The Fortunate Brother

by Donna Morrissey

  Julia hauled the stick into neutral, slowing to a crawl. Kyle yelled out the window, Won’t be enough of ye left to pray over, you gets struck. He rolled the window back up. “Look at that little devil,” he said to Julia as the eldest—one of the Keatses—waved a silver plastic sword at him with one hand and gave him the finger with the other.

  “The finger? He gave you the finger? My God, what is he, ten? Eleven?”

  “Been giving me the finger since he was four,” said Kyle. “Rimmed or warped, that one.”

  “Oh my lord, brazen little bugger.” She honked her horn and laughed and he loved how she was always laughing and he hated driving past the last house and her pushing the stick into neutral and coasting to a stop.

  “Too hard on the brakes. Ought to gear down.”

  “Yeah, I’ll figure it.” She leaned against the wheel, watching him, smiling.

  “Yeah, see you later, then.”

  “Just a sec.” She reached for him as he was opening the door and too late he twisted away, her hand already enclosed around his forearm, her palm against the bone-hard handle of the knife. She pulled back, shocked. There wasn’t a man, woman, or child in all of White Bay whose hand wouldn’t intuitively know the feel of a trimming knife. Fear chased across her face with dawning clarity as she stared at him.

  He cursed. Sat back in the car, closing the door.

  “Say nothing,” she whispered.

  “I found it.”

  She nodded.

  “I can’t talk about it right now,” he said. “Maybe—well, when it’s all done with.”

  Her hands gripped the wheel. He moved to reassure her and she shrank against the door. He gaped at her incredulously. “You’re not scared of me? Holy Jesus. Look, I didn’t do this thing. There’s stuff going on—Christ, I don’t even know myself what’s going on.”

  A sharp whistle sounded from the beach. His cousins. They were off by the shoreline, having a smoke. He held up his hand to them and Julia pulled the stick to reverse.

  “Listen,” he began, but she interrupted with a shake of her head.

  “You can’t talk now, I get it. And you shouldn’t. I have to get home.”

  “I’ll—I’ll talk to you. Later.”

  She nodded. Her mouth, her face, all concerned. She wouldn’t look at him. He got out of the car, closed the door, and stepped back. She sat quiet for a moment, then looked up at him. She gave a slight nod and he put his hand to his heart in gratitude.

  “Hol-ee jeezes!” Wade had come up behind him, watching as Julia rode the clutch hard, burning through the gears as she drove back up the road. “That her father’s new car?”

  “Come on, let’s go to work.” Kyle walked onto the dark raw earth of the site, looking at the dug trenches for the footings, already encased with honeyed two-by-twelves and carpeted with beach rocks. Lengths of rebar were laid out, ends interlacing and tied with steel wire. Mounds of sand and gravel and bags of cement mix stood next to a wheelbarrow by the eastern corner. Everything tidied, strips of plastic anchored down with rock. Waiting for a clear sky and his father to come and start mixing the cement.

  “How’s Aunt Addie?” asked Wade.

  “She’s fine, just fine. Looks good, buddy. Lot of work done.”

  “That’s your father. Hard man to keep up with when he gets going.”

  “Hooker and Snout came and give us a hand,” said Lyman, joining them.

  “They’re gone back to the plant. Working this evening,” Wade added. “Heard you got hauled in agin. Awful stuff, hey, b’y?”

  “Questions, Jesus. Don’t know why they thinks I got the answers. Come on. Let’s mix cement.” He started towards the wheelbarrow, the knife sagging heavier in his coat sleeve.

  “Hey? But we got no mixer,” said Lyman.

  “We’ll mix it ourselves. In the wheelbarrow.” Kyle looked skyward. The cloud was thin. “Won’t be raining for a while. We’ll have the footing poured by then.”

  “What about Uncle Syl? Who’s going to do the mixing?”

  “Your brother, nutcase. Graduated Boudine High, suppose he can handle a bag of cement.”

  “You sure?” asked Wade. “Uncle Syl mightn’t appreciate us going it alone. And without a mixer.”

  “What’s the matter, forget your recipes?”

