My Temporary Life by Martin Crosbie Page B

the hallway behind him, “Boy, oot here, company’s here, get yerself oot here.”
     
    Hardly squeezes through the narrow space between his father and the door opening, and when he sees me, he nods, and we leave the two men, and walk to the edge of the street.
     
    My father’s voice is loud and firm as he keeps apologizing to Rab. “I mean it, Rab, I’m gonna change my ways. I’m here to tell you that even though my son is leaving for Canada next week, I’m no gonna neglect yours. In fact, I’m gonna come and see him once a week, every week.”
     
    Hardly and I leave the two men and walk to the edge of the pavement, and sit on the kerb. When we look back, we see that my Dad has his finger tapping solidly into Rab’s chest, emphasizing his point.
     
    “ You dae understand what I’m saying to you, don’t you, Rab? I’m gonna be here every week, just making sure that your lad is happy enough and doing okay.”
     
    The door slams, and as my Dad passes us, his eyes flicker for a moment when he sees Hardly’s battered face. He tells him that he’ll see him next week, and that he’ll see me back at the house. I want to smile or even laugh. I know what my Dad is doing. It’s like sweeping out the area under the stairs, or making our lunches for the week, days in advance. It’s one more duty that he’ll fulfill. He’s a creature of habit, and when he says that he’ll do something, he does it. I know without a doubt that one week from now, and every week until Hardly leaves, on his fifteenth birthday, he’ll be knocking on Rab’s door, asking to see his son. I don’t know if it’ll make any difference or not, but I want to pretend that it will. I want it to be easy. I want it to be fixed. I just want the problem to go away.
     
    I know that Hardly wanted to speak as soon as he heard my Dad mention that I was leaving for Canada, but he doesn’t. He waits until he’s gone and we’re alone, still sitting on the kerb, in front of his house. “Canada, again, then? It’s Canada for ever now, is it? They really arenae gonna let you back in tae the school?” He’s grimacing and smiling at me at the same time, leaning forward then back, bobbing up and down to his own secret rhythm.
     
    “ It might just be temporary. My Dad says that it might be just for a while.” I know it’s a lie, and I’m sure he does too, but I say it anyways, as much for my sake as for his.
     
    There’s a boy throwing stones down the street, one by one, watching them skite down the road and bounce against the kerb. We watch him for a while, and I wonder how many of the broken windows in the houses that surrounds us were caused by him.
     
    “ We could write. I could write to you, and you could write back. My Dad would pick up the letters when he comes to see you.”
     
    Hardly looks at me and smiles, his face breaking into a broad grin. “You don’t write letters, Malcolm, and neither do I, so let’s no talk about any letters.”
     
    The boy with the stones is moving on now. He’s yelling to a couple of other boys who are farther down the road. He doesn’t swear, but the coarseness in his words is enough to make us sit up straight and take notice. They move in gangs, these poor boys of the streets. They recognize the desperation in each other and the need to keep moving, the need to keep throwing stones and breaking windows and stealing from houses.
     
    I need to give him something, even if it’s another lie. I need to give him something that will take away that look of fear and dread from his face. “Well, there’s the army or wherever you end up. Once you get settled you can always try and come for a visit. You could come out to see me in Canada.”
     
    He pauses for a minute and we hear the smashing of a window farther down the street, then the laughter from the boy who was throwing stones in front of us earlier, and his cohorts. I don’t want his usual depressing response. I want him to buy into it. I want him