A Circle on the Surface

by Carol Bruneau

  “Being old doesn’t exempt you from being an arsehole.” Robart’s shout travelled from the wheelhouse, and Isaac spat again. “Plenty of old arseholes.”

  Even Enman laughed, despite the sourness filling his throat.

  Isaac sucked his teeth. “Poor Iris. Quite a looker, once. Cleary thought so, till he got snapped up by your ma.” Isaac’s wife, Lucinda, had gone to her grave too long ago to remember.

  “As long as Iris gives the right change, I ain’t complaining.” Greeley uncapped a mickey of something and passed it to his father. Pursing his lips, Isaac took a genteel sip. “You got that off Twomey, I suppose—wha’d he charge you, an arm and a leg and your brother’s wife? Scuzzy bastard.”

  This time no one laughed. They were near the place where the British tanker Kars had gone down less than three weeks after Enman’s ship got hit, which had happened farther out to sea but still within sight of Halifax Harbour. Unlike with Enman’s ship, the Kars lost its full crew: forty-four men, one of whom died after rescue. The explosion happened around eleven at night. Greeley and Robart and most of Barrein had seen it from the shore. Una said if her father were still around, he’d have been very distressed not only at the loss of life but of thirteen thousand tons of aviation fuel.

  The tightness in Enman’s chest made it a little hard to breathe. Greeley handed him the mickey. “Have a good big slug, bud. As much as you like.” The liquor’s burn pushed back the taste in his throat and the pulse thumping in his ears as he fought the memory of watching his shipmates trying to outswim flames, the sea around them ablaze. The blood had pounded through him, pounded hard enough to bleed itself out, he had thought, as he crouched in the lifeboat with half a dozen others, none of them able to help. He had suffered only burns to his shins, astonishingly. But it had taken months for them to heal, and the feeling in his legs was never quite right again.

  He focused his eyes on where the stitching on his satchel had pulled away from the leather.

  “Come on now, buddy.” It was Greeley speaking again. “Those Jerries, at least they’ve got bigger fish to fry than five guys in a lobster boat.”

  As they lost sight of land, woods and barrens receding into a mauve-green distance, Enman longed to be home lighting the stove, making Una’s porridge. They had both given up hope of her cooking skills improving very much. He focused on the horizon, averting his eyes from the sea breaking over the Blind Sisters shoal. The way land disappeared was too great a reminder of how easily solids became vapour.

  Sunlight bounced from the surface of the sea. He let his mind drift again to Una. He had left without kissing her. He’d also forgotten to remind her to water the plants; by afternoon they’d be toasted. So dazzling it hurt, the sun forced his gaze to the wake’s churning green, evidence of the fact that they had made it this far. It felt treacherous, though, to focus on its pretty froth—an invitation, a seductive dare to give up and dive in.

  Maybe this was the temptation of despair that Ma’s religion railed but could not guard against. Certainly it was the reason why, even before that February night, he had never trusted boats or the sea or people who favoured it. Now he had to trust it, though everything about doing so defied acting with common sense.

  “Jayzus.” Isaac’s shout pealed above the engine’s stutter. “Day like this, you can practically see France.”

  “Would you pass the rum this way again?” For Christ’s sake, just enjoy the calm, he berated himself, and tried to picture Una eating her orange. But it came back to him afresh: the winter sea ablaze, the ship with a hole as big as a truck torn in her hull, burning from stem to stern. He made himself think of Una combing tangles from her hair. He had learned a trick, most easily performed when drinking, of clenching his jaw till the wind between his ears, the same as the roar inside a seashell, drowned out the screams that rose in his head.

  The screams of men trapped aboard and of others who had made it into lifeboats only to capsize in slicks of burning oil.

  A rolling field of fire, the sea had been that night. Torched bodies bobbing up, too many bodies to count.

  “Greene. Pass ’er back here. When we hit the bar, first round’ll be yours.”

  He managed another swig before Edgar seized the bottle.

  The sea appeared as smooth as the quilt on Ma’s—on their—bed after Una finished making it.

  Isaac pushed some field glasses at him. “Is that Neverfail up ahead?” The aids marking the Neverfail Shoal, Isaac meant, a light and bell buoy, and just north of it the black can buoy bearing its name, where the shoal was its shallowest. “You got the best eyes of the bunch of us, man.” Not true, it was only meant to encourage him.

