Zack (16 page)

My teacher finally got to me. “Zack, I’ve been trying to call you all week but your phone was out of order.”

My father favoured me with a sour look.

“And I’ve been so busy I couldn’t come over until today,” she went on in her usual breathless manner.

Mom shot me a What-have-you-done-now? glance. I shrugged.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lane, as you know, Zack wrote a research paper to salvage his history mark. It was so good I took it to the county historical society—the Grand River and this area in particular are rich in history—well, I suppose everywhere is, isn’t it?—and you must be fascinated, living on Pierpoint’s very homestead, not to mention finding significant artifacts in your yard—Anyway, to get back to what I was saying—I’m always digressing—it drives my students crazy, doesn’t
it, Zack?—no, don’t answer that!—Anyway, on the basis of the paper, which was extremely well written and beautifully researched, they, the historical society, that is, want to offer Zack a history prize—it’s only a hundred dollars, with a small plaque, but quite an honour—and a recommendation—which carries some considerable weight, by the way, and might just offset Zack’s, um, not-so-high marks.”

By the time The Book finally came up for air my parents were totally confused. So was I, but I thought I had heard the word
prize
.

“Ms. Song,” Mom said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“Oh, forgive me,” my teacher said, flustered. “I haven’t been very clear, have I? Zack has won a history prize.”

“Research paper?” Dad said, catching up.

“I didn’t tell them about it, Ms. Song,” I explained.

“Why ever not?”

Because I was pretty certain I’d screw it up, I was tempted to answer. And if I did, it would be Zack the Lame Brain all over again.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Wonderful,” my mother muttered. “Another surprise.”

“An award?” Dad latched on to another fact.

“Yes.”

“And this historical society thing will help him get
into university?”

“It could.”

Mom’s eyebrows arched.

“Provided, of course, he takes his degree in history.”

The Book sat back, crossed her hands on her lap and smiled. She had delivered her good news.

Dad looked at me as if I had just burst through the door wearing a clown suit, holding a bunch of balloons on strings.

“Did you hear that, Etta?”

“But you haven’t been accepted by a university yet,” Mom said to me. Then a hint of a smile touched the corner of her mouth. “Or is there more?”

“No, Mom. I haven’t been accepted.”

“Zack’s marks
are
a bit low,” Song said for the second time—unnecessarily, I thought. “But, as I said, the historical society is full of people with, um, influence at the universities. Maybe it’s a long shot but … well, we can hope.”

I could have kissed her. She was determined to keep this news upbeat.

“What’s this research paper about?” Dad asked.

Song beat me to it. She tapped the envelope. “It’s right in here, Mr. Lane. And it’s absolutely excellent. The historical society knows about Pierpoint, of course—so do I—but Zack’s methodology, for a high-school student, is very fine. I knew he had it in him. But it took those artifacts he dug up in your yard
to light a fire under him.”

This time, both parents fixed me with a joint-effort stare.

“I was going to tell you about that, too,” I said weakly.

Mom rolled her eyes and let out a theatrical sigh. Dad just laughed.

Ms. Song saved me by jumping to her feet and pushing her chair tight to the table. “Well, must rush,” she announced. And she did.

Jen flew in from Calgary the next day. As soon as I got her call, I drove over to her place to pick her up.

It was weird. We were shy with each other, as if we’d just met. I knew why I felt so strange. So much had happened, it seemed we’d been apart for a long time, but I couldn’t figure out why she acted differently. Had she found another guy in Calgary?

I drove down to a quiet spot on the river and we spread a blanket out on the long grass where a big maple threw a pool of shade along the bank. The water purled by, brassy with afternoon sunlight, the way it had for thousands of years, and a pair of kingfishers took turns diving down and skimming along the surface.

Jen was as beautiful as ever. Out of the sunlight, her thick auburn hair took on a deeper shade. She was wearing a halter top and shorts that did nothing to
hide her curves.

We sat silently for a few moments before she turned to me.

“Miss me?”

“I sure did.”

“Prove it.”

A few minutes later we unclinched, and I knew my fears about a cowboy lover out west were unfounded. Jen waded into the river up to her knees, far enough out that she was showered with sunlight. I pulled off my T-shirt, rolled it into a ball and lay back, using the shirt as a pillow.

