After his porridge with a sliced banana on top and two cups of tea, Tinker retreated to his workshop in the basement. He wouldn’t have much time to himself today, as he and Florence had a long list of things to do in Sydney. But before they left for the city, he wanted to complete his daily ritual.
On his way into the long, narrow workshop, he glanced at the “Tinker’s Time Out” sign, then inhaled. Some people loved the smell of roses and others, coffee. But for Tinker, the most enticing aroma in the world was sawdust. Plain old sawdust, swept into small, organized piles in the corners of his workshop. The smell of it brought back memories of sanding a pinewood derby car with Charlie.
He pulled a sharpened pencil out of his shirt pocket. Charlie used to tease him because he wore pencils down to the tiniest nubs, and, sure enough, this one was no longer than an inch, but it still wrote just fine if he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He grabbed the calendar out of the drawer in his corner desk, slowly marking a large X across today’s square. It was the end of April and the eighth month he’d been marking a calendar this way. Eight months since Charlie left home, eight months since they spoke. The longest they’d ever gone without communicating. He was still trying to learn to live with this hole in his heart, and there were days it threatened to open wider than the Canso Strait.
He didn’t ask Flo about Charlie but she’d been letting little details slip now that Charlie and she were talking regularly again. Tinker knew Nell was out in Alberta now, and he let himself hope for a moment that perhaps Nell would bring Charlie home; that those two might get married and start a life together here. But like a fool his hopes were dashed again. It seemed that damn huge magnet of a province had pulled Nell out west, too, and apparently she was staying.
“Whatcha doing, Grandpa?” Alex leaned against the doorjamb with his jacket and sneakers on, a piece of toast in his hand and crab- apple jelly glowing pink from the corners of his mouth.
“Just gathering up some paperwork to take to the bank. You excited about our day trip?” Tinker asked, opening a filing cabinet. Flo had been managing their accounts lately on the computer, but he still liked an old-fashioned face-to-face meeting at the bank and that’s what he’d booked for them today.
“Yup. Grandma said if I’m good I can have a Happy Meal for lunch. C’mon,” he said, beckoning with his arm.
Tinker followed him upstairs and out to the car, rubbing the jelly off Alex’s mouth with his pocket hankie as they walked. Flo was already buckled into the passenger seat. “I invited Roger to come along. Keep an eye out for him,” she said as they pulled out of their driveway.
“Now you tell me? Thanks for asking,” Tinker said.
“I don’t need your permission. You know Roger enjoys walking through the city. The change of scenery is good for him.”
They found Roger plodding down the shoulder of Highway 19 in the direction of their house and stopped the car. He climbed in wordlessly and sat next to Alex. In the rear-view mirror he looked like the boy’s opposite—tall where Alex was small, dark complexioned where Alex was pale. Neither one looked at the other, instead staring out of their respective windows. It had been awkward ever since Courtney caught them coming out of the woods together that day last fall.
Alex finally broke the silence. “Want a Twizzler?” He had two red licorices in a Ziploc bag. “There’s one for you and one for me.”
Roger didn’t reply.
Tinker flipped on the radio to break the awkwardness inside the car. “Sonny’s Dream,” a song he adored, was playing. He gazed out the window. They were driving on the Cabot Trail now next to the Margaree River, a stretch that brought back happy memories of fly-fishing for salmon. He started whistling along with the lyrics. Tinker was a decent whistler and equally good at playing the spoons, but these were the extent of his musical talents. He added a few trills for effect until Flo told him to hush, saying she wanted to hear the radio.
The lyrics told the story of a man, Sonny, who spent his lifetime watching the waves roll on the sea from his room by the stairs, dreaming of leaving his oceanside home for the wider world outside.
“‘Sonny’s Dream’ by Ron Hynes. Singer-songwriter from Newfoundland. Born December 7, 1950, in St. John’s. That was a Thursday.” Roger had found his voice.
“I almost forgot we brought the human encyclopedia with us,” Tinker said.
