Bleak Landing

by Terrie Todd

  I could not bring myself to move from my spot, to go look into my father’s bedroom. Mrs. Harrison had told me that after he died, she and two friends had come to the house and packed up his clothing for the missionary barrel. I joked that the missionaries probably didn’t want them, but deep down I knew the joke wasn’t funny. As I stood there now, I almost expected Pa to step through that bedroom door, to see me and start in about where I’d been and how he was going to teach me a lesson. I could picture him in his undershirt and trousers, suspenders hanging loose around his hips. He’d go for the willow switch he kept in the corner. I looked over there now, but the spot where it had always stood was empty.

  I closed my eyes, willing the memories to fade. Instead, they only became keener. I could hear Pa’s slurred speech, smell the bitter scents of whiskey and sweat. I thought I heard the crack of the willow switch and opened my eyes with a startled gasp, turning in the direction of the sound.

  Victor stood in the doorway.

  “You all right?”

  That’s when I realized tears were running down my face. I tried as hard as I could to make them stop, but they kept coming, accompanied by ugly gulps. In two strides, Victor was at my side. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  And there it was. I’d never told anyone, but Victor knew the truth. Maybe he’d seen my bruises when we were kids, or maybe he could just read my heart now. But however he knew, he knew. I sobbed against his chest. I had not been inside this house for nearly seven years. I’d never seen it in such horrible condition. But for the first time in my life, I felt safe inside its walls.

  Chapter 41

  Victor sat between his father and Bridget as the community hall filled with people. Most, he knew, had come for the free coffee he could smell percolating in the kitchen. There were sure to be sandwiches, pickles, and possibly even cake later if the women had pooled their sugar ration cards.

  Mr. Lundarson pounded a gavel on the podium at the front and called the meeting to order. “Please rise for the singing of ‘God Save the King.’”

  In an off-key baritone, he led the group through the anthem. The last note dissolved into the sound of chairs scraping as everyone sat down, and he pounded his gavel again.

  “As you know, tonight we get to hear from our mayoral candidates and will have a chance to ask them whatever questions we might have before we vote. However, we do have a few other items of business to cover, as well as a last-minute item Miss Johansen asked me to add to the agenda. And before we get to that, we’ll hear news from the front. Who has a letter to share?”

  One by one, three mothers and one wife rose to read letters, or excerpts from them, from their soldiers abroad. Victor listened, knowing from experience that the men worked hard to keep their words positive and hopeful. He could easily imagine what horrors they had left out. His time overseas seemed like a different lifetime now, and he sent up a prayer of gratitude that he was home. And then another for the men who were not.

  “Thank you, ladies.” Mr. Lundarson said. “Did we miss anyone?” He looked around the room. “If not, let’s carry on with our business. First up: the drainage on Fattigdom Road.”

  Victor’s knee bobbed up and down anxiously as his neighbors addressed an issue of a culvert in need of replacement and a corner that needed a stop sign because poor old Mrs. Jorgenson’s cat had nearly been run over. He couldn’t believe how passionate some people could get over petty issues. How long was this going to take? He looked around for Miss Johansen but couldn’t spot her.

  “And next on our agenda . . .” Mr. Lundarson looked down at his notes. “The issue of the Patrick O’Sullivan property on the edge of town. I don’t think there’s anyone here who isn’t already aware that we have a visitor in our midst who is claiming legal rights to that property. I’d like to call her up now, along with Miss Elizabeth Johansen, Mr. Victor Harrison, and Mr. Bruce Nilsen. Look at this, folks. A teacher, a pastor, a lawyer. Bleak Landing’s finest, right here.” There was a halfhearted smattering of applause.

  Victor supported Bridget’s elbow as she rose, and followed her to the front. Bruce stood on the other side of the podium. There was no sign of Miss Johansen, and Mr. Lundarson called for her again.

  “Well, no matter. We can proceed.” He turned to Bridget. “Young lady, tell us your story.”

