Blackstrap Hawco (69 page)

‘I've got another class.' She peeked at the round-faced clock on the wall. ‘You're living here,' she said.

‘Just a while.' He stared at the tile. ‘Until the navy.' Couldn't keep his eyes on hers. Revealed like that. Too much to take. Too much there for the both of them to see.

‘You're joining the navy.' She looked confused now. Really confused. No idea what was going on. ‘I have a class.' She checked her watch and started walking off. ‘Where are you?'

He supposed she meant: where are you living?

‘In a room.'

‘A room? I have to go. Where?'

‘Where you living?' he asked.

She looked at his hands. ‘With a friend,' was all she gave over. And the way she said it. Protecting herself from him.

He should have washed his hands. Like the guy did in the bathroom. Taken time to wash them, to be prepared.

Agnes raised her hand to wave. But not all the way. Her eyes worried while she turned. He watched her go off into the crowd of students. He just stood there as she went around the corner. Her head not turning for a view of him.

He went back and collected the book bag. Took it to his room and dumped it out on the bed. Books. A calculator. Pens and pencils. A chocolate bar. Scribblers full of notes that meant nothing to him. Worse than nothing. Saw himself in the mirror by the bed. He tore the scribblers to shreds. The guy's handwriting. It turned his stomach. He'd never thought of asking the operator for a phone listing for Peter MacLeod. But that was enough. He'd done all he could do.

Blackstrap burned the university books. In the fire in the barrel they had going outside on the docks. Some of the other men wondering what he was doing. ‘Why you burning books?' Flip had asked. ‘You taking courses or something? I guess, not anymore.' He hadn't answered. And
Flip had just watched. Eating a bag of ketchup potato chips. Checking down toward the bottom for chip crumbs. Tipping the bag back to finish whatever was left. It was break time. ‘You could probably get money for them.'

Now. Back in Newfoundland. In the white blizzard. With nothing to hold his attention. He cannot help but remember.

In Halifax. A month after the fight in the university washroom. Blackstrap had seen a poster for a Christmas comedy show. With a man in a yellow rain hat and yellow sou'wester. The man had a goofy expression on his cross-eyed face. And his bottom lip was pulled up over his top lip. The man's name was Dicky Spurrel. They called him the Pride of Newfieland. The poster said: ‘If you're a Newfie, show your pride and come along to hoot and holler. For the best Newfie time with all things Newfie.' There had been the first winter snowfall the previous night. Watching the snow made Blackstrap lonely for the island. He didn't have enough money to go home for Christmas. So, he bought a ticket to the concert. Went along to see if it felt right.

He drove across the bridge from Halifax to Dartmouth. Found the place where the concert was set to happen. He arrived a little late because he wanted enough beer in him to make it through. When he stepped in the big club, a fat woman with a change box on a table tore his ticket in half. He was surprised to see it was a country and western bar. The tables and chairs were almost filled. He stood at the back. Where a bar ran along the full length of the wall. And ordered a beer.

The guy in the yellow rain hat and slicker was on a small stage. Up toward the front. He was strumming a guitar. Singing a song called ‘Goofy Newfie.' Blackstrap looked around to see the people. He recognized the features. The craggy faces smoking cigarettes. The easy laughter. The shared hilarity. One to the other. A lot of them from Newfoundland by the looks of them. He was surprised to see the people laughing. The bartender was chuckling when he handed Blackstrap a beer.

‘Funny stuff,' said the bartender. Tipping his head in the direction of the stage.

Blackstrap paid for his beer. Took back all his change. His hand still hurting when he closed it. To put the change in his pocket. He should
have had it X-rayed, but he never did. Maybe there were bones broken. He tried to put it out of his mind. Picked up the beer in his right hand and swigged it. Watched the guy on stage. At the end of the song, the guy's pants fell down. To show off his underwear with baby seals on them. The Pride of Newfieland bent down to pull up his pants. And flicked something from the stage at the same time. A rubber fish. It flew into the audience. A woman caught it and laughed. Raised it high. And wagged it around. Threw it back on stage. The Pride of Newfieland grabbed the rubber fish. Started kissing it. He pretended that he was toothless. Smacked his lips together. ‘Some good,' he said. He winked and tilted his head. Laughed like an inbred idiot.

