Bleak Landing

by Terrie Todd

  “Couldn’t very well deny it with his friends right there. Do you think he really didn’t recognize you?”

  I thought about this awhile. All I had wanted when I fled Bleak Landing was a new life. I’d changed my name, hoping for a new identity. I’d worked hard; developed skills. I’d dropped all traces of an accent—for all the good it had done me tonight. I had learned to imitate women I admired, hoping I could become a new person. Had I actually succeeded?

  “In a way, I hope he didn’t,” I said.

  “But Victor Harrison recognized you.”

  “True. But that was over two years ago.”

  Maxine sighed and shook her head, studying me. “You’re a puzzle, my friend. I feel like you know me better than I know myself. But sometimes I wonder if I will ever truly know you.”

  When we left the ladies’ room, Bruce and his friends were gone. We paid for our meal and carried on down the street to a theater playing Casablanca with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. As we watched the film, I tried my best to forget about Bruce Nilsen. How could I have been so stupid as to let him get away? The chances of him knowing what had become of my necklace were slim, but Maxine’s words replayed in my head: Who knows when or if you’ll ever get another chance?

  I’d failed my mother again.

  Chapter 29

  October 1943

  As I made my way to work, the crisp morning air and overcast sky told me another uneventful summer was gone for good.

  I arrived at Mr. Weinberger’s office early, as usual, and took a moment to scan the headlines as I placed the Winnipeg Free Press on his desk. Italy had switched sides, declaring war on the Nazis and joining the Allied forces. But with so many Germans already occupying their country, could they make a difference or were the Italians doomed?

  We all wanted it to be over. Surely some kind of end would come soon and things could return to normal. The newsreels at the movies could go back to showing the latest gossip from Hollywood instead of footage of men firing at one another and planes dropping bombs. There would finally be young men for Maxine and me to dance with when we went out on Saturday nights. Japanese Canadians could leave their camps and return to their lives. And Weinberger Textiles could stop turning out military uniforms and go back to making suits and overcoats.

  I walked over to my desk, where a stack of paperwork waited. When I heard Mr. Weinberger’s footsteps coming down the hall, I rose to take his coat and hat from him as I always did just before fetching his coffee from the cafeteria. But when he appeared, I was shocked by the grave burden I saw etched on his face. Had he finally received word of his son’s fate? Instead of handing me his hat, he hung it on the stand himself. He turned to me and fished something out of his coat pocket.

  “A telegram came for you, Bridget,” he said, concern in his voice. “To the house.”

  A telegram? For me?

  “I thought it simplest to sign for it and bring it here myself—I hope you don’t mind. It’s terrible news, I’m afraid.”

  I waited in silence.

  “I think you should sit down.”

  I slid into one of the chairs meant for visitors and looked up at my boss. Who on earth would send me a telegram? Who knew I’d ever resided at the Weinbergers’ house? I took the typed card from his hand and saw the words Canadian National Telegraphs in large lettering across the top. I read the type below:

  REGRET TO INFORM YOU PATRICK O’SULLIVAN DIED OCTOBER 9, 1943. BURIAL TO TAKE PLACE BLEAK LANDING CEMETERY OCTOBER 12 1500 HOURS. PLEASE RETURN TO BLEAK LANDING TO ARRANGE ESTATE MATTERS.

  VICTOR HARRISON

  I read the message twice, then just stared at it. Pa was dead.

  I tried to focus on the thought, to sort out what I should feel, but all that came to me was curiosity. How had he died? Who found him? What was Victor doing back in Bleak Landing, and why was he the one sending me notice? I looked up at Mr. Weinberger, who stood watching me.

  “I’ll give you leave, of course.” He paused and sat with one hip on the corner of my desk, his hands folded on his lap. “Bridget, the fella who delivered the telegram said our house was the last known address the sender had for you. He had little hope that it would reach you. Why have you not kept in touch with anyone back home?”