  Victor felt proud of Bridget. She stood tall and appeared confident, even though he knew she was probably shaking on the inside. Did she have any idea how lovely she was, how easily she outshone the women in Bleak Landing? Her navy suit perfectly complemented her red hair and fair complexion. He could understand how people didn’t recognize her as the waif she’d been.

  “My name is Bridget Mary O’Sullivan. My father, Patrick, and I came to Bleak Landing from Ireland when I was seven years old. We lost my mother, Mary, and my brother, Tommy, on the voyage. As you know, my father passed away, and I am here to claim his property. I do not believe he wrote any will, nor do I hold the deed. My only identification was recently destroyed by a house fire. Whatever birth record I may have had was left behind in Ireland. I am counting on the recognition of the people of Bleak Landing in order to redeem what is mine.”

  Bridget stepped back and Victor moved to the podium.

  “My family has kept in touch with Bridget since she left town.” He knew he was stretching the truth on that, but kept on going. “I was the one who sent the telegram to her at the home of her employer in Winnipeg, informing her of her father’s passing. The fact that she received the telegram at all should be evidence enough that she is Bridget.”

  At this, he nodded toward her, and Bridget held up the telegram. He continued.

  “And Ma and I both recognized her right off. There’s really no reason not to believe her, unless you have an appetite for a cruel scandal.”

  “Now, Victor,” Mr. Lundarson said. “No need for that.”

  Someone shouted from the back of the room. “Why did it take her so long to get here?”

  “Ask her if she knows Patrick’s middle name!” someone else yelled.

  “How would that prove anything? Do you know Patrick’s middle name?” a third mocked.

  “Folks, settle down.” Mr. Lundarson’s voice rose above the others. “I’m giving the floor to Bruce Nilsen.”

  Bruce stepped forward and cleared his throat. As if he were standing in a court of law, he puffed out his chest and paced across the front of the room, one hand across his back.

  “Miss . . . Sullivan, is it?” he stopped and looked at Bridget.

  “O’Sullivan,” she said quietly.

  “Ah, yes. O’Sullivan. But there seems to be some confusion about that O, doesn’t there?”

  “My acquaintances in the city know me as Bridget Sullivan. I dropped the O when I arrived in Winnipeg. It was simply easier.”

  “Just like the real Bridget dropped her poor, lonely father?” Bruce asked. He turned to the crowd. “We can solve this very quickly, Mr. Lundarson. I’d like a show of hands—who in this room remembers Bridget O’Sullivan?”

  Nearly everyone in the room lifted a hand, and Victor knew that those who did not were newcomers to the community.

  “You may lower your hands,” Bruce continued. “And of those who remember her, how many of you are confident that this is the same person?”

  Six hands went up, including Victor’s.

  Bruce grinned. “I’d just like to point out that every person who raised a hand carries the last name of Harrison.” His tone was dripping with satisfaction. “I would also like to point out that Victor Harrison here owns the property next to the O’Sullivan property. I think it’s fairly obvious that this woman is in cahoots with the family and whatever plans they might have concerning the land. It would be a very convenient expansion, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Victor said, but no one heard him over the hum that Bruce’s accusation generated in
the room.

  Just then, heads turned toward another disturbance at the door.

  “Ah, here she is.” Mr. Lundarson pounded his gavel again. “Miss Johansen! Come on up.”

  The teacher was puffing, her face red and her hair mussed. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, removing her coat and hat and handing them to a woman in the front row. “It took me longer than I expected to find what I was looking for.” She took her place at the front, beside Mr. Lundarson.

  “Miss Johansen,” Bruce began again, “you taught Bridget O’Sullivan at your school, is that correct?”

  Victor rolled his eyes. “Everybody knows that—”

  “Can you tell us how many years Bridget O’Sullivan was your student?”

  “Eight years.”

  “So you probably know her better than anyone. Yet even you don’t recognize this young woman, is that correct?”

  Victor wanted to shout “Objection!” like he’d seen in the movies. “Just let her tell her own story, Bruce,” he said instead.

