The Last Summer of Freedom—Revised Version

 

 

THE LAST SUMMER OF FREEDOM

Ken Bartlett sat on the front porch with his wife, Jean, the two of them enjoying their morning tea as they watched deer emerge from the woods. Ken had begun reading aloud an article about the rebuilding of Regent Park, when the phone rang, interrupting the moment. Jean went inside to answer, and Ken was left alone with his thoughts.

Memories of Regent Park were never far from his mind. For all the criticism it received, Ken remembered it fondly. That place had shaped him. Reading the article had stirred a particular memory from the summer he turned fifteen.

The summer between grades nine and ten was Kenny Bartlett’s last taste of freedom—no job, no responsibilities, just long days with nothing to do and nowhere to be. He was too young for a part-time job, yet by next summer he’d be done school and expected to work full time.

At the crack of dawn on the first morning of that last summer of freedom, frantic knocking at the apartment door shook Kenny from a deep sleep. He listened as his father dragged himself out of bed, cursed as he passed Kenny’s room and unlatched the door. For a moment, Kenny worried something had happened to one of his grandparents who lived in the apartment next door. The voices were muffled, but there was no mistaking the broken English of Mr. Gamboni, the building caretaker who lived two doors down. He was speaking fast and seemed upset, causing Kenny to suspect—“that Eye-talian” as his father referred to him—had found the fireworks his brothers had hidden behind the utility shed. The conversation at the door lasted only a few minutes, and then Kenny heard his father muttering as he headed back to his bedroom.

“What was that all about?” he heard his mother ask.

“Oh it was that Eye-talian,” his father  sighed. “I don’t know why he needed to wake us up. I don’t care that his wife left him. I don’t pound on the neighbours' door every time we split up.”

Kenny had to laugh at that. His parents split up every other week.

“She’s gone back to Italy.”

“Gone back to Italy? I just saw her yesterday,” his mother said, her voice rising. ”She never said she was leaving. Why did he have to tell us? Did he wake up any other neighbours? I hope he didn’t disturb your parents.” 

“Damned if I know,” his father grumbled. “It’s five thirty, who wakes neighbours at that hour of the morning? You might as well get up and make my breakfast. I’ll go to work early.”

Kenny was wide awake now too and lay in bed wondering why Mr. Gamboni had disturbed them. Moanie Gamboni, always complaining about something. No doubt, if his best friend Junior Colquhoun got wind of it he’d be on the case. He waited until his father and two older brothers left for work before getting out of bed. Breakfast would be quiet since his younger brother had stayed with his grandparents the night before.

His mother was in the kitchen, enjoying her second cup of coffee. Kenny poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat across from her

“Did you hear Mr. Gamboni at the door this morning?” she asked, before taking a long drag from her cigarette.

“Yeah, he woke me up.”

“Mrs. Gamboni left him, went back to Italy.”

"And if he's gonna suffer—we're all gonna suffer," Kenny  grumbled.

“I guess so.” His mother muttered as she finished her coffee and smoke.

Kenny read the cereal box while he finished his breakfast.

“I’m going next door to get your brother. I won’t be long,” his mother announced as she lit another cigarette and rinsed her coffee cup.

Kenny knew she’d be a while—his mother and grandmother would be knee-deep in gossip. But, just in case, as soon as he finished eating, and before his mother could return to dump his little brother on him—Kenny slipped out and escaped to the playing field between the buildings. Junior was standing at the baseball diamond casting a long shadow across the home plate  deep in thought.

Kenny snuck up close behind him, poked him and whispered, “What’s up?” giving Junior a fright.

The two boys had been friends since their first day of school. Both were born on Oak Street and later moved with their families into the new Regent Park apartments, built to replace the crumbling tenement houses. City planners had called Oak Street “a blight on the post-war map of Toronto”. For Kenny and Junior, and plenty of other kids it had been their home, but the new buildings marked a fresh start for the neighbourhood, and the boys were thrilled when their families ended up on the same floor.

