Sunny Dreams Read Online Free Page A

the river but there were too many curves to label them all with particularity. West held an allure for me probably because everything I knew best was east of the waterway. We had the motorboat launch and the Rowing Club and even a golf course on our side, but somehow Riverview’s westness beat out all three, in my mind.
    On a larger scale, reports of drought and wind and misery from the western provinces seemed to me more fascinating than the tales of grief from back east. And west coast salmon was far more enticing than the cod that bullied its way in from the east. No one liked that salty cod.
    It was a Saturday afternoon in September when Fraser and I trudged through St. Vital, across the Elm Park Bridge to Jubilee Avenue. I knew there was a shorter way, but Fraser insisted on being the navigator and I was so grateful to him for coming with me that I didn’t argue.
    The sun slanted down on us from a deep blue sky fancied up with puffy white clouds. The days as we moved into autumn had become oddly clear of dust and no wind disturbed the stillness of the day. It was hot for that time of year, but hot was nothing new; we were old hands at hot. The leaves were turning and they hung motionless from the trees that were too young to provide much shade — just a dappling here and there.
    By the time we got to Artie Eccles’ house on Balfour Avenue, I had a blister on one heel and a blouse soaked with sweat. And I had managed to kick my right anklebone with my left penny loafer so many times that I was bleeding through my thin white sock. I often did that.
    Mrs. Eccles wouldn’t let us speak to her son. She kept pushing him behind her as though to protect him from a couple of wild boars. He wanted to talk — I could tell — but she wouldn’t hear of it. If she’d had a stick she would have beaten us off with it.
    Johnny Lee lived on Morley Avenue, just one street away from the St. Mary’s Cemetery. There were no adults at home there. His mother was at work, he’d said. No mention of a dad. The snag was he didn’t want to talk about it.
    “I’d rather not,” he said, peering at us from behind the big front door.
    “The man was my friend,” I said.
    His shoulders hunched up closer to his ears and he stared at the space between us.
    I was sick with thirst. We stood there for another moment and then I asked for a glass of water.
    He let us in then and led us to the dining room. He brought water in a pitcher and three glass tumblers. Fraser and I drank greedily.
    Johnny was blubbing into his sleeve now and Fraser looked uncomfortable; he wasn’t as sure as I was that this whole thing was a good idea.
    “We sometimes put metal slugs on the tracks when a train’s coming to see how flat they get,” Johnny said. “We always play down by the tracks, building fires and roasting stuff.”
    The tears kept falling, but Johnny’s voice was steady and I no longer felt like I was forcing him into anything. He wanted to talk. Maybe he hadn’t talked enough. Maybe his mum didn’t want to hear it.
    “Nothing horrible ever happened to us before,” he said. “It was always fun down there, till now.”
    “It’ll be fun again one day,” I said, not sure if it was a lie.
    He looked at me as though I had no reasoning powers. I worried my bloody ankle with my left foot and regretted my words. I chose not to worsen the situation by speaking further. Finally, he went on.
    “We each had a wiener,” he said. “And a bun. We were gonna roast them. We were walking on the wooden slats between the rails. No trains were coming.”
    His shoulders hunched again when he said this and he looked like he expected someone to yell at him for playing on the tracks. It was the kind of thing boys got yelled at for.
    Fraser reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Johnny,” he said.
    The tears had stopped. They left their salty tracks on his smooth tanned face.
    “I threw my wiener away,” the boy continued. “I couldn’t