  “I . . . can’t say with one hundred percent certainty,” the teacher fumbled. “But . . . no. I . . . I don’t really think this is Bridget. She’s just . . . she’s just not the same person. But I have something that will help us.” She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. “This is a poem Bridget wrote in class one day when she was in Grade Seven. She wrote it at her desk, handed it straight to me, and I’ve had it filed away all these years.”

  “And you’re completely confident no one else has ever seen it?” Bruce asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  Victor spoke up. “Wait a minute. You can’t expect her to recite something she wrote so many years ago and never laid eyes on again. Who could do that?”

  “He has a point,” Mr. Lundarson said.

  “I agree,” Miss Johansen said. “But I know Bridget. If this is her, she’ll be able to tell us what the poem is about. I know she will.” She handed the piece of paper to Mr. Lundarson.

  He scanned the page. “I really don’t see how this—”

  Another shout from the back interrupted him. “That’s not going to prove anything!”

  The room began to buzz again, and Victor didn’t even notice until she began to speak that Bridget had stepped up to the podium.

  Chapter 42

  As I approached the platform, I could almost see my mother’s face. I remembered the happy day we boarded the ship for Canada, the hope that shone in her eyes. Hope that was reflected in the smile on Pa’s face, and Tommy’s, too. We were a family heading off on an exciting adventure together, leaving our sad past behind us.

  But the sadness had only begun.

  Now it felt as though I was laying my heart bare before the very people who were rejecting me—who had rejected me throughout my childhood, too. This also felt like my last hope. I took courage from the smile on Mrs. Harrison’s face, closed my eyes to the faces of the others, and offered up my poem as if I were a prisoner stripped naked before her accusers.

  “Once,” I said. “By Bridget O’Sullivan.” As a hush fell over the room, I recited slowly, with my eyes closed.

  I had a mother, once.

  With smiles and laughter and lullabies

  She stroked my hair and wiped my eyes.

  I had a mother, once.

  I had a brother, once.

  All giggles and sunshine and kisses sweet

  I rolled him a ball and tickled his feet.

  I had a brother, once.

  I had a father, once.

  Before the deep sadness, the waves of the sea

  Robbed him of all that he had—save for me.

  I had a father, once.

  I had a voice, once.

  Like a lark, I could sing, I could laugh, I was free

  To express all my words, all my love, ferociously

  I had a voice.

  Once.

  Not even the squawk of an infant broke the heavy silence in the room. I looked at Victor’s mother again and saw tears streaming down her face. Even his father appeared a little choked up. I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact with their son. I stepped away from the podium.

  The crowd was looking at Mr. Lundarson, who still held the poem in his hand.

  “That’s it exactly,” he said softly. “Word for word.”

  The community hall erupted into about forty simultaneous conversations. Mr. Lundarson kept pounding his gavel, to no effect. I took a deep breath and exhaled. The poem had come back to me verbatim because I’d carried it in my head long before I ever put it on paper in Miss Johansen’s class all those years ago. Exactly when the phrasing began to form, I couldn’t say. But when it had come time to complete Miss Johansen’s assignment, all I’d had to do was write. I remembered how good it felt to finally see the words in black and white and to share them with someone, even if it was only one person. That night, and for many nights afterward, the phrases had replayed in my head as I fell asleep. They were almost like the mantra for my life.

  Whatever the outcome, I’d expressed my poem aloud and survived. I could catch the next train to Winnipeg and find some other way to move on if I had to.

  Finally, I looked into Victor’s face. He was gazing at me with such intensity, I had to look away. What was it I saw in those eyes? I couldn’t name it, but whatever it was, it made me feel something I’d never felt before. Something that made the thought of leaving him unbearable.

  The room settled down, and Mr. Lundarson spoke again.

  “Thank you, young lady, for that very eloquent recitation. Miss Johansen, are you satisfied that this woman before us is the author of this poem?” He held the sheet of paper high.

