The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War Page 10

  Unexpectedly, his father spoke up in his defence. “Robert’s right. It was the honourable thing to do, Helen. I wouldn’t have expected anything less of the boy.”

  “After all, Mum, you always say, ‘Owe the Lord, not thy neighbour’.” He’d never heard her say anything of the kind, but it sounded good now.

  His mother wasn’t that easy to sidetrack. “What I say, young man, is, ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be’.” She fussed with the biscuit bowl, rearranging the napkin covering the steaming buns. “I wanted to be able to tell my Knit for Victory group all about Robert’s job and the savings stamps and certificates he’s buying. I guess I can wait until next week when he can make up for this, this...” she waved at the four copper pennies sitting forlornly on the table, “...humble start.”

  Then she sighed, loud and long. “I made you this.” She reached under the table and withdrew a quart sealer jar. “It’s like a piggy bank.”

  His mother had glued strips of a victory poster around the jar, and Robert could see the cartoon lion of England, complete with crown, beside the Canadian beaver, with sword and helmet, charging against the enemy. The caption read, To Victory.

  “And there’s more.” She again reached under the table, this time retrieving a poster of a sailor, out of uniform, on the deck of a ship and holding a shell. The caption read:

  How quickly can we complete his outfit?

  Every war savings stamp helps speed victory.

  “Each stamp buys another part of his uniform and when you’re done, there’s a tiny bomber plane we get to add to my poster map in the basement. We can buy an entire squadron to help defeat that Hitler.”

  His mother was on a roll now, and Robert wondered what was next. As if on cue, she pulled another poster from the seemingly inexhaustible supply of gifts hiding under the dining room table.

  “I thought this picture was like one of your comic book characters, and I liked the encouraging message.” She stood and held up the poster. It featured a fresh-faced, red-headed boy calling to his imagined friends: Hey gang! Keep on licking war savings stamps – they’re full of vitamin “V.”

  His mother wasn’t exactly subtle and Robert began to wonder what the heck she had set up in the basement. Was it some sort of secret bunker where Canadian mothers made plans to defeat the Axis by knitting bombs and forcing their kids to buy twenty-five cent savings stamps?

  Robert decided he needed to be very careful about how much information he gave his mum on the number of telegrams he delivered, where he delivered them or anything else which might give a clue to his expected wages.

  Loose lips sink ships. Or, in his case, loose lips cost comics.

  Later Robert set to work on his own victory project. He’d retrieved all the copies of Sedna of the Sea, Captain Ice and The Maple Leaf Kid he had collected, and arranged them on his dresser in neat stacks next to the appropriate brother’s picture. He then moved his floor lamp over and angled the shade so the light shone down on his artfully arranged display. Once he was satisfied at the effect, he stepped back and saluted, taking off his lucky charm. He felt a tingle when he touched his talisman.

  “Everyone agrees the best course of action is to give Mum as little information as possible.” Then, eyeing the copies of Canada Jack and Nelvana of the Northern Lights, he added a little guiltily, “And perhaps, I won’t buy other comic books and will stick to you top three for now. It’s only logical to ensure the success of our mission, especially if I’m expected to supply squadrons of paper planes.”

  Robert could have sworn he heard a murmur of agreement and felt better as he settled in to read his new adventure. When he was ready for sleep, he decided that, from now on, the spotlight would be left burning to illuminate his display. Then, if he woke in the night, the first thing he would see was his heroes, all six of them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BAD WEEK

  As Robert passed Mr. G’s on his way to school Monday, he waved cheerily. “Witaj i Żegnaj!” He sang out, knowing his pronunciation was mangled, but doing his best. He’d asked one of his Polish customers how to say “hello and goodbye” with the result being both words threaded together as a phrase which, Robert guessed, covered all bases. He’d been dying to show off his new words.

  “Doskonałe, excellent, Robcio!” his neighbour called back. “How problem with young lady coming along?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle!” Robert yelled over his shoulder.

