by Lori Weber
“Look at that big one from Russia,” Jim says. “We’ve always got a couple of foreign vessels here. Or navy ships, even submarines at times. Always something different to look at.” He points to the high masts of a large wooden sailing boat. The oak-coloured wood looks like it’s been polished, it’s so shiny.
“Isn’t that one a beauty?” he asks. I nod. It looks like the same boat we watched come in from Signal Hill, the one Jim said was a tour boat.
As we approach the end of the harbour, I can see the Battery and all its quirky houses jutting out toward the Narrows. Across the water, just visible through the fog, is the lighthouse. “What’s that place?” I ask, pointing.
“Fort Amherst,” says Jim. “I’ll take you over there some time. Well, that was our harbour. Time to hit the village.” Jim makes a sharp turn left and we climb a steep hill. I settle back and watch the houses go by. After a while, they go by pretty close, the road is so narrow in parts.
“We’re here, mademoiselle,” Jim says, pulling into a parking lot beside some more water.
“Already? How could we be in a whole new village? We only left the harbour five minutes ago.”
“Take you even less than that to drive through my hometown. There’s basically one road that winds its way around the bay and past the two dozen houses. And there’s no traffic signs anywhere, not unless you count the one the government put at the foot of the wharf to warn people about drowning. They did that’cause some tourists slid off the wharf driving onto it to get a closer look at an iceberg. Thought they’d drive to the end of the wharf and take a couple of pictures, but that never happened. They just rolled off the side and into the water, which luckily isn’t deep at that point. The whole town came out to help push the car back up. They were so embarrassed, sitting there all red in the face, thanking everyone.”
“I bet you enjoyed that.”
“Who, me? Of course not. It was very tragic.”
Jim gets out of the car and walks to the edge of the parking lot. I follow and stand beside him.
“Where are we?”
“It’s Quidi Vidi Village.”
“Kiddy what?”
“Quidi Vidi, and that’s q-u-i-d-i, not what you’re probably thinking.”
I look out at the oval pool of water, surrounded by wharfs and small fishing boats. The building we’re parked at is a big, white restaurant. “Hey, think I could get a job in there?” I ask. “Or there?” I point to the only other big building, a green one with a Brewery sign on it.
“Probably not. Why not forget about jobs for today? If we go up this road, around the bend, we’ll be able to see the opening to the harbour. We can even watch the boats come in … if you want.” I remember Jim’s face watching the ships come in through the Narrows, the way it kind of lit up. I wonder if every time he sees one, it reminds him of home, and of his father.
“What do they fish here? I mean, according to my father there are no more fish.” I don’t tell him that that’s why we’re here.
“They do lobster and snow crab, I guess, and some cod, but not as much as before. There’s a lookout sort of thing you can get to up there, too. It’s got an old cannon and stuff. We can drive up later.”
The word “later” hits me. Jim is making so many plans—with me. Even those kids at the mall thought we were together. They’re probably spreading gossip already—they look like the type. I can see them labelling me and Jim “the Geek and the Goth,” saying we were spotted together at the Village Mall. In my old towns, I laid low and, except for my black clothes last year, didn’t do anything to attract attention. I can’t believe I might already be the subject of gossip here.
I have the feeling Jim would like to show me the whole province. In a way, I’d love to see it, especially where he’s from. I’m forming a pretty good picture of it in my mind. I can see Jim heading us in that direction—he keeps making plans, talking about “later.” No one’s ever done that before, except my parents. And I always resist their plans and try to escape them.
“Hello, Earth calling Cheryl …” Jim is waving his hand in front of my face, drawing me back.
“Sorry, I was daydreaming.”
“Obviously. Anything exciting?” Jim moves closer, a flash in his eyes.
“No, not really.”
“Too bad. Ready to see Quidi Vidi? I mean, it’s not Times Square or the Taj Mahal or anything, but those sheds up on stilts are kind of cool, don’t you think?”
