Prime Cuts

By Victor C Bush

When I was about four years old, my aunt would take me to Belmont Park where I’d ride the bumper cars, play the ring toss and only once ride the caterpillar. Just that one time because I threw up.
Before going to the park we would first visit my grandfather in the hospital where he suffered from a wasting and debilitating disease. I never found out what that was. I don’t remember the name of the hospital and my memory of Papou is rather dim, but I do remember an old man with snow-white hair and big bushy mustache lying immobile in his hospital bed.
What did become seared in my mind was the legless man who propelled himself through the hospital corridors by using his hands and fists to drive himself forward on what I would today describe as a skateboard. I believe now he was a veteran of the Second World War and had lost his legs in battle. This image, the image of a large torso on a wooden plank with wheels, his leg stumps encased in leather caps—like a Fez attached to his stumps—was very frightening; frightening and fascinating and my aunt would admonish me not to stare. That was impolite. But, hey! I was only four.
This image, which has remained with me and surfaces periodically, became the motivating force behind writing Rollerboards.
Back when I was a kid there were stables in the neighbourhood. Milk, bread, ice were all delivered by horse drawn carts. And Billy, whom we called Horse Bun Billy, did throw manure at us. Billy found his way into The Forge, but the Billy from my childhood was not a bully, just a scruffy kid with a wicked right arm.
And the stories on the docks? Yes, there was a Drago, there was a Bucky and there was a Mickey too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor C Bush
• Release date: Oct 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9780994084743

Victor C Bush

I’ve been a potter, painter, board game inventor and served as a member and team artist on an archeologist dig, in Amman, Jordan. I’ve pulled weeds in a golf course (The only job I have ever quit!), dock worker, bus-boy, waiter, and ditch digger for a railway. I was also the first in my family to finish high school. While attending night school for nine years in pursuit of a Fine Arts degree, followed by graduate courses in administration, I simultaneously taught in both elementary and high schools which included working with adult and Aboriginal students in both English and French. These skills and experiences provide ample material that drive my imagination to weave intricate and gripping mystery novels.

Book preview

THE FORGE

Charlie was a bully.  When he wasn't helping his father at the forge he was waiting to ambush us on our way home from school.  Every afternoon, at the end of classes, we'd hang around the side door until the gang had assembled; if any one of us was late or kept in, the others would wait.  No one wanted to walk home alone.

Five fourteen year olds, each of us bigger than Charlie, would start for home after discussing the strategy for the day.  It never varied, consisting simply of trying to pass the shop as quickly and unobtrusively as we could, then, at a given sign we'd run like the devil.

Occasionally it worked.

But just as often, when we thought we had outsmarted him, there would be a blood-curdling yell and out he'd jump, blocking our way.

Charlie's father, a blacksmith who had the contract for shoeing the horses of the local bakery and dairy, kept an untidy yard and the endless supply of droppings were seldom cleared.  In summer, you could smell the place for blocks, but in winter the problem was different.

Armed with an arsenal provided by the horses, Charlie leaped out from behind the gate and began pelting us with the frozen missiles, hard as rocks.  We'd feint and dodge, but Charlie's aim was deadly accurate and his blacksmith's arms made the headshots painful.

Charlie missed a lot of school; consequently he was a poor student, and having lapsed a couple of grades was two years older than most of his classmates.  In spite of his diminutive size, Charlie was the strongest and the toughest, his thick arms, sinewy as his father's, were covered with bubbly welts from the sparks of the forge.  We were terrified of him.  Even his smile was fearsome; yanked askew by a scar.

On the days that he did appear in class, Miss Kershaw would inevitably pair him with one of us so we could help him catch up.  Miss Kershaw liked him, as did most of the girls, giggling and whispering their girl-talk whenever he showed.  That grin of his would flash and Miss Kershaw would melt as she wrote in his file.  That same grin turned our blood to ice.  Over he'd swagger, checking us out, searching for some weakness, deciding whom he'd torment for the day.  Whatever the reason, I was usually singled out, much to the approval of Miss Kershaw, to be Charlie's mentor.

