Blackstrap Hawco (88 page)

‘You thought that might fix something?'

‘What?' He wonders if she meant the accident.

‘Beating someone up.' The memory is still strong with her. Strong enough to have darkened her voice.

He scratches his cheek. There's another flush there. He thinks on standing, on leaving. The one-nut wonder. Everything too close to him in this room. Too near. The room shifting like it's afloat. His hand almost goes for the table to steady himself. He doesn't know what she's talking about. The way she's talking now, smart as anything, out to get him with what she says.

‘I talked him out of laying charges. He needed three teeth capped. You broke his nose. In a bad way. Broken nose. That's an injury forever.' She shrugs. ‘Fortunately, I don't really care anymore. The way things are now, you could've done worse.'

‘Not much worse.'

Agnes straightens in her chair. She puts her elbows on the table, her hands joined. ‘Did you drive? I didn't see a car.'

‘Boat.'

‘Boat? From where?'

‘Home.'

She just stares at him, thinking or not. ‘That's a long way. Did you come here to do a bit more bleeding?'

A long way from home.

He snorts in amusement at the thought of his answer. Internal. Internal bleeding. Watching her face, he wants to tell her that he loves her. He knows he does. The only woman he has ever loved. If he could leave Cutland Junction, forget everything, Junior, his son, not his son, he would stay here in this house. The baby. Afraid of the baby to come. Another newborn anchoring him to Patsy, barbs curved through him. No way of ever getting free of a family.

If Agnes would have him, if she would care for him, that would be enough. To care. He would do whatever she wanted. He would walk three hundred miles in the direction she pointed. A life in this house with her, in warm hiding. He would give up his family. Wouldn't he? He sighs and looks at his cup.

‘How's your back?'

‘Okay.'

‘Your head was never okay, so I won't ask about that.'

He laughs. Bursts out. The laugh almost made of tears. So that he has to wipe at his lips. ‘Yer way funnier than I remember.'

‘You don't remember much, I bet.'

And the light changes in the room. The sun coming out from behind the edge of a cloud somewhere through the window. A small stained-glass one up high. He feels the heat right away. The room filling up with it.

‘You've been through a bit. The
Ocean Ranger
. That crash.' The corners of her mouth dip down. ‘Hard luck.'

He does not want to talk about any of that. He finishes his tea and stands from his chair.

‘That little girl,' she says right away, like she's trying to get it in, like
he might storm from the house. Escape. And she needs to have him hear. Her arms on the table, her hands in fists now.

But Blackstrap's not certain because of the noise of his chair. He looks at her eyes. She might have said that. Or anything else. Something important. He might have only heard what was in his head. What he was expecting.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.' But the way she stares at him makes him feel that she knows more. He breaks the look. She checks into her cup and silently pours more tea. ‘You have a son now.'

‘Yes.' He feels ashamed standing there. Why? Ashamed of his son. And his wife. Ashamed of what is yet to be born.

‘I can't have children.' The way her eyes pin him now. This confession he does not deserve to hear. ‘I was married.'

Blackstrap leans against the counter, his back hurting. The pain like hot copper filling up his teeth, pouring down his legs. It gives him a headache through the left side of his face. A blade with serrated teeth, jerking through, inches at a time.

‘To Peter. In Halifax.'

‘Was?'

‘Was, yes. He left me.' She swallows, smiles bravely, but not bravely at all. Only for him to see. ‘When he found out I couldn't have children. He's married again now. Three boys.'

‘Good for him.' He wants to say, Better to have you.

‘You think so?'

‘I don't know…what I meant.'

‘Me neither.'

There is silence. Again, he considers leaving. If only the pain would stop. It's making him irritable. Angry at her. Just to be near her now is making him angry. The two of them in a room he has never seen before. Nothing the way it ever was. He does not like the house. It's too grand.

‘When'd you get a new boat?'

‘A few year ago.'

‘What's it like?'

‘Come see it if you want.'

‘Haven't sunk it yet.'

