Blackstrap Hawco (19 page)

Blackstrap grumbles his wife's name. Holds the cigarette between his lips. Squints away the smoke. Sweeps down his sleeve. Shoves his arms back into his jacket.

He climbs up on the dozer. Shuts it off. Pockets the key. Wanders away. Leaves the machine for Batten to pick up on the flat bed. Walks
out toward the site opening where his backhoe is parked. He climbs up. Starts it. Backs out.

Rattling and bumping over the dirt road, he soon hits the pavement. Where it begins alongside of Coombs Hill. Running down into the valley. Past Wilf's New Place. Through the random display of shacks and bungalows. Passing cars with drivers that wink or honk. And up over the road where he takes a right. The pavement turning to dirt again. Down the grade of the road. Sees his new beige bungalow at his left. High on its concrete foundation. His father's old low bubblegum pink house beside his own.

Blackstrap spots the tiny figure he knows is Karen. Walking down the front concrete steps. Moving across the drive and into the old man's wooden front door. The old man suddenly struck down. A stroke. The doctor told Blackstrap when he visited his father in Carbonear Hospital. The old man not talking. Not seeing anymore. Blindness like any illness. Not something taken away but something added. And Karen tending to him. Caring for Jacob in a way she never did. For anyone before.

 

Karen wipes the old man's lips. A cloth warm in her hand. The moist smear pressing down. To clean away the crusted scum. She stares at his face. Sees that he is not. Concerned with her. His eyes fixed. On the ceiling. While the muscles in his face. Tic against her touch. Unshaven cheeks. Tendons stretched in his neck.

Leaning close to his left ear. She whispers, ‘Don't you ever. Tell. Don't you dare, old man,' then straightens. Nervously sucking in. Her bottom lip. Studying him for reaction. She dips the cloth. Into the blue plastic bowl. Then twists it out. Wrings it out. Wipes along his chin. With one hand. The other flicking back. The sheet that covers his naked greyish skin. She sees. That he has soiled the sheets. The smell pooling water. In her eyes. In her mouth. She leans near. Grabs his head. With both hands. Presses lips to his eyes. Licks his open eyes. And groans. Grinds against him. To get in. Then lowers her aim. Shoving her tongue. Deep into his soundless throat. Teeth hard against teeth.

Retching, rising, she rubs the cloth lower. Along his thighs. Over his grey penis. Tears of disgust. Dead. Like it was made that way. To stiffen
and crack. In two. She rubs. Warming. The blood. Through it. A memory growing. Grey to pink. Dead alive. Drops the cloth and pulls. And pulls. And pulls. Alive. Predator from the sky. Spying down. A glance toward the doorway. No one. Then dives. The stench. The body. Ugliness. Lower. Faithlessness. Lower. Loveliness. Lower. And loathing. Her breathing. Hard. Her stabbing laugh. The retching tears. With lips around. What cannot be helped. The love of father. Coming alive in her mouth.

The old man. Open mouth. Whimpers low.

She spits in the pan. Rinses her hands. Wipes the tears from her eyes. A drag of her sleeve. Mascara smeared whorishly. Rinses the cloth. The water turning muddy brown. A string of semen suspended in waste. Father and daughter. Floating there.

Patiently she cleans. The old man's scrawny flesh. After everything. Her chore. Washes his chest. Gently. His stomach. Her gaze set on his face. His blank eyes. Staring toward the ceiling. Seem to taunt. Not a word out of him. Since that day. He found her. On the floor and fell. Beside her. As one. The memory cutting low. Between Karen's legs. Turning her stomach. To paste. Her knees trembling. Erratically. Cold. To fall back. Through all those years. If only to tumble. And have arms catch her.

 

After trading the backhoe for his father's pickup, Blackstrap pulls in behind the string of parked cars. He can hear the band playing before he steps out and shuts his door. It's already dark. The night is clear. The weather good. He knows that the dance will go on late. He scans the cars on his way to the fire hall, recognizing a few of the vehicles. He passes a chip truck parked near the hall. A short line of people stood at the window. Men half drunk already. The usual ones who started earlier in the day. Wobbly limbs. They'll be gone home soon, causing all sorts of mischief. Then, maybe, back at the dance again later.

