Oak, his jar filled, joined them.
“Ask him,” said Elva.
“Ask me what?”
But Gil did not, deciding that no one, at least not Elva, needed to hear what Oak’s wish would be.
Major began to bark.
“Someone’s coming.”
Gil stood up. “It’s Dom. Where’s he going?” He jumped into his clothes and ran into the field after him, Major barking wildly in pursuit. “I’ll see you back at the house!”
“Anything to get out of picking berries, huh?” Oak said to Elva.
It was getting late. Oak bent out the kinks from being hunched over. The mosquitoes were starting to bite. They were partial to the young man, even more than Elva. She thought it was because he was tall and they’d get him first.
They said practically nothing as they walked home. Elva didn’t mind. His silences weren’t unnerving like Gil’s or Jane’s. When those two weren’t talking, it was like something ready to erupt. Oak was just, simply, a quiet fellow. Comfortable. Like Major when he was curled up at his master’s feet. That’s why the blast startled them.
A short snap from the northeast, followed by a hollow roar and the resounding collapse of timbers. The sound travelled far and easily over the lake waters and the tar ponds and in the evening air. Elva knew the explosion was from a good distance and only when she saw the smoke by the shores of Ostrea Lake did she know it had come from Demerett Bridge.
When she turned to ask Oak what he thought it was, she found him on his knees, trembling so hard that his face glistened with tears that came from the sides of his mouth. Two bright red patches appeared under his eyes, and when he seized her hands, his were like ice.
“Would you get me back?” he managed, adding that he’d be obliged if she didn’t say anything about this to anyone, especially to Gil.
As Elva helped Oak to his feet, she saw that he’d wet himself.
RILLA SAID THE NOISE reminded her of the White Bear when the steamer gutted herself up the coast. She’d been a child when it happened, seventy-three passengers and crew spilling out like toy soldiers on the shoals at Chance Cove. She remembered driving out in the back of a horse-pulled wagon to see the wreck and someone, she wasn’t sure who, giving her warm root beer. There were so many sightseers, it was like a Sunday picnic.
The explosion in Demerett Bridge was not as memorable as White Bear’s boilers shooting out hissing coal like Catherine wheels, but it destroyed the union headquarters on Pleasant Point Road, killing one man. With local resources already stretched by the strike, Halifax sent additional police to aid in the investigation. The conclusion: an incendiary device planted by someone well acquainted with the office layout. The official report pinned all blame on the victim, a union steward, claiming he set the bomb to win back waning public sympathy from a long and bitter strike, but something had gone wrong.
The union reacted swiftly, whipping up its membership by protesting that the police were nothing more than pawns of the Maritime Foundry Corporation. More capitalist corruption! Red flags began to flutter from rooflines and appear in arm bands. Just the spectre of Communist involvement in the dispute was enough for Province House in Halifax to send in more police. Lines of angry men faced off against uniforms on horseback. Those folks in Demerett Bridge not battling in the street stayed home, drew their blinds and wished it all away.
“How sweet.” Amos laughed. “Serves that bloody Jew right.” Yet again on the mend, he’d been catching up on the doings in town. He was most delighted to hear King Duplak had been ruined, his windows, once the envy of the town, shattered by a mob, littering the street like crystal. “Only good thing to come out of this!”
Rilla said she saw Mr. Duplak and his wife at church and said she didn’t think they were Jewish, but Shut up, woman, was all she got for that.
The early start to summer had brought unusually hot winds laced with fine caustic beach powder—gritty, gnawing, rubbing everyone’s nerves raw like sandpaper. The troubles in town had not yet spilled over to the other side of the tar ponds only because there wasn’t anything of value for either side in the dispute to burn or tear down.
Gil and Oak still poured iron, getting in and out of the factory by a meandering path through the tar ponds, always coming home with news of the day. Amos was pretty much in the dark about his boarders, and Elva wondered how long her mother, how long they all, could sustain the ruse. As long as he’s sick in bed, Rilla would reply.
In the evenings after supper, Oak would spread his delicate precision tools on the kitchen table and quietly dissect a pocket watch. Not much of a talker, Elva thought he just wanted to avoid attention.
