“The fishhouse?”
“Yeah, the fishhouse down on the wharf.”
The waiter shrugged.
“No, no. Come on. Don’t play dumb, now. You must know what I’m talking about. The fishhouse right down the street. Some big shot lives there. Yeah, the fishhouse down on the wharf. Real ugly looking building.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
And with that he turned and walked off. Son-of-a-bitch.
I glanced at the blue Christmas tree flanking my table and while it pleased me, with its little white bulbs glowing so prettily, it gave me no Christmas feeling whatsoever. Even the vibraphones, now soft-hammering a moody rendition of We Three Kings left my Christmas spirit unmoved. I had grown too cynical perhaps, too hardened, too conscious of the commercial propensities of the season. To think that not so long ago Christmas filled me with ticklish ebullience, with joy. The sight of a twinkling Christmas tree or a diorama of the Nativity would bring hot tears to my eyes. I would sob with delicious self-pity watching It’s A Wonderful Life and almost be overcome with emotion when I heard Vince Guaraldi’s soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas, for it summoned all my childhood Christmases. Yes, quite a softy when it came to Christmas. What happened? What happens to everything. It gets old.
The patrons in back erupted with laughter. I looked but saw only shadows. The laughter continued, surging and withdrawing like an ocean wave. Well, at least someone was having a good time of it, and that was key. I finished my coffee.
As I headed back to the fishhouse, a high-gloss black Hummer pulled up in front of an antiques shop. I wondered if Tommy had sent some of his boys down to further press home his message. But what was his message? To come back tomorrow? That wasn’t going to happen. Two Frankensteins in black leather overcoats jumped out of the Hummer. They carried dark green cases and neither took notice of my presence. I could have nailed them right then and there and they would not have seen it coming. They stiffly moved to the shop entrance and one of them removed a key from his pocket. He dropped it and when he bent down to pick it up his mate did the same, and their foreheads clunked.
I kept walking and soon realized I was lost. The structures, many windowless, abandoned, or serving as sets for American film production companies, looked unfamiliar. Comical this, for me to lose my bearings in a neighbourhood I could have called my own. As a youth I had spent so much time near the water, on the docks, by the wharf, that I felt quite at home, quite easy in my feeling there.
Clouds blocked the starlight and fishy odors swept through the street arousing my disgust. Acid burned in the back of my throat, cheesy and scalding. I swallowed. Despite the cold air, sweat beaded my forehead, and my limbs trembled.
I continued toward the water, guided by the winking harbour lights and the sloping shadows of the wharf. My legs moved of their own accord, or at least I wasn’t conscious of guiding them. Tommy—I had almost forgotten about Tommy. I wondered what he was doing at that moment—with an inward chuckle I imagined him and his little man decorating their Christmas tree. Not likely, but in this life one should presume nothing.
By the time I found my way back to the fishhouse my face felt like a mask of carved ice, my feet like frozen cinderblocks. The fishhouse stood dark and silent—abandoned? The blue light on the pier floated there like some kind of plasmic phantasm. Had Tommy and his boys left the premises? I shouted out his name several times with no response. I neared the door and banged my fist against it.
After a moment, the door thudded and started opening. The little man reappeared holding a lantern and wearing a black fedora.
“If you really have to see him,” he said, “I’ll take you. He’s around back.”
“Around back?”
“Yes, follow me.”
He led me down an auxiliary dock next to the blue-lit pier to a loose row of wooden planks roped together haphazardly and jutting out on the water. He said something under his breath, gave me a sidelong glance, and stepped across these planks as nimbly as a tightrope walker, the lantern swinging back and forth, its greenish light washing over everything like a dash of chartreuse. Below us, black water gurgled and splashed. I walked with a wide base and my arms spread for balance.
The little man flashed the lantern beside the planks, and I saw a wooden rowboat bobbing in the water. He planted his polished shoes, bent his knees, and jumped into it, gesturing for me to follow suit. A man of my size doesn’t just jump into a rowboat. My days of jumping into rowboats were long gone. With great exertion, I flung my left leg over, my foot hitting like an anvil, and then when my right leg crashed down, the boat almost tipped. It rocked for a moment, threatening to toss the little man, who clung like a lemur to the bow, eyes gleaming, his free hand clawing for purchase. When the boat stopped rocking, he attached the lantern to the bow with a rope catch and then grabbed the oars.
“Need help?” I asked.
“No, I can manage, it’s not far.”
The lantern cast an emerald sphere of light around the boat as it rolled through solid black. I heard clanging from the docks and dogs barking. In garish whiteface, a mocking moon gaped down at us, its reflection shimmering in the water like pooled milk. The little man rowed with sharp grunts and heaves and shortly pulled up to a dock. He got out of the rowboat and helped me out. Then he tied the rowboat and seized the lantern. As he turned, his hat flew off his head and fell into the water. Without hesitation he handed me the lantern, removed his shoes, and leaped into the water. He went in without a splash. I couldn’t see him. I waited.
