Boy Lost in Wild Read online

  I think Freight House has made a big difference in my life. It has given me a safe alternative to the streets, and shown me that there are people who really care. I feel like I’m making a difference now in giving other kids something to do and helping them learn new things. In the future, I hope to graduate from high school and go on to college or university. Mostly, I’m interested in being a lawyer, or starting my own business.

  He pauses then, because for a moment, right then, he half-believes this to be true.

  I would like to thank my mom, who is my role model. She couldn’t be here today because she had to work. I’d also like to thank all of you here today for supporting places like Freight House, and the difference it is making in the lives of inner-city kids. Thank you.

  First, there’s no sound at all. Then there’s a thunder of clapping, loud and rhythmic, and the shapes get bigger and they are standing and clapping some more. It’s like a vibration deep inside, like Campbell’s bones are rattling. Never in his life has he felt like this. All at once, he sees his mom’s tired face and wants to scratch her eyes out for not being here, and he feels a sweet, sweet relief that she is not, that no one he knows has heard that speech.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Debbie standing with the minister or the mayor.

  “Cam,” she shouts. She is practically jumping up and down. “Campbell.”

  Part of him wants to go to her, to feel her tits as she hugs him and tells him that he is amazing and brave. Part of him does not want to face these people just yet.

  He turns back to the big, black room. The light is still blinding, but he doesn’t care. He stares straight into it.

  In his mind, he is small again. Cousin George, who is still normal as normal can be, is chasing him through the tall grass with a little shovel because Campbell keeps eating all the saskatoon berries meant for his mom’s wine.

  “Go George, get the little bugger,” Campbell’s dad shouts, but he’s laughing like he used to sometimes, bent almost double.

  Campbell is fast. Though the grass scrapes his bare legs and the small stones cut his feet, there is the sweet smell of berries and smoke and sweat. In his mind, he is running fast under the blazing August sun, so happy he’s afraid he might explode.

  Back Lane Lullaby

  Four Facts

  and a Couple of Superstitions

  1. Besides Russia and Ukraine itself, Canada has the largest number of people of Ukrainian origin in the world. Most Ukrainian immigrants were landless peasants who came to settle the Canadian prairies between 1890 and 1920.

  2. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Ukraine had one of the fastest population growth rates in Europe. Over the next century, however, Ukrainians had fewer children while death rates grew and life expectancy actually decreased. There were 6 million fewer Ukrainians in 2012 than in 1990.

  3. Paul Simon’s 1986 hit song “You Can Call Me Al,” from his Graceland album, was inspired by an incident at a party where French composer Pierre Boulez mistakenly referred to Paul as “Al.” Later, Simon was criticized for not adequately recognizing the contribution of the South African musicians and singers who played a predominant role in the recordings.

  4. While we know that 47 workers died as a result of the 1986 nuclear explosion in Chernobyl, Ukraine, the exact long-term death toll remains controversial. Experts estimate that anywhere from 4,000 to nearly a million people have died or will die as a result of their exposure to disaster-related radiation poisoning.

  Many traditional Ukrainian superstitions are still alive and well today, such as do not start anything new on a Friday or get your hair cut when a family member is sick.

  * * *

  The Friday night he rang the doorbell it was hot out, maybe thirty degrees, even though July was long gone and school would be starting soon. They weren’t expecting anybody, and in Trish’s experience when you’re not expecting someone, nobody comes, except maybe fundraisers going door-to-door. The three of them were at the kitchen table eating barbecued chicken. Her mother was squinting at how much butter her father was putting on his potato, and her father was explaining what life was like before air conditioning. When the doorbell interrupted him mid-sentence, they all looked at each other, as if they’d never heard such a sound in their lives. And then her father sighed and wiped his fingers and his mouth in the slow, careful way he did a lot of things. And as usual, her mother lost patience and began noisily sliding her chair to get the door herself. But it was Trish who, for some reason, actually said, “I got it.”