“Well, if you ask me, he’s a duke or something. On the lam from, I dunno, whatever dukes do. A royal right here in our shitty little town. Maybe we should paint the outhouse.”
Elva said she didn’t ask, and that Jane was making fun of her, which she was. Rilla reminded Jane about the use of shitty and to stop talking like a gangster.
Conversely, Oak could be a murderer hiding out from the Mounties because he offed his ol’ lady for her money.
Rilla had enough of Jane’s speculation, thank you very much, and she was sure Oak didn’t sit around trying to figure out who they were.
The situation was sort of like Oak himself, wanting to know what made those watches of his tick. He was able to see the gears and windup whatsits, but as to what made them go, well, that took some tinkering.
I think he just wants to be with Gil. Of course Elva didn’t say that.
Equally hard to know if Gil wanted to be with Oak. Sometimes Gil would make a visit home, so he said. Rilla thought it right nice that he was trying to mend fences back there, but his friend left behind didn’t seem too happy about it. Other times, Gil’d stretch out on the pile of firewood across from the summer kitchen, watching Oak at the table inside. Sometimes, of an evening, he’d stay there until Major curled up and all that remained of Gil was the red tip of his cigarette—thinking what?—while a few miles up the road, folks were killing each other over a few cents more in wages.
After the dishes were done, Elva and Jane helped Rilla with the washing. It’s such a sight, Rilla might say, staring out the back door, thinking. The garden, such as it was, was overgrown. Sheds needed sorting. Siding was cracked and dry-rotting. Amos upstairs in bed. How were they going to make it?
Jane was thinking too and Elva knew what about. Why hadn’t Dom come to visit? Why no word at all? Was he safe? Where was he?
There! Right there, through the screen door, only it wasn’t Dom, was it? Just Gil, shirtless against the hot night wind. Sometimes he’d catch Jane watching him. He’d smile. Missing nothing. Then he’d see Elva.
Miss Nothing.
Elva! Oak was pulling her off the bed.
What’s the matter? she asked, so sleepy. Where’s my robe?
No time for that, c’mon, Elva!
What about Jane? She couldn’t leave Jane.
There was smoke and Major was barking.
Jane’s on the landing, hurry!
Thank God! Jane covered Elva with a blanket.
You can’t leave him, Rilla was saying. Amos couldn’t make the stairs.
Go! Gil shouted from below.
Oak set Elva down.
Cover your face! She and Jane went into the smoke.
Amos fell. Oak picked him up, too heavy! Rilla helped.
God almighty, where’s the door!
They plunged into the blinding smoke, going down, following the sound of Gil’s voice.
The boys got the fire out around dawn. As bad as it seemed, only Elva’s favourite room was destroyed. The summer kitchen’s roof had collapsed, taking with it the north wall siding. Ditto the pantry and laundry tubs. Weeks of airing, a couple of coats of paint, and the rest of the house would be back to normal.
Amos was lying on the front lawn, still coughing, going on about broken windows and how that Gil Barthélemy was a fucking scab, that this
was his fault and how’d he fix Rilla for deceiving him. By Christ, he’d show her!
“Things don’t look good, boys,” Rilla said to Gil and Oak.
“Damn sorry about this. We’re done with the foundry,” Gil said.
Rilla agreed that it was probably best.
Oak was kicking into a pile in the driveway the last few smouldering timbers. The deep blue of early dawn was quickly yielding. Jane, quietly, wanted to know what they were going to do.
“Can’t stay. Not now.”
Even after what had just happened, Rilla was reluctant to agree. Her man lying in the front yard and she wouldn’t even be able to get him back inside, let alone up the stairs.
“If they’re not working any more, no one’ll bother us,” said Elva.
Rilla looked hopeful. The money be damned, she needed help, and even after this incident, she still felt safer with the boys around.
Gil shook his head. “Too risky. I’ll go back to my mother’s place.”
Jane said, Good idea, but they all knew what kind of reception he could expect from Jeanine.