Blackstrap looked at the bar. There was a display of the guy's albums with a sign that had a price on it.

There was a bit of a ruckus. Blackstrap turned to see the guy pulling a woman from the audience. She had short curly hair and was plump. Maybe in her fifties. Her cheeks flushed pink. She was a good sport by how she was accepting it. Nodding her head and straightening the bottom edge of her top. The Pride of Newfieland made her kiss the rubber fish. ‘Shut yer eyes, now, missus,' said the guy in a screechy sort of voice. ‘Ya gotta kiss da cod. 'N den a shot of Newfie Screech ta keep up yer strength. Den you'll be all Screeched in. An honorary Newf.'

When the woman shut her eyes, the guy winked at the audience. Winked with both eyes. Like he didn't even know how to do it properly. With his tongue sticking out his mouth. And his mouth going from side to side. The audience laughed and the woman peeked.

‘Now, dere's no peeking, missus. Jees, b'y, yer right saucy, ain't ya?'

She shut her eyes again. And from the pocket of his slicker, he took out a rubber dildo. ‘Now, missus, ya gotta give dat cod fish one more smooch 'fore ya can be a real Newf.' He nodded at the audience as he brought the dildo to her lips. She kissed it and opened her eyes. Then pulled her face back. The Pride of Newfieland let his mouth hang open with laughter. And buckled forward a bit. Slapped his knees. Stomped his boots. Did a little jig around in a circle. He gave the woman the rubber dildo. ‘Da way yer holding dat, looks like ya had a bit of practice, missus.' Then he sent her on her way. The woman went off trying not to hold the dildo. Like it was contaminated. ‘Ye'll be t'anking me later,'
he said, and the audience applauded and laughed. Laughed so hard they had to swipe tears from their eyes.

‘What da fuck're you doing?' Blackstrap muttered. Then took a drink. He began walking toward the tables. Stood at the rear of them. Then he drifted left. Made his way toward the wall that would take him closer to the stage. He stopped halfway and leaned on the wall. He wanted a closer look at the guy's face. The guy had a beard and moustache. The guy put the guitar strap back over his neck. Said: ‘How ya doing now, b'ys?' He raised a beer bottle from the table his props were on. Chugged down the beer. Hands slapped the tables to encourage him. People hooted. Called out. The place went wild with uproar. When he was done, he flicked his head. Like he'd just come up from underwater. From going down. And being rescued. ‘Some good, b'y. Dat's da finest Newfie juice I ever tasted.'

The audience shouted in agreement. Lifted their beer bottles. In tribute. Everyone with more than one bottle in front of them. The tables littered.

Blackstrap moved closer to the stage. No more than fifteen feet away in the shadows. So no one really saw him. Only a few people at the tables nearest, giving him a nod. In it together. He drank his beer. As he got closer to the guy on stage, the guy became clearer. Blackstrap could see his face. See that he was just a man pretending to be something else. His face showed its true self. Every now and then for a second. A guy making a buck. A guy doing an act. He was probably not even from Newfoundland.

‘Where you from?' Blackstrap called out.

‘Wha'?' The guy squinted, looking around the audience. ‘I t'ink I heard a cat meowing.'

‘Where you from?' Blackstrap shouted. Like a roar. So everyone could hear. And the place went a little still.

‘Where'm I from?' The guy made another stunned expression. Held it for a few seconds. Looked around everywhere to make it last. To get the laughs. He crossed his eyes. Then said: ‘Where ya t'ink I'm from?' The audience clapped and laughed. A man in the back called out: ‘That's right.' Then Dicky Spurrel looked toward Blackstrap, waiting to see what might be said next. A comedy sketch in the making.

‘You're not from Newfoundland.'

‘I were born in Newfieland, honest ta God. Cross me 'art 'n 'ope ta die of whiskey t'irst.'

‘You're not from Newfoundland.' Blackstrap's hand was aching. Of no use to him the way it was. He tightened up his fist. But it wouldn't close all the way. He noticed a shadow by his side. One of the bouncers.

