Blackstrap Hawco (68 page)

Then he'd go back to his room. The hookers would say goodnight to him on the way. Like they were normal. Nice young women. Like they might be his sister in a room. In a house at bedtime. And it was time to say goodnight. Simple and sweet as that. It would bring tears to his eyes. Something like love in him. The sounds of them saying goodnight. One after the other. Goodnight, Blackstrap. They knew his name because he wanted them to know it. Goodnight, Blacky. Sleep tight, honey.

Going into the rooming house, he'd always be quiet. He wouldn't trip up over the stairs. Taking them one at a time. Quiet as a mouse. He'd get in his room. Shut the door. He'd sit on his bed and watch the wall. A small room. In a city that seemed stuck between old and new. He'd fall back on his bed. Look at the stupid ceiling. He shouldn't be there. He didn't want any of it. He'd put his arm up on his forehead and talk to himself. He'd turn on the bed. See himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. His dim reflection. His mom alone in her room. Back
home. His father in the house. The house surrounded by trees. His brother and sister dead and buried. The points on a map. The distance traced from his house in Cutland Junction to those two plots in Bareneed graveyard. His head a mess. The hookers. Agnes. His work on the docks. He'd go to sleep, but never sleep all the way. Agnes. Just don't be a whore. Like those women. Agnes. Sleep. And the steady thump of a bed against the wall next to him.

 

On his eighth visit to campus, nursing a hangover on his day off, he went into the medical building. Knowing the doors to enter by. They were made of steel and glass. The layout of the building familiar to him. He knew where everything was. He went to the cafeteria in the basement. Bought an egg sandwich. A milkshake in a box. He shook it and sat at a table in the corner. So he could see everyone. He noticed that his hands were dirty. Grime beneath his fingernails from the grease on the forklift. He'd taken to fixing it on the dock. There were black lines of dirt in the lines on his hands. He couldn't scrub it off. The people who came and went were all clean. Dressed respectable. Even the ones who seemed dirty were just trying to look that way. They didn't get dirty doing anything. Long hair or long beards. Old clothes. Others looking perfect. That's why they were there, wasn't it? Or maybe for all sorts of different reasons.

He was chewing his egg sandwich. Checking the way a young guy was dressed. When he saw someone in the corners of his eyes. Agnes coming into the big room. Not a different set of eyes. Not smaller lips or thinner chin. Agnes. The rush of her right there sped his heart. She was with another girl and a guy. MacLeod, the guy from the photograph. All of it real to him now with their bodies close together like that. He looked down at the table. Not wanting to be seen. His heart thudding in his chest. His palms turning sweaty. Why here? What was he here for? Feeling like a jerk caught at something. The noise in the cafeteria went up a notch. The egg sandwich lost its taste as his mouth went dry. He raised his eyes to find Agnes. She seemed to have more energy. Talked more than she used to. Like she needed to keep talking. To pretend it was alright. She talked in a way he never knew. Not like that with him. She never talked so much. Acting like any other person in the room.

Blackstrap watched her going down the line. Picking out what she was going to eat. She had a tray that she carried. Her eyes searching for a table. Ahead of the other two, she led the way. Her eyes scanned near his table. Then ran right over him where he was sitting. She didn't recognize him. Why would she in this place? How would she ever know him? In his baseball cap and unshaven face.

He watched her sit and talk and eat. The conversation was full of laughs. He had no idea what it was about. One of the saddest things he ever saw.

When she was done, Agnes left with the guy from the newspaper photo. Blackstrap followed after them. There were others around. No one seemed to notice anyone. He stayed far back and watched them talking. He couldn't hear what they were saying. Which was fine with him. They were close. He could see that much. They reached the end of the hallway. Went up a wide flight of stairs. He kept after them. Up the stairs and down another hallway. Two of them stopped outside a doorway where other people were waiting. And they kissed goodbye. Their lips like that. Meant to be. For how long? Blackstrap's body wanting desperately to stop them. Agnes went into the room. And the guy walked on. Blackstrap's eyes burning. He looked at the number over the door: 214. And then he followed after the guy.

