Читать книгу Box Socials - W. Kinsella P. - Страница 10

Until shortly before John ‘The Raja of Renfrew’ Ducey scheduled that exhibition baseball game, most of us in the Six Towns area had seen but one real live American soldier close up. Those who lived near the Edmonton-Jasper Highway had seen an occasional truck or Jeep carrying American soldiers who were maybe off to build the Alaska Highway, but more likely just sightseeing, and Bjornsen’s Corner never did have a gas pump, so even if they needed gas they had to drive on to a town called Wildwood, a long ways west of the Six Towns area.

Curly McClintock and his son, Truckbox Al McClintock, had both seen, on their twice-weekly jaunts to Edmonton in the dump truck, the long convoys of camouflage-brindle trucks and Jeeps heading west on the Edmonton-Jasper Highway, toward the Whitecourt turnoff, a turnoff which, in seven or eight days, would take them to where the rest of the American troops were building the Alaska Highway.

Curly McClintock and his son, Truckbox Al McClintock, both attempted to describe what they had seen, but both were slow-talking, and slow-thinking, and covered in an inordinate amount of grease and oil, and whenever anyone asked them a question they both looked as if they’d been asked to write an essay on a subject unfamiliar to them, so the residents of the Six Towns area never got a proper description of the convoys of camouflage-brindle trucks and Jeeps, let alone of the American soldiers who manned the camouflage-brindle trucks and Jeeps.

One afternoon an American soldier, driving a camouflage-brindle, two-ton army truck, and carrying a dispatch pouch full of supposedly vital information, completely and cleanly missed the Whitecourt turnoff, and might have carried on until he traveled all the way to Jasper, and got stopped by the mountains, except that the camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck developed engine trouble and stopped dead in the center of the road, within spitting distance of Bjornsen’s Corner.

The lone American soldier pushed the camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck off to the side of the road, then stood with his hands on his hips and stared all around him. What he saw to the left of the Edmonton-Jasper Highway was a lot of muskeg sprinkled with twisty tamarack trees, while what he saw to the right of the Edmonton-Jasper Highway was a lot of prairie covered in red clover, and a big, white farmhouse with green shutters, sitting well back in a grove of cottonwoods.

The lone American soldier walked the quarter mile to the big white farmhouse with green shutters, which belonged to Sven Bjornsen, of the Bjornsen Bros. Swinging Cowboy Musicmakers, clutching the dispatch pouch which contained supposedly vital information, and once he made himself understood, which wasn’t easy, because he came from South Carolina, and the Bjornsens came from Norway, and what each of them called English didn’t sound like English to the other one, he was able to use Sven Bjornsen’s telephone, one of only two in the Six Towns area since Curly and Gunhilda McClintock allowed their telephone to be cut off for non-payment, to call the United States Army in Edmonton and let them know approximately where he was.

Approximately, because when the lone American soldier asked where he was, Sven Bjornsen said very authoritatively, ‘You’re at Bjornsen’s Corner, Alberta, Canada.’

Sven Bjornsen said that so authoritatively that the lone American soldier believed him, and the United States Army believed the lone American soldier when he gave that as his location. Finding the lone American soldier proved to be quite difficult for the United States Army, because, when they copied down the information the lone American soldier gave them, they didn’t know that (a) the lone American soldier had missed the Whitecourt turnoff and was many miles west of where he was supposed to be, and (b) that as far as map makers were concerned, there was no such place as Bjornsen’s Corner, Alberta, Canada.

The lone American soldier then tinkered with his camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck, enough so that he could call back the United States Army in Edmonton, the first time Sven Bjornsen’s phone had been used for two long distance calls in one day, and tell them what he thought was wrong with it, and the United States Army in Edmonton told him to hold tight and another camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck would be sent to Bjornsen’s Corner with replacement parts, only, they added, the parts had to come from someplace like Michigan or Minnesota, so he should hold tight for a few days.

When the lone American soldier asked about the dispatch pouch containing supposedly vital information, the party he was conversing with said he was a mechanic and that wasn’t his department and what difference could it make if a few pieces of paper were a few days late getting to Alaska, and the lone American soldier said he had to agree.

That lone American soldier was an amiable sort, and the first night he was at Bjornsen’s Corner, he sat right in with the Bjornsen Bros. Swinging Cowboy Musicmakers, played the spoons like he was a regular musician, and sang Jimmie Rodgers’s songs in a high, sweet voice, like they were meant to be sung.

There were eleven Bjornsens in the house at Bjornsen’s Corner but they made room for the lone American soldier anyway.

‘Ve vill yust put anoder cup of vater in the soup,’ said Mrs. Bjornsen, which she did.

But when, after a week, the second camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck didn’t arrive with the parts, the Bjornsens arranged for the lone American soldier to move in with the Wasyl Lakustas, who were known as the Lakustas by the lake, although Lily Lake, the lake they lived by, had dried up years earlier.

The lone American soldier was both willing and able to pay for board and room, while the Wasyl Lakustas were known (a) to be so poor their children took bacon-fat sandwiches to school, when they went to school, which was infrequently, and (b) to have two eligible daughters, at least one of whom was rumored to be hot-blooded.

