Blackstrap Hawco (17 page)

 

What did he have for the baby? Perhaps it would be best to bring two packages of cigarettes. Good idea to keep on Jacob's good side, so Isaac could continue coming around. And maybe, with a little coaxing, Jacob would tell Isaac the story. Not that Isaac cared to have his ear bent by outlandish tales strung together by a man's reckless pride. But he would listen for the sake of being in Emily's presence and to watch what those tales did to the face of his eternally beloved.

Bareneed

Saint Blackstrap of Bareneed

(Sitting-Up Day)

‘We could name'm after yer fadder,' Jacob suggested, limping theatrically toward the stove to set the kettle on the damper. ‘Alan.'

The kitchen was crowded with people from the community, mostly women come to view the baby and to praise Emily for having the sturdy health and constitution that permitted her to survive the ordeal. Missus Murphy, the midwife, took the honoured spot at the table, next to Emily, while the remaining seat was reserved for Jacob's Uncle Ace, who sat there not uttering a word, merely staring from one face to another, and listening as though perplexed by the possibility of speech. No one ever spoke of the terrible experience out on the sealing icefields thirty years ago that had delivered suffering of such ferociousness it had snatched away Uncle Ace's voice forever. The story that silenced a man was best left to itself.

Emily looked over at Jacob, not knowing how to react, uncertain if Jacob had suggested the name ‘Alan' out of sincerity or as a slap in the face to her father, the man who had forbidden their marriage.

Jacob patted the Groaning Cake he had baked for Emily, testing for heat, then picked a stray raisin off the edge of it, chewed it up, savouring the taste of the half-burnt raisin. He then worked the lever on the pump, gushing out a glass of water. Without regarding Emily again, he drank it back in one confident swallow. ‘I'm right t'irsty. Don't know why.'

A few in the room laughed as they often did at Jacob's comment, for most things Jacob said seemed tinged with humour. It was not necessarily the meaning of the spoken words, but rather the larger-than-life lilt of his tone that drew people toward laughter, as though he were goading them on and they were pleased to ceaselessly acknowledge his bravado.

‘It's all that salt meat you love to eat,' Emily informed him, just as she did every time he was curious about his thirst. A few laughed outright, while others sipped from their cups of tea. Two young girls, Mildred Bishop and Nadine Newell, from further up the hill stood by Emily, one at each shoulder, making faces and sounds, trying to coax a smile out of the baby, all to no avail. The newborn merely watched the girls with a flat expression bordering on distaste.

In the corner, young Billy Coombs, a man of twenty or twenty-five (no one knew for certain as he was frozen in the grips of childhood), with a round belly and bloated face, stood back against the wall, his dull eyes slowly watching the people, his mouth open in a pose of nonsensical comment as his tongue came out every now and again to smear his bloated lips.

Aunt Minnie was seated in a chair by the hall doorway with her accordion at ready on her lap. She had taken off her coat but left her woollen hat perched high on her head. She nodded and winked at the occasional stray comment, happy as a lark to simply observe the people mill about, her white chin whiskers twitching occasionally while she clicked her slipping dentures back in place and waited on a time when she might be instructed to start playing.

Emily smiled down at the baby, its steady eyes curiously staring up at her.

‘Yays, you're right dere,' Jacob considered. ‘The salt would make me t'irsty.'

A few grins, a handful of chuckles, an amused wink here and there, and a head-tilting nod of agreement from Aunt Minnie. ‘T'irsty,' she repeated. ‘Would be 'bout right.'

Looking toward Jacob, Emily saw that he was standing above her, plainly staring down at the baby, then over at the wooden cradle on the floor toward the daybed. She suspected that he thought she might be spoiling the infant, having him up in her arms all the time.

Jacob's fingertips tapped out a tune on the tabletop and he hummed along. He ended up the tapping and humming with a few words, his voice high and like velvet: ‘Mussels in the corrr-ner,' then glanced over at Aunt Minnie who nodded and pulled out her dentures to store safely away in her pocket, so as to protect them from flying from her mouth when the merriment prevailed. Grinning a toothless grin, she leaned a little forward, jerked her arms into action as the accordion squeezed out three sharp uneven notes, then swept into a steady flurry of memory-tunes, her elbows bobbing.

