Watching Jimmy (9 page)

O
ne day in early November the principal calls me to the office.

What now?
I think. I scan my behavior for something that might have attracted his attention. The missed detention blew over quite nicely with a forged note from my mom about possible symptoms of influenza. I’d hoped they’d have a big meeting to decide whether to shut down the school, but no. No such luck.

Apparently now I’m too quiet. Too reserved. Not my usual self and all the teachers have reported this to him. Is there something wrong at home he should know about?

Yes there is something wrong at home. Everything is wrong at home
, I scream in my head, but I’m not about to tell anything
to this hypocritical man who only last week reveled in my first offence. There’s nothing he needs to know.

“No, Sir.”

He switches the subject and tells me how much he’s looking forward to my speech. He’s heard from my teacher that it’s very dramatic and patriotic. It will be a lovely addition to the Remembrance Day celebration, he’s sure.

I thank him and turn to leave the office.

“There’s one more thing, Carolyn. I’ve been asked by someone at the City to send a speaker to the cenotaph. I wondered how you might feel about that?”

“Gosh.”

My mind is racing. Aunt Jean will be there. If I do my speech at the cenotaph, I’ll be able to be with Aunt Jean. But it will mean that I’ll have to give my talk twice in less than two hours.

“I don’t mind.”

“That’s settled then. I’m sure you’ll be a fine ambassador for the school,”

No. No, Sir I will not. These days, I don’t care two figs about the school or about you. I’m looking after myself, like I always have, but more so since Jimmy fell I’ll be a fine ambassador for myself and my mom and Aunt Jean and Jimmy, but that’s it.

I’m sure you’re wondering about my speech. I’ve heard it said the thing that people fear more than death is public speaking. I suppose it’s true, but I don’t see how. I don’t think much about public speaking, myself. Mom says that people are shocked that a little kid like me can do public speaking like a pro. What she doesn’t say, but I know she thinks, is that I’m a chip off the old bastard. I think my father must have been an actor as well as a singer. He sure tricked my mom.

Never mind. We’ll never know.

I practice my speech after dinner every night in front of the mirror. I concentrate on timing and gesturing and pausing in the right places. Nobody has taught me to do this. It just happens.

November moves along, dark, drizzly, and November-ish On the evening of November 10
^th
, I’m at Aunt Jean’s. Andrew has taken Jimmy for a walk up to the church. I’m about ready to have a bubble bath, even though it isn’t Sunday. Part of public speaking is looking confident, and I want to be as confident and sweet-smelling as I can be. After all, I have to deliver my speech twice — once at nine o’clock at the school, and then at eleven o’clock at the cenotaph. The principal offered to drive me down, but I
said, “No thank you.” The General’s picking up Aunt Jean and I’ll go with them.

The doorbell rings at 8:30 p.m.

“Carolyn, get the door, please!” Aunt Jean hollers. “I’m on the phone.”

“I’m drawing a bath!”

“I don’t care if you’re drawing the Mona Lisa!”

I thunder down the stairs, turn on the porch light, and flip the bolt on the door.

Luanne Price is standing on the porch flanked by three adults. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

A man in a suit and tie presents his real-estate card.

“You don’t live here,” says Luanne.

“No. For once, Luanne, you’re right. I live next door. What are you doing here?”

My mind is racing. Are Luanne Price’s parents considering buying Aunt Jean’s house?

“My mother and father want me to see if I like this house before they put in an offer.”

The agent barges right in. They don’t take off their shoes. I trail behind them.

“Carolyn, do you have water running?” Aunt Jean calls.

I race ahead up the stairs. Phew, I’m lucky. The bubbles are mounding over the top of the tub, but not the water. I reach in and pull the plug, draining some of the excess away.

Luanne and her family are in Jimmy’s room now.

“Pee-yew!” Luanne says, holding her nose. “I can’t sleep in here.”

The real estate man pipes up. “This room can be professionally steam cleaned and painted.”

“You mean fumigated,” says Luanne’s father.