Now the lone American soldier, who had a name, but who everybody, which at this point was only the eleven Bjornsens, referred to as the Little American Soldier, because of his size, which was negligible, the Little American Soldier took an immediate shine to Lavonia Lakusta who was seventeen, had dark red hair and brown eyes, and was rumored to be the hot-blooded one among the Lakusta sisters.

Two more weeks passed, and the Little American Soldier walked from the Lakustas by the lake to Bjornsen’s Corner and again used the phone to call his superiors and inquire about the missing truck parts. The United States Army told the Little American Soldier to be patient, that they hadn’t forgotten about him, that they had ordered parts for his camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck from Michigan or Minnesota or wherever, and that they had tracked down the approximate location of Sven Bjornsen’s telephone, and that it wasn’t anywhere near where the Little American Soldier was supposed to be, but since he was liable to be there for a spell, a spell being a unit of time that both the Little American Soldier and the United States Army understood, it was agreed that his pay would be sent to the post office at Fark, which was the closest post office to Bjornsen’s Corner, a place which the United States Army said didn’t exist. In the meantime, several of the eleven Bjornsens had towed the Little American Soldier’s camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck into their yard and parked it in their machine shed.

Wasyl Lakusta, of the Lakustas by the lake, thinking of his old age, recognized good solid son-in-law material when he saw it, and did what he could to promote a match between the Little American Soldier and his daughter, Lavonia. Promoting the match mainly involved showing off Lavonia’s cooking and showing off Lavonia. The oldest Lakusta girl, Sylvie, who was nineteen, took after her mother, and was as Wasyl Lakusta described her, ‘Not much good for look at, but pretty much good for strong.’

Wasyl wasn’t worried about finding a husband for Sylvie, one of the Yaremko boys from Stanger had already shown an interest, a large-bodied Yaremko with legs like tree stumps and knuckles that grazed the ground when he walked, and he was at that very moment building himself a place to live, converting a granary into a cabin, and with a wife by his side they could apply as a couple to homestead three hundred and twenty acres instead of just one hundred and sixty, which was all a single man was allowed to apply for.

But Lavonia was another matter, slim and delicately constructed, she was only good for light work around the house, weeding the garden, feeding the chickens, and for going to round up the milk cows morning and evening. So Wasyl Lakusta, thinking of his old age, arranged for Lavonia and the Little American Soldier to be left alone as often as possible, and even took his pocket knife and cut the cowbell off the neck of the lead cow, so the animals would be harder to find, and leave Lavonia and the Little American Soldier, who always accompanied her, longer to walk alone in the woods and get acquainted.

The Little American Soldier was not slow, and on these long walks he admired Lavonia’s dark red hair, stared into her brown eyes, and discerned by the very act of being alone with her that the rumor about Lavonia being hot-blooded was true.

As far as Lavonia was concerned, the Little American Soldier, in his khaki-gaberdine uniform, and genuine military cap that made him look like Smilin’ Jack, the hero of a Big Little Book she and her brothers and sisters shared, one of two books in the Lakusta cabin, the other being a Bible printed in Ukrainian, was just the handsomest, best-looking man she had ever seen. She particularly like the uniform. Lavonia’s best girlfriend was Stevie Dwerynchuk, and one of Stevie Dwerynchuk’s brothers was in the Canadian infantry, but when he came home on leave his uniform was the color and texture of weatherstripping, and instead of a genuine military cap that made him look like Smilin’ Jack, he wore a turned-over-trough of a cap made of the same ugly, scratchy material as his uniform.

Mrs. Wasyl Lakusta, her first name was Rose, though no one called her Rose, except Mr. Wasyl Lakusta, thinking of her old age, immediately recognized the Little American Soldier as good solid prospective son-in-law material. She boiled up many fat pyrogies (little dumplings stuffed with cottage cheese), each one bulging with the cheese; she fried them in bacon grease and onions; she had Lavonia carry them to the table and set them in front of the Little American Soldier, and when he didn’t seem to know what to do with them, she had Lavonia spoon thick sour cream over the pyrogies, sprinkle them with pepper and caraway seeds. Then Mrs. Wasyl Lakusta would appear from the kitchen, smiling from beneath her babushka, careful not to show her bad teeth, and say, ‘Eat! Eat! Lavonia cook, you eat!’ using up four of the half dozen English words she knew. And eat he did, his brown eyes happy. And he shaved each morning using Wasyl Lakusta’s straight razor, first dipping warm water from the reservoir on the cook stove and placing it in a white enamel wash basin with a scarlet line around the rim.

During the Little American Soldier’s third week there, the Lakustas butchered a pig, one they’d intended to fatten until winter, but after a long conference involving the Wasyl Lakustas, Sylvie Lakusta and her oldest brother, Nestor, and Sylvie’s fiancé, Pete Yaremko, the conference held while the Little American Soldier was walking with Lavonia Lakusta along what would have been the banks of Lily Lake, if Lily Lake hadn’t dried up several years earlier. At the conference it was decided the most important thing they could do was feed Lavonia’s prospective husband, their collectively prospective son-in-law, and brother-in-law, as well as was humanly possible. That same afternoon the pig, who had expected to live at least until the first snowfall, and since the first snowfall was known to occasionally happen in August, probably long after that, was bashed in the center of the forehead by a sledgehammer with Pete Yaremko attached to the handle of it, had barely fallen to its knees when Sylvie Lakusta slashed its throat with a butcher knife, and Wasyl Lakusta attached a rope to its left hind foot and the three of them swung it aloft from the log arch above the corral gate.