He'd sit beside me, copying, asking dumb questions, pretending to be interested, but at every opportunity he'd pinch or poke or stamp on my foot.  Accidently, he said.  Heaven help me if Miss Kershaw found errors in his work.

The bullying was worse outside.  Charlie had a knife, one of those hunting knives in a scabbard attached to his belt.  He used it to pop the blisters on his arms or pick at the scabs, teasing the girls, making them gasp in disgust.  He also used the knife to extort lunch money from us, all the while mocking us with that twisted grin.  We always gave in, and as our fear grew so did our hatred for him.

Even on the days he didn't come to school, there was always that undercurrent of unrest, of fear that suddenly he'd show up.  We were never free of him, expecting at any moment to see his face in the doorway, sauntering along with his hands in his pockets and his boots scuffing the floor.

Like all bullies, Charlie had to dominate and his knife helped him.  We all carried knives, little ones, penknives, and our favorite game was 'Peg the Knife'.  The object was to take turns throwing it at your opponent's foot, getting it to stick in the dirt as close as possible without actually touching the shoe.  Of course, if you were 'chicken' and moved, you were disqualified. Charlie particularly liked this game and no one dared peg their penknife anywhere near Charlie's boot.  If he did, Charlie's next shot was calculated to maim.

Slowly, lengthening days edged out the long, cold shadows of winter but the warmer weather did nothing to thaw the chill in our hearts.  Charlie's bullying continued, destroying not only our courage but also our friendship and we began to mistrust each other.  We had become so cowed by his hectoring that we unashamedly fawned and toadied, groveling to avoid his tyranny.  We fell over each other attempting to please him, to share our lunch treats with him, to buy protection.

Charlie's scorn grew as did our own contempt for each other and our efforts only made him all the more intolerable.  The gang's alliance, once one of friendship, became a necessity based on the mutual dependence for self-preservation, and we tolerated each other only as long as we shared the same need.

But we still played together.  Charlie could be anywhere skulking the streets; he had no curfew and could turn up at any time.  And now that winter was over, his arsenal, no longer frozen, wouldn't raise a lump on the side of our head, instead, the soft, moist mass would squelch against us leaving a red mark on bare skin or worse, a reluctant stain in our clothes.  Only the warmest days saved us, the days Charlie's father forced him to man the bellows on the forge.

We could hear his father cursing from a block away, yelling at Charlie to keep pumping and we knew we could take our time passing the shop.  Steel rang as the hammer fell on the anvil throwing sparks and spraying Charlie's large leather apron.  Sometimes we'd get a whiff of singed hair and Charlie would yelp beating out the sparks with his hands and when his father, waving a red-hot brand, glowered at us through his one good eye, we scattered quickly enough.

It didn't seem to matter in which street we decided to play.  Charlie always managed to sniff us out, and with the veiled threats of his flashing knife he would insinuate himself into our game.  We squabbled, being two-faced cowards, to be on his team.  He was a good hitter, and pitcher too, but he couldn't be trusted; we never knew if he'd be throwing the ball or a horse bun, so we were forever ducking or swinging erratically, sometimes connecting with the ball, sometimes scattering manure.  At length, when the sun was weak or it was near dinner time, one of us would make the excuse and the game broke up, but not before Charlie had time to taunt us or loose a few well-aimed droppings in our direction. Eventually we picked up our things, wiping the bat and ball on the grass.  Charlie had no glove so he borrowed ours freely, and although we could scrape the manure from the leather, there was no way we could improve the condition of the inside after he had used it.

One day, late in the spring, I had to walk home alone.  I had been kept back by miss Kershaw for some foolishness and for one reason or another the gang couldn't or wouldn't wait for me.  I proceeded cautiously, my heart racing, fueled by fear.  Charlie had skipped school that day and I expected at any moment to hear his yell and feel the dull thuds.  It was overcast and humid, and as I approached the forge, the sounds and smells of fire and steel and skittery horses hung heavy.  Angry shouts punctuated by sharp cracks stirred the heavy air.  My curiosity got the better of me so I bridled my fear and sneaked along the broken boards until I was even with the gate to watch from a crack in the weathered wood.