Now, the upstairs hallway in Aunt Jean’s house is very narrow with really only room for two people at a time. So it’s possible that I could have accidentally brushed past Luanne Price, knocking her off balance. Sadly Luanne has no balance at all, or maybe my brushing was more like a rugby hit, but no matter. Luanne stumbles and skins her knee on the hardwood floor.

“Sorry. Sorry.” I help her up.

“Don’t touch me.” She makes a sign like she’s warding off evil spirits. She makes the same sign toward Jimmy’s room.

I follow them downstairs. The real-estate man shakes my hand or tries to. Luanne is being spiteful. She does
what comes next to get at me. She must know that she’s the last person on earth I would want to share my semi-detached house with.

“I like it. Let’s buy it.”

As they are walking out the door, the salesman says, “The vendor needs to sell. It’s a forced sale. The house doesn’t show well. I’m sure you’ll get a rock-bottom price.” He’s talking like I’m not even there.

“Bug off, Luanne Price!” She hears me. I slam the door on their backs. And turn off the porch light.

I hope they fall down the stairs and break their necks.

I
t’s November the 11
^th
. Remembrance Day. I’m in my own bed in my own house trying not to remember the horror of last night. The horrid Luanne Price living right next door!

I roll over and look at the floor. Last night before I went to bed, I laid a sheet on the carpet and assembled my outfit for today. My mom is not nearly the cleaner that Aunt Jean is. Or was, before she got so sick. Things are slipping next door.

Never mind.

When you do public speaking, it’s very important how you look. I don’t have a uniform to wear, but I’ve chosen something to make me look as military as possible. A white, long-sleeve shirt like a boy-shirt. My navy skirt.
A navy cardigan with brass buttons. Navy kneesocks and black Oxfords — shiny black.

The cardigan has a little breast pocket and I’ve folded a very elegant white handkerchief in there. Now, normally, I’d wear a regular poppy on Remembrance Day, but those are too small to be seen from the back of the room. I’ve made my own from scrap felt in Aunt Jean’s sewing box. My poppy is as big as my fist which is as big as my heart. I pin it on the pocket of my cardigan.

The final piece of my costume — and it is a costume — is a soft red cap with a peaked brim. It’s warm and blood-red. Perfect for a speech about dead men and war and why I’m proud to be Canadian.

I hear movement next door. Aunt Jean will also wear a costume today. Her costume is black. That is what the Silver Cross Mother wears when she represents all the mothers in the province whose children have died in war.

I walk to school alone so that I can say my speech in my head. I consider the speech at the school to be a kind of warm-up for the cenotaph. In the hallway at school, the kids ask me if I’m nervous, which is enough to make anybody nervous but, no. I’m not nervous. I’m excited. I
love to perform. And this is a winning speech. My hope is that they’ll all be crying their eyes out at the end.

I won’t bore you with the text of my speech — it’s changed fifty times since I first wrote it because I used to blubber right through it for real. But I’m happy to tell you that they like it. When I stop speaking, when I reach for that lace handkerchief and dab at my eyes as if I’m crying, there is absolute silence. And then sniffling and then sobbing from the teachers that transfers like electricity to the girls. And then some of the boys are shuffling their feet and looking down.

It’s all I can do not to laugh with relief, but a speech about why you are proud to be Canadian on Remembrance Day is a somber thing. It’s not a laughing matter. Besides, there are things I can improve upon. When I talk about Flanders Fields and the crosses and the bodies of our boys from the farms lying in their graves side by side like bales of hay, my voice should waver like the blowing wind. I want them to picture those white crosses, row on row and the blood-red poppies.

Never mind.

I can do better.

I
’m beginning to suspect that the General is behind the selection of Aunt Jean as the Silver Cross Mother.

I sit in the backseat of the General’s Ford, eyes closed as the General and Aunt Jean talk quietly up front. Andrew sits in the middle with Jimmy up against the window so he can look out. I don’t have to babysit Jimmy today and I block out his bellowing.

