by Lori Weber
The last thing I hang up is the quilt my mother made me for my tenth birthday. It’s of the Montreal skyline, with Mount Royal rising up from the middle of a ring of sky scrapers. On top of Mount Royal is the famous cross, which in reality is made of hundreds of light bulbs, but on my quilt is made of tiny pom-poms. At the bottom lies the St. Lawrence River, with its four bridges that hook up with the south shore. If you followed that river west, you’d end up at Lac St-Louis, which is the lake at the foot of my old street. I look at this quilt whenever I’m afraid that the image of Montreal is fading from my memory. I love to think that one day I’ll be back there, cruising between the tall buildings. One day soon, if my plan of finding work, saving money, and getting the hell out of here before school starts works out.
When I’m done, I stand back and take it all in. Not bad. At least the room has something of me in it now, something that reflects my personality—well, my mobile personality anyway. It’s not like I could bring my blow-up chairs or lava lamps along, or any of the movie posters I had up in my old place.
My parents still aren’t back. Knowing them, they’re driving around sightseeing, getting to know the place. They’ll come back bubbling over with observations that they’ll want to share. Maybe I’ll take a walk, just so I’m not here when they get back.
I follow the exact route that guy and his dog took earlier. It’s freezing out here, even though it’s July. The heat of whatever little sun there is doesn’t last into evening, I guess. I’m in a black tank top and black jeans. My arms are all goose-pimpled. Even the stud in my nose feels like a chip of ice. I’ll probably get caught in a freak snowstorm!
On the street, lots of people are sitting out on their stoops—one-or two-step concrete squares. Behind them, open front doors let out the sounds of talking, music, or television. Stray cats sniff the little bit of grass and weeds clinging to the base of the stoops, and dogs look out the front windows, their paws perched on the sills. In one house, two dogs are looking out, a lace curtain draped like a veil over the smaller dog, making them look like a bride and groom. A couple of people say “hello” to me as I pass, and an older man says “goodnight.” I nod back, thinking how strange it is that he thinks I’m off to bed. Then I wonder if what he meant was more along the lines of what a good night it is. I try my best to smile.
Ahead of me there’s a break in the row houses that I couldn’t see from my window, just about where the guy and his dog vanished. The street sign says NUNNERY HILL. What a weird name! I turn down a narrow lane, not much longer than a driveway. At the bottom is a barrier, the kind that runs beside highways on dangerous turns, separating the lane from a steep drop into a parking lot below. A couple of abandoned shopping carts are pushed against the barrier, as though people brought their groceries to the edge then dumped them over.
I lean on the railing and look up into the distance, into the semi-dark. Spread out before me is the St. John’s harbour, an oval pool of water bordered on the other side by a low mountain. Oval-shaped oil drums dot the mountain, looking like a colony of gleaming white spaceships. The open end of the harbour is a thin strip of water that the big ships below must have had to squeeze through. Some of those ships are now lit. One looks enormous, like a cruise ship. I usually picture them on the Caribbean or the French Riviera, not here, where it’s freezing in the middle of summer. I’ve suddenly got an idea. Cruise ships hire lots of people. I could go down tomorrow and check it out. I wouldn’t even mind working in the kitchen, scrubbing pots and pans in exchange for a little cubbyhole to sleep in. As long as it took me away.
“It’s some pretty spot, isn’t it?” a voice behind me says, making me jump. I turn to face the guy I saw earlier, from my window. Up close he’s tall, with longish brown hair and big brown eyes. A faint moustache covers his upper lip.
“What?”
“The view. It’s pretty. This here is one of my favourite spots in all of St. John’s. Hers, too.” He points to the dog that’s sitting at his feet, looking up at him longingly, its tongue hanging out. “We just came up the hill, from Water Street. We do it every night.” He looks behind him, and that’s when I notice that the lane curves off to the left and continues on. I thought I was on a dead-end, but I guess not.
I don’t know what to say, so I just smile.
“You’re new. I saw you move in,” he continues. “I’m Jim. I live next door.” He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down. “Robbie told us about you guys coming and moving into his house. He said your father’s teaching at the university, like his mother, but I don’t remember what subject.”
“Anthropology,” I say, hoping he won’t ask me any more about it.
“Oh. Well, that’s good. I thought maybe he was one of them people the government keeps bringing in, to teach us how to do something other than fish,” Jim says, looking back up.
“No, don’t worry. My father doesn’t know the first thing about fish.”
“Good, I’m glad. I can’t stand fishing experts.” Jim’s expression hardens. “I saw one on TV the other day, got me so mad I wanted to throw something through the screen. He kept talking about how there was no problem with the cod in Iceland, and people were still out making a decent living on the water. Made it sound like we’re just dumb and lazy.”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t exactly confess that my dad is here to study Newfoundlanders to see if that might be true. Suddenly, Jim’s face breaks into a wide smile, like he’s just thought of something funny. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just we’ve got so many mainlanders coming here these days, most of them to cash in on the offshore oil. We got more millionaires than anywhere else in Canada, I bet.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not millionaires, and we’re not here for oil,” I say. “Sorry to disappoint you.” We both stare out at the water, as if we can’t figure out what to say next. I’m not that used to talking to guys, especially ones I just met. The guys at my new schools were always pretty curious about me. I mean, I’m not exactly ugly, but none of them seemed to want to go out of their way to get to know me. They just kind of brushed up against me a lot in the hallway, or sat and stared at me in class, like I was fascinating but untouchable. Especially last year, when I was all in black. I’d put on black lipstick, just to complete the picture.
