Downhill Chance

by Donna Morrissey

  Missy nodded. "A blessing. Thank you, Clair, for sending her."

  "Can I come back agin, Mommy?"

  "Let's get you home, first. Daddy's off from the camps for a week and he's got the canvas worn off the floor with missing you. And besides," she added, cocking her head towards Missy, "perhaps now Aunt Missy might come visit us. What do you say, Missy, will you come—just for a few days? Luke's longing to meet his girl's favourite aunt."

  "Ooh, will you, Aunt Missy?"

  "I just might," said Missy, patting Hannah's behind, urging her towards the boat, "if some people we know were to keep their promises." And Hannah skipped ahead with delight, hopping around a grunt as her aunt said laughingly to her mother, "She reminds me of myself, always impatient and hopping." Then the smile left Missy's face, and Hannah's skip faltered as she saw it replaced with the same air of certitude that had accosted the uncle minutes before leaving the house.

  "But first, I'm inviting you back to the house with me, Clair—to take tea with me and the uncle."

  Clair hesitated. "You know I won't," she then said. "But that's not to do with you—I want you to come home with me, Missy—just for a few days; meet Luke and—and the baby—"

  "His life is mine; scorn him and you scorn me," said Missy. "Is it such a monster who cared for me all these years?" she asked as Clair stared at her in silence.

  Clair's lip curled contemptuously. "He cared for hisself."

  "No more than you," whispered Missy. "You never come back. And now you offer your own youngster as a bribe—as Mother done with me. I wasn't so young that I didn't know," she added at Clair's look of astonishment. "Every youngster knows when its banished by its mother."

  "Oh, no, Missy, she—she wasn't herself—she was sick."

  "She was dead—at least to me," said Missy, her face paling as she stood facing down this older sister, their privacy assumed by a grunt that Hannah had inched behind, sickened now, as a blast of wind swiped the hair back off her mother's face, and that of her aunt's, baring the starkness of old pain. "And you too, Clair," Missy said evenly, "you were both dead to me—long before Mommy lay down on a flower bed."

  "What're you saying?" cried Clair.

  "I'm saying I don't blame you for how things were," said Missy, her voice rising. "You were a girl like me, but don't think me bad for not paying your notion of homage to a dead woman. I hated him. I hated her. And I welcomed the door she kept shoving me out through—anything to escape those screams—"

  "Missy!"

  "Ooh, don't worry, Clair," said Missy with a shrill little laugh. "I counts them as a blessing, for all that. He was only screaming what we all felt. Ohh, Lord, I don't know what I hated the most, his screaming, or her shushing," she exclaimed, raising her hands to her ears, shaking her head. "Even now, the slightest sound I hears, I tries to shush it—even when it's the wind blowing—"

  "Missy, stop it!"

  "I won't. I won't stop it. I've things to say, Clair. I'm having a baby. And I swear to God, when it's born I hope it screams with the lungs of a hawk. I hope it shatters the font when the christening waters hits its head. I'll never shush it. And I'll not walk in shame with it no more, either. No one talked to me as a woman. I was banished with the old and the sick, and I learned from ignorance."

  "And so was I!" said Clair. "So was I banished. Ask him—go ask him that sits at our mother's table. He stole from us, he did. And he sleeps in our mother's bed. I'll never enter that house as long as he sleeps in our mother's bed."

  "And me," asked Missy, "am I less of a daughter because I do?"

  "No. You were young—you didn't know—"

  "I did know!" she shouted. "I felt everything you felt." Her words fell quiet. "He don't sit in torment, Clair. He's just an old man, sputtering about. Anything he had, he give to me, and Lord knows, I needed it. I don't hate her now—or Daddy. And I've learned not to hate my life. And that's why I'm asking you to come sit with me. I'll come with you, then—and meet you and yours. But, first, I'm asking you—come with me, Clair; come sit with me at our mother's table—at my table."

  But Clair was slowly backing away. "He brought our father shame," she whispered. "I can never bide by him that brought our daddy shame. I've never told you," she cried, "I've never told you the things he done—"

  "It's not what he done that torments you, Clair; it's what Daddy done. I seen it. The day you left, I seen it. I carries it with me all the time. Only all this time I thought it was hurt, and it's not; you just said it—it's shame, or pity." Her mouth soured. "For in the end I think that's what killed him—her pity. And yours. Shun the old uncle if you wants, but at least he took me away from all that. And I don't look back pitying Daddy, either, sitting on that pew-chair and not able to get off it. You're still back there, Clair," she called out, tears running down her cheeks as her sister moved away from her, "still sitting with a dead man. And Luke's right; you're too scared to go ask what killed him."

