She bore his choked sobs with a bowed head. When he was done she leaned across the table and gripped his hands and spoke softly but firmly. I don’t fear death, it’s taken too much from me. I owe it nothing. But I’ll learn to hate like your father if it takes you from me too. This isn’t the worst thing to happen. Losing him was the worst thing. And knowing it’ll be hard for you is the second worst. The biggest thing you can help me with is taking care of you. I already lost your father; the bottle got him. But you must tend to him while I’m sick. Keep him from me when he’s drunk. There’s nothing sacred about a drunk and I’ll not have my coming days defiled more by his drinking. She rose and held his forehead against her belly that bore him. She stroked the back of his neck and then kissed his nape and removed herself and gathered the cloth off the table. Go get your father now. It’s time for supper.
He wiped his eyes and nose, made his way outside, and stood gazing down the darkening hull of the bay. He walked to the side of the house and sat down, his head thrown back, gazing at the ashy sky, wishing it was dark and there were stars. Chris loved the stars, loved sitting right here and gazing up at them. Proud evening star in thy glory afar—he was always quoting from some poem. Once when Kyle was small and playing outside in drifting snow, Chris came home with a box of Cracker Jacks and led him to this very sheltered spot and they sat with their backs to the house and Chris packed the snow snug around them like a blanket and fed him half the Cracker Jacks. One for Kyle and one for himself. One for Kyle and one for himself. Except for the glazed peanuts. Those he kept and popped into his own mouth. He always remembered that. How good he felt, banked in with snow and his mouth opening like a baby bird’s and Chris feeding him the Cracker Jacks. First time he had knowingly felt love. Before that it had been fed to him daily like bread and he hadn’t noticed. He always loved Cracker Jacks after that; they were his favourite sweet. Oh, Chris. That something like this can be happening with Mother and you not know. He thought of Sylvie and his heart closed in anger. You should be here.
He sat there for another long minute, the hazy light beginning to wane. The light went on in the kitchen, throwing a pale shimmer on the seawater gurgling around the pilings beneath him. He got to his feet and went to the shed for his father.
THREE
He opened the shed door to a smell of damp sawdust. It was darkish inside, his father a phantom-grey sitting hunched on his chopping block. He was filing the steel-toothed chain from his saw laid across his knees. It was always his way to do something while he drank. Justified his time. And he was always sitting in the near dark. Times Kyle got up in the middle of the night for a drink of water and his father would be sitting at the kitchen table with no lights on, staring out the window at the water shifting restlessly around the pilings. Sadness tugging his face. As though the sea had lost its wonder and he was struggling to get it back.
“You have to go in,” said Kyle. “You have to,” he repeated as his father kept his head down, kept his eyes riveted to the slow gentle chafing of steel against steel. Kyle approached him and put his hand over his father’s misshapen knuckle. “You have to go in. She’s waiting.” He stood back as his father heaved up a shoulder, deflecting his words. “You have to go in!” he pleaded from the doorway. “I’m going down Hampden, down to the bar. Tell her, so she don’t make supper for me. You hear me, Dad? You’ll go in now?”
His father nodded and he started up the road. He walked past the gravel flat; Kate’s car wasn’t there, her blinds closed. He turned up Bottom Hill and looked back and thought he glimpsed Kate’s blind move in her window. He paused. He stepped nearer the edge of the road, staring harder, and something else caught his eye. Angled left of Kate’s eave and farther in through the high-grown alder bed nearer the river he saw a smidgen of red, the colour of Bonnie Gillard’s car. He couldn’t figure it—the old park road cut through the alder bed, but not that far. Too mucky to drive a car. And it was where the river roiled the hardest and was the most swollen.
He continued up Bottom Hill, but his feet dragged. He looked back again, couldn’t see the car. Backtracked a few steps—there it was. Just a glimmer. It was getting dark and he turned towards the bar but couldn’t make himself go forward and cursed. Women. Never knew what they’d do. He turned back, walked quickly down onto the gravel flat and cut an immediate left onto a narrow, rutted road, grassed down the centre and long since left to grow over. He peered at the ground—too much water flooding the tracks to see tire prints. He kept going, tramping near the edging of brush to keep his feet dry, stick branches scratching at his clothes. He came to a clearing that used to be a park, out of the wind, and with swings and picnic tables. The picnic tables that hadn’t been dragged off were rotted now, the swings just broken chains dangling from skewed posts. The wind had proven a better mate than mosquitoes.
