Blackstrap Hawco (79 page)

Heather seated silently in the chair.

A loved one charmed to always return.

He is thinning. That's how he feels.

‘I used to love a boy from Newfoundland.' Nix already on the other side of the door. ‘His name was Hawco, too. Did you know him?'

Blackstrap crouches and reaches under the bed. Shaking his head, he snorts and yanks out his suitcase. Tosses it onto the mattress. This close to tears. He shoots a look at the door. The chair without Heather. His lips tight with intention. Listening for one more word. One more fucking word. Nothing. Then he faces the window. The Chinese sign for a store. He does not know what sort of store it is. The old woman in the window. Heather's reflection. Never growing old. He turns for the chair. She is next to him. Her pale blue eyes. Her thin hair. She says:

‘
Who arrives in a flash of unknowing.

‘The love only ever yours.'

He has a feeling that he does not know. That it can only get worse. That, in a few seconds, he will not have a clue who he is or ever was. Like his mind is filling with white. Soon to lean and spin him down. He is scared of his body. His heartbeat a gallop. He lowers his head. Shuts his eyes. A wave of white he will soon crash upon. He might pass out. Or has he? Arms around him. He will not look to see who holds him up.

‘He was a sweet boy who died. A sweet, sweet boy. Before here.'

Blackstrap opens his eyes. Tingling white…clearing. A gradual view of his sports bag. His hand against the wall. His fingers weak. His arms powerless. The fright gone through him. He puts the bag in his suitcase. The sensation like an action almost done. He leaves his factory outfit. He takes the bible from the night table. The one his mother gave him. With her handwriting inside. He is frozen like that.

The bible in hand.

His father's voice in a storm of words. A story Blackstrap cannot remember. He tries, but cannot recall a single syllable.

The door thrown open from where he had locked it. Heather must have left. In anger. In terror. In tears.

‘He died saving a stupid ignorant man like you. A stupid ignorant man.' Nix's voice breaks. ‘He was a saint.'

Who? Blackstrap wants to ask. Who are you talking about? Who? Who? Who?

Heather asleep on the bed. Facing the wall. Her mouth open but not shrieking. Her back still.

Blackstrap turns from the suitcase. Treads across the room.

Straightening in expectation, Nix's expression goes hopeful.

‘Who?' he asks. ‘Tell me.'

‘You know, don't you?'

‘No, what're you saying? What?'

‘Junior,' Nix glances away, forlorn. ‘That sweet boy. I'm all that's left of him.'

The anger and confusion. ‘What're you fuck'n saying?'

The bedsprings creak as Heather shifts. ‘Junior,' she says. Rising from the bed on her elbows. Her head raised and turned. Eyes shut. ‘Is that you?'

‘What was he to you, dreary dearie?' Nix's eyes searching Blackstrap's. ‘He was something to you. I can see that. Him there. Like me and her.'

Blackstrap's mind on the street. On a way out. On a way home.

‘I know, it's
only in death you learn what should have always been intuited
. That's why this.' He raises his arm. To show Blackstrap the bruised pinholes in his arm. ‘You learn when you die. I found out that he loved me.'
His eyes shift toward the open door at the end of the hall. ‘Because we're both dead, aren't we?'

Enough. Blackstrap slams the door.

At once, fingernails scrape the wood. ‘You're just like him. You're afraid too, aren't you? What people will think?'

‘
Every thing made for the living
.' Heather on her side. Blank eyes fully open and on him. ‘
Why is every thing made only for the living
?'

Blackstrap shuts his suitcase. Clicks the two catches. His breath hot in his nostrils. He turns away. Nix's face at the funeral, eyes that had been watching him. Twenty years ago.

But the door not shut.

‘They said it was an explosion, but he just vanished. There was no explosion. Why only his fingers left?' Nix raises his own hand to stare. ‘Why all of me now? Because of what you touch.' He checks Blackstrap's hands. The missing fingers.

Blackstrap grabs the handle of the suitcase. Storms from the room. Shoving past Nix who stares at the bed. He strides for the stairs, but Nix is after him. ‘We look almost the same.' Nix laughs. Like an insane bird. A shriek that rings in Blackstrap's ears. Deafening. ‘He's alive you know. In my bed. His hands all over me. That's how he left. That's how he got away. In that black pit he went down into. And you in the black sea. They thought he died, but he's here. Dead with me. Dead with you and her.' He pauses to catch his breath. Then shouts: ‘You have to stay because we're family.'

