As soon as I walked in the door, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Who’s this?”
“Hi, Uncle Jim.”
“Aw, geez. It’s the kid.”
“Hey, Izzie’s here!”
“Aunt Izzie, kid. Don’t be cheeky, as the aunties used to say. Rotten old bags.”
“Aunt Izzie’s here. But she’s out with Norman doing birthday shopping.”
“For whose birthday?”
“Mine!”
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow. Aunt Izzie said she wouldn’t let the youngest go without a proper birthday.”
“For the love of Pete. The woman has one foot in the grave and she’s still going on about that youngest nonsense. Tell me, kid. How many people do you share a room with?”
“None.”
“And how many jobs you got?”
“None. But I do chores.”
“And which dead relative are you named after? ’Cause every other bloody member of your family is named for some old fool, first and second. Margaret Mavis. Doris Irma. Cripes.”
“I don’t know. Who am I named for?”
“No one. That’s my point.”
“So where’d ‘Rosalie’ come from?”
“Since your mother had fulfilled her obligations to dear sainted aunts and in-laws by the time you came along, you got named after her favourite flower. Which is ironic, when you think about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her name’s Lily. Pay attention, kid.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what ‘ironic’ meant.
“Listen,” Uncle Jim said, “I’d love to keep pouring my life savings into this conversation, but I’d better call back when your aunt is there.”
“I know why you’re calling,” I said. “It’s about Johnny. About him being missing. I know it.”
“You do, eh? Not much to know.”
“I know. Uncle Jim?”
“What?”
“Did Mama just like the name Evelyn, too? You know, ‘Rosalie Evelyn’?”
“Naw, kid. Evelyn was our baby sister. Who died with our mother. You ask your Mama about that some time. She’ll tell you if you ask.”
Well, I didn’t get a chance. Because the first thing Mama said to me when I went into the kitchen was, “Go to Jack Newberry’s and get me two pounds of ground steak. Tell him if he sends you home with something fatty, it will be trotted right back to him.”
“Aw geez, Mama.”
“I hope that’s Jesus you’re calling on and not backtalk.”
“Yeah, Jesus.”
“Rosalie Evelyn . . .”
“I’m going.”
I took the money. Rain clouds were gathering, the excitement of Aunt Izzie’s visit was wearing off fast, and who knew how long it would be before Norman and Izzie came back with Johnny? I let the screen door bang shut behind me.
“Looks like someone’s having a bad day.”
His dark hair was wild-looking, like he’d been riding with the car windows open. He’d grown a moustache since I’d last saw him, and his breath came hard through his nose. I’ll tell you something about perspective, though. Standing there, at the end of our walk, Uncle Ezra was bigger than I remembered.
“Been a while. You recognize me, Rosalie?” He had a small parcel under his arm.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your folks home?”
“Just Mama. And Martha.”
“In the kitchen, you think?”
I nodded.
David came around the corner of the house just as Uncle Ezra went in. “That him? Johnny?”
“Oh, no! That’s . . .” I couldn’t make my words work. “That’s his father.”
“Let’s go inside.”
David put his hand on my back and pushed me gently.
Mama and Martha were sitting at the kitchen table and Uncle Ezra was pacing the floor. “Who’s this?” he said, when David and I appeared in the doorway.
“The hired help,” said David. His chin jutted out and he folded his arms.
“This is family business.”
“I don’t mind.”
Uncle Ezra held David’s hard stare for a moment, then took the parcel from under his arm and placed it on the table. Nobody moved.
“Not curious? Here, have a look,” he said to me.
I hesitated. “Go on,” whispered David.
I walked over to the table. The Kellocks’ address in Ship Harbour was written out in black marker on the rumpled brown paper. No return address. I undid the string that was loosely tied around the package, peeled back the paper, and opened the cardboard box.
Inside, there were some official-looking papers. A thin wallet. A pocket comb. A couple of old comic books. A wristwatch with a dirty leather strap. A birth certificate. For William John Kellock. A note, also written in black marker, on lined paper torn from a scribbler. It read, in block letters:
JOHNNY KELLOCK DIED TODAY.
On every carnival ride I ever took, no matter how much I begged to get on, there came a point when I’d do just about anything to get off. I had that feeling now, plus a whole other kind of panic, like I was the one who’d put this in motion and I couldn’t stop it.
A hush had fallen over the odd jumble of things on Mama’s table. All that was left of Johnny. The letters on the paper I held seemed to blur together and reshape themselves into new words, fearsome words, wicked words:
SOMEONE ELSE FOUND HIM FIRST.
“What do you think about that?” Uncle Ezra said to Mama, leaning on the table.
