They fit okay.
Let’s have a look at you.
Jacob gets the sticky zipper up, steps out.
Dad has a look. Those’ll do you till spring.
Jacob just nods.
Right, says Dad, come on over here a minute.
Jacob follows him to the coat rack.
What do you think of these then?
One I have still fits.
Give your head a shake, boy, that thing’s a goner. I was thinking this’d do you.
Dad picks the exact coat Jacob knows he will but hopes he won’t. A green hunting jacket, reversible, with a wide tail that covers your bum. Stain like oil down the left side. The hunting side is bright orange like Dad’s ambulance parka. Dad hides his mouth with his hand. ’Sonly five dollars, he whispers. Get it on you and we’ll have a look.
The sleeve ends brush Jacob’s fingernails but Dad says At the rate you’re groan, it’ll be bang on come next winter. Then he wrings Jacob’s arm just above the elbow and in the old ladies’ direction says Real goose down in this one as well. Warm as it gets, eh love?
Warm as it gets, John. Do you like it, dear?
Jacob says It’s super, ma’am, but just wants to put his old clothes back on and get out the frigging door. Whenever he and Dad need new gear it’s top of the line. Brooks. Adidas. Got tae buy what lasts, kid. Protect yourself from weather, and injury. But for normal clothes they always come back to this sad cold cellar that smells like holes and old people.
Best be on our way, kid, I’m workin afternoons.
Jacob changes, listens to Dad carrying on with the old ladies. Slow as molasses in January, that boy is. Not many in town can keep up with you, John. Aye, that’s me, the Flying Scotsman. When the old ladies laugh it sounds like wheezy seagulls. Yepsir, real goose down. And who notices a little stain, John?
Then it’s quiet. And Jacob can feel their eyes on him – Poor boy, isn’t that a pity– as he and Dad head for the stairs.
Outside, Dad says Hello there to the Sally Ann man ringing his little bell by the money ball. Someone put in a whole two-dollar bill. Dad drops a quarter in and says All the best to you.
The Sally Ann man tugs the peak of his cap and says God bless.
Jacob jogs ahead. Jumps up the steps to the public library. Presses his face against the window. The dead lady doctor left the library a huge big dictionary. Twelve volumes. Plus art books with Dali and Picasso. Jacob wants a look before Mrs. Bailey the librarian covers up the pictures like pornography. But she won’t let Jacob or anyone see anything until all the books have been cleaned and catalogued and shelved.
Jacob raps on the glass.
Mrs. Bailey looks shoo over her specs and her mouth makes the words my window.
Jacob tugs his sleeve over his palm and gives the glass a rub. Jumps down all the stairs smack.
Here’s Dad, shaking his head. Break your ankle, he says.
It’s not high.
Weak bones.
Drink that calcium stuff every day.
I mean in your ankle. Anyone’s. Fragile.
They shouldn’t be.
Tell me about it.
Dad?
What.
Do you know what her real name was?
Who?
The dead lady doctor out the Sterling Road.
Henderson.
What Henderson?
Eh?
Her first name.
What do you care?
Just asking.