Blackstrap Hawco (55 page)

Her life perfect. Perfectly changed.

‘You lost a pound er two,' Blackstrap says. The look in his eyes. Wondering what is up. ‘Hair's longer.' He nods slightly as if in agreement. ‘Different colour.' Avoids glancing at her chest. But he knows.

‘Yes,' she manages.

‘What da fuh'k did you do with yer eyes?' He lifts two fingers. Scratches at the stubble on his right cheek. Laughs a bit. Leans his head to the side. Glancing over his shoulder, he eyes the guard. Stood against the wall with his hands behind his back. The man stares toward the other wall. Trying to be invisible.

‘Jimmy,' he says to Karen. Tilting his head toward the guard.

‘Oh.' She looks at him. ‘Hi.'

‘Hello, missus,' Jimmy says, smiling nicely.

‘Jim used to be a fisherman,' Blackstrap says. ‘Down in Bareneed.'

Karen picks up the line. ‘Wasn't everyone, once?'

Blackstrap nods. Stares for a stretch of time. ‘I helped build dese walls, 'member?'

‘Yes.' And Karen finds herself aroused. By the mere set of his shoulders. His position in the chair. The way he straightens himself now. Holding his shoulders back a touch. Like he will tap a tune out on the table with his fingers. The way he says very little. Only watches her. Knowing her better than any man ever has. Knowing her the moment he first laid eyes on her. For the way she was, not is. Not now. Was.
On this table
, she thinks, blushing.
Right now.
She would let him. Wasn't he allowed such a visit? Wasn't there a place in the prison for one last time?

‘You okay?' he asks.

She could break down. By the way he has spoken those words.

‘Yes.' She smiles for him. Capped, whitened teeth. Paid for by Kevin with not a mention of cost.

Blackstrap's eyes turn sad. They seem worried for her. Concerned. A sigh through his nostrils. He bows his head. Stares at his fingers flat on the edge of the tabletop.

‘Thank you,' Karen says. For the death. For the murder. No, for him caring. For him doing.

Blackstrap presses his lips together. Keeps his head bowed. When he looks up. He turns his face away. Eyes glassy.

Karen shakes her head solemnly. What sort of creature are you?

And Blackstrap looks right at her. Searches her eyes, harshly, lovingly. Searches her eyes to see what she has done to herself. Not what she thinks of him. But if she is okay.

‘I'm…' Karen cannot say the words. She notices his fingers. His gold wedding band back on. Married to Patsy instead of her. Still married. All of this she had wished to forget. She had come here to make a clean break. Now, she is filled with hope. By the thought of them behind these walls. Locked away. Together. Goodbye. With the baby in her. Goodbye. How does she ask? She will not. She did not come here for that. She knows that she came for something else. His forgiveness. Why? For what? Not the tugging away to be released. But the tugging away that tightens the hold.

‘Where you been?' he asks. And she has no idea what he is talking about.

‘What d' you mean?'

‘Where'd you disappear to?'

Her breasts ache. Throb. As if someone has punched her. As if her entire body has shrunk protectively. Around the baby. It was a dream, or is this a dream? Her features collapse beneath the make-up. No matter what she does to herself. There is no protection against him.

Blackstrap knows about the other man. The policeman. RCMP. The Frog from Montreal. Constable Kevin Pope. What sort of name is that? For a Frenchman. For a separatist. He has heard these things. He looks away, toward the window. He can read everything in her face. Sense the slightest shifts in expression. Mine the deeper truth. As he might sniff the changing air. Hours before rain. And bluntly comment that a downpour was coming.

There is nothing she can do to change that.

‘What'd you come ta tell me?' he asks, still staring out the window. Snow along the grass in patches. The coolness lingering into April. No early spring in Newfoundland. Not ever.

‘I'm sorry,' she says. Her voice cracking. Strength draining. What left to do, but leave. She braces her hands to stand. Looking toward the guard. In a small voice: ‘Can I go now, please?'

‘I just have to call someone.' The guard named Jimmy picks up the phone on the wall. Presses buttons. Then speaks lowly. She will not look at Blackstrap again. In the corners of her eyes. She sees that he is staring at her belly. The slight rise. The new life. But she does not want him to see now. The mistake. He will not meet her eyes. The baby a shame so near him. Her breasts. How will she feed the baby? Who will feed the baby? Not her. The doctor had told her.

