“Yeah. It was okay.”
“Ye look like ye’ve got yerself the beginnings of a black eye there.”
Brendan reached up and touched his eye. Wincing, he shrugged. “Yeah. Gym class.”
“Ah, yes. A necessary evil in the growth of any young man.” The old man laughed and Brendan grinned.
Brendan didn’t know why he called him that: My Prince. Just something to say, he supposed. Brendan liked the gravel in the man’s voice and his accent. Finbar said he was from Ireland, but he wouldn’t reveal anything else about his past. Brendan respected the man’s privacy. Brendan had never known his grandfather on either side and he liked to think of Finbar as a kind of surrogate grandpa.
“Well, I should be off now,” Finbar said as they reached the heart of the market. “I’d best be home before dark.”
The man’s clear blue eyes crinkled in a wreath of wrinkles as he smiled and waved Brendan on.
“See ya, Finbar,” Brendan said, watching as the old man headed south, whistling and swinging his shopping bag as he went. Brendan watched until he lost sight of Finbar in the crowd of pedestrians.
A few minutes later, he stopped outside a small cafe. Car seats had been strewn haphazardly around the weedy patio in front of the plate glass window. Gold letters painted on the glass read “I Deal Coffee.” He looked through the window and saw his father finishing a sale, handing a customer a bag of ground coffee beans.
People liked Edward Clair. He made them feel like they were the most interesting person in the world while he was talking to them, not that it helped: Brendan’s dad wasn’t exactly super-successful in any of his many careers. He played music, painted, sculpted, did some freelance graphic design, but working at I Deal was his main source of income. If Brendan’s mum hadn’t been able to pull down a decent living as a designer of window displays for the posh shops on Bloor Street, they would have been struggling. As it was, they had a comfortable home. Brendan and his sister each had their own room.
Maybe Brendan’s dad wasn’t a superstar compared to some dads, but he was Brendan’s favourite person. He was kind. He always had time to talk when Brendan needed him. He had tried to teach Brendan to play the piano and the guitar, but Brendan had been hopeless, as clumsy at that as he was in anything that required some dexterity. Even so, his dad was patient and wasn’t disappointed with Brendan for not being able to master any of the skills he loved.
Brendan’s dad waved at the customer headed out the doors and saw Brendan standing outside. He waved, obviously happy to see his son. He frowned comically and pointed to his wrist where a watch would be, if he ever wore one. This was a joke between them. Brendan’s mum was always exasperated when anyone was late for dinner. Brendan grinned back.
“See you at home,” his father mouthed silently, winked and turned to the next customer in line. Brendan gave the thumbs-up sign and turned away.
He walked briskly down the street and turned at Crawford, covering the last few metres to his house. He turned up the walk just as his sister was arriving on her bike.
“Hey, Nerdio. How was nerd school today?”
Brendan shrugged. “Nerdy. How was jerk school? Jerky?”
With that bit of wit deployed, he launched himself up the steps to the front door.
FAMILY
Brendan’s house was the third in a row of identical Victorian townhouses, the nineteenth- century equivalent of condos for the working folk of the young city of Toronto. Each had a minuscule rectangle of front yard and black wrought iron fence to ward off intruders as long as the intruders were too small to leap the three-foot height of the fence and had no hands to lift the latch on the front gate. A pensioner in an electric scooter could probably ram the fence and knock it down, if so inclined. Brendan took the creaky wooden steps to the green front door two at a time closely followed by his sister, Delia.
He was just about to clear the top step when he felt Delia swat his ankle, causing his feet to tangle up. He fell with a crash, his books spilling everywhere. His glasses spun across the wooden porch.
“Enjoy your trip?” Delia sneered as she stepped over him. She flung the door open and went into the house.
Brendan painfully picked himself up off the floor. Delia was an expert at using his clumsiness against him. He was easily taller and stronger than she was, but she’d always managed to win every fight they’d ever had. She was sneaky and she cheated. Jamming his glasses back on his face, he gathered his books and followed her into the hall.
Dumping his books on the side table, he set off for the kitchen.
“Shoes!” his mother’s voice admonished from the kitchen doorway ahead. Brendan grumbled and turned back, kicking off his running shoes and reaching for his house slippers. His sister was already pulling on one of hers but had foolishly left the other on the mat. Brendan took the opportunity to throw Delia’s remaining slipper out onto the lawn.
“You are such a child,” she snorted, heading out to retrieve the slipper.
“I know,” Brendan said with a smile. As soon as she was out the door, he closed it and locked it from the inside. Satisfied with his petty revenge, he set off for the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner, Mum?” he called as he headed straight for the fridge.
His mother straightened up and ran a forearm across her sweaty face. She had been peering into the oven. Her pale, freckled face was flushed with the heat. She was still wearing her grey suit, the one she called her prison uniform, but over it she wore a red apron with the words YES, IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE BURNT LIKE THAT! emblazoned across the front.
“Mac and cheese. And don’t eat anything. It’ll be ready in half an hour.”
Brendan opened the fridge and pulled out a can of pop. “Okay. I’m just gonna drink this.”
Delia crashed through the back door and pointed at Brendan with her slipper. Her hair was full of dry leaves. “Mum! He locked me out! I had to run all the way around and climb the fence to get in.”
“You could have knocked on the door,” Brendan suggested sweetly.
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Brendan!” His mother shook her head. “Can’t you two just stay out of each other’s way for one hour? Honestly, it’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?” Brendan’s father came in the front door, catching the last few words of the conversation. “And who locked the front door?”
“Dad,” Delia whined. “He’s the biggest jerk. He threw my slipper into the yard.”
“After she tripped me on the steps.”
Brendan’s father grabbed them both in a hug that was part affectionate and part wrestling hold. As they struggled in his grasp, he sighed. “Ahhh! There is no joy like a harmonious homestead. It’s familial bliss as brother and sister share a magical moment. Isn’t it wonderful, Ellie?”
Brendan’s mother laughed and joined the clinch, taking the opportunity to kiss both her children while they were relatively helpless. “It warms the heart, Charles, dear husband. It warms the heart!”
Delia squirmed free and wiped her cheek. She was fifteen and totally disgusted with the mere idea of living with other humans who called themselves her family let alone being kissed by them. “Mum. That is gross!” She fled into the hall and up the stairs, wiping her face and making retching sounds.
“Dinner in half an hour,” Mum shouted just as Delia’s bedroom door slammed shut. “You too, Brendan.”
“I’ll be down in the workshop,” Dad said, kissing his wife on the cheek. He headed for the cellar door.
“Can I come watch, Dad?”
“Sure, Brendan. Just don’t touch anything unless I tell you it’s all right.”
“Okay, Dad,” Brendan said, inwardly cringing at his father’s delicate reminder of his native clumsiness. “I won’t break anything, I promise.”
“Remember to wash up,” Mum said, turning her attention to the salad.
Brendan followed his dad down the creaky wooden steps that led to the basement of the house. The smell of damp and sawdust was pungent in his nostrils.