  I stared at the floor. If Victor didn’t expect the telegram to reach me, he wouldn’t be expecting a response, either. I could completely ignore it if I wanted to. And why shouldn’t I? The man who died was nothing to me, and I was nothing to him. As far as the so-called estate, what on earth would I want with a tumbledown old shack on the wrong end of a worthless little town I’d vowed never to return to? Let them keep it, if it was even still standing. For all I knew, the place had burned to the ground around my father’s drunken body.

  “Leave won’t be necessary.” I looked up at my boss again.

  “Nonsense. The burial is tomorrow. You can probably get there today, but if not, catch the first train tomorrow morning and take as much time as you need.” He pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and held it out. “This will take care of your fare. Miss Brenner can cover for you here.”

  I stared at the money, then slowly took it from his hand. Maybe I would take some time off. Without a word, I put on my coat and hat, shoved both the telegram and the cash into my pocket, and pulled on my gloves.

  “Take care, Bridget,” Mr. Weinberger said as I walked through the door. I managed to mumble a “thank you, sir” before the door closed behind me.

  Fall leaves swirled around my feet as I headed down the sidewalk. Where should I go? Maxine would still be at the apartment getting dressed for work, and I wasn’t ready to face her. I wandered to a little park halfway between work and home and found a wrought-iron bench to sit on. A small pond had attracted a flock of Canada geese so loud their honks drowned out the traffic noise. I listened to their strange committee meeting and watched with longing as they took off in groups of four or five, eventually forming a lopsided V, their necks stretched toward the south.

  Oh, how I wished I could join them! I pulled my coat tighter against the cool breeze and shivered as the sound of the geese slowly faded. What would it be like to soar above it all, to escape a Canadian winter and bask in warm sunshine, surrounded by others just like oneself? To head in the opposite direction of Bleak Landing?

  I wouldn’t go back. I couldn’t. I’d take a few days off work, let Mr. Weinberger assume whatever he wanted. I could spend my work hours shopping or going to the movies, and Maxine would never know the difference. It would be just a nice holiday, my little secret. The bell on city hall gonged ten o’clock, and I knew Maxine would be at work by now. My mind made up, I stood and hurried toward home.

  Outside our apartment building, a vagrant rested on the bus-stop bench. I’d seen him around before but generally averted my eyes. This time, I slowed my steps and approached the bench, waiting to make eye contact. He looked up at me with a watery gaze.

  “Spare some change?” he asked.

  From just those three words, I could tell two things: First, that he didn’t expect a positive reply. And second, by his dark complexion and speech patterns, that his people had been in this country far longer than mine—or any white man’s.

  I paused only a moment.

  “Yes,” I said. “I can.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out Mr. Weinberger’s five-dollar bill and held it out. “What’s your name?”

  The man looked at the money with disbelief, then at me. “George,” he said.

  “Like the king,” I said.

  George’s mouth turned up in a lopsided half smile, revealing gaps in his teeth. I waved the money closer to him. “Here. Take it.”

  His expression turned incredulous as he held out a trembling hand and accepted the money. I pulled from my purse the sandwich I’d packed earlier and held that toward him, too. “Do you like peanut butter and jelly?”

  George took the sandwich. “Thank you, miss.”

  “You’re welcome, Geo
rge.” I turned toward my building. When I looked back over my shoulder, he was shuffling down the sidewalk. I hoped he’d get himself a decent meal and a room for the night.

  When Maxine walked through the door eight hours later, she saw the table set for supper.

  “How did you have time to do all this?” She stood wide-eyed, taking in the sight and breathing in the aroma of the corn chowder and biscuits I’d prepared—two of Mrs. Cohen’s specialties. “It smells wonderful! Did you get off early?”

  I nodded. “I thought having the oven on would take the chill off.”

  Maxine kept up her usual enthusiastic chatter, filling me in on the quirks of her hair clients and the stories they’d shared with her that day. I wondered how some of them put up with her, and whether she actually let them speak or just made up the stories they supposedly told. Either way, I was glad to let her talk tonight. The less I said, the easier it would be to maintain my charade.