The friends couldn’t have been more different. Kenny was small for his age—quiet, shy, and usually content to stay in the background. Junior, on the other hand, towered over him by a good six inches, outweighed him by at least thirty pounds, and had an air of confidence that Kenny admired.

“I’m just thinking,” Junior said as he turned around to face Kenny. “Moanie Gamboni woke us up this morning just to tell my mother his wife left him.”

“Hey, us too. First thing this morning. My dad was none too happy either.”

“Kinda strange, don’t ya think? Why make such a federal case about it? Somethin’s not right I tell ya. Somethin’s just not right.”

As Kenny’s mother was returning to her apartment with her youngest son she ran into Mrs. Colquhoun and Mrs. Story gossiping in the hallway. The women had reached the conclusion that Mrs. Gamboni left because her husband was having an affair and the mistress had his baby.  

“No no no,” Mrs. Bartlett disagreed, “I’m not surprised she left him, but not because he was cheating.”

Her neighbours were anxious to hear her theory.

“There’s a reason the kids call him Moanie Gamboni. His poor wife is a saint for putting up with him. But everyone reaches a breaking point.”

Mrs. Story nodded, “So true, and she waits on him hand and foot.” 

Junior, however, was convinced Mr. Gamboni had bumped off his wife—and buried her under the baseball diamond. He grabbed Kenny by the arm, "Just like that Hitchcock movie we saw. Come on. We gotta find the proof."

He dragged him around the baseball diamond where the dirt was perfectly smooth, raked clean, not a footprint in sight.

“I think I saw him out here last night with a wheelbarrow and a shovel. He buried her. I know it. And look at the pitcher's mound—it's never been that high. ”

Kenny stared, blinking in disbelief. “He killed his wife? And dumped her...here?” 

Junior was serious. “I heard them arguing yesterday. Now she’s gone. And he says she went back to Italy.” Junior’s eyes widened. “He had to get his story straight. So he woke us all up this morning to cover his tracks.”

He stepped closer to the edge of the field, scanning the dirt and stroking his chin. Kenny followed, torn between thinking his friend was nuts—and wanting to believe every word.

Kenny was facing Junior as they discussed their dilemma when he suddenly noticed Mr. Gamboni lurking near the shed.

“Don’t turn around,” he instructed Junior, “we’re being watched.”

Of course, Junior turned around. And Mr. Gamboni ducked behind the shed.

“I told you not to turn around. Now he knows we’re on to him.”

“Come on, we’ll go back to my place and figure out how we’re gonna handle this.”

“No, we can’t go back inside, if my mother sees me she’ll stick me with my kid brother. Let’s head over to Riverdale Park. We can talk there.”

But before they could make their escape, Mr. Gamboni approached them. “Heya, you boys. I founda you fireworks behind the shed.”

“Ain’t ours and ya got no proof,” declared Junior. 

With that, the boys turned to find Kenny’s mother heading towards them with her youngest son.

“Ah shucks. Now I’m stuck with the kid,” groaned Kenny. 

“I’ll handle this, watch and learn,” boasted Junior.

“I have errands to run today, Kenny. I’ll need you ...”

But before she could finish, Junior  interrupted.

“Good morning Mrs. Bartlett, and good morning to you little fellow. You and your mommy going shopping? Sure is nice to have your mommy all to yourself, ain’t it. Aren’t you a lucky little boy?” Junior knew if he lay it on thick enough the kid would put up a fuss when his mother tried to leave him.

Sure enough, she was in a bind. The kid wouldn’t let go of her hand. She stared at Kenny. Kenny stared at the ground. Junior stared at the kid and the kid began to cry. For several minutes she pleaded with the child but in the end, she accepted defeat and the two headed off to run her errands.

Junior grinned, “And that, my boy, is how it’s done. Now let’s get outta here. You can thank me later.”

Kenny wasn’t convinced Mr. Gamboni had murdered his wife—but it was fun to play along while Junior plotted the investigation.