Blackstrap stops halfway down. Looks back over his shoulder. Holds himself from racing back up the stairs and murdering the idiot.

Nix tiredly plunks down the stairs. Loosely holding the banister. One step at a time. Until gripping Blackstrap's arm. Bunching up the shirt material. Tears growing to spill over those caved-in cheeks. Sucked into the hollows. And gone.

Blackstrap jerks his arm.

‘
He sleeps in my bed
. Go and see…What makes you so different? Why should you be able to go? Why you of any of us?'

Blackstrap gives up. Hurries down the stairs. Throws open the door. No ocean as he expected. Chinamen everywhere in the street. Crowding the cars. Chattering around him. Not an eye on him. Not a concern for
what he might do. Millions of people in another country. The stink of that in the street. The food he has never tasted. And never will.

He searches for a cab. He waits. Hundreds of Chinamen blocking traffic. What to do? Run.

But need always the opposite. He finds himself dashing back in. Drawn up the uneven stairs. Two at a time. To hide in or destroy what might be familiar. Nix just returning to his room. He drops the suitcase. He spins him around and strikes him. Heather screams and falls. He kicks him. He punches her. They do not fight back. He kicks and he kicks. He looks at the bed. He sees him in the bed. She sits on the bed. He looks at them on the floor. She rises from the floor. He sits next to her. She is in the bed. He lays a hand on his knee. He leans near her. He knows him. So she does not move away. He falls back together.

Cutland Junction

Blackstrap had gone to Paul Harnett. Told him that his men weren't needed to dig the hole.

‘It's done with a backhoe now,' he told Blackstrap. ‘Men don't dig.'

‘Okay,' Blackstrap had said. Stood in the undertaker's office. ‘I'll take care of it.'

‘Take care of the digging?'

‘Right.'

‘If that's what you want. Sure. You have a backhoe?'

Blackstrap gave no reply.

‘And you'll need a permit.'

Three feet wide. Six and a half feet long. Seven feet into the earth. Working his way down with a shovel in the Bareneed cemetery. The space between where Junior and Ruth are buried. A shovelful of loose dirt tossed skyward. The ground made easier by the two holes to either side. Hoping not to strike any wood from the others. Hoping not to find them pressed in against him. But hoping and wishing he might. To make them deader or to love them dearer.

Down deeper.

Four feet into the earth. The full length. The cut of the shovel keeping everything even. He cannot stop until it is done. The sun warming the shirt on his back. The heat in his hair. His muscles aching. Going weak then stronger after a pause. The nubs of his fingers. How he must hold the shovel now. He doesn't even notice after a while.

By late morning, two children come to watch. A boy and a girl from the welfare houses down the road. Blackstrap can tell by the way they're dressed. A dirty look to them. A greyness to their clothes and skin. Not in school. Why not in school? He wants to ask. Deep enough to be in the shadows now. Able to bend out of the sunlight.

‘Dig'n a grave,' says the boy. Like he knows exactly what it's all about. Just another day. Must be over five feet deep. Blackstrap can still see above the rim. Level with his neck. He pauses to glance up. The boy has a small bag in his hand. Brown paper with candy that he eats.

‘Who's going in dat?' asks the girl. Wiping at her nose and snorting up. Then pointing at the hole.

Blackstrap looks at the girl. Her long hair greasy. Her face sweet as it is. He gives his head a little shake.

‘Old person?' asks the boy. Eating a candy. Chewing it with big movements of his mouth.

‘Yeah,' says Blackstrap. Going back to work. Digging in. The shovel blade making a steady sound that brings to mind a voice shushing someone. His mind fixed around a coffin shape. Only one size of a grave. No matter what's laid to rest.

‘Mister or missus?' asks the girl.

‘Missus.' His arms unsteady from tossing up the dirt.

The children say nothing. So he thinks they are gone. A dog barks somewhere off in the distance. A crow calls out. Won't stop for whatever reason. Then a blue jay squealing. Other birds too. Smaller by the sounds they're making. A crow overhead. The feathers whooshing in the stillness. He hears then sees when he looks up. The shadow passing.

‘We never seen you b'fore.' It's the girl.

He tosses up another shovelful. The sweat dripping from his nose. His arms glossy with it. The lifeboat. Trapped in that. Digging deeper. Toward water. The clay tumbling onto his boots. Like handfuls of dirt tossed there. Sloshing around. What if there is water?

