The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War Page 13

  “I think our pay should be higher in the winter.” Charlie sat sipping hot tea at the staff table, still in her toque and scarf, boots firmly stuck on her feet. “We could negotiate with our kind boss.”

  Robert blew on his hot tea. “Are we talking union here?” His voice an imitation of a tough guy from the movies. “Strike, maybe?”

  Since George’s adventures in France, Robert and Charlie’s truce had deepened. As it turned out, she wasn’t the evil Satan-incarnate he’d originally thought. She was only a girl.

  “Strike is a hard word...” she said thoughtfully. “And an expensive one. Think of all those three-centers you’d miss out on while you’re walking the picket line.”

  “Telegram!” Mr. Crabtree’s booming call interrupted their discussion.

  “That’s me!” Charlie jumped up, grabbing her coat and mittens.

  “Yeah, yeah. Later.” Robert went back to reading a copy of the Kid he’d brought. Studying the page, he saw himself standing shoulder to shoulder with his hero, working with him to solve whatever problem threatened. He liked the way the artist put a red maple leaf on the pocket of the kid’s white shirt, which was always buttoned all the way to the top. It made him seem kind of goofy, which had worked in the Kid’s favour many times when an enemy had underestimated his brilliant mind.

  The other two heroes waited their turn. Lately, he found if he didn’t read all three every day, he got sort of...antsy. He knew the link with his brothers and their guardians depended on his vigilance, and so he read and reread the comics, noticing details he’d missed before: expressions on characters’ faces, numbers on ships, different flora and fauna to help him pinpoint the country the story took place in. Robert understood it was his job to commit all these details to memory to ensure they were kept real. After all, what if he didn’t see the olive trees in the scene? Then maybe the Kid wouldn’t concentrate on Italy as the specific country to help, and he had to keep the Kid in Italy with Patrick.

  His meteorite hummed. The vivid cover illustration was like a tiny slice of a special world and he was watching this other world through the portal of his comic book. He stroked the bright colours, so beautiful, and the detail – incredible. Whoever created this masterpiece was a magician.

  Robert knew the story practically word for word. He could speak the part of the Maple Leaf Kid out loud and knew all of the actions drawn in the panels. Without much effort at all, he could have been the Kid. He flipped his hair, now thankfully grown back, off his forehead, the same way the Kid did.

  A tap on his shoulder made him flinch. It was Mr. Crabtree with a telegram.

  “Tarnation, Tourond, didn’t you hear me hollering?”

  Robert guiltily jumped to his feet, stashing the Kid in his knapsack. “Gosh, no sir, Mr. Crabtree. Sorry, sir.”

  Grabbing the telegram, he put on his winter gear and left. It was only after he was outside that he read the name. It was his teacher, Miss Alice Pettigrew.

  Thinking of all those ghastly telegrams, Robert really didn’t want to deliver a message he knew would devastate his teacher and change her life forever. She was a little strange, maybe a whole bushel basket full of strange, and yet he liked her and had learned more from her than any other teacher. She had a way of explaining things so you not only understood them, you also wanted to find out more.

  The north wind was unusually bitter and stung his face as he made his way through the dark, icy streets. He tried to think of what he would say, or how he’d be able to help when his teacher read the terrible news he was carrying. He knew how the Angel of Death must feel.

  Miss Pettigrew lived in a small apartment building and, according to the address, she was in number six, which turned out to be the basement suite at the back. Steeling himself against what was coming, Robert knocked.

  His teacher opened the door with a cigarette in one side of her mouth. Her hair was tangled in big curlers that resembled soup cans, and she had green goop slathered all over her face.

  “Howdy, Robert!” Her cheerful reaction quickly changed and Robert figured she must be imagining how she looked to a student. ”My goodness, you’ve caught me at kind of an awkward moment.” She touched her face and her fingers came away green.

  “Telegram for Miss Alice Pettigrew.” He tried to sound very professional and solemn. He’d seen how folks dissolved when they read these things and wanted to give the situation the gravity it deserved.