  “One part, two parts, three parts. Mix, sand, and gravel. Let’s get at her, then. If that’s what you wants.”

  “That’s what I wants.”

  “Fine, then. Go get the hose,” Wade said to Kyle. “And you get them spades over there,” he ordered Lyman. “Over there, stun arse, next to the wheelbarrow. Never mind, I gets them myself. You run up to Vic’s and get her rake.”

  “A rake?”

  “Just go get the fucking rake. Come on, let’s get at her,” he said to Kyle and shifted the wheelbarrow closer to the bags of cement. “I’ve never done it without a mixer. But I suppose it’s the same mix, hey, b’y?”

  “Yes, b’y.”

  “Now, let’s see here—for a wheelbarrow full, we’ll need two bags of mix.”

  “Where’s the hose?”

  “Tucked over there by the bottom of the hill. Set her up this morning. Running her from Billie’s Brook up there.”

  Kyle went over to where the rubber hose coiled like one of Julia’s snakes near a clump of dried brush and hauled the end of it back to the wheelbarrow.

  “Here, give it to me, I hoses down the wheelbarrow first,” said Wade. “We’ll start pouring there, the east corner. Go check it, make sure she’s ready.” He stuck one of his fingers into the opening of the hose, jettisoning a spray over the wheelbarrow. Kyle went to the east corner, letting the knife slip from his sleeve into his palm. He checked that Wade had his back to him, then bent to brush away the small pebbly rocks beneath a strip of rebar. Quickly, he dropped the knife, covering it with the pebbles. Then he stood, looking down to make sure it was fully concealed, and walked back to Wade.

  “Looks good. Let’s get her started.”

  “Grab that bag of cement. Hold on, now. We puts the water in the wheelbarrow first, cuts down on the dust when you add the mix. Open the bag from the end, there. Hold on now, we gets the water in—not flowing very good. Slower than Lyman.

  “All right, start measuring the water. We measures the water before we pours the mix. Get that bucket, there. Has to be same amounts every time else it’ll look all patchy. Get the spade, start mixing in the mix. Rake is better, if bonehead ever gets back.”

  “How’s this? I think it’s good…add the sand?”

  “That’s right, add the sand. Grab the shovel. Slow—mix it in slow. That’s the way. Now then, shovel in the gravel. Okay, start mixing.”

  “Right. All right. There she goes, mixing just fine,” said Kyle. “How’s your father?”

  “Contrary as Mother.”

  “Don’t change.”

  “Got hisself a shack built down Big Island. He’s the only one there.”

  “That should do him.”

  “You’d think. So contrary he built another shack right alongside it. And he made the rule he’s not allowed in there. Imagine that now, his own rule. Gives him something to complain about.”

  “Go on, b’y.”

  “Swear to Jesus, that’s what he done. Here comes poke. What took so long, dicked the dog?”

  “Dick you.”

  “Here, give me that rake.”

  “Move over, I does it myself.” Lyman stuck the prongs of the rake into the mix in the wheelbarrow and started raking. “Bit more water, she’s drier than the Pentecost.” He raked slow and easy. Folding and blending till it looked like a load of mouldy cottage cheese. Kyle lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the eastern corner as Wade started shovelling the thick mix into the casings.

  “Get over here, Lyman. Grab the trowel, Kyle, man. Hold on, now. Hold on. All right. Start levelling. Smooth her out.”

  Kyle followed behind Wade, flattening and smoothing the cement wi
th the rake. Lyman followed Kyle, smoothing it with the trawl. They poured and levelled and smoothed till the wheelbarrow was emptied and a good length of footing filled. Kyle checked where the knife was buried beneath the cement, resisting an impulse to bend down and mark the sinning spot with a cross.

  They mixed another batch of cement and Wade poured, Lyman levelled, and Kyle smoothed. He kept looking for his father; no sign. The wind took a turn into a southerly, the air warming on Kyle’s face. A meagre shaft of sunlight limped across the site and one of his cousins muttered What the jeezes is that. They mixed up another batch, and then another and another. Batch number eight and Kyle’s back started stiffening. He took off his coat, switched from raking to pouring and then back to smoothing. The sea grumbled along the shoreline. Gulls squawked. It had begun to darken when Wade touched his shoulder.