Jim’s hand reaches toward mine. I know that if I let it connect, everything will change, tipping the balance in favour of staying and seeing what Jim wants to show me. But I told myself I’d stay disconnected. I’m not sure I’m ready to change that.
Jim’s fingers are brushing against me, ever so lightly, like a gentle brush of wind.
“Cheryl,” he says softly. My name sounds sweet on his lips, sweeter than it should.
“I think I have to go home now,” I say, pulling back. Jim turns around and puts his hands on his hips. I can’t tell if he heard me.
“I mean, I should get back,” I say.
“Is it that black cloud that’s scaring you?” Jim asks, pointing up. I look up and see a huge black cloud in the distance, floating rapidly toward us. I didn’t even notice it before. “Because if it is, don’t worry, Cheryl.” Jim turns back to me, his eyes boring straight into mine, hopefully. “You know what they say around here—if you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes. It’s always changing.” I can feel Jim’s brown eyes drawing me in.
“It’s not that. It’s just that I have to get back.” I have to get back to a place where Jim can’t draw me in with his chocolate-brown eyes.
“Okay, if you have to.” Jim shakes his head, as though he’s erasing a thought. We slowly retrace our steps to the car. I try not to look around at the fishing shacks that Jim wanted me to see, standing across from us on their high posts over the water, painted different colours. But it’s hard to resist taking a peek. Suddenly, I wonder what life would have been like here a hundred years go. What if Jim and I were married, and he was going off every day in his little boat to catch fish, and I stayed home with the women, to “make the fish,” as Jim called it?
The black cloud is now directly overhead. The minute we step into the car it opens up, raining huge drops that hit the car so hard I’m sure the metal will be pock-marked.
Neither of us speaks the whole way back. I concentrate on the windshield wipers slapping back and forth on high speed, barely able to clear our view before it’s watered up again. I can’t help feeling like I’ve ruined the day more than the rain has, even though I think I made the right decision. A few minutes later, Jim parks the car outside Nanny’s. The second he slides the key out of the ignition, the sun bursts through the cloud, and the rain stops.
“See, I told you,” Jim says. “The weather around here is always changing. It’s like it can’t make up its mind.” Jim stares at me, like he’s hoping I might change mine, but I open the door and get out.
“Thanks for taking me to the mall,” I say, standing between our two houses. “And Quidi Vidi.”
I move to put my hand on the doorknob and am about to turn it when Jim says, “I’ll be walking Boss tonight, around eight. If you want to come.”
I really want to say yes, but I just shrug and say “I’ll see,” before going in.
Jim keeps standing there for a minute before going in. I know, because I watch him through the porch window.
The first thing my mother tells me when I step into the kitchen is that she registered me at school today.
“Whoopity-doo!” I whisper under my breath. I see the pop-princess wannabe and her sidekick clone laughing down at me and Jim. Holy Heart’s finest. “I’m so thrilled.”
“Everyone seemed really nice and helpful,” my mom continues. She’s trying to draw me in. I don’t participate.
All through supper my mind keeps drifting back to the harbour and the big boats bobbing gently in the fog. There is
something about them that makes you want to jump aboard and sail away, out past the Narrows and into the vast ocean. Jim had that look in his eyes, too, when he saw them.
Maybe Jim will come crashing in here tomorrow morning to whisk me off to Fort Amherst. But he probably won’t. After the way I acted at Quidi Vidi, he must think I’m a complete idiot.
I take off to my room, leaving my parents to discuss my new school without me. At eight o’clock, I look outside to see if Jim is walking Boss. I probably won’t join him, even if he is. I want to see Jim, but I wish I didn’t want to. It’s that wanting to do things that’s confusing. It’s not a feeling I’m used to.
A minute later, Jim comes out with Boss on her leash, tugging and excited. Jim looks up at my window. I pull back, hiding behind the dusty curtain. He stands there for a few minutes, watching. Boss is turning circles, tangling her leash around Jim’s legs.
Eventually, he shrugs and walks off, his shoulders hunched.
