The Seary Line

by Nicole Lundrigan

  “The sea. The beautiful sea.” Gus leaped to his feet on top of the table, faced the ocean, and offered a crisp salute. “Sight of her makes me want to yowl.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest it.”

  Gus leaned back his head, a hearty wail rising up from his bowels, spilling out of his mouth.

  Within seconds, Fuller was out from the store, beside them now, shaking his fist at Gus. “Get yourself down from there. You hear me? Where do you think you is?”

  Gus leapt from the table top, crumpled onto his knees, then bounced up. “Who’s you talking to?”

  “I’s talking to you, Gus Smith.”

  “Listen up, fellers,” Gus said, hauling up his trousers. He rolled his shoulders, then glanced side to side, as though he were expecting a crowd. “He’s talking to me. This fat son of a bitch is talking to me.”

  “Now, now, Gus,” Leander said. “We’s just heading on in now, Fuller. Lovely night out.”

  Gus’s voice continued to creep. “Was you to the war, Fuller? No sir. You couldn’t fit your fat arse into the uniform. Or was you stuck too tight to your crazy mother’s tit?”

  Fuller’s stern expression vanished, a curious mix of wounded rage taking its place. “I never touched my mother’s tit,” he cried.

  With fists up, Gus ran towards Fuller, and Fuller raised his log-of-a-forearm, smashed Gus straight in the face. Gus toppled backwards, lay there like a splayed animal carcass. He didn’t so much as flinch when blood began to trickle from his nostrils, glide around the crevice of his cheeks, producing a scarlet circus mustache.

  Leander helped Gus to his feet, and Gus shook his head, stunned.

  “I think we best be getting home,” Leander said, once again.

  Fuller grunted, folded his natural weapons across his cask-like chest.

  Looking into his hot face, Leander thought that if steam could, it would now be seeping from those flared nostrils.

  Blood continued to drip from Gus’s nose, forming a matching goatee. “Well,” he said, quite sober now. “Lovely evening, Fuller. Best to your mom.”

  And the two men turned away, Gus scuttling ahead, while Leander scrape-clomped behind him. Almost home, he noticed the sun dipping down into the water, those last fizzled rays ready to sink and die.

  As Stella buttoned the neck on Elise’s gingham nightdress, she thought to mention the turmoil at Nettie’s house, but decided against it. There was no point in discussing adult business with a child, and besides, Elise had seemed oblivious to the friction. In fact, once Leander returned with Gus, Elise had wanted to stay with her cousins. “Good to be like her,” Leander had said, rubbing his receding hairline. “Trouble rolls off her like water on this here oily scalp.”

  Drawing back the fresh sheets, Stella lifted her elbow so Elise could climb in under and up into the bed. Sheets down now, tucked around Elise. “Tight enough?” Stella asked.

  “Almost.”

  Stella pretended to strain and grunt as she tugged at the sheets, and she then said, as she did every night, “I thinks that’s snug enough, my dearie, else the bed’ll swallow you up.”

  And every night, Elise giggled, flexed her body so that her legs and arms bounced upwards, freed from the cotton cocoon.

  “What do you want to hear? Do you want Daddy to come in and read a few pages to you?” Stella adjusted the lantern on the night table, moved it an extra inch or two away from the wall.

  “No,” Elise replied. “Not tonight.” Her eyes rolled upwards, and she chewed her lower lip. “Can you tell me about me, Mom? Not a book story tonight, but a story about me.”

  “If that’s what you wants.”

  “I does.”

  Stella adjusted the white sheet, pulled it back up underneath Elise’s arms, unfolded the crazy quilt made from odd scraps and tossed it over the child’s feet.

  “Well,” Stella replied. “What do you want to hear? About the eggs you found in on the marsh or the time you lost Mrs. Rideout’s wedding ring out on the beach? Or, when–”

  “How about where you got me? I loves that story.”

  “Ah yes.” Stella smoothed her daughter’s tangled hair away from her face. “The cabbage patch.”

  Elise smiled. “Tell me all of it. Don’t skip a scrap.”