With eyes on Aunt Minnie, Jacob's boots drummed the floor as a gust of wind rose at his back. People had started clapping. Jacob turned to see Junior coming into the room, the boy's school slate tucked under his arm, his bottle of water stuck out of his pocket and some papers in his other hand. His cheeks and nose were rosy.

‘Close dat door, Junior,' barked Jacob. ‘Enough ta freeze da arse off ya.'

Junior stepped in and turned, hand on the tarnished brass knob, he pulled shut the door with a bang that was barely heard above the music, clapping and hooting.

Junior brought the sheet of paper to his father and poked it at him.

‘Wha's dis, me son?'

‘Bears,' Junior shouted proudly. ‘See, that's you and Mom and me and the small one there's the baby.' He pointed with his finger, glanced brightly up at his father's face. ‘We're learning about polar bears.'

‘Dat's mighty fine, Junior,' Jacob said, laying the drawing on the table without further comment and limping toward the kettle which jetted a flow of steam toward the ceiling.

Emily regarded Junior, then Jacob, knowing that in his heart of hearts he had no time for schooling, and believed that Jacob Junior should be out in the boat or on the trapline like his Uncle Ace was at the age of ten, schooling robbing the boy of his bloodline.

‘Come over, sweetheart.' Emily smiled, drawing Junior near. The boy leaned back against her, his elbow on her leg, and stared at the drawing on the table. Emily made an extra effort to admire its qualities, until the baby began wailing.

‘That's just perfect,' Emily said to Junior. ‘You can see the white.'

‘I coloured it. White and yellow too. Bren's cat is white but he looks yellow in the snow.'

‘Shhh,' said Emily, rocking the baby.

A wrinkled, blue-veined hand slowly reached forward, its fingers resting on the drawing a few moments before Uncle Ace inched it toward him across the table. He stared down at the polar bears, his eyes steady and serious, then he turned his head to consider Junior, his white brow scrunched together with worry and curiosity.

Junior watched Uncle Ace, waiting for some sort of sign, but Uncle Ace merely returned his perplexed eyes to the drawing and continued studying it. He raised one trembling finger and set it against the biggest bear. ‘Tt,' he said, but no one was listening. ‘Tt.'

At the sound of Uncle Ace's voice, the baby ceased crying.

Junior nodded at the old man and gave him a smile.

‘Tt,' Uncle Ace kept on, his tongue between his teeth. Then he shut his eyes, as though in sleep, and frowned.

Junior glanced at the baby's head, the light fine hair. The eyes that stared with serious wonder.

‘He's some small,' Junior said, feeling proud that Uncle Ace, a man who rarely paid much mind to anything put before him, had taken such an interest in his drawing. The notice invigorated him. ‘His fingers are right tiny.'

‘We were just trying to name him.'

One of the girls, Mildred Bishop, the eldest of the two and the one who would be helping with the baby in the coming months, reached to take up the infant, while Emily carefully allowed the transfer.

The accordion music came to a halt and Aunt Minnie sat still again, grinning and nodding at the bits of applause, then sheepishly eyeing the Groaning Cake on the counter while fishing her dentures from her pocket.

Young Billy Coombs made a whelping sound, like the cry of a seal. The sound was ignored by all, save for Uncle Ace whose eyes opened on the picture of the bears then moved to Billy's face.

‘How about Butch?' asked Junior.

‘I don't know about Butch,' said Emily.

Jacob laid a cup down in front of Emily. She smiled briefly in thanks and
lifted the tea, sensing the rising heat against her lips and lightly blowing to cool it. A cup was then set down before Missus Murphy who said: ‘T'ank ye,' and glanced over the plates of cakes and biscuits, baked by the visiting women and laid out on the table. She reached and took a lemon square, transferred it slowly to her plate so as not to spill crumbs everywhere.

Emily noticed Uncle Ace, who was watching her with eyes full of emotion she could make no sense of. He now held the drawing in both hands and at a distance from his face.

The baby commenced crying and Mildred Bishop went about trying to calm him, but to no avail. Her attempts only added vigour to the baby's protests. Flustered, she handed him back to Emily and he ceased wailing at once.

‘He'll get used to you,' Emily said.

Quiet as a dove, the baby stared up at Emily's face.

‘How 'bout Weepy?' Jacob offered.

There was much laughter. Aunt Minnie even let loose with one long cackle that ended in a wink, a tilt of her head, and a delighted smacking of gums, her dentures set at ready on her lap.