The Little American Soldier took to the Lakustas by the lake like fleas to a dog, but he especially took to Lavonia and her dark red hair, brown eyes, and delicate construction. One afternoon, he walked the four miles to the Fark General Store, where he picked up his army pay and bought for Lavonia’s dark red hair a pair of barrettes shaped like everlasting daisies, white flowers with yellow centers. And he brought home a sackful of store-bought groceries, including coffee, chocolate bars, and two packs of tailor-made cigarettes.

He showed Lavonia’s youngest brother how to tie string to the four corners of a khaki handkerchief so as to make it a parachute, and how to fold that parachute, and how to put a stone in the middle and toss it up in the air, then to duck the stone when it fell back down and watch the parachute float to the ground just like dandelion fluff.

Now the Bjornsen Brothers, both the ones in the Swinging Cowboy Musicmakers and the ones not, were no slouches as mechanics, so with a welding torch and the frame of a 1939 Terra-plane that had rolled in the ditch two miles west of Bjornsen’s Corner the winter before and been abandoned, and a certain amount of native Norwegian mechanical genius, they constructed a part or two that made the Little American Soldier’s camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck operational again.

Five weeks had passed by now, and the Little American Soldier still phoned Edmonton every week, and the United States Army still told him to hang in there, that the parts were on the way from Michigan or Minnesota or wherever, and that they hadn’t forgotten him. The Little American Soldier had tucked the dispatch pouch, full of supposedly vital information, underneath the seat of his truck and more or less forgotten about it.

Once the Bjornsen Brothers, the ones in the Bjornsen Bros. Swinging Cowboy Musicmakers, and the ones not, had used their native Norwegian mechanical genius to make the camouflage-brindle two-ton truck operational again, the Little American Soldier was able to drive around and explore the Six Towns area, nearly always taking Lavonia Lakusta with him. They’d drive up to New Oslo and buy gas, then head over to Doreen Beach, where the brick general store with glass windows had an ice house attached and, for about two hours twice a week had ice-cream cones available, the two hours being right after Curly McClintock had unloaded from his dump truck the grocery order from the wholesale in Edmonton, which included a gallon tub of ice cream.

Once word got around about the Lakustas by the lake having acquired their very own American soldier, they had an inordinate number of visitors, including my daddy and me, who just happened to drive four miles out of our way after a trip in our horse and cart, to Fark General Store of a Saturday afternoon. It was, my daddy said, about as crowded at the Lakustas by the lake, as it had been years before when we acquired our very own radio, for the widow, Mrs. Beatrice Ann Stevenson, was there, as were just about every family in the Six Towns area who had an eligible daughter.

The Little American Soldier, and Victor Lakusta, Lavonia’s youngest brother, demonstrated to me how to fold a khaki handkerchief the way a parachute was supposed to be folded, how to put a stone in the middle, how to toss the handkerchief and the stone into the air, how to duck the stone and watch the parachute float to earth just like dandelion fluff. I never did master folding the handkerchief, and after I got home I folded one of Daddy’s red bandannas like I thought a parachute should be folded, put a stone in the middle and tossed it in the air, where the stone came out but the still-wadded bandanna dropped straight down in a soft lump. The stone hit me on the top of the head causing a small hard lump and severely damaged pride. After that I remembered to duck the stone but the parachute never opened properly even once.

When it became apparent to the families with eligible daughters, that the Little American Soldier was smitten by Lavonia Lakusta, the discovery unleashed a certain amount of jealousy. Folks in the Six Towns area, not only those with eligible daughters, for the widow, Mrs. Beatrice Ann Stevenson, who had no daughters, or children at all for that matter, and Mrs. Edytha Rasmussen Bozniak, whose daughter, Velvet, wouldn’t be eligible for five or six years, depending on what age one considered a daughter eligible, were jealous that it was Lavonia Lakusta who landed the Little American Soldier, and in their jealousy began asking themselves philosophical questions like, Why couldn’t the Little American Soldier’s camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck have broken down a mile from their house, instead of over by Bjornsen’s Corner? Or, Why couldn’t the Bjornsens have steered the Little American Soldier their way, instead of arranging for him to board and room with the Lakustas by the lake?

The more outspoken asked questions like, How come the Bjornsens, who were Norwegians through and through, didn’t steer the most eligible bachelor to hit the Six Towns area in ten years to a Norwegian family with an eligible daughter, instead of to a Ukrainian family with two eligible daughters? That question got asked philosophically, then got asked out loud, then got asked directly to the Bjornsens, and got asked so loudly on a couple of occasions that a shoving match ensued, though it was broken up before it progressed to an altercation, a fist fight, or a genuine brouhaha, and before any blood was drawn on either side.