A strange thing about the Grotto is that sometimes on horrible, miserable windy days, there’s not a breath of wind in here. You can sit and blow smoke-rings while the trees whip and swirl and thrash all around you. And on cold days the Grotto can make you feel warm, stable and safe. On rainy days you can always find a dry place to sit down. Other times, when the sun is splittin’ the rocks, you can walk into the Grotto and wonder what you were thinkin’ not to have brought your jacket. On calm, peaceful days there could be near tempest winds in here. Them are the times when you can’t stay long. Like something don’t want you to be there and pushes you out, some long-buried fury hibernating in the very ground beneath your feet. So many weary souls have passed through these Stations, dumpin’ their burdens and wanton confessions, beggin’ absolution for their vile, hypocritical ways. It makes sense, to me, that the place would grow resentful. All that doom and gloom had to have seeped in somewhere I s’pose.
I’ve been havin’ this horribly vivid, recurring dream about the Grotto. I first had it around the time I started seein’ Natasha. It’s always the same. I’m leadin’ her by the hand, up between the big white crosses in the woods at night. I feels double-jointed and ten times stronger. She’s whimpering and scared and beggin’ me to tell her what’s wrong, where we’re going. But the more upset she gets, the more she cries, the more powerful I gets. After an eternity of this, something more or less shorts out in my head and I seems to deflate. I becomes overwhelmed with love and compassion, tryin’ desperately to connect, console, make things good again. But she grows more and more distant each step we takes. When we gets through the crosses and deeper into the woods we comes to a menacing black wooden door. My instinct is to turn back at this point but she always insists on goin’ in. Now she moves with a real confidence ’cause she already knows what’s on the other side of the door. My body grows weaker, my movements sluggish and clumsy. She opens the thick black door with ease and we enters a squat, claustrophobic room that’s covered wall-to-wall, even the ceiling, with hard green carpet. Four church pews, polished to a shine, are situated at the end of the room closest to the door. The air is thick and musty with the stifling stench of that sickly Easter incense. Wax drips from a few ceremonial church candles, but their flames don’t give off much light. We can barely make out the outline of another door at the far end. Then Natasha takes me by the hand and pulls me through the room. I feels like a child bein’ drawn away by a stranger, far away from all things familiar and warm. As we’re approaching the door we passes a closed and battered wooden coffin. ’Tash makes it to the door first and yanks it open. There’s laughter on the other side, natural, uninhibited laughter like children on a playground. I tries to get a glimpse but Natasha pushes me out of the way and slips out the door herself. She closes it shut in my face with a deathly quiet. The door handle disappears. I’m left alone in the room. I turns around to find the coffin is now open, the interior worn and rotted through to the bare board in places. To my sheer horror I sees myself inside. But I’m not dead. I’m starin’ out at myself with a vacant, desperate look that seems to ask—What have you done now?
Why I keeps comin’ back to the Grotto, I don’t know. It’s like the very force that pushes me out sometimes when I’m here, sucks me right back in when I’m not. There’re times that I simply arrives here, no recollection of havin’ made a conscious decision to come. Or I’ll find myself walkin’, look down at my feet, watch them move, one in front of the other, knowin’ they’re leadin’ me to the Grotto. But today is different. Today I knows exactly why I’m here. I’m comin’ clean. If she wants to leave me she can go right ahead. She’ll have every right to by the time I’m done.
I’m gettin’ restless so I decides to take a walk up to the Lookout to see what I can see. If she’s out and about, I’ll spot her from up there. It’s gettin’ on in the day and I wants to get this over with before tonight. There’s a big bash down the Shore and I’d like to show up as a free man for a change.
The woods are steep enough that you can’t get away with regular walkin’, but are forced to utilize all four limbs the whole way up. I finds a dandy stick on the ground and uses it for a staff. It’s a long old haul. By the time I makes it to the top and steps onto the huge rock that marks the heart of the Lookout, I’m so out of breath it feels like my lungs might bleed. The smokes are takin’ their toll on me already. Handsome young fella like myself.