  "Luke—what do you know of what Luke thinks?" asked Clair in surprise. Her eyes fell onto Hannah who, at her aunt's words, had already risen from behind the grunt, a look of guilt on her face.

  With one last passionate look at Missy, she marched towards Hannah and, taking her hand, walked with her none too gently towards the boat and Nate, who was by now standing on top of the wharf, eyes fixed on the two sisters.

  Settled down in the stern, Hannah chanced a glance at her mother and sorrowed at the sight of the single tear as translucent as a drop of rain sitting on her cheek. Her aunt stood on the wharf, watching after them, sobbing freely.

  Had she been older, she would've known that a life lived only once is a life unlived. And far more tormenting is its reliving as felt by her mother setting forth from the wharf, leaving behind again her younger sister watching after her, eyes like two squashed blueberries, and their house rising behind like a far-reaching tombstone, resurrecting the parting she'd made all these years ago, and forcing her to reach back and touch the woman-child who had set out so bravely, seeking her father's words over the wind. And had she not hidden her fears the bestest, this mother who had been touched by death when she was but a girl, and her sister, Missy, still running through the grass? But how best to hide fears now when it's the road already travelled, a pair of eyes reaches back to see.

  As they neared the shores of Rocky Head and her father stood waving at them, it was onto the old war vet that Clair's eyes focused. Dodging up from Lower Head, he came towards the older boys, who were crouched down besides the stagehead, picking apart an old motor. Young Roddy and Marty were his only audience—as most of the elders had tired of his stories and plies for shine and were more in keeping with Prude as she prowled behind her woodpile, hollering at him to get home because there was drinking enough on their shores that they didn't need him and his devil's greed.

  It was with the restlessness of a caged cat that her mother paced the floors that evening, covering and recovering the baby in his crib, and circling the table, and fixing things straight on the stove, the washstand, the bin. Her father knew. He'd already enticed her out to the woodpile, wheedling out of her snippets of the conversation that had taken place on the wharf between the two sisters. And she'd told him enough—leaving out the part about her own tattling. And now piecing together what his own senses told him, he sat at the table, sharpening the teeth to his bucksaw, and looking as troubled as her mother as he kept darting glances at her pacing. Her steps quieted as Hannah traipsed across the kitchen towards the door, buttoning her sweater.

  "Where you going this hour?" she asked.

  "Playing spotlight," said Hannah, touching the flashlight under her arm.

  "Bit late for that, isn't it?"

  "I can stay in if you wants me to," said Hannah, her hand hesitating on the doorknob.

  Her mother looked at her confusedly for a second, then shook her head, brushing her away. "No, no, it's all right. Just don't be too late, that's all."

  "I won't, Mommy." Glancing at her father'
s bowed head as he continued to apply the file to the teeth of his saw, she went out into the cool of the darkening evening. A shriek from the bank told her Lynn and the others had already started the game, and clicking on her flashlight, she walked across the patch towards her father's woodpile, past the sandstone and out onto the bank. Somebody moved over in the dark and she flicked off her light, yet made no attempt to run and hide. The weight of the medallion swinging around her neck, her aunt's sobs and her mother's tear were proving too much to heave off in a single evening and run pell-mell, wielding a flashlight at shadows in the dark. Young Roddy and Marty appeared a little farther down the bank, tossing armloads of dried slabs and birch rind onto the beach, building a fire. The old vet staggered behind them, singing drunkenly, "She had her apron wrapped around her, and I shot her for a swan."

  "Lynn's it! Lynn's it!" a chorus of shrieks sounded from no more than ten feet away from her, and Hannah started, about to duck and tear into hiding, if not for the sight of her father strolling out of the house with a jug of brew swinging from his hand. Much to the astonishment of Roddy and Marty, he headed down onto the beach, sitting amongst them, the firelight glowing on his face as Roddy struck a match to the birch rind. Thoughts of Lynn vanished with the rest of the evening light, and crouching almost into the overhang of the bank, Hannah crept forward till she was a scant couple of feet from the fire, listening as her father exchanged greetings with the old vet and commended Roddy on the purity of his spirits as he took a swig from the jug Marty passed him.

