Blackstrap Hawco (100 page)

‘Less than ten years,' explains the lawyer. ‘Out in three. And, of course, we'll be filing for an appeal.'

 

The pale-green space of the prison cell. Every muscle in Blackstrap's body useless to know what it once did.

Sitting at the foot of his narrow bed, he rubs his knuckles, two of them busted and scabbed over from the sharp and blunt edges of bone and teeth, from when he was bent over the Indian. Beating in the Indian's face. The man in his cell had been from Winnipeg, Manitoba, a big man with nothing to do to get Blackstrap off of him.

Blackstrap didn't want a bandage.

He wipes at his mouth, thinking too much and too hard now. Nothing but thought in here, with action trapped outside the walls.

In the quiet space of the cell. And in memory that takes up more space in a man in a cell, more space than in a room at home or the entire house, community and woods:

The Indian had watched him. Asked where he was from.

After a while, Blackstrap said, ‘Bareneed.'

‘A name like that. People there have a sense of humour.' The Indian stood staring out the cell bars. Lockdown after dinner. Lockdown on the unit. Food in the body making every man uneasy. ‘That's in Newfoundland, right?' The Indian turned to look at Blackstrap where he was sat on the lower bunk.

‘Yeah, here.'

‘Like Indian names, these place around here.' Facing a view of the high windows across the narrow walkway, the man could see nothing but sky. ‘You don't have First Nations. Not many.'

‘We do now.'

The Indian glanced back at him and kept watching. ‘You killed someone. I killed someone, too. Big deal, okay.'

Blackstrap said nothing to this and ignored the staring man's brown eyes.

‘A white man. He was saying things about Indians. What everyone thinks. “First Nations” is what we're called now. Used to be “Natives.” They keep changing our name to make us better. They say we change it, but I don't know. A conference where they pick a name. Who invented a conference? Not here in Newfoundland though. Right? The people here before killed the last Indian. When they were still called Indians.'

‘Beothuks,' said Blackstrap. One too many men in this cell, he was thinking. Small enough for one man, not for two. If he had been left alone. If his body didn't want out.

The Indian was looking at Blackstrap's bare arm. The tattoo there of Karen, and the one beneath it, the island of Newfoundland.

‘Newfoundland,' said the Indian so that Blackstrap shifted his eyes to him. ‘I read a lot about Newfoundland. They ship me here. A prison on an island. Middle of nowhere with Newfoundlanders. What I know, they're all ignorant, like every white man. If he's a man. Women are different. Never so ignorant as men.'

Blackstrap tried harder to ignore the Indian.

‘No different from other white men. Every fish scooped up…You got an interesting history of wiping things out, Mister Newfie.'

Scratching the back of his neck, Blackstrap's eyes fixed on the concrete floor, head growing heavier, wishing the words would just stop digging into him.

‘Blaming foreign fishing vessels.' The Indian made a sound then turned to stare back through the bars. Across the corridor, a view of bright clouds now. ‘They'd still be gutting the ocean, if the government didn't shut the fishery down. Even this food fishery they give you. I read in the paper about how Newfies got caught conning the government. Tags for food fishery. The ones they're supposed to put through the gills when they catch a cod. Only so many fish allowed for food. But Newfies putting the tags in a microwave to loosen them. So they can use them again. Put the tags through the fish gills but don't click them, like they're supposed to, only if a fisheries officer comes. No sense of letting nature put things back. It's only themselves they're destroying, their way of life. Maybe because of your history. Trained by the merchants to get everything out of the water. Desperate Newfies, trying to steal enough to eat. Still desperate. Slaves still trying to please the man with money,
only you've become the merchant now with all your expensive toys. Learned that greed pretty good, huh? Like any dog with a trick.'

Blackstrap rubbed his hands together. The Indian's words were making his shoulders ache, making his stomach burn. But there was no way of not hearing. He would not put his hands over his ears.

‘Hook every fish. So you can get another car, another snowmobile, another satellite TV. It's not about just eating anymore. Everyone's looked after in Canada, except the Indian. The ghetto dweller. The Royal Canadian Nigger.'

Blackstrap shifted on his bunk, but the Indian didn't look. He didn't care enough.