  “Well,” Stella began with a contented sigh. She sat on the stool beside the bed, hands folded in her lap. “Your father and I waited many, many years for you. Did you know that?”

  “Yes. Until you’d almost given up all hope.”

  “That’s right. All hope. Nearly gone.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Early morning in the summer days, I’d go up to the garden, poke around a bit. Sometimes it’d be storming like you wouldn’t believe, but I’d still go do my walk. Checking things here and there. When I’d get to the cabbages, I’d take it real slow, lifting up the big leaves and peering underneath. Hoping there might be something hidden there.”

  “What was you looking for?”

  “I don’t rightly know, to be honest. I never had the mind to ask my mother that, how she found me. So I guess I was looking for a flash of white, I suppose. A little toe.”

  “But nothing?”

  “Not even a curly lock of hair.”

  “Was you sad?”

  “Beyond sad. Forlorn.”

  “What do that mean?”

  “Just really, really sad. Disappointed. Let down.”

  “Did you cry?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But not too often.”

  “I kept myself busy. Tried not to think about it too much.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, I was up in the cabbages, and the leaves was beginning to draw themselves in, and I knew the season for babies was almost coming to a close. We’d had a real warm summer, and there was extra big leaves, so I had to really take my time. And I minds it was a real quiet morning. It was cloudy too. I remembers that. Right overcast.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Cause I minds seeing Eldred Wood sneaking down the lane. He don’t come out much on a bright day.”

  “Sneaking?”

  “Well, walking, I suppose. Though he walks in a particular way. Like he tiptoes. I shouldn’t say sneaky, it don’t sound nice. And he never done no harm to me.”

  “Oh. Did you find anything in the cabbages?”

  “Not an ear, not a lip, not an ankle. Not one thing.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well, I heard what I thought was a kitten.”

  “A kitten?”

  “Yes, like one that was still blind. And I followed the sound, over to where the turnips was growing in the ground. Those bright leaves were wet from dew, and my skirt got drenched from all the dripping.”

  “And?”

  “I went about looking for a furry little body, maybe black and white stripes or gingery like. But I didn’t see nothing. Again. Not until I peered under this particularly large leaf. And guess what I found?”

  Elise’s eyes lit up. “I knows. I knows. I can tell it from here.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Then you lifted up the great big old leaf, and there I was. A baby just for you.”

  “That’s exactly right. A baby just for me. My heart nearly stopped.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but I was real happy.”

  Elise bent her knees, white mountains in the bed. “What was I wearing?”

  Laying her hand on top of the mountain, Stella said, “Do you want the truth?”

  “Always the truth, Mommy.”

  “Well, to be honest, you weren’t wearing much. Nothing at all, in fact.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened. “I weren’t cold?”

  “I whipped you right up and brought you down to the house. Wrapped a blanket round you tighter than the skin on a fish.”

  “That’s good.” Rolling on to her side, Elise hugged her knees. “I always wonders something.”

&nb
sp; “What’s that?”

  “What if someone else found me?”

  “No one would do that. ’Twas my turnip patch.”

  “What if that man got hold of me?”

  “What man?”

  “That one you said you seen sneaking down the lane.”

  “Oh, Eldred?”

  Stella paused for a second, put a hand to her cheek. In her mind’s eye, she had no trouble seeing the clothes that Eldred wore every day. Brown trousers, faded plaid shirt, collar and cuffs buttoned, black rubber boots. But his face, she was unable to recall it. Though she had seen him time and time again, his face eluded her. She remembered it was neither particularly youthful nor wrinkled with years. Not happy or sad. Never eager, and not at all indifferent. It just was. A simple face. Somehow unimportant. And she wondered if she’d ever really looked at him, or if she only looked about him, around him. Avoiding that simple face for uncomfortable reasons she could not comprehend.

  She did recall that Eldred passed by the morning Elise was born, and their interaction was the same as usual. Whenever Eldred came around the bend in the lane, he would stop on the high point, stare at her house. Hairs would prickle on her arms, and if she was outside where he might see her, she would force a hand to lift and wave. Pull her lips back in the shape of a toothy smile. A good Christian was polite, especially to those less fortunate. And Eldred Wood, a broken-down man who was apparently terrified of his own shadow, was most definitely a less fortunate.

