Blackstrap Hawco (64 page)

At first, Blackstrap hadn't noticed what was up front, in the corner. A group of young girls in white blouses and black skirts with red bows in their hair. Just as his eyes caught sight of them, the lights had shut off in the church and candles gave off the only light in the high-ceilinged building.

The voices of the young girls rose at once. It was like a humming at first and then the words: ‘Siiiilent night, hooooly night, allllll is calm, alllll is bright…' drifted high out over the crowd. The sound was something to hear. It brought a contented, heart-warming smile to Blackstrap's lips. He glanced at his father's face and saw the same sort of look, like he was witnessing one of the sweetest and most sacred things imaginable. But when he checked his mother's face, he saw in the candlelight that her eyes were glistening. She stared toward the group of singing little girls and the tears spilled, sheening on her face, running free, until she wiped them away with her palm.

That was the last time Blackstrap's mother attended church. And it was only a few months later that Blackstrap and Jacob stopped going to Sunday mass.

Blackstrap clears his mind of the memory and thinks of Agnes. He turns on his side and stares at the wall. His guitar leaned there. He feels like sitting up and playing a quiet tune. But the image of his wrecked boat pins him down and the tremble stirs in him again. He wonders what he will tell his father. What people will think of the accident. Will they know it was him? Who in the houses down in Bareneed might have seen him?

Agnes. The centre of everything that gives him pleasure and displeasure. He draws his straying thoughts back to her. And reaches down inside his underwear to steady himself with her in mind.

 

In the morning, Blackstrap wakes to hear his father putting wood in the kitchen stove. The solid clang of metal against metal as the round damper is slid back over the hole. The noise of Jacob's bootsteps against the wooden plank flooring.

Blackstrap stays where he is, staring at the ceiling. Christmas morning. The wrecked boat troubling his spirit. If he had a dream while he slept, he cannot recall it. There is no Santa Claus. There hasn't been
since his tenth birthday. Their first year in Cutland Junction when he told his mother and father there was no need to keep up with the foolishness. He knew the truth of it. The presents were hidden in the cupboard under the stairs that went nowhere now. The North Pole was nothing but snow. He'd been told that by one of the boys in the new school he was soon to give up on. Going off into the woods instead when he left with his bookbag in the morning.

His mother will not be up yet. She always sleeps late, even on Christmas morning, or maybe even longer on Christmas morning.

Blackstrap throws back the covers and climbs out of bed, his socks still on, his jeans and salt-and-pepper sweater, his thick short hair sticking up in different directions. The dampness at his knees has dried. Deeper regret takes hold of him as he recalls last night in more detail. His mind bringing him back there against his will. Even worse now on an empty stomach. Terrible regret and fear.

Out in the hallway, he passes in front of his mother's room. Not a sound inside. He goes into the bathroom and relieves himself. And the smell of bacon reaches him, his father cooking Christmas breakfast. Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Toast. Cinnamon rolls. They'll eat a big load and then sit in chairs or lie down on the sofa lamenting the intake of every morsel.

When Blackstrap enters the kitchen, Jacob is quick with ‘Merry Christmas.' He reaches out and musses up Blackstrap's hair.

‘Merry Christmas,' Blackstrap quietly responds, straightening his hair.

The boat. He cannot check his father's face. Meet his father's eyes. Look to see what might be there.

‘Let's get at dem presents.' Jacob rubs his palms together.

Blackstrap heads for the back door and goes outside to smell the air. It is fresh. A clear morning. Every morning, he steps outside to get a sense of things. In the distance, there are church bells. Snow in the trees, the limbs full and heavy. It must have snowed while he was sleeping. Quiet snow. Heavy, gentle snow. Tracks in the snow toward the barn. A cat's paws.

‘Give yer mudder a call,' says Jacob when Blackstrap returns to the kitchen.

‘Sure.'

‘Dose presents need da wrap ripped right off 'em, 'n fast.'

Blackstrap knocks on his parents' door. ‘Mom?'

No reply.

He knocks again, listens. Nothing. He goes back to the kitchen. ‘She's not getting up,' he says.

Jacob doesn't respond. He sniffs and clears his throat. Turns strips of bacon around in the black skillet. The fat sizzles and pops. Jacob swipes at his arm. ‘Christly fat,
fuh'k
dat burns.'

Blackstrap knows that his father is angry because his mother cannot get up, cannot get over Junior or Ruth. His mother has been crippled by their deaths. He's heard his father's voice behind the bedroom door, rising in argument. ‘Nut'n left o' ye but get'n up 'n going back ta bed. Yer lost in da past. Lost yer joy. Get yer head outta da past, womb'n.'