  It was only later, as we lay in our twin beds in the darkness, a dim beam from the streetlight outside our window falling across the floor, that the truth settled upon me like a damp, heavy cloak.

  My father was dead. I was alone in this world without a single known relative, at least not in this country.

  “Max?” I finally whispered.

  She responded with a low murmur and rolled over to face the wall. I sat up and swung my legs to the floor, pushing my feet into the pink slippers she had given me last Christmas. With my blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I tiptoed out to the living room and sat in the darkness awhile, trying to think about anything but the fact that my father was dead.

  My Bible lay on the coffee table. I’d been reading it off and on, trying to get through the books that described Jesus’s life. Trying to decide whether to believe what it said. Jesus had done such crazy, impossible things! But if the stories were all lies, how could there have been so many witnesses to write them down? I turned on the lamp at my elbow and picked up the book, turning to where I had left off.

  In the story, two sisters, Mary and Martha, were grieving the death of their brother, Lazarus, from an illness. Jesus hadn’t healed him, and Lazarus’s friends couldn’t understand why not, when he had healed so many others. Then Jesus said to Martha:

  “Thy brother shall rise again.” Martha saith unto him, “I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.” Jesus said unto her, “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

  Where was my father now? I wondered. Had he been reunited with my mother and baby brother? And if so, did I truly want to join them someday?

  I laid the book aside, wandered to the window, and looked out. A few flakes of snow twirled about, and I wrapped the blanket more tightly around myself at the sight. I saw someone asleep on the bus-stop bench and knew it was George. Why hadn’t he found shelter for the night? Had he spent the money on a bottle? A hundred questions swirled around in my head. What was George’s history? Had he always lived in the city? Did he have a daughter like me somewhere? A daughter who was warm and fed and sober, but who didn’t care whether he lived or died? A daughter who had traded her most treasured possession just to escape him?

  I felt a drop on my collarbone and in a moment of confusion took it for one of the snowflakes that were just inches from my face, on the other side of the glass. Then I realized it was a tear, as more of them came running down my cheeks. I didn’t know whether I was crying for George or for Pa. Or neither. I tried to stop, but the tears kept coming. In that moment, I realized I was weeping not so much for what I had lost, but for what I’d never had. And for what I knew could now never be.

  Though I tried to stop them, the tears turned into huge, gulping sobs. George remained undisturbed on his bench, but I gradually sank to the floor and tried to muffle the sound of my crying with my blanket. It didn’t work.

  “Bridget?”

  Maxine stood in the doorway to our bedroom. She rushed over and knelt beside me on the floor.

  “Bridge, whatever’s the matter?” She let out a little gasp. “Did you lose your job? Is that why you came home early? Oh, Bridge, I’m so sorry! I didn’t even ask you how your day went. Please tell me what’s going on.”

  She rubbed my back, begging me to speak, but I could hardly catch my breath. Finally, I looked into her worried face and whispered the words that had been haunting me all day.

  “I’m an orphan.”

  Chapter 30

  Bridget, you have got to go. He’s your father. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t.”

  Maxine had been all motherly love the night before, making me tea, tucking me back into bed, and even saying a prayer for me. She was still hovering when I fell asleep. But now that daylight had arrived and I’d informed her I had no intention of going to Bleak Landing, she’d turned into the Wicked Witch of the West.

  “I don’t have to do anything!” I argued, still lying in bed.

  Maxine spoke through the sweater she was pulling over her head. “Look, I don’t know what your father did or neglected to do, but he’s still your father. He can’t hurt you anymore, and you’re hurting nobody but yourself by being so stubborn.”

  I flopped over onto my side, my face toward the wall. “Stay out of my business!”

  “Bridget! I care about you!”

  “Then you know I don’t owe that old man anything.”