As we rush downtown in the General’s car, my mind rushes over all the things that have happened to Jimmy since Uncle Ted bucked him out of the car. So many changes since that split instant when Jimmy hurt his head.

“Are you all right, Jean? You’re awfully pale.” There’s concern in the General’s voice.

“Just a little weak. I’ll be all right. Too many memories, I guess.”

“Maybe we should have gotten you a wheelchair.”

“Over my dead body!”

It’s her latest and most favorite saying particularly when Ted’s name comes up. It never ceases to grab me by the heart and stop my breath. What would happen to Jimmy if Aunt Jean died? I shake this thought from my head.

I know I don’t need to tell you this. It always drizzles on November the 11
^th
. It’s like the atmosphere is holding back a dam of tears and will just let them leak out a few at a time. Softly like the clouds are trying to gulp them back and not let them show.

The General has a VIP pass. He’s driving the VIP person of the day and we park in a special spot. An airman in uniform opens our door. The General salutes. The General helps Aunt Jean out of the car and tucks her arm in his. For a moment I wonder if the General could be sweet on Aunt Jean, but no, he’s probably just being polite.

Jimmy and Andrew trail behind, being introduced through a receiving line of dignitaries. I ask a veteran where the choir is assembling. Before I go, I give Jimmy’s
hand a squeeze. “Be good, Jimmy. Clap when I’ve done my speech. When it’s over, mind, not in the middle.” He bellows something I take to mean good luck. I run and find a seat.

There’s a sea of people, most wearing dark colors so there’s no trouble finding the choir. They’re dressed in crimson robes. “Hi, Carolyn. Hi, Carolyn.” Many of the choir members sing at St. Olave’s too. It’s comforting to see them. They’re too professional to ask if I’m nervous. I’m not nervous. I’m a racehorse at the gate.

I don’t know, frankly, what makes me stand in front of all those people and say the things I do. I don’t plan it, that’s for sure. I am following the set speech and the next thing I know, well … I don’t know precisely what tips the balance for me. Maybe it’s Aunt Jean leaning heavily on the General’s arm, looking so pale and tired like a wrung-out dishrag Or maybe it is Jimmy tugging at his pants, rearranging his diapers and Andrew trying desperately to distract him. Possibly it’s the proud and expectant faces of my friends in the choir, standing off to the side. Supporting me.

I picture Bertie’s plane exploding into bits and hitting the water of the English Channel.

I picture the horrid Luanne Price stretched out along the shared wall of our semi-detached house, inches from my body. Where Jimmy has always slept.

I see Uncle Ted who, as I stand at the podium organizing my notes, I catch out of the corner of my eye, slinking behind the crowd, positioning himself so he can see Aunt Jean when she goes up to place the wreath. Without her knowing he is there.

You have no right to be here. You have no right.
I swallow these words and they stick in my throat.

I don’t understand why Ted continues to be so horrid to Jimmy. I mean, if it was me that hurt someone, I’d be trying to make it up somehow. Ted’s a coward. He reminds me of a dog who has been kicked around, the kind that crawls toward you on its knees and won’t come close for fear you might yell at him to be off. A mangy mutt, slinking low with tail down. I watch Ted circle the circle of people before me. They are holding their black umbrellas so that they touch one another to form a black honey-combed canopy. Everyone is cold and wet and dripping.

During the minute of silence, everyone’s head is bowed. Except Ted’s. He is on the move. He is craning to look over the umbrellas, wedging himself here and there,
trying to get a better view of … what? Aunt Jean? The placement of the wreath?
What?

I observe my minute of silence from behind the micro-phone. From this height, I can look down and be respectful and still see Ted scuttling. He’s wearing his driving cap. A spot of white wending its way ever closer, as he pushes through the corkscrew maze. He is standing a car length behind Aunt Jean now. But he is watching me. Me.

Ted only has eyes for me. He is as close to me now as I ever want him to be.