Blackstrap sits at the table and pours himself a mug of tea. His father goes through the motions, his actions louder than usual. Finally, done with getting things together, he turns and heads for the hallway.

The telephone rings. Blackstrap looks at it, thinking on whether or not he will answer it. Someone about the smashed-up boat.

‘Get da Christly phone,' Jacob calls back.

Blackstrap bolts to his feet and lifts the receiver from the arc of its steel cradle. ‘'Lo?'

‘Hi,' says the lovely voice on the other end. ‘Merry Christmas.'

Agnes.

‘Fer Christ's sake, Em'ly,' Jacob gripes from the bedroom. ‘Christmas morn'll be gone da once.'

There is silence. Strained.

Blackstrap listens, aware that something is the matter. He holds the receiver away from his ear.

‘Blacky?' says Agnes' far-off voice.

‘Em'ly?' says his father, worried.

Blackstrap stands perfectly still, listening.

‘Em'ly! Lard Jaysus Christ! Blacky!'

 

Chapter II – 1972-1973

The Munich Olympics

 

(March, 1972, 18 years old)

They leave under the cover of night. Blackstrap drives the pickup while Jacob sits in the passenger seat with a stack of Tory leaflets on his lap and a staple gun in one hand. He clicks the handle of the gun in beat to his thoughts. He watches ahead through the windshield, his eyes intent on coming deeds, while the car rolls down the valley into Cutland Junction.

‘'Ere,' barks Jacob in a whisper, hurriedly tilting his head toward the slushy side of the road.

Blackstrap stops the pickup and Jacob scrambles from the passenger seat, leaving the door open while he slaps a leaflet on a power pole and fires a staple into each of its four corners. In four seconds, he's back in the pickup, the cold air trailing him in.

‘Go,' he says, ‘drive,' watching the pole, his head turning as the pickup rolls ahead. Done admiring his handiwork, he searches the side of the road beside him.

‘'Ere,' Jacob says, the passenger door already open before the pickup is fully stopped, the asphalt moving beneath him. He leaps down. And Blackstrap hears the snap of bone. Jacob tilts with a groan and goes over as Tory leaflets wildly flutter into the air.

 

‘If dat bastard Smallwood weren't driving da province inta bankruptcy and using da money ta repair roads instead, I wouldn't 'a snapped me leg in half in a Christly pot'ole.' Jacob pauses a moment, while the doctor wraps the wet rolls of plaster cast around his leg. He stares ahead and searches around inside his head, then he chuckles. ‘Reminds me of a story yer brudder Junior, God rest 'is soul, tol' me years ago. 'E always loved ta tell a story.'

The emergency room in Carbonear is practically deserted, the curtains drawn around the narrow stalls and empty beds. At first, Jacob had refused to visit the hospital, opting to continue putting up flyers. But while the cutting pain continued and Jacob sweated buckets, Blackstrap told him that if he didn't get it checked, gangrene might set in and he'd lose the leg.

‘Dun't be so goddamn foolish,' Jacob had gritted through the pain that was making his eyes go wild. ‘Dey'd never get dis leg off me. Like ta see 'em try. Christ! I been t'rew worse, in a woods widt creatures try'n ta chow down on me.' But, after a while, Jacob just sat there in the pickup seat, his face covered in sweat, his fingers gripping the Tory flyers as spasms swept through him. Blackstrap had just driven to the hospital, despite his father's half-hearted protests.

In the emergency room, Blackstrap searches his father's face. It's the first time he's heard his father mention Junior's name in the ten years since his death.

Jacob quiets down, looking around, like he's only now realizing where he might be. He chuckles again. The pain not so bad, it seems. The medication kicking in. A shot of something as soon as he got in there.

Blackstrap waits. The doctor rinses his hands in the sink. He's dark-skinned, from somewhere in Pakistan by the looks of him. ‘Keep a good eye on those potholes when you're walking next time,' says the doctor, smiling.

‘Tell dat bastard Smallwood. Son of a whore.'

The doctor laughs. ‘Let it dry a while before you go. Twenty minutes ought to do it.'

‘Let me tell ya dis story, doc. Got a second?'

‘Yes, one second.'

‘Junior knew a feller name 'a Hedley Basha who worked in da mine office over on Bell Isle. Junior were in da office one day on an errand 'n Hedley Basha were in dere bawling like a baby on da telephone ta 'is wife. “Marjorie,” he were bawling. “Marjorie, Marjorie, I broke me leg.” Junior couldn't believe dat da man were sitting dere on a chair lookin' perfectly fit. “'E weren't in any sort o' pain—”'

A nurse enters the close quarters of the cubicle. ‘They need you. Bed four.'

‘Excuse me.' The doctor looks at Jacob's leg, then leaves.

