Blackstrap Hawco (50 page)

Jacob came nearer, his hand extended with something balanced in his palm.

Emily thought it might be a stone, and she suspected more openly that he had come to smash the new window. Glancing toward Jacob's yard, Emily saw that his mother was gone. She checked Jacob's palm, wondering if he meant her family harm. What lay in his palm was, in fact, a stone. A white stone, slightly bigger than an egg and rounder.

‘Dat white stone,' he said, holding his palm out to her. ‘It were me mudder's frum down da line. She said ta pass it ta ye.'

‘Why?' Emily let her arms fall and even considered outstretching her open palm to him. Before she thought she might, she had done it. ‘Am I supposed to toss it through the window?' She said this saucily, which made her head jerk in a gesture of challenge.

Jacob set the stone in her hand. It was at once cold from the earth and warm from him. And it was lighter than expected, as though hollow in the centre. She shivered, as gooseflesh rose to provocative life on all surfaces of her body.

‘It c'n't do much damage,' Jacob professed. ‘Ye pass dis frum one ta anudder.'

‘What feeling?' she quickly asked in a quieter, confused voice, remembering his earlier remark.

‘Dey say it brings on fergiveness.'

Emily lifted her eyes from the stone to him.

‘Forgiveness for what?' she asked, beguiled to the point of weakness, her gaze centred on his eyes and face.

‘Ah,' he said with a smile that was more of an injury to himself than a signal of joy. ‘Neidder of us 'av a clue, eh? Wha' cud ye 'av done? Nar one wrong t'ing. 'N me, I'm as innocent as da lamb.'

 

The following week, there was more commotion. The day after the trouble at Bowering's store, Alan Duncan had locked himself in the den of his house and refused to show his face, not even to open the store nor to meet with the ranger who required Alan's signature to bring charges against the vandals.

Emily was the one enlisted to carry on business as usual.

A week later, Mr. Bowering himself arrived, followed by two men in long coats and gloves who made their way directly to the store, for a long-scheduled visit. Dissatisfied with the state of the shop, which had suffered a few more assaults, despite the presence of the ranger who, at various turns, had found himself bound and gagged and dumped in the woods, Mr. Bowering and his cohorts made their way to the Duncan home.

Emily's mother later told her that Mr. Bowering and his men had demanded that Alan join them for discussion, but Alan had refused, claiming that they were not about to capture him so easily. If they were here for the girl, she was at the usual place of business.

Mr. Bowering and his men had then returned to the store and removed the cash from the safe in the back room.

‘Someone will be here,' he told Emily. ‘To deal with your father. He's clearly out of his wits.'

Since the passing of the stone to Emily, Jacob had not come near her. She thought that he might have been embarrassed or was waiting for her to visit him, which would be highly unorthodox. Her mind played with the possibilities to the point of utter distraction and torment. It were as though a spell had been cast over her, and Emily suspected that it might have something to do with the white stone, which she carried in the front pocket of her apron and often fondled, and Jacob's mother, Catherine, who was regarded as a healer by many in the community. Emily had heard stories about Jacob's mother from the servant girl.
Catherine Hawco's past was rife with peculiar happenings, and the Hawcos in general were said to be the product of some mythological bloodline.

Regardless, Emily waited in hope and anger. When not serving customers or restocking provisions, she stood at the shop window, pretending to watch the water, yet glancing toward Jacob's yard where she sometimes saw him at work in the garden or coming in or out of the small barn. Whenever Jacob looked toward the store, Emily would turn away to pretend straightening items in one of the bins until a time when she thought it safe enough to courageously peek a look.

Three days following Mr. Bowering's visit, a boat arrived at the dock with two tall and broad men, who, after joining ranks with the ranger, burst down the door of the Duncan study and took Alan Duncan by force, strong-arming him away to the boat. He raved and roared while the dour or grinning faces in the Bareneed windows and yards watched him go.

‘Dere he be,' they muttered. ‘Taken from whence he n'er belong'd.'

Emily continued running the shop, expecting that it might all come to an end. Her mother assumed as much, as well, although they would not speak of it. They kept up appearances and went about their routines, until, ten days later, when the mail arrived, a letter was received addressed to Mrs. Amanda Duncan. The letter was from a solicitor representing Mr. Bowering. The contents advised them, in so many words, to vacate the premises by the stated date.