  Enman squinted through the binoculars. It wasn’t a buoy rocking out there but the slick black tip of a conning tower. He swore it was, for a full thirty seconds. But as he blinked and stared it arced. A pilot whale? A harbour seal? A hazard only as real as the screams for help in his imagination.

  “She’s a sight for sore eyes, Neverfail. We’re halfway there, boys. Got your spiel ready, Greene? No reason your friends won’t front us the dough, is there?”

  “None I can think of, Isaac.” His view of the sea was interrupted by a minesweeper that had appeared and moved back and forth across the offing. Its movement resembled a tractor’s ploughing up potatoes from soil.

  “Well good. Listen, you score with your banker pals and I’ll buy.”

  Isaac’s offer sounded as bright and wide open as the shimmering bay they were crossing, the vast entrance to the inner harbour. To starboard lay the low slatey-green of its eastern shore and Devil’s Island as flat as a parking lot, and in the nearer distance the marker for Thrumcap Shoal. To port, steep granite cliffs rose up, the steepest topped with a lighthouse that shrank steadily as they steamed ahead.

  Soon they were passing Tribune Head at the farthest end of the bay, then reaching the inner harbour, with the anti-submarine net strung from Sleepy Cove on the westerly shore to the tip of Meagher’s Beach marked by its squat striped lighthouse. A red gate boat and a green one manned either side of its opening, like floating bottles of ketchup and relish. Dressings for the hamburger he would order for lunch, Enman decided, as a man to portside waved them through.

  And then they were in the safe zone, the treeline of Point Pleasant was in clear view beyond buoys marking Hens and Chickens shoal. Just a squeak of a journey remained between the cargo piers and Georges Island to the downtown jetty.

  A greasy rime of sewage laced the gap between the boat and the pier.

  He wished he could phone Una to say they had arrived, never mind that climbing the ladder to the dock his knees still wobbled and the skin of his palms was dented from clenching his fists. Only then he realized he had forgotten her list, things she wanted him to buy. In her view, shopping was impossible in Barrein. Perhaps she was a little too picky?

  More than simply missing the place, suddenly he could not wait to be back there.

  6

  Una reached for the thermometer, nestled in cotton wool in its box at the bedside. She sat up, shook the mercury down, poked the thermometer under her tongue. She imagined Dr. Snow’s mellifluous voice saying that every fraction of a degree should be noted. On her way to the loo she jotted the figure in a Campfire notebook. Ninety-eight point eight. Her temperature was up a third of a degree since yesterday.

  Surrounded by a balmy silence, as she ran her bath the water coughed from the tap before reaching a steady stream. What a pleasure, though she felt guilty for thinking it, not having to fill a basin first for Mrs. Greene or fetch her a cup of tea. Climbing in, she felt a touch of grit, sand from yesterday’s beach-going. The water appeared slightly brown, not at all unusual.

  She would have loved to have hitched a ride in Inkpens’ boat, in spite of the Inkpens themselves. Instead she’d come up with a pretty good list. Stockings to be picked up at Wood’s, soap from Mills
’, writing paper from Mahons, nothing complicated. Enman should be able to handle it, he would have oodles of time after his meeting—if he didn’t die of panic en route.

  But this was mean, she shouldn’t make fun, because who wouldn’t get nervous after such a catastrophe? She knew he wasn’t likely to take her out to the island to see the rock stairway, not in the short time they had remaining. Fortunately, she didn’t share his tendency to get the jitters. Her classroom experience had taught Una the art of keeping calm.

  She chose her clothes according to the weather, clothes that flattered a thin, tidy figure like hers: a sleeveless blouse, a yellow dirndl which accentuated her small waist. She wondered if it would soon become tight. Hiking it up, pushing a pillow underneath it, she eyed herself sidelong in the mirror. Her spirits flagged as the pillow slid to her thighs. Would her body feel different if she was pregnant, even after a few hours? Would she know? She felt a tingle of excitement. But she had more pressing concerns. For one thing, she had her letter to think about. Labouring over its wording, Una had written to the superintendent of schools, hoping the board might relax its outmoded rule about married women, and that her principal had kept her misdemeanor to himself.

