One of the pilots yelled, “We don’t have all day, bud.”
The chopper lurched. There was a shout, and a tangle of fur appeared through yellow mesh and was tossed in, and before Sonny or I could move, Oreo spilled towards us, the whites of his eyes showing, his jaws snapping. Next, the rescuer was unhooking himself.
“We’re gonna land at the base,” the flight mechanic might’ve hollered, stuffing blankets around me. “Havin’ a nice day?” I think he shouted, as if they did this all the time. Old hat, saving women and kids from calamities. “That old place was bound to go anytime,” he yelled some more, handing us earplugs. I read his lips: “Frigging death trap, middle of a neap tide. You guys out there picnicking, or what?”
As we lurched and climbed, I caught one last glimpse of the view below, through the glass between the pilots’ heads. A wave pushed a raft of shingles. One of the men turned, and I saw a patch of the island. It looked stepped on, as if the trees had been flattened by giant feet.
The man mouthed something to Sonny. “Been in one of these birds before?” it looked like.
“Yup,” Sonny mouthed back, his arms around Oreo’s neck.
The dog was scrambling to sit, his claws scrabbling. The rescuer shook his head, as if all this was mildly entertaining, then he fiddled with equipment, ignoring us. It seemed odd, even amid the chaos, that no one asked why we were alone out there, or if there was anyone else. They’d have known of the lightkeeper; should’ve wondered where he was. My stomach rolled and once more I remembered Family Day, the taste of hot dogs, and that sensation of being carried like a kitten, the scruff of its neck between the mother’s teeth. But my fear had been left on the spit, washing behind. There was no time to dwell on it as we skimmed over the water, already closing in on the refinery. Seconds later we hovered in a whirlwind, then, almost too soon, began descending.
Part of me could’ve stayed up there forever and simply vanished into the ozone, anything to avoid re-entry. But before I knew it we were landing, with the blare of rotors and that typhoon force gale like a field of windmills going full tilt. Sonny strained against his monkey tail, hanging onto the dog.
“We’ll file a report,” the pilot yelled once we’d touched down. Pulling the plugs from my ears, I felt the weight of gravity, yet I was giddy, too, as if the storm had robbed me of oxygen. My eyes felt singed, my ears blocked as if with snow. As if separated from my body, I jumped down after Sonny onto the tarmac. He half-crouched, gripping Oreo by the tail. The runway glistened like plastic wrap as the sky opened. There were things strewn around, pylons scattered as if somebody’d thrown them, and strips of siding. In my giddiness I was Mary Poppins, except empty-handed, sodden. An umbrella, a carpet bag would’ve grounded me, armed me; anything better than the nothingness I carried now.
A memory of Hugh’s smile scraped my heart. The air felt damp, the wind carrying the faintest hint of warmth, and thoughts played of how I might’ve worked things differently. How I might’ve packed our belongings, mine and Sonny’s, and simply left one morning—the last day of summer, perhaps, or the first day of school.
“Some freakin’ weather, what? Don’t think anyone expected that,” somebody shouted out. “Hadda be a Type Three, what I saw. ‘Magine, a bust in the middle of that. Better them than us.”
“Out Cow Bay, you mean?” one of the crew was saying, as they strode alongside us. “A tonne of coke. In gym bags, if you believe it. Jesus Christ!”
Someone let out a laugh. They’d already distanced themselves; you could hear it. Mission accomplished; now on to the next.
“Self-cleaning oven, cats like that. Guess they nailed a woman, too, eh?”
“No shit. No accounting, eh?”
Removing his headgear, the pilot remembered us. “You two okay? Someone’ll be along to check you out, make sure nothing’s busted. Oh, and they’ll need some kind of statement.” Sonny had split away; already he was marching towards the hangar, a greenish blur in the distance. He’d let go of Oreo and the dog bounced beside him, sniffing out the wind. How great, how much easier, really, to be a canine: at home anywhere and even when chained, free.
“Off limits, bud!” somebody yelled, but Sonny ignored him.
I wanted to ignore the guy, too, trailing behind, flopping along in my boots. My feet hurt; the smell of gas still clung to my fingers as if it’d permeated the skin, a smell that conjured other scents, salt and the perfume of bodies, even blossoms.