Jacob frowns, checks down at the plaster cast, seemingly vexed with it. ‘Dis is gonna be itchy, mark me words.'

Blackstrap waits for the rest of the story. He hasn't heard it before, strangely enough. But Jacob will not continue. Blackstrap knows his father won't utter another word until the doctor returns to the stall. They wait in silence. Blackstrap checks over the walls. Picks up some of the instruments. Looks them over. He studies a chart. Inside things with words printed next to them.

The doctor does not return. Finally, a nurse appears in the curtained section and tells them they can leave. ‘Come back and see us in a week.'

On the half-hour ride back to Cutland Junction, Jacob keeps his mouth shut. He rubs the cast every now and then, lifts his hand near his face, looks at his palm, at his fingers.

When they arrive home, Emily is at the kitchen table, staring at the floor. She watches Blackstrap come in and lean on the counter. He folds his arms, his eyes on the back doorway. The sounds of Jacob lumbering up the driveway, not wanting any sort of assistance. Even refusing the crutches that were offered. Emily stands when she sees Jacob appear, struggling to move the way he is. ‘What happened?'

‘Wolf chewed me leg half off, 'fore I blinded 'im widt me own piss.' His hand on the kitchen door frame. He turns away to face the hallway, seeming to wonder where he'll go now.

‘What?'

‘He broke it in a pothole,' says Blackstrap.

‘A pothole?'

‘Jumping from the pickup.'

‘Everything okay?' She frets after Jacob, touching his arm.

‘Nut'n to it,' says Jacob, pulling away, and limping off to make it seem worse than it might actually be.

He stops to take a few breaths, stays there like he's confused. He turns back for the kitchen. Blackstrap tries helping his father, but Jacob swats at him, ‘Paws off. I can manage.' One hand going for the table edge while he shuts his eyes to let Emily catch a full whiff of his torment. ‘I could do widt a bit of a lie down,' he says, turning and heading for the bedroom, with Blackstrap near his side. It takes a while to get into the
bedroom. Jacob drops down on the edge of the bed, lying back. ‘Christly cast. Leg made of frigg'n stone.' Exhausted, Jacob watches the wall. Then, remembering, shifts his eyes to Blackstrap. ‘I were tell'n you 'bout Junior.'

Emily stands in the bedroom doorway. A shadow masking the hallway light behind her.

‘Dun't get yer knickers crooked, womb'n. Ever'tin's right rosy.'

‘Can I get you something?'

‘A beer.'

‘Did the doctor give you painkillers?'

‘Shot me widt sum'tn dat a beer'd go right lovely widt.'

‘You shouldn't drink with that then?'

‘Whatever ye say, b'y.'

Emily backs away and is gone.

‘Shut da door,' Jacob tells Blackstrap. ‘G'wan.'

Blackstrap does as instructed.

‘So, dere were dis feller dat Junior tol' me 'bout, a feller widt da snapped leg. Jus' like wha' befell me. He were on da phone 'n—'

Bright light spills over Jacob's face, and Blackstrap turns to look toward the bedroom doorway. Emily comes into the room with a bowl of soup.

‘You should eat this now,' she says. ‘I've had it on the stove all day.'

‘Naw, I'm fine.'

Emily stands there with the bowl in her hands. ‘You both look guilty of something.'

‘Guilty?' asks Jacob. ‘Dun't be so foolish.'

Emily watches Jacob's face until he can't take it any longer. ‘Awright,' he says, ‘I'll have a drop. Lay'er dere.' He points to the bedside table.

Emily sets the bowl down.

‘T'anks, me love,' he says.

Emily gives him a tiny smile and glances at Blackstrap. ‘Hungry? It's late.' Her hands joined in front of her.

Blackstrap shakes his head.

‘You're never hungry. I know, you just eat to eat.' She waits, taking quiet pleasure in watching Jacob and Blackstrap. ‘The stove needs some splits when you're ready.'

‘Okay,' says Blackstrap.

Emily turns and leaves.

‘Shut da door,' says Jacob.

The door clicks shut.

Jacob looks at the bowl, turns up his nose. ‘Fine soup, but I ain' got no stomach fer it. Da pain robs a man of his will ta slip a morsel o' food inta 'is trap.' Jacob shifts his gaze toward Blackstrap who's now leaned against the wall. He then eyes the rocking chair beside the bed. ‘Have a seat why dun't ya. Yer making me nervous stood up dere.'

Blackstrap does as his father says.

‘So.' Jacob glances toward the door, waits, listens. ‘Hedley Basha were bawling and bawling. Everyone in da office were lookin' at 'im. 'N Junior couldn't believe 'is ears. “Me leg is broke,” says 'Edley. “Me good leg. I broke me good leg.” Good leg? Junior were wondering. What's he on about? But it were jus' den dat Junior noticed what were resting on da top of da office desk beside da phone.'