  Pencil-drawn eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Then he held up the envelope and comprehension flooded Miss Pettigrew’s face as she recognized his uniform. “You’d better come in.” Stepping back, she swung the door wide.

  Robert walked into the warm apartment, then held out his delivery book for her to sign. He’d discovered that once folks had their telegram, everything else was forgotten – like signing his book – and he’d have to explain to Mr. Crabtree why he had no proof of delivery.

  She ripped open the telegram and Robert watched her closely.

  Next, she sat down hard on the chair by the door. “I don’t believe it!”

  He waited for the inevitable.

  “This is, is...” She took the cigarette she’d been puffing on out of her mouth and blew a smoke ring into the air.

  Robert was ready to get a neighbour.

  “Fabulous!” she squealed in a very undevastated way.

  This was not what he’d expected. Either the news wasn’t a death notice, or his teacher was wackier than he’d thought.

  She jumped up and started dancing. “Who’s going to be spotlighted?” she asked the apartment. “I’m going to be spotlighted!” she answered herself, giving her hip a bump to the left.

  “I guess it’s good news then.”

  “Good? It’s great!” She continued to shimmy around her apartment. “Do you read comics, Robert?”

  This was another unexpected turn. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “I do, too. It’s my guilty secret.” She put one finger to her lips and then sashayed over to a table beside her sofa and picked up a comic book.

  Robert’s mouth fell open in surprise. It was The Maple Leaf Kid, September edition.

  His teacher went on, “In the back of the comic is a contest where you write in about doing something big for the war effort and if you’re chosen, you get spotlighted nationally.”

  He knew about this in spades. It still stung a little when he thought of losing to Charlie.

  She took a drag on her cigarette, then went on. “So, I wrote to the comic book people about the splendid success of the Great Grease Roundup and how, because of the contest, we collected more fat than any school in the entire district, in fact, our school collected more fat than any school in Alberta! We massacred those suckers. I suggested if every school in Canada had a similar contest, it would make a real impact on the war effort.” She waved the telegram at him. “The comic book folks agreed! They are going to spotlight yours truly in the December issue and my Great Grease Roundup so other kids can take the idea to their schools. Imagine what a difference it will make if each student works as hard as you and Charlene! In fact, I’ll be sure to mention your names in the article.” She paused a heartbeat. “Plus, I will be one important gal at the next Teachers’ Development Day.”

  Robert’s mouth dropped open. This was salt in the wound! This was vinegar poured into an open cut! This was...he stopped and thought about it. Actually, this was incredible! Instead of the one-issue spotlight his story would have made if he’d won, as a teacher, Miss Pettigrew’s spotlight would be taken more seriously and her idea could snowball into the greatest war effort since, well, since they’d needed a war effort.

  He couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. He’d come here thinking he was bringing the worst news ever, instead he was going back knowing he and Charlie had actually done something important. They may have started a movement that would show kids how each and every one of them could be real heroes. He could hardly wait to tell his old arch enemy.

&nb
sp; _____

  The next day, he and Charlie were sitting at the break table as he related what had happened at Miss Pettigrew’s. He drew the story out, describing every detail of his encounter with their eccentric teacher, from her cigarette smoke ring and green face goop, to the celebratory drink of sweet sherry she poured herself as she saw him to the door. It had been the most interesting telegram delivery he’d ever had.

  “So you see, Charlie, our over-the-top efforts in the fat contest are going to have a huge effect. Our little competition may be the start of something big.” He tipped his head at her. “It takes the bite out of me losing and you winning by one lousy pound.”

  Charlie’s face went crimson. “Ah, Robert...about that,” she stumbled over her words. “You see...”

  Robert waited.

  “About the contest...” she rasped. Then she coughed to clear her throat, as if her words were choking her.