‘Honest ta be jessus, I is.'

‘You're a fucking joke.'

‘I truly hopes so.' The guy winked at the audience. Then broke into a tune. About a woman who loses her drawers from the clothes line out around the bay.

Blackstrap moved a little closer to the stage. The shadow followed him. Then a face leaned near.

‘That's enough of that,' said the shadow.

Blackstrap looked at the face. Because it was a true Newfoundland voice he heard. He did not know the face. But he knew the voice. Not like the one up on stage. The retarded monkey.

‘You're from Newfoundland,' he said to the big fellow.

The big fellow nodded. ‘Any more outta you and you'll have ta leave, buddy.'

Blackstrap finished off his beer and studied the empty.

‘Don't try it.'

Blackstrap shifted his attention to the bouncer's face. ‘What part of da island are you from?'

‘St. John's.'

‘Figures.' Blackstrap laid the empty bottle on the table nearest him. The guy sitting there looked at the bottle. Then up at him. The guy with his sleeves rolled up. Beer belly. Tattoos. Hair greased back. Smoking a cigarette. That look in his eyes: Who're you to tell me anything? A solid sort of Newfoundlander.

Blackstrap walked away. Back toward the bar at the rear of the hall. Toward the exit. Leaving, he heard the lyrics: ‘So kiss me arse, so kiss me arse, 'n we'll be wed in da marnin'.'

The blizzard before his eyes. From everywhere at once. There is no telling whether the car is on the highway or not. Just a field of white. He has to slow to a crawl. Or risk having his front wheels go over a bank. A
tense, uncertain journey. And still three hundred miles to go. He is heading east, having just passed Gander when the blizzard thickened. He wouldn't stop in Gander though. He wanted to keep going. He wanted to get home.

 

Chapter VI – 1979

Three Mile Island

(July, 1979, 25 years old)

Blackstrap has already cut two loads of wood since he walked into the trees. The sun just up when he got there. The heat fierce in the woods. Not a breath of air. Not a hint of breeze. Black flies in clouds. Spitting them from his mouth and lips. His body feels as though it's made of nothing but hot flesh and sweat. Only the strong smell of snotty var, white spruce, black spruce and the rare blonde birch cut down. And the stillness when his chainsaw quiets. The sound of birds up high. Past the peak of mosquito breeding. And the black flies are the menace now. Smaller, no sound. Blackstrap's hands are covered in sap and bites, tiny blots of squashed flies smeared black and red. Flies squashed in the sweat on his cheeks and neck. Sweat stings his eyes. He swipes at his forehead with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. While holding the revving chainsaw with one hand.

He is cutting a spruce. Thirty feet high at least. The spring on his safety broke earlier that morning, so he has to be careful of kickback. The teeth seem duller than usual. He thinks he might've hit a rock. Covered in bog. When he was limbing out the last tree.

While he's cutting, the chain snaps, winds like a snake lashing out. Then coils back tightly into itself. As luck would have it, the chain stays clear of his leg.

‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.' He shuts off the saw. He turns away, already walking because he remembers there's a spare chain in the pickup.

He treads down the trail, littered with cut boughs, and sees his truck through the trees. A glint of sun he thinks might have come from his vehicle, but is reflected from another pickup, pulling alongside his. A government logo on the door. His jaw stiffens while he mutters another string of curses.

The forestry officer is out of his pickup and next to Blackstrap's. The forestry officer is wearing short sleeves. A luxury to be in the woods with short sleeves. What sort of forestry work is that man doing? Working on a nice tan. Not being eaten alive by flies.

‘How ya doing?' the forestry officer asks.

‘Great.' Blackstrap opens the passenger door of his pickup, lays the saw on the seat. He paws around in the glove compartment until he finds the white box with the new chain in it.

‘Popped your chain,' says the forestry officer.

Blackstrap makes a sound that means the same as disinterest and no kidding.

‘It's a hot day.'

Blackstrap finds the ratchet set down on the floor. Popping it open, he takes out the fitting for the chainsaw bolts and spins them off, then removes the plate. The broken chain has jammed in the already broken spring of the safety, has done more damage. He is going to have to snip the spring to get the saw to work again.