“We’ll  break into his apartment,” Junior declared. 

“Hmm. Not a good idea,” Kenny replied, realizing Junior wasn't joking.

But Junior was convinced, “We’re bound to find something—blood stains, the weapon." 

Kenny raised an obvious concern. “If—and I’m only saying if—he did kill her, don’t you think we’d be next?”

Junior paused, considering it. “True. Okay—you keep him occupied while I get in.”

“Maybe we’d have more luck in the utility shed,” Kenny suggested. He’d rather be caught breaking into the shed than into Mr. Gamboni’s apartment. “That’s probably where he would’ve done it.”

Junior’s eyes lit up. “Good thinking! You’re small enough to fit through the window. I’ll keep him distracted.”

Kenny wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for—or what he’d  do if he found something. But he agreed.

“Tonight then. After dinner. I’ll keep Mr. Gamboni busy while you break into the shed.”

They spent the day fine-tuning their mission. Junior would lure Mr. Gamboni to the laundry room by claiming he’d found more fireworks. Kenny, meanwhile, would sneak into the shed, using a small ladder they’d spotted behind the garbage bins.

While the boys plotted their grand investigation, Mrs. Bartlett was returning from her errands. She was just about to cross the street when she was  greeted with a warm smile and a wave.

“Mrs. Bartlett! So nice to see you. And your little one—so sweet. How are you?”

It was Rosie Manicotti—Mrs. Gamboni’s sister and a frequent visitor to the building. Mrs. Bartlett froze. She had spoken to this woman  many times, but now she was at a loss for words. 

“You don’t remember me?” Rosie laughed gently. “It’s Rosie. Rosie Manicotti.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Bartlett stammered. “Mrs. Gamboni’s sister. Lovely to see you.”

She hesitated. Should she ask? Should she say anything? It would be rude not to. But what if the family didn’t know?

Finally, she blurted it out: “I’m sorry to hear your sister returned to Italy.”

Rosie blinked. “Oh—no cara mia, you are mistaken. My sister is staying with me. Our mother just arrived from Italy!”

“But your brother-in-law, he told everyone she left him. She went back to Italy.”

Rosie laughed. “Stupido, Testa dura—hard head. He won’t allow my mother to stay at their place and my sister, she wants to visit her mother.”

“So she hasn’t left him?”

“Do not worry Mrs. Bartlett. She will be home in a few days.”

“He woke up the entire building this morning. Why would he do that?”

“Cretino—idiot, that man  wouldn't survive without my sister.”

As the women parted, Mrs. Manicotti was muttering in Italian and still laughing. 

Kenny returned to the apartment just as his father arrived home.

“Who wants to hear the latest?” his mother asked, anxious to share the news. “I saw Mrs. Manicotti today, you know, Mrs. Gamboni’s sister. The real story—Mr. Gamboni is angry his mother-in-law is visiting from Italy and his wife went to her sister’s place to spend time with her.”

Kenny couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He had to tell Junior. But Junior got the news from his mother and the two boys almost crashed into one another as they dashed from their apartments.

“No murder,” lamented Junior.

“Nope. No body buried under the  pitcher's mound. No mystery,” added Kenny. 

They shrugged, and burst into laughter.

Mrs. Gamboni apologized to everyone when she returned, and confided  that her husband  is useless without her. Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Colquhoun assured her, they understood completely.

Jean returned from her phone call  with a fresh cup of tea to find  her husband lost in his thoughts.

“What were you thinking about?” she asked, sipping her tea. 

He smiled faintly. “Mr. Gamboni. Junior. That summer.”

Jean chuckled. “Ah, the murder that never was?”

“That’s the one.”

“Funny,” Ken mused, “Regent Park is still so fresh in my mind.”

“It was a big part of your youth, your life.”

He smiled. “It was the last summer of freedom.”

“Until you retired,” Jean laughed. “You’ve had twenty six summers of freedom since then.”

And for a little while longer, Ken sat quietly thinking about how lucky he was.