Blackstrap Hawco (71 page)

Blackstrap buys furniture from a shop on Water Street. A mattress that he puts on the floor, a couch and a coffee table in the living room. A truck delivers his order right to his door. The men won't let him help bring the stuff in. Something about insurance. They do it themselves and Blackstrap watches, trying to stay out of their way, feeling embarrassed.

Living in that house, he soon discovers that the place is not properly insulated. The ceilings are too high, the space impossible to make warm
with electric heat. Sometimes when he wakes in the early morning, there is a thin layer of ice on the toilet water. The windows are tall and expertly made with intricate mouldings, one window in the centre and one on each side, a box that protrudes out. The living room window gives him a view of mature trees in the back yard. The bedroom window faces the street. People walk by on the sidewalk near his window. He watches them go by without them knowing he's seeing them. A fancy place, once lived in by people with money. There is a mantelpiece where a fireplace must have once been, but the hole is boarded over.

What to do with his spare time? He buys an LTD Crown Victoria at the Ford dealership on Elizabeth Avenue. The man in the brown suit wants to give it to him on credit when Blackstrap says he works on the rigs.

‘Credit?' Blackstrap asks.

‘Yes, nothing down and 2.5 per cent. You can't beat that.'

The way it's explained, Blackstrap thinks he might be making money on the deal. He signs his name and drives away, exploring the outports fifteen minutes outside St. John's: Torbay, Outer Cove, Middle Cove, Flatrock, Portugal Cove…The places are much like home. Same square houses circled around bays. Same narrow, winding roads and paths. Same decent people with no thoughts in their heads of being anything other than what they are. Men and women comfortably settled into the land. Not ever wanting to go anywhere else.

One Saturday, he parks on the ferry wharf in Portugal Cove and watches across the water. The sheer cut of land that is Bell Isle. He gets out of his car and climbs up on the finger of rocks that makes the breakwater. The winter air harsh on his face. Ice rimming the shore. There are houses perched on the cliffs behind him. Built there years ago by fishermen. The nearer the water, the better. They bring the openings of caves to mind.

The ferry is on its way from the island, seeming far away but not that much of a distance. He scans the land around him, the cars in the line-up, the workers in overalls near the dock. Each time he checks the water, the boat is bigger.

When the ferry pulls in, Blackstrap decides to take it to Bell Isle and
have a look around. He's never been there before. He drives up the hill, parks at the back of the line-up and waits for the horn to sound. What to do in a line-up? Sit still. A car pulls in behind him. He notices it in the rearview. A teenager at the wheel fixing his hair. Blackstrap switches on the radio and rolls down the window for some fresh air. There's a baby bundled up in a stroller, out for a walk with its mother. A few baby sounds reach him above the music. Down near the shore, two boys are throwing stones high into the air. Out past the ice. Blackstrap watches where he thinks the stones might fall. Then they plunk into the water.

Soon, the cars start moving ahead. He rolls down until levelling off at the ticket booth. He hands the man his money through the window. A ticket for the vehicle covers the driver too. The man nods and silently checks out Blackstrap's car. A schedule is pinned to the glass in the booth. Times for leaving and times for returning.

‘How often the ferry run?' Blackstrap asks.

‘Every twenty minutes.'

‘Sounds good.'

Pulling into the belly of the ferry is an interesting experience. He likes the sound of the ship when he gets out and shuts his car door, takes the metal stairs to the observation deck. The hum of steel underfoot brings the Ranger to mind. Back out there soon in the void of ocean. Gulls circle near the railing. Blackstrap looks back at the land. The two boys are still there, trying to skim rocks across the ice now. They laugh and shoulder each other for a better position.

The ferry nudges ahead and begins to drift. The engine suddenly vibrating louder. Blackstrap watches the boat's reflection wavering in the water. He stares until he thinks he can see forms down there. When he finally looks up, he notices the red in the distant cliffs. Iron ore. The mineral that once made the place so valuable, that drew people to it from all over the world. He keeps his eyes fixed on the approaching land. An interesting preoccupation to try and tell how many more minutes until they dock. The land slowly gaining depth and height. Soon, he senses it growing over him. The towering cut of the cliffs changing the sound of the boat's engines. He goes back into the belly of the ferry and climbs into his car. Other people are returning too, starting their engines.

