Blackstrap Hawco (13 page)

A place not fit for men.

Through the harsh wind that blew mercilessly against the right side of his head, deafening his right ear, then his left as he turned fully around, Uncle Ace searched for the source of a sound he had heard behind him, a sound that he took to be the movements of a man, or a troupe of men, lost and coming up behind him after having circled around in crippling confusion.

Facing the direction he thought they might have come from, yet might have been the direction they were meant to travel toward, he saw no man, only the vague appearance of a five-foot-long dog seal, facing him through the scattered blow of the blizzard and hovering above the ice. At first, the dog was whole and growling, writhing while it bared its sharp teeth, its growl as resonant and steady as the wind itself, its huge black eyes watching him as the top of its head disappeared and blood gushed down through its fur to run and splatter into a scarlet pool against the ice. Piece by piece, the now silenced seal was torn to shreds in mid-air as blood and chunks of meat flew loose.

Uncle Ace stood in wonder, judging this seemingly impossible sight as a sign of his dissipating mortality. Awe-struck, he took a heavy step forward, as the blowing snow made the vision flicker, appear and
disappear, before his eyes. There was a terrifying mystery there, one that Uncle Ace wished, and, perhaps, feared, to discover the true meaning of. This vision was speaking to him, to the numbness of his freezing flesh.

Through the snow, bits of seal continued vanishing, as though swallowed by invisible jaws. A chunk of seal, attached to the tail, dropped to the ice and soon levitated again, the remaining sections of it vanishing in two ragged strokes.

It was not until Uncle Ace was practically upon the final mutilated piece of seal, jerking about in mid-air, as though alive itself, his numb fingers reaching out to intuit the realness of it, that he searched toward the sky to see two gleaming eyes, watching down at him. The eyes were black and a foot above his head. The final piece of seal was taken in. And all was calm for a moment, as though in a conclusive fit of devouring, the world had ceased to be. Then the noise in Uncle Ace's head mounted once more, filled by the screeching howl of wind and his own words:
Always sum't'n ta trouble a man.

Two bloody paws held still in the air. Hunters' eyes remained trained on each other through the faithless storm. Once invisible jaws roared open to expose pink and black. Teeth unseen. Sheets of snow were flung between them as seconds passed, ticked on immeasurably, gusting toward a blank stretch of minutes, before the wind reared again, growling with a punishing fury as yet unheard, and the killing blow was struck.

 

 

The journal belonging to Ace's brother, Francis Hawco, was discovered on a nameless stretch of shore by archaeologists from Memorial University. It was found wrapped in linen inside the remnants of an old shack, believed to have been the home of Francis Hawco, long thought to have perished on the ice while sealing. Fortunately, a copy had been made of the journal by Bill Riche, the young archaeologist who was part of the team that discovered it.

1971-1972

(December 24, 1971)

Emily was alone in the dark, sinking and remembering, while the bed seeped through her. Waves of relief lapping over, her heartbeat languidly surging, ebbing to the pull of the pills like the tide commanding her invisible blood. It was near the end. She heard voices, muddled through the walls. Male voices. She did not know who they were. She did not remember. They were talking about a woman. Possibly her. Planning her rescue. How would they save her? Who would they have to save first, in order to save her? Her children. Junior. Ruth. But then laughter. Why would they be laughing so heartlessly? And loud accordion music. The song then slowed to one of lament, sung for her, about her. The fear she tasted was of an unknown variety, without anxiety, without sweat. Her skin so dry. Stuffed with stones and tossed into the water. Sinking as she was, she joined the others, as a memory to wash up on a far-off shore, to disembark and start again.

Jacob was mortally saddened to hear the mummers' last tune. They had been trying to get free of the Hawco house for hours, many more kitchens to visit before Christmas Eve was done, but Jacob had been filling their glasses with rum and handing out bottles of beer from two cases tucked away under the table. Again and again, he tried to cajole them into staying.

‘One more tune, b'ys.' He even stood from his chair and waved his arms for the return of the men and women whose identities remained concealed behind veils and masks, and beneath three or four layers of
clothes. ‘Come on, cripes.' He knew that after their departure, there would be nothing but suffocating loneliness left in the room. Now that he had a good load of beer in him he couldn't be left alone. What would be the point? No one sitting with him, drinking and breathing in that boozy state. Fascinated by the overlooked details of a life. Intrigued by talk. Where would the easy laughter come from?

The mummers edged away and were working their boots back on. There was much discussion and joking, the sound of it amplified in the hollow of the back porch.

Jacob tugged on one of the mummers' shoulders, a man dressed like a woman with a huge brassiere on over his coat, and a fiddle tucked under his arm. ‘One more tune, b'y, wha's yer hurry? Don't be so measly. Christ, it ain't even daylight yet.'