  He had his uniform in his bike basket and would change into it at work instead of coming home as he had been. When Crazy Charlie arrived, he’d be there, suited up and raring to go, or even better, already on his first delivery. She’d continued to annoy him with times no one should be able to pull down on a wreck like hers.

  His master plan was torpedoed out of the water when he wheeled up to the office and saw Big Betsy in the rack. It sported a spiffy new wicker basket, which was completely out of place on the beat-up old cruiser.

  “Hey, Wonder Weed.” Charlie came out of the washroom at the back of the office as he walked in. She was in full uniform and stuffing her street clothes into her backpack. “I got caught trying to change in the park on the way here, so I decided to play it safe. I see you had the same idea.” She motioned to the uniform in his arms.

  “Ah, yeah. I mean, no. I didn’t get caught in the park.” Frustration gnawed at his gut. Charlie Donnelly was the most aggravating, sneaky, underhanded...

  “If you didn’t get caught, why are you still in your civvies?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean I was putting my uniform on in the park, I meant, I had the same idea, to change. Here, I mean...” His tongue was having trouble forming words that wouldn’t make him sound like an idiot.

  “I hope you straightened things out with the loan shark you owed.” She tossed her bag onto the small, worn settee near the table. The couch was so old, the horsehair stuffing was sticking out from the small holes scattered in it like a shotgun blast.

  At first, Robert couldn’t figure out what she was talking about and then he remembered his pay shortage on Friday. “No worries there. Debt’s cleared.” This was true. He’d paid the pharmacist.

  “Good stuff. Some jerks you never want to mess with. Take the knee-breakers in my neighbourhood; they’d have made short work of a nice guy like you.”

  “Telegrams for delivery and I need the pair of you, now!” Mr. Crabtree boomed from the back room, and Robert and Charlie both jumped.

  “Hurry up!” Charlie whispered. “Get your uniform on! I’ll stall.”

  Robert was confused. Crazy Charlie Donnelly, who thought nothing of blasting you out of the sky if she had the chance, was going to cover for him? But why? Getting him into trouble with the boss would fit right into her nasty plans. He ran for the washroom, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.

  Straightening his jacket, Robert raced to the counter, just as Mr. Crabtree emerged from his office.

  “Where’s Donnelly? I thought she was already here.”

  Charlie came to stand behind Robert.

  “I’m here, Mr. Crabtree.” She piped up brightly.

  The telegrapher was particularly irritable as he chewed on his unlit cigar. Robert wondered if it was the same one or if the old codger eventually worried the stogies to bits and replaced them with new ones.

  Mr. Crabtree held up two telegrams. “They’re a ways out, but neither is in the “bonus zone,” which means they’re still three-centers. Even so, no smart mouths with these, understand? Respect. I also want you to stay to make sure the addressee is okay and go get a neighbour if they seem unsteady and no one’s home.”

  Robert was taken aback. What was this all about? He slid a peek at Charlie, who was listening intently with her usual going-to-war face resolutely in place.

  Once outside, Charlie fiddled with her big bike. “You know what these are, don’t you?”

  “Yup. Three cents in my pocket,” he answered as he retrieved his own faster and lighter thre
e-speed.

  “No, Wonder Weed, they’re military telegrams. We’ve got to deliver the news that someone’s son or husband is missing in action or, worse, dead. I knew this would be part of the job, but I have to tell you, it kinda spooks me.”

  Robert hadn’t thought of this aspect. “Well, sure, delivering bad news is tragic business. You have to keep in mind, that’s exactly what it is – business. If I worried about what was in every telegram, I couldn’t work here. What if it’s news some guy’s company has failed and he’s wiped out? What about medical results for some schmuck letting him know the undertaker is headed his way? Nope, I can’t get personal.” He tucked his telegram in his pouch. “I’m going to Erlton, where’s yours?’

  “Holy Cross Hospital. This poor sod is sick and now I’ve got to bring more rotten news.” She dusted off the insignia on her collar. “I hope they don’t shoot the messenger.” She swung her leg over the bar of her bike. “See ya.”

