The woman at the cash said, You are staying in Miquelon?
Just picking up a few things for home, he said.
For home?
Yes, he said. Have you got any more of these?
What size?
Double As, I spose. Any will do.
She called toward the back of the store, carrying on an indecipherable conversation with a young man stacking shelves. He disappeared through a doorway and came to the front with an armful that he laid on the counter. He had a shaved head and an angry tattoo across the back of his neck.
Any of these? the woman asked.
Sweetland hooked the thick stack of twenties from his ass pocket and gestured toward her. Do you take this stuff?
Her eyes went back and forth between Sweetland and the money several times. Oui, she said quietly. We will take Canadian.
You don’t sell kerosene, by any chance.
No, but there is a place. She spoke to the young man in French a moment. He will get you what you need. How much?
Whatever they got. And ammunition, he said. For a .22. They wouldn’t have pickling salt, by any chance?
Pick-ling?
For making the fish, he said. Salt fish?
Oui. Give him five hundred dollars, she said, and then spoke in French awhile. He will bring you your change, she said.
After the young man left, she gestured at the material he had piled on the counter. Should I be worried? she asked.
Sweetland stared at her blankly.
Is it the world that is ending?
It took him a moment to follow what she was asking. No, he said and he half laughed at the notion. Not where you lives, anyway, he said.
He walked around the store a second time, picking through the bottles of oil and red wine vinegar, the racks of spices and shelves of oddly shaped bread, looking for anything useful. When he was done, the woman at the counter tallied up the bill. Sweetland counted out the twenties slowly and by the time he’d finished, a derelict blue Peugeot had pulled up outside. The young man got out of the driver’s side and came into the store. He handed Sweetland a fistful of euros in change and then began carting the boxes and bags out to the car.
He will drive you, the woman said. But he has no English.
I got little enough myself, Sweetland said.
Sweetland pitched in to help him load the trunk and back seat. Looking to see what the youngster had purchased on his behalf. There was a single five-kilogram bag of salt and Sweetland pointed at it. Any more? he said. More, he repeated and he stretched his hands apart.
The boy shook his head. C’est tout, he said, and shrugged apologetically. They came in for the last of the supplies and the woman behind the counter spoke to the young man awhile and he glanced quickly at Sweetland.
The drive to the harbour took all of two minutes. They coasted through the gate, the young man nodding to the uniform behind the glass. He backed the car onto the wharf and parked near the boat Sweetland pointed out to him. They unloaded the back seat and the trunk together, piling his purchases on the concrete. The young man glancing up now and then toward the town.
Sweetland climbed into the boat and asked him to pass the provisions down. He gestured with his arms but the young man held one hand aloft. Wait, he said. S’il vous plaît. And then he shouted to someone at the far end of the wharf.
The gendarme wore a blue tunic and a short stovepipe hat with gold piping around the base, like someone out of a cartoon. He looked only a few years older than the tattooed boy and they seemed to know each other well, talking back and forth as he walked out the dock. After a few moments the young man went to the car where he sat on the hood and lit a cigarette.
Bonjour, the policeman said, and Sweetland waved up to him.
May I see your identification?
ID?
You are Canadian?
More or less.
This is France. You have a passport or a driver’s licence?
I never needed no ID the last time I come through here.
The policeman tilted his head at an angle that made Sweetland worry about him losing the hat. When was this? he asked.
Jesus, Sweetland said. 1964 or ’65.
The policeman watched him steadily. Things have changed since 1964, he said. Where are you visiting from?
Sweetland climbed up onto the dock. Fortune Bay, he said. He walked across to the young fellow with the tattooed neck and passed him the handful of euros as a tip, then turned back to the gendarme.
It’s just a bit of salt and flour, Sweetland said. Not like I’m smuggling booze.
Yes, very strange, the policeman said. He leaned over the stack of bags and containers, reached to pick out the boxes of ammunition. These you must leave, he said. You will have to declare the rest when you return to Newfoundland.
What, fill out a form or something?
A customs form, certainly. There will be a tariff to pay. May I go aboard?
Sweetland waved him on and the policeman stepped down into the boat, poking idly through the wheelhouse, looking into the compartments where he stored the lifejackets and fishing line and water jugs. When he climbed back onto the dock Sweetland took his place in the boat, dragging boxes off the concrete. The gendarme looked across at the young man sitting on the car hood and nodded permission to help. He watched the two load the boat then, with his hands crossed behind his back.
We can refund the money for the ammunition, the policeman said.
Never mind, Sweetland said.
When they were done loading, the gendarme took a black notebook from his shirt pocket. He said, I will require your name and address.
Jesse, Sweetland said. Jesse Ventura.
V-e-n, the policeman said as he jotted the name. R-a. And address?
Brig Harbour, Fortune Bay.
Brig Harbour, he said, his head still bowed to the notebook. I have not heard of it.
Back of beyond, Sweetland said. Half the people lives there never heard of it.