‘I read about that in a history book, right here in the library. Used by the merchant and, so, now, forever and ever more they should be handed a living to make up for it. It's a bunch of bullshit, NewfieMan. Just a lazy bunch of good-for-nothings is what you are.'

Blackstrap stood. The distance between them not enough.

Still, the Indian did not bother turning. ‘Just one more white breed dug itself into a hole. And blame everyone else for your own greed and ignorance. Beaten dogs, cute with big, sad eyes, but they're still beaten dogs, NewfieMan.'

Three prison guards were needed to pull Blackstrap off the man and hold him away. Then the silent Indian, bent on his side on the floor, was lifted from the cell.

No longer three years in here. More time added on. Anyone's guess what it might be. The Indian unwell forever now.

His eyes flit to the steel toilet in the cell. He leans forward, joins his hands into one fist dangling between his knees. He languidly scans the concrete floor toward the corner where the drain covering is set slightly lower. He looks toward the height of steel bars that he had lifted into place with the other men, workers paid to do a decent day's work.

Sighing, he scans the muffled room.

Slow footsteps outside.

The creaking of a bunk.

A page being turned.

A rush of not knowing. Not knowing anything. A rush of unsteadiness that means to send him drifting.

He breaks out in a sweat and thinks of his father moving through him to get in or out.

A federal institution in Cutland Junction.

The memory of a photograph he has seen of Uncle Ace makes his palms sweaty. The picture clipped from an old newspaper. Uncle Ace on the wharf in St. John's after the sealing disaster.

That look on his face.

He is that man.

The disaster of this.

Sounds beyond him travel through the expansiveness of the outer chamber. He will float through the top of his own head. If he shuts his eyes he will disappear. He thinks of hockey sticks slapping ice. Boys shouting and chasing each other on skates. The sound down a corridor. Black Duck Pond when he was a boy. Barrel staves taped around his boots. The harsh echoing sound of a cell door clanging shut.

Years to be lived in this room.

The fear again. The deathly fear without death.

A harsh clanging to his side as another door closes.

In sad or angry waiting.

Isaac Tuttle dead. And Blackstrap Hawco not sorry.

Except for this.

Never will he regret the doing, nor strike out again,
so why the fucking cage?

 

Blackstrap is directed to an office. The orange-haired man who sits behind the desk is short and plump, his skin pink along his cheeks and across his forehead, his face seemingly scrubbed shiny clean.

‘Good morning,' says the counsellor, his eyebrows raised.

‘Morning.'

The counsellor motions toward Blackstrap with pudgy fingers. ‘Please, sit down.'

Blackstrap remains standing. He wishes the counsellor would clear his throat.

The counsellor leans back in his chair and folds his arms high across his chest. ‘Nice to see you.' The counsellor smiles, pokes his big glasses higher on his nose, refolds his arms.

Blackstrap almost shrugs. He doesn't understand the man.

‘Well, you know, we're hoping you're up for a challenge. A man like Blackstrap Hawco enjoys a challenge, I bet.' The counsellor nods, but it seems more of a nervous habit than anything. He reaches for a cup on his desk. Then, with his arms folded, he sips from the cup. To Blackstrap's mind, it's a strange way of doing things. He sips again, eyeing Blackstrap. ‘You're wondering what sort of challenge, right?' The counsellor hasn't given his name yet, his name supposedly known.

‘Cough, will ya,' Blackstrap says.

‘I'm sorry, what?'

Blackstrap makes the noise, clearing his own throat as an example.

‘Oh.' The counsellor follows Blackstrap's example. ‘Sorry, I've got a cold. What was I saying?'

‘Challenge.'

‘Yes, it's the challenge of literacy, Mr. Hawco. What we're wondering…' The counsellor holds up his arms and slowly moves his hands through the air, like he's shaping a sun. ‘…is whether you'd be willing to join us for our literacy program meetings. The program is taught by normal, everyday people. People just like yourself.' The counsellor pulls his hands back and holds them against his chest.

‘Just like me,' Blackstrap says, eyeing the empty chair in front of the desk.

‘Yes. Yes, that's absolutely right.'

‘Prisoners?'

‘No.' The plump counsellor straightens, his hands joined reasonably on the desk. He gives a fat-lipped smile and bobs his head a little.

