Berth

by Carol Bruneau

  “If he was mine, I’d—”

  “What?” My pulse raced. “You’d what?”

  “Look, Tess.” He shook his head, smiled wanly. “The guys and me, we’ve been playing flat out for a day and a half. Recording.”

  Eat shit yourself, I wanted to say. Silence. I could hear Sonny upstairs running the tap.

  “My whole life I’ve wanted to do this,” Hugh finally spoke, slouching to the table. He peeled an orange, held out a section.

  “Hugh—?”

  “Don’t ask—I don’t want to talk about it. Never discuss somethin’ in the works, sweetie; you’ll jinx it. You know I’m superstitious.”

  Our eyes locked.

  “Hugh. I’ve…the kids and I, we found the…the bunker.” You could hear the waves scrubbing the breakwater, the grinding ice.

  “Yeah? Bet they liked that. Good for an afternoon, eh?”

  He sucked at some orange, then held out the last piece. I closed my eyes, shook my head.

  “Willa, I don’t want to fight with you.” He went to touch me and I pulled away. “Be like that,” he said. “You’ll just hurt yourself.”

  Covering my mouth, I felt the glide of tears.

  “Tessie,” he whispered, oh so gently. His breath on my cheek. “Grow up.”

  ***

  We didn’t speak the rest of that day or night. At breakfast Sonny started in, filling the kitchen with complaining.

  “Mom? Do I have to go back? Why can’t I stay home? You could teach me! School’s a freakin’ waste of time. Make me go, and I’ll…I’ll run away.”

  Where? The one advantage to being on an island.

  Hugh was washing dishes, doing a lousy job. Porridge stuck to everything.

  “I’m not lyin’, Mom. Seriously. You make me go, I’ll—”

  “Alex!” Hugh exploded; the room was a paper bag with the air slapped out of it. “Quit the crap. Quit giving her a hard time. You were my kid, know what I’d do?”

  Sonny stopped dead, shooting both of us hateful looks. “Fine. But I ain’t going and you can’t make me.” He and Oreo flew outside so fast there wasn’t time to scream about wearing a coat.

  “He’ll freeze.” I was trembling.

  “Let him,” said Hugh, sneaking his arm around me.

  He pulled me close, his hand roving like a spider under my top, cupping my breast. Picturing Julie and her blue sweater, I shrank from him, but his touch was sure. Knowing. Next he was kissing me; shyly at first, timid, almost like Charlie after one of his tours. His tongue was warm and tasted of brown sugar.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered into my hair, “I never meant to be a prick.” His eyes shone as he pulled my sweater up over my head. “Skin the rabbit!” Then he slid his lips to my nipples, sucking each till it hurt.

  I was Alice and the March Hare. “But…Sonny…” I moaned, my face wet as he slipped to his knees, his hands on my waist, unzipping me.

  “Shhh,” he kept saying, kissing my belly, working down my jeans. He undid his belt and lifted me, and with all his wiry strength, carried me to the other room. Pulling off his jeans, he stretched close, his hardness throbbing against me as he moved his mouth over my skin, his tongue flicking everywhere, and all of me dissolving, wet, wanting him inside even as a voice screamed no, a voice that wept not just for us but for Sonny.

  What about Sonny?

  Yet I pulled his face to mine, my eyes open as he thrust and pushed and we arced against each other; and in one long aching moment it was over and we fell in pieces over the bed.

  “Hugh?” My plea broke the rushing stillness. “What if Sonny’d—?”

  “Shhhh,” he said, wrapping me in the blankets. “See what you do to me, Tessie? You know I adore you. Don’t you.”

  ***

  Sonny came in around lunchtime, blue with cold. Wordlessly, I spread peanut butter on crackers and passed them to him. He dropped one and it stuck to the floor.

  “That was stupid,” I finally said, “going out without your jacket.”

  Nothing.

  “Where’d you take off to, anyway?”

  He licked peanut butter from his thumb.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  I squeezed the plastic jar so hard it dented.

  “Sweetheart? Knock it off. That’s a good way to catch pneumonia.”

  “Mom?” He gawked, his mouth full of cracker. “No one ever got sick from bein’ cold.” Then he pointed at the saltines. “I’ll have more of those, while you’re at it.”