  "She's a fine batch," agreed Roddy. "I cooked it myself with Dad watching on, although he's not too proud of it." Taking a swig himself, he passed the jug back to Marty, coughing and spitting, "although I've done better, buddy, I've done better."

  "Never mind the shine; here's what ye ought to be drinking," said the old vet, taking a sip of Luke's brew, "a mother's milk is what, a mother's milk."

  "Yup, and I suppose that's why you sucks it like the tit," jeered Marty.

  "No doubt," said Roddy, "and he'll be sleeping like the baby any minute now." He grinned, holding out a hand to steady the old vet as he swayed too far to the wayside. "I allows he got Les Ouncill from Lower Head sucked dry since this morning, and buddy, he had vats of it hidden away."

  "Aye, I'll be leaving ye in the morning, me boys," sang the old vet. "I'll be leaving ye in the morning."

  "I allows if you don't, Gram'll soon have your scalp nailed to her door," chuckled Marty.

  "Gram!" groaned Roddy, turning to Luke. "Cripes, I heard ye's this morning—no more than five o'clock, was it?—and Gram out on her stoop, a bit of rain coming down, and she bawling out, 'Luukeee, Luukee, we're going to have a flood, we're going to have a flood, we'll be drowned, we'll be drowned,'" Roddy mimicked amidst much chortling, Luke's included. "And then I hears Luke scroop open his window, roaring out, 'What's going to flood, old woman, the water's not even up' and she's hollering back, 'The laakes, the laakes, Luuke, in over the hills, they're going to flood, mark my words, they're going to flood,' and then Luke's roaring back, 'Then go moor off in the punt, old woman, for gawd's sake, go moor off in the punt,'" and Roddy convulsed with the others in a proxy of laughter as Luke shook his head, grinning.

  "Poor old Mother," he said, "she was bad enough when the old man was kicking." He raised his eyes to meet those of the old vet. "Course, with Joey getting killed, that didn't help her none."

  The boys' laughter quieted as the moment they'd been expecting since Luke sat amongst them presented itself. Through his drunkenness the old vet, too, recognized the importance of this moment, and propping his hands onto his knees to keep himself from tottering, he sought to keep focus on Luke.

  "Aye," he said thickly, "he was my boy, he was; my boy. And that's why I come here, to meet his folk; his old mother and his brother, Luke—he was always on about his old mother and his brother, Luke. Course she won't have ne'er to do with me, but I understands it, I do. I lost my own boy and it plays, it do; it plays. And perhaps it was my fault I lost him—there's those that says so—but I was no more drunk than a preacher when that boat capsized." He dropped his head, his mouth screwing up like a hungry baby's. "But I found him agin, I did, in Joey—aye, he was so gentle, so gentle...." His voice trailed off, his head sagging near onto his chest.

  "The last letter he wrote he was at Cassino, Italy," said Luke, "fighting the Gustav Line."

  "Aye, Cassino. Not even in war can you think a hell like Cassino, b'yes. Aye, that's why we needs our comforts, we do, for it's not a mother's lap that'll give you that, not after you been in hell, no sir—not even the lap of God can bring you any rest after that—not if you finds Him out there—for the thought becomes a plague, b'yes, if you find Him in hell, for then you starts thinking—perhaps He's a part of that, too—aye, they'll hang me for saying it, but it's too sublime, too sublime. He'd have a hand in it, else it wouldn't be there, and that's when I falls down—thinking He has a hand in hell as well. A man needs his comforts, he do." His voice babbled off as he raised the shine bottle to his mouth, slobbering more of the liquid down his chest than into his mouth.

  "No doubt she's a hard truth," said Luke, nodding slowly. "I figured myself, a long time ago, God was too smart for a snake."

  "And it's not for figuring, it's not, when it's coming at you in all evil; bullets and gas, ripping up your buddies lying alongside you, filling your boots with their vomit. Aye, there's no time for figuring then—only for shooting it and gutting it and biting it back. And that's when you sees that it's not rot rupturing outta their guts at all, but life, my b'yes, life; redder than the morning sun. Aye, the closest I been to God is lying in me own vomit, yes sir, that's what it is then, to be in war, and it's not to be spoken, it's not, not to them who's never seen it; for how can a man tell such a thing to them that kills only what they eats?"