Blackstrap thinks the counsellor might be on some sort of drugs. ‘Then not like me.' He sits in the chair, his back hurting from standing there, shoots of pain stretching in his legs. No way of getting any relief, even with the pills that only mess up his stomach.

‘Good point.' The counsellor chuckles, refolds his arms. ‘A valid observation.'

Blackstrap watches the man. What sort of life out there? He sees the man with a floppy hat on his head, riding a bicycle, living with a little dog that wears a sweater or has bows in its ratty fur. ‘I'm not interested.'

‘You don't
want
to make yourself a better person?' The counsellor leaning forward, almost shocked.

Blackstrap looks away toward the window. A nice view. The back of the prison where the land slopes off. A pond there. Apartments and houses surrounding the pond where boats row and race over the still surface. Across from his cell, there are only windows up high, the sky the only view. Blue or grey. A bird is an occasion.

‘You don't think people who read and write live fuller lives?' The counsellor's eyes go large behind his glasses. ‘Mr. Hawco. Mr. Hawco, please.' He leans sideways, tilting to get a serious look at Blackstrap's face. ‘Don't you think that being able to read and write opens up all sorts of doors to a person?'

‘Sure,' he says, eyes on the lake. He has to keep checking the counsellor though, because he doesn't know what the man might do. Maybe even spring from his chair and start flapping his arms.

‘Wouldn't you like to be able to read to your children? You have children, right?' The counsellor glances down at Blackstrap's open file, then looks up to see Blackstrap staring directly at him. ‘Your…children…' the counsellor stammers. ‘Rrruth ahnd…'

‘Shut yer fuh'k'n face,' Blackstrap says, his eyes clear, steady and cool blue, his tanned, wind-worn face covered with blondish-white stubble, his lips tight.

‘That's unnecessary, don't you think?' The counsellor jabs his glasses up on his nose, waits, like he's wondering what might be the next step. ‘Really.'

‘What?'

‘Hostility…Literacy might help you get your children back,' the counsellor suggests, quickly regaining his calmness. ‘When you're released. Articulation. The courts might look favourably on your efforts. If you went into the courtroom and spoke eloquently of your desire to reclaim your children.'

‘Why's that?'

‘They want change. Show them change.'

‘Where's the need to learn anything I don't already know?'

‘So you'll be able to better apply yourself.' The counsellor holds out an arm and indicates toward the window.

‘Apply myself to what?' His voice a little louder, only now realizing.

‘To…tasks. So you'll better deal with situations that arise. So you'll learn to use
words
instead of
actions
, so you won't be so frustrated, so aggressive. Like now, for instance. A perfect example.' The counsellor holds out his hand, tilts his palms up. Nods twice. Blackstrap the living proof.

Someone always preaching. ‘Right.'

‘Reading takes you places, lets you see things you wouldn't otherwise. It's wonderful. You'd be amazed. Truly.'

‘See things.' He checks around the office. ‘Like what?'

‘Well, for example, I'm reading a brilliant novel about India now. It's a prize-winner. Absolutely rife with atmosphere.
You
could read about India.'

‘India? What the fuh'k would I want ta read 'bout India for?'

‘It's a foreign place. Different customs and traditions. It's fascinating. Foreign places are interesting.'

‘I'm in the most foreign place there ever could be. It's not interesting.'

‘To expand your horizons then.' The counsellor slaps a palm onto the desk, whacking Blackstrap's file. ‘How about that?' He folds his arms and nods. Blinking now, too, more than usual.

‘What?'

‘To learn more.'

‘I don't care about learning. I never did. I only want to…'

‘Yes…to what?' The counsellor leans across the desk, like things might finally be going his way. The prisoner about to share.

‘…endure.'

‘Endure?'

‘Yeah.'

‘But isn't that what endurance is, in a way, learning? The more you know the easier it is to endure.'

‘No, the less you know the easier.' Blackstrap shifts to the side, so he is facing the window and not the man. The pond. A slim boat being rowed across there. Six men going for speed. ‘Just ta get up in the morning 'n chop wood, 'n go out onto the water with your fadder, and bring home a catch of fish, or a haul of spruce from the woods. Food and heat. A roof over your head.' His eyes on the houses. The streets.
The group of low apartment buildings. So much to see from this window. People out there, like they're floating or drifting. If they only knew what they had.