fingers.
Brendan felt sick. He couldn’t help feeling responsible. He had no idea what Finbar had been raving about and the old man had kind of scared him, but he didn’t like to see him hurt.
The ambulance arrived, and the emergency workers brought out a stretcher. They placed a backboard on the ground and carefully lifted the unconscious man onto the board and then onto the stretcher, strapping him safely into place. Someone found Finbar’s cap and placed it on his chest.
The policeman lowered his radio. “Where ya takin’ the old guy?”
“Western General,” one of the ambulance workers replied. In all the confusion, the policeman had forgotten about Brendan and got into a police cruiser to lead the ambulance to the hospital. Brendan was left to wander home on his own.
He arrived at his house to find that dinner was almost ready.
When he came into the kitchen, his mother didn’t see him at first. She was bent over the stove, her face inches from the steaming saucepot, sniffing and critical. She nodded once and straightened up, obviously satisfied. Seeing Brendan, she pointed a warning finger at him. “You better not have piled your books on the hall table.”
When Brendan didn’t answer, his mother looked at him more carefully. The expression on his face immediately put her on the alert. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
Brendan shook his head. “I was walking home, and I saw this old man get knocked down by a cyclist.” He was reluctant to tell her everything, how he knew Finbar and what the man had said.
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. They took him to the hospital.”
“Oh, dear.” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. “I know this must be hard for you. You’re such a sensitive little boy.”
“Mu-um! I’m fourteen. I’m not a little boy!” But she was kind of right. He had never liked seeing anybody hurt. When he was really little, she’d found him crying while watching an episode of The Three Stooges.
“I’m sorry. I just worry about you. Can I get you anything?”
“A diaper maybe?” Delia’s voice piped up as she entered the kitchen.
“Delia!” his mother snapped. “Your brother just wit-nessed an accident! He needs a little sympathy right now.”
“It’s okay, Mum.” Brendan gently extricated himself from her arms. It had been a long time since she’d held him that way. It felt good, but it was strange when he now stood almost a foot taller than she. “What are we having?”
“Spaghetti with puttanesca sauce! Your favourite! That should cheer you up. I must have had a premonition that you’d need a lift.”
“Cool!” Brendan smiled for his mum, but inside he was still shaken up from the accident.
“And you didn’t leave your books on the hall table?”
“No way, Mum,” Brendan lied. He’d have to grab the books off the hall table as soon as dinner was over. He plunked down in his chair and reached for a piece of bread from the basket in the centre of the table. Hopefully, his mum would let the incident drop.
“No bread. Not until your father gets here! He called to say he’s on his way.” She picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the sauce again. “How was school?”
Brendan frowned. Well, not the greatest. I’ve had a couple of massive head traumas over the last two days. My scar is turning into melanoma. The girl I adore laughs at me compulsively. Aloud he said, “I’m fine, really.”
Delia sat down opposite him. She snapped open a can of diet pop. “Mum, I’m going to the rec centre tonight with my friends Katie and Jenn.” All her friends hung out at the rec centre where they could giggle and watch boys playing basketball. Girls!
“Is that so?” Mum opened the cupboard over the sink and took out plates. “Homework first.”
“Mu-UM…” Delia began to whine in the annoying way she had.
“Yes. Homework!” Mum turned away to fill the plates with pasta from the strainer in the sink. Delia sneered at Brendan and reached for a piece of bread, digging into the butter with her knife.
“We’re waiting for Dad!” Brendan said loudly.
“Yes!” Mum whirled around and pointed the pasta lifter at Delia. “He’ll be one more minute!”
Delia dropped the bread and glared at Brendan, who grinned back. Sadly, when Mum’s back was turned again, Delia flicked her knife and sent a gob of butter sailing across the table to splat on the front of Brendan’s shirt.
“Hey!” he began to protest, but at that moment, Dad came in through the door, his pant leg held tightly in a bicycle clip and a shiny silver bike helmet on his head. His hands were covered in black grease, and he headed straight for the sink to wash them.
“Darn bicycle chain. It falls off every ten feet!” He rinsed his hands and dried them. Satisfied, he turned with a flourish and a bow. “Clairs! I am arrived! Let the rejoicing commence!” He took his wife in his arms and spun her around once, eliciting a shriek from her as she tried to avoid spilling the contents of the plate she was holding. He set her back on her feet and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Gross,” Delia protested. “We’re going to be eating here in a minute!”
Her father made a pouty face. “What’s the matter, Delia? Oh, I know! You want some kisses, too!” He reached for his daughter. She reared back in horror, brandishing her butter knife. Her face conveyed a disgust reserved for plague carriers and affectionate fathers.
“Do not touch me!”
“Oh no, Brendan. She has a knife! Watch out!” Dad laughed and sat down in his customary chair as Mum set a steaming plate of spaghetti drenched in the fragrant sauce in front of him. He picked up a fork and began winding noodles around it. “So, children, how was school?”
Brendan opened his mouth to tell his father about Finbar, but Delia interjected. “Dad, can I go to the rec centre? Everyone’s going to be there.”
“I’m not going to be there,” Dad said, stuffing a forkful of noodles into his mouth. “How can you say that everyone is going to be there when I’m not going to be there?”
“Da-ad.”
“What did your mother say?”
“She said I could.”
“No, I definitely did not. I said you have homework to do.”
“But if I get it done? Then can I?”
Mom and Dad exchanged a glance, psychically connecting as mothers and fathers have since the beginning of time. “Fine. But the homework has to be done!”
Delia practically danced in her seat. She picked up her fork and dug in.
Brendan toyed with his food, adding grated cheese and pushing the noodles around. His father frowned. “Brendan? Everything all right?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
“He saw an accident today,” Mum offered.
“Really? What happened?”
Brendan reluctantly repeated the censored account he had given his mother earlier. When he was done, his father shook his head. “Poor old fella. Hope he’ll be okay. People used to have someplace to go when they were losing their marbles. Now they just end up on the street.”
“Was there a lot of blood?” Delia asked. “Any brains or things like that?” She was really into slasher horror movies, the gorier the better.
“Just leave it,” Brendan snapped. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
An uncomfortable silence hovered in the room until his father eventually broke it by repeating his question: “Apart from the mayhem, school good today?”
“Um… yeah, I guess. The substitute teacher, Mr. Greenleaf, was weird again.”
His father laughed. “Then everything was as it should be, eh?”
“Yeah.” For an instant, Brendan was tempted to tell his father about Mr. Greenleaf, the walk in the park, the weird feelings he had been having, but he decided against it. They wouldn’t get it. Delia would rip him mercilessly. His parents would think he was just having some teenage freak-out or something, and make him sit through a