‘Yays,' said the mummer, chuckling and giving Jacob's arm a friendly squeeze. ‘Love ta, Jacob, me old buddy, but we're due over ta Zack Pottle's.'

The mummers spilled out the back door, laughing and steadying themselves in the dark yard. A few patches of snow set aglow from the kitchen light. The air crisp. Not a breath of wind.

Jacob checked the sky, then pointed in declaration. A shooting star. ‘Look, b'ys. It's Santy Claus.'

The mummers glanced up and searched around to see nothing but a multitude of stars. A few pointed while others smacked hands away in disbelief, ‘G'wan. Dere's no Santy up dere,' said one. ‘I sees him,' said another. ‘Dere! Dere! Hello, Santy Claus.' Then they headed on, laughing and waving and singing. One of them tripped over himself and the others pulled him to his feet.

‘None of dat, now,' one chided the fallen. Another tut-tutted and they all burst into laughter, then stray bits of song, their voices blending.

Jacob heard them make their way down to their car. Car doors opened and shut, the engine started. Laughter crammed inside, muffled by metal. The squeal of a loose fan belt. The rumble of a rusted muffler. Gone, they were. Gone in a God-awful, soul-gutting way.

Jacob stood on the back step in his stocking feet and listened. He stared past the shed toward the dark line of evergreens. He threatened to head into those woods, stride into those trees and not come out. Never. His true home, after all. It always was. Leave it all behind. The
house. Emily. Blackstrap. Be lost. Fifty-three years old. He couldn't believe that he was meant to live this long. It's all right though. There's nothing the matter with it. Finest kind. Flawless. He chuckled. Pull through anything. Wouldn't want to be dead. This blessed life is none too shabby a thing.

Taking a breath, Jacob swayed a little, beset upon by heart-sodden longing. He trod back into the kitchen, the room newly emptied of people whose presences he still believed in. He stared at the floor, thought of having another beer. Naw. A waste now with no one here. Time to pack it in. He glanced toward the kitchen doorway and thought of Emily alone in her room. She went to bed a while ago. Dead to the world by now. It might have been hours. He could use her company. He could go in there and try for a bit of fun, but Emily wouldn't have any of it. He could go in there and sit on the edge of the bed, watch her face sleeping. Grin like a boy at the sight of that. How much did he love her? Too bloody much. He loved her too bloody much for his own good. All those years together. From where Emily worked in the merchant's shop to here. Jacob's mind wandered down the lane and into Cutland Junction where it stopped at Rosalyn Shears' place. Husband dead with a heart attack just last year. Alone. Childless, and she liked a beer. She liked a laugh too. Sexy the way she gladly laughed.

Enough of that. Don't be stunned. He shook his head.

And where's Blackstrap? Probably off with Agnes Bishop. Sweet girl, that one. Christ, to do it all over again. A young woman. No, he wouldn't have any of that. He wouldn't let his half-snapped head take him back to it. Dun't be wishing yer life away. No regrets. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and glanced at the clock on the stove: 12.15. Into Christmas Day. He stared down at the floor again, gave his head a little shake. Wondered who he was, stood there. Forgot who he was for a second.

Funny, it was. The way everything worked out. Not a worry in the world unless you let the worry take you. What could possibly be so bad? Nothing. It would all work itself out. No need dwelling on the troubles to come. Nonsense. Another beer. Why not? He grabbed up the bottle opener and popped the cap off another, tilted it back.

‘Nut'n da matter widt it,' he said, looking around the smoky kitchen.
The chairs still pulled out and at odd angles. The table cluttered with empty bottles and glasses. A few overflowing ashtrays.

Gone. What remained was all. Gloom. Frig it.

What's on television, he wondered, his thoughts brightening. He went out into the living room and clicked on the screen, stood there looking at a woman opening a tin of cat food.

‘Dat looks delicious,' he said, licking his lips.

Not a bad-looking woman. Done up too much, though, and too skinny. He clicked the dial to the other channel. A black and white movie. A Santy Claus in a department store in New York City. By the looks of it and the sound of the music, it was going to be a heartbreaker.

Jacob collapsed into his chair and watched the little girl sitting on Santa's lap. She asked a question that was supposed to bring tears to Jacob's eyes. Did a good job of it. That little voice with the way it was sad-talking. The little girl reminded him of something. The department store reminded him of something. The clothes reminded him of something. Years ago. It all reminded him of something. It reminded him of other times, other places, other people. Reminded him of a feeling that was near to being his, was once his, but never really was, not quite.

