Blackstrap Hawco (3 page)

Emily's smile widened, turned warmer. She had to look at him, to glance over his face, the reassuring presence of Jacob in him. ‘The heat's stifling in here.'

‘It's freezing out though.'

‘I was listening to the radio.' Emily used her pot holder to open the door. The heat rushed against her face and she leaned back a moment before lifting out the bread pans, one at a time, setting them on the counter and smearing butter on top of the buns with a piece of wax paper. ‘They had the names of some men back from Korea. Your friend Paddy's father was one of them…' Hesitating, she stumbled over an image of Paddy's father, Douglas, both legs gone. The community was talking about him in a hushed way, not himself anymore, not nearly himself since he came back from the fighting.

‘Paddy's dad lost his legs,' Junior said outright. ‘I saw him on the daybed in Paddy's house, lying there staring at the wall. White as a ghost, he was.'

‘He's been through something horrible,' Emily informed Junior, her thoughts flashing through violent images of war, black and white pictures of cannons being fired, flares in darkness. The horror leading to what she had heard on the radio, news of atomic weapons, President Eisenhower warning that civilization was in jeopardy. By the sound of his voice, he truly meant it. The Big Three meeting so far away, but affecting the entire world right now. She would not explain any of that to her son. The threat of the entire world being blown to bits at the whim of a few men. Emily steadied herself, bracing her hands against the counter. She shut her eyes tightly, her thoughts on the baby. She breathed, drew her nerves to a calm, then straightened and turned.

‘Junior?' She saw that he was staring at his paper on the table. He tried smoothing out his test, palms pressing to stretch each wrinkle, before he stood, lifted the paper and laid it neatly on the daybed across from the stove where his father liked to take a lie down after a good feed of salt beef and cabbage.

Regardless of his dire circumstances, Jacob manages to gather his pelts

The sunlight spread low against the ground, steeping the woods in dim orange. Soon, it would be dark. A crow sounded high in a tree and Jacob Hawco listened as it lifted off, rustled a branch, then swept away, knocking a clump of snow down through the layered splay of branches. A soft sound as it landed atop the blanket of snow. The fire was warm enough. He gazed out at it through the opening of his spruce bough lean-to, saw the fox sleeping curled up beside the crackling flames, a strange sight that he now accepted as part of his predicament; the fox was there for a reason Jacob had not yet decided on.

He would not sleep much that night, waking every half-hour to the wind roaring beyond and above the trees where he was nestled, the wind swinging the carcasses back and forth where they were hung in the trees around him. They should have been hung further away from his lean-to, so as not to draw predators, but the damage done to his leg prevented him from keeping the carcasses at a distance. He needed them near him, to gather them with ease when the time to leave was upon him. Against his better judgement, he had even taken a few into the lean-to with him. Two white lynx with their grinning dead jaws. A pair of lovely pillows.

‘Ye shud get out 'n see da world, b'y,' Jacob told the lynx. ‘Quit fart'n 'round 'n try ta make a go of it.'

That night, he would wake to monitor the flames, ebbing and crackling. He would slide forward across the snow with a handful of dead branches that had been drying just out of reach of the flames.

Keep the fire going.

Nothing else of any value should the fire die. His right leg was stiff within the wooden splints he had skimmed down from a tree trunk with his axe. The tied cord had held as expected. He was not so damp now on his bed of evergreen boughs, not minding the wet that much. But he was unsteady despite the oaths he held up inside himself, uncertain if his flesh was freezing. His senses, resolutely under his command in fitter times, now confounded him.

Once he ate one of his tins of cold Irish stew, he felt noticeably better, less haggard and irritable. He wished for a cup of tea, but feared setting
his small kettle in the fire. It might disturb the flames. Smother his confidence.

The first immobile day. It would take two more days without tea before he might decide that the fire was sturdy enough to accommodate the presence of metal. It was not safe, but soon it might become so.

I's get'n better
, he insisted into the coldness, healing into stiffness, the orange sunlight beyond and through the trees deepening. Shadows pulling themselves across the snow like creatures dragging darkness along, spreading it before his eyes. The night was no less bothersome to him than the day. He was just meant to be more alert, for if something was lurking near, waiting to come for him and his carcasses, it would show itself in darkness, would snatch everything up in its jaws: Jacob, the carcasses and, even, the living fox. It would snatch even the omen up in its jaws and gallop away into a hole of its own making.

