Blackstrap Hawco (20 page)

‘A'right.'

‘I haven't seen 'im 'round in a dog's age.'

Blackstrap is elbowed and turns to see who did it. If there was any intention behind the poke. But he can't see any eyes locked on him. So he looks back at the oldtimer.

‘We'll be hearing more from you,' says the oldtimer. ‘Jacob Hawco's young fellow.' He puts out his hand and Blackstrap shakes it. ‘Big boots ta fill. Livin' up ta dat Hawco name of yers.'

Blackstrap nods. ‘Have a good one.' He heads off and the music gets louder as he steps outside. The band playing ‘Bad Moon Rising' by CCR. He finds Paddy near a group of young women. He's wobbling a bit and watching them. But they're not watching him. Blackstrap hands him his beer.

‘Dey won't dance widt me,' says Paddy, his voice straining above the music.

‘Wouldn't blame 'em, not one frig'n bit.'

Paddy takes a drink from the bottle. ‘Some friend you turn'n outta be.' Paddy laughs outright. And the girls peek a look at Blackstrap. One of them eyeing him up and down. The wife of one of the firefighters. She's thin and has long black hair. A bit of a curl in it. But it looks greasy. One or two of her teeth are rotten when she smiles. There's something about her though. She's raunchy. Sexy. Always shagging around with someone.

‘Wha'd'ya at, Blacky?' she says.

He shakes his head. Tries to ignore her by staring out over the crowd.

‘Where's yer woman to?'

‘Home sewing.'

A few of the women giggle.

‘Home frig'n herself,' Paddy shouts out.

The women make shocked expressions, then laugh. One of them commenting that it sounds like a good idea and she should be home at that herself.

Blackstrap wouldn't give either of them the time of day. He wanders off. Karen never wants to go anywhere around the community. She likes the look of the place, but not the people. In hiding is how he thinks of her, with a few beers in him. She reminds him of an animal in a burrow. He finishes off his beer and goes for another.

With a beer in each hand, he steps out and returns to watching the couples dancing. Drinking, he feels a need for more food in his stomach. The beer's starting to do things to his head. Make him think in a way that's not usually the way he sees the world.

He hands a beer to Paddy, who's finally got a woman up dancing, and leaves the dance area for the chip truck. There's three people in the line-up ahead of him. So it gives him time to watch the young pretty woman serving in the order window. She's got a cute chubby face and short blonde hair. When she takes an order or hands one out, she leans forward with her arms on the ledge and her extra-white breasts round up from her low-cut T-shirt. It makes him even hungrier and happier. He stands there watching people ordering and being handed their trays of fries. When he gets to the window, he says what he wants without checking the red letters on the order board.

‘Large fry.' He gives her a small smile.

‘Gravy?' she asks.

‘No.'

‘Anything to drink?'

He shakes his head, thinking he should say more. But he's suddenly angry for some reason. He looks over his shoulder. Other people in the line-up, laughing and talking. With his head turned, he can hear the music clearly. The singer: ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down.' He
knows the tune, but can't remember if it's by Johnny Cash or Kristofferson.

When he turns back, the young blonde names the price. He digs in his pocket. She's already watching his eyes when he hands the money over. Her lips are full and seem soft just by the looks of them. Her manner is good-natured. It doesn't seem like she's been sad a day in her life, but she's not stupid either. Blackstrap can tell. She's bright, sharp as a tack. It's in her eyes. She leans out and gives him his change. The touch of her fingers against his palm.

Up this close, he can't help but watch her moving around inside the chip truck. Talking to the people shaking the wire baskets of fries, rubbing her bare arms. And then she lays his order on the ledge, seeming extra interested in his eyes, but then shy, looking past his shoulder. He takes his order and turns away. He's frowning while he sprinkles on lots of salt and malt vinegar and squirts on blobs of ketchup everywhere. Walking off, he shakes his head, can't stand himself. He should have said something to her. He won't look back to see if she's looking. He won't even do that. He wanders off toward the pickup, leans with his back against the driver's door and eats the fries. He's thinking of his mother for some reason and his head goes dead. An emptiness. A faint ringing in his ears. A swell. The rain and the sea a black throb. He finishes the fries and tosses the smeared tray into the grass. Getting into the pickup, he sits there thinking about the woman in the chip truck. Perfect. What would she ever have to do with him?