One of the drivers, from the bakery, was trying to back his horse into the shoeing stall.  The horse balked, refusing to enter the narrow enclosure and any attempt to link the chains to the harness was met with snorting and kicking.  The impatient driver cursed and whipped the frightened animal adding stroke after stroke to a hide already glistening with sweat and blood.

Charlie was hanging onto the animal's head, trying to gentle the frenzied beast with 'whoa boy' and 'easy, easy'.  The animal, wild-eyed and with ropes of saliva swinging from his raw mouth pulled away yanking Charlie into the path of the swinging whip.  It slashed his shirt biting into his back.  Charlie wheeled in anger and tore the whip from the driver's hands, then went for his knife.

For some reason he didn't draw the blade.  He loosened his grip on the hilt and let his arm fall by his side.  The stunned driver picked himself out of the dirt and beat the dust from his clothes with his cap.  The horse, spent and exhausted, had retreated to the far corner of the yard running back and forth along the fence.

Charlie with calming horse-talk soothed the animal and led him back to the stall where he fastened the chains to the halter without further incident.  The driver left, watching Charlie over his shoulder and yelling to his father that he'd be back later for the horse. 

From my vantage behind a thick hedge, I could see the horse was calm and that Charlie was concentrating on controlling the animal for his father who stood stoking the brazier.

Charlie!  I froze at the harsh command, too scared to sneak away.  Charlie's father was bent over the hot coals, one hand pumping the bellows, the other attached to the tongs gripping the new shoe.

Yes, Pa?  Charlie's voice seemed weak, far away.

Charlie! repeated the old man drawing the tongs from the fire and turning towards the horse.  Never draw your knife on a man.  You hear me, boy?

Yes, Pa.  He stammered.

Never!  he said, the one eye opened wide.  Then quick as a snake he stuck the glowing brand into Charlie's cheek.

I'm not sure who screamed louder, Charlie or me.

Two weeks went by.  Charlie didn't come to school at all, nor did he bother to harass the gang.  During this time my relationship with the others grew even more strained when I objected to their developing obsession for revenge against the bully who had for so long made our lives miserable.  They wanted an ambush of their own, to beat him up, teach him a lesson.  Their vehemence frightened me and I feared they might in the heat of their aggression carry the plan too far once Charlie was in their clutches.  I was accused of being a coward, of treachery, and reminded of the many times they had saved my skin. 

It was two weeks to the day after the incident at the forge and we were batting flies in the field at the end of my street.  Looming in the distance, Charlie, with his hands in the pockets of his filthy pants was gradually pointing himself in our direction.  We tried to ignore him.  He hovered in the out-field like a satellite moon, waiting.  I popped a high one, arcing the ball in a lazy loop and watched as it settled into his ungloved hand.  The catch would have had the best of us hurting, but Charlie never flinched.  Tossing it up and catching it one-handed he waited till we centered on him before giving it up.  The brand on his cheek was red and shiny and I knew what had twisted his smile.

Unexpectedly, he threw the ball at me; I caught it and managed to keep it.  Deciding whether he was sneering at me or just trying to laugh was harder.

We stood around him in a semi-circle.  No one spoke.  Charlie took his knife out and started pegging it at Tom's foot, each throw inching closer and closer.  Tom's hand closed tightly around the bat as the blade dug the turf nicking his sneaker.  It had buried itself up to the hilt and Charlie had to rock it slightly to free it from the tough sod.  Tom's face was hard and his knuckles white.  Tension mounted but Charlie knew when to back off and sheathed the blade.  He smiled, I think, and reached for the bat.  Reluctantly Tom released his grip.

C'mon.  I'll pop youse a few.  He didn't wait until we were far enough out before he hit the first fly.  The ball winged out beyond the outer limit of the field and into the street.  Charlie was good.  We scrambled after it trying to reach it before it rolled too far.  Tom was ahead and gaining as the erratic bounces stopped and the ball rolled along the gutter.  But he was too late to keep the ball from slipping through the grill and tumbling into the sewer.  It was Tom's ball and he kicked the curb and swore, his curses obviously meant for Charlie.