  So it was Trish who found Alexi standing on the doorstep in the thick heat of a late Winnipeg summer. Later, this moment would sometimes fly into her head just before sleep and out again just as quickly, as if it was almost too bizarre to think of as a real memory, as real life. There she was, expecting to see a kid selling chocolate-covered almonds or other junk her father would have a good excuse to eat, and instead she found a sweaty young guy with a gold tooth, who held out a ratty old suitcase like he was giving her a present and said: “I believe this is the residence of one Taras Dudek, and if this is the truth, then I believe you are my cousin.”

  And all Trish could do was stare stupidly. “Dad,” she yelled. “I think it’s for you.”

  Looking at it from the outside, of course, it wasn’t really that bizarre. Her father’s name was in fact Taras, a common name for Canadian-Ukrainian boys on account of the great Taras Shevchenko, whose tragic, old poems Trish knew by rote because she spent every Saturday morning of her childhood in a church basement learning what a suffering hero he was. Though Trish’s parents were both born in Winnipeg, she knew all about how her Ukrainian ancestors had suffered under the Poles or the Romanians or the Russian communists for centuries on end. And the Dudeks did in fact keep in contact with several distant relatives there, including Trish’s grandmother’s two half-sisters. Every six months or so, Trish’s family would go to Baba Dudek’s, and together they’d pack tea and tampons and other boring things, along with some crisp American twenty-dollar bills, into a large box addressed to the capital city of Kiev. The last time they’d done it, her baba had pointed at Trish like a gypsy sending out a warning, and said something like: “You be glad I came here, so you can be a proud Ukrainian. Over there, they still don’t have nothing. The communists are gone but now there is nothing but criminals. Honest people have to live eleven people, in-laws and all, in four rooms. What do you think of that, you an only child in that big house? Eh?”

  As usual, this left Trish slightly unsettled. When she listened to her baba, part of her always felt like she should try to figure out what her baba was talking about, because somewhere in the complaining and lecturing and gossip, there was something that was somehow important. But the other part of her, the bigger part, felt like the only way she could stand to be with her baba, or even love her, was if she just let it all go in one ear and out the other.

  There was no ignoring, however, the strange, sweaty guy at the door. There he was, one of her baba’s half-sisters’ granddaughter’s cousins, stopping in for a visit on his way to see a business associate in Chicago.

  “I, Alexi, am also a businessman,” he said, now standing and sweating in the Dudeks’ front hall. By this time, Trish was holding his suitcase by a handle that was barely attached. She couldn’t stop staring like an idiot, and her father wasn’t much better, just rocking back and forth on his heels, as he always did when he was trying to make small talk at weddings or funerals.

  Trish decided that Alexi didn’t look any older than her real cousin, Darryl, who was twenty-two. His clothes were brand new—bright, white cross-trainers, dark blue jeans, and a Calvin Klein T-shirt you could tell had never been washed because the sleeves still showed sharp creases in the cotton.

  “So sorry, Alexi,” her mother said, reappearing from the kitchen with a tea towel. “Chicken can be so messy.” She spoke in Ukrainian with her ultra-friendly and polite voice. “So tell us, Alexi, what business are you in?�
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  Alexi flashed his gold tooth. “I am a businessman, who is a family man as well,” he replied in English. Everything about his face was round and soft, except for the sharp, almost eerie blue eyes that seemed to be soaking up not just the front hallway, but the whole living room and family room and kitchen. When he spoke, Trish could not help noticing that his breath smelled bad.

  “This is why I thought why not come and take time to see the family in the Winnipeg.”

  This finally seemed to jolt her father into action. “Well, come in, come in,” he said.

  “If we’d known you were coming,” her mother added, “we’d have picked you up at the airport.” Then she grabbed the suitcase from Trish and the handle ripped right off. The case went thump at their feet, and her mother stared at it as if she had no idea how they were ever going to get the thing into the house now. Trish knew she was probably distracted, trying to remember when the sheets on the spare bed were changed last, even though Alexi didn’t look like the type to care.