After some minutes he still did not appear. I peered at the dark water but saw nothing. Where could he have gone? It had started snowing. At first a few big fat flakes whirled around like lackadaisical moths, then more and more fell, more and more until the air became a swirling mass of white. It fell so thickly I could no longer see the water. In moments snow blanketed the dock. Teeth chattering, I hugged myself to keep warm. I felt concern for the little man, but not so much that I would jump into the cold water after him, not with the sudden onset of a blizzard. That would have served no purpose. Not knowing what else to do, I staggered through the blinding snow toward what looked like an entrance in a large wall of corrugated steel down the dock. As I drew closer, a rubber-coated handle came into view: a door of some sort, I conjectured. I pulled the handle, and a section in the plate wall swung away from the structure, slipping from its stanchions and slamming to the dock with a great metal slap.
I entered the building and found myself standing in a concrete entranceway with a caged blue lamp shining from the ceiling. Blue sticky puddles gleamed on the floor and I stepped over them. Christmas music murmured from deep inside the building, Frank Sinatra’s White Christmas—scratchy and quavery as if being spun on an old-fashioned hand-cranked phonograph. I walked down a dim hall that reeked of fish entrails. At the end of this hall shone a pale yellow light. I heard strange sounds, like wood being chopped.
“Who’s there?” a thin voice cried.
“I’m looking for Tommy.”
“Is that Charlie?”
“That’s me.”
“Come in so I can see you.”
I followed the music to a chilly cinder-block chamber aglow with strings of red and white Christmas lights and flickering votive candles. A concrete slab sat in the middle of the chamber with a sluice-channel running under it. A mahogany handkerchief table flanked the slab; on top of it rested a small phonograph with the turntable spinning a record:
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white.
On the concrete slab sprawled an enormous beheaded fish, a marlin, or a tuna. Tommy stood behind it in a gore-splattered leather apron and rubber gloves, holding a blood-greased cleaver. A veil of fine black mesh covered his face, and on his head he wore a brass helmet of sorts. Tommy has his vanities, I thought, as he yanked a stretch of viscera taut.
“Tonight is my gutting night and normally I take no
visitors.” He reached his hand into the cavity of the great fish and pulled out intestines. They writhed and wriggled like skinned snakes. He tossed them into a barrel and reached into the fish again.
“You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”
“Apparently not.” He yanked. “So, tell me, Charlie. What brings you here?”
“I think you know why I’m here, Tommy.”
He slammed the cleaver down with a clang, wiped his gloved hands on his apron, and nodded. “I know why you’re here, Charlie. I know. Did you have to come tonight, with Christmas just around the corner?”
“What can I say, Tommy? Nothing personal on my part.” Tommy waved his hand. “I know, I know. This has nothing to do with you, Charlie. Nothing at all. Listen, I have a small, a very small favour to ask.”
“Go ahead, Tommy.”
“Can we play the song one more time? Just one more time.”
I thought it wouldn’t hurt to let him hear the song. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve loved this song ever since I was a kid,” he said, going around to the phonograph to restart the record. “Doesn’t feel like Christmas without it.”
I couldn’t disagree. “It’s snowing outside, Tommy.”
“Well, how about that. And look who’s here to join us. Come right in, Bruno.”
The little man stood in the entranceway sopping wet and trembling, clutching his crumpled, dripping fedora.
“Little accident, Bruno? Too bad. You’ll have to get out of those wet clothes later, eh. Charlie, you don’t mind if I sing along, do you? You’re welcome to join in. Bruno, you too.”
“That’s okay, Tommy. Let’s just get this over with.”
He lowered the needle and the music started up:
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas . . .
Just like the ones I used to know . . .
Tommy sang along with a high sweet voice. He wasn’t half-bad. The little man, Bruno, surprised me, crooning in a rich baritone. They sang their hearts out. It was a beautiful thing, touching. But it gave me no Christmas feeling whatsoever, it did not move my spirit. I had become too cynical perhaps, too hardened. To think that not so long ago Christmas had filled me with joy. Yes, I used to be quite a softy when it came to Christmas. What happened? What happens to everything. It gets old.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SALVATORE DIFALCO was born and raised in Hamilton Ontario, the son of Italian immigrants. He attended the University of Toronto, and won a Canada Council Doctoral Fellowship, completing an M.A. in English. He continued on with PhD studies in Modern Irish Literature and is the author of one volume of poetry and one chapbook of stories, Outside. Mr. Difalco has had numerous stories published in journals and literary magazines in both Canada and the U.S. He currently lives in Niagara Falls.
Black Rabbit and Other Stories Page 20
