by Tom Moore
“Okay, I’ll try it, with a cup of tea.” Then, feeling a bit braver, I said, “In a teapot, not a bag in a cup.”
He smiled. “A teapot is the only way we serve it, sir.” He jotted down the necessary information on a small notepad, and I noticed his name tag, Ryan.
“Same name as me,” I said.
“Sir?”
“I said my name is Ryan, same as yours.”
“Is it, now? Where are you headed, Mr. Ryan?”
“Off to the mainland to go to university. Got all my gear out there in my father’s truck.”
“I’ve got a young fellow on the mainland playing hockey.”
“Really? I don’t know much about hockey.”
“He’s playing with the Minnesota Fighting Saints, trying to make a go of it just like you. Misses home a lot.” He sighed.
“I guess I will, too.”
Then another customer beckoned, and Mr. Ryan was gone.
At about six o’clock I started to think about a place to stay. The calmness of evening was settling on the land between the Springdale and Baie Verte junctions. Long shadows formed across the highway, and stands of white birch stood tall on the banks of the Indian River, where Beothuk Indians once paddled their sturdy canoes.
My mood was getting sullen as the evening thickened into night. I thought about sleeping in the truck to save thirty dollars, but the lights of the Deer Lake Motel beckoned me at about eight p.m. It was a long, one-storey building with a well-lit restaurant sporting huge glass windows. I could see families enjoying a meal. The lights were warm and inviting. It had been four hours since I ate that salmon, so I decided on a snack and a bed for the night.
The next morning, I awoke before dawn, dreaming that I was still a boy in my father’s house. If I stepped out of bed in the dark, my feet would touch the cold canvas floor. Behind the wall hung my father’s big sign, nailed firmly to the old wood on the front of the house.
But a new feeling was creeping through me. From the bed I looked between the motel curtains at the black sky now showing an early tinge of navy blue. A brighter blue was creeping into the fading black. A crow cawed three times. Soon, the black-blue was replaced by a grey aluminum, and the birds came out to start the day with song. I jumped out of bed onto the plaid carpet of the motel.
I thought about Mr. Ryan back at the Mount Peyton. He said his son missed home, and then I thought about Father’s letter. I dug in my bag and found it crumpled under a change of clothes. The three hundred-dollar bills were nice. Then I unfolded my father’s letter.
Dear Felix:
So you are bound and determined to go to the mainland whence I came. Remember, when you get your degree, there is no need to live and practise there. With a wife and business here in Newfoundland, not to mention Shirley and me, you have much to come back to. I hope you will not be taken up with the charms of the mainland and forsake your home.
He missed me! My father missed me! He was afraid I would move to Nova Scotia permanently! Ha!
It was a five-hour drive to the ferry. There was a damp mist in the air as I lugged my stuff back to the truck, and headed for Corner Brook. A copper sun burnt the mists from the lakes and rivers on my right, just as it had every August morning since the Ice Age.
Before long, I met the mountains of the west coast for the first time. But my mind went back to the low hills of home, just knolls with their heads ground down by the last glacier. We had only two landscapes at home: either the same spruce tree replicated a million times, or barren moonscapes of low hills. These were dotted with little ponds and huge grey stones called erratics, dropped there by the retreating ice.
One summer afternoon when I was four, my mother dressed me in a little coat, shorts, and hat and took me for a walk. Our gravel road led to Weavers Pond, then became a mere path into the woods. In winter, the horses and sleds dragged firewood out across the pond. I still remember the procession of horses, men, and dogs returning in the evening with loads of wood. The steam of their breath shot from the horses’ noses, and the dogs yelped greetings. The men, tired and hungry, looked ahead to warm houses, families, and suppers.
But it was summer when we stopped, and Mother sat me up on a big grey rock. It was almost as high as her shoulder and flat on the top. It lay like a huge desk where some giant had been writing a book an ice age ago. She held my hand as I sat on the sun-warm rock. Robins filled the air with song, and I could smell the wild mint in the little rattling stream nearby.
“This is the Kissing Rock, Felix,” she said, still holding one of my hands as I looked around.
“Kissing?” I was familiar with the word.
“When lovers were parting to go away, they would meet here and sit on this rock. If you kissed someone here, they would always come back to you.”
I put my hand on her shoulder, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. She laughed gloriously, and told that story many times before she died.
But these mountains on the west coast were new, by glacial standards, with high, sharp peaks. As I crossed Birchy Narrows and headed toward Corner Brook, the road was pushed closer to the mountains by the Humber River. Just past Marble Mountain, these dark and threatening cliffs loomed over my truck like giant thugs. Frightened spruce trees clung to narrow ledges.
I looked to my right and almost put the truck off the road. The Humber River, dark, deep, secret, and sinuous, slithered along. Malacat had told me about depressed guys who just drove their cars into her and let the currents do the rest. Some of the bodies were never recovered. But the Humber River and Corner Brook did nothing to shake the new gloom stalking me. What was it?