  "Tell me," said Luke as the boys held their silence, nodding over the vet's words, "about the church on top of that mountain—"

  "Satan's church," snarled the vet, his eyes fevered with a sudden heat. "A monastery; grey it was without the sun, and towering out of the smoke and fog like hell's castle and with hundreds of little black eyes searching out our every move. Aye, there was no bells sounding from her towers; the moaning of the dead is all we heard. And the bloody snipes."

  "Snipes?" asked Roddy.

  "Aye, snipes. I can hear them now, screeching worse than the dying over our heads. He liked them, Joey did; he'd close his eyes to their screeching and feel like he was home. And so did I—once. Now, I hates them. There's mornings they wakes me and I thinks I'm back there agin. Mind you leaves it with me, sonny," he said to Roddy, clasping more tightly the shine jug as Roddy tried passing him the brew instead. "'Tis not milk them old insides needs, my b'yes, for it's jellied, they are, and if you was to poke, your finger would go straight through, they would, aye, straight through."

  "Tell me about the bombing," said Luke, "when the Americans bombed the monastery."

  The vet hung his head. "It's enough I've said—enough—"

  "That's when Joey got killed, wasn't it; when the American's were bombing the monastery? Evacuating men, wasn't he?" Luke persisted as the old vet nodded. "Were you with him?"

  "Aye, that's what I was."

  "Tell me then, how did he get this?" asked Luke, reaching inside his shirt pocket. And when he pulled out the bronze war medal with its striped ribbon and dangled it over the fire, the vet pulled back as if it were a stingray.

  "Is that what he come back saying?" he roared, his mouth twisting sideways as his head reared upwards. "Be God, is that what he come back saying—it was Joey's?" His face contorted further as he leaned towards Luke, hissing, "And well it is he screeched hisself to death; well it is, for it's the devil's torment he was feeling if he come home saying such a thing; the devil's torment, and he'll not rise on judgment day, I'll grant ye that. Job Gale won't do no rising on judgment day; I'll wager me own soul on that one," and he slumped, the effort of sustaining su
ch speech proving too much.

  "It was Job's medal?" asked Luke, staring quietly at the old vet.

  "'Twas hard for my boy," he whimpered, "gentle like he was. And I knowed it from the first war, I did, what it was like. That's why I tried to keep him with me, you see, that's why I tried to keep him with me, but he wouldn't listen, no he wouldn't listen. It was to him he listened—to him who was just as soft." His face soured. "I could've helped Joey, I could've, but not him—not Job Gale. He was fit for no war. War ain't no place for a thinking man! That's what I told him more than enough. War is about this—" and the old vet near tumbled as he surged forward, clenching his fists and knocking his knuckles together "—it's about listening to your bones; it's about running, shooting and diving and listening to your bones telling you when—when to run, when to shoot and when to dive. It's like land birds leaving a beach laden with bounty and flying thousands of miles over water because something in their bones tells them to. And that's what Job Gale never done—listened to his bones. Instead he kept looking up at that church and thinking about souls," he snarled, "when all he was getting back was evil. And it should've killed him, aye, it should've. And it's well he screeched his self to death, for it's Joey that paid for his thinking—and in the end it still got him, didn't it? Aye, it's a hard pillow when you sleeps with the devil."

  "The last letter from Joey said he was part of Britain's Eighth Army," said Luke, his tone remaining steady despite the tensing of his mouth, "and under command of the New Zealanders—artillery division. I've since learned some things—that a corps was formed to take Monastery Hill, but it never included the Newfoundlanders. How did Joey die on that mountain if the Newfoundlanders were never there?"

  "Him," said the vet, vigour growing along with the heat in his eyes. "It was him, Job, that took him there. Volunteered, he did, volunteered to go up the mountain to help evacuate the front line. We was close by, laying line; we was never supposed to go up that mountain. But not Job, sir. He was going up that mountainside, readying for the Allies to start bombing the top. 'Downhill chance, by'es,' he kept saying; 'we gets that monastery, we got a downhill chance,' the kind of stuff he was always spouting off with, and on he went, disobeying orders and joining with them crawling up the mountain with stretchers. Aye, he was the man, he was, going to win the war on his own—"