Blackstrap Hawco (7 page)

A sound startles her. Quickly she sits up straight. Pulls up her pants. Listens. Caught. Uncertain of a sound. An intruder. The mean excitement in her mind. Colour rising in her cheeks. She waits. Burning in her mouth. Then stands at once. Checks her pants. The closure. The button. A mistake. Caught imagining. No more sound. Not a knock at all. Who's out there?

She goes to the porch. Opens the door a crack. The thick woods around her. Lost in them. Trees. Inside. Blackstrap. Where is he? Hoping he will be home soon. The old man next door. She wipes her eyes. Smears make-up. Freshly painted. Looks at her watch. Relieved to see it's time for another pill. In the bathroom she locks the door. Takes her pill bottle from the drawer. From her cosmetic bag. Uncaps the bottle. She swallows one. Takes a little sip of water. A tiny sip. Tiny. Then takes another. Her face. She waits and stares. In the mirror. She has been crying in the mirror. She has been. That's her. That's me. She takes a breath. She has been.

Fixes her make-up. Fixes
it.

II

And there he was…gone

Jacob Hawco stands in his front window. Watches the Christly RCMP car pull into his son's paved driveway. The vehicle rolls close to the tin garage door. He hears the car door shut. Sees the officer fitting on his foolish hat. Straightening it as he walks toward the long and then shorter flight of concrete stairs. Up to the door. Knuckles rapping. Canadian Mountie with no right here.

The old man watches. Grinds his teeth. Moves his jaw from side to side. He turns. Has to step around the clutter of old furniture. The tall cast iron floor lamps with lily-shaped glass shades and ornamental bases. Heavy wooden chairs. Tapestry worn threadbare. And old glass-doored oak and mahogany cabinets. He opens the door to the kitchen. Mere embers remain in the woodstove. He decides to leave it that way. Finding the heat to be almost unbearable. His back is troubling him. He lies down on the narrow day bed. Groaning in pain. And then relief. He stares at the window in the wall opposite him. A view of orange and yellow trees. Spotting the clot of evergreens that runs off for miles in all directions. Until the sharp-blue autumn sky stops them. Only the ragged line of their black-green peaks. He thinks of his son. Wonders where he could be. Missing for three days now. Gone where? With who? Or worse? Dead. Mother of mercy! Is Blackstrap dead? Junior gone. The little girl, too. All dead now?

Restlessly standing again with a groan. He returns to the front window. Stumbles over the edge of his wife's ship's chest. From the S.S.
Newfoundland
. His leg hurts. But he holds back the curse. Out of respect for Emily. He will not touch her things. Will not lift the lid. Will not let her spirit fill him again.

The RCMP car. Still parked where it should never be. Never. RCMP. The Canadian police in Newfoundland. A country once unto itself. The Dominion of Newfoundland. Before that bastard Joey Smallwood, that cheating, lying, fascist father of confederation, tore the lot of us from our blessed roots.

Less than half an hour later the officer appears again. Casually moves down the steps over there. He wears the same nothing expression as when he arrived. No character. Wishy-washy mainlander. Pissy-faced. Plainly regarding the ground as he walks toward his vehicle. Climbs in.

The cruiser backs out. Blackstrap's driveway. The only strip of pavement this side of Cutland Junction. Jacob taps on his window with his knuckles. To snag the officer's attention. To make a threat. He curses. And taps harder. But the cruiser is gone. Slowly rolling along the dirt road. The old man curses on Karen. Her who forced Blackstrap to have the driveway paved. He curses on her for always correcting the way they speak. He curses on her for being something they are not. And do
not want to be. Ever. A townie trying to be proper. Trying to not sound like a Newfoundlander. Trying to kill off what it means to be a Newfoundlander.

Turning, he heads through the kitchen. Stomps out his back door. Trudges past the pile of seasoned stove wood. Rows of mismatched bricks stacked beside his red shed with its white trim. And makes his way forward, angling to his right. Across the fifteen feet of back lawn that separates their houses. His son's house built slightly ahead of his. So that it stands further up front. Karen wanted it that way. Wanted to hide what she called ‘the shack.' Embarrassed by it. And all it contained.

On his way toward the bungalow's back door, he hears the screen door opening. And sees Karen sticking out her head.

‘Hi,' she says.