  “Yeah, I know. You won, I lost; it was close and I really wanted those dumb stamps. We both pulled out all the stops, Charlie. That’s not the point now. Back then, you and I, well...” He was embarrassed to be talking so personally, practically baring his soul to her. “We weren’t exactly pals. You could say we were like...” He paused and remembered Miss Pettigrew’s class on Canadian history. “...like Wolfe and Montcalm. I want you to know it’s all changed now.” When they were competing, he wouldn’t have blinked if the earth had opened up and sucked her down whole. He didn’t feel the same way anymore, not by a long shot. He had to admit it: she was his best friend.

  Charlie hesitated, an anxious expression on her face, and Robert wondered what was up. “I’ve never seen you run out of words before,” he laughed. “And you’re so serious. Come on, what is it, Donnelly!”

  She took a deep breath, then everything came pouring out in a torrent, “I cheated to win the stupid contest. I knew you had me with your Hail Mary delivery Friday morning and I snuck back later and added a little insurance to my vat o’ fat. I took some out of your tub and transferred it to mine, enough to make sure I won.”

  Robert was stunned. “You cheated in the contest? You rigged it?”

  Charlie was the picture of guilt as she hurried on. “I had to. You don’t understand. I needed those stamps. Okay, technically I needed the money I’d get for them. I had to win.”

  His mind was spinning. “And you think I didn’t need the money?”

  “You’ve got it so easy with your white picket fence-house and two nice parents. It wasn’t as important for you.”

  Robert thought of his comic book link to his brothers and how he needed it to keep them safe. She could have cost him his brothers. Rage boiled up, white hot. “You have no idea how important winning was to me. You had no right! You stole that money from me!”

  “You don’t get it.” She tried to defend what she’d done. “I had to win!”

  He stood so quickly, his chair toppled over backward. “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

  Reaching for his arm, Charlie tried to stop him. “I’m really sorry, Rob. You have to believe me.”

  He jerked his arm out of her grasp. “Stay away from me. Just stay the hell away!”

  He stalked to the front counter to wait for the next delivery.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NEVER FORGOTTEN, NEVER FORGIVEN

  Robert couldn’t bring himself to forgive Charlie for her betrayal. She had no idea how close to disaster losing the fat contest had put him. If he hadn’t been able to get those comic books, there was no telling what would have happened to his brothers. Her confession changed things. He did his job without speaking to his enemy or helping her in any way. She was a liar, a cheater and a thief. He was done with her.

  “I don’t know who peed in whose cornflakes, but you two had better straighten things out pronto,” Mr. Crabtree ordered one afternoon.

  “Some things can’t be straightened out.” Robert took the telegram from his boss and slammed out the door.

  For him, it was now all about the work. He didn’t talk to Charlie, or sit with her, or listen when she tried to explain her betrayal. He imagined the disasters that might have befallen his brothers if he hadn’t been able to buy the comics. It made him seethe every time he thought about it, and he thought about it all the time.

  Instead, Robert was so focused on his job, his delivery times sped up as he became more familiar with the city. Not enough to beat the record-setting Crazy Charlie Donnelly, but he was definitely narrowing the gap.

  Returning from his last delivery late one evening, Robert saw Charlie struggling to drag her bike out of a slushy puddle at the side of the road. She must have slipped on the icy corner. It was snowing and the air had a bitter bite to it. He didn’t even slow down as he barrelled past. He didn’t care.

  _____

  Despite Charlie Donnelly’s Betrayal, Robert had a spring in his step when he walked into Mr. Kreller’s drugstore Friday evening. He had money in his pocket and, as his meteorite had been fizzing all day, he knew something good was about to happen.

  “You are one lucky young man, Robert. The two lads came in yesterday and the lady arrived today. Should I wrap all three?”

  Robert shivered, as much from anticipation as from the chilly ride there. His heroes were over a week late and he’d been worried something apocalyptic had happened in the world of Canadian comic books.

  “You bet, Mr. Kreller. November will go out with a roar.” All three of his heroes and the weekend to savour them. Yowser! He was going to hunker down and seriously study his magical books. Robert knew that each time he read them, he would see more and have a better understanding of what was really in the story. It was as if layers were laid down like sediment and the only way to fully understand the messages hidden there was to keep reading the comics over and over again.