He looked about the thickly sodded clearing and saw bits of tire tracks on the drier clumps of nettle and quickweed heading towards the river. He followed them, his boots sinking through muck, and cursed again, feeling the damp seep through to his socks. Gulls squawked irritably above him. Swampy patches of land gave up their rotting smells. The car must have been driven fast to gut through this muck without bogging down. Another thirty feet ahead and to the right was the clump of brush where he thought he’d spotted it. Ruptured mud holes in the soaked sod testified that the car had suddenly been revved up and reamed through the brush. His heart began thumping and he broke into a run. The alders thinned, the wind broke through, cold on his face, and a red slash bled through the thicket. There was the car, back tires bogged down in mud. The back door on the passenger’s side was open, no one inside. He roared out Hello! The river roared back. He hauled and slipped his way up the small embankment in front of the car and looked onto the bloated, fast-flowing water of the river. He couldn’t see farther than a few feet downstream. He tried cutting through the brush. Too thick. He went back to the car, saw the keys dangling from the ignition. He walked away, thought about the young boys and their nighttime drinking parties just over the way, and backstepped, taking the keys and pocketing them. Couldn’t trust them little bastards. He headed back across the clearing and onto the swamped, grassy road, coming out beside Kate’s. Her car was still gone. He started towards Bottom Hill, paused—her blind was partly open. He could have sworn it was closed earlier. He yelled out her name.
Silence. A flock of gulls rose with a cacophony of squawks above the river. He took the scuffed path from Kate’s door, went up to the riverbank, and stood looking upstream. The gulls were spooling, squawking. Seized with a sense of urgency, he ran towards the old ruins and climbed on top of a concrete ledge. Holding on to a twisted length of rusted rebar, he leaned as far as he could over the ledge, seeing farther upriver. As if to an unseen call, the gulls floated back down to where they’d been resting a minute before. The river flowed deep, darkened by the evening light. He shivered in the sudden damp and leaped off the concrete block, starting back to the road. Kate’s blind was still half opened and he swore to Christ he was being watched. What the hell, not my business, he told himself and started up Bottom Hill, walking fast. Cresting the top, he looked down upon Hampden. A thick fog was creeping over the darkening sea. It crept over the wharf and through the backyards and, lifting a grey tentacle, wrapped itself around a yellow light flaring through a window in Bonnie Gillard’s sister’s house. The light twinkled and then blackened like a dying star.
He cut away from Bottom Hill onto a twisted dirt road flanked by brush. It was getting dark now. The one streetlight had been rock-smashed years ago by mischief makers and he kept himself tethered to the road by the faint glow of the barroom lights creeping through the brush. A low rumble of voices floated towards him as he neared. Loud whispers. Giggles. The ones not yet old enough to get inside the bar. They plied him for smokes, booze, or whatever and he shucked one of them a dollar bill. Inside the smoky cavern of the bar a crowd was growing, shoving tables together and arguing good-naturedly with
razzing neighbours. A bunch of old-timers hunched around their regular table nearest the door, playing spades through the thick haze of their home-rolled smokes. On the bandstand at the back of the bar, a scrawny kid with an electric guitar was testing his mike while the other band member—his uncle—balanced a bass on his knee and fiddled with the dials on an amp. An old sod hyped with drink was waltzing himself around the dance floor to Waylon Jennings pining “Why Baby Why” from the jukebox. Nearest the dance floor was a table of Verges, Bonnie’s clan. Big hair, big dark eyes. Pick out a Verge anywhere. He was about to approach them when the eldest sister, Marlene, came through the door from the women’s can, scrunching her hair behind her ears and laughing at the old sod waltzing his way towards her.
“Hey!” Kyle slid along the bar towards her, pulling Bonnie’s keys from his pocket.
“Hay’s for horses, Sweetie.” She took the old timer’s hand and swirled away with him across the dance floor and Kyle let the keys slide back in his pocket.