The ferry coasts in, strikes the tires attached to the dock, gently rocking everything aboard for a second. In time, the big door is lowered. Cars move ahead of him until he is waved an okay by one of the workers.

Rolling off the ferry, he feels his wheels touch earth. Movement solid and steady again. He follows the cars up the steep hill, passing the slope of the graveyard on his left with tombstones facing toward sea. No problem for the Crown Vic to make the incline. The car seems to lean into it, gradually reaching the flat of the land. A scattered store and house here and there. Small barns with horses and cows or an occasional goat out in a yard, seeming to not belong. Clothes on a line even in winter. Children play in the yards. The clothes they wear remind him of the 1950s. Pants not jeans. Pullover sweaters. The girls in old, worn dresses and coats. He senses himself adrift in time. Locked in a forgotten era.

At a convenience store with a cola and beer sign, he buys a half case. Then drives on into a town square where most of the shops are boarded up. There are only so many roads. Red gravel on the shoulders. Not much snow down to cover it up. Not knowing what he came for, he cruises around, taking it all in. A beer bottle stuck between his legs, the other bottles jingling in the case on the passenger seat. He takes a swig while watching the large yards with grey wooden fences. The tall grass. The old houses built away from each other. Many of them abandoned. Two huge dilapidated barns with concrete foundations set side by side.

Eventually, a road leads him to an open area where a large hole in a cliff is boarded over. He parks, watching it, knowing what it is. No one going in or out of there now. Whatever was left down there is down there for good. This was probably where Junior had worked and died. The mine closed decades ago, but there are still stacks of iron ore rock. Piles of them covered with patches of snow. What are they worth? Not enough to even bother taking away.

He finishes his beer and slides the empty into the slot. Then he stares at the barred entrance, not knowing what to think. He wonders if there's a way inside. No doubt there must be. Children would have found a space big enough to fit through by now. His fingers reach for the handle to get out. But he waits, wondering what he might do. Then he thinks of his fireplace back in St. John's. Boarded over too. He uncaps another beer with his belt buckle and drinks it. With the car idling, he shuts off
the radio and rolls down the window to listen. Nothing outside. Nothing on the cold wind. He keeps his eyes on the barred entrance, drinking and imagining. What's there to see down there in the darkness? Hollow shafts cut deep. Then he backs away and drives off, shaking his head.

By the side of the road, he spots a pile of cut brush. Evergreen boughs stacked above the snow, the needles off, the branches gone grey. He pulls over and loads his trunk with them. Then he shuts the lid and looks at the trees running along the side of the road. A long string of evergreens, the leaves gone from the other trees. ‘Wilderness tapestry' his mother used to call it. The trees and the moss and bushes in the woods. He takes a breath of the air, the freshness of it on his skin. He lumbers back to where the boughs were stacked and heads into the woods. Pushing branches back, he checks over his shoulder until a view of the road disappears. He unbuckles his belt and unzips, slides his jeans down and pisses. Watching the moss and fern and bush, untouched by the snow, he shakes himself off but keeps his fingers there. The woods never failing to arouse him, the chilly air on his exposed skin. In his mind, he undresses Agnes. He has her do whatever he tells her, until he is finished and somehow sadder than before. His sperm left on the forest floor. Something he has thought to do since he was a boy.

Back in the car, he heads for the steep hill down to the wharf. There's a short line-up for the next ferry. He parks and leaves the car there. Walks over to Dick's, the bar and take-out, where he orders fish and chips at the counter. His hand slowly spins one of the stools while he waits. A few sounds coming from behind him. He checks over his shoulder. A little passageway connecting the take-out to the bar.

‘Seven minutes,' says the large, pink-cheeked woman. ‘You want gravy?'

‘No,' he says. ‘Seven?'

‘Dat's right. Seven minutes. I gots it down ta a science.'

He smiles a little and turns, treading through the passageway.

The barman gives him a nod. The room is wide open. Tables and chairs, and a pool table off to one side.

‘India,' he says.

The barman watches his face for a second, then uncaps the bottle of India Beer.