  Hugh drew up a chair. “Don’t talk to your ma like that.” Yet his voice was contrite. “Guess I haven’t been here much for you, have I, bud? Things’ve been rough, hey, Sonny? Well, they’re gonna change,” he promised, his eyes canted upwards, searching mine.

  ***

  That afternoon while Hugh was up in the light, I dialled the house on Avenger, God only knows what for. The phone rang four or five times, then the machine picked up. “Can’t take your call right now, I’m on the Haitian Vacation—or is it the Persian Excursion? Whatever, good buddies. Leave a message.” I was all ready to discuss Sonny, but the brightness of that voice undid me.

  “Charlie?” I blurted out after the beep. “I’m so sorry.”

  23

  MERCURY

  Sonny ended up returning to school without a fight. “You can’t sit around here all day,” I’d finally convinced him, as bleakness washed inside me. Like the tides, the feeling would rise and fall.

  “And what about Derek? You need your friends.” It wasn’t as though he’d never see them, sticking around Thrumcap. But that’s how I made it sound, either/or, as his father would’ve said. “So long as the weather holds, no excuses.”

  Sonny’s first week back the days turned balmy, as if someone had messed with the thermostat. The harbour stretched forever, flat and blue. The sun teased the earth and everything melted. Water dripped from the roof, marking a rhythm against the waves washing the rocks. In the woods birds sang; chickadees dotted the trees. Trails turned unexpectedly to mud.

  As things thawed, and with Sonny gone, Hugh started staying around. Spending less time in the tower, he returned to his old self. He wouldn’t see a doctor, insisting that he was fine. The easier and more attentive he became, the more things drifted back to the way they’d been that summer, his attentions winding around me like a bandage over slathered ointment, till they worked under my skin again. Aided by the warmth of that quirky winter sun, they drew out any poisons.

  Whether I wanted them to or not, I let them. It was easier this way. What were the options? I was defenceless. His presence pushed blue wool and beach stones out of my thoughts, and the shadows from the photos I’d seen. Out of my consciousness, anyway, if not my intuition. But I’d seen enough to know that like most things, love suffers growing pains. It couldn’t have been easy for Hugh, either, having a child underfoot. Someone else’s child, another guy’s responsibility. Not every man would’ve taken two for one. And where would Sonny and I have gone, otherwise? Knocking on Joyce LeBlanc’s door, or Sandi’s, bearing cookies: Remember me?

  With Sonny at school, Hugh would putter for a bit in the lantern, then devote the day to me. He stopped mentioning the band, and I didn’t ask. He seemed happy just polishing glass, even though any time now some official might come for the key.

  It got so mild we opened windows and lunched on the stoop with the radio playing, CBC voices hovering over the surf. We were kids with a ghetto blaster, except we listened to news, political panels. Talk talk talk: analysis. Once there was a debate over Charlie’s helicopters—whether the government should mothball them. I went inside and fiddled with the knob until by some fluke the airwaves co-operated and the golden oldies station came in. Buddy Holly flooded the yard and Hugh put down his soup, taking my hands and swinging my arms in a jive.

  It was on
the tip of my tongue to ask. Aren’t you worried? This, and the chestful of other questions I should’ve asked. At times they pressed like a growth. But I tilted my face towards the January sun, its fickle warmth shouting spring, and thought of love instead.

  Thinking love, I put all fear and dread in a bottle and cast it into the sea. A grapefruit juice bottle, full of notes jotted on paper. Like a miniature jar in a raffle: pick a problem! I watched the current lift it, carry it before it sank. When it was out of sight I felt surprisingly better. There’s something about writing things down; outside of you they lose their grip. They shrink to being no more and no less than scraps of paper in a leaky jar.

  And there were other, more immediate things to fret about, like the weather. The prospect of the mild spell ending and winter howling down again, locking us in; weeks stretching by with Sonny moping at home. And the light, of course. I worried about the Coast Guard coming; then where would we be? Worse, though, was the worry of Hugh spending time up inside the lantern. I stopped thinking about Alice and the Mad Hatter, and thought instead of the article I’d seen when I was a kid, sixteen. Life magazine, a photo essay. About those Japanese people, their faces and bodies twisted, eyes like E. T.’s, all from eating poisoned fish. And I remembered what it had said about animals getting sick too. Cats going crazy and hurling themselves into the sea, dogs dying and crows falling from the sky.

