Berth

by Carol Bruneau

  It was like being inside a toilet paper tube, Sonny murmured as we climbed three steep metal ladders to the top. Our footsteps rang below as we squeezed through the hatch, emerging into the lantern. The air up there was warmer, almost stuffy. There was barely room for the three of us to squeeze around the lens or file past the radio. Propped on a shelf, it was a dusty contraption the size of a shoebox, its microphone dangling. Beside it sat a roll of paper towel and a green spray can of window cleaner.

  This part felt like being inside an eyeball, I couldn’t help marvelling, squinting at the brightness. Light poured in all around, absorbing the smooth revolving flash that was so green it could’ve been under water. The lens dwarfed us, like the eye of a gigantic insect, the fly in an ancient sci-fi film, its reflectors like scales. It turned silently in a trough of silver liquid that made me think of the ring of fire in that Johnny Cash song—except the liquid couldn’t have been hot. Sonny went to test it with his finger.

  “Don’t touch,” Hugh said. “It’s mercury. The stuff inside a thermometer?”

  Sonny bent and peered down at his reflection blurred and stretched like in a midway mirror.

  “Couldn’t I have a bit? A tiny blob?” he said, and though I told him to put a lid on it, I understood. There’s something about shiny things; perhaps we’re all crows at heart.

  Ignoring his pout, standing very still I watched the clouds, bolts of grey against the peach-coloured horizon. For a moment it felt as if we were part of the sky, moving.

  “I just want to see how it rolls,” Sonny persisted. Hugh brushed my elbow. Too soon he was leading us down again.

  “Tea’d be good, to warm up,” he said, more an observation than an invitation. Below, as he locked up, I studied the red and white No Trespassing sign, and he remarked, “Visitors are supposed to be licensed. Good thing we didn’t go out on the platform. I’d be in deep shit if you’d fallen off.” He smiled broadly, teasing?

  “I thought lightkeepers had to be on watch all the time,” I yelled above the wind.

  “She’s on autopilot, mostly,” he yelled back, steering us towards the house. “I’m here making sure nothing fucks up.” Wincing, I glanced at Sonny still staring up at the lantern—orbiting Jupiter. Good thing, though. Like Charlie, like any parent, I tried to watch my tongue around him.

  We followed Hugh to the back porch, where he braced the door against the wind. We found ourselves inside a creaky kitchen. It had a wood stove and antique-looking wiring running up the walls. He put on the light and crossed to the stove, lifting a burner and warming his hands.

  “They only got power here ten years ago. Can you imagine?”

  I couldn’t, actually, and wondered how anyone survived here, with or without electricity. Not many men would, women either—none of the ones I knew, anyhow. I remembered Charlie the time the power went out during Hockey Night in Canada.

  There was a hotplate in a corner and a sink with the space underneath curtained off. A cracked mirror hung above it, and along one wall stretched some shelves and cupboards painted surf green. The fridge was curved—like a fifties Chev, I could almost hear Charlie saying—and there was a red table with the leaves folded down, and a pair of dinged-up kitchen chairs. The walls had a yellow tinge, as though they could’ve used washing, and the baseboards around the linoleum needed paint.

  There was running water—hallelujah!—and Hugh put on a kettle that shrieked when it boiled. I waited for Sonny to make some crack about what a hole the place was, and how everything was new in Patricia Bay where his last school had been. But he’d found a flashlight and busied himself flicking it on and off, aiming it at my face.

  “I’m the devil,” he croaked, holding the beam under his chin.

  Hugh knelt to stoke the stove. He’d taken his coat off and I admired the spread of his shoulders through his grey sweater. His hair, messed by the wind, looked longer and darker, curling behind his ears. As he went to the cupboard for cups, I couldn’t help noticing how his jeans rode on his hips, faded in spots that emphasized not just his leanness, but a loose kind of vigour, strength.

  “I don’t see why I couldn’t have a teeny bit of mercury. A sample,” Sonny started in again. “I don’t see how it would hurt anything.”

  “Give it up,” I muttered, as Hugh passed us each a mug of scalding tea. “Ever hear of the Mad Hatter—you know, from Alice in Wonderland? Wasn’t that mercury poisoning?” Something uglier, something I’d seen once in Life magazine, swam up from my adolescence. Photographs of people with fish eyes and twisted bodies. There’d been one of a girl my age being bathed by her mother; the picture still haunted me.

