Blackstrap Hawco (54 page)

His mother on the ground. His father in the doorway.

‘Get me a pipsi, Junior,' Patsy says, eyes on the program. The intro music for a second. Then a question being asked by a man about love.

Patsy coughs and coughs. Stabs out the cigarette.

Junior passes close to his father. On his way to the kitchen, ‘I saw
Terminator 2
eight times.'

Blackstrap shifts his eyes back to the television. The human horror. No TV if he had his way. But what would Patsy do then? He moves for the kitchen. Follows after Junior.

‘Give that to yer mother,' he says, gesturing toward the can in Junior's hand. ‘And come on out back.'

Junior frowns.

Blackstrap watches his son go out into the living room.

‘Mom, Dad says I have to go out with him.'

‘Junior,' Blackstrap barks. Heading toward the back door. Not wanting to hear any more protests. Shoving it open and out. Striding across the yard. Past the pile of spruce rails and the sawhorse. Alongside the shed. Toward the treeline where he pauses. With hands in his back pockets to look for Junior.

The boy runs toward his father. The tall grass beyond the sawhorse slowing his stride. ‘Where we going?'

‘Into the woods.'

Junior stares to the right of Blackstrap. ‘Is there a path?'

‘There's no need. Come on.' He ducks beneath a low limb. Treads into the brush. He breathes in the sweet smell of the trees. Eyeing the fallen grey trunks with brittle grey branches. The ones he collects for kindling. The branches easily snapped off in his hands. Thirty feet in, he bends. Grabs hold of the long trunk of a fallen evergreen. Grey-dry and without needles.

‘You look fer others. Haul 'em out.' Blackstrap drags the tree. Tangling a bit in grass. Its limbs catching in the ground. Against the rough bark of other trees. He pulls until the branches free themselves. Catch again. Another tug. Continuing with the effort until he is in the clearing. At the back of his father's house.

‘Junior,' he calls. He listens. Lifting the dead tree, he tosses it toward the sawhorse. Where it bounces softly. Bobs.

‘Yes,' a small voice. Muddled and round-sounding through the woods.

‘You com'n?'

‘Yes.' The sound of struggling and then silence. A few moments later. The sound of quiet crying that startles Blackstrap.

He hurries into the woods to find the boy bent there. His small back jerking with sobs.

‘What's the matter?' Blackstrap asks.

‘Look,' Junior says. Lifting his hand. Showing the scratch.

Blackstrap grabs hold of the hand. Stares at it. Then squints meanly at his son. ‘That's nothing.' He watches the boy. Huge wet tears rolling from his eyelashes. ‘Give that foolishness up. That's nothin' ta cry over.'

The boy wipes at his eyes. Tries his best to blink them clear.

‘There's no need.'

The boy nods. Then flinches at the sound of snapping behind him. Scared of the woods. Scared of what might get him. Someone always running away. He twists around. Searches through the screen of trees. A killer. A madman with a torn-up face. Born crazy and deformed. Making noises not words. But only a moose lumbering along. The languid snap-cracking of limbs and brush.

‘Shhh,' says Blackstrap. Hand on the boy's shoulder.

The bull pauses to look at them. Turns its steady head. Balanced with the elaborate weight of antlers. And watches with utter disinterest.

Junior moves to stand. But Blackstrap holds him down. Presses firmly into the boy's shoulder.

The brown bulk of the moose shifts. Its back as high as Blackstrap's head. It steps speculatively. Lifting its nose with a slow swaying motion. Its antlers rustling the branches above.

Junior's breath makes noise in the air. It wetly shivers with fright.

The moose stares intently at Blackstrap. Then dips its head from side to side. As though understanding what is there. The wish for a shotgun. It backs off. Turning its heavy head. Angling its long legs forward. Lumbering deeper into the wilderness that breaks apart. For its entry.

Junior looks up at his father. Smiling with relief. And wiping at his eyes. ‘That was something, huh?'

‘A lot of meat on 'im,' Blackstrap says in a way that makes Junior laugh. The boy feels happy to have survived. Happy to see his father smiling at him. Not disappointed after all. He looks to where the brown bulk of the moose has gone. Barely visible now through the tangle of branches.

‘He's getting away,' Junior says. ‘Get your gun.' Speaking the words he believes his father wants to hear. But they ring false. And Blackstrap looks down at him. Hurriedly, he takes hold of the boy's tree. ‘Stay here. I'll get da shotgun.' Dragging the tree out himself to prove the point. The ease with which it can be done. Then into the house and back out again. The screen door slapping shut. His shotgun in hand. Cartridges slid into the chambers. Snapped shut. After the moose. Back into the trees. Where he finds Junior. ‘Come on.'