Blackstrap studies the label. A big, black Newfoundland dog on it, just like the one on the plastic clock behind the bar. He looks at the bartender, not knowing what to say. It makes him finish off his beer more quickly. Then he goes back to the take-out. By this time, his order is bagged and on the counter next to a few others.

‘Yer late by a minute.' The woman lifts the order in the palm of her hand. Blackstrap chuckles and takes it from her. The bottom of it promisingly warm. He pays and carries it to his car where he rips open the brown paper bag and lifts off the wax paper covering. The smell hits him. Malt vinegar. He eats the thick French fries and puts on more salt. He does the same with the crispy fish. Thirsty, he uncaps a bottle of beer from his case and drinks it down. Then he goes back into the bar, leaving the car where it is.

‘India.'

The bartender nods, already reaching for the bottle.

Blackstrap drinks that one down and orders again, missing one boat after another.

With Dick's filling up, he watches the men and women talking and joking with one another. He looks around for Junior. He wants to ask the barman if he knew Junior, but how would he? The barman looks like he might want Blackstrap to ask him something. Taking another glance around, he sees the tables becoming occupied more and more, a waver in his head like the boat's passing reflection, and Junior finally there, smiling toward the back, near the jukebox, stood by himself, as usual, stood off alone.

Blackstrap hears himself laugh under his breath. He feels good for reasons unknown to him. He feels the best he has in years. Among these men and women he does not know. Their friendly and rowdy noise in his ears. Nearly satisfied, he orders a round for the bar from his Ranger money. The bartender uncapping beers or pouring glasses of rum and nodding toward him.

He counts out the bills and feels somehow worse. The sight of that money being handed over. For what? When it's all rung through, the barman tells him about the last boat, tipping his head toward the dock. Toward the windows that have darkened on the other side.

‘Last one?'

The barman nods, hands on the bar, waiting for his decision. ‘I'm gone then,' says Blackstrap, going out into the night toward the long string of cars. Some vehicles with their dome lights on. He passes faces in their windows, behind the driver's wheel, or in the back seat. People of all sorts. Interesting to look at with a few beers in him. An old man and woman, watching ahead. Silent with each other for how many years? A man by himself, turning something on the dashboard. A bunch of young fellows with a few girls. Laughter. Tons of easy laughter. He smiles and finds his car right up front and climbs aboard.

On the ferry deck, he watches Bell Isle fade off into a blackness not so pitch as the water, only the pinpoints of lights from the houses. He thinks that he has left his mark there. His sperm spilled in the woods, booze in everyone's bellies. He leans to look over the railing. The dark sea rushing by. A thought in his mind to jump, the magnetic urge drawing him into the sea. Not now, he thinks, and returns to his car, staying there behind the wheel, his head filled with memories of his brother, until the time to drive off.

 

The long road through Portugal Cove connects him to St. John's in darkness. He navigates his way and finds his street, pulling a U-turn to park outside his apartment. Inside, he stands in his living room. Alone is how he feels. Removed. Wherever he walks around, his boots make a hollow sound. He sits on the couch with one arm draped over the back. He stands up and looks out the window. The trees lit by a streetlamp off somewhere. He checks toward the boarded-up fireplace. Why would anyone want to do such a thing? He hears footsteps above him, walking across his ceiling toward his bedroom. He follows after them and drops down on his mattress. The cough of a woman reaching him. He falls asleep and dreams of exactly what he has done that night.

 

On Sunday, he goes to church service, listening to the young priest who has a nice way of talking. He stands in the line-up to shake the priest's hand on the way out.

‘Peace be with you,' says the priest, both hands holding Blackstrap's.

‘Thank you, Father,' he says, feeling comforted by the touch. His boots squeak the snow underfoot as he treads across the parking lot.
The hairs in his nose go brittle when he breathes in. He wanders around, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. Downtown is deserted. He stares in the windows, not wanting anything he sees. There is nothing to do, except watch the boats in the harbour. He brushes some light snow off a steel gump, sits on it and rolls a cigarette, smokes it. Foreign sailors pass him by. They are dressed in long coats or thick sweaters. They speak a language that sounds harsh.