Now. Look out. What a goddamn view. I can see pretty much every house in the Cove from here. Streetlights are flickering over on the South Side. There’s a ghostly cargo ship slicin’ through the currents behind Stone Island, its red and green beacons flashin’ every so often. I makes a quick scan of the roads and spots Natasha comin’ out of her uncle’s woodshed. She’s headed this way, quite a view in her own right. How is it that I’m just not content to give it a go with her? There’s not many can hold a candle to her here in the Cove, that’s for sure. It’s a matter of loyalty I s’pose. I have a hard time with that one. Even when I’m dead sober, the notion of loyalty is, well, just that, a notion. And when I gets drunk it goes right out the fuckin’ window altogether. Wherever I falls, that’s where I stays. I’m after wakin’ up in a lot of strange places with strange arms around me.
Natasha stops to lace up her boot. She’s gorgeous and gettin’ more so every year. But that’s just it. Every Year. We’re goin’ on two years now. That’s long enough to be fuckin’ around with the same young one as far as I’m concerned. I should be free while I’m young, and so should she…
A tree or a twig snaps somewhere nearby, startling me. I looks around and remembers where I am. My skin breaks out in goose bumps and, without thinkin’, I begins a hasty, fumbling descent back down to the Grotto. Branches slashin’ at my eyes.
The story goes that after twenty years of secret masses and midnight vigils, there was, all of a sudden it seemed, not enough Protestant presence in the Cove to keep the Catholics from practising openly. Around the end of the eighteenth century I think. So the Protestants just up and left one night, bound for New York and Boston, Canada, to start new lives and new families, and new churches no doubt. Mostly what you’ll hear around the Cove is that the Protestants couldn’t take the hard weather, that they were weak on the water and that the devil lured ’em off to greener pastures. Soon enough the Cove was all Catholic. A church sprung up. Turns out Father Joseph was a bit of a woodworker himself and played a good hand in the construction of it. A few years passed and word of Father Joseph’s powerful sermons, combined with the rumour that he’d managed to convert a town full of Protestants over to the Catholic Church, reached the big guys in the church in St. John’s. A letter arrived one day announcing the impending visit of Bishop John Blaney. The Cove went into an uproar. A fresh coat of paint on every house, stable and outhouse was mandatory. Anything broken down had to be mended. No slack-arses, no exceptions. Jesus Christ himself might as well have been on his way to the Cove, considering the feverish panic of the preparations.
It was cited in the letter that Bishop Blaney would be arriving by boat. So Father Joseph took it upon himself to carve an archway under which his holiness could pass as soon as he hit the wharf. Try as he might though, he couldn’t get it quite right. Some minor detail, undetectable to any other eye but his own, always rendered the finished product less than perfect, and therefore, as far as Father Joseph was concerned, an embarrassment and shame to the entire community.
Again and again he carved it out and then chopped it down. Carve it out, give it a good sizin’ up, then the crack of his maul would echo off the cliffs from one end of the harbour to the other. Douse it with kerosene and light it ablaze in a fit of rage. Toss it out over the wharf, heartbroken.
As the weeks wound down and the day of Bishop Blaney’s visit drew closer, Father Joseph took to sleepin’ with his project down on the wharf. Some of his most devoted followers tried to intervene, to talk him back to his senses, but he wouldn’t hear a thing of it. Nothing t
hey could say or do would convince him to give it up, to come home, or even to serve mass, which he’d neglected to do for almost a month. In the end they just let him go to it, and it became the common opinion that Father Joseph had lost his mind altogether.
On the eve of the big day Father Joseph was heard to remark that if he didn’t get it right this time, the devil could have him. For the most part, the people of the Cove were convinced that had already happened. Still, there was the hope that the arrival of the bishop might somehow bring Father Joseph around. At dawn a shower of shotgun blasts from an incoming schooner told the Cove that Bishop Blaney had arrived on time. All hands proceeded down to the wharf in their best Sunday clothes to greet the bishop and pay their respects. There they were met, but not altogether surprised, by the grisly silhouette of Father Joseph’s body, hangin’ by the neck from the centre beam of his latest attempt at perfection.