He heard a door shut and turned to see down the hallway. A little girl in bare feet. No, Emily coming out of the bathroom. A big girl. A woman. Only the sight of her back as she went into the kitchen, her long dark hair out over her nightgown. The sight charged a shiver through him, rattled his shoulders. He watched the screen again. It was not her he saw. Just a memory.

Sometime later he heard another door click shut and looked that way. No one in the hallway. Emily back in bed. Asleep, or staring. Blank space. Alone. Deserted. No one there at all. He almost nodded off.

The television was interesting for a while. The little girl on the screen needed convincing. He was all for it. For making her happy. That little girl. She was so cute. What was he just thinking. He caught himself in a nod. His little girl. Ruth. Gone now. Not on the screen anymore. And then it all blurred away. And he saw the little girl. ‘Daddy,' said Ruth, arms held out for him to pick her up. Another dream of Ruth. ‘Has Santy Claus come yet?'

‘Naw yet, but I saw 'im, sweet'eart. 'E were up in da sky.'

The grooved oval rings of her fingerprints. Her body dropped into water. The rings expanding. Every line on her skin, hooked and released. In water was where she found them. Ruth. Junior. In water. It was the sinking that took you. That was all of them, Emily thought. The sinking through mattress and board and dirt to the rivulets of water that flowed to sea. The soul disassembled in the stream. And there was the piece of boat board. The piece of the wreckage of the ship they thought was safe to sail upon. Their faces before her. That was all of them. They were dead. No, I am dead. They were better off without me. Two of them, only two of them. Is that all I had? Where is Blackstrap? Have I killed him, too? Something had happened. Something was happening. It was all of them now. In salt water, tears were nothing out of the ordinary.

 

Jacob shifted in his seat. He had slipped off to sleep and woken with a start, choking on a snore, and trying to clutch hold of a dream.

The test pattern was up on the screen, a low steady beep. An emergency sound. He stood and switched off the television. There was a bit of a recollection he was clinging on to but drew further away from him as he tried to face it.

There was something the matter. If it was in the space around him or in his head he was not certain. There were times when he looked at an object and had to think for a moment to name it. Times when he held something in his hand and wondered what it was. That sure as Christ couldn't be normal. He wondered if it might have to do with getting older. Remembering a name he had known all his life became a struggle. It was at times like these when he thought of Ruth and of Junior. They became others around him. They became part of the con fusion. The stoppage. The damming. The cutting off. He imagined them in his house. Imagined their lives. Imagined their children. He allowed himself the wondering pain of that for a few moments and then he shut it off. He barred them away, his dead daughter and his dead son. He barred them out.

Standing where he was, he noticed the coloured lights blurred in his eyes. He focused. Green, yellow, red and blue. Big bulbs glowing. Tinsel
hanging and sparkling. Presents wrapped and placed under the lower spruce boughs. Christmas. He went over to the tree and tested the needles. Not dry yet. He thought of a commercial he saw earlier that day for a doll that you could feed with a bottle. A doll that drank and peed. He could not remember her face. He tried and then she came to him. Ruth. Always around Christmas time. The gathered family. Arms held out and up to be lifted. She would be fourteen or fifteen years old. Fifteen. And Junior would be twenty-nine. Jacob's firstborn, delivered in
1943
.

Blackstrap.

No sense dwelling on all that. He reached down and pulled out the plug for the Christmas tree lights. Presents there in the shadows. Coloured wrapping. Santa Clauses, snowmen and angels.

 

(May, 1972)

‘Well, I guess ye'll be off den,' said Jacob, pressing his hands against the kitchen table and rising to his feet. ‘It were a pleasure meeting you, dough. I must say. Nice of ye ta make da journey frum Sin-Jon's ta bring us me fadder's diary. Christ, if dat ain't da queerest sort o' mystery, wha? Who'd a t'ought such a t'ing were possible?'

Jacob winked and glanced over to see Blackstrap stood leaning in the kitchen doorway. His nineteen-year-old son not saying a word. Not one for talking. Less and less as he got older.

Bill Riche slowly rose from his chair. He had long hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and didn't seem to understand what was going on. Confounded, he looked at his woollen shoulder bag on the floor.

Jacob glanced down, only noticing that purse now. He could see a tape recorder in there and a microphone with the thin black cord wrapped around it. An empty man's story-stealing instrument.

‘I was going to ask a few questions about—'

‘Now, dere's no point ta ask'n questions 'bout sum't'n we knows nut'n 'bout.' Jacob laughed and shifted another quick look at Blackstrap. ‘Nice 'o ye ta drop by widt da news, dough.' He patted Bill Riche on the shoulder, helping him along. ‘'N t'anks fer dat journal. Dere might be a bit of interest'n stuff in dat, fer sure. Da wife likes ta read.'