He's watching ahead through the windshield. The beer taking him the wrong way now. He needs more or less of it. He doesn't notice the woman leaning near his window. A tapping on the glass and he turns to see the fireman's wife. Hands in the back pockets of her jeans. Slowly, he rolls down the window halfway.

‘What're ya do'n?'

‘Leaving.'

‘Dat sounds right like you.'

He stares through the windshield again. He starts the engine.

‘Go'n home ta yer woman.'

He refuses to look at her.

‘She won't be 'round here much longer. The likes of her.' The thin woman straightens, folds her arms against her chest, watching him. ‘Where's Patsy to now? Hooked up widt some udder feller?'

His eyes on the chip truck. Every now and then he can see the blonde head leaning out. He has never felt as sad in his life. But he does not know why. What might have happened to him? Nothing.

He notices the fireman's wife on her way back to the dance.

He turns the wheel and pulls out, drives away, takes a right after the chip truck, following the orange detour sign around back, up along the narrow old roads that were once cart paths, long before the main one was laid.

 

The bible slams gunshot shut. And had turned their rivers into blood; and their floods that they could not drink. Tuttle's eyes obscured behind tight lids. Lips muttering: Then said I, O my Lord, what
are
these? And the angel that talked with me said unto me, I will shew thee what these
be
. His eyes bolt open. Wide eyes through thick lenses. And I besought thy disciples to cast him out; and they could not. He chews his tongue and scampers from the bedroom. Blasphemous visions nipping at his heels. Quickly, he spews two Hail Marys. Offers them up but blotches the thread. O Lord, I beseech thee, let now thine ear be attentive to the prayer of thy servant. The Blessed Virgin fallen over. On the floor of Hawco's house. Robe flung above her waist. Yellow aura seeping. The porcelain crack he'd made in her. And he commanded the most mighty men that
were
his army to bind Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego,
and
to cast
them
into the burning fiery furnace.

Chewing his tongue, Isaac shuffles to one side of the small living room. Erected there. A shrine to the Blessed Virgin. Thy words have upholden him that was falling, and thou hast strengthened the feeble knees. Emily Hawco's face in place of Mary's. Isaac peeks through the corners of his eyes. Let the day perish, wherein I was born, and the night
in which
it was said, There is a man child conceived. The face of Blackstrap Hawco's wife. Plastered in place of Mary's. On all the holy statues. Screaming a silent, frenzied blur. Behold, thou
art
fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed
is
green.

Isaac Tuttle. The watcher. The romantic. The moralist. Storms
from the room. No longer his home. His body. Madly shuffles for the door to throw it open. Races with clipped frantic steps up his dirt drive. Onto the narrow potholed road and across. For the sons of Athaliah, that wicked woman, had broken up the house of God; and also all the dedicated things of the house of the Lord did they bestow upon Baalim. Turning to question his house. No longer his. A building like any other. Quiet. Unoccupied. He drops. Lands awkwardly on his knees. Falling back. Into low branches that enmesh him. The soft earth cushioning. As he catches himself. His balance. Forward. The Lord of hosts hath sworn by himself,
saying
, Surely I will fill thee with men, as with caterpillars; and they shall lift up a shout against thee. Reaching out. Rocking. Through the brittle branches. Fingers dig among dry dirt and gravel. Catching beneath his fingernails snatching hold of a small thin rock. Seemingly oval. A wafer. And holding it tightly between his palms. Warming it with meaning before shoving it into his mouth. I have done judgement and justice: leave me not to mine oppressors.

Mumbling, ‘Da body 'a Christ.' Working to swallow the rigid-edged shape. ‘Amen.' Rock pressing dents into his throat's soft lining. Gouging like a meal gone down wrong. O how love I thy law! It
is
my meditation all the day. He reaches again. Grips a jagged-edged grey rock. Never had he meant to do what was done. I will never forget thy precepts: for with them thou hast quickened me. No. Yes, he had. I opened my mouth, and panted: for I longed for thy commandments.