  “That is broken,” he said, sitting in her father’s recliner and grinning. “No worries. And please, I prefer English, not Ukrainian, so English please. My friends, they call me Al. Like Paul Simon. You can call me Al. You know?”

  Trish watched for her parents’ reaction. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for someone from Ukraine who listened to her parents’ eighties music and didn’t want to speak his own language. Her father gave Alexi what she had come to recognize as his vice-principal-face. Since she’d been about twelve, she’d noticed his mouth would take on a special shape before he talked seriously with one of his students. “I am your friend,” it said, “and I am your superior.”

  Her mother was already heading back to the kitchen.

  “Paul Simon. Yes, of course,” she said over her shoulder, still in Ukrainian. “But let me get you something, Alexi. When was the last time you ate?”

  He shrugged, and shouted in English, “Please, no trouble.”

  Trish’s father sank down into the couch. “Ukrainian is fine, you know. We’re all comfortable with it.” His mouth eased into his proud-papa grin. “It’s Patricia’s second language but her grammar is better than my mother’s.”

  Alexi spun around to Trish and waved her in, as if it was his house instead of hers. “Patrooosia, eh?” he said, pronouncing her name in Ukrainian. He stretched the middle syllable like an owl hooting in the night. “So my little cousin is Patrooosia, the most beautiful Ukrainian name. But it’s Russian or English for me.”

  That’s when he pulled out a package of cigarettes and waved it at her father. “When I was a little one, it was Russian in school, and now English is the words of business.” He shrugged and put a cigarette to his lips. “Nothing but English.”

  Trish’s father tried not to show his displeasure at the mention of Putin’s Russia, but his grin grew smaller and more determined. Her mother came in carrying iced tea and cookies and she stared at the unlit cigarette like Alexi had just grown a second nose. Still, her voice was all politeness.

  In Ukrainian, she said: “How long are you planning to be in Winnipeg?”

  “Uh, few months,” Alexi answered in English, then laughed until the cigarette fell from his lips. “No, no, I mean, few weeks, maybe.” Holding up his hands at the tray, he spluttered. “Please, I please you, none for me. If I speak truthfully, I would like right now more than anything to have this smoke and then bed. My time, it is all off, and I feel so sleepy my English is not so good.”

  So the evening ended with Alexi smoking in their backyard while Trish’s mother changed the spare bed sheets.

  In her own bed that night, Trish couldn’t stop thinking about things, like how someone who looked so hot could turn down iced tea. Or what Alexi must have thought when he stood smoking by their pool and the rock garden and the cedar gazebo that Baba Dudek called “that fancy, screened shack.” Or why, when her parents whispered about how wonderful it was that Alexi had miraculously raised enough money to escape the corruption and political chaos of Ukraine, and that he seemed like a nice boy with ambition, it felt as if they were trying to convince themselves that this was true.

  Gradually, though, these thoughts became merely words running through her head, like bad, bad breath, and blue, blue eyes, and the next thing she knew, it was Saturday morning and she was gasping for air.

  Trish was not used to waking up in a state of panic because her dreams were almost always boring or stupid. When she tried to remember them, they were usually something like her science teacher standing by their pool, telling her she’d missed a mid-term, and then blowing his nose exactly like her Aunt Syl. This time, though, she could not catch her breath, so she lay back on her damp pillow and tried hard to bring the dream back.

  She’d been sitting by the pool with her friend Tonya, whose father was their Orthodox priest, and who competed with Trish for who could get the best marks, or pour the most tea at the reliably lame Easter luncheon. In the dream, she was mad at Trish for some reason and said in Ukrainian, “No wonder they always called you Sucky Trishy,” which was what Dale Golding called her in grade two just to be a little jerk. Then Alexi walked up and offered Trish a cigarette. Tonya said, “Your parents are going to like kill you,” and disappeared, and then Trish and Alexi were dangling their feet in the water and she was smoking like she’d been doing it her whole life. “This is really bad for you,” she said. Alexi laughed and said, “Many, many things are bad for you, Patrooosia.” Then she started coughing and spluttering and that was it.