  “You’re not going for him. You’re going for you.” She yanked my blanket down to my feet, and I quickly grabbed it and pulled it back up.

  “No I’m not, because I’m not going.” I pulled the blanket right over my head.

  “You can still make it to the burial if you get up and hurry.”

  “They’ll manage fine without me.”

  “Well then, think about the estate settlement.” The zip of Maxine’s skirt zipper punctuated her words.

  I let out a snort. “Oh yeah. That eyesore will be worth a real fortune.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s got to be worth something. You could sell it and use the money.”

  “I don’t want anything from that man.” I heard Maxine throw the window shade open and closed my eyes against the light filtering through my blanket.

  “Then give it away. Use it for something important to you. How many times have I heard you talk about the struggles of immigrants coming over here and trying to make a go of things? You could help someone. Maybe you could do some good in the world instead of—”

  She paused.

  I lowered the blanket to my chin. “Instead of what?”

  But she only sighed, then changed her tone. “I’ll go with you.”

  “I’ve got just enough money in the bank for my share of the rent. I can’t afford one ticket, let alone two.” I didn’t bother telling her about Mr. Weinberger’s gift or my regifting it to George.

  She dragged a brush through her hair. “I’ll buy my own ticket.”

  “And take time off work? You’d lose your job.”

  “No, I won’t. They just promoted me to assistant manager, remember?”

  “You’re not going because I’m not going. End of discussion.” I pushed my bedding aside and swung my feet to the floor. “Thank you for ruining a perfectly good day off.”

  Maxine’s face was turning red with exasperation. I quickly headed toward the kitchen.

  “Bridget, one of these days you are going to have to grow up and do the right thing!” she hollered, following me.

  I swung around to face her. “Well, aren’t you just little Miss Missionary, doing good deeds and taking care of sad little Bridget, the poor, sorry immigrant girl who doesn’t know which way is up.” I saw Maxine’s eyes grow wide, but I didn’t stop. “You’ve been butting into my business from the day we met. Maybe it’s time you found some new flunky to boss around.”

  And in that moment, I knew I had gone too far. Maxine stared at me, her
lips clamped shut. She blinked hard, but tears welled up anyway. I knew I’d hurt her feelings. But it was bound to happen, eventually. I’d known all along that sooner or later she’d get sick of me. If this is what it took to arrive at that inevitable point, then so be it. I figured I might as well drive the stake in all the way, for good measure.

  “You even talked me into moving out of a luxurious mansion to come live here with you in this dump. Now we’re stuck here. Why did I ever listen to you?”

  “Well, if you hate it so much, why don’t you just move out?” She stomped over to where her coat hung on its hook and yanked it off, pushing her arms through the sleeves so hastily she might have been escaping a fire.

  “Well maybe I just will!” But even as I yelled the words, a picture of George asleep on the bus-stop bench popped into my mind. Where would I go?

  “In that case, you can forget about coming home with me for Christmas this year!” Maxine stepped through the door and slammed it behind her.

  There was no way I was going to let her get away with the last word. I ran to the door, flung it open, and leaned out as Maxine’s back disappeared around the corner of the hallway that led toward the stairs. I hollered loud enough to wake the neighbors. “Hallelujah! I thought you’d never un-invite me! Finally, I get a break from your stupid family and that sorry excuse for a home.”

  I waited, certain she would return the attack, but I heard only the scrape and the click of the door at the bottom of the stairs. I rushed to our living-room window and looked down at the street below. Maxine’s bus was just pulling away, and though she tried to flag down the driver, he kept going. She kicked a stone clear across the street, barely missing a passing car, then stomped swiftly down the sidewalk and never looked back.

  I ran back into the hallway where I’d seen the neighbor’s copy of today’s newspaper lying outside his door. I scooped it up and backed into our apartment, closing the door and pulling the chain across its plate. I spread the Free Press quickly on the table, certain I could peruse the classified ads and return the paper before it was missed.