“If someone c-could call us a cab,” I muttered, the most dignified thing that would come to me. I imagined getting in, telling the driver, “Just drive.”
There was a Sea King parked on the tarmac, idle but positioned for take off. Pushing ahead, Sonny stopped to gaze at it. Oreo nipped at his hands—his poor hands, almost frozen. Catching up, I caught them in mine and started rubbing them. A crew was coming towards us, men in coveralls and Kevlar vests, carrying helmets and headsets. Four of them. They were talking and laughing; the shortest one kept shaking his head and muttering. The man next to him gave him a cuff and as he looked up, he stopped.
At that instant, perhaps a plane passed over; his features clouded. His hair looked longer. It couldn’t be, I thought. But it was him. It was Charlie, and even at that distance I felt myself shrivel. I expected him to turn and disappear back into the hangar, or pretend not to see me, simply act like I was someone else, a complete stranger, and keep going towards the chopper. But he didn’t. As he came closer, his helmet was tucked against him. He was staring at the ground, saying something to his buddies. His buddies had stopped talking. When he glanced up he raised his hand, a stiff, somber salute. His face was pale, his expression confounded. I wanted to turn and run.
Oreo crouched, wagging his tail and baring his teeth. Before I could stop him, Sonny raced towards his father. Charlie bent down and so did Sonny, that crazy animal leaping and pawing at them. The dog must’ve sensed something; maybe he wanted to protect Sonny. Pushing Oreo off, the two of them straightened up. Father and son. Sonny came up past Charlie’s chin. As they moved towards me, Charlie’s face was a poster of grief and astonishment, stodgy disbelief.
I shut my eyes and stood there on the tarmac, that endless, firm stretch of concrete. Letting the wind fill my ears, I waited, certain that Charlie would keep going. I waited for him to fire an insult, throw a flare. Instead, the air around us seemed to soften. I could hear Oreo’s panting, Sonny’s breathing. I blinked and there was Charlie’s face not far from mine. It looked rough where he’d missed a spot shaving, creased in all the same old places.
“Jesus Jesus Jesus,” he kept saying under his breath. The smell of fuel and soot and faulty wiring seeping around me.
Charlie’s buddies stayed silent. Then one of them started clapping, another groaning.
“That’s one wicked bug you’ve got, Jackson. I’d say you’re grounded.”
“Get the hell outta here, before you pass it on.”
“Too sick to fly, corporal. Don’t you have a maintenance sched at home to follow?”
“Here we go. Operation Underwear.”
“Operation G. I. O.”
“G. I. Joe?” Sonny piped up. He was hanging off my arm now, trying to pull me closer, the three of us doing a two-step with the dog.
“Get off it, bud.” Charlie’s voice was low, wary. Despite its pallor, his face had an odd sheen.
“Operation Get It On, Jackson. Or off—whatever.”
As Sonny pushed and pulled at me—this child, grown so much taller—for a second I felt dull and three-footed as the twenty-year-old I’d been once, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. But the feeling passed as I gripped Sonny’s arm, holding back. Suddenly I thought of my mother, of all people—what I remembered of her anyway—and how she’d started to cry when I’d held out those pieces of my hair.
“It’s okay.” Charlie kept nudging Sonny. But then he did a strange th
ing, a very strange thing for him, and unwelcome. Stepping closer, he put his finger to my cheek, drawing it along my jaw to the pulse below my ear. Letting it linger, he shook his head. His sigh was like blowing sand. Then his hand dropped to Sonny’s shoulder. He kept shaking his head, the shadows under his eyes battle grey.
I made myself look into those eyes; my own were stinging. “I don’t believe … you’ll never believe ...”
He shrugged, the same shrug as when something had gone missing in the basement. He held up his hand. “Save it, okay? There’ll be time for talk, I guess.” His voice changed, but it was still sardonic: “I mean, what’re the chances, eh? God damn.” There was a deadly pause, and the weight of his arm brushed my shoulder as I backed away.
“Shit happens, Willa. Doesn’t it. Shit happens all the time. Maybe now we’re both used to it?”
Flushing, he pushed his helmet down on Sonny’s head, snorting at how it almost fit.