  Fully awake now, Trish realized she’d been hearing the shower running for a long time.

  There was a knock on her door. “Ten-thirty, up and at ’em,” her dad said. “If Alexi ever gets out of the shower, he wants to see Wal-Mart and then we’re having lunch at Baba’s.”

  All Trish wanted was to roll over and sleep some more. But she knew her mom wouldn’t even knock. No matter how many times Trish asked her not to, her mom would come right into her room and open the blinds. So Trish rolled out and got dressed.

  They were all ready and waiting in the van when Alexi came through the back gate, not quite finished his cigarette. His hair was still wet and slicked back like a TV gangster’s. Trish didn’t think it suited his round face. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and already sweating a little.

  “Good morning to you,” he said, climbing in beside her. “In Ukraine, you know, Patrooosia, where I come from, they would make cars like out of tin, so when you are hit, squash, you’re dead.” He flashed his gold tooth like he thought this was funny. “In Chicago, I will buy a Lexus with a roof that opens.”

  In the rear-view mirror, Trish could see her father’s vice-principal-face. “A Lex, eh? I hope your friend in Chicago is doing really well.”

  Alexi shrugged and smiled at Trish as if they were sharing a joke.

  At Wal-Mart, though, there was no smiling. It was like none of them even existed. Alexi just kept picking up stuff and putting it down with a very serious look. In the end, all he bought was some caramel corn in a giant tin with racehorses on it, and a large bag of white sweat socks. When her dad tried to pay, as a “welcome to Canada” gift, Alexi waved him away. “I got it covered,” he kept saying. “I got it covered.”

  For most of the way to Baba Dudek’s, Alexi and her father babbled on about different kinds of cars. But the closer they got to her baba’s, where the houses were old or abandoned or even boarded up, the quieter Alexi got. Trish could feel his blue eyes soaking things up. At the corner of her baba’s street, she noticed something was different.

  “The dry cleaning place burnt,” she said.

  Her father nodded and stared straight ahead. “They should clean that up. It’s been more than a month.”

  At the corner, a big black dog with no collar veered off the boulevard and into traffic, as if on a suicide mission. Trish’s father swerved, nearly broadsiding a filthy white van in the next lane.

  “It’s a godd
am zoo,” he murmured. Trish’s mother put her hand on his thigh and squeezed.

  Alexi shook his head solemnly. “We are like the dogs,” he said. “We want the freedom, but we need the collar to save us from our own selves.”

  As they pulled up to the house, Alexi leaned forward. He was close enough to whisper in her father’s ear. “Here, where your mother lives,” he said, “it is poor conditions.”

  No one said a word as they unbuckled themselves and got out of the van. Her father slammed the door and looked at Alexi with a face that Trish didn’t recognize. His cheeks were red and stretched. “It’s been going downhill for fifty years, but she won’t move.”

  Alexi crinkled his nose, as if he didn’t quite understand, or smelled something bad.

  “She can be a stubborn woman,” her mother added.

  Suddenly everybody seemed to be in a bad mood, except for Baba Dudek, who was coming down the front walk, shuffling pretty fast for an old lady who weighed over two hundred pounds.

  “Come in, come in,” she said in Ukrainian, grabbing Alexi’s arm as if she was afraid he’d run away. When he handed her the giant tin of caramel corn, she acted like it was the best present she’d ever had, better than the TV or microwave or other big things Trish’s family would usually get her for Christmas.

  She led them to her tiny back yard and practically pushed Alexi into an old lawn chair. “Sit, sit,” she said. Most of Baba’s yard was a vegetable garden, scattered with plastic pails. Trish and her parents sat on the rotting wooden storage bench that Trish’s mother called “that old coffin of hers.”

  Baba Dudek stood right over poor Alexi, breathing hard from the excitement. “I was the oldest sister,” she said. “And you are the first one to come see me. At least that has changed.” Her fat body shaded Alexi’s face. “Is it as bad there as they say? When I left, many, many years ago, people were poor, but honest. The fields were more beautiful than anything in the world. Now they say everything is ruined.”