‘No. I'll take you for a run.'

‘In a boat with you? You're kidding.'

He frowns and she sees how her words did it.

‘I need to get dressed,' she says, in a voice almost shy. ‘What time is it?' She looks at the clock on the stove.

There comes a knock on the front door. Right away, Agnes checks toward the sound, then back at the clock. She raises her cup, sips her tea.

They watch each other.

Blackstrap knows there's a man at the door. That a man is expected. He can tell by the way Agnes' eyes avoid it.

There is another knock.

Something moves against his leg. He flinches and darts a look down to see a cat.

‘That's just Resurrection.'

He thinks he knows the story behind the cat. But that story was his. The cat, too. How old would it be?

The cat jumps up on the counter, sniffs at a plate and licks it. One paw on the envelope with the letter Agnes had been reading.

Another knock on the door.

‘I better get that.' She stands and leaves the room.

Blackstrap follows after her, only a few steps, just enough to see down the long hallway. Agnes opens the door. A man is stood there, looking straight in, happy to see her, saying: ‘Hi.' Then seeing past her. A face Blackstrap recognizes, but from where? Because the man stares. Disappointed at first. But then confused before he puts it all together. Not too long ago.

The hospital parking lot.

Right away, the man brushes by Agnes.

She puts up a hand as though to stop him, but he is in, hurrying toward Blackstrap.

Wind reaches him first down the long corridor.

The man raises his fist and hits him.

Blackstrap's face slams sideways, his head against the hard wall as fast as that, like a skull-echoing ricochet. A noise and an ache telling him how hard the world is. He will not raise his hands. Another punch. He
falls over and strikes the wall again. Then his knees bang the floor while he's kicked in the chest.

‘Stop it.' Agnes calling out. ‘Gordon, stop.'

He falls over, his eyes shut. Being kicked feels right. He stays there. Does nothing to protect himself. Will not move to prove anything to her. This is what he has come for.

The boot to different parts of his body, until he can't breathe.

Agnes screaming Gordon's name.

The kicking slows to a beat, then stops.

It feels quiet because his lungs are paralyzed.

He opens his swimming eyes.

A deaf noise in his throat.

The cat rubbing against him.

She leans near.

Her face.

Her wet hair.

Her robe open at the top.

The heat of her.

Not the way she ever smelled before.

His eyes watching, dim and hopeful.

Her hands on his face.

Her saying his name.

Her eyes searching in a way that makes her worry.

He cannot breathe.

A boom. The slam of the door.

He can barely hear.

The cat.

The little girl? he wants to ask.

Who is looking after her?

 

Chapter XIV – 1990

The Berlin Wall

(June, 1990, 36 years old)

Blackstrap likes quieter bars where he can rest his elbows and listen in on the conversations of men. The talk about what's wrong or right in the world, what was done to them, what they were lucky enough to get away with, who they fell victim to, who they got the best of.

But there are benefits to louder bars, putting up with booming music to watch women dance. George Street is where the action always is. ‘Go'n ta George Street,' someone would say to another with a laugh. An inside joke meaning it's time to get loaded and laid. It's where the women are all done up in the latest mall fashions, trying to look the same pretty way, going around in expensive sneakers with logos on them and jeans bought with rips in them. He can't figure that one out. Maybe he could get a job as a ripper in a jean factory.

To get into the Sundance Saloon, he has to wander up from Water and step through the loose crowd of people, keep heading west on George. It's a fine summer's night, so people are slow-moving, happy just to be out at night without a coat on. Girls calling to one another. Clip-clopping on heels they can barely walk on and acting a bit too foolish for his liking.

There's a line-up at the Sundance when he gets there, the conversation a mess of uselessness. Women screeching about nothing. A few of them chawing on gum. Guys in their white shirts and jeans, and perfect hairdos. Jocks by the looks of them, most of them in shirts with logos for companies. Then there's the shabby-looking guy in front of Blackstrap. A little guy in a baseball cap and grey windbreaker with his hands in his pockets. He teeters a bit, stares back at Blackstrap, squints almost meanly like Blackstrap might be responsible. He wavers his head around front, then checks back again: ‘Who fuh'k're ya look'n 't?'

