The tall guy turned to look at Jimmy. He had a rock in his hand. “He’s a dumb little kid with a snotty nose.”
“I am not.” Vince always said you have to stand up for yourself. And names can’t hurt you. Jimmy didn’t mind standing up for himself, but he hoped Allie would show up soon.
“I guess we gotta do what he says.” This guy had eyes the colour of pee. Jimmy had never seen anyone with yellow eyes. He was scarier than the tall guy. But Vince always said don’t let anyone know you’re afraid.
“Don’t hurt them. Okay?”
“He’s right.”
The tall guy looked at the guy with the yellow eyes and said, “What?”
“You heard him. We can’t pitch rocks at the ducks.”
The guys looked at each other funny. Maybe it was going to be okay. But Jimmy didn’t like the mean smile on the yellow-eyed guy’s face.
“The problem is, if we can’t pitch rocks at the ducks, what are we going to do with these rocks?”
The guys laughed at that.
“You can put them down,” Jimmy said. He was glad he’d stood up for himself.
“I don’t think so. That would be a waste of a good rock.” Jimmy looked up the hill one more time. No Allie. He started to back away from the guys.
“My big brothers are coming back for me.”
“I guess they’re coming a bit too late.” The mean guy with the yellow eyes raised his arm.
Jimmy was running up the hill when the first rock smashed into his legs. He fell onto his knees. The guys laughed at Jimmy crying and trying to get his breath. “What a sook.”
The rocks kept flying. Jimmy’s leg hurt so much. A big rock hit his back. Jimmy screamed as loud as he could. “Allie!”
“Look at short-arse cry. Guess you won’t tell us what to do the next time.”
A rock smacked Jimmy’s head. Blood splashed down his shirt. His chest hurt. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even scream any more.
The tall guy said, “Hey, look, maybe we better stop. The kid’s bleeding.”
“What are you, a wuss now too? Afraid of a little blood. Boo hoo hoo.”
The tall guy sounded scared too. “That’s enough. Let’s get out of here.”
The mean guy said, “You go if you want to, wussy girl.”
Jimmy made himself as small as he could when the mean guy kicked him. “Time to play with your ducks.”
Jimmy curled into a ball as he was rolled toward the pond.
He could hear the yellow-eyed guy laughing and laughing until he felt the water on his face.
Then he couldn’t hear anything.
One
It was one hell of a party. And for once I had something to celebrate. I don’t mean Canada Day in the nation’s capital, although there was that too. No, this was the imminent departure of my office assistant, Alvin Ferguson, for greener pastures. For some reason, everyone in my large, meddlesome family thinks the sun shines out of Alvin’s rear end. That’s why fifty or so people were whooping it up on July 1st in my sister Edwina’s manicured garden.
By ten o’clock the temperature had dropped from the pleasant mid-twenties to seven degrees, and the wind had whipped the trendy market umbrellas out of the tables. Maple leaf napkins swirled across the lawn. Red and white paper cups bobbed in the pool. Even the hardiest Cape Bretoners snatched up their rum and cokes and staggered into the house. I imagine the neighbours felt some relief.
At some point in the evening, after one Captain Morgan’s too many, I had hiked up my long Indian cotton skirt and hopped on one of Edwina’s new dining room chairs to propose a toast.
Everyone hoisted glasses, with the possible exception of Edwina, who was keeping an eye on the brocade seat cover.
“To Alvin Ferguson.” I held my toasting hand high.
“To Alvin!” The room rang with it.
I gazed around with pride at the gathering. My three sisters had outdone themselves with food and drink. Even after the heavy-duty barbecue, we still had to face dessert. The chocolate dipped strawberries and cappuccino crème brûlée would be talked about for weeks. Edwina’s husband Stan was a hit with his favourite joke novelties, if you don’t count a couple of killjoys who’d left early after finding plastic roaches paddling in their pinot noir.
The crowd was now wedged inside Edwina’s home, the ideal place for Alvin’s going-away party. Not everyone has that many Waterford crystal wine glasses. I looked around, mellowed by the event. I smiled at my favourite sister, Alexa. Alexa looked wonderful. Marriage to Detective Sergeant Conn McCracken obviously agreed with her. I felt a twinge of guilt. I’m told I’d behaved like a jerk during the preparations for her wedding the previous winter. Maybe it had been jealousy because my own husband, Paul, had been killed by a drunk driver at the age of thirty-one, and now Alexa was getting a second chance at happiness. Maybe because I am the short, stocky, dark-haired sister misplaced in a family of willowy and elegant blondes. Maybe because I can be a pain in the ass.
Whatever.
Alexa seemed to have forgotten all about it. I raised my glass to her, fondly.
“Speech! Speech!” Who the hell was yelling that? I realized I was three sheets to the wind, teetering on an upholstered chair, feeling unusually sentimental and wearing a pair of borrowed high-heeled mules. So a speech wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
My father looked up at me. He is the only person in the world who scares me. Even when he’s looking up. Even if he’s eighty-one years old. Even if he scarcely remembers my name.
“Um, Camilla. I know you’re terribly upset to see Alvin go, but he deserves a proper send-off.”
“He sure does, Daddy.”
“Then, you should do it. The MacPhees are not afraid to show their deepest emotions when it’s appropriate.”
My deepest emotion over Alvin’s decision to leave was unrestrained joy. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share that with this crowd.
My father said, “You are equal to the task.”
And so I gave it my best shot.
“Alvin Ferguson is surely the most unbelievable office assistant anyone ever had. Justice for Victims will not be the same without him,” I began. That meant, among other things, our utility bills would be paid, the collect calls from Sydney would cease, messages would be passed on, outgoing correspondence would not contain coffee spills, and no topless bathers would be painted on our solitary window. It might also mean no more pilfered library materials would land on my desk.
Alvin had lasted twenty-six long months at Justice for Victims only because my father would never let me fire him. I chose not to mention that.
“Hear, hear!”
“I feel confident the management of the Gadzooks Art Gallery will continue to be surprised, no, amazed, when they realize what kind of gallery assistant they’ve snagged in our Alvin.” And by the time they did, I figured I would have had the locks changed at Justice for Victims.
I swayed on the chair. The crowd gazed on expectantly. I noticed some of them were getting a bit fuzzy. Perhaps they’d had a bit too much hooch.
What the hell. Sometimes you’ve got to let go. Why not tell the truth?
“As