  After so many years, wouldn’t the tower be steeped in vapour?

  “It must be contaminated,” I broached the subject once more, one of our mornings together. “Maybe the Coast Guard knows more than they’re saying. Maybe they—”

  “Look, I told you—it’s just an excuse. Convenient. You watch, Willa. A year from now there won’t be a manned light in Canada. It’s so fucking predictable. A ‘cost-cutting measure.’”

  “I know, but—”

  “What?” He rubbed my back, a slow, circular movement that made me feel like a gem being buffed. Shutting my eyes, I leaned closer, loosened up. The thought broke through of smooth stones, feathery ridges of paint. It caught me short. The image of Wayne pushed in, and without warning the questions I’d put to sea resurfaced.

  “Hughie?”

  Perhaps he felt me tighten. I drew an ocean breath, let it out bit by bit. Jetsam floated to my tongue, bobbing up.

  “What?” His hand on my shoulder pensive, slow.

  “Was Julie…pregnant?” My heart thudded. His hand dropped. His look was a mix of surprise and frustration.

  “What’ve you been snarfing? Jesus Murphy. You’re the one after me to see a doctor. Willa, Willa, Willa.”

  Then he cupped my chin in his hands, the way I used to cup Sonny’s when he was small, to make him listen. Hugh’s eyes were a bottomless blue.

  “Sweetie? It was Wayne’s, you know.” He sniffed and drew the back of his hand across his nose, arching his brows. “Shit. Maybe you’re right, maybe we should be making some plans. No telling what those bastards…”

  I waited, the hollowness inside me drifting, filling slowly as if with salt water, sinking.

  “It wouldn’t hurt for you to see a doctor. I mean, if there is a problem. The last guy,” I said quietly. “What became of him?”

  His hand climbed, kneading my shoulder. “Oh, Sykes? That was his name. He and his wife more or less shared things. Took the light out at Sambro. Job security. The one place they’ll keep manned for a while yet.”

  “Couldn’t we…?”

  “Sambro?” He gave me the queerest look. “Christ, I don’t think so. You’d get washed away. Nowhere for a kid, I can tell you.”

  “Maybe you could talk to someone.” My voice was watery, remote. All I could think of was quicksilver: that gleam like a deadly grey sea.

  “Sykes? Yeah, I guess.” I knew from his tone that he wouldn’t.

  “I need to know where we’ll be in six months,” I said, closing my eyes. His breath warmed my cheek. I waited for him to edge away, but he stayed there, massaging my neck.

  “Shhh,” he said, the way I would’ve to Sonny. “It’ll all come out in the wash, Tess. Till it does, no point stewing over it.”

  I nodded foolishly, glancing out at the wash, several days’ worth lifting like ghosts in that faux spring breeze. “You’re right—there isn’t.” And I thought of that saying about gift horses; how you shouldn’t look them in the mouth, whatever that meant.

  ***

  Sonny’s teacher used that expression his second week into the term, when I went to see her. He’d been doing so well—no complaints—that I felt suspicious. My visit was like insurance to see that things stayed that way.

  “Don’t borrow trouble,” Hugh said, his tongue touching mine as we kissed before Sonny and I left for the boat. It was a chilly morning, still warm for January but with a rawness, the horizon a muddy pink.

  I hitched a ride on the school bus, this time offering to pay. Sonny sat at the back, ignoring me. Every now and then his voice rose above the others discussing Luke Skywalker and The Empire Strikes Back.

  The schoolyard was the usual wasteland, students milling around. Not a mom to be seen, though, not a single Sandi or Joyce. I squeezed past some kids huddled by the door, and found Sonny’s classroom.

  “Can I help you?” the teacher said sharply.

  She shook my hand. “He’s a great kid,” she said. “Any worries I had are non-issues. If he was having problems, they’ve, um, cleared up.” A heavy woman older than me, she studied me with her amber eyes, smiling faintly as she pulled out Sonny’s math scribbler and handed it over. “Why don’t you take it home, go through it with him. I’m sure you’ll be pleased.” The bell rang and I thanked her.