What's the matter?  Too chicken to get it?  The bully sneered.

Tom's fists clenched.  Why don't you? you're so tough!

Sure.  He handed the bat roughly to Tom then stooped and hooked his fingers into the holes in the iron lid.  It was heavy and he couldn't lift it in spite of his massive arms.  The lid grated as he grunted and dragged it away from the gaping hole.

You wanna go down or are you scared?

I could see the ball floating at the bottom in a stagnant pool; the shaft was deep and smelled.  I drew back from the edge.

Guess I'll to get it myself, if you're chicken.

Tom didn't answer.  He clenched his teeth and glowered.  Charlie eased himself backwards down the dark shaft, carefully picking his way along the rusty rungs.  All we could see in the black hole was the top of his head. When he reached the bottom, Tom leapt forward, charged by anger and frustration and started to drag the lid to close the gap.  He couldn't quite handle the heavy disc but when the others saw what was in his mind they pitched in to help.

C'mon, said Tom, Let's get outa here!

You can't leave him!  I stammered.

You can stay if you want, but you'll have to take the blame.... He looked at the others and I knew they were with him.

We ran. 

DÉJÀ VU

I’ve a feeling I’ve been here before, she said standing on the weathered deck over looking the lake.  She took a deep breath of country air, filling her lungs and straining the buttons on her blouse.

Déjà vu.

What?

Déjà vu.  Bill balanced on one leg and closed the door to the Trans Am with his foot.  A distortion of memory.  An illusion that the situation has been previously experienced.  Quite a common feeling actually.

The door thudded shut and Bill hefted their bags —she obviously wasn’t going to help— and mounted the six wooden steps to the wide deck surrounding the A frame cottage.  He loved the place.  It’s where he came to escape, to get away from the pressures, the past.  He told her to pack for a long weekend but judging by the weight of her bags she had enough stuff for a month.

Can you get the door?  At least, he added under his breath.  The keys are in my front pocket.

Sure. She sidled over slowly and provocatively reached deep in the pocket of his Levi’s.  Beads of perspiration erupted on his forehead.  She fumbled, then leaned into him and planted a kiss on his cheek—light as a feather, her soft hair brushing his face.

‘Déjà vu?" she asked in a sexy voice.

He didn’t answer, following her into the cabin when she opened the door and left the bags on the braided rug in front of the fieldstone fireplace.  Dust danced in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. 

Bill stared at her well-shaped butt when she leaned over the kitchen counter to open the window to take in the view.  He was beginning to like her and hoped she wouldn’t be like the others.  He hoped they could become friends before she expected to get into his bed.

I’ll get the wood for the fire, the place is pretty damp.  Bathroom’s over there, if you want to freshen up.  He wiped his palms on his thighs and went out for the wood.  Logs stacked and split were piled neatly along the side of the cottage but he had to hunt for scattered bits of twigs and dried bark for kindling.

Here.  Let me do that.  She tossed the towel on the chair and took a wad of newspaper from him, reshaping it into a loose ball and built a tent of twigs around it, then lit the paper with a fireplace match.

Bill frowned and folded the towel.

There.  Nothing to it.  It’s all in how you set the kindling.

You must’ve been a Girl Scout.  He smiled and thought he might kiss her.  The moment passed when she bent to retrieve the ember that crackled and rolled out of the grate onto the braided rug."

Whoa! She kicked it a couple of times getting it back in the hearth.

Suddenly flashing back ten years, he blinked and stood up his knees popping.

Was that you or the fire?

Me.  Football knees.

Oh.  Sounds painful!

Not really.  Just noisy is all.  Hungry?

Very.  She stood and turned to him, kissing him quickly on the lips and squeezed his bicep.  Nice, she thought.

Then follow me.

In the kitchen he lit the kerosene lamp to chase away the October gloom. 

No electricity?

Not out here.

What keeps the fridge going? 

Generator.  He inclined his head towards the back of the cabin.  Hear it?

She strained a little and picked out the low hum, it’s steady rhythm out of