Thirteen July 1969 #3
I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the tears in his voice.
He couldn’t have been older than ten. Behind me, I heard movement.
I turned to see another boy, his strawberry-blond hair standing on end, as he shoved a toy gun, still in its package, down the back of his jeans and covered it with his T-shirt.
He put his finger to his lips to shush me.
I looked back at the little boy at the front of the shop, his body visibly shaking now as the owner continued to accuse him.
The man’s voice grew louder and his face reddened with rage. He looked up and saw me watching.
“You, in the back.” He pointed to me, waving me over. The young boy turned to look at me while the yellow-haired kid slipped down the aisle behind me.
I straightened my back and headed toward the front of the store. My heart was beating so loudly, I was sure they could hear it.
“Did you see this boy steal a toy gun?” the owner asked.
I stood behind the young boy. I could feel his fright. “I don’t . . .” I stumbled.
“I saw him take it,” said the actual thief, coming around the corner. He faced us as he backed away and toward the door. He winked at me, his imagined co-conspirator.
“Thank you, Charles. It’s good to have an honest kid around here.”
The boy named Charles slipped out the door and onto the street, and I stood there, mute.
“I’m going to tell your father about this. And you are not welcome in this store again. Damn Indians.”
I wanted to say something. I truly did. I wanted to defend the scared boy, to tell the owner what had really happened, but I just stood there, frozen.
“You can leave.” The owner pointed to the door as he grabbed the arm of the young boy and pushed him toward a door at the back marked Office. His eyes pleaded with me to help him, his smallness so much more pronounced than before, exaggerated by the fear he carried.
I’ve done many things that I am not proud of, everyone has.
But this moment, so clearly etched in my memory, is one that I am convinced will haunt me until I am dead.
As children, we don’t always understand the hurt we can cause; we consider only ourselves.
But I was not a child. I had no reason not to tell the truth.
For many years, when this memory would sneak into my thoughts, I tried to rationalize my actions: I was shy, I was not from that town, I didn’t know the boy.
It’s funny what we will try to justify when we know we are in the wrong.
The boy would be chastised and then go on his way.
As an adult, he would laugh at the memory, or so I told myself.
I was so naive. I should have known that this was not one boy, one single event.
This was part of his life, this suspicion he aroused simply because of the colour of his skin, a colour I didn’t carry, something that had allowed me to leave him there alone, accused.
I turned and left, the door closing behind me as the tinkling of the small bell that hung over the entrance rang in my ears.
Out into the sun, I squinted my eyes and took a deep breath.
The boy, Charles, was nowhere to be seen.
I could feel my heart beginning to quiet, but the air was so still, as if waiting for me to turn around and go back in, to tell the truth. But I didn’t.
I slowly started to make my way back to Sally and Ben’s, replaying the scene, trying to understand what had just happened and my part in it.
I took the little path down to the river and sat under the bridge.
Beer bottles and cigarette butts littered the ground, seagulls picked at garbage, looking for food.
I was relieved to be alone. I thought of Sally’s boys, only a little younger than the boy from the store.
Would I have let them take the blame for something they didn’t do, when I knew the truth?
And I was saddened to think I might have.
Clouds had started to roll in from off the bay and the afternoon had taken a turn.
A cool breeze forced me from under the bridge and back on the road to home.
As I reached the top of the path, I saw him, Reg, Kenneth’s father, his hand gripping the shoulder of the young boy, marching toward a truck parked beside the store.
His voice was angry, but his anger was not placed on the boy.
“Idiot storekeeper. If you’d have stolen the toy gun, wouldn’t you have it on you? He just hates us Indians.” The boy turned to see me emerge from under the bridge. He looked at me. I turned from them as they drove away.
“Well, don’t you look sickly.” Sally was sitting by the big window that looked out onto the main road, feeding the baby. The house was quiet except for the sucking sounds from the baby and the groaning of the old pine floor under the curved feet of the rocking chair. “You see a ghost or something?”
“No, just feeling a bit ill. Must be the heat.”
“Go take a nap before dinner. A good nap always helps.”
Sally sat the baby on her lap and started to pat his back. I nodded and headed up the stairs. A nap wasn’t what I needed, but I did need to be alone, to sit with myself for a while. At dinner I was quiet, but that was not unusual, and I went to bed early.
The next day was busy with work, and I was able to create a distance from the event and myself.
And it started to look insignificant, or at least not as heavy as the importance I had originally placed on it.
But a few days later I would come to understand that it was significant. It was important to someone.
I was walking back from the grocery store, where I’d gone to get sugar and potatoes for Sally, when a shadow crossed the road from the other side and stood in front of me.
“Well, if it isn’t everyone’s favourite orphan.”
“Kenneth, leave me alone.”
“Kenneth, leave me alone,” he mimicked.
“Do you have anything better to do than make my life miserable?”
He faked a low curtsy. “I wouldn’t want to upset everyone’s precious Aliet.”
“What have I done to you? Why are you like this? Are you still mad because Ben gave me pennies when I was little? Is that it? Because John and I are so close? I don’t understand.” I hated that my voice was strained and I sounded younger than I was.
“I don’t care about Ben and his stupid pennies. And I couldn’t care less about you and John.”
“Then why? Why do you do this to me?”
“I heard that someone who looks like you was at the store a few days back when my little brother was accused of stealing.”
I felt my heart sink. I stood silent. I couldn’t deny it. “Really?”
“Yup, let him be accused of something he didn’t do. Didn’t say a thing. Just stood there.”