  Passing Sonny in line, I gave him a thumbs up. This called for a treat, something besides tuna or fried bologna, the poor little monkey. Pizza, take-out. Then I imagined asking Wayne to deliver. Outside, the sky had gone white and the wind felt sharper. The air smelled tinny—a hint of snow? The phrase great kid rolling through me, I walked all the way back to the dock. The clock inside the Kwik Way only said ten twenty-two; time did funny things when you stopped to notice. Thrumcap was partly hidden by mist: a snow squall, I realized with dismay. Wayne’s boat was tied up and his shed deserted. Pepperoni and mushrooms, the thought plagued me. The sign in the Kwik Way window advertised hot coffee, sandwiches. All You’re Needs, it said.

  The island faded in and out behind its greyish curtain, and I imagined Hugh stoking the fire, making coffee. Suddenly it seemed crazy to be marooned ashore. I pictured Hugh grinding the beans. Pressing the grinder’s button the way he pressed the keys on his sax, owning it without thinking about it. Such a small thing, yet weren’t our lives compilations of tiny details? Tinier than inchworms inching over summer leaves, ending up on someone’s shirt and landing miles, or feet, from the tree. You could travel and not get far.

  A funnel slid past in the harbour, an ominous black fin. I imagined the submarine under the surface, the crew like krill inside a whale. A chill settled under my collarbones at the roar, hemmed in by clouds, of the chopper tracking it. Desperate to be somewhere—anywhere—I walked up to Reenie’s and rattled the door. Wayne had been up and alert a couple of hours before; with any luck he’d take me across before the snow got bad. With any luck, Sonny could stay at Derek’s.

  “C’mon in,” Wayne hollered from the kitchen. It sounded like he’d been drinking. I stepped inside, steeling myself. He was sitting at the table, slumped there with no shirt on. The sink was heaped with dishes. One of Reenie’s decorations hung cockeyed over the window, clutter everywhere. Hugh had mentioned her taking a trip with some girlfriends from the dance.

  My eyes darted over the mess. “Heard from Reenie?”

  “She’s in town now,” he slurred. The anchor moved as he scratched his chest. “Could you do me a favour?” He was having trouble standing up. “Pass me that envelope—up there, on the frid
ge.”

  I went to give it to him, but he grabbed my hand, placing it on his belly. His eyes rolled. “I’m starvin’,” he said. There was spit at the corners of his mouth. He squeezed my fingers till they hurt. “Hughie’s one lucky bastard.”

  Heaving himself up, he wrenched my arm, breathing in my ear. “He’s a good buddy, Hugh. Owes me, though. Good buddies share, don’t you think, Willa? He don’t need to know.”

  As I jerked back, Reenie’s name popped out, as if she were near.

  “Shut up about her.” His hand closed on my wrist. “The two of ’em, they don’t need to know nothing. I’ve been watching you, don’t say you never noticed. I seen you looking, too.”

  Nausea rose inside, and a feeling that lifted and swung me above his reach. He reeled, flopping down as I peeled his fingers away. My other hand tightened around the envelope. You fucking pervert. Somehow, ridiculously, I was Tweety Bird surveying Sylvester, dizzy from my perch.

  “Tell me about her,” I said.

  “Reenie?” he spat. “She always was a jealous bitch.”

  “The girl in the picture,” I heard myself say. “Julie.”

  His eyes froze over. “Don’t be sticking your fuckin’ nose … What a dick, Hughie. Hookin’ up with the likes of you. Any woman that’d take her kid and—”

  “I’ve seen them.” My voice quavered. “The pictures.”

  His hair seemed to shrink off his forehead. “You ain’t seen shit.”

  The cage tilted; suddenly I wasn’t so high up. “Who took them? Reenie?”

  He licked his lip. “You stunned bitch.” Drool slid down his chin. “I know you want it. Hughie on the prowl again? First time I seen you, I—” His chest jiggled as he laughed.

  The smartest thing would’ve been to fly outside—steal his boat if I had to. But numbness pinned me. I was caught, my head in his mouth.