“I heard about it already from Izzie.”
“Doesn’t that break you up, knowing your nephew is departed?”
“I know what you been saying about this.”
“Did she tell you he took two thousand dollars from the station’s safe?”
“No.”
“Two thousand dollars. The last of the money from selling your father’s place. That cleans us out.”
“I’m thinking there used to be a lot more than two thousand dollars, but someone’s been drinking it away.”
“I haven’t had a drop since the day he left.”
But you could smell the liquor on him now.
“I know you don’t have much in the bank,” Mama said, “where your savings should have been.”
“You also know I like to be able to put my hands on my money, same as your husband. Only I can’t because my boy made off with it,” said Uncle Ezra. “You notice there’s nothing in that box about no bank accounts. Or do you figure he spent everything already? Died shopping?”
Martha rose from her chair. She had a look. If I had to sum it up in one word I’d say it was “No!” She walked unsteadily over to the coat hooks, put on her hat, and went out the back door, closing it softly behind her.
“There’s no death certificate, either,” said Mama.
“He’ll turn up when the money runs out.”
“A person doesn’t go to this kind of trouble if they’re expecting to come back. Now, I think you’d better be off. Norman’s on his way,” Mama said. “I don’t know if you want another run-in with him.”
I wished it were true. What I wouldn’t have given to hear Norman’s lunch pail hitting the hall table.
Uncle Ezra pointed his finger at Mama and said, real quiet-like, “Someone knows where my son is.” He began to pace a little. “Norman find him work? Get him boarded somewhere? Maybe he’s with Jim, hey? That where he is?”
Mama sighed. “You can’t keep track of your own son, don’t you be blaming me. I raised enough kids already.”
“Tell me where he is!”
You could feel the heat coming off him. Lord, what it must be to live in that man’s house, like living with the devil himself.
“Rosalie, David,” Mama said. “You better get to that firewood.”
“But Mama—”
“Before it gets damp. Go.”
But Ezra was between me and the door and he grabbed me by the arm. “Hey!” Before I had even realized what Ezra intended, David was running towards us with his head like a battering ram, and just as quick was sent skidding across the floor. He was soon back on his feet and shook out his head, but Mama had raised herself up and she put her hand on his shoulder. You could see in his mind he was straining like a dog on a leash.
“You never showed no respect for no one,” Ezra said to Mama. “Not even your father.”
“Men who hurt children,” said Mama, “. . . are not men.”
Those sausage-y fingers were digging into my arm. “Where’s my son?” he said, and then he was wailing. “Where’s my son? Where’s my son?” It was the biggest, saddest, scariest sound I ever heard in my life.
Uncle Ezra’s hand encircled my rib cage. He squeezed the air right out of me as he dragged me across the kitchen. It was like the time I jumped into a cold lake ’cause Marcy dared me and I when I came up I was gasping like a fish on the bottom of a boat. Ezra’s other hand, the one clutching my arm, moved down to my wrist and reached towards the bubbling chowder on the stove. Then I heard a note, like the opening trill of a hymn, like a whole choir coming off a hallelujah, and holy God it was me. The air came flooding back into my lungs just before my hand touched that hot broth, and I squeezed my eyes shut and screamed, “I know where Johnny is!”
When I opened my eyes, David’s face was stopped right there in front of mine. His dark curls trembled on his forehead and he gripped my hand above where Ezra had me at the wrist. “Johnny’s with Norman and Izzie,” I said, my breath on David’s face. “Down at the shipyard.”
Ezra let go. He pushed past David and me, and the overturned chairs that David had knocked over when he lunged across the kitchen, and Mama, caught behind the chairs with Norman’s big black umbrella frozen in the air.
David went after him. I don’t know what he was planning—there was no way he was going to be able to stop Ezra—but I don’t figure he was thinking ahead, and neither was I when I followed. Sometimes a person’s feet just take over. We made it to the screen door to see Ezra backing back up the porch steps. Norman pounded the front walk towards him. Aunt Izzie stood on the lawn, holding a large cake box in front of her like a shield.
In all my life, I’m never going to see anything like it again: Norman taking the steps two at a time, grabbing hold of Uncle Ezra, and throwing him off the porch, almost clear of the yard, as though he was tossing a bale of hay or a sack of seed, like he done a million times since he was twelve years old. One heave and Ezra hit the end of the walk and rolled onto the street.
I’m glad to say that Norman didn’t kill my uncle—that he didn’t have to. Because when Ezra got over the shock of being tossed and scraped on the hot cement, he slowly got himself up and into his car and drove away.
And that’s how Aunt Izzie came to stay with us for good.