Oh, no! It’s my turn to speak. The sea of people in black and navy and brown swim in front of my eyes and then settle down. I clasp my hands together as if I’m about to sing. I open up my mind and my heart to speak. But these are not the words on the paper. I can’t see the words on the paper, I recite from memory and then, like I said, something changes.

These are the words of God coming out of my mouth. Or Tommy Douglas. Or both. You see, I’m not exactly sure what I do say. I’m not aware that I’ve memorized part of Tommy Douglas’s sermon. Now Tommy Douglas’s voice is pounding out of my body. I pound the podium and point at the people assembled.

I talk about my Aunt Jean, the Silver Cross Mother and how her son Bertie would have been her means of support if he’d lived. But he was cut down over the English Channel and lost for good. Forever. Leaving behind an old and sick widow with a child who needed an operation. And no money to pay for it.

The honor and the dignity of being the Silver Cross Mother is nice and all that but it does not change the fact that when Aunt Jean goes home tonight, there is no money to save her from being thrown on the street with her suitcases.

“In post-war times, this country is so busy trying to forget. Trying to forget by purchasing TVs and radios and cars. Thunderbird convertible cars. What’s a Thunderbird convertible car compared to the life of a child, a normal healthy child who, through no fault of his own, is bullied and injured by someone who didn’t even go to war!?” I pause and let the truth flow through.

I lock eyes with Aunt Jean. My eyes shift toward where Ted last stood. There’s no white driving cap now. He’s melted into the pavement. I pull back to my speech.

I tell the people that during the war years, Canada was like a semi-detached house. A row of semi-detached
houses. People living close and concerned, listening through the walls and sharing, sharing, sharing scarce provisions and their sorrows.

“What Canada needs now is a way of sharing again. We don’t need a war to remember how to share. What Canada needs are free doctors and hospitals. A way of protecting the forgotten, like Aunt Jean and Jimmy. Especially Jimmy, Aunt Jean’s remaining son.

“One of the greatest Premiers in Canada, Tommy Douglas, says that the world cannot long survive half full and half hungry. He’s right. And I say this Dominion of Canada can’t go on if its people are half sick and half healthy. Because they can’t afford to go to the doctor. Where’s the freedom in that, Canada?”

I look up and see that Jimmy’s in a bad way. He’s been hemmed in too long, trying to be good. Aunt Jean looks pained. Andrew has Jimmy clamped in his arms. The crowd tries to move away from them.

“Jimmy. Jimmy, can you hear me? It’s Carolyn.”

I think it must have been God that did what came next, because it certainly wasn’t me. I open my mouth and sing:

My voice quivers when I mention Jimmy’s name. I’ve never before put two and two together that this is Jimmy’s song. Poor Jimmy, with no room for his sore head. The second time I sing this verse, the choir begins to hum in harmony. And then as one, they cut away and I sing the last verse all by myself.

“The White Cliffs of Dover!” Word perfect. Just as if the minister’s song sheet was before me. When I finish, there isn’t a sound except the wiffling of umbrellas.

“People like Aunt Jean and Jimmy need doctors. They need to see doctors for free so they can get on with their lives. So they don’t end up on the street through no fault of their own. You can share, Canada, you can. You did it during the wars. You know that love is stronger than hate, kindness better than cruelty, and a helping hand more powerful than a clenched fist.”

I raise my hand in the air and then let it fall to my side. I bow my head. Instead of
Amen
I say, “Lest We Forget” in the same tone.

Out of practice, I reach for my lace handkerchief and prepare to dab at my eyes. But now I’m dabbing at my eyes for real because I’m crying. God and Tommy Douglas together have exhausted me and I cling to the podium, looking in the direction of Jimmy and Aunt Jean.

Aunt Jean is smiling. No, beaming. She has her hands clasped to her heart.

The General salutes me.

My tears are so heavy now, that it’s as if I’m swimming underwater with eyes open. One of my choir friends helps me to a seat. I don’t remember the rest, except that I’ve just delivered a speech about why I am not, not proud to be Canadian. On Remembrance Day, no less.

Oh, my.