Blackstrap just stares. It's almost funny though. The nasty, little fellow.

Little Tuffy makes a sound with his lips. A sound that says he'd punch Blackstrap's lights out, but it'd be too much of a bother. He turns to face forward, still with his hands in his pockets, like they're glued in there. He shuffles sideways, trying to catch up with his own feet, about to fall, working to tug his hands from his pockets. But he can't.

Before Little Tuffy can tip, Blackstrap lunges sideways, grabs him and straightens him up.

Little Tuffy regains his footing, staggers around, then leans back into the line-up. He looks at Blackstrap, sloppily straightens the beak of his baseball cap. He does that for a while, using both hands, then he winks at Blackstrap, slaps him on the arm. ‘S'aw'right, b'y,' says Little Tuffy. He gives Blackstrap a thumbs-up, shuts one eye, keeps it that way. Frowning for a while, he then smiles. ‘S'aw'right, buddy. Yer a'right, b'y.'

By the time they reach the door, Little Tuffy has made Blackstrap his best friend. He tells Blackstrap about all the bars he's been in that night, pointing with his unsteady arm. This way. That way. He gives the specifics of the fights he could've been in, if most of the guys he threw himself up against weren't ‘fuh'k'n pussies.' Always backing away from him. ‘Beat the face right off 'em. 'Fraid they might get a bit of dirt on 'em. Fuh'k'n quiffs.'

The door opens and a few pissed-off girls step out. They're arguing about something one of them did to the other. A guy's name is mentioned. Little Tuffy holds his hands out by his sides. ‘Nut'n on me,' he says as he goes into the Sundance. ‘Wanna search?'

No reply from the muscle-bound bouncer.

‘Hey,' calls Little Tuffy. ‘You got nut'n on me, a'right.' He points a finger at the bouncer, tries his best to seem sober, but his eyes are looking to be made of soaked stone. They don't move that easily. Little Tuffy takes off his windbreaker, grunting and pulling his arms from it, then working a while bunching it up into a tight ball. He hands it to the coat check girl. ‘Lissen, swee'eart. Tha's 'xpensive coat. Keep eye 'n 't. It used ta belong ta Sonny Bono.' He winks. Laughs. ‘Sonny Boner.' He looks back at the bouncer, wheezing a laugh. ‘You need a be tha' fuh'k'n big? Musta hurt. Grow'n tha' big.'

‘What?' asks the bouncer, acting not interested.

‘Yer mudder when ya pop'd out. Fuh'k'n muscles on ya. Jeeez. Cripes! She must'a yelped.'

‘He with you?' the bouncer asks Blackstrap.

Blackstrap looks up, thinks: What a voice. Grumbly rock. Goes with the shaved head. Then he nods.

The bouncer doesn't bother replying. He just clicks his silver counter twice. Enough distraction to do him a lifetime. He watches toward the half-open door. The line-up wanting in.

Nothing getting by that bouncer, Blackstrap thinks. He studied for years to get his degree in being the most wonderful sort of prick.

Little Tuffy is gone on ahead of Blackstrap. As soon as he gets into the crowd, he claims the party as his, clapping his hands together. He goes right for the dance floor, arms above his head, stumbling around to the beat of ‘Ice Ice Baby' and coolly mouthing the words, like he's Vanilla Ice himself, minus the fancy hairdo, minus the fancy clothes and fancy steps. Blackstrap can see Little Tuffy's lips moving. Little Tuffy's as happy as a pig in shit. He doesn't have a care in the world, even when his baseball cap is knocked off. He doesn't even seem to notice. He's bent forward at the hips, boogying, hands on his thighs, shaking his backside, and laughing at the craziness of it all. Hands back up over his head, he's trying to bump hips with a girl or two. His mouth twisted up, his tongue half out. ‘Ice, Ice Baby.'