Considering Father Joseph had taken his own life, Bishop Blaney ordered the body cut down and buried on the highest point in the harbour so that the devil would have to work at least that much harder to drag his tarnished soul down into hell. A small wooden cross was quickly constructed, but Blaney wouldn’t allow it placed at the grave site. There were no prayers, just a hole dug and then refilled with body and dirt. To this day the grave has gone unmarked.
Five more feet to the Grotto and I rips the leg out of my goddamn jeans. Always something. It’s after coolin’ down a bit. The light is fadin’ fast. I’m gettin’ a little paranoid as the woods slowly give over to shadow. Can’t sit still. I finally gives in and jump up to leave. Before I takes the first step, Natasha’s shadowy form comes trompin’ up the head of the path. I does my best to conceal the fright, my heartbeat all-consuming.
—Well, Mr. Kavanagh.
—Hey, ’Tash.
—So what’s this big important thing you have to talk to me about that just couldn’t wait?
Her eyes are fogged over and bloodshot. There’s a smell of weed off her breath. She’s stoned. This is no good.
—What were you at down in Pat’s woodshed?
—Spyin’ on me now? I was havin’ a draw.
—Nice to know I’m well up there on your priority list.
—What is it, Keith? Did you get me up here to rip my heart out and leave me? Lighten your own load by addin’ to mine? What? Go ahead.
She gets right aggressive on the weed. Gives her a real power trip. Wish it’d hit me like that. Anytime I has a draw I turns into a stuttering moron, can’t carry on a sensible conversation to save my own life.
She tips her head back and gives her eyes a shot of Visine. In no time they’re clear and blue again. God she’s gorgeous. I feels myself soften. I’d spent the past couple of days preparing everything I had to say, reworking it in my head ’til I got it just right. But now that the moment is here, I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to. I can’t. I takes a step towards her and hugs into her. She giggles, her breath hot and sweet on my neck.
—I just wanted to see you, girl. We haven’t come up here in a while and I thought it might be nice. Look at me.
I takes a step back, holdin’ her face in my hands. She won’t make eye contact. She smirks and stares off. I hugs her again and as I do I sees something black move into the opening at the far end of the Grotto. At first I thinks it’s a dog, maybe the O’Brien’s old black Lab out for an evening tromp. But it’s not a dog. No, by fuck. It’s a darkness blacker than the shadows it moves through. A fast, bottomless black movin’ right towards me and ’Tash. I tightens my grip around her back, afraid to move or take my eyes off the shadow.
—What is it, Keith?
I can’t get to speak. I turns around, takes her by the hand. We starts walkin’ as fast as we can without actually runnin’. She holds on tight to my arm, lettin’ me know that she feels it too, that I’m not imagining things. We’re being pushed, swept out of the Grotto by something more than just a bad feeling. We’re ridin’ on a wave of something old and dark. It gets closer, crawls up the backs of our legs. We are unwelcome. No choice but to leave. It’s dead cold in the Grotto now.
We don’t speak or even so much as glance at each other ’til we’re well down on the road and even then we’re too afraid to acknowledge it.
—There’s a big bash goin’ on down the Shore tonight.
—Got any money?
—Enough.
We walks up towards the main highway, hand in hand. All is calm across the Cove, not a ripple on the water. Fine night for thumbin’.
I takes one last glance back up at the Grotto before we rounds the turn past the church. The trees are twistin’ and whippin’ back and forth in a sudden outburst of violence, threatenin’ to uproot.
Something’s just not right about the place.
8. As It Is in Heaven
—Just what do you think you’re doing, Mr. Kavanagh?
—Cleanin’ my nails. Why?
—Put it away, please.