The door behind her opens. There are two doors to the room. One for visitors. One for prisoners. Karen turns. To see the apologetic older man with his sloppy moustache. He nods once and gestures with his arm. His jacket seeming a touch too big. The sleeves extending down over his wrists.

Karen walks toward the old guard. No last look at Blackstrap.

‘Don't come around no more,' he says, speaking plainly. ‘There's nothing holding you to me.'

Struck in her heart. An exhale close to a sob. She follows the old guard down the stairs. Across the yard. Heading for the steel door. The guard smiles and nods sadly. When he finally looks at her. After the door has been opened. And she has stepped through. He wants to say something. What? Some final word. Something about why she is here. Finally, the old guard says: ‘He's not a bad man.' And the steel door closes with a loud sound. Final. A noise that makes her feel as if
she
is the one barred in. Stepping back to capture a better view. Of where she has come from. The high concrete walls she now fears. The barbed wire coiled along the top. The parking lot behind her. And further on, the woods. In every direction. The paved road that leads only to here and stops. This place built for him.

Cars parked in a flat parking lot. She gets in hers. Starts the engine. The new car. Kevin's. Drives off. Her eyes in the rearview. The towering walls in the middle of forest. A make-work project. Built by the locals. Men Blackstrap knew and told her about. Fallen on hard times. After the collapse of the fishery. A rise in crime. In desperate acts. The government knew. They would need a prison to keep the men.

She watches the road. But sees Blackstrap being led back to his cell. Not a word from him. Not a gesture to anyone near him. Stepping across the threshold. His door shut. His face behind bars. Watching out. Just like that. Never moving again. Not even needing a breath. His misery so complete.

Goodbye, Karen Hawco. With the baby in her.

 

‘We were talking about criminals in school today,' Junior tells Patsy. ‘A policeman came in and I was asking him about prison. He had the same name as the Pope.'

‘Mmm.' Patsy watches her son. From the pillow where her head rests. She carefully licks her pale dry lips. Searching her son's face. Then shuts her eyes against the drought.

Junior looks down at Ruth. Stood there. Staring back up at him. Rubber boots on her feet. The ones she will never take off. No other clothes on. Except the baseball cap on her head. His father's.

‘Hi,' he says. Smiling at her. Playing up to his mother. A trick he learned from the time Ruth was born. Brought home from the hospital. Junior trying for that extra bit of attention. Because of the baby. ‘You need your diaper changed, Boo-baby?'

‘Dewnrr,' Ruth says. Smiling wildly and smacking her hands together. Then reaching both hands up for him. Opening and closing her fists. ‘Dewnrr. Dewnrr. Da-da.'

He lays her on her back against the floor. The toddler moves her legs to kick and wriggle. Then grabs a nearby slipper. Holds it in both her hands. Studying it closely for a while. Then pushing the edge into her mouth.

‘Don't move,' he tells Ruth. Then looks at his mother. ‘When can we go see Dad?'

Patsy shifts her head to one side. Attempting to shake it. But the action is cut short. Too tired, medicated. Heavy thoughts,
He only cares 'bout his father. Junior.
Images of Blackstrap. Meanness like the cancer. Because he has drawn the shadow over himself too. Put himself away. Not there for her or the children. She has not called social services yet. She cannot bring herself close to the thought. Turning her children over to strangers. What will happen to her children? She has seen all sorts of
horror stories on
Oprah
and
Geraldo
. She wishes her parents were still alive. Had not had her so late in life. So they died when she was in her late twenties. Her mother, then her father. Finding no point in surviving his wife. There was her mother's sister, Aunt Frances. But she was too old now. Kind and wonderful. But too old now to care for children. Who could she ask? Her friends back in Heart's Content? Her mind swims over their faces. Female friends. Unmarried or with their own children. She would ask. She would beg.

The pain Patsy feels welcomes death. The unbearable discomfort and nausea. But not the thought of leaving her children. In the hands of others. That makes her illness consumptive. Well past this earth she will leave. Well past her body. Her sickness ruining the lives of her children. Eating up their lives, too. She moans. Perhaps there is a special hell for parents. Who leave their children unattended on earth. She moans again, her mouth open. Shifting, she shuts her eyes.

‘You okay?' Junior asks. Looking up from wiping Ruth's behind and legs. With the scented baby wipes. Patsy can smell the scent. Sweet. It turns her stomach. Her festering head.