  The ride home through the darkened streets was one of the fastest he’d ever done. He could hardly wait.

  He’d received letters from his brothers this week and wanted to see how his superheroes dealt with the same problems his brothers had encountered.

  Turning down his mother’s offer of a hot meal, he grabbed a sandwich and went straight to his room. After greeting his brothers’ pictures, he hopped on his bed and withdrew the precious tomes. His attention ricocheted from one vividly drawn cover to another. They were spectacular, and so well done he could have sworn he saw the waves moving beneath Sedna’s feet and the propellers whirling on Ice’s plane.

  The cover of the Kid’s comic was special, that was obvious. He was with the Canadian troops in a combat situation. Everyone crowded around him as he likely explained some brilliant plan to thwart the enemy. Robert would save the Kid for last so he could take his time.

  Again, the storylines and his brothers’ letters coincided so closely, Robert was amazed.

  James and Sedna had spent days executing a devious way to stop the enemy from coming into the harbours they were protecting. James had commandeered three fishing boats to tow a large section of a wrecked pier into the mouth of the harbour. It was safe for fishing boats who knew the shallow channel, but not for deep-water submarines. Sedna had used her sea creatures to push a large iceberg into place to stop a fleet attacking Canadian merchant ships in the north Atlantic, and when the enemy had changed course to avoid the floating mountain of ice, they had run aground on a submerged reef. Almost exactly the same, pretty much.

  George and Ice were back flying and they’d both blown up enemy installations, damaging supply lines in a big way. This was George’s job and he did it well.

  “In fact, Ice,” Robert said, “George could probably teach you a thing or two about taking out bridges.” He thought he saw the cartoon fighter pilot grin wryly in agreement.

  He placed both these comics and the letters back with the appropriate brother then settled in for the Maple Leaf Kid’s adventure.

  The Kid was in Italy delivering a secret weapon he’d invented. The machine broadcast a unique signal that knocked out all en
emy communications, rendering them blind and helpless. Plus, as an added bonus, the reflection would tell the allies where the German troops were hiding. Our boys could pick off truck convoys, tanks, troops and even battleships shrouded in fog as they waited to attack.

  It was ingenious and only the Kid knew how to operate the complicated piece of machinery. At the big climax, a German spy stole the machine right before a crucial battle, then tried to kidnap the Kid so the Nazis could use the machine against the Allies. As the spy closed in, the Kid set the dial to the special frequency and turned on the machine, knowing the high-pitched noise would knock out whoever heard it. Our savvy hero, safely wearing good-old Canadian ear muffs, was immune to the noise blast. With the spy out cold, the Kid escaped and was able to get the wondrous machine back to the Allies, ensuring the good guys won the day.

  Robert felt drawn into the story. The walls of his room wavered, shimmering with an incandescent light, then disappeared. He was there, alongside the Maple Leaf Kid as he tuned his machine to do maximum signal interruption. Robert could taste the dust in the dry air, feel the hot Mediterranean sun on his face and smell the foul breath of the despicable spy. The noise of the guns was deafening and Robert winced as the shock waves from the explosions hit his body.

  With a start, he peered around at his familiar bedroom. The blurred walls wavered; then came into focus again. He’d never experienced a comic book adventure quite like this before. It was so real!

  He had an odd sensation and realized that he was clutching his pendant. When had he done that? He didn’t remember but it must have been some time ago. His fingers were stiff and sore and there was a mark as red as a burn in the centre of his palm.

  _____

  The days marched by and soon it was December. The temperature dropped and Robert bundled up as much as he could while still allowing movement to pedal. Mr. Crabtree gave them leather gaiters to strap to their lower legs to help with the snow and cold. Robert wondered how Charlie could stand it; she never seemed to wear as many clothes as he did. He pushed down his sympathy, though, and told himself it was a good thing: it kept the playing field level. He’d be cornered with a bayonet sooner than admit he missed the warmth of their friendly banter.