  Miss Johansen was staring at me, and from the expression on her face, I thought she might burst into tears. “Yes, I am,” she said. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Bridget.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bruce broke in with an exasperated huff. “She could have discovered this poem any number of ways—”

  “Oh give it up, Nilsen!” a heckler hollered.

  “Put it to another vote!” someone shouted.

  Mr. Lundarson pounded his gavel once again. “All right. You’ve all heard the evidence. If you believe this woman is Bridget O’Sullivan, please raise your hand.”

  Mr. Lundarson’s hand shot up before he even finished the sentence. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to raise my own or not, so I left both hands at my sides and looked around the room. Hands went up everywhere. I scanned the room again. Only one small woman still held her hands down, and I recognized her as Bruce Nilsen’s mother. I looked back at Bruce, who stubbornly refused to raise his hand and stood glaring back at his mother. Then slowly, and with a defiant expression, she, too, raised her tiny hand to shoulder level and held it there.

  Mr. Lundarson pounded his gavel. “This might be the most wishy-washy crowd in the history of the world. But I think it’s safe to say you may proceed with your quest to claim your property unchallenged, Miss O’Sullivan. Welcome back to Bleak Landing.” He handed me the poem. “Now, let’s move on to what you all came here for tonight: our mayoral debate and election!”

  As I sank into my seat next to Mrs. Harrison, I realized I was trembling and my legs felt weak. She placed an arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze. “Well done, Bridget,” she said before leaning back in her seat to hear her son’s campaign speech.

  Mr. Lundarson continued. “Each candidate will have five minutes to speak. Then each will have another five minutes to answer questions. Afterward, everyone twenty-one years of age and older may line up in an orderly fashion and cast a ballot by placing an X next to the name of their preferred candidate.” He gestured toward a makeshift voting booth in a front corner of the room, opposite the hall’s kitchen. “Voting will end at precisely eight o’clock. Our scrutineers, Reverend Jorgenson and Mr. McNally, will tally the votes while we enjoy refreshments together, and then we’ll announce our new mayor.”

  “Get on with it, Lundarson, I�
��ve got cows to milk!” called the heckler from the back of the room.

  Mr. Lundarson shuffled some papers and cleared his throat. “First up, we’ll hear from Mr. Bruce Nilsen.”

  Bruce approached the podium with the same confidence he had the first time. “Ladies and gentlemen. As you know, our world is at war. And our little town—safe though we may feel here—is not immune to the threats that face so many on this planet. We, too, could easily be overthrown by undesirables. When our forefathers founded this town, do you think they intended it to become a melting pot? Of course not. They’d be rolling over in their graves if they could see what’s happening in communities surrounding ours.”

  I sensed some nervous shuffling in the crowd.

  “I believe we need to stand firmly united to keep this town what our ancestors intended it to be. If people of lower cultural value are allowed to govern a culturally significant people, their inferiority will drag us all down to their level.”

  Did my ears deceive me? Was he paraphrasing Adolf Hitler? It sure sounded like it to me, and the reference wasn’t lost on the Bleak Landing crowd.

  “What exactly are you saying, Nilsen?” someone yelled.

  “He’s saying, let the low-life bums stay where they are!”

  I had no idea who had shouted or whose side they were on. But it didn’t matter, because Bruce ignored them both. “When this war ends—and we all hope it does soon—we’ll be faced with an influx of people from all races, religions, and backgrounds—most of them looking for a handout. From us! They’ll take our jobs. They’ll claim our land. Can we afford this? I say no. We must take care of our own people first. It’s what our great-grandparents fought for. It’s what I stand for, too. That’s why a vote for me is a vote for ‘Peace, Prosperity, and Progress.’ Thank you.”

  I’d seen the slogan on Bruce’s campaign posters. Somehow he’d missed the point that those same great-grandparents he was citing had once been the “influx” to which he referred. A subdued smattering of polite applause followed, and then a chorus of low murmurs. I almost felt sorry for Bruce. I was certain he didn’t stand a chance, and I doubted that Victor would need to say anything. The election was surely his.