Childhood Read online

  It all made perfect sense to me.

  – Can I see the grand magistery? I asked.

  – Actually, Tom, you’re going to get the elixir for me. There are so many thieves in this city, I keep it where no one would look.

  That was certainly true. We went out to the backyard.

  When we reached the garden, Henry looked back at the house and said, quietly

  – Do you see that opening under the porch?

  – Yes.

  – I want you to crawl under there and go towards the back door. Right under the door there’s a paper bag. In the paper bag there’s a stone. Bring it to me, please.

  He spoke so solemnly, I was thrilled to crawl under the porch. There were spider webs everywhere, and anthills. It must also have been gloomy and dark, but I didn’t really notice. There, exactly where Henry said it would be, was the paper bag and, inside, there was a rock. You couldn’t call it anything else. I held it in the palm of my hand to feel its power, and I did feel it; though, by such light as came through the slats of the porch, I could see it was a rock.

  – Wonderful, Henry said as I handed him the paper bag. Now go and wash. We’ll carry on tomorrow.

  – Tomorrow?

  – Yes, Tom. Don’t you trust me?

  – But…

  It wasn’t a matter of trust. I trusted him less than I’d trusted my mother when she asked me to steal, but I believed Henry, believed the magistery was mysterious and powerful. Tomorrow?

  – But…

  – Go and wash, Tom. And don’t worry.

  That night, I was awake for hours trying to picture the workings of the magistery. I understood it could remind mercury of its place, but what about glass? If we could turn glass to gold, I would spend my days collecting bottles, making real money from them, instead of the pennies I gathered for comic books.

  And what would I do with the money, exactly?

  Naturally, I had desires typical of an eleven-year-old. I wanted bicycles (CCM), swimming pools, and go-carts. I wanted an immense home on endless grounds. I wanted animals, running shoes, a ham radio…and all of this, now within reach, was so exciting I had trouble lying still.

  The rooms of my dream house were large and white, with windows looking onto streams and meadows. The books I wanted were dark, leather-bound, and brightly illustrated. One of them in particular, which I almost certainly dreamed, though I don’t remember sleeping, was so vividly engraved that when I opened it to a drawing of spiders, spiders (minute, precise, and ink black) scuttled from the pages.

  That was the kind of thing I thought gold could give.

  The following morning, I was as awake as if I’d slept soundly. I couldn’t wait for the end of breakfast. I couldn’t wait for my mother to leave, for Henry to call me to the lab. Everything happened slowly. Breakfast seemed endless, my mother couldn’t leave fast enough, and Henry was so upset about the raccoons that had pitted his garden, his only thought was how best to keep them from his property. He didn’t seem at all interested in gold.

  – Aren’t we going to the lab today? I asked.

  – I’m sorry, Tom. Of course we are.

  And, finally, though his thoughts were elsewhere, Henry took me to the lab.

  I remember exactly how the lab looked on this morning: magical. It was clear Henry hadn’t forgotten our task at all. On the usually uncluttered table, there was a skyline of beakers, stoppers, pipettes, alembics, and Bunsen burners. It is one of the few times in my life that the outside world has equalled my imagination of it. I wouldn’t have added a beaker or subtracted a tube.

  – So, Tom, what do you see?

  I described everything around me.

  – That’s excellent, Henry said.

  He pointed to the second and third alembics in a row of four.

  – Now this is where the real change happens. Keep your eyes on these two.

  In the second alembic there was a black stone in clear fluid; in the third, a white stone in what appeared to be the same liquid, too thick to be water, too thin to be mercury, though the stones, smooth and round as cat’s-eye marbles, seemed almost to float in it.

  – Watch carefully, Tom.

  Henry took the rock I’d recovered from under the porch and put it in the final beaker in the series, a beaker filled with…?

  – Water.

  In which, to my surprise, the rock floated.

  – What shall we turn to gold? Henry asked.

  – I don’t know.

  – All right, why don’t we use what’s in my pocket?

  – Okay.

  Henry lit the Bunsen burners beneath the alembics, precisely adjusted each of their flames, and then brought a crumpled paper bag from his pocket. It was filled with what looked suspiciously like dirt, but he carefully and ceremoniously tapped the contents into the first of the alembics.

  – What is it? I asked.

  – Raccoon manure, he said.

  As it came to a boil, the liquid in the first alembic turned brown and then made its way through a pipette to the second alembic. Here, it was as if the black stone were ink. The liquid darkened and then made its way to the third alembic, where, miraculously, it whitened and foamed into the final alembic, in which the magistery floated.

  When the process was finished, there being no more manure in the first three alembics, Henry carefully closed off the burners. We waited until things cooled a little, and then he poured the white liquid, and the magistery itself, onto a fine cheesecloth stretched over a shallow pan. Then he gently flooded the cloth with hot water.

  I can’t describe the excitement I felt as a tidy layer of gold emerged from the white dross. I looked up at Henry’s face and saw that he was staring at me. He smiled as if to say: Yes, it’s wonderful.

  – Can we do it again? I asked.

  – We could change manure to gold as often as you like, Tom, but think how disappointing that would be.