  “We better get it covered—can’t trust it won’t rain before morning. Expected Uncle Syl before now.”

  Kyle looked up the road for the hundredth time. He took the hose and sprayed clumps of drying cement off the wheelbarrow. Lyman cleaned the spade and rake and they all took a hand in covering the poured cement with strips of plastic. It was nearing six when they finished, Kyle’s stomach rumbling. Couldn’t remember what he ate last.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked Wade.

  “Ask Lyman. He rear-ended a feller on the highway. Just past Deer Lake.”

  “Rear-ended somebody on the highway? How’d you manage that?”

  “Don’t know. He was three car lengths in front of me and I looked at something on the dash, and then I was up his arse. Cops took my licence.”

  “What for?”

  “Said the car wouldn’t safe.”

  Jaysus.

  “Should start our own company,” said Wade. He was standing next to Kyle, looking back over the freshly poured footings. “One side left and she’ll be finished. Get the floor poured tomorrow if the rain holds. Not bad work, hey? What do you say, Ky? Start our own company? WK Contracting.”

  “Kinda like just the K.”

  “Right. Pours his first load and thinks he’s boss.” He thumped Kyle’s shoulder and mock-kicked his brother’s butt.

  “Like the old man, always up to no good,” Lyman complained. They strolled off the site and up the road through the Beaches. None of the youngsters were in sight. A few minutes after they passed the last house, Harry Saunders, with his wife and boys and two mutts all crowded inside the cab of his truck, pulled over. Kyle climbed in the back, his cousins beside him, and after he smacked the roof of the cab Harry drove them up the road. Two light poles before the government wharf in Hampden, Harry half rolled to a stop, the cousins jumping out. Kyle clung to a spare tire as the truck started forward. He looked back at his cousins walking up the hill towards a stand of birch and the weather-beaten hovel they lived in. This past winter had taken a nasty swipe at the dwelling, scarcely a piece of felt left on the tar-blackened roof. He watched his cousins go through the doorway and then look back, lifting a final hand of farewell towards him, and he felt the heart beating strong inside that hovel. He could tether himself to its portal in any storm.

  At the crest of Bottom Hill he thumped on the cab, hollering his thanks to Harry, and jumped out. No sign of his father’s truck. He cut through the roadside entanglement of dead knapweed and thistle and half slipped, half strolled his way down the muddied shortcut through the woods, holding his breath as he always did whilst passing the rotting sawdust and fire-charred remnants of the Trapps’ sawmill. Hated that fucking beam hanging and creaking.

  Coming down to the back of his house, he stopped. The dog. He was sitting by the gump, string of drool hanging from his mouth. He flapped his tail like a beaver and whined. Eyes wide and hopeful. It was hungry.

  “Nobody looking after you?” he asked irritably. He peered around the corner of the house. Crept up to the front, looking down the road. He saw no cops or anybody about and went to the back, crawling in through Sylvie’s bedroom window. Expected to see his father sitting at the table. No one there.

  He keyed open two cans of corned beef and emptied them onto the cutting board. Forking one, he threw it out the window and the dog was on its feet, chomping it full before it hit the wharf. Jaysus. He tossed out half the contents of the other can along with a heel of bread and then closed the window. He sliced the remaining bully beef over two thick slices of bread, slathered it with mustard, threw in a couple of pickles, and bit into it whilst stripping off his clothes for a shower. After towelling himself dry, he crawled into his bed for a nap. He’d go look for his father later. Perhaps he was drunk agin. He fell into a fatigued sleep, thanking the Almighty for the opium of work.

  NINE

  His dreams plagued him. But it was still early evening when he woke up and dressed. He checked his father’s room. No sign of Sylvanus. He dragged out the phone book from beneath the coffee table and called the bar, then Hooker. No one had seen him. Perhaps he should call Corner Brook, he thought, but that might get his mother worked up. Must be on the booze agin, guaranteed.