Fear in his voice?
Patsy asks herself.

‘No, I'm 'kay.' She manages a smile. Looks at him. Amazed by how beautiful he is. How beautiful her daughter is. They are perfect angels.

‘Should I call the doctor?' Junior slides the new diaper under Ruth's bottom. Fastens the sticky flaps. The old diaper looks heavy when he lifts it. Closes it over.

‘Stinky,' he says, as Ruth rolls over onto her belly. Pushes herself up to her feet. Comes close to the couch. Where Patsy is lying and reaches up. Grasping and grasping. ‘Mam, mam, mam…'

‘There,' he says. Taking hold of Ruth's hands. Ruth lifts her shoulders in a shy gesture.

‘You wanna watch some TV?' he asks.

‘TB,' Ruth squeals. Crouching and springing up. Bouncing from one foot to the other. ‘TB.'

Junior checks his mother. Hurt by how she is quietly crying. He presses close to the edge of the couch. His arms dangling uselessly by his sides. Ruth grasps the blanket Junior has put over his mother. Pulls on it as she tries climbing up. The movement pains Patsy. She makes a
noise. Ruth stops. Rests her head on her mother's thin, seemingly hollow, chest. Junior nibbles at the side of his thumb. Smiles at his sister. While her head stays there. Her thumb in her mouth. Big eyes watching him. His mother's bone-thin hand coming out. From under the blanket. To settle on Ruth's head. To stroke her soft hair.

 

(June, 1994)

The airplane taxis down the runway. Karen watches the St. John's airport. A small, brick building. The gas trucks. The distant tower. Forest along the perimeter. She stares toward her carry-on at her feet. Beneath the chair in front of her. Then feels a hand settling on top of hers.

‘Nervous?' asks Constable Pope, caringly. Watching her eyes.

‘Yeah.' She smiles. Happy to show her white teeth. Taking her hand away from him. Still with thoughts of Blackstrap. Not leaving Newfoundland. But leaving him. Her belly making her uncomfortable. Five months pregnant. She sets both hands on the rise. Very noticeable now. The maternity clothes she needs to wear. Pants with stretchy waists. She watches her fingernails. Glued on. Red. Polished. That stroke each other. Shiny. But hard to feel. Amazed that she has agreed to go away. To Montreal. She's never travelled before. Never out of the province.

‘Montreal is nice place,' says Pope. Eyes on the oval window. The plane moving. ‘A good vacation to go.'

The airplane roars along. Pressing her into the seat. Roaring faster. Then tilts her back. And up. The feeling Karen gets when she lifts away. The weightlessness in her legs. Her body light. A natural flush rises in her plump cheeks. She hates the colour. What it does to her skin. She looks out the window. Her eyes trouble her. As the island drops further beneath. Ugly land. Tangles of trees. So deep green they are black. Ponds. Lonely roads. Houses clumped together around water. In the middle of nowhere.

Her stomach shrinks. Rising. The coast evident from this high up. The broken shoreline. The steep cliffs.

Leaving Blackstrap. The island behind.

Karen understands. That this was always meant to be. Far. Far away.

Far. Far away. Where there are real people. And real things to do. Bright lights and tall buildings.

Constable Pope will show her new places. Has already mentioned. Place des Arts. Musée d'art contemporain de Montréal, Place Jacques-Cartier. Old Montreal. With its cafés. Cobblestones. Horse-drawn carriage. A romantic. European sort of place. Like the sort she read about. When she was a teenager.

 

A row of limousines waiting outside.
Sorte.
Dorval airport. Limousine.
Limousine.
The same in French. Karen recognizes it.

Constable Pope steps toward the limo. As if it is something done every day. And the man.
Bonjour.
In the uniform smiles. Touches the shiny beak of his black cap. Opens the trunk to load their luggage. The limousine smells nice. Newly rich. And luxurious. The radio low. Karen picks out a few words:
Crise. Pistolet. Sang.
Karen holds Constable Pope's hand. Tightly. Love wells up in her chest. This life she has been given. For him and the baby. Three together. And she leans toward him. Kisses his cheek.
Officier. Tueur. Femmes. Évasion.

‘Happy?' Constable Pope asks. Reacting with pleasure.

‘Yes.' She kisses him again. Perfume in her nostrils. ‘This is perfect.'