But Junior not following. Junior staying put. Junior terrified.

 

While Patsy sleeps, she dreams of her son. Junior sits at their kitchen table. Back in Heart's Content. He is armless. Ruth, rolling on the floor, is armless, too. Patsy's breath is harder to catch than expected. Not knowing where. A pain she cannot find. Blackstrap has taken the arms away. Afraid that she will eat them. She is laughing and crying at once. Wakes with a noise in her throat. In tears, turning in bed. In darkness, she strikes out at Blackstrap. Hits only the empty pillow. Mutters his
name in accusation. Blackstrap not there. Where are her children's limbs? She knows she will not eat them now. It will be okay. The weight in her chest a dream.

A deep breath. She coughs and rises from bed. To make certain she might not be dreaming. Blackstrap is not carting off the limbs. Is he? Woozy and unstable on her feet. She steps into the children's bedroom. Tries to stifle her cough. Sees from the light through the window. Junior and Ruth are sleeping. Soundly beneath their blankets. Their bodies exact. She kisses each of them on their cheeks. On their foreheads. Then steps down the short hallway to the kitchen. Blackstrap not there. Sound coming in from the outside. She notices the front door open. The outer screen door shut.

Out in the dim front yard. Littered with hubcaps, sections of fallen fence, debris from cars…She calls quietly. Still tingling from coming awake. From that place. The stars above her. ‘Blackie?' A cough. That one deeper. It hurts her chest. The chill of the night more noticeable. She steps out further. Sees a light from the bungalow next door. Light cast on its manicured front lawn. The big bay window is lit. The white sheers parted in the centre. She sees the dark outline of a man stood there. It could be anyone. He does not move. A black shadow that begins to scare her. Something in his hands. Something like a shotgun. She calls, ‘Blackie,' into the night. And the man in the window. The black shadow. Turns its head toward the sound. Almost in recognition.

 

(November, 1993)

They are watching the news when Alphonsus Hawco appears. In handcuffs. A stranger's view of him. Not like himself. It takes a second to know it's him being led out of a police car. A policeman on either side. One holding Alphonsus' elbow. Guiding him along. Alphonsus watching straight ahead. How can it be him? There. Like that. Taken from their home two days ago. Now, on TV.

The announcer says: ‘Once heralded as a Newfoundland hero, Alphonsus Hawco, also known as “Blackstrap Hawco,” a vigilante who fought for the fishing rights of fisher people in this province, and a survivor of the worst nautical disaster in Newfoundland history, now a player in yet another tragedy, a tragedy that appears to be of his own
making, the hero now with blood on his hands…Murder in Cutland Junction.'

Patsy glances at her son's face. She lights a cigarette off the butt of another. Wonders if she should turn off the channel. But decides that he should know. What people are saying. What his father is being charged with. So he won't be ignorant. She takes a swig from the cough syrup bottle. Sweet and bitter at once.

‘Hey,' Junior gasps. Pointing at the screen. Flickering with colours and movement. Darting his shocked eyes toward his mother. In his head, those images. ‘That's Dad.' He stands from where he has been sitting on the carpet. And slowly steps backward. Away from the screen. Toward the couch. Toward his mother. One hand coming to rest on the cushion near his mother's leg.

Patsy watches too. Sighing deeply. Knowing that something like this would happen. Sooner or later. Blackstrap always heading that way. A wheeze wanting to be a cough. She clamps it in. Takes another drink from the cough syrup bottle. Life going bad. When it had seemed to be going good. Everything snaking out of control. The police. A dead man. Because she had expected good things. Good things were not possible.

Not now. Anymore.

When the news story ends, Patsy says, ‘Was an accident, Junior.'

‘What happened?' Junior's face ticking with emotion. He tries to hold his anger. ‘What…' But soon falls against his mother. Crying outright. Arms tight around her waist.

Patsy holding him. Wheezing in his ear. Not wanting to cough. Thinking,
And you just got him back. Poor little soul.

‘They're gonna put him in jail,' Junior sobs.

‘I don't know.' She kisses the top of his head. A terrible ache in her stomach. A watery burning feeling that turns to nausea. Shakes her head to deny it. Make it go away. Please. Rising from somewhere deeper. Moving Junior away from her. She stands from the couch. Has to hurry to the bathroom.

She will not look in the toilet. When she stands from her knees. She knows the scarlet colour would frighten her.