  It wouldn’t have been disappointing to me at all, but I nodded sagely, as if I understood, and watched as he slowly dismantled the city of alembics.

  – Can I keep it? I asked, pointing to the gold.

  – Of course, Tom, but where are you going to put it? You can’t keep the dust in your pocket, you know.

  We put the dust in a white envelope addressed to “Mr Henry Wing, esq.” I folded the envelope in half, and then again in half, so that it fit nicely at the bottom of my pants pocket. (I have them still, the envelope and the last of the gold dust. Although the paper has darkened, and the address is legible only if you know where to look, it is the envelope that means most to me now.)

  – Thank you, Henry, I said.

  – Think nothing of it, he answered. Close the door on the way out, will you, Tom?

  He was already distracted by whatever it was that came next.

  * * *

  —

  I understand Mrs Williams disliked my mother, but I don’t understand how she could so thoroughly have underestimated the force of Katarina’s personality. I had misjudged my mother, it’s true, taking her soft voice and calm exterior for a peaceful mind and stable outlook, but I was a child. Mrs Williams should have known better.

  Some time after Henry’s work with the magistery, the mood in our home soured.

  It was either late fall or early winter. Henry and I had already made our excursion to the jeweller’s, to exchange some of my gold for dollars. The jeweller, a grey-haired man with shaky hands, looked down at me with an attentiveness I found embarrassing and held out an impossible clump of money; seventy-nine dollars in small bills, the most money I had ever seen and, in some ways, the most money I will ever see. As we left the shop, the streets were white with snow.

  It wasn’t open warfare between my mother and Mrs Williams; though, considering how goldstruck I was, it must have been a bitter struggle
for me to notice their conflict at all. I mean, I was so preoccupied I could barely pay attention at school and, though I’d agreed to keep it secret, I was dying to tell my friends about Henry’s transformation of raccoon manure; my friends being Rachel and Mickie Jordan, Todd Roberts, and Howie Redhill.

  Despite my mother’s occasional, spiteful mention of Mrs Williams, I assumed their respective places were clear. Henry had come so squarely down on my mother’s side in the altercation over Scotch bonnets, I don’t see how Mrs Williams could have been confused.

  It seems strange to me, now, that she should have bothered to skirmish at all. My mother was uncomfortable in the role of “Mistress Wing.” If Mrs Williams had waited patiently, meekly, she would certainly have returned to power, and the MacMillans’ time at Henry Wing’s might have been an interregnum only.

  But something in her would not accept my mother.

  Perhaps Mrs Williams could be kind, but not meek; considerate, but not self-effacing; good-humoured, but not hypocritical.

  I’m speculating on things I know nothing about. It’s equally possible Mrs Williams was purely self-interested, that Henry was a benefactor she refused to share, or even that, in her own way, she was in love with Henry.

  What I noticed, and then only occasionally, were little signs of conflict and things that were ambiguous until after Mrs Williams’ defeat:

  her hands shook when she set a plate before my mother

  she grew rigid in my mother’s presence

  her voice was toneless when she spoke to my mother

  she began to call me an “unfortunate” child and took up my education, teaching me old and peculiar songs like “Caroline” and “Gold Bond soap to wash your punkalunks.”

  And how did my mother respond?

  she was, at times, ostentatiously agreeable

  at night, there were, occasionally, unkind words about Mrs Williams: “that old…,” “that wrinkled…,” “that nasty…”

  And Henry?

  he seemed even less observant than I, noticing neither Mrs Williams’ insubordination nor Katarina’s reactions.

  So, the end of Mrs Williams’ reign came in winter, some time after I’d exchanged my palmful of dust for money.

  There had been an awkward exchange between my mother and Mrs Williams. My mother casually mentioned that she found it eccentric to wear slippers around the house.

  Mrs Williams, who wore slippers, took offence. She stiffened, and walked out of the dining room without a word, as though nobly bearing an injury. From that day on, she wore nothing but shoes, without socks, the same shoes: black with low heels; shoes that, unfortunately, bore a strong resemblance to a pair my mother owned.

  And one night, a week or so after her remark about slippers, as she wished me goodnight, my mother finally let it out.

  – I can’t stand that woman, she said.

  – Who?

  – She’s ruining us.

  –Who?

  – Mrs Williams. I don’t know why Henry keeps her around.

  – Mrs Williams?

  I could tell my mother was upset. Though her voice was soft, she kept a hand on my shoulder as she spoke.

  – Haven’t you noticed her shoes?

  – Her shoes?

  – She took my shoes.

  – She borrowed them?

  – She took them.

  It wasn’t clear to me why Mrs Williams would take my mother’s shoes, and, given what happened in Alliston (or Bradford), I wasn’t inclined to take my mother’s word for it, but she did something I didn’t expect. My mother asked me to say I’d seen Mrs Williams take her shoes.

  – But I didn’t see her take your shoes, I said.

  – You didn’t see anything with your eyes, my mother answered, but that’s not important.

  How elegant.