Flo turned her head away from Tinker as the song finished. “I know I can’t hold him though I’ve tried and I’ve tried,” Flo sang quietly as the song faded to silence. She reached for the dial and switched the radio off. Her shoulders began to tremble and Tinker caught her reaching for a tissue in her purse. She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose with it.
“What in heaven’s sake has gotten into you?” he asked.
“Tinker, you know I love you, but you’re really pigheaded sometimes.”
Tinker had no idea what had triggered this, but he couldn’t disagree, so he just kept on driving.
They arrived at their first stop in Sydney, the doctor’s office. As soon as Tinker turned off the car, Roger opened the door and began walking. Tinker shouted after him to return to the parking lot by three o’clock. Roger didn’t acknowledge but he had exceptional hearing and a steel-trap memory, so Tinker didn’t worry.
The news at their first stop was good and bad. Tinker’s arthritis hadn’t worsened and he didn’t need his pain medicine refilled. His last prescription wasn’t even half gone and the doctor praised him for cutting back so drastically. He must’ve been taking fewer narcotics lately without even realizing it. He’d never been one to dose regularly or count his pills so this was a pleasant surprise.
Flo’s blood pressure was high. The doctor looked concerned as she wrote a prescription for a low-dose antihypertensive medication and told Flo she’d need to check her blood pressure every day until it dropped.
“It could be situational,” Flo said, with a flick of her hand that suggested it was not that big a deal. “Stress-related.” She shoved the prescription in her purse.
What was stressing her out, Tinker wondered to himself.
Alex, full from eating not just one but two Happy Meals for lunch, waited on a couch in a small reception area at the bank. He had his Happy Meal toys, two Hot Wheels cars, in either hand, and he drove them along the couch cushions and armrests. He was under strict orders not to leave the couch for any reason.
Inside an office down a short hallway, Tinker bit his lip as Flo opened a new account to help the Syrian refugees that Falkirk Cove was sponsoring. At last Sunday’s mass a second collection was held specifically for this cause. It netted a modest ninety-six dollars.
“Well, at least it’s a start.” Flo handed over the envelope, drooping with loonies and toonies, over to Gail.
“I still don’t know why you’re taking up collections for warring Arabs,” Tinker grumbled.
Flo turned to face Tinker and snapped. “You do realize that Bob is Lebanese, thus also of Middle Eastern descent, right, Tinker?”
He thought about that for a second. “Well, that’s different. He was born here. Plus I know him.”
Gail busied herself sorting the money while they cooled off. She looked up and clasped her hands. “I’ve been reviewing your long-term investments and they show moderate growth so I don’t think we need any adjustments there.”
“Well, that’s good news.” Flo’s pinched face began to relax.
“But I also have some bad news.”
Flo’s face tightened once again and she squirmed in her seat.
“Your primary savings account has been depleted. This is serious. You need to stop spending from that account altogether until you can build it back up a bit. You don’t want to go into overdraft.”
“What do you mean depleted? I like to keep at least twelve thousand in that account for emergencies,” Tinker said.
Gail turned her computer monitor around to face Tinker and Flo. She pointed at the balance: $2.46.
“So where’d the money go?” Tinker barked at Gail.
Flo fidgeted in her seat. “Lower your voice, Tinker. Where are your manners?”
“I don’t know how you spent it, Mr. Gordon. I only know the account is practically empty.”
“Check the balance again. Something’s off.” It didn’t make any sense to Tinker. He and Florence lived on a budget, they always had. They didn’t take expensive trips, eat in restaurants, or drive a fancy car. Something didn’t add up and he guessed it was the numbers in that column. Computers weren’t to be trusted.
Gail turned her computer monitor in Tinker’s direction and pointed at the screen. “There have been a series of five-hundred-dollar electronic transfers over recent months, and some for two hundred as well. See? It doesn’t take too many like that before an account is drained.”
Tinker glanced at Flo. She reached into her purse for her travel rosary beads and clutched them discreetly in her partially closed left palm.
“Electronic withdrawals? Aha. We were hacked and robbed!”
Florence’s lips were moving in prayer and she used her right thumb to rub the beads.