‘What?'

‘It were his wooden leg, snapped in two.'

Blackstrap chuckles.

‘Oooow, Marjorie,' says Jacob. ‘Ooow, I broke me leg. Ooooow. Me good leg.'

‘So what happened?'

‘ 'Is wife bought 'im a new leg from 'ome. But it weren't as nice as da one dat broke off, as da first one were belonged ta 'is dead fadder who 'ad it 'anded down ta 'im from 'is fadder before 'im. All miners dey were. Tough as nails, but not too handy widt dere legs by da sound o' t'ings.'

 

(May, 1972)

When Blackstrap pulls his father's pickup into the lane, he sees a yellow VW Bug parked up further in the driveway. He thinks of backing out and parking on the road, not wanting to bar the vehicle in, but decides against it. Whoever owns the car should've known better. He looks in his rearview, the load of spruce and fir he's just cut from the west side of Coombs Hill blocking his view. A few clumps of snow stuck to the bark. Snow still in the woods, not melted yet like it has from the wet fields and roads.

His own car, the Galaxie 500, is on the other side of the house, up on a ramp. The front axle snapped. He leaves it there, not wanting to fix it. It reminds him of Agnes. He had bought it with her in mind. Only three months since she's left for the mainland with her family. And the pain still there in his gut whenever he thinks of her face. She used to call and tell him about everything that was going on where she was, the other Newfoundlanders she'd come across, the difference in the stores and land, but he didn't have much to say now that she was gone across all that distance. And all the things she told him only made him feel more and more like she had deserted him, that she was having a good time, a good life without him, while he was miserable. The more he heard, the more he was silenced. Every word drained out of him by her descriptions. He couldn't get over being angry with her. Agnes must have known it because she stopped calling. She'd sent him letters, too, but he'd stuffed them away in the secret box he kept on the top shelf of his closet. No time for trying to figure out what they meant.

His stomach grumbles and he plans on something to eat before delivering the load of firewood to Isaac Tuttle. Tuttle wasn't home when he tried him earlier and Blackstrap wasn't going to leave the load there and then chase after Tuttle for the money. It's peculiar that he's delivering wood to Tuttle, when Tuttle used to deliver coal to them down in Bareneed. The need for fire never gave up on anyone. Blackstrap recalls Isaac's truck that used to pull up in his family's yard. He used to watch Isaac shovelling coal into the chute that went down into the crawl space under the house. The fine black dust hanging in the air like a big smudge of something waiting to settle. He'd always be the one to go down through the hatch in the kitchen floor, and come up with a pail of coal.

Blackstrap scratches his sideburn with the back of his thumb. Climbs out of the pickup. When he passes by the VW Bug, he sees a small plastic girl with a grass skirt on the dashboard. He's seen one before. The girl wobbles when you drive. On the passenger seat there's a book, a blue cover with a white seagull on it.

In the kitchen, a fellow in a pair of jeans and a brown velour shirt. He's at the kitchen table with Jacob. The fellow's hair is down to his shoulders and parted in the middle. He has on round wire glasses. Like
the type the Beatle, John Lennon, wears. There's some sort of old book on the table. The young fellow looks at Blackstrap and gives a big smile. He stands from his seat and – with an eager jerk of his shoulder – offers his hand to Blackstrap.

Jacob is already smiling. He's been in particularly good spirits since Smallwood finally resigned as Liberal Party leader back in January. That means a new leader and another election. No doubt, Smallwood will be given the boot this time. That victory has practically obliterated any mention of the wrecked boat. His father had ranted and raved when he heard the news from Jimmy Shears. The boat gone from the wharf and the scrap of it found near shore. Wrecked. The police had been by to investigate. Blackstrap had assumed that his father would know it was him. But it could have been anyone because a set of keys was always left on board. No insurance. No boat. But Blackstrap was saving to buy another. Jacob was saving. There was talk of Ted Hutchings, a distant cousin, selling his boat for so much down, so much every month to help them out. But Jacob didn't like owing anyone money for anything he had. Credit was a curse, he said.

‘Bill Riche,' the young fellow announces.

Blackstrap looks at the hand. Shakes it without giving over his name.

‘Dis be da feller I tol' ye 'bout.'

‘Who's that?' says Blackstrap. Moving to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. He thinks of his mother while he runs the water. He wonders if his father has checked on her. The pump cuts in from the back room. He doesn't hear what's said in return. He soaps up his hands but the blackened sap doesn't come off his palms and fingers. He watches out the window, then shuts off the tap. What he needs is gasoline. Gasoline'll wash anything from his hands.