“Here you go, bud.” The bartender slid a whisky and ginger his way. He drank it back and held out his glass for a refill. His buddy Hooker, hair razored to his skull, had spotted him from the back of the bar and was coming towards him. Looked like he was going to church in his white collar and black jacket. He slowed to a saunter as he passed the table where his girlfriend, Rose—saucy bangs and saucy tight sweater—was sitting, absorbed in a chat with her friends. Coming up to the bar, he slapped Kyle’s back and gave him a heartening grin.
“What’s she at, buddy! Your mother all right? Heard she was sick.” He called to the bartender for a Black Horse and slapped Kyle’s back again. “What’s up, buddy—see fucking Roses back there?”
“Roses?”
“Eh, yeah, she likes me calling her Roses.”
“Ye getting married or something? What’s with the duds?”
“She ditched me agin.”
“Right. New clothes gonna get her back.”
“Man, I must be dumber than a fucking trout. Always letting her reel me in and dump me back out.”
“Find yourself a different pond, bud. Listen, can we go outside for a minute?”
“Have a drink, first. Hey buddy,” he yelled to the bartender. “Cancel that Black Horse, pour us a couple whiskies. How’s Syl? Heard Trapp was sneaking about agin.”
“Yeah, what’s that about? Where’s he living these days?”
“In Corner Brook, somewhere.”
“What’s he always fucking around here for? Nobody here belong to him no more.”
“Yes, b’y. And not like he ever lived here, hey, b’y. Hung around with Ben one summer. Don’t think he ever stayed much with them uncles of his.”
“Best thing ever happened, that sawmill burning down. Crazy fuckers, the Trapps.”
Hooker nodded. “Weird. Weird the way Trapp keeps sneaking back. Not like Ben’s still here—whatever the fuck Ben seen in him.”
“Ben. He’s got a soft spot for all the underdogs.”
“What about your sister?”
“Sylvie’s no fan of Trapp. Only tolerated him because he’s Ben’s friend.”
“When they getting back?”
“Don’t know. Few weeks.”
“I allows they’ll be married soon. Married.” He sniffed. “That’ll take the fun outta ro-mance.” He tossed Rose a snide look and turned to the flat-faced bartender. “Where’s the drinks, old man—oops, sorry, bud. Here, pour one for your honey.” He threw a few bills on the bar and handed Kyle a drink, taking the other for himself. “Cheers. What’s up? What’s on your mind? Listen.” He gulped his drink and, leaning in, patted his jacket pocket. “Got a few spliffs here. Afghani, man. Black as spades. We’ll go for a smoke in a bit. Got a few uppers, home. Get them later, if you want, all right, buddy? Your mother’s going to be fine, guaranteed.”
“I’m all right, b’y.” Kyle toasted Hooker, the whisky burning good in his belly.
“And Syl, how’s he doing? Always gets stirred up when Trapp’s about.”
“He had a few.”
“Figures. Got a shot of shine for him out in the car. Nice shine. Fucking premium. Snuck it from the old man’s larder.”
“Thanks, bud. Old man will like that.”
“Here’s to Syl. And to your mother. Got some nice dried red clover back at Grandmother’s. Good stuff—makes good tea for what ails you. Bring some up to your mother, if you like.”
“Jaysus, like the old country doctor,” said Kyle, clapping Hooker’s shoulder. He pushed aside thoughts of Bonnie’s car and threw back his whisky and ordered another for him and Hooker. One thing about the outports. You never suffered alone. Everybody was your brother or aunt or cousin or neighbour and they knew your dead like they knew their own.
“Look at her back there, look at her,” said Hooker, sneaking a glance at Rose. “She been stonewalling me all night and which ain’t working because I’m stonewalling her. She’ll have leg cramps from sitting in that chair before I gives her a look this evening. I always smells like pot, she says. That’s her thing, right? She hates that I smokes pot.”
“Buy her some flowers, b’y.”
“Hey. Love don’t care if it’s flowers or pot. Love is blind.”
“So’s hate.”
“You saying she hates me?”
“I’m saying it sucks to be blind.”