“There might be whales out there any day now,” Jim says, pointing toward the water.
“Really?” I say.
“I can show you tomorrow, if you like. We’ll bring Boss—she loves water. One day she’s gonna slip and go over, tumble right into the Atlantic. Probably wouldn’t hurt her, though. Her fur’s that thick. And she’s got special webbed feet that make her good at swimming. Even her tail’s built like a rudder.”
“Is she a Newfoundland?” I ask, trying to avoid his comment about tomorrow.
“Only part. She’s a mix. She’d be bigger if she was purebred. She’s part Lab or something, I think. Makes her a bit smaller. But she’s one hundred percent Newfoundland inside. She’d be your best friend if you ever fell in the water. Did you bring any pets?”
I chuckle. “God, no. People like us can’t have pets.”
“Cause you’d scare’em off,” he says, laughing. “Sorry—I mean, I see you go for that dark look, kind of vampire-like.” I can’t tell if he’s joking.
“No, because we move around a lot.” I hope he won’t pry about our moves, because I’m in no mood to explain them, so soon after getting here. Part of me is still up in the air, suspended. It always takes me time to settle and accept that I am where I am. Well, not accept exactly, more like believe.
“Cruise ship’s in port,” he says, pointing in the direction of the water. “We get lots of those in summer. I sometimes wonder how they fit through The Narrows.”
“The what?”
“The Narrows. That’s what we call that opening between Signal Hill and the South Side Hills. I guess’cause it’s so narrow, right?”
I can’t tell if he’
s asking me or telling me, so I just nod.
Suddenly Boss springs up and starts jumping at Jim’s feet.
“She’s letting me know it’s time to move on,” Jim says. “You going in? You can walk back with us if you want.”
“Okay.”
As we head back up to Gower, I try to think of something to say, but can’t. I’m not used to easy, casual conversations, especially with guys I don’t know. No one’s ever just started talking to me the way Jim just did, not in any town we ever lived in. Each conversation I ever had with a new person was hard to start, like one of those old cars with the crank, but this one just sparked. I’m sure I didn’t do anything to spark it, though. I barely opened my mouth.
At the door to his house, Jim stops and looks straight at me. “Well, see you tomorrow maybe,” he says.
“Yeah, sure,” I respond, waving.
After he’s gone, I think that maybe I didn’t hear him right. I think he asked me out tomorrow. And I think I said yes. Which is weird, because there was only one thing I wanted to do tomorrow—plan my escape.
•
I WAS RIGHT. My parents are back and they’re so excited. They love this city already, even though all they did was buy groceries. I beeline up to my room before they can flood me with details.
I finally sit on the new bed, lowering my back onto the mattress slowly, as if I’m not sure it will hold me. Then I ease my whole body onto it, wiggling around, trying to find my centre. The bed is soft, way softer than I like. And it sags in the middle, as though the kid who usually sleeps here has dug a hole in the middle, a hole that I have to try to fit into.
Tomorrow, I’m going to flip the mattress.
•
I WAKE UP at midnight, sweating. I was dreaming of running through tall fields of wheat, the kind that bordered our farmhouse in Saskatchewan. The wheat was much taller than me, and I was completely hidden by it. At first it was fun and I squealed as I ran, darting through the stalks that I separated with my hands. But when there was no end, I felt myself panic. With every part I hoped to see blue sky, but part after part just led to more wheat.
I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.
Chapter Two
Under Eons of History
ALL THREE OF US just about jump out of our skin when the front door opens around noon the next day, and a male voice calls out, “Hello. Anyone home?” My parents, who are buried inside the kitchen cupboards, rearranging the dishes so that my mother can reach things more easily, both smash their heads on the top shelf at the same time. I swear they could have been a hit vaudeville act.
My mother calls, “Hello!” in a singsongy voice, and a minute later the guy from next door walks into the kitchen.
“Hi. I’m Jim,” he says, holding his hand out to my mother. “I’m taking your daughter out. I guess she didn’t tell you?”
“No, she didn’t, but isn’t that nice.” My mom turns to look at me, a strange smile on her face. I keep staring at my plate. I’m afraid my cheeks may be crimson. She has no idea how I met this guy.
“Hi. I’m Kevin, Kevin Bander,” my dad says, holding out his hand to Jim. “You didn’t tell us you met the neighbours already,” he adds, glancing at me. He looks like he wants to say something more, but doesn’t dare. Of course, I didn’t tell them anything about Jim. I didn’t think he would actually show up, but I can’t exactly say that. I can feel my parents looking at me and then at each other, bewildered. They’ve never seen me go out with a guy before, unless you count the son of the family whose back rooms we rented at the farmhouse last year. His parents had named him Ewan because it’s the last part of the name of his home province—Saskatchewan. He seemed kind of embarrassed by that, and who wouldn’t be? If my parents had done that to me I’d be Bec, the French word for “kiss.” That would’ve made me a big hit in all my new schools. Here comes Kiss. Pucker up!