You will have to report to the customs office in Placentia, the policeman said.
First thing, Sweetland said.
You must bring a passport next time, Mr. Ventura.
Won’t leave home without it, don’t you worry.
The young man had untied the line and was holding the boat tight to the dock. Sweetland reached up to catch the rope when it was thrown aboard and waved a thank you. As he pulled away he could see the policeman writing the identification number painted at the bow into his little book. All the way home he cursed himself for an idiot, though even then he was hard pressed to say how it might come back on him.
An RCMP patrol boat arrived a week later. Sweetland working in the shed out back when the Mountie came knocking at his door, then turned and called for him. He stood at the open bay of the shed with his hands behind his back. Mr. Sweetland, he said.
He’s not here, Sweetland said. Moved into St. John’s a month ago.
Mr. Sweetland, the cop said. I was the officer out here investigating the burning of your stage last year.
Sweetland looked him up and down. You got any leads on that?
Mr. Sweetland, the officer said. We have a report from French customs that a man by the name of Jesse Ventura, driving a boat registered in your name, sailed into Miquelon recently. He left with a large quantity of food and supplies that were paid for in cash.
Is that right?
August fourteenth. He also attempted to buy a significant quantity of ammunition for a .22. Did this Mr. Ventura borrow your boat from you?
I guess he must have.
Do you have any idea where I might find Mr. Ventura?
Sweetland shrugged. He’s on the internet, if you minds to look.
The officer took a step into the shed, out of the daylight. He took off his hat and held it in front of himself. There was a crease ringing his head where the hat had been. He said, Do you know what he intended to do with forty-four hundred dollars’ worth of dry goods?
&nb
sp; This is about paying the tariffs, is it?
No, sir. That’s a customs issue. Our office was contacted by a government official involved in negotiating the resettlement agreement with people here in Sweetland. They’re worried some residents might be planning to breach that agreement. And possibly using lethal force in the process.
Sweetland turned from the Mountie to shift through the tools on his workbench.
Sir, could you step away from the workbench for me?
He turned around and folded his arms across his chest.
Mr. Sweetland, we’ve been asked to assist in the completion of the terms of the resettlement agreement.
They’re sending the cops out here?
It’s a question of legal liability on the part of the government, as I understand it. And there’s the issue of lethal force. We don’t want to see anyone get hurt. I’ve been asked to let people know that I will be on the last ferry to leave Sweetland. That’s less than two weeks from now. And all remaining residents are required to be on that ferry when it departs.
He waited then, to give Sweetland a chance to respond. A moment later he said, You are planning on boarding the ferry.
What if I’m not, Sweetland said.
The officer looked down at the hat in his hands. In that case, he said, there will be a warrant issued for your arrest.
Well, Sweetland said. Good to see my tax dollars hard at work.
The officer smiled and replaced his hat. He shimmied it on good and tight. I would hate to be put in that position, Mr. Sweetland. I honestly would.
Sweetland turned back to the workbench and put both hands to the edge. I’ll see if I can’t spare you the trouble, he said.
He didn’t say a formal goodbye to anyone. So pissed off it didn’t cross his mind he might be adding a layer of grief to the lives of others. Or not giving a good goddamn if he was.
He’d carried the duffle bag of food down to the government wharf after the lights were out in the cove and tucked it away in the wheelhouse. In the morning he walked through the house as he might have if he were leaving for the last time. Closing doors, hanging a jacket that he’d left lying on the daybed, washing his few breakfast dishes and putting them away in the cupboards. He left the house with his pack, but stopped himself before his hand was off the door. He went back inside and threw the jacket across the daybed, he walked through the house to open the doors he’d closed. All the cash left over from his spree in Miquelon was in the drawer of his bedside table and he stuffed it into an envelope that he folded and pushed into his back pocket. He took a tin of tuna from the cupboard and opened it, draining off the water. He ate half the fish with a fork, then left the can and the fork on the counter, beside the laptop.
Sweetland could see Pilgrim sitting at his own kitchen table as he walked by. He went around to the back door and poked his head inside.
Is herself about? he asked.
She’s not up yet, Pilgrim said. I’ll get you a cup of tea.
No, no, Sweetland said. He took the envelope from his back pocket and laid it on the table. I’m just heading down to the wharf. Thought I might go poach a few cod.
What’s that? Pilgrim asked.
What’s what?
Whatever you put on the table there.
That’s for Clara, Sweetland said.
You should have supper with us tonight, Pilgrim said. You’re spending too much time alone up there.
If I’m back in time, Sweetland said, I’ll come down.
He went out the door and stopped to let Diesel nuzzle his crotch and whip her tail against his legs as she squirmed. Leaned down to whisper into her ears. Bye, Diesel, he said.
Loveless was at the wharf when he got there, looking harried and distracted.
You haven’t seen my dog, have you?
Not today.
The frigger’s been out the whole night.
Sweetland climbed down into the boat, started up the engine.
Loveless walked to the dock’s edge to be heard over the motor. What was it the cop wanted with you when he come out?