“It’s here, bud,” said Hooker, patting his heart. “You loves through here, not your head. Too cerebral, my friend. Hey, who’s that there—how’s she going, b’ys?”
Skeemo and Sup were coming through the door. “W’sup? W’sup?” asked Sup. “Hey, Kyle, man, w’sup?”
“How’s she going, brother,” said Skeemo. “Heard you’re going to university in the fall. Got your courses picked? Get at it, buddy. All the good stuff be gone. Fucking studying ant’s tracks across the Himalayas all last year. Here they comes, then.” Two dead-alike brothers were pushing into the bar, dressed in bush jackets and padded vests and scuffing mud off their open-throated Ski-Doo boots.
“Cripes, what’s she, Halloween out there?” asked Hooker. “Going dancing or hauling wood, my sons?”
“Hauling you in a minute, proddy dog,” said the taller one, Todd. “Slide over, help a man get a drink. Hey, bud, couple of Blackhorse!”
“What’s that smell?” Skeemo made a face towards the brothers. “Gawd-damn, ye still smearing motor oil behind your ears? Women likes cars, ya effing baywops, not timber jacks.”
“Shaddup!” said Todd. “Last woman you had was greyer than her roots down south. Here, Snout.” He passed a beer to the shorter brother with the wide flaring nostrils. “How’s she going, Kyle, man. Heard your mother was sick?”
“She’s fine, b’y.”
“What do you mean, grey down south?” asked Hooker.
Jaysus. Kyle grunted. The brothers snickered through mouthfuls of beer, one of them bent over, spraying his boots.
“What’s so funny? They goes grey down there?”
Jaysus.
“Never seen your poppy pissing?” asked Snout.
“Heard Syl went after Clar Gillard,” said Skeemo.
“Naw, just his truck.”
“Fuckin’ arsehole.”
“Sick fuck.”
“Cruisin’ for a bruisin’,” said Snout. “Here, have a smoke.”
“Naw, quit.” Kyle drained his whisky and rapped his emptied glass on the bar for another.
“Where’s Syllie this evening?” asked Hooker.
“He’s home, b’y.”
“What happened anyway—Clar blocked the road or something?”
“Yeah, he was pissin’ around with his dog.”
“Heard your mother told Bonnie to call the cops on him,” said Todd. “That’s enough to get him going.”
“Suppose, b’y.”
“Keep your eye on that sick fucker.”
“Hey, Kyle, man, heard your mother’s not well?”
Kyle drank deep from his whisky and
felt the heat spreading through his chest and ordered a double. Todd pulled a flask from his inside pocket and Kyle took a mouthful of tequila that burned his tongue and distorted his face and singed tears from his eyes. He nearly blew it across the room but managed it down his gullet and shoved the flask back at Todd.
“What’s, you gone pussy?”
“Give it here,” said Snout.
“Take it to the can, wanna get us kicked out?”
“Hey, Kyle, man, they’re saying it might be bad.”
“I’m sorry man. Gawd-damn!”
Julia walked past. Julia. Chris’s girl. Straight blond hair sliding across a willowy, slender back, a sideways glance at him. Hooker hung his arm around his neck.
“She’s home early from university. Starting work with Roses at the truck stop in on the highway.”
“Should brighten the place.”
“Ask her to dance, b’y, when the band starts.”
“Shove off.”
“She never went out with him, you know. Just graduation.”
“Piss off, Hooker.”
“Hey, just saying. What’s she at, Snout, b’y?”
“Nothing, now. Crab plant’s closing for a week. Listen, Ky, your old man need help with Jake’s house? Me and Father can give a few days.”
“I’ll come,” said Todd.
“Can’t tell a screw from a nail,” said Snout.
“Screw you, arse!”
“I’ll give a hand,” said Hooker.
“Thanks, b’ys. I’ll tell the old man.”
“Come on, let’s grab a table,” said Sup. “Whoa, who’re those girls over there?”
“Whoa, look at that tall one, butt like two clenched fists.”
“From Springdale—stay the fuck clear. Their men are on the highway by now with ball bats.”
“Ball bats! What the fuck’s a ball bat?”
“They bats balls with ’em, don’t they?”
“You talking about a baseball bat?”
The Fortunate Brother Page 5