But Ewan was only ten. Going out with him meant riding some old bikes around the farm, or swatting a badminton bird around in the field.
“Yeah, well …” I say, shrugging and smiling at the same time, hoping that’ll be enough to stop them from prying.
“Better bring a jacket,” Jim says to me, over my parents’ heads. “There’s wind where we’re going. When the Queen was here a few years ago, for Cabot’s five hundredth, her hat almost flew right off. She must’ve had it Velcroed on.”
My parents just smile. For once, they seem speechless, like Jim has caught them off guard, and they don’t know what to say. Hey, come on, I feel like telling them. This is what you wanted. Local culture. Dying cultures. Ask him if he knows anyone affected by the cod moratorium, Dad. He could be your first subject. Exhibit number one—tagged and ready. Except, if you say anything, I’ll die.
I drop my sandwich on the plate, squeeze between my parents, walk past Jim and grab my black jacket off the hook by the door.
“Let’s go,” I say, stepping outside. My parents call out, “Have a good time,” as I shut the door.
“Your parents seem shy,” Jim says. “I guess I should’ve knocked. I’m just not used to it. Where I’m from no one does.”
“Where you’re from,” I repeat. “Aren’t you from Newfoundland?” I just assumed he was. He has that accent, not as strong as the taxi driver’s, but it’s still there.
“Oh, sure, but not St. John’s. I came here from a small outport on the southern shore, near Burgeo, to go to school when my old school closed down. Not enough kids. Too many families moved away when the fishery closed up. I’m living with my aunt, to finish up. I have one year to go.” That means he’s going into Grade Twelve, two grades higher than me.
I stop suddenly and look around. “Where’s your dog?”
“Oh, yeah. I thought I’d leave Boss at home for today. She might get jealous, seeing me with another girl. She’s used to having me all to herself,” Jim says, smiling.
“Great, I’ve only been here a day and I’m already competing with a dog. That’s a first.” I can’t exactly tell him that this is all a first for me. It would make me seem pathetic.
“By the way, if we’re spending the day together, I guess I should know your name. Besides, you know mine.”
“Cheryl,” I reply softly, almost eating the word as it comes out. I never did like my name. It’s like a name you’d hear in some sucky 1950s rock’n’ roll song about a cheerleader or something.
“Cheryl,” he repeats slowly, rolling the name off his tongue. “No, it doesn’t suit you. Sorry, but it doesn’t.”
“Really? How can you tell? You only met me five minutes ago.” Is this guy psychic or something?
“I don’t know, but it just doesn’t. I mean, I like the name. It’s a pretty name. Not that you’re not pretty,’cause you are, but …”
I stare down at my feet, too embarrassed to look up.
“Look, forget it. It’s a nice name. Besides, remember what Shakespeare said. ‘What’s in a name?’ Take my name, for example. Jim. It sounds simple, right?”
“Right.”
“Straightforward-like.”
“You mean you’re not?” I’m thinking how so far, that’s just what he seems to be. He said he’d take me out and now he’s doing it, all without much fuss.
“No way. Don’t you know anything about irony? Wait till you really get to know me. You’ll see the name’s all wrong. It’s too plain, too plain by far.” Then he smiles, as though I’m in for a big treat when he makes his grand revelation.
“Okay, if you say so.” Maybe now would be the right time to tell him that I’ll be out of here in a few weeks, even if I have to cling to a drifting iceberg to do it. But Jim’s already pointing out various landmarks that we either pass or see in the distance, as if he’s helping me get my bearings.
“That’s the Basilica, the biggest church in St. John’s. It was built on top of that hill as a beacon for incoming ships, to help them navigate into the harbour,” he says, pointing to a church that’s sticking out a few streets above
us, its two tall steeples reaching the sky. The building I’m more curious about is the one to the left of the steeples. It looks like it’s made of giant cardboard boxes.
Jim catches me looking and laughs. “Funny-looking, isn’t it? They’re called The Rooms. It’s our new museum and art gallery, to pull the tourists in. They think all we got in Newfoundland is fish, so even our art centre’s supposed to look like the fishing rooms where they used to make the cod. Next thing you know they’ll be casting a giant fishing net over the whole city, just to add to the am-bi-ance.” Jim drags out the last word, in an exaggerated French accent.
I laugh a little, wondering at the same time what he meant by making cod.
At the end of Gower Street, we turn right and come to a pretty busy intersection, where three different roads meet. On the left is a big, white, brick hotel, with round windows that look like the ones on ships running up the middle. A doorman is standing outside, wearing a blue suit with red stripes, looking pretty swanky. Jim is pointing the other way.
“This here’s Duckworth, one of our main downtown streets,” he says. “Here’s where you go if you want to sit in a trendy café and sip lattes and read poetry. You know … be super-cool.”