With Little Tuffy's hat gone, Blackstrap sees the strange clots of hair on his head, like someone's yanked out handfuls of it in patches.

‘Ice Ice Baby' is replaced by Madonna's ‘Vogue.' Little Tuffy starts striking poses, pushing his palms against his cheeks, so his lips puff out like a fish. Then wrapping his arms around his face, so he can't see anything. He almost trips over his own feet, banging into a few well-bred merchant boys made of good looks and money. They give Little Tuffy those sorts of sneers that say ‘what's his problem, the little piece of dirt,' like they never dealt with a drunk before, were never drunk themselves. Them being the worst sort of drunks, raised spoiled, the most brutal in groups, the most cowardly alone. They act like their lives have always been perfect, up until that moment.

Enough of that, Blackstrap tells himself. He goes to the bar. He has to wait a while because the crowd around the bar is two layers deep. He reaches forward, nudging a couple of white-shirts out of his way. They give him the look they think they're entitled to, but he doesn't bother with either one of them. Not yet anyway. The night's too early. He calls out for two India, one for himself and one for Little Tuffy. He pays the barmaid a ten, waits for his change and pockets it.

He drinks his beer, and holds Little Tuffy's bottle until Little Tuffy is done with dancing. The dancing has left him even more sloppy-limbed, blowing out breath, but laughing it off. A little more sober, too. It's a strange mix. Little Tuffy wanders next to Blackstrap, not even knowing what's up, just wondering. A woman comes behind Little Tuffy and puts his baseball cap back on his head. Little Tuffy turns around, watches the woman's ass while she walks off. Tight jeans. Chunky. ‘See that? Loves a big fuh'k'n piece of ass 'n my face.'

Blackstrap smiles and holds out the beer. Little Tuffy stops, his eyes on it, like it's some sort of roadblock. A trap. A trick. Something he has to pass to get through. He looks at Blackstrap. Little Tuffy's smile says he knows Blackstrap, says he knows Blackstrap better than himself. Little Tuffy points at Blackstrap, says: ‘Aaaaaaaa,' in a good way. ‘Is you, ain't it, buddy?'

Blackstrap straightens the baseball cap. Little Tuffy winks and takes the beer, tries putting his lips to it, barely misses, then gets it. He drinks the beer back.

‘Ex's'lent,' says Little Tuffy. ‘Wha' yer name again, buddy?'

‘Blackstrap.'

Little Tuffy laughs. ‘Dat's a'most as funny as my head.' He points to the side of his head, then reaches into his pocket, pulls out a thick wad of money. Little Tuffy has lots of money. He's proud of the fact.

‘Law'r got me money,' Little Tuffy shouts in Blackstrap's ear, the sound extra loud because of the loud music. The sharp voice needles Blackstrap's ear, but what makes it worse is that Little Tuffy is swaying back and forth, so it's even harder to hear. Bits of words come clearer than others. ‘…'cause…dis brain tumour…I got. Where'I worked…a bunch've 's got…brain…Fuh'k'd if…it ain't stupidest…t'ing in…walls.' Little Tuffy throws his fingers in front of Blackstrap's face.
Stiff fingers. ‘Stuff,' says Little Tuffy, his eyes opening wider, like he's hypnotized. ‘Stuff in dere.'

Blackstrap watches Little Tuffy turn his head to wink at a group of girls. Making hoo-hoo sounds while twisting his hips like he's dancing, he laughs and takes a big chug of beer.

‘Women loves me,' he says. ‘ 'Cause I'm dying. Haaa.' He slaps Blackstrap's arm. ‘Come on, wha're ya drink'n?' He tries focusing on the bottle in Blackstrap's hand, turning his head one way, shutting one eye. ‘Wha's dat?'

‘India,' says Blackstrap.

‘A'most good 's Dominion.' Little Tuffy stumbles off. Blackstrap waits, but Little Tuffy doesn't come back. When he's done his beer, Blackstrap wanders to the bar and sees Little Tuffy in the corner, talking to a table of girls. He has his baseball cap off, pointing at spots on his head and nodding sincerely, oh-yeah, he's saying, that's right.