The shop was to be taken from the Duncans and run by a new family by the name of Harmen.

They were given a week to clear out their belongings, and, so, one week later, the furniture from the Duncan house was moved by cart down to the wharf where it was loaded aboard a steamer. Emily and her mother were scheduled to travel on that boat, as well, leaving Bareneed for St. John's where prospects appeared brighter.

Jacob Hawco, observing the progression of events from his place on the wharf, fixed his eyes on Emily Hawco as she stepped aboard the steamer. He was ribbed by a few of the younger men while others kept silent, understanding the loss.

Emily Duncan, while aware of Jacob's presence, would give him no
attention. Her embarrassment and acrimony prevented her from meeting anyone's eyes in farewell, for many of the residents of Bareneed took profound pleasure in the leave of the two high-and-mighty ladies, and went so far as to make derogatory noises: cackling and hissing and booing.

Emily Duncan and Jacob Hawco would see nothing more of each other for three entire years.

 

The year of 1962 saw the death of Junior Hawco, the birth of Ruth Hawco and the Hawcos' relocation from Bareneed to Cutland Junction. Jacob chose not to join the others from Bareneed who were meant to move to Burnt Head, instead settling on the nearer Cutland Junction. 1962 was also the year that many believed was the first of many times that Blackstrap Hawco died.

1962

despising the living

summer air mild and warm, the sun pristinely shimmered on gradients of blue, clarity in jacob's boat, stood against the bottom slats, he stared the furthest possible, palest blue sky a line atop dark blue, water's steady depth and volume, sloppy density bobbing the boat gently beneath his feet, ceaseless swelling and ebbing that with the wind's roar might blacken and arch eighty feet skyward to swallow any ship,

but not now with such a sky,
junior killed in the mines of bell isle,

scanning water, he sighted bright orange buoys, stepped nearer the wheelhouse to engage the engine, guide the wheel, circle close to one buoy, but not reach over to retrieve it, instead lingering in silence, calling on merciful recollections, emily and blackstrap, bargaining against despair, junior, his namesake, he stared down the water, dazzled by its implied texture, drawn by waver, wanting blackstrap out here now, to squeeze his shoulder and make it real, but he would not ask the boy to come, walking away, hating them for junior's death, despising everything, most of all the living, and worst of all among the living – himself for existing, adrift on a sunny day,

the ocean's terribly beautiful danger generations sailed over, patrick hawco taken, uncles or cousins lured deep too, water granting sustenance while depriving them of one another, clashing wind with water, neither force claiming victory, in the stead of elemental triumph claiming men as their minuscule prize, what not taken in and consumed by the sop,

lost in thought, a low purring soon in consciousness, a screech from
above, looking up for wings, troubled by a flash of light beaming in his eyes, so bright he squinted, not where the sun should be, this radiance, the glare of reflected sunlight, blinding him to the presence of a drifting mass, lines of orange clapboard vivid in noonday brilliance, two storeys high, square house, soul-startled, believing he had drifted so close to land, rocked by wayward yet false sensation, movement not his, he darted a glance toward shore, still miles off, fifteen feet from his craft, a floating house towed by one small boat, quiet engine barely buzzing, the man waving as he neared, his silent family crowded on board, grim outlines stone-still and resistant, a second house, its colour white, trailing behind the first orange one, and another, barn red, ocean littered in line toward the disappearing distance, houses coasting for points further down shore, the first house edging boldly close, the man in the boat uttering no word, the women and children huddled together on the slatted seat at the rear, woman watching jacob with trapped eyes, forced transport, three children finally waving, jacob waved back, his arm languidly through the air, no land beneath them, the house in passing, jacob watched up, the second-storey windows, again sunlight glinting there, reflection of the blue sky, mirror-image of a gull, clear and perfect, as though sky extended itself within the confines of that house, he followed its effortless progression, then another house, faces in boats exactly as the others,
if dere were but a wind
, jacob told himself,