***
It wasn’t that we considered giving things another try. There are no second chances when you fall the way I had; there could never be a second with someone like Charlie. But what he offered was a little reprieve, when he didn’t have to, somewhere to stay till I figured things out. Only because of Sonny. It lasted a few weeks, not quite a month: a silent truce. A ceasefire? Amnesty.
We’d been back on Avenger a couple of weeks when the call came one afternoon. I was there sorting stuff, things Sonny had outgrown, things we’d need. I almost missed the phone, rummaging downstairs for boxes. Not that I didn’t hear it; the house was dead quiet. It always was now, as if waiting for us to leave. I tiptoed around, hardly playing the radio, even when Charlie was at work. Nothing was really mine anymore. I was a guest, a phantom boarder.
I felt a little out of breath, picking up the phone.
There was silence at the other end, and I knew right then I should’ve let it ring. The silence was full of echoes and the sound of breathing, as if the person was calling from a bus station, or an aquarium. When Hugh finally spoke, his words were a slap.
“I knew you’d go back.”
He must’ve felt my urge to hang up. “Wait,” he said, and for a second his voice was a hook, my heart an open loop.
“Where are you?” I heard myself ask.
A long, windy pause. I swear you could hear his thoughts ticking. Missing, then slowly, slowly engaging.
“Remand,” he said. “You don’t want to know, Tess.” Then: “Couldn’t we talk?”
I held out the receiver—held it as if it were toxic—and waited. Hang up, the voice inside me pleaded. Instead, I put the phone back to my ear, listened to him breathe.
“Are you okay?” It came out a squeak. Pathetic, really.
Oh, to have shut my ears, and found myself somewhere, anywhere, else.
At the edge of my brain, the word posting lapped, and I visualized Charlie coming home, boxes everywhere, cardboard wardrobes plugging the hall.
Hugh coughed and didn’t answer.
“Have you seen a…I mean, there’re tests they can do, right? Remember?” An echo of Reenie’s voice crept in: You believe that crap? My own was tiny, quavering. “Blood tests,” it murmured. “You really should get it checked out. Even if—”
Hugh laughed, and it was full of bitterness. “Right.” His voice deepened, as if he were speaking through a funnel. “Matter of fact, Tessie, they’ve done ’em. All that shit about vapour and whatnot? You were right. Thought I’d come out clean as a fuckin’ whistle.” Another laugh echoed over the line. “Now I’m thinking, okay, there’s my defence.”
It was just like Sonny plea-bargaining to stay up late.
I pictured my Hugh guzzling tea, complaining of being tired and thirsty, staggering on the stairs. Suddenly I felt exhausted—that tiredness when all you want to do is lie down and sleep like Rip Van Winkle.
“I should’ve listened, Tess.” He sniffed. “It’s just like, I dunno…imagine, coming out with, ‘The girlfriend says I’m bein’ poisoned.’” The way he spoke reminded me of Wayne. There was a beep and I felt like a party-liner listening in. All I wanted was to put down the receiver. He must’ve known, because he started talking faster, as if running out of minutes.
He was rambling, and even as I listened for Sonny coming in from school, something he said caught my ear.
“You have to believe me, Tess. I wouldn’t lie to you. You know that, don’t you? It was Reenie, Reenie who did it. She shoved her. Swear to Christ, that’s what happened. Wayne saw her, too. I know what you’re thinking…”
My fingers melded to the phone. I just stood there as his words bumped and skidded together. There was nothing I could do to stem them.
“The two of ’em,” he kept insisting, his voice a murmur. “Her and Julie. Got into it one night, all right? Reenie tore a strip off her, you know,” he paused, as if losing steam. “Because of Wayne, right? They were outside. By the breakwater. The bunch of us, we were—it was icy, you know, and—” His voice eddied, clinging to dead air, before slipping beneath the surface.
As I set down the phone and moved from it, it was as if he could see me. Drifting to the kitchen, I turned on the radio, the sound a jumpy rattle, the easy listening station that Charlie favoured. I tuned it to one that played loud, shredding rock.
Something good, something blotto, to sort and pack to.
They were playing that U2 song, “Where the Streets Have No Name.”
When the last of Sonny’s Legos were boxed and ready to give away to any kid who wanted them, I went back to the phone. It only took a second to get the number. The hardest part was dialling. Like looping the rope of a noose over a branch.
