All the Broken Things (34 page)

He whistled for her, to make himself known from time to time, but she didn’t seem to notice. He thought about Orange, and how much he missed her. It was an ache through his body to be away from her again.

That night, he began to walk.

He looked back at Bear once, twice, and stopped, whistled. He turned around and waited half a dozen
times or more. He watched Bear move upstream as he moved down. Day was dawning. It was time for him to call her in, so they could hide, but he didn’t. He walked south, toward the lake, and hoped to hear her lumbering behind him, but she did not follow. He imagined Bear—
his
bear—circumnavigating the city, for years and years, protecting him, and he knew it was nonsense, a fairy tale, but still he wished it would be true. He walked south along the riverbank. The tears came unexpectedly sometime around Old Mill, and they did not let up until he heard the lapping waves of the lake.

T
HEY WERE IN
E
LMIRA
, Teacher’s hometown, at the end of the last gig of the season. The tents had been pulled down and put away. Max had found a spot in the carnival for Bo, without Bear. “It was never about the bear, you know,” he said, always revising. “You got spark. You’ll always have a home with me.”

He became Max’s “Boy Who Had Wrestled Bears,” running games, running bingo, rigging here and there, making himself indispensable, making himself money.

Bo was talking up the ring-toss one day and there she was. Miss Lily. She wore those white boots, but had darkened her hair. As soon as he saw her he knew he’d
been hoping she’d show up. He had smelled her before he spotted her, some airy perfume mingling into what he knew he’d see before he looked. Teacher.

“Miss Lily.” Bo smiled, wondering how he looked to her. Fuzz on his lip now, and he was taller, he figured.

“Hello, Bo.”

He handed her a set of rings. “Three ringers wins the stuffed toy, Miss.”

She laughed like her voice was catching in her throat. “Bo, I’m terrible at games!” she said. There was already a line of people behind her. She hesitated and went to hand the rings back to him.

“Come on, Teacher,” he said, and she smiled at that, and got into position, swinging one arm back and aiming.

She was way wide. She seemed to know it too, and closed her eyes and threw wildly, all three at once. The crowd cracked up. Teacher’s hair swung with her.

Bo put his hand out and said, “Wait.”

The others hurried through their turns, or seemed to, knowing they were in the way of something. When they were gone, it was quiet; they were in a bubble. Bo swung his legs over the table, and stood opposite her.

“Where’s Orange?” Teacher said.

And he became suddenly sorrowful not because of Orange, but because the question reminded him of his mother. He did not want the conversation to go in that direction.

“Orange can talk now,” he said.

“Oh?”

“You—Emily—taught her how to sign. Thank you.”

“I’m pleased.”

“Yeah. She likes pink, likes closing doors—slamming them, actually. She wants to be a clown when she grows up.”

“Can you leave the booth for a while?” Teacher asked, and he nodded.

Teacher walked with him past the midway and then through the town, its red-brick Victorians kept up, gardens tended. “My house—” She pointed, and they walked by that too.

Soon they were crossing a track. He could see a silo in the distance, a creek of rust and green sludge flowing slow and ugly. This was the factory that made Agent Orange, he supposed.

“I worked there before I became a teacher,” Miss Lily said.

He could see this confession meant a great deal to her. She expected a reaction, he knew, but it was nothing to him, or almost nothing.

He said, “Why did you leave the school?”

“I quit,” she said. “I followed my heart. I teach in this town now. I needed to be closer, to fight this.” She gestured to the factory—a low warehouse, windowless, with a chimney, a great stink coming from it.
A logo: U
NIROYAL
. Men and women in blue coveralls going in, coming out. “Because they still make those chemicals.”

“Why are you—?” he said, and then stopped himself. “I should get back to work.”

Teacher said, “I thought you should see, Bo,” as if seeing changed a thing.

“I don’t need to see. I’m not angry.”

She laughed then, and said, “I’ve never known an angrier person than you.”

Now, at the end of the fair, Orange told him she would join the finale parade, insisting she sit on the float. When he said no, she bludgeoned him. She would have her way.

“Max,” Bo said.

“What?”

“Orange says she’s coming on the parade.” He pointed to the red mark on his cheek.

“Should get her in the ring, boy-o.”

“No, thanks.”

In every town there was a finale parade, in every town people waved, in every town some kid wailed, freaked out by the freakery of it all—and for Bo these had all merged into a single pageant of people passing by. He wondered what it was like for those boys and girls who spent their time shifting hay from field to barn. Farmers. The county fair must be the only
time in the year they saw anything but green fields turning brown.

The floats were hay wagons festooned with bunting, decorated for this one occasion. In the first car, the mayor waved his pudgy fingers, and in the next, the Corn Queen—prettiest girl to enter the competition—smiled and swayed, and then the Lion’s Den people, and onward to the freaks.

From the float, Bo saw Teacher up ahead, saw her laugh, saw her wave to the Corn Queen. He wondered if Teacher taught this girl, what their relationship was. And then he and Orange were alongside Teacher, about to pass her.

“Miss Lily,” he called.

Orange saw Teacher then, and waved, crooked-smiled. All around, people began to notice Orange. They stopped waving and stared before they realized how rude that was. They glanced all over the float, at the blue and white paint, at the way the artist had gone too far with the turrets and towers, but they avoided Orange, her manic smile and wild rocking. They had never seen anything like Orange. Then, they started up waving again, to compensate for all they had just thought.

But not Teacher.

She lifted her arm and swung it in a wide wave. She beamed at Orange.

Bo stood behind his sister, thinking how they would go back to the city, how they would find their way somehow, and he turned and smiled back at Teacher. He looked at Orange waving.

She waved at everyone. Orange waved and waved.

I have indebted myself to many people during the process of researching and writing this novel. Sarah Henstra for cheering and reminding. Ky Anh Do, Thao and Van Nguyen, Hoa, and Adam Arshinoff for sharing life experiences with me. Norm Perrin at Four Winds Library for trusting me with all his out-of-print Vietnamese fairy-tale books. Linda Cobon for her knowledge of the CNE archive. Susan Bryant for answering endless questions about the manufacture of Agent Orange in Elmira. Miriam Toews for riding the Ferris wheel and the Swing with me. Naomi Duguid for information about the refugee process post Vietnam War. William Robins for introducing me to Sir Orfeo and all things spectacular. Bethany Gibson
for her astute editorial. Alissa York for reminding me to follow my instincts. Thuy Morgulis for translation. Adam Sol for his helpful fixer skills. Catherine Bush for dog walks and animal talks. Dawne McFarlane for providing an early ear and talking through the Orpheus myth with me. Julia Cooper for providing reading prowess and for her beautiful singularity. Martha Magor Webb and Anne McDermid for loving the ugly, early draft, and believing. Anne Collins for smiling upon this with her brilliant mind. Amanda Betts for smart considerations and keeping time in all manner of ways. Ken Woroner for making me beautiful. My husband and sons for keeping everything real. And the staff at The Good Neighbour for their hospitality. Thank you.