‘Don't be so heartless,' someone said in the room. A woman's voice.

Jacob watched a crow through the window. He imagined it to be the same one that had followed him from the woods. He searched the treeline for the fox that had slept beside the stove in the kitchen on the first night of his return, then had fled the next morning, scampering over the wooden floor and out the back door, as though suddenly brought to realization. Despite its escape, it might be lingering near for a scrap of food, but there was no sign of it. Jacob gave a quiet laugh, then glanced at Uncle Ace who was now watching the crow.

‘How about Molasses?' said Junior.

‘Yays,' said Aunt Minnie, nodding winsomely. ‘T'is a good 'n. Yays. Lovely name.'

The women smiled at Junior, admiring his good looks and charm, just like his father in that respect, the boy constantly fawned over by the women of Bareneed. A little gentleman. A strong hand mussed up his hair. It was his father.

‘Blackstrap molasses,' said Jacob, swallowing a healthy mouthful of rum, his blue eyes gleaming with wicked humour.

‘Blackstrap!' said Junior, playing to the crowd. ‘Now that's a name to reckon with.'

Laughter rose from the gathered numbers, the glint in each eye speaking volumes: Like father, like son.

‘Mighty fine,' said someone.

‘Yays,' said Aunt Minnie, chuckling and blinking fiercely. ‘Yays. Hee, hee.'

Emily and Jacob laughed outright at Junior's statement, Jacob leaning forward to lay a hand on his son's small shoulder, then returning his attention to the window where another large black bird suddenly swooped down onto his snow-covered garden. Two for joy.

Emily sipped her tea, studied her husband. For countless nights, she had been up with the baby, and hardly had a wink of sleep, so her perception was near immaculate. Pristine. As such, the mere sight of her husband was beginning to irritate her. She noticed the sloppy manner in which he wore his shirt, the stubble on his face, the lines running from the corners of his eyes, his wind-tanned leathery skin, the careful way he considered her words, as if he cared too dearly about what she had to say, yet pretended not to, listened attentively then dismissed her words, only to ponder them in the hours to come and hesitantly, quietly, admit to their truth.

‘Go comb your hair,' Emily said, her tone harsher than intended.

Pinning Emily with a look that cast a darkness over his face, Jacob stood rigid. ‘I'm not one'a'yer children, womb'n,' he grumbled. ‘Watch yer bobber.'

‘Blackstrap,' Junior quickly repeated, up on his tiptoes, aiming to avoid argument.

‘No,' said Emily, ignoring Jacob and the eyes that were hotly trained on her, realizing she had made a mistake and wanting out of it. ‘It must be a saint's name. Joseph…'

‘Like with Jesus,' exclaimed Junior, further encouraged to have the conversation back on track.

‘Thomas…Alphonsus,' Emily said to Junior. ‘Or Francis, after your father's father.'

Jacob continued glaring at Emily, unwilling to let his ire wane.
‘Blackstrap it is,' he said shortly, limping toward the back porch. ‘Saint Blackstrap of Bareneed,' he muttered under his breath, then whistled a sharp steady tune while he pulled on his cap and mittens, then was out the door, yanking it closed with a bang.

The room went silent, uncomfortably still, until Junior asked, ‘Was Dad serious?'

‘About what?'

Then young Billy Coombs yelped, clapped his palms together once. He said a word that sounded like: Pufuct.

‘Blackstrap?'

‘No, Junior,' Emily said. ‘The priest won't baptize him that.' Gazing down at the baby cradled in her arms, she leaned forward and kissed the top of his head, paying no mind to Jacob, unwilling to let him sink her spirits on her Sitting-Up Day. Just as her lips touched the baby, he bawled out, his tiny mouth quivering.

A bit of conversation had started up again. Jack Tobin, whose manner was scarcely bruised by any sort of ill will or altercation, raised his fiddle from between his legs and stroked a few notes, then caressed a quiet ballad from his instrument, the notes so sweet that they calmed Emily's heart, and shushed the baby. When the ballad sank to bittersweet lament and ended on that note, the baby began to cry again.

‘Oh, you're such a fussy bugger,' Emily said, tentatively trying the name, ‘Alphonsus.' She smiled and tickled the baby's cheek, but he jerked his head away. Just a reflex, she thought. Quietly on her tongue, ‘Alphonsus.' The baby's cry rose toward a screech.