‘Dat mountie,' spits Jacob. Tossing one arm to the side. Pointing like the cop was just there.

‘What?' she asks.

‘Where's Blackstrap?'

‘I don't know,' she says. Having to struggle to hold back tears.

‘Mounties com'n 'round,' he says. Stepping backward from it. Like a bad stink.

‘He did something to Isaac Tuttle.'

‘Good on 'im.' Jacob drags a sleeve across his mouth. His eyes sudden with thought. Almost furious consideration for the consequences of his son's actions.

‘Then he left.' Karen wipes at her eye. The butt of her palm smears warm that will not stop. Only worse. ‘No one knows where. The police…'

‘Goddam, Christ-awful Mounties,' Jacob rants. Bullied by the unwelcome presence of the woman's untouchable pain. Softening. A woman's tears. Crying like Emily. Weeping. The words come out of him, for Emily, to calm her: ‘Don't worry 'bout Blackstrap, me love. You know better den dat. No need ta worry.' He smiles at her. And watches while she tries to smile. Maybe liking him through the tears. Wanting to move closer. To comfort her. But knowing she would pull away from his touch. Or fade. Dead as he suspects she is.

Isaac Tuttle at the kitchen table. Anxious to explain the deed to Constable Pope.

‘I saw 'im hang'n 'round. Outside. Night.' Using his middle finger, Tuttle pokes his thick-lensed glasses up on his nose. The Lord shall smite thee with madness, and blindness, and astonishment of heart. Chews on his tongue. His eyes appear large. Wide. He stares directly at the officer. Thy sons and thy daughters shall be given unto another people. And there shall be no might in thine hand. ‘Yays. Were a big moon. Ye knows da likes of dat. Huge moon. Hawco be just stand'n 'n stare'n down in da hole he made wit 'is backhoe. Big hole. Den he walk around,' Tuttle sweeps his arm in a wide loop. So that thou shalt be mad for the sight of thine eyes which thou shalt see. ‘Da house look'n at ever'tin'. He see me stand'n in one of da windows so I moves 'way. Moves back. Back furder 'n furder.'

Constable Pope nods. Writes on his pad of paper. Occasionally, he flicks the page over. Glances at Mr. Tuttle to ask the clear meaning of a word. Or to say ‘Yes' or ‘Go on' before dipping his neatly combed brown-haired head down to continue writing. Quick scribbles to put it all together.

Isaac Tuttle whips up his hand. So that the man that is tender among you, his eyes shall be evil toward his brother, and toward the wife of his bosom. Shows the Mountie the gash in the shape of a circle. The gash from the branch that had scraped him. Deeply. When the bed was jammed against the tree trunk. High above the earth. The fruit of thy land, and all thy labours, shall a nation which thou knowest not eat up. Then he lifts his other hand. To furiously jab at the nose piece of his glasses.

‘Yes, I see,' says Pope, patiently. Having been shown the wound already. Numerous times throughout the spell of Tuttle's statement.

‘Ye saw, reet?'

‘It's okay.'

‘Tell us again. Tell me it.' And thy carcass shall be meat unto all fowls of the air.

‘What?'

‘Yer name, sir.'

‘Cons'able Pope.'

Isaac Tuttle smiles. A big wet smile. And blinks. Cursed shalt thou be in the city. Licks his lips. And cursed shalt thou be in the field.

‘Where ye frum, da way ye talk?' His wiry black eyebrows scrunching together. ‘Kaybec?'

‘Mo-ree'all.'

‘Muntree'all?'

‘Oui.'

Tuttle searches around the tabletop. Distracted. Cursed shalt be the fruit of thy body, and the fruit of thy land. Close to seventy years old. His hair remains coal black. Plastered to his head. Cursed shalt thou be when thou comest in, and cursed shalt thou be when thou goest out. But the stubble on his doughy misshapen face has gone grey.

‘You say you move away from the window.'

