A Troublesome Boy (18 page)

“Mr. Clemson.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Father?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Come here.”

I got up, started for the door.

“Bring your books.”

My books? I gathered up my stuff. Klemski gave me his what-the-hell look. I shrugged, headed for the door.

Stewart was standing there.

“Come with me.” We walked down the hall to his office. “Have a chair, Mr. Clemson.”

I sat in one of the chairs facing his desk. It was the first time I'd been in his office since Day One at St. Iggy's. Creepy as ever. Same dim light. Same musty smell. Same bleeding Jesus on the wall.

Stewart took out his strap, laid it on the desk, sat down, leaned back just as he'd done that first day, did the same little prayer thing with his fingers against his lips. Just sat there for a minute without saying anything. Giving me The Eye.

I couldn't stand it any longer.

“What's up?”

Stewart sat up, put his elbows on the desk.

“I'm expelling you, Mr. Clemson.”

“What?”

“Your father is coming to get you. He will be here this afternoon. I want you to go upstairs and pack your things and bring them to the waiting room across the hall. You will remain there until your father arrives.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You are a disruptive force, Mr. Clemson. You are, as your teacher Mr. Little warned us, a troublesome boy. You are willful and rude and coarse and vulgar. You have been uncooperative and difficult since the day you arrived. Despite our best efforts to bring you into line you continue to cause trouble. We can no longer tolerate your behavior.”

“It's about Prince, isn't it?”

He glared at me.

“It's about what I said to that detective, isn't it? And you know what? Now that the cops have Cooper's book, they're going to nail his ass. And yours, too, probably.”

You know how sometimes when people smile at you in a certain way, your stomach does a little flip? That's the kind of smile Stewart had on his face.

He leaned back, opened the drawer of his desk, pulled out Cooper's book.

“This book?”

“That's mine.”

“This is not your property, Mr. Clemson. In fact, I could have you arrested for theft.”

“The cop gave it to you?”

Stewart shook his head. “Mr. Evans works for us, Mr. Clemson. The Diocese. He fixes things for us. Like this.”

He held up the book, then put it back in the drawer, shut the drawer, leaned forward and put his elbows back on his desk.

“You're not quite as smart as you thought, are you, Mr. Clemson?”

“What happened to Prince?”

“Go pack your things, Mr. Clemson.”

Took me all of five minutes to jam everything into my duffel bag. I came back downstairs, tossed it into the waiting room and headed for the door. I was about halfway down the drive when I heard Stewart.

“Mr. Clemson, get back here.”

I didn't slow down. Didn't turn around. Just held up my left hand. Gave him the finger. Kept on going. I was so fucking mad I could hardly see. I was shaking like crazy.

I could have killed Stewart. And I especially could have killed Brother Joe.

Jeezus.

I went up one side of Main Street and down the other. It was freezing, but I was walking so fast I was sweating. The shaking had stopped, but I was still so angry I could hardly think straight.

Up the street and back again.

And then I was passing by the hardware and who should be there, standing behind the counter, looking out the window directly at me?

Lucy gave me a little wave. I waved back.

Then she smiled.

That smile.

—

I OPENED UP
my duffel bag, shoved through all the clothes to get to my notebook at the bottom of the bag. I took a pencil and my art book and headed for the stairs to the basement.

“Hey, Teddy.” Rozey looked up at the clock. “Shouldn't you be in class?”

I pulled up a box and sat down. “You're not going to believe this.”

He didn't. He sat there, didn't move all through my story, then just shook his head.

“Jeez.” He shook his head again. “Oh, boy, Teddy. I'm going to miss you.”

“I'm going to miss you, too.”

What else was there to say?

I opened my notebook, flipped through until I found the sketch I'd done of Lucy. The one I couldn't finish.

“Give me a minute, Rozey.”

“What are you doing?”

“You'll see.”

Didn't take me ten minutes. I ripped the page from the notebook and handed it to Rozey. His eyes went all red and watery.

“That's the most beautiful picture I've ever seen. Thanks, Teddy. Thanks a million.” He took another look at the drawing. “And I know right where I'm going to put it. I'm going to put it in a frame and hang it in the bedroom. Across from my bed. That way I can say goodnight to Lucy every night and good morning every morning. Just like we really did get married.”

He looked down at the picture, then up at me. Then his chin got all wrinkly. He stood up and gave me a hug.

“Bye, Teddy.”

“Bye, Rozey. Good luck with the boat.”

“Thanks.”

“Think of me when you finally get out to the ocean.”

He started to say something. Then he just shook his head.

—

I FOUND JOE
just where I thought I'd find him, out in the yard back by the fence. When he saw me coming, he looked scared.

“Teddy, I'm sorry.”

“How could you do it, Joe?”

“I was bound,” he said.

“Bound?”

“By my oath,” he said.

“What oath?”

“My oath of obedience.”

“Obedience?”

“My first duty is to God. My second duty is to my bishops and superiors. I had to tell them. It was my duty.”

“Duty? Shit, Joe. What about Cooper? What about me? What about all the kids Prince is going to fuck wherever they send him? What about your duty to the next kid who's going to kill himself because of that pervert? Do you think your God is going to like that?”

“I'm sorry, Teddy.”

“Really?” I shook my head. “I thought you were my friend, Joe. But you know what? Day One, Cooper said you can't trust anyone in a place like this. How right was that?” I turned and walked away.

“Teddy?”