  “Ever hear of a place in Japan, Minamata, or something like that?” I started. “Some kind of poisoning, in the sea, in the fish. That was mercury.”

  It couldn’t be healthy, having the stuff out in the open like that, and being around it.

  Smiling, Hugh shrugged. “A speck of tea, bud?” he prompted. Sonny looked confused; he never got tea at home. Taking a slurp, he blinked and swore. “Shit,” it sounded like.

  “Wha’did you say?”

  Hugh gulped his tea, watching us.

  “Not in front of an audience, please,” I tried to joke as Sonny took another sip.

  “You ever hear of loony lighthouse keepers? Someone did a study—the mercury, and that.” Hugh made a face. “I dunno. Some guys, it’s the isolation gets to ’em. In real remote places. Not like this. And it’s not like we eat the stuff, right.”

  “Got any munchies, like, I mean, a snack?” Sonny piped up, and I could’ve smucked him. Hugh went to the cupboard and set a pack of Fig Newtons on the table.

  “Tttttt,” Sonny said in disgust, and, truly, I could have clocked him.

  Hugh laughed. “Lucky you, having a comedian for a son. More tea, bud?” he asked. “Willa?”

  When he took my cup our hands touched and I felt myself blush, aware of Sonny soaking everything up.

  “So,” said Hugh, taking a cookie and pushing the package away. “Do I call you ‘Alex’ or ‘Sonny’?” He was trying to be serious. “Can’t help it—that name makes me think of Cher. Sonny and Cher? You know that old song, ‘The Beat Goes On’?” He gave me a look, not quite a wink.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Your ma’s better looking,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “My dad calls me Alex.”

  “Right,” said Hugh. “I can see why.”

  “My dad’s on tour,” Sonny said. “Exercises.”

  Something about his tone made me picture Charlie skipping rope on the landing deck of a ship. Doing calisthenics, bicep curls. Sweating. Nothing was halfway with Charlie. I looked at my running shoes.

  “How long’s he gone for?” Hugh asked.

  But Sonny clammed up, helping himself to the Fig Newtons. Before I knew it, he’d eaten a row.

  “I owe you,” I said, and Hugh smiled. A funny expression that probably meant nothing, but seemed to take everything in. His eyes lit on me, dark grey in the dimness.

  “Nah,” he laughed, “I’m glad for the company. Now, about the tour.” Tore, it sounded like, and I must’ve looked puzzled. “You like forts, Alex?” he said, putting our cups in the sink. It’d been months since his dad had spoken to him that way, not since Family Day on the base.

  It felt twice as drizzly and cold going back outside; I’d have just as soon stayed put. But Hugh lent me a slicker and Sonny a huge pair of rubber boots. This time we headed up behind the beach, along a swampy path through the trees. It was a bit warmer in the woods and for a few minutes the sun peeked through. Sonny’s boots made a slogging sound as he traipsed behind. “How much longer?” he complained—once.

  We passed a couple of shacks—cottages, Hugh explained—that looked flattened by weather, silvered shingles and porches sagging into the wiry bushes. Finally the path came to a clearing
and a hill with the concrete ruins of fortifications built into it.

  “All right!” said Sonny, clambering along a crumbling ledge.

  “Be careful,” I yelled automatically.

  “There used to be horses,” Hugh said, “before my time. Ponies. Might’ve been wild, I’m not sure. They might’ve belonged to a midway or something—pastured here.”

  “Hi-ho Silver!” I watched Sonny leap from a wall, boots sailing off in mid-air.

  “He’s got some energy,” Hugh remarked. “How old’s he, now?”

  “Nine and a bit.”

  “Ah. You’ve been married a while, then.” It sounded sympathetic. He was watching me, his eyes like the flash of harbour through the treetops. “It must be tough on Alex, your husband being away.”

  I was thinking more about the car just then than about Sonny, or Charlie.

  “You must miss him, eh.”

  It was a question, any idiot could’ve seen.

  “Well,” the pulse thumped in my ear, “you get used to it.” Sonny was watching us, perched like Spider-Man on top of what might’ve been a powder magazine.