Jacob guffawed, chiding himself for pondering such dreary slop. Bleak thoughts laboured to make a man puny.

A rustle of movement ahead. The fox had awoken with a start, its sharp-featured head lifting to gaze directly at Jacob. It stared with glassy eyes for a moment as though deciding on something, before its jaws slowly opened, wider and wider as it yawned. Jacob tossed it the tin of Irish stew. The fox inclined its head forward to sniff at the tin, yet would not bother to nudge the scraps out of it, seeming in need of nothing, as it settled back, curled itself up and returned to sleep atop the freezing-cold snow.

From the darkening trees surrounding Jacob's wilderness den came the sound of a trap going off. Dead silence after that. The fox, with one eye open.

Issac Tuttle, the coal merchant, witnesses Emily Hawco with adoration and humility

Isaac Tuttle delivered coal down into Bareneed once a month. He carried the coal on a horse-drawn cart and shovelled it into the bins or hatches of the houses in need. He first laboured at the top of the hill and worked his way lower into the pasture, filling orders along the way until
he reached the last houses perched nearer the jagged cliffs. Payment was small and often – with the poorer families – non-existent. Regardless, Isaac kept a record of what he was owed, stating that one day, if the Lord be willing, the tides would turn and the people would make good on their debts.

‘'ard times, me friend,' he told the poor man or woman, trying to alleviate a bit of their hardship with a touch of cheer, trying not to make them feel small when they were already down on their luck. ‘When t'ings pick up now, good buddy, ye c'n pay me wha'ch'ya owes. None ta worry udderwise.' Isaac Tuttle knew that there was little chance of the stricken making good on their debts, yet he had faith in the mercy of the Lord and prayed for better times for those unfortunate folk.

A number of the families still had debts written up in Isaac's father's book and his father had been dead going on ten years. The payment that he received from those with money was adequate to turn a profit, plus he ran the store in Cutland Junction, right next to the new railway station, and that was enough to make ends meet. It brought in the money needed to buy up the land all around the Junction and resell it to the businessmen townies coming out from St. John's in their chubby-looking, expensive cars to build their trouting cabins.

Emily heard the wheels of the cart creaking over the frozen earth. There had not been much snow and the cart made it easily down the path on its hard wheels. She heard the familiar snort of the horse, and was touched by shame and regret.

While placing the bread in the bread box, a tapping came at the back porch door, and Emily was given no time to steady herself before Isaac Tuttle stepped in, not waiting for a reply.

She considered ignoring him, yet thought that the height of ignorance. ‘How you doing, Isaac?' she called in a level tone, trying to pretend her bad feelings away.

Isaac Tuttle banged the snow from his boots, then opened the kitchen door, humbly stuck his head in, took a peek at her, then immediately shifted his attention to the floor.

‘Mighty fine 'eat 'n 'ere, me love,' he took an instant to say.

Emily waited for what she knew would come next.

‘I'm 'ere widt da coal.'

‘Yes, I know, Isaac.'

Isaac Tuttle nodded and squinted, his thick black eyebrows scrunching together. He nodded again. Glanced at her belly, glanced at the floor. ‘'Ere t'is. No need ta worry now.' He chuckled in a fit of nerves. ‘Ye be warm fer da season.'

With her eyes not on him, Emily said out of habit or obligation: ‘A cup of tea?'

‘A cup 'a tea.' Isaac grinned at once, uncovering the brown stubs of his teeth. ‘Yes, me duckie.' He pulled off his coal-smeared mittens, shirking off any feelings of unease that might have been lingering in the room. ‘Dat'd be reet fine.'

‘Don't mind your boots,' Emily said shortly. ‘I'll be washing up the floor this afternoon.'

‘No, now, I c'nt 'av dat.' He bent and tugged at the smutty laces, worked them loose, and pried off his boots. Standing in his floppy woollen socks, Isaac nodded obediently, watching Emily pump water into the kettle. He neatly laid his mittens on the oilcloth covering the kitchen table and took off his beaked salt and pepper cap, moving it around with his fingers.

‘Skipper on da trapline?'

‘Yes. The trapline.'