 

isaac tuttle with cap in hand would not sit at the table, the seat emily blankly offered, out of obligation, that was all, he watched emily busy herself washing dishes in the plastic pan, then the flowers he had brought for her, lying flat on the table, stuttered an apology for junior's death, having found the job for junior in the first place, put in a good word with reg prescott, the mine manager on bell isle, not heard, the apology, not a word clear enough to know, isaac filled with troubled sincerity, he grimaced every so often, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion, his eyes squinting to stare at the floor, he moved his cap around in his hands, then peeked at emily, the baby due any day now, she set dishes in her glass-doored cupboard beside the daybed, wiping the plates in smooth, circular motions, she was thinking of junior, a
baby, how she washed him in the tub, held his head up, gently wiping the cloth along his chubby pink skin, that smile of his, that pure look so different from blackstrap's,

the back door opened and isaac flinched a look, expecting jacob, but there was blackstrap, stepping in, making great noises in the back porch, rifling through tins of screws and nails resting on a window shelf, finding what he was after, he rushed out, the boy so violently focused he did not even notice the visitor,
at least it were not him
, thought isaac,

out in the yard, blackstrap spat off into the grass, stomped toward the small barn, entering its dimness and heading toward the side wall where a red bicycle rested against the wide planking, bending there, he fitted the tiny screw into the hole in the chain guard, the first screw too loose, sloppy in the hole, the second one with the wrong thread, he stood in a huff, and stepped back from the bicycle, hands in his pockets, turning, he kicked at an empty paint can, it clanged around before wobbling still, a tentative position on its side, wishing to knock down anything near him, the entire barn if need be, to bring back the dead,

he glared at the bicycle, it had to be fixed, and he needed a battery to put inside the silver light casing, too, he could not read the worn sticker on the back of the seat but suspected junior's name spelled there, if it said ‘jacob' or ‘junior' he had no idea, but understood well enough who it belonged to, and it needed fixing, he grabbed the bike by the handlebars and wheeled it out into the yard beside the long patch of vegetable garden, stared at the seat, the worn red and white covering, a hint of grey stuffing along the left edge, the bicycle just about his size, he checked the dirt road slanting up toward the far-off church and school yard, tommy taylor and harold butler rolling screaming down on their bikes, both of them with brush cuts to keep the lice away, seeing blackstrap in the yard, they skidded to a stop beyond the limb fence at the edge of his yard, dust rising, they watched it fill the air and settle,

‘you gotta new bike,' tommy taylor called out, but when they kept watching they knew it was junior's old bike,

blackstrap faced the bike the other way, toward the water, let go the handles and it rolled a few feet, moving on its own wobbly balance down the grade before, falling on its side in a twist, he gave it a kick with the heel of his sneaker,

‘you com'n,' harold butler tilted his head toward the direction they had just ridden from, ‘we're go'n up bald rock,'

blackstrap studied the two boys, then jerked a look at the fallen bike before turning away and heading back into the barn to slam the door and glower in silence,

 

the headland crack along the faultline had widened since the rumble in the earth, junior's life taken by it, for years the boys of bareneed, on dares, had tried entering the hole, only the smallest of them capable of going so far, before bawling out and getting yanked back by others, but now with the crack widened, boys of fourteen or fifteen could aptly fit, blackstrap, scaling down the cliff's ocean-side, was first to discover the wider split, he thought it might be some sort of trick, by how the sun was hung in the sky, but as he reached his arms in, he found that if he leaned a little nearer, his shoulders would fit through, he stared ahead into the limited light, airless black as it stretched off, he squatted on his belly and crawled forward, shifting knees as best he could and squirming to inch ahead, arms out in front of him, no way of turning to see the light behind, only blackness and sprinkling dirt he pressed deeper into, fearing he might suffocate, but liking the feeling of that fear, the snug enclosure with the fright, two of them suiting each other,

blindly edging forward, wondering if the hole might end or shrink to a trapping space, a slower creep ahead, until reaching where his shoulders became tightly fitted to the rock, he could not budge another inch, how far ahead, to the hole on the headland's south side, the hole they often attempted to enter as well, but never could, not a sign of light from it, his eyes felt strange, staring into blackness to see absolutely nothing,