  She had only ever spoken to him once, and this was at least two years before Elise was born, maybe three or four. She had believed he was mute, but learned that wasn’t the case. Down by the gate, he stood waiting, drizzle driving his clothes against him. And as he stood there, he held the pickets, never lifted the latch to come in. Shawl wrapped around her shoulders, kitchen slippers still on, she went down to him.

  “Baby here,” he’d said, pointing a shaky finger at the house behind her.

  “No, sir,” she replied. “No babies.”

  “A girl. Was a baby girl.”

  She had the notion that perhaps he had second sight, and she put a hand to her abdomen. “How long ago?” she ventured.

  “Years,” he replied, eyes squinting as a thin rain spat at him. “Years and years and years. A baby girl.”

  She remembered smiling gently, thinking to touch his hand, still clasping the picket. “Well, that wouldn’t be a baby no longer. Babies grows, Mr. Wood. But Leander is up in his shed, got it like an oven in there, if you wants to go dry off. Cup of tea?”

  He hadn’t responded, looked at her sideways, ambled away.

  “Yes. He,” Elise said. “Mr. Wood. That’s who I was talking about.”

  “He’s never come in on our property. He don’t come in on folks’ land.”

  “But he gawks.”

  “He looks. Probably looks at everyone. No harm in looking.”

  “But what was he doing out so early?”

  “I got no idea. Maybe doing a chore for Berta – the woman who looks after him. Maybe the weather suited him.”

  “But what if he came in and stole me from under that leaf?”

  “Well, life would be very different, wouldn’t it?”

  “Would you miss me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would you miss me?” More serious now. “Would you cry?”

  “Such funny questions.”

  Elise glowered, slid down in the bed.

  Running her hand over the pillow, Stella plucked out several sharp points, errant feathers. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t think a person can miss what they never had. Miss what they never had the chance to love.”

  Elise pouted, twirled a finger around a few strands of hair, yanked.

  “That’s not like you,” Stella said. “Now up on your pillow. The time for sleep is long past.” She lifted the lantern, walked to the door.

  “Mommy?”

  Stella turned, held the lantern into the room, so she could clearly see her daughter’s face. “Yes, dear.”

  “I asked Daddy, and he says I was born in the spring.”

  “Yes, you was.”

  “How come there was such big turnip leaves so early on in the spring?”

  “Well, now. Maybe ’twas a warm spring. A real warm spring.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  Stella let her arm down, lantern glowing near her thigh. “Yes, my baby.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, maid.”

  Elise had rolled onto her side, her words bouncing off the wallpapered walls, reaching Stella indirectly. “I don’t want that story no more, all right? I thinks I knows it by heart.”

  chapter ten

  Harriet was a happy girl. Always upbeat. Leander had found her over a year ago during a spring rainstorm, half a mile into the woods. His foot had been throbbing, and nothing would ease the discomfort, unless he moved forward. Even though Stella thought he was foolish, this deep ache propelled him out into the foggy dusk, and he ambled straight into the forest, stumbling over roots and the litter of pine cones and needles and old leaves. After nearly an hour, he came to a spongy bog, stopped, and heard snuffling and whimpering. Leander clapped his leg, and something sprinted towards him, speed like rolling thunder. He closed his eyes, worried over what his foot might have discovered, and then felt wet warmth on his hand. A relieved tongue.

  When he had found her, Harriet was not yet full grown, but no longer quite a pup. She had a broad long snout and large amber eyes. Her back looked like a curving shoreline, never-ending layers of furry white-tipped waves crashing in. Although he might have been mistaken, he had thought she looked very like a Newfoundland wolf.

  But he knew there were no more left. Extinct. Perhaps this excited creature was a jovial relative, jumping now on the marshy bog, trying to lick the freckles from the back of his hand. He remembered his father telling him how gentle they were (even though they had a wily and vicious reputation), and how many years ago, when his own father was a young boy, there was a hefty bounty on the head of each wolf. Celebration when one was killed. How over the years, the ghostly howl had petered into silence.