Soon, I came to the Codroy Valley, just miles from my ferry. No surly mountains here, but soft, rolling curves and slopes with wide-open vistas as I met the Table Mountains near Port aux Basques. A bit like home, but bigger. The land began to drop away as I descended into Port aux Basques. The old Basque fishermen were long gone from these shores—slaughtered, robbed, and legislated off these grounds by the Portuguese, Spaniards, French, English, and any other gang who could get the upper hand. Off to my right I could see the Gulf of St. Lawrence, where I was bound.
I started the Dodge slowly down the winding road to the terminal. The three operative words in that sentence were dodge, meaning an idle walk, slowly, implying schoolboys moving like snails to school, and terminal, meaning final, like a terminal disease.
As my truck descended toward the boat, so did my heart in my chest. I began to sweat and shake a bit. I gripped the wheel with both hands and gasped for breath. Then a big old sob came out of me, and I knew I was in trouble.
I put my foot down on the brake and stopped my journey to law school. I turned into the parking lot of a small diner with a sign over the door that said Last Stop for Ferry. I parked the truck where I could see it and walked in. A bunch of people were inside, probably waiting for the boat. But an eerie quiet pervaded the room, as if a robbery were in progress. People moved about and went out the door with eyes averted. Then I saw why. Over by the coolers on the other side of a pool table were two large unkempt men who appeared to be part of a motorcycle gang. Were there Hells Angels in Port aux Basques?
They finished their game of pool and stood around for a minute, exchanging a few words. Then they hugged loudly and slapped each another on their black leather backs. One of them swung around on his thick heels and swaggered out the door. I could see a fellow jumping out of his way before the door slammed shut. The other biker looked sadly at the door and sat down at the little table, now with an empty chair.
I went to the counter and ordered a big plate of french fries, gravy, and a large Coke. Out in the parking lot we could hear the departing Angel revving up his machine. The floor vibrated under my feet, and the window rattled like an Apollo moon launch. There was no place to sit, so I went over to the earthbound Angel. Any po
rt in a storm.
“Can I sit here?” I asked.
He nodded without looking up.
So, I sat and I ate my fries. Every now and then I’d glance out the window.
“You expecting company?” he asked.
“No, just checking on my truck.”
“Catching the ferry?” He placed a large steel helmet on the table beside my fries. It was a replica of the standard German army issue. I guess it was a replica. He ran his fingers through thinning hair and looked at me.
“I think so,” I said.
“You think so? You don’t know if you’re going on the ferry?”
His honest question tapped a nerve. I looked him in the eyes and said, “When I eat these fries, and drink that Coke, I’m going to decide.”
Outside we could hear the Apollo launch roaring up the hill and possibly into space.
The biker said, “I crashed my bike outside Gander. Total writeoff. I have to get a job on the mainland, make some money, and I’ll be home on a new bike by Christmas.”
“Going to be cold driving a bike back home in the winter,” I said.
“Yeah, and I don’t want to go,” he said.
“Why not?”
“’Cause I met a woman.” Now he was looking me straight in the eyes.
“Who is she?”
“That guy’s sister, Jasmine.” He pointed at the door. We heard the last roar of the departing bike, and in the quiet of the room his words were loud. Some people had been eavesdropping, because a few murmured sadly, “Ahhhhhh,” and shook their heads.
“I don’t want to go either.” My heart spoke the words my head did not yet know.
“Why are you going?”
“Law school at Dalhousie.”
“You were accepted at Dal?”
“Yeah.” I munched on my fries.
“That’s a pretty good gig. I know guys who applied but never got accepted.”
“They accept ten Newfoundlanders each year because we don’t have a law school.”
“So, what’s the problem? You in love, too?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Man, you’re not sure of anything!”
He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. The room went silent again, and people craned their necks to see what it was. Only a small brass case, from which he extracted a business card and handed it to me. The words You have assisted the Peace Angels were printed in raised red lettering on a white background. It reminded me of Father’s sign. On top was a peace sign, and below was a cycle with angel’s wings.
“If you’re ever in Gander, visit our clubhouse and the boys will treat you good. Just show them that card.”
“Thanks,” I said, putting it in my shirt pocket.
He stood up. “Look, pal, I just decided, I’m going back to Gander. You have a safe voyage tonight.” He stood in sturdy leather boots and held out his hand to me. He was tall with wide shoulders and a lanky build.
“How are you going to get there?”
“Hitchhike. I’ll be there by dawn.” He smiled like he was just learning how to do it.
A voice came across the quiet room. “I can take you as far as the Kippens turnoff.” A bucktoothed fellow had been listening from another table. He wore a red plaid shirt and a baseball cap proclaiming some brand of beer.
“That’s a good start,” someone said, and other patrons nodded their approval.
“I was offered a fellowship at Memorial,” I said.
Customers nodded and considered this option.
“That’s great! They pay you to study, and you could stay at home,” the biker said.
“Then why pay your own way to live with strangers?” the bucktoothed fellow asked.
My Coke was all gone. I reached to the round cardboard plate and took up the last fry. I studied it for a second, then popped it into my mouth and heard myself say to the biker, “I can take you all the way to Gander.”