he kicked with his boots and jerked to shove ahead, the rocks close around his face, the crumbling dirt, the struggle jamming him more soundly in the hole, he wondered how far he had come, no way of looking back, the air not much of anything, impossible to take a deep breath, his squat ribs, his hips lifted to back out his upper body, but nothing worked, he was stuck, the hard-edged rough rock to all sides of him, yes, he thought, settling at last, his mind growing sleepy, this is where i belong,

the service was held at bareneed catholic church, up over the hill from the hawco house, father connolly spoke in a calm voice, recalling the young man's intelligence and unique gift for observation, the learned gentleman described how junior hawco grew up just down in the valley from this church, how junior was top of his class and a caring young man, the priest cited examples of junior's kindness, his willingness to always lend a hand, his intense curiosity and years of volunteer work at the retirement home in bay roberts, his goodness toward others, highlighted there now by the giving of his life for another,

‘a hero,' father connolly announced, in a stately manner, ‘a good son, a treasure to be loved, to be cherished, and remembered in our hearts forever,'

the canadian, norman park, had flown back from the mainland to pay his respects, other miners travelled from bell isle, forming a delegation in the back, sad worn faces with bowed heads, a fallen comrade, a young one, the worst kind to go,

norman sobbed into a handkerchief, then coughed and straightened his neck, the men not watching him, leaving him be, norman gazing toward the altar, the casket, its crafted bulk, its new weight, its permanence, he thought back to junior hawco's face, recalling shab reardon's drunken violent sprees at dick's club on the ferry wharf on belle isle, he wiped at his eyes, it was more than he could endure, never such tears before, not even at his own father's funeral years ago,

‘nineteen years old,' the priest said, sustaining that reflective note, pausing, he stared toward the heavens,

a few sobs broke out from the front of the church, making the space sound hollow, empty, but filled to the rafters, men and women stood at the back, spilling out through the entranceway, not a sound, what to say, when to cry,

‘and now a change, always the certainty of change, the community itself soon to shift, one place to another, a new beginning, junior's death, he's found his place, with God, you see it does not matter where we are, as long as we have faith and know in our hearts of our final resting place, where we will be together again when the Lord calls us home, our true home, our only true home,'

in the front row, jacob hawco gritted his teeth, he could not take much more of that babbling ramble, he shut his eyes and squeezed emily's hand tighter, squeezed the tears from her eyes,

‘junior has left us, but he has not really left us…'

norman turned to his side and, with handkerchief covering his mouth, excused himself through the line of standing men, such heart-wrenching morbidity that sucked the breath inward,

the air was cool outside, the sky clear, bright along the tips of spruce that ran off to either side of the road, leading down, beyond bareneed, the road running for miles before connecting with the conception bay highway, moving further east, norman could be in st. john's in an hour,

he stepped away from the church, away from the hearse parked by the door, not far to go to the graveyard and the old tombstones, many from the 1800s, some of them no more than pieces of jagged slate stuck vertically into the ground, something once scraped into their surfaces, he turned away, walked toward his car, over a hundred parked cars and pickups, the community in mourning, all of the vehicles empty, he scanned the makes and models, then saw a black ford galaxie 500, its sides coated with red dust, a man in the driver's seat, the inner compartment hazy with smoke, a big man, hunched over the wheel, shab reardon rolled down his window and tossed out the scorched yellow filter of a cigarette, norman noticed that the car was idling, a beer bottle tipped back, then flung into the trees, making a faint whistling sound as it whirled and scraped among the branches before tinkling into the lower brush,

he can't be waiting for me,
norman thought, nearing his own car, he caught sight of shab's eyes following after him,
he must be here for junior,
he flinched and sobbed aloud as shab barked, ‘what're ya do'n here, fack'n fruitcake,'

norman climbed into his pontiac and engaged the engine, pulling away, he checked his rearview once, then twice, nothing coming, shab staying where he was, norman thinking,
junior protecting me, even in death,
the radio was playing a love song that did its best to make his heart ache, wiping at his face while cruising slowly past the trees, then into the connecting community of cupids, the scattered houses, the inlet and the wharf with the small boats tied up there, the rugged hills and bluffs
spotted with rocks, surrounding him, the rising clumpy barrens, a postcard picture that junior had no place in, norman kept driving until it was gone, and he was on the highway, heading west for the mainland ferry, an eight-hour drive away, leaving the island behind,