“I knew that damn computer banking was going to foul up one day.” Tinker looked smug.
“It’s no error, Tinker,” Flo said. “I withdrew the money. Don’t get angry with Gail. She’s only the messenger. I’m responsible.”
Tinker’s mind raced. “Is this about our selling the house? Your way to force us to get rid of it and move into an old-age home?”
“What? For heaven’s sake, Tinker. I said we could keep the house. This isn’t about the house. I’ll figure out a way to get the money back.”
Gail cleared her throat. “I don’t want to be alarmist, but your Old Age Security just isn’t enough for you to be spending like you have, Florence. You have to rein it in immediately.”
Tinker was speechless. He looked at Flo like she was a stranger. She stared at her feet.
Alex’s stomach began to hurt. The second Happy Meal might have been a mistake. He needed to poop. With his toes on the seat cushions, he crawled on the floor using his hands until his body stretched across the hallway like he was in a push-up position. He then backed up and climbed to stand on the couch’s backrest. Alex couldn’t get anyone’s attention to ask about going to the bathroom and he’d been told not to leave the couch under any circumstances. He tried to ignore the sharp pain in his lower tummy and his urge to push. A few farts slipped out and he looked around in embarrassment but nobody seemed to hear. The lingering sour smell surrounded him and he tried fanning the air with his hands, then returned to playing with his cars, trying to ignore his body’s urges.
Roger stood outside the bank. He spotted Tinker’s blue Buick, license plate ajp 194, in the parking lot. He paced back and forth across the front of the building waiting for them to exit.
Roger stopped walking. It was an overcast afternoon, and the yellow lamplight emanating from inside the bank beckoned him closer. As he stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the crabgrass his white trainers squeaked. His long arms dangled at his sides.
He’d been walking for most of the day, and although his legs were strong, they wanted a break. When he was not in Falkirk Cove, Roger didn’t normally stand still in case people tried talking to him. Here in the city, no one knew him.
He walked straight up to the window, where he could get a closer look at the lady inside. She glanced up from her float then went back to her task sorting bills into neat piles.
Roger tried adding up the money, but she was too far away and her flying hands obstructed his view. It frustrated him to be unable to calculate how much money she had, but the way the lady sorted money into neat, organized piles impressed Roger. She worked briskly and purposefully. His stomach growled as he’d missed lunch, but he ignored it.
Roger shoved his now-cold hands into his pockets and shifted his weight back and forth on his size fourteen feet. He could see breath leave his open mouth and fog up the window. As that happened the bank lady stopped touching the money and looked up, meeting his eyes briefly. Her mouth was moving but Roger couldn’t hear her words, only some crows cawing in the trees nearby. The lady wasn’t smiling, and her eyebrows were scrunched up like wriggling caterpillars. She raised her hands and flicked them like she was shooing flies. Roger looked away, frozen, not knowing what to do.
The lady talked with another woman inside the bank then picked up a telephone, glancing at Roger. He stood there for another few minutes, alternatively rubbing the condensation off the window, then pressing his face against it to try and focus on the teller’s money. He heard a car approach from behind him.
“Sir, I want you to step away from that window. Now, please,” said a man’s gruff voice.
Roger turned to see it was a policeman. He was walking away from his cruiser toward Roger.
“I said step away from that window. You’ve no business standing there. You’re alarming the people inside the bank.”
Roger willed his feet to move away from the window and the scary voice.
“You. Sir. Stop. I want to talk to you. Turn and face me, please.”
Roger began to run. He heard more shouting and footsteps behind him getting closer. Then something hard whacked him across his back, and he was knocked to the sidewalk, breathless. He felt the policeman yank his arms together and felt cold metal on his wrists. The handcuffs went click.
Alex saw the police cruiser from inside the bank. He jumped on the couch to try to get a better look. His stomach pains worsened. When the police put Roger, handcuffed, into the back of the police cruiser, he lost control of his bowels. His underwear filled quickly and a turd rolled down his leg and onto the floor. “Grandpa, Grandma, help!” he yelled. He stepped off the couch and onto the turd, then burst into tears. “I need help!”