I had put a sign up on my own house.
Sometimes there is a point in life when you are sure you made the right choice. The mind floats in a Zen-like peace, the sweet spot of existence. A rush of adrenalin surged through my veins.
The greasy-spoon customers broke into cheers and applause. Some of them followed the biker and me into the parking lot. He tossed a duffle bag into the back of the truck, and we boarded her like newlyweds embarking on life.
Bucktooth stuck his head in the driver’s window and said, “You got a slack tire there on the front. Have it looked to afore you go. Garage a mile up top of the hill.”
They all waved to us as we drove away, and we downed the windows and waved back. I tooted the horn. Why not? I thought. Why the hell not? I was travelling with a rough and ready biker, a lover and a renegade. For the first time in my life, I was a renegade, too. Bigger, stronger, greater! The sign was up on my house, and Father would be proud.
“My name is Bud Lambert,” the biker eventually said.
“Felix Ryan.” We shook hands.
“We’re members of the Peace Angels. No crime, no prostitution, grand theft, auto theft, none of that. We just do good and create a peaceful environment.”
“Drugs?” I asked, thinking of Malacat.
“No to that. No illegal drugs.” Pause. “Except to a few close personal friends,” he laughed.
So, in the company of an Angel, I headed back through the night following the signs that led me here. Now they said Trans-Canada Highway East, which would lead me home. Beside the road, the Table Mountains cavorted under dark green sheets waiting for the next glacier. The gentle Codroy River meandered through the valley, unlike the murderous Humber that lurked ahead in the woods.
Bud dozed for an hour or so, but just before Corner Brook he woke up and said, “I could sure use a beer.”
“I’ve got one in that cooler.”
“May I?”
“Be my guest.”
He pulled out the chicken and placed it on the seat between us. I reached over, pulled off a leg, and munched as I drove. Bud sipped the beer, eventually realized he was hungry, too, and helped me eat the chicken. What a night! We were too excited to be sleepy, with the mountains behind us turning into deep forests outside Corner Brook. Soon we saw the lights.
“Know anybody down there?” Bud asked.
“My cousin married the guy who caught the biggest salmon in the Humber,” I said.
“I don’t want to go fishing,” Bud said. “I want a few cold beers.”
“My roommate, Malacat, has a club in Grand Falls.”
“Malacat! What kind of a name is that?”
“That’s his name, John Malacat.”
“A club! A bridge club?”
“No, a regular club, with a bar and pool tables. You know.”
“Do you want to visit your friend?”
“It’s in Grand Falls,” I said, thinking it over.
My evening was being filled with pivotal decisions. Twenty-four hours ago, I would not have mentioned Malacat to Bud, because I knew where the conversation would go. But this new, decisive me said, “Sure.”
We passed the pushy mountains of Corner Brook. We passed the deep slithering river!
A few hours later, we took the off-ramp at Grand Falls and found our way to a sign that said Dirty Dicks Lounge. We stashed our gear in the cab and locked the doors. Bud put on his Nazi war helmet and buttoned up his leather jacket.
“Do we need the helmet?” I asked.
“Badge of honour for the Peace Angels,” explained Bud, an angel with no wings.
Dirty Dicks was a rundown place with a pink neon sign in the window which loudly proclaimed a name many would conceal.
“You been here before?” my new pal asked.
>
“No, never. You?”
He shook his head and pushed open the door.
The place was dirty and loud. It sold beer to workers from the paper mill who should have been home to their supper hours ago. A few drunken couples danced to music from a jukebox. I hesitated, but Bud walked straight to the bar and ordered two beers.
I saw a familiar form at the end of the bar.
Bud made his purchase, thanked the bartender, then turned and looked for me. “Felix, where are you?”
At my name, John Malacat looked up and saw me. In an instant, he leaped right over the bar and in two strides was upon me with a big bear hug. He lifted me off my feet. “What are you doing in Grand—”
He probably intended to say Grand Falls, but Bud, assuming that I was being attacked by a thug, smashed one of his beer bottles across the back of Malacat’s head.
Malacat slumped to the floor on one knee.
I said, “Jeez, Bud! What’d you do that for? This is John Malacat.”
“My God, I’m really sorry, buddy.”
He and I took an arm each and pulled Malacat up from the floor and deposited him into a chair.
He soon regained his wits, and a pretty waitress held a wet towel to the back of his head. John pointed to the uniformed Nazi and said, “Who the hell is this?”
“This is Bud Lambert.”
“What is he, SS?”
“No,” Bud answered, “I’m a Peace Angel. We try to . . .”
“Peace Angel? You must be nuts, man. Come in here and crack me over the head with a beer bottle.”
“Your organization may be misnamed, Bud,” I suggested.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I’ll make it up to you.”
“How can you make it up to me? Can you treat a concussion? Can you put stitches in my head?”
John was trying to stand up, and I could tell he was about to start swinging, when Bud said, “I can work for you.”
“Doing what?”
“I’ve been a bouncer at the Flyers Club.
