The basement was his father’s domain. The space was long and narrow so he’d made dividers out of wood and plasterboard to section off different areas for different purposes. At the bottom of the stairs there was the gas furnace and the water heater. When he was younger, Brendan used to like to pretend the white cylinder of the water heater was a killer robot in an evil space army. He had battled the water heater on many occasions and it still bore the scars from the wooden sword his father had made him years ago. With chagrin, he remembered the time he’d gotten his head stuck under the furnace while chasing a superbouncy ball. His parents had been forced to call the fire department. Delia had a field day with that one.
The next part of the basement was the workshop, a tiny cubicle with a workbench along one wall. Tools dangled overhead like metal fruit. Here, his father did mundane repairs, fixed furniture, and did woodworking. They headed into the next area: his father’s art workshop. Brendan’s father reached up and pulled a chain, turning on a bank of halogen lights overhead.
This is where Brendan’s father did his artistic work, “his real work,” as he called it. Easels held half-finished canvasses. On a low bench sat a block of wood surrounded with shavings. A winged gargoyle was half-carved, captured as though it were in the midst of crawling out of the wood block. In one corner, a glass booth, soundproofed as best as possible, formed a miniature recording studio where Brendan’s dad rehearsed his music and recorded songs. An elderly iMac slept on a table near the sound booth ready to record any tunes Brendan’s father might come up with, its screen dark.
Some might call Brendan’s father a jack of all trades, dabbling in many fields. He managed to sell enough of his paintings and carvings to bring in a steady if modest income. The workshop was Brendan’s favourite place in the house, next to his own room, and he thought his father was just about the coolest person in the world.
Brendan watched as his father picked up his chisel and mallet and started to tap ribbons of shavings from the block of wood. In moments, the leg of the gargoyle was roughed out. Brendan was quietly in awe of what his father could do with his hands. The concentration and precision were beyond him. His father had tried to teach him woodworking, too, but with typically poor results.
“Dad? You ever think you got the wrong kid?”
His father stopped hammering and looked at Brendan. “Why would you say something like that?”
His father’s tone was so sharp, Brendan felt he’d said something wrong. “No reason. Well, I mean, I can’t do anything as well as you can. You’d think I’d have some kind of genetically transmitted talent.” He tried to laugh and lighten the mood. “I mean, maybe they switched the kids at the hospital by mistake and somewhere there’s a kid who builds and plays his own guitars, huh?”
His father didn’t answer him right away. His face was flat and expressionless. Then the moment passed. His father grinned at him. “I can guarantee you we got the right kid, okay?” He went back to tapping at the chisel and muttered, “Your sister? Now, there are some doubts
…” He turned his head slightly and winked at Brendan.
“Dad!”
“Just kidding. So. How was school today?”
“All right.” Brendan shrugged. “We got a new substitute teacher. He’s kinda weird.”
“Aren’t they all?” He turned back to his project. “I have to get this done for the One and Only Craft Show. You like it?” He poked the gargoyle with the head of the mallet.
“Uh… creepy?” Brendan said and he meant it. The gnarled, snarling face of the carving made him a little uneasy.
“Creepy’s good. People buy creepy.” Brendan’s father grinned, placing the chisel on an untouched portion of wood and tapping with the mallet, sending a delicate shaving curling to the ground.
“Dad,” Brendan said, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You know the scar I have on my chest…”
The tapping faltered for an instant, then continued. “Yep.”
“How did it happen again?”
“We’ve told you the story, haven’t we?”
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “Mum spilled tea and I got this burn.”
“Exactly so.” Brendan’s father blew shavings from the wood and began tapping again.
“It’s a weird shape though, huh.”
“Sure is.” His father stopped tapping and looked at him. “Why do you mention it?”
“Oh, no reason really. It’s just that… well, it’s been bugging me a bit.”
“Bugging you.” Brendan’s father frowned. “Bugging you how?”
“It’s been itchy and stuff. You know.”
“Hmmm.” Brendan’s dad furrowed his brow. “Let’s see.”
Brendan stood, his head banging into a low beam. “Ow.” He winced and rubbed his scalp with one hand as he unbuttoned his white school shirt with the other. He held the shirt open so his father could look.
“It does look a little red,” he said. “Maybe your mum should look at it.”
“Naw, it’s okay.” Brendan didn’t want his mum to lose her mind as she always did when anyone showed any sign of ill health. He could do without the cloying attention.
“Okay. Well, let’s see if it gets better over the next day or two. But do me a favour”-his father winked conspiratorially as he said this- “if it does turn into something serious, don’t tell her I knew about it. Then we’ll both end up in a hospital. Okay?”
“’Kay.” Brendan laughed. His dad could always make him feel better, which was one of his many gifts. “I’m gonna go wash up for dinner.”
Brendan headed for the stairs.
“Hey, B! I almost forgot!”
Brendan turned back to see his dad digging in his pants pocket. He held up two thin strips of paper. “A friend of mine gave me tickets to a show tomorrow night. He played guitar on her last album so she shot him some freebies. Wanna go with me?”
Brendan stepped closer and took one of the tickets. “Deirdre D’Anaan,” he whispered.
“You’ve heard of her?” His father was mildly surprised.
“Not really,” Brendan said quickly. “Just saw a poster today.”
“She’s playing Convocation Hall. It’s an early show: 7 pm. Your mum shouldn’t mind too much. I thought we could come home for spaghetti night and then go to the show.”
Brendan couldn’t stop staring at the ticket. A coincidence? He shivered.
“Are you all right, B?” his father asked.
Brendan shook off his chill. “Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Sure, I’d like to go.”
“Good.” His dad smiled. “Now go wash up. And tell your mother I’ll be there in a minute.”
SECRETS
The next day, Brendan awoke feeling better. He had slept well, but he knew that his sleep had been filled with vivid dreams. He could barely remember them on waking. He was left with the impression that someone had been searching for him, calling him in a dark and trackless forest, but he had chosen not to make his presence known. He hadn’t been frightened, just not willing to be found.
He met Dmitri and Harold at the corner of Harbord and Spadina and they got to school in time for homeroom. Brendan had hoped to talk to Kim, but she came in just at the opening bell and plunked into her seat without giving him a chance to say a word.
The rest of the morning, he bided his time. In English, French, calculus, and biology, he tried to get Kim’s attention, but she was more focused than he’d thought possible on the teachers and the lessons. He decided he would have to wait for lunch, hoping he might get her alone. He didn’t know why it was so important. He just had a feeling that she knew more about Greenleaf than she was saying.
In gym class, Mr. Davenport was feeling sadistic as usual. He put them through a gruelling session of calisthenics. Brendan didn’t mind the stretching and push-ups. At least there was no chance of him tripping over