“But Oak can stay, can’t he?” said Elva.
No point in both Gil and his friend suffering the wrath of Jeanine Barthélemy, so, Yeah, why not? That would be just fine, said Rilla. Jane didn’t care. Sure Oak was odd, all loosey-goosey over a loud noise one day, saving them from fire the next, but Elva’d miss him, like a roof beam holding up something, even if he didn’t say much and Oak right now looked as if Elva had just cut off his right arm. But it was settled. Even weak-as-a-kitten Amos had to agree it was for the best.
ELVA WAS IN THE PROPER KITCHEN cleaning a bowl of anaemic radishes she’d spent all afternoon gleaning from the mucky garden. Jane took over the other end of the table with a writing tablet and pencil.
“Go on, get out,” she said.
In this state, it was always best to ignore Jane.
“You deaf now as well as ugly?”
Elva pulled a face.
Jane had precious little schooling, which was considerably more than Elva. That was Amos’s doing. C’mon now, he told Rilla. She couldn’t expect the kids in that church school that taught the half-breeds like Jane to look at Elva, on account of her being deformed and all. Put them right off their learnin’. Have some sense, woman! If nothing else, Amos was pragmatic.
Elva kept her eyes on the radishes. Jane’s writing was laborious, her letters uneven and childlike. Repeated attempts were accompanied by tearing of paper, frantic erasures, snorts and Jesus Christs! Just what the hell was she up to? Of course Elva was dying to know, but furtive glances would have to do. She knew better than to ask. Or even look like she was interested. Then after a long silence Elva sensed she was being watched.
“You need some fresh air.”
“You know what Rilla said.”
“Arsehole! Who’d hurt you?”
“I’m afraid.”
“You’re a fraidy-ass, then.”
“Am not.”
“Prove it. Take this to Dom.”
“No!”
Jane grabbed her arm and pinched it until Elva cried out, “You’re hurting me!”
“Do it.”
“Why don’t you?”
“’Cause of that mother of his. Puts me right off. Might whomp her one of these days.”
“What do you want to tell Dom?” Elva wanted to add, More lovey-dovey stuff? But she figured Jane would skin her alive if she told.
“None of your fucking business. And if you tell anyone about this I’ll drop an earwig into your tea and make you drink it. Then you’ll have earwig babies.”
Elva doubted the earwig baby thing, but she knew her life would be a living hell until she did her sister’s bidding. “And don’t get it creased, hold it proper now,” followed Elva out the door.
What Elva didn’t count on was the effect the pile of charred wood in the driveway had on her—images of hordes of rioters, bearing torches, tying her to a stake, lighting matches between her toes like Joan of Arc—
“Go!” shouted Jane from the window.
When Elva was far enough out of her sister’s sight, she plunked herself down in the grass, what if-ing until she had to blink back the tears. Maybe she could just throw the damn piece of paper away and say she’d given it to Dom? Or say some bird ate it. Who’d know? Then—
Rustling, something darting, panting, towards her. Major jumped into her arms, licked her startled face.
“Hey, Elva. What are you doing in the grass? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost. Oak around?”
“You … scared … me. He’s … working … in the shed.”
“What’s wrong?”
All she could do was wave the note.
“Jane wants me to take this … to Dom. But I’m afraid to go to your place by myself. What if someone catches me? And your mother? I know she doesn’t like me. What if she sees me talking to Dom?”
“Her, I wouldn’t worry about. She’s too hoppin’ mad having me around, and that’s only ’cause Dom said I had to come home or he’d talk to the priest about her turning away her own son. Hell, these days, Maman wouldn’t even notice you.”
She giggled at the notion of Jeanine Barthélemy hopping. Gil sure had picked up some odd turns of phrase in Halifax.
“What’s it say?”
Elva shrugged.
“I’ll take it, then.”
“Oh no!” Elva slipped the note into the pocket of her apron.
“Jane won’t know,” Gil said, his hand wiping the tears from her face and sweeping down under her chin. “C’mon.”
But that just wouldn’t be right.