Just one kiss, one last kiss…
“Tell me what you know,” the detective’s voice was earnest, gruff but pleasant.
It primed me for another call I had to make, one I’d put off even longer.
“Willa?” Sharla—Dad’s wife—sounded incredulous, thrown for a loop actually, but sweet. She ran from the phone yelling, “Howard, Howard!”
“No, no, no, you’ll stay here,” my father insisted. “How much is the flight?”
“It’ll be a short visit, just until I—”
“No way. We’ve waited this long to see you guys, you’re not getting off that easy.”
“Dad? Listen—it’s only going to be Sonny and me. Charlie and I, well...”
Oddly enough, music got me through those last couple of weeks, once I lost my phobia about playing the radio. It passed the time, right to the end; that and cleaning. You can’t stay idle once you’ve got a plan. Something good to clean to: that’s the thing.
The roll of paper towel was just opened, the cleanser blue as the sea in its spray bottle. I was all dressed up, already in my coat—overdressed, like Heidi, the Swiss girl who wore everything she owned climbing the mountain to her grandpa’s place. My father had read me the story not long after the funeral. “It’s a girl’s story,” my brother had complained, uninterested.
I wanted to be ready, not wasting a second once Sonny got home.
Charlie was working; I’d planned it this way. Our suitcases, mine and Sonny’s, were parked by the door, along with some boxes.
Grabbing the Windex, I went out to the living room to watch for Sonny. With any luck, the cab wouldn’t be far behind. The tickets were in my pocket; I’d checked three times to make sure.
If I were Reenie, I’d have smoked two packs by now.
I started on the picture window, spraying cleanser and watching it run. Charlie would need things clear, whether or not he’d appreciate it. As I rubbed and wiped, my arm moved in an arc like one big windshield wiper, and I couldn’t help thinking of that song, “The Wheels on the Bus,” that Sonny had liked as a toddler.
When was the last time my dad had seen him? Sonny had been six, maybe, or just turned seven.
A herd of kids waddled up the street. Little kids in rain suits, sausage legs whisking together as they waded through the slush by the curb. A mother came up behind them pushing a stroller, and I almost waved, thinking it was Sandi, or whatever her name had been. But it was somebody else, someone new.
As she inched past, moving like a snail in that little tide of bodies, I started cleaning again, polishing, really, looking out in time to see Sonny throwing a snowball, just as the cab came creeping up.
Somewhere in the house, Oreo barked, then leapt at the door to greet him.
“You too, bud,” I said, my hand trembling as I put him on his lead.
“Got everything, Sonny?” And he nodded, even as I dug one last time for our tickets, and the slip of paper with that Calgary address.
Acknowledgements
T hanks, as always, to friends and family, and to all who helped birth Berth in its earlier edition and its present one. I’m grateful to Cormorant Books and to Steven Beattie, Don Sedgwick, and Shaun Bradley for all their efforts in the novel’s original publication. I’m especially grateful to the amazing team at Nimbus Publishing and Vagrant Press for giving the novel this new lease on life. My particular thanks go to Whitney Moran and Terrilee Bulger, for everything! To Elaine McCluskey, Heather Bryan, Jenn Embree, Karen McMullin, Kate Watson, and Emily MacKinnon, thank you as well for all you do to support my work.
Thanks to the Canada Council for the Arts, for providing assistance in the writing of the book; to the Nova Scotia Lighthouse Preservation Society; to Master Corporal Pat McCafferty and other military personnel at 12-Wing Shearwater, Canadian Forces Base; to John Chambers of Emergency Measures Organization Ground Search and Rescue (Nova Scotia); and to Bjorn Haagensen and Dawn Rae Downton.
Two books in particular served as references in the writing: Reverend W. Hall’s Navigation in The People’s Books science series (New York: Dodge Publishing Co., ca. 1912), and Annette Sandoval’s The Directory of Saints: A Concise Guide to Patron Saints (New York: Penguin, 1996). The photograph of Tokomo Uemura and her mother, mentioned throughout the story, was made by W. Eugene Smith in Minamata, Japan, in 1972. But the inspiration for the book mightn’t have come without Richard Forsyth’s class trips to McNabs and John Ure’s tales about living there. Thanks to both for planting the seed.
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