“I have something for you,” Jen said. “A present.”

“From Calgary?” Dammit, I thought, I should have brought her something from Mississippi.

“Nope. From right here in beautiful, boring Fergus. It’s in my backpack, in a blue box. Get it out.”

I got to my knees and rummaged around in the pack until my fingers closed on a small gift box. I held it up.

“Well, open it, dopey.”

I took off the lid and dropped it on the blanket, then removed a layer of white fluffy packing. What I saw knocked the breath out of me.

It had been cleaned and buffed so that the impurities contrasted sharply with the soft glow of the gold. A tiny ring had been skilfully soldered onto it and a gold chain passed through the ring so it could be hung around my neck.

I felt the water gather in my eyes, so that Pawpine’s gold looked like a small moon in the palm of my hand. I heard Jen splash to shore. She knelt beside me and hugged me.

“I knew it almost killed you to part with it,” she murmured. “So I phoned Mr. Piffard from Calgary the day after you left and asked him to let me buy it for you. He told me he realized you didn’t really want to sell it and he was planning to keep it in the shop in case you came back for it. He came up with the idea of making a pendant out of it.”

She gently took the nugget from my hand and unclasped the chain. Then she put it around my neck and refastened it. With her fingertips she brushed the water from my cheeks. She stared at the gold nugget, shaped like a musket ball, resting on the dark skin of my chest.

“God, that looks sexy,” she whispered.

“Do you know what miscegenation is?”

“No. What?”

“Come here,” I said.

T
he damp, loamy soil of the garden was cool under my bare feet, and as my hoe rose and fell, Pawpine’s gold nugget bumped against my sweating chest. It was a few days after Jen had come home. Dad had quietly suggested that it might be a good idea to do a little labour in Mom’s flower garden.

When all the soil had been loosened and banked and the dug-up weeds collected and tossed onto the compost heap, I leaned the hoe against the garage and swung my arms to shake out the stiffness between my shoulders, recalling the cop who had thrown me into the back of the cruiser and sprained my upper back.

Before I had gone outside into the garden, Mom had said, “How about showing me those things you dug up?”

That had been the first mention she had made about my project since Song’s visit, so I guessed she’d been thinking over the last while. When I stepped into the cool of the kitchen she was sitting at the table with the document box, the white straps and neck ring before her and the essay in her hands.

She tamped the papers on the table to line them
up. “Lawd, lawd, hee-ah come de fiel’ han’ want him sumpin cool to drink,” she drawled.

“Not bad, Mom, not bad.”

I popped a can of tonic water, leaned against the counter and drained half the can in a few gulps.

“Your dad told me something last night that made me so mad I almost spit.”

For my mother, that was strong language.

“We were talking about your … trip, and you know what he said? That he was proud of you.”

I choked on the last mouthful of tonic water and coughed.

“Yeah,” Mom said. “That’s about how I reacted.” She put down the paper and lifted Pawpine’s neck iron, weighing it in her hands. “I can’t say I agree, but I think I understand.”

“What happened between you and Lucas, Mom? I know why you broke with him, but how come you never kept in touch with the others, like Cal and Ned? They seemed like nice guys. Do they think the way Lucas does?”

“No, I don’t think so. But I was born and grew up in Chicago. My uncles and aunts stayed in Mississippi, so I didn’t have much connection with them or my cousins, not even at Christmas, which your grandfather refused to celebrate anyway. I never knew my mother’s family, really. She was an only child and her parents died before I was born.

“Your grandfather was always dead set against
what he called the White Devil. You and I both know he had lots of reasons to be bitter, but he went too, too far. When I was grown and pretty much on my own I didn’t see him much, and after I met your father and we decided to be together, I phoned your grandfather back there in Chicago and told him I was getting married and planned to stay in Canada. He asked me about your dad, what he did for a living, things like that, then he said, ‘Etta, for a girl who’s getting married soon you don’t sound very happy.’ I said, ‘Daddy, that’s because I’m afraid to tell you something.’” Mom smiled and flushed a little.

