A Short History of Indians in Canada: Stories

Little Bombs

Little Bombs So far as Larry could remember, Janice started hiding the bombs the same week that the Plymouth died. There had been symptoms, of course. A deep, grinding growl. Iridescent pools of oil and gas in the driveway. A thumping knock that telescoped up through the steering wheel and made Janice’s hands and arms numb. It was Janice’s car, and, for the eight months that it staggered and sputtered about, Larry was sympathetic. “I don’t know what to do, honey. We can’t afford a new one, and it doesn’t make much sense to throw good money after bad.” And he would hold her and pat her head. The car finally collapsed in the Bay parking lot and had to be towed to Ralph’s Shell station on Fairfield. “It’s not worth the fixing,” Ralph told Larry and Janice. “The engine is shot.” They left the Plymouth at the station and drove home in Larry’s Chrevrolet, which ran well, but needed two new tires and a tune-up. Larry stood in the front yard that evening and held Janice, watched the sun set, and looked at the Chrevrolet. He kissed her on the forehead 78 and squeezed her. “What the hell,” he said. “Let’s buy a new car. Damn, let’s get a new one.” So Larry and Janice sold the Plymouth to Ralph, who said he could use it for parts, and bought a brand new Ford from Herb Nash. The car came equipped with a stereo radio and tape deck, automatic windows, reclining bucket seats, spoke wheels, cruise control, and an odometer for those long trips. It was a brilliant green, metallic with tiny gold flakes deep in the paint. From a distance, it looked like a gumdrop. Herb was giving away certificates for a free dinner at the Brown Jug for anyone who bought a new or used car from him, and he was able to enter their names in the company’s contest for a free trip to Disneyland, even though the contest had officially closed last Saturday. “Good customers are important to me,” Herb said, and he shook Larry’s hand, smiled at Janice, and slid the keys across the table. Larry took the keys to the Ford, fished the keys to the Chevrolet out of his pocket, and dropped them into Janice’s hand. “We’ll get some retreads next month,” he said. “But the tune-up will probably have to wait.” The following Monday, after the football game, as he turned off the twenty-eight-inch remote-control colour television he had bought for Janice at Christmas, Larry found the first bomb. It wasn’t a large bomb. In fact, it was a very small bomb, about the size of a grape. It was blue, royal blue to be precise. The bomb had been stuck to the back of the television with a wad of gum. The fuse was grey and about an inch long. Little Bombs 79 Janice was in the kitchen doing the dishes. “Honey,” Larry said, “look what I found on the back of the television .” “Oh, that,” said Janice. “It’s a bomb, honey,” said Larry. “I don’t know how it got there.” Janice turned the pot over and scrubbed the black stain. “I put it there.” “You put it there?” “I bought it at Sam’s. I liked the colour.” “Why would you want to put a bomb on the television ?” “It’s not a bomb, sweetheart,” said Janice. “It’s really just a firecracker. It was a joke. Here . . .” And she took a match from above the stove, lit the fuse, and tossed the blue bomb out the window and into the yard. “See,” said Janice. “Hardly any louder than popcorn.” Larry found the next bomb behind the toilet, stuck to the porcelain with a piece of grey duct tape. He had leaned over to find the December issue of Penthouse, and there it was. It was slightly larger than the first bomb, and this one was silver. Janice shook her head when he brought it downstairs. “I found this in the bathroom.” “Honestly, honey,” said Janice. “I can’t hide anything from you.” “Are you all right?” “It was supposed to be a surprise.” “You could have damaged the toilet.” 80 A Short History of Indians in Canada “Don’t be silly...