The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War Page 7

  Feeling like a prisoner, Robert stood silently, head down as he waited on the stage. He focussed on inspecting his worn shoes, inherited from Patrick, and noticed the end of one shoelace. The end pieces of shoelaces, what were they called again? He knew once. He tried to ignore the disturbing burning sensation in his eyes and desperately hoped it didn’t turn into something truly embarrassing. That would be the final humiliation and he was sure his soul-sucking classmates would love to add Blubber Boy and Snot-Nosed Loser to their repertoire of names for him.

  Miss Pettigrew went on in her husky smoker’s rasp. “As we want to acknowledge both of you for your valiant efforts, the staff has decided there will be two prizes.”

  Robert’s head snapped up. Were they going to give him a book of those lifesaving little stamps after all? Were his black-and-white heroes still going home with him? Would they continue to guard his brothers and keep them safe?

  “For our runner-up, Robert Tourond, we have a war savings stamp book also...”

  He leaned forward.

  “With two stamps to get him started!”

  There were a few boos, quickly stifled by a glare from the principal and the clapping of the crowd. A wave of disappointment choked Robert. He hiccupped, feeling heartsick. Two stamps would do him no good. Mr. Keller had been very specific about accepting only a full book!

  He remembered his plan to send his victory story to the Maple Leaf Kid Fan Club. Like that would ever happen now.

  The worst thing, the thing that made him sweat, was the loss meant the comic book connection that kept his brothers’ safe was in deadly jeopardy.

  His teacher motioned him forward to the microphone as she gave him his consolation prize.

  The crowd waited for his acceptance speech. Robert surveyed the sea of faces and opened his mouth to say thank you. Unfortunately, it wasn’t only his heart that was sick. An enormous belch erupted from his roiling stomach, and the noise echoed around the auditorium like a bomb going off. The entire room burst into raucous laughter, wolf whistles and foot stomping. His mortification complete, Robert shuffled back without uttering a word.

  Charlie stepped forward to accept her prize – his prize. He’d thought she’d be dancing a jig or at least be more gracious about her win. Instead, she stared steadfastly at the war savings stamps as she received them and then mumbled a thank-you into the microphone that he was sure no one heard since they were still howling at his more than memorable speech.

  On the long ride home, Robert’s mind whirled as he tried to think up another way to find the money for his comic books. He felt like his brothers’ lives depended on it. His feelings for Crazy Charlie Donnelly nosedived even farther.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ROYAL MISS

  At supper, Robert’s mother was thrilled with the stamps.

  “This is perfect timing!” she gushed, inspecting his prize. “I’m going to buy more with your allowance and, when you’ve filled the book, then we’ll purchase your first war savings certificate! We won’t stop there. We’ll continue buying stamps, as many as we can. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Robert didn’t know what to say. His mother had no idea what the consequences of his losing could be.

  THE RELENTLESS ENEMY HARRIED OUR HERO, AN UNENDING SUPPLY OF BULLETS SLAMMED INTO HIS LITTLE FIGHTER. THE ENEMY`S SOLE PURPOSE – TO SEND HIM DOWN IN FLAMES!

  His father was no help either. “I think it makes sense. Your money will make money, so to speak.” He reached for the Steak Surprise his mother had made for dinner. The surprise being it wasn’t steak. Instead, it was some mystery meat that smelled suspiciously like fried Spork.

  OUR HERO KNEW HE WAS OUTGUNNED – ANY CHANCE OF VICTORY GROUND TO DUST BY THE MERCILESS JAWS OF DEFEAT. THE END WAS COMING AND HE COULD DO NOTHING TO STOP IT!

  His mother unexpectedly changed topics, coming in for another attack. “Robert, do you have your parcel ready to be mailed to Patrick?”

  “It’s on the sideboard in the hall,” he answered, chewing on the rubbery mush as his tongue searched futilely for a morsel of real steak.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full. I’ll mail it with my letter which means I’d better hear back from him the same time you do, Robert, or I’ll want to know why.” She turned to his father. “William, you must speak to those boys of yours and explain how I wait for the postman every day, every blessed day, William, to bring me news from them. Even a postcard would do!”