‘Trouble, hey?'

‘Yup.' He goes to the back of his pickup. Reaches over the edge to lift out the tool kit. He opens it. Fishes out the pliers. Shuts the box. Then tries snipping the wide steel spring.

‘You're going to have to cut that right back.'

‘Right.' He lifts the chain bar to get it out of his way.

‘Nasty.'

Blackstrap is about to turn on the forestry officer. He doesn't mind too much that the man is there. Doing nothing and stinking of fly dope. He just wishes the man would shut his mouth. He takes a moment to calm himself. Says quietly. ‘Out fer a run?' He stops what he's doing. This is all slowing him down. He needs to take three loads out by sunset. Then he's got two cars to fix. A starting motor in one. A dent to tap out and polyfill in the other. And a split boat trailer to weld for Jimmy Parsons. Blackstrap
checks the man's face. ‘Out fer the good of yer health?'

The forestry officer smiles. Mirror sunglasses reflecting a warped view. ‘I doubt that.'

‘No?'

‘Well…' The officer looks toward the trail where Blackstrap has come from. Blackstrap looks there too, to see what the officer might be seeing. Nothing. No sight of cut trees. But what else would Blackstrap be doing in the woods with a chainsaw?

‘I was wondering if you have a permit.'

‘Fer what?'

‘Cutting wood.'

‘I never cut any wood.'

‘Really?'

‘That's right.'

The officer takes off his sunglasses. His eyes going to the chainsaw. ‘What were you using that for?'

‘I was carving.'

‘Carving?'

‘Statues.'

‘Really?'

‘Yays, really. Totem poles. I'm three-sixteenths Beothuk.'

The forestry officer smiles widely. He's not a prick, by the looks of him. Seems easy going. He hooks the earpiece of his sunglasses in the open front of his shirt. ‘You know there's a fine for cutting wood without a permit.'

‘Never heard of it.'

‘Unfortunately that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.'

Blackstrap nods. Smiles a little. A real smart aleck. But he's not snarky about it. Trying to be friendly. That doesn't make it so bad. It's like he recognizes something in the way the man talks. His face. Now that he's getting to know him. Maybe not a townie after all.

‘Where you from?' Blackstrap asks.

‘You know Bareneed?'

Blackstrap's eyes steady on the officer's face. ‘Heard of it.'

‘That's where my family's from.'

‘What name?'

‘Taylor.'

‘Taylor…Tommy Taylor's little brother, Mikey.'

‘That's right.'

Blackstrap grins. Slaps the man's arm. ‘You know the Hawcos from Bareneed?'

‘Sure do.'

‘Well, you don't recognize this one.'

‘You'd be Blackstrap.'

‘That's right. What's Tommy up to?'

The smiling light leaves Mikey's face. He checks toward the treeline. After a moment, ‘He passed away.'

‘Sorry to hear.'

‘Car crash.'

‘Really sorry 'bout that.'

‘I heard about Junior.' Quiet, squinting eyes back on Blackstrap. ‘That's a shame.'

‘Yeah.' Blackstrap shifts his eyes toward the horizon. The tips of spruce trees against blue. All the way to the unseen edge of the island. ‘Where'd you move to?'

‘Resettled to?'

‘Yeah.' He looks at Mikey again.

‘Up to the Labrador. I'm living in St. John's now. Drive out every morning. It's a nice run. But I'm thinking of getting a place down in Bareneed. Old houses cost practically nothing.'

‘Little Mikey Taylor.'

‘I think we might even be related. Cousins or something.'

Blackstrap laughs loudly. A bark that goes out over the clearing. ‘I've heard as much. Somewhere down the line.'

‘Well, it's good to see you.'

Blackstrap stares. Remembering water at the end of land. ‘You got a boat down there?'

‘No.'

‘There's space to tie up.'

‘Maybe one day. When I can afford one.'

‘Tell me about it.'

Mikey Taylor with his eyes on Blackstrap's chainsaw now. ‘Well…'
Mikey Taylor wondering what to say. ‘…that course came in this year. You should take it.'