‘Bill drives da machine,' says the boy. ‘Dat digs dis stuff.'

His lungs burning, Blackstrap pauses to catch his breath. To swipe sweat from his eyes. To squint up at the boy and girl. High above him now. Stood there. Looking down at him. Not saying another word. Just staring. With the blue sky behind them. A few fluffy clouds. Not a word from them now. Not a breath of wind.

Two sets of eyes fixed on him.

Not really a question.

Not interested to know.

Just something being done.

Stood there for hours.

A photograph in a frame.

Until he feels the hairs prickle on his arms.

And the boy comes to life. Rifles around in the bag. Takes out a long jelly worm. Holds it out to the girl at arm's length. ‘Last one,' he teases. Moving it around by her face. ‘Suffer, maggot. Suffferrr.'

‘Frig off.' The girl slaps at him. Misses because the boy leans away. ‘I got a mind ta murder you.'

‘Yeah, try it.' The boy pops the candy into his mouth. Chews. Crumples up the bag and tosses it over his shoulder.

‘Someone's buy'n our house,' the girl says to Blackstrap. Arm out by her side. Pointing at the ocean. ‘We're mov'n ta Sin Jahn's.'

‘Ta da orphanage,' adds the boy. ‘Cause our mudder says we're brats.' The boy spits off toward a place Blackstrap can't see.

‘We come down?' The girl.

‘Yeah.' The boy.

‘What for?' Blackstrap leans against one of the rough clay walls. His shoulder pressing into it. The earth pressing into him. The shovel handle almost in front of his face. Both hands on top of it. Someone buried where he's standing soon.

‘Have a look 'round,' says the boy.

Blackstrap checks the four sides. ‘Not much to see.'

‘Come on, buddy.'

‘Come on, buddy,' says the girl. Just like the boy.

The boy squats and turns. His palms flat on the grass. Tries putting one foot into the hole. Dirt sprinkling down. His chest against the
broken earth. He lets his other foot dangle. Then he drops. Falls without tipping over. Stands up straight. Dirt on his clothes. He dusts himself off. But there are smears of clay left. Looks around. Inspecting the job.

‘Me,' says the girl.

The girl alone up there with her arms held out.

Blackstrap leans the shovel handle against the earth wall. Nowhere for it to fall. Except lengthways. He raises his arms to the girl.

‘Jump,' says the boy. Laughing. ‘Chicken.'

The girl squats. Still with her arms out. Uncertain. She leans forward. Just a bit. Leans back again. Not convinced. Still squat down. She shifts her sneaker toes closer to the edge. Leans forward. More and more. Her shoulders tipped ahead. Her face expecting something. Until gravity takes her and she drops. That fright on her face. Falling. Screaming.

Blackstrap catches her. The weight of her in his arms. Hardly anything at all.

The girl smiling now. Her face up close to him. Teeth rotted around the edges.

‘Frig'n good catch,' says the boy. His voice louder and moist in the hole.

Blackstrap lays the girl down. She squats right away. Fingers the dirt. Uncovers something just there by her foot.

‘Ugh,' she says. Already stood away and stepping further back.

The boy taking her place in a flash. Shoving the girl aside. She falls on her bum and stays there. Legs out in front of her. The cool earth. The boy digs. Small bones arranged in lines. All running parallel. Earth mixed in with them.

‘Fish,' he says. Pulling it free and shaking the dirt off. The boy wags the skeleton in the girl's face. ‘Dead fish. Ya wan' some? Dee'licious.'

‘Stop.' She throws dirt at him. One handful, then another.

‘Ha.' Then he throws the fish skeleton out of the hole. Wipes his hands together. Looks at the walls. Looks up. ‘Ha,' he says again. ‘Heyyyy,' he shouts at the sky. Listening to hear if it goes on.

Too much noise and movement. Too suddenly. Blackstrap's shoulders tensing.

‘I'm tell'n Mudder,' says the girl.

‘So. Screw dat. I'll punch yer lights out.' The boy takes hold of the shovel. Starts digging. Hits Blackstrap with the long handle. Trying to lift the shovel blade toward the opening. The dirt just falls back in. He tries some more. Keeps digging and lifting the shovel. The dirt sliding off the blade. Some of it into the boy's face. He spits and wipes at his eyes with his arm, but keeps at it.