  Once Robert’s mother started telling his dad to “speak to those boys of yours,” he knew he was home free. He could melt into his own thoughts.

  NO ONE WAS SAFE FROM THE ENEMY’S GUNS, EVEN A DEFENCELESS CIVILIAN. OUR HERO USED A FRIENDLY CLOUD BANK TO SLIP OUT OF HIS ENEMY’S GUNSIGHTS.

  Robert had spent a couple of evenings writing his brother a long letter, encoding the good stuff, and then tried to find a way to explain the Métis sash included in the parcel. He was sure Patrick would give it back to Kathryn as soon as he came home. Robert had decided he’d ask his cousin if he could have the sash, as he liked the idea of being linked to history, especially his own family history.

  _____

  Weekends were usually nothing special for Robert. On this particular Saturday, however, there was a glimmer of excitement in the air. A special train was to come through Calgary with members of the royal family aboard. Not King George, of course, only some relative. In social studies, they’d discussed the long succession of kings and queens who had ruled Canada and the British Empire and the way nobles in England came into the world with a title, land and privileges. Robert had been intrigued with the idea of being “blue-blooded” and wanted to see if these visitors looked any different from regular people. “Mum, I’m leaving. Be back later!” he called, grabbing his coat. He was almost at the kitchen door when his mother’s disembodied voice thundered down from somewhere above, not unlike a command from the gods on Mount Olympus.

  “Not before you finish your chores, young man. That’s the rule for Saturdays and I see no reason to change it.”

  OUR HERO WAS TOTALLY UNPREPARED FOR THE SUDDEN ATTACK. THE ENEMY PLANE CAME OUT OF THE SUN AND OPENED UP WITH ITS HELLFIRE GUNS. AGAIN, OUR HERO’S PLANS WERE ABOUT TO BE BLASTED TO SMITHEREENS!

  “Wham! Kablam!” Robert cursed. This was no time for household drudgery, and since his allowance now went to buying lousy stamps, it wasn’t like he got to enjoy the fruits of his labours. “But, Mum, the royals! I’ll do my chores later, I promise!”

  He knew the train was scheduled for only a brief stop at noon so Mayor Davidson could meet the dignitaries before they continued their sightseeing trip through the scenic Rockies, always popular with fancy folk. It would take him fifteen minutes to bike to his secret hideout, which would be perfect for watching the festivities. Worryingly, the clock said it was 11:05 already. His comfortable margin was shrinking fast.

  Sometimes, his mother could be relentless, and this was one of those times. “Chores first, Robert. No arguments.”

  “If I do them now, Mum, I’ll miss the royal train! We talked about the monarchy in class. It’s part of our studies.” He hoped the mention of school would help his case.

  His mother didn’t take the bait.

  WITH AN EVIL LAUGH, THE ENEMY SWOOPED IN, BRANDISHING A SECRET WEAPON TOO POWERFUL TO DEFEAT. OUR HERO WATCHED HELPLESSLY AS VICTORY WAS SNATCHED FROM HIS GRASP.

  “We mustn’t shirk our work. William – tell your son!”

  His father had been fixing the screen door in the kitchen, blissfully unaware he was about to be drawn into the battle. It didn’t take him long to join the fray.

  “You heard your mother. Work then play, always in that order, son. A valuable life lesson you’ll appreciate as you grow older.” He went back to the screen, guarding Robert’s escape route with the doggedness of St. Peter at the pearly gates.

  Resigned to his fate, Robert tried to finish his list of jobs as fast as possible. Despite his father’s words about the correct order to do things, he
was so frustrated he could have exploded like a supernova. What did his mother know about work, anyway? She stayed home all day knitting and listening to her radio programs.

  Finally, at twenty minutes to twelve, Robert was out the newly fixed door and speeding as fast as he could for his secret hideout, the deserted water tower behind the train station. He’d been going there for years and enjoyed the way it made him feel like a superhero, keeping watch high above the city, where nothing could touch him and he was free. There was barely time to make it.