‘What for?'

‘Safety precautions. Forest management information. That sort of thing.'

‘Forest management.'

‘Save the trees.'

Blackstrap searches back at the woods. One tree and then another, going on in all directions. ‘There's nothing but trees fer hundreds of miles.'

‘You cut them all down, they won't be there anymore.'

‘It'd take 'til the end of creation to cut down the trees on this island. 'N by that time they'd be grown up again.'

‘A lot of trees alright. A hundred and twenty-two thousand square kilometers of 'em. One-third of the island. I learned that years ago. But each tree is special.' The forestry officer grins.

Under different circumstances, he might enjoy a beer with Mikey Taylor. In fact, he's feeling thirsty now.

‘How long's that course?'

‘Three weeks, I believe.'

‘Haven't the leisure time.'

Mikey Taylor chuckles. ‘Yeah, it's a nuisance.'

Blackstrap likes the sound of that. ‘How're yer mudder 'n fadder?'

‘They're still fit.'

‘They must be in their nineties.'

‘That's right. Mom still tends the garden. Bakes bread every week. And Dad's out in the boat. Can't keep him off the water.'

‘Good to hear.' Blackstrap goes back to his saw. Snips the safety spring back closer. The chain should work now. He puts on the bar. Fits on the new chain. Aligning the teeth with the running groove. Sets the cover back on. Pulls snug the bar while ratcheting the two bolts tight. ‘Well, you have yerself a nice day, Mikey Taylor,' he says, then turns with the chainsaw in both hands.

‘I will. Now don't you go back in there.'

‘Wouldn't think of it.' A few steps toward the path.

‘I mean it. I'll have to fine you. I'll look the other way for now. But you can't go back at it. Sorry.'

‘How much is the fine, Mikey?' He turns to see Mikey with his sunglasses back on.

The forestry officer tells him the amount. It's too much to handle. More than what he'll get for a couple of loads of spruce. And the second fine is even higher.

Blackstrap stares at the forestry officer. He yanks the cord on his chainsaw. It starts. The teeth are long. Sharp as razors. They will cut through any tree in jig time. A pleasure to have a new chain. Chunks of wood coming loose on the cut. It makes life easier. Like going through butter. No need to sharpen for a while.

The officer looks at the saw.

Blackstrap revs it, studying how the chain spins around. Listening to make certain it's moving freely. The spinning of the spokes. Chain oil lightly spitting toward the grass. Everything fine. He shuts it off.

‘There's a load of wood in there I came across. When I was on a walk. Birdwatching was what I was up to.'

‘I thought you were carving.'

‘Yeah, while I was birdwatching 'n carving. Multi-talented, I am.'

‘It'd be a good idea just to leave it there.'

Blackstrap nods. ‘Sure.' He returns to his pickup and lays the chainsaw in the back. Packs away his tool kit. Slides it in on the floor of the cab. ‘See ya, Mikey,' he says, shutting the passenger door.

‘See ya. It was good talking.'

‘Maybe I'll see ya in Bareneed sometime.'

‘Yeah, that'd be more like it.'

Blackstrap goes around to the driver's side. He gets in and starts the engine, backs up, swerves around, straightens on the rough grassy road, and heads out. The pickup bounces over the ruts in the grass. He glances in the vibrating rearview, the forestry officer's blurry truck following after him. When he makes it to Fox Marsh Road, he turns right and heads for the highway. A steadier view of the forestry officer in the rearview, the government truck pulling out and going the other way. A few toots of his horn. Blackstrap drives for a few miles then turns around, circles back.

He passes the forestry truck coming towards him, about a mile from the turnoff into the woods road where his cut trees are waiting. Mikey
with his shades on. But Mikey doesn't do anything. He doesn't wave or make any sort of notice. Blackstrap watches in the mirror, but the forestry truck just shrinks away. And a bigger truck looms in the distance, thundering toward him. A big truck loaded to the top rails with wood for the lumber mill in Tilton.

Blackstrap works in the same patch for four days. Until a different forestry officer shows his face. Tells Blackstrap all the same things. Confiscates his wood and fines him.