  She tucked the letter into her pocket, smoothed the skirt’s gathers. Did it fit more snugly than the last time she had worn it?

  Downstairs, the cat pestered to be fed. After its mishap, some would have put it in a bag and dropped it into the sea. But, a credit to Mrs. Greene, it didn’t appear to be suffering. Then she spotted it. Under the sugar bowl, exactly where she had left it, her list. Enman was generally good at remembering and liked to surprise her with presents, so perhaps he would bring a few things. Souvenirs, Enman called them. If she could have taken herself shopping, to real stores—not Finck’s, where you were lucky to have your pick of tinned goods—she would have. If they had a decent car. Then she noticed Enman’s note, next to her orange: If you go out, dear, don’t forget to lock up. God, as if this were Halifax or New York City. No one in Barrein locked their doors. No one had things to steal, and stealing would be too much work for a local. Brain, the villagers called the place, as if saying the name properly took undue effort, which, for such things as knowing your business, they spared none.

  Without Mrs. Greene to worry about, the day yawned empty before Una. Though she had relished such freedom, it felt weighted, being in the house almost as unsettling as donning the dead woman’s clothes would be. Resigned to visiting Finck’s, she followed Enman’s instructions, locking both doors. Win Goodrow was hanging out a wash as Una attempted to steal by without being noticed. She focused on the dust underfoot. Yellow puffs of it rose from her espadrilles and coated the withered vetch along the lane. Between patches of rock, dried mud was caked like makeup.

  “Dying dirt! Did you ever see the likes—no better drying weather, though, I’ll give you that, Younah,” Win called out. Enman had started out saying Una’s name properly—Oonah—but now pronounced it the way Win and everyone else in Barrein did. “Less washing for you now, I guess, with his mother gone?”

  Una had no choice but to stop.

  “Ah, some day you’ll have crib sheets, Missus.” Even with sons grown up and moved away, Win was Brain’s laundry queen. Her pride and joy was the new wringer-washer gleaming in the kitchen doorway. “Nothing new with youse? In the family way, I mean.” As if whatever might be between Una and Enman was anybody’s business. Win was relentless, shouting through a mouth plugged with clothespins. “You tell Enman he’s spending time on the yard he could be spending with you. And where you off to so early? Early bird gets the worm, isn’t it so.” Win pegged a sock to the line, then slipped inside to feed something through the wringer. Moving on, Una was almost clear of the place when that voice trilled: “Could use some wind though—keep the linens from going stiff as a member.”

  Una savoured the absence of wind, the absence of crudeness. The wind ensured that trees grew no taller than children; wasn’t Win the same, cutting people down to size? Halfway to the road Una heard the woman shouting again, yelling for Clinton to get his gun. What, the ARP was on the prowl, about to fine them for keeping on a light? Una thought disparagingly. A rabbit or deer had popped from the woods? Clinton just yelled back about the well running dry if Win didn’t quit treating the place like a Chinese laundry.

  Una felt for the letter deep in her pocket, perspiring by the time she reached the store. Mrs. Finck greeted her with a stare, flicking aside the beaded curtain that divided her parlour from the shop. Light pressed between the blinds’ crooked slats. “Keep your shirt on, just a sec.” The shopkeeper limped towards her, using a broom for a crutch.

  Out of school, kids on bikes rattled past the open door, their shouts breezing by. The cooler kicked in. Ice settled with a clunk. “The sound of commerce, that cooler’s hum. That’s what my Lester calls it.” The old woman wiped her nose, stuffed the hankie under her sleeve, then poked an ice cream scoop into a jar of cloudy water. “I scream, you scream, we all scream.” Her eyes scoped the envelope in Una’s hand. She stroked the lid of the strong box that served as a receptacle for the mail.

  “Truck should be here any minute from O’Leery, just don’t hold your breath. Not like the service you get in town, is it.” Mrs. Finck straightened the cloth covering jars of waxy humbugs, Chicken Bones, and licorice babies. Behind her head, posters plastered the wall, a plethora of thumbtacks and slogans. Some advertised Victory Bonds, asking people to lend money to the war effort. On another, a buff young sailor held a finger to his lips, a convoy behind him. “CARELESS words” appeared in white letters against a billowing black cloud, “cause DISASTER” in blood-red script. A couple of fresh paste-ups with old messages added to the clutter: Loose Lips Sink Ships; BOLO.