Fuck sakes. Sure everybody I knows got a knife in their pocket. I flicks the blade closed and slips it back into my coat. What fuckin’ next?
—I would appreciate, in future, that you refrain from brandishing knives or any other weapons in my office.
Jesus Christ. Nothing like a trip to the welfare office to make you feel two feet tall. Natasha tried to make me feel better about it.
—Look, Keith, that’s what they’re there for. You’re entitled to it. It’s not for the rest of your life.
Yeah. Right. Try walkin’ in here with that attitude. They goes out of their way to make you feel like you’re robbin’ from their own personal piggy bank, that their kids are in for a second-rate Christmas because of you. Welcome to your new life. And what’s with all the goddamn questions? Have I committed a crime? Jesus, it’s only a lousy hundred bucks or so. Where’s that gonna get me?
The flimsy bastard behind the desk hands me the cheque. I reaches out to take it, but he won’t let it go. I pulls my hand back right away. I’m not playin’ that stupid game. I stands up and makes like I’m gonna leave, hopin’ he’s not gonna call my bluff. He does. He lays the cheque down on his desk, starts rearranging his papers. Puts on his readin’ glasses. I sits back down. He holds the cheque out again and this time when I reaches for it he yanks it away. Bastard.
—Plans for the future, Mr. Kavanagh?
I have a few plans for that cheque, you lanky prick.
—I have a few plans.
—Like what?
—Well I’d kinda like to keep ’em to myself, if you don’t mind.
—We’re going to be looking in on you, Mr. Kavanagh. This is about more than just showing up every month and having a cheque cut. We have an active interest in your case. Our system is designed to help get people on their feet. This cheque is to go towards your room and board at the…ahhh…Healy residence. Nowhere else. It’s not spending money, not party money. If your living situation changes you are to notify us immediately. Understood?
—Yup.
—Pardon me?
He folds the cheque in half and scratches his cheek with it, stares blankly at me.
—Yes, sir.
He finally holds out the cheque. I snatches it from his hand, turns around and makes a straight cut for the door.
I’ve been stayin’ at Natasha’s place for nearly a month now. I fell out with my own crowd. Big time. Natasha’s parents don’t seem to be for or against my bein’ there, which is fine by me. Her old man is on a bit of a power trip these days, but I keeps a low profile for the most part. As long as I’m not sleepin’ in the bed with Natasha. Of course that’s where I usually ends up. I offered to pay my way but her mom said not to be so foolish. She’s been pretty good to me. It’s only for a short while anyhow. I might be goin’ to school in St. John’s this comin’ fall. Waitin’ to see if my student loan is gonna come through.
Up on the road from the welfare office I sits on the guardrail and unfolds the cheque. One hundred and sixteen dollars and
seventy-six cents. Wonder how they came up with that figure? They couldn’t just round it up to one-twenty? No. That’d be too easy I s’pose. Room and board. Sure if I handed this over to Natasha’s mother it’d be like slappin’ her into the face. What’s she gonna do with this?
I hears a car comin’ round the turn. It’s only Francey O’Dea, so I don’t bother to stick my thumb out. He loves to see me out on the road thumbin’. Loves to pass me by too. I’d sooner walk the whole ways back to the Cove than get in with the likes of him. So it’s quite a shocker when he slows down and stops a little ways up ahead of me. The passenger side door falls open. Fuck it. Feels like rain anyhow.
Francey is drivin’ a rickety rust box of a Chevette these days, not much guts in her at all. She can hardly make it up over the hill goin’ into the Cove. I feels bad for him. He used to have a dandy car. On the way down the other side of the hill he floors it, the little car rattling and shimmying all over the road. I reaches for my seatbelt but there’s neither one there. That’s no good. In the side mirror I can see puffs of thick blue smoke shootin’ out from the rear end. I glances at Francey, his bloodshot eyes hangin’ out of his fuckin’ head. The needle on the speedometer keeps on climbin’.
Down to the Dirt Page 8
