she write on yours? Nothing.
Jacob blinks hard, draws the big bone-white curtain, steps out of his trainers. Sock feet cold against the concrete floor, he unzips and shivers and tosses his trousers over the rickety stool. Between the gap in the curtains he sees Dad looking through the winter coats, this one no, that one no, this one maybe, then he stops, holds up the sleeve of a Toronto Argos jacket, takes a quick look at the tag. Makes like he’s not had a fright when the old lady with the needle and thread says Goose down, John.
Eh, too small for that galoot of mine. Dad points toward the curtains and Jacob ducks away. Pulls on the jeans. Looks down his legs. Sees his ankles. At school Dean Spielman’ll point and laugh and ask Jacob when the flood is coming.
Son?
Yeah, Dad?
How’s it goan in there?
They fit okay.
Let’s have a look at you.
Jacob gets the sticky zipper up, steps out.
Dad has a look. Those’ll do you till spring.
Jacob just nods.
Right, says Dad, come on over here a minute.
Jacob follows him to the coat rack.
What do you think of these then?
One I have still fits.
Give your head a shake, boy, that thing’s a goner. I was thinking this’d do you.
Dad picks the exact coat Jacob knows he will but hopes he won’t. A green hunting jacket, reversible, with a wide tail that covers your bum. Stain like oil down the left side. The hunting side is bright orange like Dad’s ambulance parka. Dad hides his mouth with his hand. ’Sonly five dollars, he whispers. Get it on you and we’ll have a look.
The sleeve ends brush Jacob’s fingernails but Dad says At the rate you’re groan, it’ll be bang on come next winter. Then he wrings Jacob’s arm just above the elbow and in the old ladies’ direction says Real goose down in this one as well. Warm as it gets, eh love?
Warm as it gets, John. Do you like it, dear?
Jacob says It’s super, ma’am, but just wants to put his old clothes back on and get out the frigging door. Whenever he and Dad need new gear it’s top of the line. Brooks. Adidas. Got tae buy what lasts, kid. Protect yourself from weather, and injury. But for normal clothes they always come back to this sad cold cellar that smells like holes and old people.
Best be on our way, kid, I’m workin afternoons.
Jacob changes, listens to Dad carrying on with the old ladies. Slow as molasses in January, that boy is. Not many in town can keep up with you, John. Aye, that’s me, the Flying Scotsman. When the old ladies laugh it sounds like wheezy seagulls. Yepsir, real goose down. And who notices a little stain, John?
Then it’s quiet. And Jacob can feel their eyes on him – Poor boy, isn’t that a pity– as he and Dad head for the stairs.
Outside, Dad says Hello there to the Sally Ann man ringing his little bell by the money ball. Someone put in a whole two-dollar bill. Dad drops a quarter in and says All the best to you.
The Sally Ann man tugs the peak of his cap and says God bless.
Jacob jogs ahead. Jumps up the steps to the public library. Presses his face against the window. The dead lady doctor left the library a huge big dictionary. Twelve volumes. Plus art books with Dali and Picasso. Jacob wants a look before Mrs. Bailey the librarian covers up the pictures like pornography. But she won’t let Jacob or anyone see anything until all the books have been cleaned and catalogued and shelved.
Jacob raps on the glass.
Mrs. Bailey looks shoo over her specs and her mouth makes the words my window.
Jacob tugs his sleeve over his palm and gives the glass a rub. Jumps down all the stairs smack.
Here’s Dad, shaking his head. Break your ankle, he says.
It’s not high.
Weak bones.
Drink that calcium stuff every day.
I mean in your ankle. Anyone’s. Fragile.
They shouldn’t be.
Tell me about it.
Dad?
What.
Do you know what her real name was?
Who?
The dead lady doctor out the Sterling Road.
Henderson.
What Henderson?
Eh?
Her first name.
What do you care?
Just asking.
Trudy.
That’s Mum’s name.
No need to tell me that.
They have the same name?
Think your mother owns it?
No … She left all these books to the library.
Who did?
The doctor. Art books and everything and a dictionary that has every single word in it.
Go friggin blind, you will.
I can see perfect.
Bloodywell hope so. Think I can afford glasses?
No, says Jacob, kicking a small stone down the sidewalk.
Dad digs the car keys from his pocket, sniffs the air like someone did a fart and says Jesus Murphy, factory smells something awful today. Didn’t lock your side, I see.
Sorry.
You’re always sorry. Get in.
When they get back to Hillcrest Heights there’s poor Teddy across the road, out in the wet snow, no food in his bowl and howling. Inside, Dad takes the radio to the bathroom so he can listen to repeats of The Goon Show when he’s having a shower. But the reception’s bad so he just whistles like the Black Watch Pipes and Drums. Jacob shuts his bedroom door and tries to read X-Men but can’t concentrate. Dumps the jar out on his bed, counts his allowances. Figures how much he’ll have left over after he buys Luciano Pavarotti for Dad. Maybe he can get Teddy a bone from Rick the butcher at $harpe’s $uper $ave. A huge big femur. Sneak it over. Teddy can gnaw at it all he likes. Bury it. Dig it up again in springtime.
Jacob slides the jar back under the bed. Gets some paper and the pencil stub from his