  Leander knelt down, placed his hands in her fur, shook away the water droplets that beaded in her coat. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Where in God’s name did you come from?” He was never able to answer that question, but the dog followed him out of the woods, over the laneway, and into the sweet orange glow of their kitchen.

  At first Stella had been nervous for the children, their few chickens. “She looks like a wolf. She howls like a wolf. She certainly eats like a wolf.” But after several months of yipping and dancing and making music with her curved nails on the wood floor, Stella told him, “Harriet Edgecombe is my easiest child.”

  Robert had big plans for Harriet. During the fall, Leander and he had built a sleigh, painted it apple red. “When I goes down Andrews’ Hill, Harriet can haul me right back up again. I don’t never need to get off.” He tapped his chin, thinking. “Or I could charge a penny an hour and she could tug around someone else. I’ll be right rich.” But on their first official outing, boy and dog, Harriet chomped at the snow, leaped after drifting flakes, barreled towards Robert, knocked him clear off his perch. “So much for that,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “She hopped aboard, wouldn’t budge. Had to haul her home.”

  Elise was the only family member who ignored the dog. In the beginning, she adored Harriet, but on Christmas morning, her tune changed to indifference. With feverish determination, Elise had set about knitting a bright red wool sweater for Harriet, and worked night and day to finish it, wrapped the mess of loose ends and gaping holes in brown paper, slid it underneath the spruce tree in the front room. In the morning, Harriet hauled out the package, tore it open, and Elise pinned the dog down, slipped the tangle of red over Harriet’s head, tied some strands around the barrel chest. Harriet cocked her head, looked at Elise with wet uncertain eyes, absence of appreciation, then pawe
d to get out. Five minutes later, she returned, sweater missing, Elise in tears when she glared out the window, saw her gift clinging to a splintery fence post, like a streak of unwanted blood against the holiday snow.

  For the most part, Harriet was Leander’s dog. Wherever Leander went, Harriet went. She was so attached, she howled outside the church as soon as Leander disappeared inside. Her wailing during the Sunday service drowned out Reverend Hickey’s raspy sermonizing, and they took to barring her in the workshop, lest the Reverend use his last breath to be heard over a dog. When Leander entered his shed, knelt in front of Harriet, she would bolt towards him, press her body against his, head on his shoulder, weeping like a lonely child.

  While Leander sanded and sawed and hammered and turned in his workshop, Harriet was always near his feet. More than once, her paw was nipped when she stood too close to the treadle of the lathe. During the long weekdays, when evening shadows arrived early, they chatted the afternoons away, Leander asking questions, Harriet responding with various pitches, stressing different portions of her howl. Even though Stella fed Harriet leftover scraps and plucked burrs from her impressive fur, Harriet never had much to say to Stella, and Stella growled (half-jokingly), “If Harriet didn’t go around on all fours, gob half open, I’d be some awful jealous.”

  Harriet garnered a fair bit of attention. Throughout the year, people dropped by to see the “almost wolf,” for no one wanted to admit what she might actually be – the last of her kind. And whenever anyone questioned Leander about the dog, he replied, “I got no idea what she is. Other than our Miss Edgecombe. The household darling.”

  Robert would beam, Elise grimace, and Stella would always add, “Long as we all knows she’s the family pet. To the best of my knowledge, the Lord above frowns on man taking up two wives.”

  “So sweet,” a young schoolteacher said to her sister as they ambled down the lane. “Take a gander at them over there.” She nodded out towards the wharf.

  “Yes now,” the sister replied. “Youngsters today don’t play like they used to. Right refreshing to see them getting along. Working together instead of trying to knock each other down.”

  Though Elise and Robert Edgecombe were the subjects of the conversation, they didn’t hear the women chatting. Instead, the children were dangling over the wharf, shoulders touching, blood filling their heads. Crabs, sculpins, connors, sea weed, they were hooking anything and everything that passed over their bent pins.