—an excerpt—
Uncle Claude robbed banks. Just one really, but the neighbours talked about him like he was Jesse James.
That hot June night, we’re sitting in the kitchen eating Mom’s bran muffins, picking out the raisins and throwing them at each other.
“Get the phone, Joseph!” my sister Rachel screeches.
It’s Uncle Claude.
“Mom!” I yell.
At dinner, Mom is scooping heaps of mashed potatoes on our plates and slapping down slices of tortiere. Every spank of ketchup is an angry spit.
“Your Uncle Claude’s stopping by. Clean your room, Joseph.”
“Claude? When?” Dad says. He doesn’t seem surprised. “He’s sleeping with you again, Joseph.”
“I’ll put new sheets on the bed and find him a pillow,” Mom says. She packs down her meal in two minutes – barely even chewing – and starts the dishes.
Dad sits with his head down. “Meat pie’s good.”
After that visit, Uncle Claude would make page four in the Toronto Star. His headline was one quarter of an inch thick. All the important facts in a three paragraph blurb. I remember my hand shaking when I saw his name, fishing the paper out of the waste basket, looking`for the comics. It smelled like sardines, an oily smear streaking across the pages, but the words were clear.
Since I’ve grown up, I’ve thought a few times about the Uncle Claude I knew as a kid. There was something starry-eyed about him.
Regular people like me don’t get headlines about our days. Imagine: DRIVER PICKS UP TWO SKIDS AND MAKES DELIVERY TO DISCOUNT TOY STORE. Plastic water pistols and kaleidoscopes – that’s the kind of thing I deliver. I’m in the business of moving things from point A to point B. People make things and then they have to go somewhere. I used to think there was freedom on the open road, but these days I find one day blurs into the next.