“He thought I was pregnant. After I corrected him, he was silent for a long time and then he said, ‘Etta, tell me it isn’t what I think it is.’ I told him, ‘Daddy, I can’t.’

“His voice came over all mean and low. He called me names, said I was no daughter of his if I went ahead. I said he had to accept your dad or lose me, I wasn’t going to give Thom up. ‘So be it,’ he said, and hung up on me.

“Those were the last words I ever heard him say, ‘So be it.’”

“Do you hate him, Mom?”

“I did for a long time. Now I just don’t think of him any more. He isn’t part of my life. I’ve never regretted marrying your dad and I never will.”

The iron clanked against the wooden tabletop when she put it down, lost in thought. I knew it was
one of those times when her artistic mind was making connections only she could follow.

“You know, when you’re angry, you have a look about you that reminds me of him.” She shook her head. “He sure is a piece of work, that man.”

At first I thought she meant my father.

“I
hereby propose a toast,” my father announced, looking faintly ridiculous as he stood at our formally laid dining-room table wearing a white apron with “DOWNE WITH IGNERENCE!” stencilled on the bib, a glass of cheap champagne in his hand.

The rest of us were dressed for the occasion. Mom wore a long roomy linen dress and, as always, hoop earrings; Jen was beautiful in a short skirt and silk blouse. I had on slacks and a white shirt. “You are not wearing cut-offs and a tank top to a graduation party,” Jen had announced over my protests.

In the centre of the table were two tall candles left over from Christmas/Hanukkah season, a smoking, mouth-wateringly fragrant roast chicken on a cutting board, dishes of steaming roast potatoes, corn on the cob, peas and, for Jen, who had decided the week before that she was a vegetarian, a mammoth salad.

“To our honoured guest,” Dad bowed with mock formality, “Jen, student of … um …”

“Environmental science,” Jen supplied with a giggle.

“Right, E.S., Innis College, University of Toronto. May you be the bane of polluting corporations and municipalities everywhere!”

We—Dad, Mom, Jen and I—took sips of the bubbly stuff. Wine seldom made an appearance at my house, but this day was an exception, Dad had insisted. A graduation party of sorts, but mostly an induction party.

“Congratulations, Jen. Belated, but heartfelt all the same.”

Mom and Jen clinked glasses.

“And to Zachariah, student of … er …”

“History, Dad. As if you forgot.”

“Ah, yes, history, University College, University of Toronto.”

Clink. We sipped again. The wine was sour and the bubbles went up my nose.

“Good luck to both of you,” Mom said. After a moment she added, “Now, it’s gift time.”

My father reached under the table and handed a small box to Jen. She opened it and showed me a black fountain pen.

“Not a very imaginative graduation present, is it?” Mom said.

“It’s lovely,” Jen said. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Lane. Look, Zack, my initials are engraved on the cap.”

“Real scholars write with a fountain pen,” Dad said, “not those plastic throw-aways. And you being environmentally friendly and all …”

“Thanks,” Jen repeated.

I could tell she was touched by their gift. I had given her mine the night before, a new backpack in
heavy green nylon with lots of zippered compartments, straps and buckles. Very romantic.

“Okay,” I shouted, watching Jen turn the pen over and over in her hands. “My turn!”

I was in a pretty good mood. And a little scared, to be honest. In a couple of weeks I’d be leaving home to move into residence. At long last I would escape the little town I used to hate but didn’t any more. I’d be back in the city, with the traffic, the smog, the noise, the energy that pulsed out of the pavement like heat on a July day; the movie theatres, the clubs, the stores and restaurants. I’d be starting a new life, as I had been yearning to do for so long. But I wondered if I was ready, if I would ever really be ready. True, Jen would be there. And that would help.

“Here you go,” Dad announced.

Like a corny stage musician, he reached into his shirt pocket and slowly, humming a fanfare—if it was possible to hum a fanfare and make trumpet sounds through your lips, my father could do it—he drew out a key. He then held it between thumb and index finger, showed it to all of us, individually, as if he was about to make it disappear, then casually tossed it onto the tablecloth in front of me.

It was the key to the Toyota.