  “Frig,” I let loose. “Get down off there, Sonny, before you break something and Mr. Gavin has to call for help! Kids,” I sighed.

  Hugh’s look made me blush again as he cupped his mouth, hollering, “Hey, Al!” Suddenly there was the thrum of an aircraft overhead, getting closer. A chopper. “Coast Guard,” he said, his eyes on Sonny. “That’d be timely, eh?” Then he yelled, “Quit scaring your mom. She’s got enough on her plate, I think.” Sonny had retrieved his boots, and came running as fast as he could. “What on a plate?”

  “Mention food, well, chips and pop,” I said, “and Sonny’s the best eater on the planet.”

  Hugh grinned as if he’d read Sonny’s mind.

  “Sorry, bud. No Burger Kings over here. Best I can offer is liver and onions.”

  “Gross,” said Sonny. “Crap.” But Hugh had turned and was heading back towards the woods.

  “It’s not what I’d choose: single-parenthood,” Hugh said over his shoulder.

  Choice was never the issue, I thought, ducking a branch. “Mom says you play the sax,” Sonny cut in, a little out of breath. “When I’m ten I’m gonna play ‘lectric guitar.”

  “Oh yeah?” Hugh actually sounded interested.

  It seemed quicker getting back to the beach. The tide had come up quite a bit, and we started across the pebbled strip between the wet sand and dune. A far-off roar grew louder, and we stopped to watch a container ship churn past. It was the size of an apartment building, a tug kicking alongside like a tiny grey boot. Once they’d passed the light, Hugh led us back along the path that climbed the island’s spine to the wharf. There was the whine of an engine, the flat shape of a boat with a single person approaching. Hugh squinted at the clouds; the sun had all but disappeared again.

  “Mr. Punctuality, or what? God help anyone who messes with Wayne’s plans. Ah, but he’s a good head. I’d be screwed living out here without a buddy like that.”

  Which made me want to ask why he bothered, except that the island did have a certain, I don’t know, charm. And it was closer to civilization than a lot of places.

  Sonny was already on the wharf as the boat shuddered alongside. I didn’t want to hold Wayne up, and wasted no time climbing in. Hugh squatted above, ready to give a hand. I had the silliest feeling—like I’d had with Charlie early on—that nothing bad could happen with him around, that neither Sonny nor I could fall in. Sonny even glanced up and muttered, “Thanks.”

  Wayne seemed in a better mood. “Take ’er easy, Hughie,” he yelled. “Don’t go too crazy, all holed up.” As we motored off, it was obvious he’d been drinking. You could smell it.

  Hugh stood for a long time waving. I watched him get smaller and smaller as the wharf disappeared and the island shrank, riding the whitecaps like a porcupine.

  This time Wayne was quite chatty. “Dunno what buddy sees in it,” he said, and I guessed he meant Hugh. “He could get other work, guy’s been around, you know. Not much call for sax players, though.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just kept talking, shouting at our backs.

  “That life would drive me nuts, I mean it. Crazier than a bagfullahammers. ‘Specially after what happened to one guy. Holy jeez. Used to be two of ’em out there, fella and his wife? She found him hanging one day. Suicide.”

  My teeth were chattering and Sonny’s lips had gone blue. “Pull up your hood,” I nudged him. “That might help.”

  Wayne kept at it. “Hughie didn’t tell you?” No chance to lie and say yes.

  It was as if he’d been saving this up. “You never heard of Double Alex—Alex Alexander?” He sounded incredulous. I looked at Sonny, nudging him again. “Story goes, when a guy’s hanging, it’s up to whoever finds ’im to let some blood. Relieves the pressure, eh. That’s if buddy’s still kicking. You let the blood, buddy lives; you don’t, he croaks—of course.”

  Sonny had a frozen, surly look. Who knows what was going through his head.

  “Frig, if old Alex’s wife wouldn’t let his blood! Maybe she didn’t know to. Or maybe he was already dead. Anyways, upshot is, you find someone hangin’ and don’t do nothing to save ’im, his ghost’ll stick around till it makes you do the same.”

  Skkkkttttt, he went, as if choking himself. He pulled a beer from his duffle bag.