  He sped along the shadowed passageway provided by the tall fence that separated the rail yard from the adjacent roads. The dark tunnel was cool in the heat of the midday sun. Robert peddaled harder, leaning over the handlebars as the scream of the whistle announced the arrival of the special train. Ahead, he saw the rope ladder leading up to his lofty vantage point.

  Beyond the wooden palisade, he heard the whoosh of the steam engine pulling into the station. It was impossible to see what was going on because of the high fence. Still, if he climbed fast enough, he’d have the perfect view. Skidding his bike to a stop, he leapt off and was reaching for a rung when the ladder was suddenly jerked up and out of his grasp.

  Robert was momentarily confused. He was sure no one else knew about this place. “Hey, what’s going on? Who’s up there?” He waited impatiently. Nothing.

  As he watched, a hand extended out from the walkway that ran around the base of the huge cistern high above. In it was a flask. As if in slow motion, the container was tipped. Liquid poured in a silvery cascade down, down, down...and over Robert, making him splutter. Fortunately, from the taste, the liquid was only water. It could have been a lot worse.

  Then he heard it – a high, crazy laugh. A chill went down his spine. He’d know that cackle anywhere.

  “Charlie Donnelly, you sad bag of bones! Lower the ladder right now!” There was no reply from above. Robert checked to his left, then his right. The long wooden fence extended far in each direction, and by the time he got his bike and rode to either end, the train would be gone.

  “I’m giving you five seconds, or else!” Robert knew the "or else” was a hollow threat. It would have been more effective if he’d had a bazooka.

  The ladder failed to appear.

  From the other side of the fence, he heard the sound of metal wheels struggling on metal rails. It was the engine pulling out of the station. He’d missed his chance to see royalty and who knew when anyone important would come to Calgary again. “Wham! Kablam!” he cursed, picking up his bicycle again. He had to get out of there – if he stayed until Crazy Charlie came down from her ivory tower, he might forget he was raised to never slug a girl.

  _____

  As Robert was putting his bike in the garage, Mr. Glowinski walked out of his, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Robcio, on this beautiful day, why so sad?”

  Robert puffed out his breath. “Ever had trouble with girls, Mr. G?”

  The big man concentrated on removing one last speck of grime from his palm. “Tak, tak, once upon a time, long ago.”

  “Then you know how aggravating they can be and how sometimes you want to smack them so hard....”

  “No, Robcio, never do that! A real man does not “smack them so hard.” A real man finds way to make things better with his mind. Tak?”

  “Oh, you mean outsmart the devils.” Robert liked this approach.

  “Not ‘devils’. Girl can be mother, wife, sister, daughter and, for you, sweetheart.”

  Robert snorted. “That will be the day. I’ve had my fill of their kind.”

  Mr. G pursed his lips. “Zabawny chlopak. You pretty young to be monk, Robcio. Maybe give it year or two.”

  Robert ignored him. He was on a roll. “There’s this really annoying girl, her name is Charlene, but everyone calls her Crazy Charlie and for a good reason. She beat me in this contest I really had to win, and today, she was in my secret place and wouldn’t let me up. I missed the royals because of her.”

  “So, you lose in fair contest and then she beat you to ‘secret place’. Maybe her ‘secret place,’ too.”

  This hadn’t crossed his mind. Charlie had beaten him by one stinking pound, weighed in front of everyone. And she certainly was weird enough to know about the hideout at the top of the old tower. He kicked a pebble in the gravelled alley; his anger blowing away like thistledown in the wind. “Okay, I won’t smack her, but I don’t have to like her.”

  “No smacking, that is good thing. Maybe soon, when you older, you will change mind about girls.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Mr. G.” Robert waved goodbye and went into his house. As the door closed behind him, he thought he heard someone say, “Good bet, I think.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FASTER THAN A SPEEDING BIKE

  Robert awoke Monday thinking how on earth was he going to pay for the October editions of his heroes when they came in? Worry continued to plague him as he biked to school. He knew his friendly neighbourhood pharmacist would never hold three comic books until he had the cash to buy them.