The dance is set up in the middle of the street. Between the post office and the fire hall. Tables and chairs arranged under two blue and white canopies. Coloured lights hung on strings. A stage up against the front of the hall. A three-man band stood on it. Guitar. Bass. Drums. The singer talking between songs. Offering the next song up to someone
back from Toronto. The event roped in with orange plastic snow fencing.

Blackstrap pays his five dollars and they give him a blue Soiree button. The volunteer firemen running the show. Some of them have their black baseball caps or windbreakers on with the fireman logo stitched with gold thread. He wouldn't mind having one of those, but he never had it in him to join the firemen. He could never stand being a part of a group like that. Even if it was a good group.

He puts his button in his pocket and walks on. At his left, people are seated at tables underneath the night shade of a canopy. A bit of light in there coming from the stage. A few heads turn to look at him. The others keep watching the band. One old woman clapping her hands to the music.

Off to his right, the door to the hall is opened. He wanders in there. No tables set up yet for tomorrow's turkey dinner. The space wide open. Hollow under bootstep. He walks toward the cubbyhole window in the back. Waits a few minutes for the ones in front of him to be served. Then buys a handful of beer tickets. He gets a few nods and hellos as he moves on, past the washrooms where the women are already lined up, and on toward another door.

Out in the room where the fire trucks are usually parked. A long bar is set up along the back. A few upright coolers with glass doors for beer and a table with bottles on it. The garage doors are open. A view of the stackable tables arranged on the other side of the stage under another canopy. And an open section of dance floor pavement.

Blackstrap orders his beer from one of the volunteer firemen. A man with a hairlip and crew cut who's quick to serve. There isn't much of a crowd yet. That won't happen for a few hours. By the time he gets five or six beers in him, there'll be a crowd around him. Not even something he notices. The crowd just there from out of nowhere.

He wanders toward the front of the hall. He takes a drink of beer while watching people dancing. Young and old dancing alike under the stars. Not much difference in the style. Even with the slow songs. People he sees behind windshields or passing by in stores all year. Just people going about their business. Only a comment or two passed back and forth. Here now. Celebrating being from Cutland Junction. He
looks around for Paddy. Blackstrap was going to pick him up. Get a dozen beers for the car and have a few before arriving. But Paddy wasn't home. His mother said so over the phone. She didn't know where he was. ‘On da loose somewhere,' was what she'd said. ‘Up ta no good gallyvanting 'round, right like himself.'

Blackstrap takes another drink and notices a woman stood close by. She's thin and has some sort of handmade cap on her head. There's a tiny knapsack or purse on her back. Straps over both shoulders. Shorts that are almost pants and a sleeveless T-shirt that shows off her muscles. Blackstrap has seen her riding a bicycle around Cutland Junction a while ago. He's even seen her down in Bareneed. Riding over the grass near the cliffs and water. Stopping to eat something from a baggie. Nibbling like a squirrel. Blackstrap keeps his eyes on her to see what she's all about. Soon, a tall man comes up to her. He has delicate glasses on his face and is watching around like he's never been anywhere in his life. He has his hands in his pockets and checks the woman's face. He stands there waiting for her to say something.

The band finishes their song and the woman's voice comes loud. ‘That's just the way it is around here,' she's saying to the man.

Up on stage, the singer mentions something about taking a break. Then the musicians lay down their instruments and check around to make sure everything's in order.

A few others from the area go over to the woman with the homemade cap. They start talking quickly, trying to find out all the news. With the band stopped, Blackstrap can hear bits and pieces of what's being said.

‘Eighteen years,' says the woman when someone asks her how long she's been away. ‘Yer in T'ronto, right?' says one of the women. The ex-Newfoundlander nods. Someone asks her what she's doing up along. And the woman says she works for an advertising agency. One of the women says, ‘Like Chelsey in
Da Young 'n da Restless
?' The ex-Newfoundlander nods and looks at the man. The smile she gives is like a secret that everyone else can't stand to be around. Then her eyes are on the ground. Like she thinks herself so special.