•
I GO TO BED early, like an old lady, and fall into the hole, curling my body to fit its shape perfectly. I might regret it later, not flipping the mattress, but tonight it just seems like the right thing to do.
Chapter Four
How to Be Impervious
LIVING ON A FARM last year knocked the habit of sleeping in right out of me. Up with the birds isn’t just an expression to a farm family, it’s a religion. Ewan turned it into a form of torture. He’d clash buckets against the back wall of the house, right under my bedroom window, as he was doing his chores. Or he’d spray the hose through the screen, sprinkling me in my bed. In winter, it was snowballs—smack against the glass.
So, this is getting weird. Yesterday, I slept right through lunch. When I woke up, I was sure I’d just heard my door clicking shut. It was probably my parents, come to check that I was still alive. My mom told me she used to do that a lot when I was a baby, tiptoe into my room and place her hand in front of my nose to feel the little puff of baby breath, just to check that I was still breathing. I was one of those wasn’t-supposed-to-happen babies, or so my parents had been told by several specialists. Something about the shape of my mom’s womb. She said it took her ages to believe I was really here.
Today, it’s almost noon when I go downstairs. My father has a wide, eager grin splashed across his face. I didn’t look away fast enough, and our eyes catch. “Come on, Cher, I’d really like to go find this beach with you.”
That’s when I notice a picnic basket full of food on the kitchen counter, packed and ready to go. I can’t stand it when he tries so hard. Then I feel crappy if I let him down. It’s another one of the great traps my parents lay to pull me in, to make me part of their excited team of travellers. I’m about to protest and hold my ground, when the kitchen door opens and in walks Jim, all smiles, followed by my mother.
“Jim said he’d come,” announces my mom. “Isn’t that great, Cher?”
“What?” My mouth falls open, and Jim’s smile vanishes. He must have thought I asked my mother to invite him, and here he is, all eager. I haven’t seen him since we went to the two villages, days ago. I haven’t really done anything since then, except hole up in my room. I know Jim’s been trying to see me. He’s looked up at my window just about every night, before walking Boss. It’s odd. It’s like he knows I’m there, watching him. Otherwise, he’d ring the bell, or just barge in, to see if I’m home.
“Jim says it’s a great spot,” my mother continues, blabbing on to cover up my lack of enthusiasm.
“Yeah, it is,” Jim says, looking at me. “I mean, there are better, but for a twenty-minute drive, it’s pretty good.”
The entire house is holding its breath. Every creak is like a crack of thunder. I don’t respond.
I can’t believe my parents have gone and done this. They’re going to use Jim to get me interested in being here. I can just picture them discussing strategies to turn me around and settling on Jim, the one contact I’ve made here. They probably even decided that my mom should be the one to invite him, since he’d be less likely to turn her down. I can’t believe my mom actually had the nerve to go next door and ask him to come. I wonder if she knocked first, or did she just walk in? Maybe Jim’s aunt ordered him to make her some tea, then they had a nice chat about dying cultures while they were at it.
“Now you can’t say no,” my father adds, looking quickly at my mom in that conspiratorial way they both have.
Of course, I can’t say no. Wasn’t that the plan? I push back my chair, hard, letting it hit the wall behind me.
“I’ll get dressed,” I mutter.
Upstairs, I put on the darkest, most un-beach-like clothes I own. Hardly an inch of skin is showing when I’m done. All I can think about is how glad I am that I turned Jim down at Quidi Vidi, that I didn’t let him hold my hand. That means I haven’t been won over at all. I’m still just on my side. They can do their best—all three of them.
I know how to be impervious.
•
I DON’T SPEAK the whole way to Middle Cove. I’m like extra cargo, or a spare tire. My mother, on the other hand, can’t ask Jim enough questions. She wants to know where he grew up, what grade he’s in, what he plans to do with his life. If this keeps up, she’ll know him better than I do by the end of the day. But why should I care? I had already decided that Jim has to be like the rest of this province—part of the scenery that I’ll take in, then leave behind.