  “Yeah, see ya.” He watched her as she left. This side of Crazy Charlie was new – it was almost human.

  The bike ride to Erlton went smoothly enough and within minutes he was at the house. His knock was answered by a woman who took one look at his uniform, then blanched as white as paste. She stood in the doorway, not moving.

  “Ah, telegram for Mrs. Tom Borch.” She remained a pale statue. He tried again. “Is that you, ma’am?” This time the woman slowly nodded her head.

  Robert held the Proof of Delivery book out to her. “Sign here, please.” He indicated the space next to her name. She took the pen he offered and scribbled something illegible.

  He relinquished the telegram, only then noticing she was shaking. Without a word, she turned away and closed the door in his face.

  “Another satisfied customer,” he mumbled under his breath and hurried back out to his bike.

  By the time Charlie returned to the office, Robert had made two more deliveries and was mentally adding up his wages for the week.

  “What took you so long? Did Big Betsy spring a leak in those fatso tires?” he teased as she walked in and sat at their table. “Or maybe you got lost.”

  “Actually, the telegram turned out to be for one of the Grey Nuns who nurse at the hospital. I took her back to the Nun House, or whatever it’s called, so she could be with the other sisters.” Charlie flopped down into a wooden armchair. “She was pretty upset and I didn’t want her to be alone.”

  “While you were off playing Florence Nightingale, it was left to me to cover deliveries. Fortunately, I was up to the task and completed two more,” Robert boasted. He was about to add another scathing comment, when he saw her face. It was etched bone-deep with fatigue.

  Mr. Crabtree came out of the back room, interrupting their conversation. “How’d it go, folks?”

  “Fine, sir,” Charlie said in a small voice as she stood, pulling down on her jacket.

  “Usually I deliver the bad ones, but since my other telegrapher joined up for service, I can’t get away from the blasted key. I know it’s a tough part of the job, Donnelly.” His voice held more than a little sympathy.

  Robert didn’t say anything.

  _____

  The next day was the same, and the next. It was as if the army had opened its roster of military personnel and sent a flood of bad news to the families of everyone listed. There were a lot of telegrams – lots of bad news, but good for Robert’s pay packet.

  On one particularly rushed day, it was Charlie’s turn for the next delivery, but when the call came, she instantly busied herself with her tea. “Rob, I can’t face another of those, those...death notices right now. Would you mind taking this one?”

  He sat up in surprise. Charlie giving him a delivery? Now, this was new.

  “Sure, no problem.” He went to the counter, and if Mr. Crabtree noticed, he made no comment as he slid Robert the telegram.

  “You know the drill, son.”

  Even the crusty old telegrapher sounded worn out to Robert.

  He raced to the address, hoping if he hurried, he could get in three or four more deliveries today. He could really use a big score. The October editions of his buddies were due in soon and he needed money.

  Leaning his bike against a white picket fence, Robert leaped up the porch steps, then rapped smartly on the door until a very pregnant young woman with a small child on her hip answered his summons.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Telegram for Mrs. Samuel Goldstein.” He watched the colour drain out of her face as though a plug had been pulled.

  “I’m Mrs. Goldstein.” The young woman’s voice had dropped to a whisper. She opened the door. “Come in. There’s no reason the whole neighbourhood needs to know my business.”

  Robert stepped into the foyer of the tidy house. The woman signed his delivery book and took the telegram. “Please, hold Rebecca.” She unceremoniously dumped the child into Robert’s arms.

  Ripping the envelope open, she read it. “This must be wrong. My Abraham only left for overseas two weeks ago. I got a letter from him yesterday. Yes, it must be a mistake.” Her eyes pleaded with Robert to agree, and then when he said nothing she carefully folded the letter and put it in her apron pocket.

  She took the child back, her voice barely audible. “Thank you. I’d like to be alone now.”

  Her pale face and strange calmness made Robert nervous. “Would you like me to get a neighbour?”