Blackstrap's heard about her. He knows her name from people talking over the years. Her first time home since she left. Blackstrap
wonders how you can stay away. How you can come from a place and not fit in anymore. Like you were created somewhere else to start with. How you can come from a place and then make fun of it. Because that's what the woman is doing. She's making a mockery of everyone around her. Just by the way she's standing there. By the way she's dressed. By the way she looks at the man. Like they're the only two in it together. And everyone else is just there for a laugh.

Blackstrap shifts his thoughts away. No sense wasting good energy on the likes of them. He thinks back to the trouble with Tuttle. The bed up in the trees. A pretty picture. He imagines beds up in trees everywhere. That's where a good lot of people belong. He drains his third beer and notices he has a bit of an appetite. He is still stood in the spot he likes, watching out over the dance area that's deserted with the band stopped. He checks over his shoulder. The crowd has thickened behind him. A few men give him winks or tilts of their heads. He tilts his head in return. Then he goes out and orders one of the moose sausages being cooked on a black barbecue. He watches the young one behind the short table putting it on a bun for him. She's back from the university in St. John's, studying to be a teacher. The university that Smallwood built. His mother always praised the idea of that. Education. He tries thinking of anything important people might ever learn from a book. But nothing comes to mind. He takes the sausage and pays the young one. It's soft and tasty when he bites into it. A bit of spice to the meat. Tender as anything. One doesn't do much for him, so he orders another.

‘Some skin around tonight, wha'?'

Blackstrap turns to see Paddy stood beside him. Grinning that sharp grin of his. Paddy tips his chin toward one young woman with a fancy perm.

‘You wanna moose sausage?'

Paddy looks at what's in Blackstrap's hand.

‘Naw, can't eat on an empty stomach. You knows dat, b'y.'

‘Get ya a beer den.' He chews and swallows. Done, he wipes the paper napkin over his lips and bunches it up, tosses it in the green garbage bucket.

Paddy nods, his face beaming while he scans another young woman. A group of three of them all close together at a table. Paddy's got his
good shirt on, the beige cowboy shirt his brother sent him from Calgary. Bought at the Stampede up there. And his hair's combed nicely.

‘Jeez.' Paddy shakes his head and grins some more. ‘Dere's no end to da tail 'round here.'

Blackstrap checks the stage because the band has just started in again. He watches the people get up right away to dance. Couples he has seen all his life. He knows most of them by name. He knows where they live. Who their parents or children are. Their grandchildren. Their grandparents. He thinks it is one of the finest things he has ever seen. All of these people together. From Bareneed and Cupids and Brigus gathered for a party in the road. The first of its kind for the area. Something done right for a change. Worth the effort.

‘Ya never see people like this,' Blackstrap says to Paddy, leaning near and raising his voice. Paddy says nothing in reply. His head just bobs a little to the music. ‘All year ya go around and see people in cars. But nothing like this. Get'n ta see everyone.' He is proud of it in some way. Delighted by it.

The band is playing an old Dick Nolan song, ‘Aunt Martha's Sheep.' A favourite of the crowd. Everyone's up dancing or clapping their hands. The story of the boys from Carmenville who stole Aunt Martha's sheep. And the Mountie who comes to investigate after smelling the meat cooking. The boys invite him in and give the Mountie a bunch of lies about cooking a bit of moose.

The lead singer sings on while the dancers clap their hands:

 

He said thanks a lot and he sat right down and I gave him a piece of the sheep.

This is the finest piece of moose I knows I ever eat.

About two o'clock in the morning he bid us all good-day,

If we get any clues on the sheep, sir, we'll phone you right away.

 

He said thanks a lot, you're a darn fine bunch, and your promise I know you'll keep.

And if everyone was as good as you she wouldn't have lost her sheep.

After he left we had the piece we had in the oven to roast,

We might have stole the sheep, boys, but the Mountie ate the most.

 

It takes Blackstrap a while to get to the bar. The crowd is wall-to-wall now. An oldtimer is watching up at Blackstrap when he orders two beers. The oldtimer is half the size of Blackstrap and has a silver cane. His thin hair greased back and big glasses on his face.

‘Mr Hawco,' says the oldtimer, raising his beer.

Blackstrap raises his. Then the other. The one for Paddy.

‘Wha're ye up ta dis even'n?'

‘Having a beer.'

The oldtimer laughs and gives him a big smile. ‘'N how's skipper dese days?'