  Ssssskkttt, I mimicked to Sonny, rolling my eyes.

  “So Hughie’s got someone to talk to at night,” he joked, guzzling, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Not much of a life, though, unless you count that goddamn horn-blowing.”

  “Seems like a nice person,” I said blandly, as if describing a bank teller. The way I would’ve to Charlie. Despite the acid wind, my face warmed.

  “See any sharks, kid?” Wayne hollered, ignoring me. “Seen a hammerhead, coming over. Keep an eye out, now.”

  “So Hugh’s pretty much on his own, then,” I said, fishing.

  Wayne flicked his hair from under his collar, snickering. “I’m always telling him he needs a woman, keep ’im on the straight and narrow.”

  Maybe I looked worried.

  “From goin’ bananas, I mean. All that time alone’s hard on a guy.” He gave me a long, itchy stare. Thank God the dock was looming, and the trailer with the Charters sign. Wayne polished off his beer and dropped the bottle overboard. Then, steady as a nurse, he eased us up to the wharf and helped us out. He followed us to the car, breathing down my neck as I unlocked it.

  “An ’82, is she?” He slapped the hood then brushed his hand against his jeans. He stood there as I got in and dug through my wallet. I handed him my last ten.

  “Thanks, miss.” He licked his lips, and I wondered how it was he and Hugh were friends.

  “Anytime you need a ride over. Tobias—it’s in the book.”

  “Not likely,” I said, brushing some salt off the seat. “Today was just a little tour.”

  “A tore, eh?” You could see he was amused. “Oh yeah, that’d be Hughie. Bona fide tore guide.”

  ***

  It was raining by the time we got home, and we changed into pyjamas and ordered pizza. There was a message on the answering machine from Charlie. His tour had been extended by four weeks, and he hoped there was nothing we needed. “Tell Alex I love him,” he rasped before the line clicked dead; it seemed so brusque and obvious. He loved Sonny, of course; we both did. But who doesn’t love their own flesh and blood?

  We fell asleep in front of the TV, and sometime after midnight I herded Sonny to bed. I dreamt about him riding around on the back of a dolphin, like something you’d see at Marineland.

  Except it was the harbour, and his father was hovering above in the fog, chopper blades whipping the air like meringue. A light sliced through and a horn blew. Not a foghorn but a bugle playing reveille. Then t
he dolphin sounded, taking Sonny with him. But as Sonny bobbed to the surface, the chopper’s hatch opened and the horse collar descended, winching down, and he caught it and up he went, swinging skywards to safety.

  6

  LATITUDE

  I didn’t hear from Hugh again for two or three weeks. I’d wake every day with a dry churning inside, like an engine in need of grease. I got PMS, the TV went, and a couple of days later, a coil in the dryer. It was almost May, but you still needed gloves. It stayed so damp nothing would dry outdoors, and I had wet laundry hanging everywhere in the house.

  Sonny was at school when the phone rang. I was expecting a repairman, was thrown a bit when the voice said, “Willa?”

  He’d come ashore to get stocked up and he wanted to know if we could meet at Tim’s. I couldn’t, of course; I was waiting for someone. On the spur of the moment, at the tail end of a breath, I invited him for lunch. Why lunch, who knows? The second it popped out I regretted it. Picturing the three of us, Hugh, Sonny, and me, wolfing Kraft Dinner, Sonny making rude noises with the ketchup.

  He hesitated, then said okay. I could hear a voice in the background: “Welcome, shoppers. In Holy Smokes we have genuine Cuban cigars on special. And in Meats…”

  “I’d come and get you, but,” I offered lamely.

  He sounded surprised. “Oh, it’s no problem. I’ve got the truck.” He paused. “What time, then? Soon?”

  I got the panties and T-shirts out of the living room—just in time, too, as the truck came creeping up the street. Sandi had just gone by with her double stroller and a gaggle of little ones dragging behind. I’d ducked behind the sheers as she passed; she’d glanced up a few times as if meaning to stop in.

  There was a T-shirt of Charlie’s—Sonny had taken to wearing it—draped over the TV. I threw it in the closet.

  Hugh got out and came slowly up the walk. There was something in his hand—a rose, of all things. Yellow. I bit my nail, just waiting for Sandi to reappear.