A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2) Read Online Free Page B

through the years spent in the area—the rooms slept in, the faces staring from behind store counters, across tabletops. I saw mothers easing prams over curbs, fathers, thumbs hitched in their belts, striding beside them, bowlers tilted rakishly on their heads.
    And then I held my breath. Oh, Maggie.
    I saw Maggie, saw how my life really began.
     
     

 
     
    SEVEN
     
    1907-9
     
     
    1
     
    "Ma and Gramma are moving in with Mary and Michael. Into number thirty-eight."
    Jock looks at me with interest. "When?"
    "End of August." It is the seventh of June. "Since their oldest two married, there's only Francis at home with them now. He's thirteen. So they've got some room."
    "And Julia and Oliver right next door?"
    "That's right. And their five kids. Their youngest's got my name. Martin. He's eight."
    "I can't keep your family straight."
    "None of us can. Teresa and Peter Curtis live at thirty- seven Brookfield, Elizabeth and Jim McKenna at number thirty-nine." I laugh. "You know Kate married Jim Bedford last year—who works at Massey-Harris with Peter Curtis. Well, they've moved into number twenty-two." Once again it is Friday, the end of the workweek. We are sipping Bass Ale in the Nipissing Hotel, where Rose used to work, where I used to meet Lillian. They have remodeled the dining room, replaced the tables and chairs. I look around, knowing that I liked it better the way it was. "Ma needs help with Gramma. And my pay doesn't stretch far enough to carry the house and the three of us. Mary and Michael are doing well. Better, I should say."
    "How's Mike—your brother Mike—doing?" He shakes his head. "See what I mean about the names? Can't keep 'em straight."
    "Too many of us."
    "Bloody right." He chuckles.
    "Mike's got seven kids."
    "Jesus. I'd lost track."
    "His youngest, Kervin, six years old, is sickly. Mike's workin' his tail off to pay for medicine, doctors." I pause. "He's a good man. But he can't afford Ma and Gramma. Got no place to put 'em."
    "What kind of name is Kervin? Irish?"
    "Family name. Way back." I'm remembering the story. "My big sister Sarah married a fellow whose mother's maiden name was Kervin."
    Jock's eyebrows rise slightly.
    "Sarah died a long time ago. When I was a kid. It's Mike's tribute to her in a way. Her memory."
    Jock seems sobered by the story. Then: "Mike still on Gladstone?"
    I nod. "Still there."
    Almost a minute passes in silence. Then he asks: "So?"
    I meet his eyes.
    He waits.
    "So I guess it's time. Got to get my own place." I shrug, take another sip of ale. "I can't cook, you know. I'll probably starve."
    I expect Jock to tease me further about my future helplessness, but instead he is quiet, looks thoughtful, then tips his own glass to his lips, places it back on the table before speaking. Finally, he says, "What about getting a place together?"
    "Who?"
    "Us. The two of us."
    It is a new idea to me. I say nothing, digesting the thought.
    "Time I got out too," he says. "Couple of old bachelors like us might have a pretty good time of it. What do you think?"
    "Interesting." The picture of it grows slowly in my mind, a seed planted, roots spreading.
    "We could save money by splitting the cost of a place."
    I have no money saved, never have any money saved, live pay envelope to pay envelope, even after almost a decade at Don Valley Pressed Bricks.
    "Very interesting." I smile.
    We order steak and kidney pies, another ale, consider possibilities. I feel liberated. As much as the unknown frightens, it also excites.
    "The Catholic and the Orangeman." Jock smiles back at me. We are conspirators. We have saved ourselves. Like the remodeled room in which we sit, we too will have a new veneer. The future opens up anew.
     
    Uplifted by beery collusion, heartened by the balm of a June evening, I amble along the south side of King toward Yonge Street. This is the old city, spared the fire of '04. Across the street, at number 66, I see Brown Bros., Ltd., the stationers and bookbinders where I