‘Yays, I did,' says Tuttle, newly shocked at the recollection. ‘Yays x'actly dat.' Pointing his finger at the window above the kitchen sink. He shall lend to thee, and thou shalt not lend to him: he shall be the head, and thou shalt be the tail. But keeping his big eyes on the officer. ‘Dat window. An' da last I saw of 'im until I hear da backhoe comin' up da road 'n den closer. Up da bank where da hole were dug fer me new well, 'n den.' His hairy hands begin to tremble. And it came to pass, when he heareth the words of this curse, that he bless himself in his heart. He places them against his knees. And presses down. ‘Oh, me L'ard. He shuts his eyes. And that the whole land therefore is brimstone. His lids flinching. And ye have seen their abominations. ‘Dun't know nut'n den till da back wall bust open, da backhoe coming troo.' He opens his eyes. Wide. Also every sickness, and every plague, which is not written. Wider through the thick lens. Them will the Lord bring upon thee, until thou be destroyed. Points toward the dining room wall patched up with wide bare planks of spruce. Tongue and groove. See, I have set before thee this day life and good, and death and evil. ‘I ran fer da beddrum. Dun't know why. Sat on da bed, ran in dere. No, ran in dere'n sat on da bed. Lay down. I were staring. No, cross da wall at da picture o' da Sacred 'art 'a Jaysus 'n I get under da covers. Fever, shiver'n like I were touched by it. Yays, 'n I hear da engine, da grinding, da terrible sound. Fury com'n fer me, ta take me frum dis mortal 'ert.' Isaac Tuttle's
head wavers. That ye shall surely perish, and that ye shall not prolong your days upon the land. He looks at the floor. Searches around. Moves his zip-up boots closer together. But if thine heart turn away, so that thou wilt not hear, but shalt be drawn away. His shoulders begin trembling. And then his sides sway slightly. Before his knees knock together. And thou shalt return and obey the voice. And his chair begins creeping backward along the floor. He manages to thrust it forward. And he said, I will hide my face from them. Bucking up and ahead. Then trembling backward again. Bucking forward. Of the Rock that begat thee thou art unmindful. Trembling back.

‘Can I get you something?' asks Officer Pope. He thinks of throwing the man a rope. To pull him in. He thinks of someone going through the ice. But it is not tragic. Not life-threatening. In fact, it is peculiar. And he has to cough to hide his amusement.

Isaac Tuttle bends his elbows. And presses both fists together. They have moved me to jealousy with that which is not God. In front of his face. ‘Da backhoe come crash'n tru 'n I were hide'n under da sheets 'n da noise were sum'n 'n I dun't know if 'e knew I were in dere or not. No, but den I felt meself lift'n off, tilt'n, 'n back'n out, da bed in da night air, rise'n, da gears shift'n, I's spin'n and then rush'n a'ed as somet'n' scraped into me hand. No, da devil's madness fer a while 'n I were settled up high, levelled off, 'n da backhoe were gone. I were settled 'n da backhoe were gone. I were settled…' Tuttle lowers his fists. My doctrine shall drop as the rain. Opens his eyes. My speech shall distill as the dew. Seeing who sits in front of him. He is the Rock, his work is perfect. He is startled. ‘A bunch 'a noise,' he whispers tightly, ‘like da end. 'N when I pawed me way out from under da sheets I seen where I be. In a tree, up high, dat big dogberry tree, da bed crooked 'n swaying like da sea beneat' me so's I hadda clutch da mattress. Out in da back 'n it be pitch. Black 'a night 'n I could see da back red lights o' da dozer going down da road like two devil eyes 'n dat Blackstrap Hawco. Hawco. In da driver's seat. Dat's da last I saw o' 'im. I din't do nut'n ta 'im. No. Like people say. I n'ver touched 'im. N'ver took no shot at 'im.' Tuttle raises his hand. To show the circle-shaped wound. For a fire is kindled in mine anger. What was left. How he was marked by it. And shall burn unto the lowest hell.

‘And you see him not again?' asks Constable Pope. Carefully looking
down at his pad. The small space left beneath the words. ‘Right, yes?'

‘N'ver. 'E gone. Off. Ye ask me it's dat wife a 'is. She be mak'n eyes. Yes and widt ever'un all da time.' Tuttle grins plainly. Like it means nothing now. For they are a nation void of counsel. Chews on his fat tongue. Neither is there any understanding in them. Jabs at his glasses. The sword without, and terror within. Lets his tongue come out to slowly creep along his lips. Were it not that I feared the wrath of the enemy. Before chewing it back into place. ‘She one a dem Townie womb'n. She want more den da good L'ard can provide from nature. No fear or belief in da good L'ard. 'N she affer 'im fer nut'n but ever'tin. Maybe she done away wid 'im. Poison'd 'im or somet'n.'