At the end of the corridor, the guy went down a flight of stairs. Blackstrap followed to the bottom floor. The guy was walking along with doors to all sides of him. Near the end of the corridor, he turned and pushed open a door. When Blackstrap got there, he saw it was a bathroom. He waited. Watching the symbol of a man printed on wood. He wondered if it was done with a stencil. It looked that way. He pushed the door open and went in.

The guy had just finished at the urinal and was looking at his book bag on the floor. Then he went over to the mirrors and sinks. Washed his hands. He spent a good minute washing his hands. Rinsing them off. Practicing to be a doctor. He was watching his face in the mirror while he kept soaping his hands. He frowned. Seemed disappointed with something.

When Blackstrap came up to the next sink, the guy looked over and nodded. Gave a little smile that was friendly enough. Blackstrap nodded
back. He ran water over his hands. Dried them with the paper towel. He was done before the guy was finished. Then he stood close. Watching while the guy turned off the tap with a paper towel. Before folding it over and drying his hands with it. So that when the guy turned, he stood facing Blackstrap.

Blackstrap reached back for his wallet. He opened it. Flipped through the plastic sleeves with the pictures inside. There was a school photo of Agnes in one of the sleeves. The one she had given him when she graduated from high school. He held it up. He pointed at it, his breath getting troubled. And the guy's eyes went there. He shook his head when his eyes moved back to Blackstrap.

‘Is that…?' asked the guy. But he didn't finish. He shifted a little. The thoughts in his head doing that. But it looked like he was trying to get away. ‘Where'd you—' To get out of whatever this was he was in.

Blackstrap shifted too. To keep facing the guy. He looked at the picture. Agnes. And his breathing turned hotter in his nostrils. And the heat came to his face. Agnes. The way the guy had spoken. The sound of his voice. She's not yours, Blackstrap said to himself. She can't be yours. Not by the looks of you.

The guy's face was confused. ‘How…?' His eyes went to the wastebasket. Like he wanted, more than anything, to get rid of the paper towel in his hand.

Blackstrap thought to say something. To explain. His throat contracted. He swallowed. Go home, he warned himself. Back to Newfoundland. Just go home and leave what is changed alone. But his hand shot out. And he shoved the guy. A quick slap with his flat palm. Like a punch in the chest. The guy stumbled back. Hit the paper towel machine with his shoulder. He winced and shook his head. His eyes going angry. His lips tightening up. The guy not so innocent now. Not so easy-going. Not so gentle. He looked mean. Ready to fight. That was all Blackstrap needed. He grabbed the guy with both hands. Pulled at the front of his shirt. Flung him sideways toward the open cubicle. The guy ended up right in there. Banging around with his arms out. And as Blackstrap turned, he saw another fellow stood by the doorway. Having just come in.

‘Hey?' said the fellow by the door.

Blackstrap ignored him. Went after the guy in the cubicle. Had his arm across the guy's throat. His knee against one leg. His teeth clamped shut. Agnes' name. That's all there was in his head. Her face. Shoving his arm in tighter. When he saw the face turning purple, he flung the guy against the other wall. The steel making a racket. Echoing in the hollow bathroom. Someone was pulling at his arm. The fellow who had come in. Blackstrap swung around and smacked him. Drove him back toward the sink. He heard glass shatter. Maybe it was one of the mirrors. Pieces fell to the floor. He raised his fist and hit the guy. Spring-loaded muscle. Pounded him in the face. In the stomach. In the nose. In the cheek. Like a ricochet that wouldn't ever stop.

