The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.2003, Blaðsíða 37

Vol. 57 #4
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
173
dispute that point, I missed the rest of my
parents’ conversation.
Despite my mother’s misgivings, my
father went out to the garage to get a pair of
tongs that our Uncle Bart (the blacksmith,
not the accountant) had lent him but had
never asked for back. At this, even Brian
admitted some interest, but we were for-
bidden to enter the spare room with my
father. While my mother boiled some
water and my siblings complained, I quiet-
ly crept into the cupboard, which ran along
the wall between the kitchen and the spare
room. I had discovered a little peephole in
the wall long before, when I was five, but
there had never been anything interesting
enough in either the guest room or the cup-
board for me to use it before. I nestled in
between the flour and the sink pipes to see
what my father was going to do.
From what I could see, he approached
the man hesitantly, holding the tongs. I
suppose that pulling a stone out of some-
one’s head was awkward from a social as
well as an engineering point of view. My
father grasped the stone with the tongs and
braced his foot on either the bed or the
man’s face; I couldn’t see which it was from
where I sat, but I remember thinking at the
time that the most logical place would be
the man’s head, because that was how I
pulled nails out of two-by-fours with my
hammer.
Well, my father was fairly strong, and
he heaved for all he was worth. What hap-
pened next was somewhat confusing; the
man gave a great shout, and I saw my father
fly across the room. The dresser must have
fallen over my peephole, because I couldn’t
see anything. I was so startled that I
jumped back, knocking over the flour and
pushing the cupboard door open. I
emerged, covered in flour. I heard my
father saying “Jesus Christ!” (more than
once), and Brian yelled that he would get
the twelve-gauge. The man was shouting in
a language that I didn’t understand, or else
he just knew swears that I hadn’t heard yet.
When Lisa saw me, she shrieked, which
scared me again, so I screamed, too. My
mother had had quite enough of this by
that point and when she yelled at us to be
quiet, everyone listened. Even the man.
My mother proceeded quickly into the
room as the rest of us hovered by the door-
way. My father was getting up, holding the
tongs, which still held the stone. My moth-
er went directly to the man and pressed a
steaming cloth against his head. He began
to protest loudly, but she silenced him with
a sharp, “Tut!” and proceeded with her
work. He wasn’t too thrilled about the per-
oxide, either, but he patiently endured my
mother’s ministrations, and when she was
done, he looked much better.
The next thing was to wash him up. He
seemed confused by our bathroom, so my
mother ran a bath for him. She said that
because of the blow to the head, he must
have amnesia. That was a new word for me,
and I thought she meant, “He must have
magnesia,” so I ran off to get some for him.
When I returned, he was already having his
bath and my mother said that I mustn’t
bother him. Just as I was wondering
whether even our four-legged cast-iron
bathtub would be big enough for him, he
started singing. I didn’t understand a word
of it, and from the look on my mother’s
face, neither did she.
Everyone could hear him downstairs,
and they were as mystified as we were. My
father muttered that he was probably a
patient from Selkirk who had gotten away.
Before we could discuss his origins any fur-
ther, the phone rang. It was one of the
neighbours, calling to ask if we had seen
anything odd the previous night. My father
glanced to us for suggestions as to what he
should say. My mother frowned and shook
her head quickly, and I and my siblings
unanimously agreed that we should keep
the man to ourselves. My father feigned
ignorance of any unusual goings-on, and
when the neighbour persisted, he joked
that perhaps he ought to be more careful
with his next batch of cider.
The man came downstairs shortly, in
my grandfather’s old housecoat. It was far
too small on him, but he didn’t seem to
mind. My mother made breakfast for him,
and sent us all about our chores. I passed
through the kitchen casually as often as I
could, and I saw that wherever he came
from, he sure was hungry; he consumed six
eggs, five pieces of toast, ten flapjacks, four