  He climbed out the back window, cut up through the woods to Bottom Hill, and then circled back down the road and onto the gravel flat. Kate’s car was parked by her door. A light was on behind her closed blinds. He strolled down to the beach, teased a fire out of a swatch of dried seaweed, and teepeed it with driftwood from the supply Kate was forever gathering in her morning forages around the riverbank. Ten, fifteen minutes later, she opened her door. Hair battened down by a toque, grey braid trailing, fingerless mitts. No guitar. First time he’d ever seen her coming across the flat without her guitar. She raised her hand in greeting and sat on a half-burnt log and gave a tepid smile. He looked through her fire-blazed lenses to the green of her eyes and saw no light there. He saw nothing of that sense of expectancy she always held out for him. He saw only sadness. Her face drawn like shrunken hide.

  “What’s up, Kate?”

  “The moon, Kyle. Always the moon. How’s your mom?”

  “Doing fine. Guess you already know that.”

  “Matter of fact, I did poke my head in this morning. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  She shrugged. “You’ve been protective. I understand that. Hear you got pulled in by the police again.”

  “They were more curious about you this time. I’m getting jealous.”

  “Wanting to know what I was wearing, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Right. Already told them. And what you were wearing too. And your father.”

  “What the fuck’s that all about.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “That alibi you cooked up. If not for it, I think I’d be in the slammer now.”

  “They’re fishing in the dark. They don’t know who killed him.”

  “How’d you know I’d need an alibi?”

  “I didn’t. Just something Hooker and I came up with, that’s all.”

  “It gives you an alibi too, Kate.”

  “Sure does.” She smiled. “Thinking I killed him, Kyle?”

  “Thinking you might know some things I don’t. Cops said you were driving Bonnie Gillard around that evening.”

  “I was.”

  “Mind if I ask you about it?”

  “Don’t know if she’d want me talking about her stuff.”

  “She’s already told me things.” He hesitated. “I came across her car by accident in by the river. She told me about Clar trying to drown her. She tell you that?”

  Kate nodded. “It was a rough night for Bonnie.”

  “Got a lot rougher for Clar.”

  “It did.”

  “So, what’s up, Kate. What was she doing with you?”

  “Not a whole lot to tell.” She picked up a stick, idly stoking the fire. “I was getting some things from the car and thought I heard something. In the bushes. Thought it might be a fox. Heard it again. And a sound, like a cry. I went looking and there she was.�
� She drew an unpleasant face. “She was looking pretty bad, crouching in the bushes. Her clothes were muddied. She was shaking, scared. Looking up at me like a little girl, scared her momma was going to smack her for being dirty. I took her hand, and I led her inside my house.”

  “Scared of her momma? Shouldn’t she be scared of him?”

  “Sometimes we got to change things up, Kyle. So’s we can live with them.”

  “Everyone thinks she killed him.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She would never kill him.”

  “Never—? Jaysus. Am I missing something here? At the hospital she looked like she was grieving. He’s been torturing her for years. I don’t get it. He tried to drown her and she’s grieving him? She sick in the head?”

  “You’re sounding mad, Kyle.”

  “Yeah I’m fucking mad. He tried to kill her and she got us all mixed up in her shit and, what, they’re best friends now?”

  “You said it. That’s just who they were, best friends.”

  Kyle’s mouth opened but no words came out. He was like a barrister, staring with contempt at his own guilty client.

  “Takes a bit of figuring out, Ky. She was Jack Verge’s daughter. She had nothing but poverty. It smelled off her. Nobody chose her for a best friend. She might’ve played the same games with everybody else in the schoolyard, but she was always the last one standing. Nobody ever picked her. Then he picked her.”

  “Sad fucking day for her.”

  “Wasn’t back then.”

  “She’s not a bony arse kid on a swing no more. She got money, a new car.”

  “Don’t matter what she got. In her head she’ll always be poor. Like she’ll always be poor in your head. Perhaps she’d get over it if everybody else would and stopped blaming her for it. If there’s one thing worse than being poor as a youngster, it’s having everyone believing it’s your fault.” Her words were sharp but without hostility. Kyle felt himself flush. He felt something else, too. Felt like she’d just given him a piece of herself. A stranger walks into town…shares nothing of herself…