  He’d been late leaving home this morning and hadn’t bothered to tuck his pants into his socks. Big mistake. Without warning, he felt the tug of the bike chain as it gobbled up a loose trouser leg.

  “Wham! Kablam!” Robert bumped over the curb and wobbled onto the sidewalk. Carefully, he back peddaled until the chain coughed up the mangled material, now covered in grease and with a small nick out of the cuff. He’d been lucky. He could have taken a bad fall and his pants might have been ripped a lot worse. He’d heal, but torn pants meant dealing with Mother the Mender again, and he wanted to avoid that minefield at all costs. He’d have to try to disguise the nick before she spotted it and confiscated his bike as a radical safety strategy. Her poor little boy could fall and bruise his knee or kidnappers might steal his bike with him perched upon it!

  Robert leaned his bike against a storefront and started picking off as much grime as possible. He tucked his pant legs in where they belonged and was about to resume his trek for school when a small sign at the bottom of the store window caught his eye. The glass was smudged, making it hard to see and harder to read. Wiping away the grime, Robert felt his heart leap.

  WANTED: TELEGRAM DELIVERY BOY

  AFTER SCHOOL WORK

  APPLY MONDAY FOUR O’CLOCK P.M.

  MUST HAVE OWN BICYCLE!

  He read the sign above the door. It was the Canadian Pacific Telegraphs office!

  It was as if the sun had burst out from behind a thundercloud. This was the answer to his prayers! He’d get a job as a telegram messenger. He had a great bicycle and knew the city like he’d built it. He’d have money and his mother would no longer be in control. She wanted him to grow up and take more responsibility, well, now he would do it in spades.

  Robert reread the wording on the poster, Wanted: Telegram Delivery Boy. Boy singular, as in one position only. And he would be that telegram delivery boy, come hell or high water. This time, he wouldn’t lose.

  He’d be there at four. Heck, he’d be there at three if it would help. Feeling better than he had in days, he pushed off for school, his lucky talisman humming against his chest.

  _____

  The final bell rang and Robert bolted out of the school like a race horse at a gate, then peddaled madly for home. Changing into his Sunday Mass white shirt and tie, he flew to the telegraph office, arriving in record time. As he wiggled his bike into the rack out front, he saw another, beat-up wreck already parked there. It was an old, balloon tire cruiser and must have been rescued from the city dump. If this was his competition’s wheels, he was sure to win the position. Why would anyone want to use such a relic? It weighed about the same as a battleship.

  Brushing back his short hair, Robert checked his reflection in the window to make sure his tie was straight, then marched boldly in...and stopped dead in his tracks.

  Crazy Charlie Donnelly was sitting on a bench beside the door.

  T
urning at the sound of his noisy entrance, his nemesis spied him and, immediately, her face took on a hard look. She was ready for battle.

  “What are you doing here? Got tired of gloating about your fat win or sitting in your castle turret?” He knew he wasn’t being polite, but so what? She was Satan’s favourite and they both knew it.

  “It’s a telegraph office. Maybe I’m going to send a telegram.” Her voice was steely.

  “Sure you are. Well, don’t let me stop you. Go ahead.” He had a nasty suspicion why she was here, and it had nothing to do with sending telegrams and everything to do with delivering them. He pointed at the sign on the wall. “It says ‘To send a telegram, ring the bell and someone will be with you shortly.’ So ring the bell, Charlie.”

  She was busted. She’d cleaned herself up and put on different clothes, but not any girl clothes he’d seen before. She had on dungarees and a blue shirt. The entire outfit had every appearance of belonging to an older brother. Her long hair was shoved up under a tweed cap, like a boy would wear.

  At that moment, an elderly gentleman entered the room from an office at the back. He was rather portly and held a fat, unlit cigar between his teeth. “Are you here for the job?”

  Both Robert and Charlie jumped forward. “Yes, sir!” they said in unison.

  The old gent’s caterpillar eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Nice to see such enthusiasm. The thing is, there’s only one position open, fellas.”

  “I was here first, sir,” Charlie volunteered. “My name is Charlie Donnelly and I am ready and able to work.”