“Which pocket is it in, Elva?” Gil grabbed for her, tickling her, rolling her over, tickling her some more. “Give it up, where is it?”
“No!” she giggled in delight, that spilling desperate-to-get-out hiccuping exuberance. “Gil!”
He had her pinned. So close, she inhaled the cedar fishing shed near his home and its oakum and his sweat. Elva allowed herself to remember: just like Dom and Jane.
Gil held up the note.
“Aha! The lady gives up her treasure! But don’t worry, Elva. I’ll say you fought me to the bitter end.”
“Give it back! Jane won’t like it.”
“Don’t tell her, stupid, and she won’t ever find out.”
“Please, Gil!”
But Gil had whistled for Major and was striding back to his place. “No need to thank me! I’ll be sure Dom gets it! And Elva, you should laugh more often.”
Jane was waiting in their room. Snap snap snap went the pages of Elva’s colouring book. She wasn’t even looking at the pictures as she leafed through it. Elva peered around the door. She’d stayed outside long enough to make Jane think she had walked to Dom’s and back.
“Hey! That’s mine.”
“Here, then. What do I care about your stupid bird pictures. Did he get it?”
Elva nodded.
“Well? Got one for me?”
Elva shook her head.
Amos passed in the hall clutching a white enamelled bowl, heading back to the shitter.
THAT STRANGE WEATHER BEGAN on a June day, bright, blustery, with thick bands of purple streaming across the horizon. Then the wind shifted from the north, bringing with it a dull silvery hue. And cold. A hanging-like-balls-of-fog-in-front-of-your-mouth kind of cold. Even Rilla had to stop in the middle of pinning laundry in the backyard. She had never seen or felt the like before and said so, in her native tongue, something she rarely did since the devout Sisters of Infinite Charity tried to beat the Indian out of her with rulers across the knuckles. By twilight, purple skies had inked out the stars and given way to low racing clouds. Prelude to a gale.
Rilla had the holy water out, reserved for thunderstorms and hurricanes. Whatever was coming warranted a little God-protecting dab on the forehead. Elva did so reverently. Oak politely declined the offer to cross himself with water, blessed or otherwise, and Elva realized she had no idea wha
t god, if any, he prayed to. Jane rolled her eyes and Rilla said, fine then and if the house blows down she’ll be the only one killed and did she want that? From the way she’d been acting of late, Jane probably didn’t care.
When no reply came to her letter, Jane’s routine became a languid and listless march from the parlour radio, where she’d listen for a few hours—Amos too ill to drag himself out of bed—to a mopey survey of a world made up of tar ponds from her bedroom window. Rilla, too busy to notice anything, kept saying Jane was just a lazy arse spoiled thing.
Elva knew that was only partly it. Unforgivably, Dom was ignoring Jane. No one knew better than Elva how that treatment would fester. At least she thought she did. But there were no fireworks and rants and fits on a grand scale. Just Jane braiding long grass as she wandered up behind the house, like she was waiting for someone. Elva’d wrap her arms about her knees and watch from the porch, wondering if she should tell their mother, Jane’s perishing from a broken heart! Hunger would drive Elva to tea and toast long before the perishing bit got too far.
Oak had been occupying his days either with tearing away the remains of the summer kitchen, piling the debris neatly in the back of the garden, or cleaning out the shed.
“That’s a fine idea,” Rilla said. “If I can park the truck inside, I can load the washing at night and get me a few more minutes in the morning.”
Then every evening after the dishes had been cleared, he’d sit at the round table with the light bright overhead and watch his watches. If he’d been studying for a test, Elva was sure he’d pass it hands down.
Rilla and her girls had been in the parlour listening to a Halifax fiddling contest from the Lord Nelson Hotel, Elva wrapped in a quilt against the unseasonable cold. Amos had taken another turn. White enamelled pail in tow, he’d limped up to bed early. The wind had been rattling the windows all evening and the electric lights flickered out. That’s that, said Rilla, and Jane followed her up to bed. Elva decided to wait until moody Jane was asleep before crawling in next to her and went to see what Oak was up to in the kitchen.
Miss Elva Page 9