  “No, no.” Her voice was oddly monotone, almost robotic. “The neighbours can’t help me now.”

  Robert belatedly took his cap off as he slowly backed toward the door.

  “If you’re sure you’re okay, I`d best be going.” Glad to escape, he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  He’d made it down two steps when he heard an unearthly keening coming from behind the closed door. It was like a wounded animal caught in a trap with no way out. Robert had never heard a sound like that from another human being. It felt like ice crystals had formed in his blood and, despite the unseasonably warm weather, he was chilled. He couldn’t leave her alone, no matter what she said.

  As he made his way next door, it hit him how he and Charlie had delivered loads of these telegrams and they were only two in an army of messengers all over Canada. And what about the States and Britain and their delivery boys?

  An older woman came to the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Robert had barely introduced himself and she was taking off her apron and house slippers and putting on her shoes. She thanked Robert for fetching her and hurried up Mrs. Goldstein’s walk.

  As Robert got back on his bike, he felt better. Then he recalled that earlier in the day, Mr. Crabtree had told them there must have been a big push over there in late September to account for the rush of telegrams. Robert remembered Patrick’s letter about going into Italy and the heavy fighting expected. The thought made him queasy.

  _____

  By Friday, Charlie was frayed to unravelling and even Robert had started to feel the strain. He figured he’d seen it all: disbelief and shock, rejection and anger – or worse – humble acceptance, and then a terrible crumbling, like a sandcastle when the tide sweeps in. To get through it, Robert had a system where he would convince himself they weren’t death notices he was delivering, only wounded or missing in action notifications.

  At night, he’d talk to his squad of heroes, telling them about his day. If his mother noticed the arrangement on his dresser, with the three stacks of comic books and the spotlight shining on them and his brothers, she said nothing.

  Friday’s shift was finally, mercifully, coming to a close and Robert was glad. It had been an unbelievable week. Rolling back in from his last delivery, he arrived at the same time as Charlie. Her face was pale and pinched, and Robert wondered if the war telegrams were getting to her, too. “You okay?”

  “What’s it to you?” she said sharply

  Robert felt like she’d slapped him. “Nothing. You look like death warmed over, no offence.”r />
  “Thanks for the compliment. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

  They’d been getting along pretty well all week and this change in attitude, back to the truly nasty Crazy Charlie, was unexpected. Then he thought of how upset she’d been delivering her first death telegram to the nun and how many similar messages they’d had this week and decided to cut her some slack. He fell back on the salve he knew best. “You need a cup of tea. Come on, I’ll make you one. None of the tar Crabtree brews in that cauldron he calls a coffee pot.”

  Charlie paused, wariness on her face, then she accepted his offer as genuine. “Actually, tea would be swell.”

  They walked inside, and Charlie immediately went to the alcove where the staff table was and slumped down in a chair, then hunched over and hugged her stomach.

  Robert put the kettle on the electric hot plate, and found the canister of tea leaves and a pot. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  Charlie groaned. “Don’t tell Crabtree or he’ll say I can’t do my job. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  So the telegrams were getting to her. He made the tea, then brought a cup and gingerly pushed it toward her from the far side of the table. Milk and sugar followed the teacup. “I understand, these things can really lay you low,” he said sympathetically.

  She stared at him in disbelief. “Oh, for crying out loud. It’s a girl thing, Wonder Weed, not leprosy!” She started to giggle, then clutched her stomach again. “Augh!” she grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh or I’ll throw up for sure.”

  Was he missing something? “I’m sorry to say this, but you really are crazy, Charlie.” He patted the pillow on the old couch. “At least come and sit here. It’s more comfortable.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, then brought her tea and eased herself down. Robert settled into rereading a copy of The Maple Leaf Kid. The Kid and his world made more sense than his own, right now. The drawings were more than ink lines on paper; sometimes, he could swear they moved. Robert gave a small nod to the Kid and the Kid waved back at him from his world.