I just kept on walking. Back into the school, into the waiting room, grabbed my bag and went out the door, walked down the drive, put my bag down, put my toque on, wrapped my scarf around my neck twice, sat down on my bag.

I was on my seventh cigarette and just about frozen solid when my dad pulled up in his Ford. He got out, came up to me.

“Hi, Teddy.”

Same dad. Same black wavy hair, just like mine. Same blue eyes, just like mine.

He held out his hand.

I'd never shaken hands with him in my life. I looked up at him, then shook his hand.

Same dimpled smile, just like mine.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I couldn't stand being in that fucking place for one more minute.”

“Let's get you in the car. You must be frozen.” He opened the trunk, tossed my bag in, slammed the trunk.

I got in the car, held my hands up near the heater vents, tried to rub some feeling back into them. My dad put the car in gear, started to pull away.

I took a last look at St. Iggy's, looked up at the dorm windows on the third floor, imagined Cooper waving at me, pathetic little fingers all gnawed to ratshit. Jeezus.

Then I started to think about Klemski and the other guys and how weird it was going to be to never see them again. I sure as hell wouldn't miss St. Iggy's, but I'd miss those guys. Anderson and Henderson and Zits and Hatfield with all his nutty jokes. And Rita and Freddy. And Rozey, for sure.

My eyes were welling up. I wiped them with my palms.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

We drove through town, past Rita's diner and out to the highway. We went up the hill, past the spot that Cooper and I were always looking at, the spot right near the top. Then we went over the hill and over the next and just kept going.

My dad didn't say two words all the way.

I got thinking about what Hemingway had said, about a man being destroyed but not defeated. And I thought maybe he was wrong, that sometimes you could be defeated and then destroyed. Like Cooper. And that got me thinking about Cooper for a while and that got me thinking about what Rozey had said about broken hearts. I thought maybe he was right.

Maybe it would just take time.

We were on the road another half hour, maybe more. Not a word. My dad was looking at the road, I was looking at the rocks and trees. Too weird. He had the radio going, cranked right up.

Finally he shut it off.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

I turned to look at him.

“For everything,” he said. “I'm embarrassed and I'm ashamed. I'm only hoping you'll give me a second chance.”

What do you say to that? I had no clue. I just looked straight ahead. We covered another mile or two.

Finally I turned to face him.

“I guess.”

He reached over and grabbed the back of my neck, gave it a little squeeze.

“Thanks,” he said.

Another few miles and he said, “I don't know what went on in that place. But when you feel like it, I'd like you to tell me about it.”

I nodded. “Okay.” Another six or seven miles. “So, where are we going?”

“I got a little cottage down by the bay.”

“You and who else?”

“Just me.”

“What about what's-her-name?”

“She's gone,” he said.

Another mile or so. “So, it'll just be you and me?”

“Yup.”

I spent the next half hour or so thinking about that, thinking about what it would be like living with my dad, just the two of us, in that cottage down on the bay.

I could imagine waking up in the morning and going down on the beach to see the clouds and the birds, the boats out on the water. Sitting out there on a log in the evening, watching the sun go down over the hills on the far side of the bay.

Seemed like it might be sort of like Cooper's beach.

I thought maybe that would be all right.

“Sounds okay,” I said.

“What sounds okay?”

“The cottage,” I said.

“Good.”

Author's Thanks

THANK YOU TO
Margaret Atwood and Graeme Gibson, Joan Barfoot, Mary Deck and Martin Deck, Jacquie Gibson and Phil Gibson, Mary Anne Mulhern, Gemma Smyth and Adam Vasey, Kirsten Vasey and Mark Odrcich and, especially, to Marilyn Vasey. Some read the manuscript in its various versions and offered a host of thoughtful comments and suggestions for improvements. Others offered encouragement and advice. I'm indebted to all.

Thanks also to Doug Hewitt, librarian for the Essex County Law Association, and attorneys Frank Montello, Carl Cohen, Ruth Stewart and Ted Perfect for their help with legal history.

And a special thank-you to editor Shelley Tanaka who saw not only what was on the page and needed improvement but what was not yet on the page and needed to be.

About the Author

PAUL VASEY HAS
had a stellar career as a print, radio and TV journalist (
Windsor Star
,
Hamilton Spectator
and as the CBC morning host in Windsor and Victoria), and has been awarded a Southam Fellowship for Journalists. A boarding-school survivor, he is the author of five novels for adults, as well as
Kids in the Jail: Why Our Young Offenders Do the Things They Do
. He also sits on the board of Maryvale, a mental-health treatment center for children and adolescents.

Paul lives in Windsor with his wife, Marilyn.

About the Publisher

GROUNDWOOD BOOKS
, established in 1978, is dedicated to the production of children's books for all ages, including fiction, picture books and non-fiction. We publish in Canada, the United States and Latin America. Our books aim to be of the highest possible quality in both language and illustration. Our primary focus has been on works by Canadians, though we sometimes also buy outstanding books from other countries.

Many of our books tell the stories of people whose voices are not always heard in this age of global publishing by media conglomerates. Books by the First Peoples of this hemisphere have always been a special interest, as have those of others who through circumstance have been marginalized and whose contribution to our society is not always visible. Since 1998 we have been publishing works by people of Latin American origin living in the Americas both in English and in Spanish under our Libros Tigrillo imprint.

We believe that by reflecting intensely individual experiences, our books are of universal interest. The fact that our authors are published around the world attests to this and to their quality. Even more important, our books are read and loved by children all over the globe.