‘Yays,' he said with an intake of breath, his eyes drawn, again and again, to her distended belly. ‘I s'pected as much.'

Emily lifted off the stove's top damper and stoked the fire with the iron poker, then replaced the damper and slid the kettle into place. When she turned toward the table, she noticed that Isaac was blushing, her eyes having met his gaze of utter devotion. He shot a look toward the floor, moving his cap around in his hands, not yet having uncoiled the dirty grey scarf from his throat.

‘Where Junior be at?'

The blush now spread across Emily's cheeks. ‘He's doing his homework. Sit down, Isaac.' She motioned formally toward the chair.

‘Yays.' He looked where she had pointed and inched uncertainly ahead, pulled out the chair, began to sit but then abruptly stood, waited for her to sit first, nodding nervously when she edged her chair out from
the table and took a seat. Only then did Isaac quietly take his place across from her.

‘Anudder young'n on da way.' He smiled and blushed a deeper red, nodded and peeked at her sideways before squinting fiercely, his big, vein-streaked nose twitching. A few moments later, he realized the comment had been a mistake. ‘I seen Junior up on da hill, play'n widt da udder fellas. Young Paddy. 'Is fodder's 'ome frum d'war, ye knows all 'bout dat, I s'pose? Not a leg on 'im, da poor feller.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘Both legs blown clear off. Not a leg ta call 'is own.' He held up two fingers, tutted and shook his head hard in bleak acknowledgement. ‘Mighty shock'n stuff.' He stared at Emily's belly and winked, nodded nervously and grinned, ‘God's bless'n.'

‘Yes. God bless him.'

‘Finest kind.' Isaac tipped his head, then stared at the ledge of the window beside him. He lifted his cap from where he was holding it under the table and laid it next to his mitts, arranging them carefully beside each other. When he stole a glance at Emily, he saw that she was gazing through the window, her face in profile, her pregnant beauty mesmerizing. It was only after she looked at him that he realized he had made a sound, that he had sighed or whimpered in wanting.

Emily watched him. It was a lovely look at first, but then her eyes, tracing the features of his impish face, filled with something grim, as though she might accuse him of some unfortunate deed.

Bowing his head, Isaac watched his grimy hands, the lines in his skin, the blackness arced beneath his fingernails. He gave a flinching shake of his head and tried scooping the black out from under one fingernail with another. Yet nothing could be removed as the black was more of a permanent stain.

‘What, Isaac?'

He regarded her and his eyes were glazed with tears. Such beauty, he thought, bowing his head again, trying to scoop the dirt out. Thy neighbour's wife. Such treasure and beauty.

‘Is something the matter?' she asked, knowing better, knowing full well, demanding this of him. No more than a child really. Is that why she had taken him in? Had allowed him. She stood to escape the
thoughts that sent her plummeting back to a play of shadows in Liverpool.

‘Naw sure.' He grinned at her, sniffing, and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, smearing the black. ‘Dun't be so foolish. Dere's nut'n da matter. I were jus' delivering—'

‘I
was
just delivering, Isaac. Was, not were.' Emily glanced at the kettle which had commenced steaming. She struggled to stand and Isaac leapt to his feet to help her, taking her hand and drawing her up with such a brisk and forceful pull that she was catapulted perfectly upright and had to catch her balance.

‘Woo,' she said, steadying herself, gazing down at her feet. She then looked at Isaac to see that his eyes were on her hand, on the hand he had gripped. The black print of his fingers on her white skin.

There came a sound from overhead, something small hitting the bare floor, a pencil perhaps, dropping and rolling a little, and they both watched there.

‘Junior,' Emily said, thinking,
He's always up there with Uncle Ace.

‘Yays.' Isaac gathered his hat and mitts, and squeezed them in his hands. Again, he grinned. ‘I were delivering da coal…Best get ta it.'

‘You're not staying for tea?' she chastised him.

Isaac shook his head, his expression sinking with remorse yet struggling to remain optimistic. ‘Deliv'ries. C'nt 'av no un doin' widout.' He nodded resolutely. ‘C'nt bear da t'ought 'o dat, 'specially da yungin's.' His eyes scrunched with a sheepish expression as though he might have admitted to something too delicate for words. He laughed to make it go away.