  “Be On the Look Out?” Una smiled and Mrs. Finck nodded grimly.

  “What do you think? Them Jerries would like nothing better than to blow us all to kingdom come.”

  High above the posters, a sepia photograph curled under dingy glass. It was a panoramic view of Shag’s Cove, where Enman’s mother and half the village had lived before resettling. Against a treeless backdrop of weather-scarred wharves and shacks, sunken-eyed men and women scowled up from gutting fish and milking cows in a rocky field above the beach.

  “You know, Missus—you can hear the Jerries out there at night, charging their batteries. Lester’s heard them.”

  Una suspected that Lester Finck, who had enjoyed some vague connection with Mrs. Greene, had been dead longer than the war had been on.

  “I’m sure the Civil Defence people would have investigated.”

  “Friends of yours, are they? Bigwigs?”

  “Well. No.” Had Enman boasted about her city upbringing? The house in the south end, the mother who hosted charity teas, the father’s position in oil? Choosing the freshest looking bar of soap, Una placed it and her letter on the counter. What people didn’t realize, Enman included, was how hard she had worked to make something of herself.

  By now Mrs. Finck had settled upon the cushion rubber-banded to her chair, which she drew up in thumping increments to the cash register. The bulk of her was hidden behind it as she rubbed a finger over a burn in the wooden counter, muttering about some “goddamn lush”—Barton Twomey—stubbing out a cigarette in anger when Lester refused to sell him a single smoke.

  “Before I started selling them one apiece, dear,” Mrs. Finck explained, for her benefit, as a commotion outside raised a strong enough draft to rattle the beaded curtain. The sound, barely discernible over shouting that reminded Una of schoolyard chaos, was like bugs clicking against a windowpane.

  Prune-faced, sighing, Iris Finck inched to the window to squint through the blind. “We’ll keep our eye on the prize, Missus—that goddamn truck if ever it comes.” A wave of the old woman’s hand released a whiff of lavender as well as the crumpled hankie. “Lo, he comes with news descending—Mr. Corney the driv
er—sometime in the next century, we hope.” The shopkeeper loosed a chesty laugh. “‘I’ll always be with you, Iris,’ Lester always said,” and, as if suddenly inspired, she opened the box and took out the postmarked mail. “Ingoing, outgoing—some days, honest to Pete, it’s Lester who keeps the balls in the air. My eyes aren’t what they were.” Spreading the mail over the counter, Mrs. Finck picked through it.

  The ruckus continued outdoors. Una just wanted to pay for the soap, post the letter, and leave. But amid the clutter strewn before her, a few envelopes caught her eye. One was addressed to the bank in Enman’s hand; one from the Goodrows was destined for Eaton’s, and one from an Inkpen for a doctor in the city. Was that in payment of services for Isla Inkpen’s daughter who had just given birth? You could learn all you needed to about the place by perusing addresses and addressees. A slew of envelopes were made out to “Aunt Jemima”—that contest, Mrs. Finck sniffed. Send in boxtops and you could win pancake mix and a figurine. How degrading, Enman had said. Degrading to people like the ones in Africville.

  She didn’t quite see why. It’s pancakes, for Pete’s sake, she’d said.

  Enman could be odd like that.

  There was other mail too, which Iris kept sifting through. A postcard picturing the bandstand in the city’s Public Gardens was from Carmel Rooney, destined for a man in Winnipeg.

  “A boyfriend, I’ll bet.” The old woman grimaced.

  Abruptly the noise outside ceased. Iris’s sourpuss grin faded. “My, my, look who it is, flashing her new teeth.” Sighing, Iris addressed herself: “All right, fine then, Les—I’ll be nice.”

  Barton Twomey’s niece had come in, the slow-witted girl unfortunate enough to be related to the man known from one end of Barrein to the other as a reprobate. A stocky, hulking teen, she skulked up the aisle of tinned goods without saying a word, eyeing labels as if they contained a secret code. Even at that distance you could see her hair needed washing. Her pimply face was smudged with dirt. What’s more, the girl was bosomy and slouched the way large-busted teens did. Una had seen plenty of this, subbing in grade eight.