Blood was running from the guy's nose. From his lips that split open. On his teeth. He could see the blood coming with every punch. With every time he pulled back his fist. Smearing across his knuckles. There was more blood. Red as anything. It kept him going. Spreading. Flickering on the wall. On the white toilet. Seeping into clothes. Not a breath out of him. He saw the toilet. The water. Shoved the guy's head in there. The water going red. Cloudy trails. He felt hands on him again. The fellow he had thrown against the mirror. And another guy. He spun around. Hit two of them. One fell down sideways and never got up. The other just slid back a bit. He was bigger. Then Blackstrap saw the guy from the photo. His head out of the toilet on the floor. Bleeding. He turned away. Saw the guy's book bag over by the hand dryer. He went to it, reached down, grabbed it and ran. Through the door. Out in the corridor. People looking at him. At his aching hand he was flicking a bit. He checked back over his shoulder. No one coming after him. The other two helping the guy on the floor. In blood. Maybe. Reminding him of that woman. On the ice floes. The seal hunt. That woman. Who had been torn by seals. Her face on television. In the newspapers. The stitches. Claiming it was the sealers. Claiming it was him who had done it. Barbarians. Him with the club rising up. The men gathered round. The club coming down. The reporter only seeing so much on film. It looked like him. Clubbing the woman. The famous footage that ran on TVs around the world. The police paying him a visit. The other sealers telling the police it was Blackstrap who saved the woman. Finally, no charges
were laid. But the nuisance of it all the same. And no one knowing the truth of the reported lie.

He kept running. Then slowed down. Went back up over the flight of stairs. Found the classroom Agnes had gone in: 214. He remembered. He sat on the bench outside. Breathing hard as his heartbeat. Watched the door. Hoping that no one would come along. Not Agnes. Not yet. He needed to get his heartbeat settled. There were a few students waiting outside. To go in or to meet someone coming out. They looked at him every now and then. He got up and set the book bag in the corner. Far enough away, so that it seemed left behind. He should wash his fist. The left one that he had used. It was throbbing. Maybe something broken. Blood on it. If he did, it would be too late to see her. He would miss her. On his feet, he watched toward the doorway. Then up at the clock. The second hand smoothly revolving. How long before she would come out? He tried wiping the blood in the back of his jeans. Dissatisfied, he put his hands in his jean jacket pockets. A sharp aching pain in his bones. With a steady pulse in his skin. The skin scraped open by bone or tooth. His breathing not so bad now. He checked down the corridor.

No one coming.

No one seeing him.

No one pointing.

He sat on the bench again.

After a while, he heard an ambulance siren. From out around the building somewhere. It brought him to his feet. It might not be an ambulance. He checked for the doors that would take him out. A wall of them down over four wide stairs. He went outside for a while, walked away and found a bench. Watched the building from a distance for signs of trouble. All those windows. He shouldn't stick around. But he thought he might never see Agnes again. Not ever another chance.

When enough time passed to be safe, he went back inside. The classroom doors had just opened. A rush of chatter and movement. It was difficult to see Agnes. But she stopped. A book bag over her shoulder. Talking with another girl who left after a few seconds. He sat back on the bench. Nonchalant. Agnes looking around for someone. She seemed a bit confused as she came toward the bench. Her eyes right
on him but not seeing him. Then she slowed down as she realized. As she came to believe that he could be there. Was there. Across all that water and all that land.

He was there.

She started to smile.

And it was gorgeous.

‘What're you doing here?' The smile bigger now. She sat right next to him.

He shook his head.

Then she saw something in him. He had no idea what. What his face was telling her.

‘How'd you find me?'

‘I just came.'

‘Easy as that.' She laughed a little.

He watched the floor, the tile. ‘You told me where you were.'

She wasn't saying anything. So he looked at her. Her eyes were on his hands. He was fingering his hurt hand without knowing it. Knew better than to look at her then.

‘What happened to your hand?' She reached out. Touched him. Like she was going to take his hand in hers. Like it was the thing to do. Natural. The way it used to be. Her looking after him. Always concerned about the slightest thing. But she stopped. Just when her fingers touched.

Because the wound was fresh.

Because the blood was new.

‘Work.'

‘You're working?' But something about her didn't believe him.

When he glanced up, he saw her scanning the ten or fifteen people still hanging around outside the classroom.

‘I'm gonna join the navy,' he said.

Agnes said: ‘Oh,' in a quiet, surprised way. She seemed disappointed, which made him feel better. Gave him a little hope. But when she checked his hand again, it made her stand up. Pull away from him.

‘Did you see Peter?'

‘Who?'

She looked down at his face. She touched her lips. And he saw the
diamond ring. ‘He's supposed to meet me here,' she said quietly, her voice going even lower toward the end.

It was enough. It was all. It was Peter over him.

He stood from the bench. ‘Nice to see you,' he said. In a voice not nearly his own. ‘I've got to get to work.'