  I’ve always been susceptible to fine thinking and, though my mother didn’t always stoop to it, her thinking was particularly fine when she wished it. So what if I hadn’t “seen with my eyes”? This wasn’t about shoes. It wasn’t about theft, and it wasn’t about guilt. Mrs Williams had so poisoned the small world we shared, it wasn’t possible to go on. She would have to leave, or we would, and if it took a little subterfuge to oust the woman, what of it?

  I had come to adore Mrs Williams, but I sided with my mother. This subterfuge was a new intimacy between us.

  The following evening, we sat at our places around the table, Henry, my mother, and I. Mrs Williams had prepared an elaborate meal, and the food itself seemed an act of defiance, with everything spicy enough to make your lips tingle.

  I vividly remember Mrs Williams from these last moments: impassive, silent, a little frail, shuffling, head bowed, shoes clacking noisily on the floor. Everything about her was end-of-the-day weary, and yet she kept up her small defiance, a coldness towards my mother, perhaps imagining that, after all, she would outlast her, that this meal was one less she would have to prepare for “Miss MacMillan.”

  Once we’d eaten, my mother called Mrs Williams back to the dining room and, softly, said

  – Henry, Thomas has something to tell us.

  The three of them looked to me, and I looked back, deeply interested in the proceedings, not nervous at all, curious about the effect my words would have.

  – Mrs Williams stole my mother’s shoes, I said.

  It was thrilling to say it.

  – What’s that? Henry asked.

  – Mrs Williams stole my mother’s shoes.

  Henry stared at me, as if he’d missed something crucial.

  – I steal he mother shoes? Mrs Williams asked.

  She looked at me as if I’d spoken in a foreign language.

  – She’s wearing them now, my mother answered (softly).

  – It ain’ true, said Mrs Williams (coldly).

  How absurd this was. Mrs Williams would have to have been addle-brained to steal my mother’s shoes and parade around in them. And yet…perhaps Mrs Williams imagined my mother would not notice the loss or, noticing, that she would be too polite to say anything. For Henry’s sake, I leave as much room as I can for Mrs Williams’ guilt, though I think he knew how ridiculous all of this actually was.

  Once I’d said what I had to say, the adults turned away from me.

  – It ain’ true, Mrs Williams repeated.

  A silence followed, a silence that stretches and contracts in my memory, moments during which Mrs Williams held herself as upright as she was able, her red hair tucked behind her ears.

  Absurd though the accusation was, my mother didn’t offer a syllable in its defence. She calmly stared at Mrs Williams, until Henry said

  – I’m very sorry, Hilda…I’m afraid you’ll have to leave us.

  – But, Mr Wing, dese shoes kyar fit Miss MacMillan.

  A crucial point and, to drive it home, she stepped out of her shoes, clumsily, leaning forward on the table to push one off with the other.

  No one looked at the shoes.

  – I’m very sorry, Henry repeated, but you’ll have to leave us.

  Another strained silence, with Henry looking down at his plate, and my mother staring at the old woman until, with all the dignity she could manage, Mrs Williams said

  – Is I sorry for you, Henry.

  In my lifetime I have watched thousands and thousands of people leaving rooms. It is never the same. Though it is you who are left behind, there are some people one leaves with, and some one abandons without moving. Mrs Williams was wearing a white sweater. (Her dress was calf-length, light blue, and her back looked so narrow.) At the time, her exit struck me as neither sad nor pathetic. It was the logical conclusion to something or other, but although I have sometimes imagined I abandoned Mrs Williams, a part of me walked out with her.


  – Thank you, my mother said as Mrs Williams left.

  – You’re welcome, Kata, Henry answered.

  Just like that.

  * * *

  —

  And yet…

  The incident thrives in my subconscious, always supposing I have one, as I’m convinced it thrived in Henry’s.

  It’s a difficult thriving to delineate. If I feel troubled by Mrs Williams’ departure, it has less to do with my having lied than with the way I lied. It must have been clear to everyone that my words were a pretext, proof that I took my mother’s side in this campaign. I was only a catalyst. You couldn’t even call it lying, really. It was more like a thoughtless devotion.

  Nor was I altogether disappointed by the results. The three of us, Henry, my mother, and I, did grow closer, however briefly, once Mrs Williams was out of the picture.

  No, the thing that troubles me is how easy, how fascinating it was to lie, how completely poor Mrs Williams was obliterated.

  Henry’s feelings on the matter are even more difficult to describe. He couldn’t have sided with Mrs Williams any more than I, but he must have known we’d been unfaithful. I imagine he was as disappointed in me as he was in himself, and though it wasn’t in him to punish me, the way he closed the door on goldmaking seems as much a rebuke as it was a lesson.

  Weeks after Mrs Williams’ defeat, I was still flush with the money I’d made from our gold. I bought comics (Spiderman, Iron Man, Doctor Strange), Converse All-Stars, a shortwave radio. I spent happily, believing there would be no end to fortune. Seventy-nine dollars was so much money, it took me two months to exhaust.

  At the end of that exhilarating time, I decided I needed a new coat, something less bulky than the one I had, and blue instead of green. I was so pleased with my decision to spend practically, I resolved to be even more practical in future. That is, it finally occurred to me I could also buy things for others, for my mother and for Henry, though that would mean making even more gold so I could have as much for myself.