‘Emlee,' cries Isaac. Trying to convince who? He had gone to face Blackstrap. To preach scripture and provoke a confession. For they have not served thee in their kingdom, and in thy greatness that thou gavest them, and in the large and fat land which thou gavest before them, neither turned they from their wicked works. What perverted his holy obligation? And turned his words black with action. With lust. For the city woman. Unchaste and filthy. Less a woman. From the towers and wheels. A denatured spirit. Hear now this, O foolish people, and without understanding; which have eyes, and see not; which have ears and hear not. An urban sprawl of pagans. Fashion versus God.

He hears,
Cheap property, brought 'ere by Hawco. And I'll take dat instead.
So that all which fell that day of Benjamin were twenty and five thousand men that drew the sword; all these
were
men of valour. Oh, the pleasure. To eat of the unpure. While he hiccupped thickly in his chest. And squeezed her flesh. In his fists. I sleep, but my heart waketh:
it is
the voice of my beloved that knocketh,
saying
, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew,
and
my locks with the drops of the night.

‘Emlee.' Without hearing. While he madly thrusts. Break the woman and all else lays beneath her dirt. Who
is
she
that
looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun,
and
terrible as
an army
with banners? And she had wept lavational tears. Enraptured by the spirit. Those banners against the sky. Of his long perished loved one. Emily whimpering, humbled by the propriety of her salvation. The breathless hammering in Isaac's heart. While he watched. Dumbfounded. Until the woman stopped. Grunting. Seeming to be struck gentle and calm. When it shall hail, coming down on the forest; and the city shall be low in a low place. She stared right through him. Catching the light in his soul. Filled by the luminosity of the Holy Spirit. While his spine prickled with the million-fingertipped patter of angels. Homilizing with a voice resounding, Worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing. She had laughed then like a howl. Under a battery of stones. In defilement.

A sharp stone lifted. Isaac Tuttle stares above his head. At the dust of angels weaving through autumn branches. Their nakedness. And the startlingly white spread of their wings. Thrust open in a fluff of seed. To remain afloat. Opening their cupped palms. To show him their tongues in the pools of their hands. Wriggling. And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them. Isaac Tuttle pulls hold of his tongue. Shuts his crying eyes to press with force. Carves down the centre length. Gouging his fleshy fob, back and forth. Forking at the thick base. One woe is past;
and
, behold, there come more hereafter. As his mouth with the warm seep. And is soon awash with blood. The tip waggingly split. Take
it
, and eat it up; and it shall make thy belly bitter, but it shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey. Two woes.

Feeling wicked in this wretched shivering. Joyously stammering. Unspeakably lovely. The angels. A golden flurry of fluttering rolls his eyes inward to see.

In the grip of rapture's provocation, Isaac Tuttle swoons.

 

Karen lifts her coffee cup. Quick eyes watching Blackstrap. Over the rim. Slurping. Then lowering the mug. Tomorrow. The doctor. The clinic. She takes a full wet draw. From her cigarette. Her head adrift. With the buzz. The scent of sickness. On her body. The old man. She thinks,
Both of us
. Not be washed off. To the doctor where it is safe. The hospital. Sterility. Suck out. The baby. Cut off. The breasts that ache more now. Growing larger. For the suckling. Sucking. The hospital. Sucking. Where it is safe. Where she is the suckling. She laughs. Once. Abruptly. Swallows. Another mouthful of smoke. Pregnant. She thinks. Pregnant. Smoke it. Out.

Turning from the sink, from staring out into the back yard where the shed door lies open, Blackstrap glances at Karen. He has just drunk a glass of water and his lips are wet. He wipes the sleeve of his sweater across his mouth and stares at his wife's face. He thinks of calling Paddy, setting things up for tomorrow. Two-by-fours and two-by-sixes for the concrete footing.

‘Show me the tattoo again,' Karen says snidely. ‘Blacky.'

Blackstrap says nothing, merely shakes his head. He looks at her in a distanced way. The fit all wrong, with her no longer in her place. He notices the telephone on the wall. And five pounds of three-inch nails. Never forget the nails. No electricity on the cabin site. The lumber to be sawed by hand. Or maybe with the chainsaw that Paddy likes to use, to sharpen, to worry over, like he's the only one to know anything about it.