‘Mom?' Junior's voice. From behind the door. ‘You okay, Mom?'

‘Yuh, fine, just something I ate, sweet'eart.' She retches again. Nothing coming up. But acid. Revulsion. A low desperate moan in her throat.

Tiny drops of pink on the toilet seat. Wiping her mouth. Wiping the seat. She tosses the tissue into the water. Flushes it. The water swirling down. The sound making her feel weaker. Insignificant. Frightened. To expect so much. Even inside her. Admitting now with this news of Blackstrap. News she already knew before. Once in her mind, everywhere now. Broadcast. Him taken away. Ruth watching him go. Her tiny arm held out. Fingers opening and closing. ‘Bye, bye, Daddy.'

With Blackstrap gone, Patsy feels horribly ill. Who will care for her children? She will not cry.
Fuh'k.
Weakness. Then greater anger.
Fuh'k, no
. She stomps her foot as a threat. Clamps her teeth together. Turns to see her thin, yellowish-green face in the mirror. And curses God.

 

(April, 1994)

Karen knew she would eventually find herself. In this place. Only a matter of time. To muster the courage to face him. Perfectly honest about where she was going. Telling Kevin of her plans. And he was reasonable about it. Kissing her. And wishing her well. Supportive. A quick visit before they left Newfoundland.

‘I just want to clear some things up.'

‘Yes, I understan',' he had said. Smiling at her. And touching her arms. Holding them gently. Always gently. How lucky was she to have found him?

An understanding husband-to-be. What every woman dreams of. A man in a uniform. Tall and handsome.

An old guard in a grey uniform unlocks the main steel door. It is painted green. Freshly painted, perhaps by one of the prisoners, she imagines.
Their chores, when not hammering big rocks into smaller rocks.
The guard not looking directly at her. Out of respect. A friendly man. Holding his arm out every so often. To signal the way across the inner courtyard. Surrounded by the walls. Leading her toward a room. Along a compound with wire-mesh windows.

‘Careful,' says the guard as Karen steps up three wooden stairs. Enters a door into a small room. Two long wooden tables and wooden chairs.
Old heavy chairs,
she thinks, finding it strange. With the newness of the
structure.
Maybe they took them from some older place,
she tells herself.
A place where they used to hang people.
She has to press her lips together. To stop from giggling. She must be nervous. She wonders if she can get through this meeting. Without laughing in Blackstrap's face. So happy with her life. Even this place cannot smother it. She coughs lightly. Sits where the old guard gestures with his arm straight out. His head slightly bowed. Backing away. Apologetic for having to be in her presence. In this place.

Karen joins her hands on the tabletop. Moves her thumbs around. She is wearing a pretty spring dress. Bright and flowery. Cut low in the front. A push-up bra. Her skin tanned from the Hawaiian Sun solarium. Her hair dyed Natural, Ultra-light, Summer Blonde. Her contact lenses tinted True Hazel. Twenty-five pounds slimmer. Blackstrap might not even recognize her. Then she hears the door open. Is startled by the sound of boots stepping. The freshness of outer air breezing into the room. She looks up.
Sweet Jesus!
She had forgotten his solidness. Not his bigness. But his impenetrable sense of being. The power of his eyes. The piercing quality of his stare. The roguishness of his face.
All of us,
Karen thinks.
Here, in this room, for him.

A younger guard follows behind him. Moves over to the corner. Stands there.

Blackstrap waits near the table. His hands are not cuffed. Karen thought they might be. Should be. There is only a table. No glass between them. Not what she expected. What she imagined from movies. Talking through a telephone. Not enough distance. Separation. He sits directly across from her. Open air between them.

Right away. He knows who she is. Smiles at her. A corner of his lips rising. In a way that tells everything about her. What has she done now? What to herself? His eyes, bright and cool blue like his father's.
He is a man,
she thinks.
Stuck somewhere. A dependable specimen. Locked away for killing a man…who raped me.
This is real. The thought exhausts her. A shiver troubles the back of her neck. Her shoulders twitch in reflex. She shifts in her chair. With him right across from her. That close. Watching her. Not a word out of him. He could reach out and touch her. She puts her hands off the table. Down in her lap. She has lost her voice. She tries to say: how are you? But the words lodge in her throat.
She blushes now. Is humiliated by him. Feels ashamed. For the way her body is. A body he always liked. Never complained about. And the baby. Kevin's baby. Due in six months.
It should be his baby,
she tells herself.
Even this, all wrong. Why isn't it his baby? What went wrong?