Every now and then, from the corner of my eye, I catch Jim smiling at me, trying to draw me in, but I don’t let him.
He’s telling my mom about his mother’s knitting business. “She can whip up a sweater in an evening and never even take her eyes off the TV. She’s got my two younger sisters helping out. They do the sleeves or the pockets, the parts without designs. It’s a real assembly line, just like the fish line at the old plant. When I was still at home, she tried to get me into it. She thought I could do the sewing up. She said she’d seen me with a needle, mending my dad’s nets in the winter. ‘Just think of the sweater as one of them nets,’ she said, ‘and go in and out the same way.’ But there’s no way I’d do it. I’m happy to help out and all, but I’ve got my pride, and I put my foot down at knitting.”
“Isn’t that fascinating,” says my mother. “Did Cheryl tell you I do needlework, too? I quilt. I’d love to see some of your mother’s sweaters sometime.”
“Sounds like your mother has managed to be resourceful in hard times,” my father says. I want to gag. I can see him mentally taking notes: knitting versus dying. Poor Jim has no idea he’s being studied, and that even his mom’s sweaters are grist for my father’s mill. I should warn him about my father’s book, but it would require too much talking. I feel like my mouth is full of stones. Besides, I’d have to find the right words. I remember when I told Ewan about my dad’s book. It didn’t go over too well. I wouldn’t have told him at all, but he had overheard my dad talking to his. My father was going on about the future of farming, sharing some grim statistics. Ewan had even heard my father ask whether he thought Ewan would carry on the tradition, and his own father admitting he didn’t know. That seemed to really bother him.
“How does your dad know so much about it?” Ewan asked.
“It’s his job, Ewan. That’s what he does.”
“What? What does he do? Does he have a crystal ball or something?”
“No, he studies change in cultures.”
“What changes? We’re not changing.”
I didn’t dare tell Ewan what my dad had said about the number of lost farms in Saskatchewan. According to him, there were more than 140,000 farms in the 1930s. Now, there were fewer than fifty thousand.
“Whatever, Ewan. Just forget it. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just what anthropologists do. It’s stupid.” I tried to throw him off, but he wouldn’t let it drop.
“But my dad’s working really hard to make this farm successful.”
“I know, Ewan. My dad knows that.”
His whole attitude toward me changed after that. He still hung around the back of the farmhouse and brought his dumb friends over to gawk at me, but he was cooler, more aloof. Finally, Jim points out where we need to turn to hit the beach—a sharp right at the bottom of a hill.
Ours isn’t the only car in the parking lot. In fact, every tourist in Newfoundland must be here. There are even a couple of big tour buses.
I’m glad. My parents will hate that. They refuse to think of themselves as tourists. “We’re tourists of the mind,” I’ve even heard my father say, as if our bodies stay behind.
“Is everything okay, Cheryl?” Jim asks me while my parents are getting stuff out of the trunk.
“Never mind. It’s complicated,” I say.
Jim helps my parents carry the basket and blankets down to the beach. He’s wearing jeans cut off at the knee and a black T-shirt with a Led Zeppelin logo on it. I wonder if he wore black just to keep me company.
“Wow! The guy was right. What a great beach!” my father says in his big, isn’t-this-exciting voice.
I take a quick look around at this so-called beach. It’s not exactly white sand and palm trees, more like black sand and no trees. It’s also missing girls in bikinis and guys trying to impress them with beach volleyball. Thick, coarse sand stops a ways down and is replaced by a strip of rocks about ten feet deep. The rocks are a mixture of off-white, light grey, raincloud grey, and the mauve of unripe plums. They remind me of my mother’s hair, which has that same mottled pattern, with a shock of white around her temples. She even once had plum-coloured streaks put in her hair, much like the purple of these rocks. It’s like she somehow had this beach in mind when she went to the hairdresser to get the streaks done. If I were speaking to her, I could ask her about it.
Past the rocks, there’s a mound of black stuff near the water’s edge, like an oil spill has washed up on shore.