He’s still trying to figure who burnt my stage. Untie that rope for me, would you?
Loveless leaned down to the capstan. Have he got any suspects?
He was asking a lot of questions about you.
Loveless took the pipe from his mouth, stood gaping a minute as the boat drifted off the dock.
I told him I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.
You’re a miserable cunt, Moses.
Sweetland laughed. I spose I am, he said.
Where is it you’re heading now?
Thought I might go poach a few cod.
What have you got in the bag?
Mind your own goddamn business, Sweetland said. He turned the nose of the boat to open water, sailing out past the breakwater without glancing back.
A MONTH BEFORE HE PLANNED to leave for Toronto with Duke Fewer, Sweetland walked out as far as the north-end lighthouse and borrowed Bob-Sam Lavallee’s horse and cart. He drove it back to Vatcher’s Meadow where he tied the horse to the fence and walked down into the cove. He had his supper at the house with his mother and Effie and Uncle Clar. It was coming on duckish when they were done and Sweetland walked Effie up past the King’s Seat.
What’s this? she asked when she saw the horse and cart.
Thought we might take a little drive, he said.
She wasn’t from Sweetland, Effie Burden. Come over from Fortune to teach at the school. Seventeen and never out from under her father’s roof before she went into St. John’s to do her eight-month teaching certificate. All the teachers on Sweetland were the same, young girls mostly, in their first school. Two dozen youngsters in the one room, staring up at the terrified child at the front. The oldest students were the same age as the teacher, all of them boys who had failed grade 9 once or twice, or left before final exams to fish each spring and were sent back each fall by their mothers. Most of them suffered the time in the classroom just to make a play for the new girl who was away from home and family for the first time. It was a sport to get the teacher on her back up on the mash, or out behind the church. Hardly a one lasted beyond their first year, and there were some who went away with unexpected company, wearing loose clothes to hide the fact during the last months of school. A select few married into the island and stayed on, Effie being the last. Though no one managed to get her small things around her ankles out in the meadow between times, Sweetland could tell you that for a fact.
He was long done with school when Effie arrived. Home from his first stint in Toronto, but away from Chance Cove working the schooner, and he knew her mostly by reputation. Tough as nails, was what he heard. The mouth on her like the edge of a ruler across the knuckles. No one gave her any trouble she couldn’t take the seams out of, no one left school to fish before exams were done. No one so much as laid a finger on her sleeve.
She sat in the church pew behind his mother and Ruthie and Uncle Clar every Sunday and the women got to talking. Effie invited back to the house for Sunday dinner whenever Sweetland was off the schooner. It was design on his mother’s part, he knew, putting the girl in his way. A sensible child with a bit of education, who wasn’t afraid of work. She refused to let Effie help clear the table. Me and Ruthie got hands enough to manage this, she said before leaving them alone with their tea. Uncle Clar dozing on the daybed next the stove, the cat settling on the old man’s chest to bat at the handlebars of his moustache.
Effie never spoke about herself, asking instead about Toronto, about Maple Leaf Gardens and Lake Ontario and Yonge Street, about his work on the Ceciliene Marie. Sitting across from him in her old-lady cardigan and woollen skirt. Tiny set of teeth in her head. They were her baby teeth, she told him, which had never fallen out and the adult set never come in. There was something eerie in the incongruity, and it made her oddly intimidating. Though she sometimes covered her mouth with her hand when she smiled, the only mark of shyness he’d ever seen in her.
It was a surprisingly warm evening for April. They drove out the path to the south-end light, sitting close enough in the seat that their legs touched. There was no moon and the night fell on them so black they couldn’t see more than the vague outline of the horse, the animal walking the familiar path by memory or smell or some other animal instinct. Half an hour along, Effie leaned heavy into his shoulder as they tipped through a rut and she made no effort to move away. She placed her hand on the inside of Sweetland’s thigh. They had never so much as kissed, had never touched one another in any but the most inadvertent way, and the weight of her hand on his leg was making his head ring.
He didn’t speak or glance in her direction, for fear she’d lose her nerve and pull away. They stared into the dark ahead as Effie unbuttoned his fly, Sweetland keeping both hands on the reins. She seemed not to know the first thing about what she was doing, squeezing and tugging like she was trying to milk a goat, and Sweetland came in streams across his knees and the boards at his feet. It was all he could do to sit upright as the spasms coursed through him.
They were both mortified in the aftermath and for a while pretended nothing at all had happened between them. Effie left her hand where it was until Sweetland finally reached down to button his fly. She shifted to one side, taking a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe at her fingers, and then scrubbed ineffectually at his pant legs.
Sorry, he said.
Shut up, Moses, she said.
2
THERE WERE NO LIGHTS IN CHANCE COVE after the living cleared out, but there was still fresh water in the pipes, pressure-fed from Lunin Pond up on the mash. It came down from such a height that even the upstairs toilet still flushed.
Sweetland Page 17