Blackstrap leaves Tuffy be. He gets himself a beer and returns to the dance floor, satisfied to have a little time to himself, to watch the dancers without Little Tuffy shouting in his ear. The bar makes him think of Halifax, watching women dance years ago. Agnes still in Corner Brook. Still there alone. No, not alone, but with Gordon. The guy's name with the little girl in the back seat. The girl he damaged. After she told him about everything. How Agnes looks after that damaged girl. Did she think she was supposed to? He drinks from his bottle. He wants to shut his eyes and keep them that way. Agnes told him that he shouldn't come back, that he should stay away, go back to his family. She wouldn't have any part in breaking up a family. Go back to Patsy. You have another baby on the way. And Junior. That's his name, right? Junior? How did she know? After your brother, I guess. He's meant to take Junior trouting tomorrow. He'll get back to Cutland Junction in time. Junior barely able to hold the pole in his small hands, but that's when he should learn. Start learning. He drinks some more. Agnes telling him not to come back. Another doctor in the hospital wrapping his chest. A broken rib or two. It still hurts when he laughs or coughs, so he doesn't. Laying off the smokes because of it. He finishes off the bottle, wishes he had had Junior with Agnes. She would be a good mother, a gentle mother, a perfect mother. A mother to that
girl now. Is that what she wanted? Did that make her feel better? Him feel better?

The beer would go great with a pill washed down. Or maybe just another beer would do it. He focuses back on the dance floor. A black-haired woman catches his eye. He likes the look of her. She dances with her hands hanging delicately by her sides. She's got a bit of meat on her, the way he likes a woman now. None of that skinny model crap from magazines. He used to like that when he was younger, thinking that sort of thing was pretty, but it changed when he got older. He keeps watching her, staring at her, until she starts blushing, and leans to whisper to her girlfriend. The one she's dancing with who gawks over at Blackstrap. Blackstrap takes a swig of beer. The bottle empty. He doesn't like the looks of the friend. She's trouble. Nasty. It's easy to see, but it's good to watch women dancing together. He knows they're not lizzies like some people think. Girls just like dancing with each other, that's the thing to do now. It's like showing off.

When the song is done, the black-haired woman sits down.

The new song is ‘Personal Jesus.' A song Blackstrap doesn't mind, the beat and what is being said. The song reminds him of Junior, his brother, something to do with worshipping false idols, but said in a different way. A song Junior would appreciate. He goes over, asks the woman to dance, like the memory makes him stronger.

The black-haired woman shakes her head.

‘Good,' he says, not moving.

‘Good?' says the black-haired woman's friend in a shocked way. She laughs and dips her head forward, shakes it, mouth open, like he's retarded or something.

Blackstrap ignores the friend. She's a nuisance. He keeps watching the black-haired woman.

‘I didn't want to dance,' he says, careful of how he talks in here, in St. John's. The city. Not a stupid baywop like he's heard people saying.

‘No.'

‘Just wanted to say hello, anyway.'

The black-haired woman nods. She understands. She's okay.

‘Blackstrap.' He puts out his hand.

‘Karen,' she says, politely.

‘Hey, you, hey, hey,' a voice rushes up behind Blackstrap. He turns to see Little Tuffy. ‘Howya know my sisser, Blackman?'

‘Fuck off, Teddy,' says Karen's friend.

Little Tuffy bends down, makes kissing sounds in front of the friend's face, ‘Smooch, smooch, smooch, mmm-yum-mmm, loves ya, too, BattleAxe Witch.' Then Little Tuffy straightens, arm reaching up to go around Blackstrap's shoulders. Stood there like it's photo time.

‘Dis feller's da best man ev'r. Saved my life in da line-up. Fuh'k'n dang'rous place. T'ings pull'n at ya. Fuh'k'n line-up.' Then he turns, twists his hips toward the dance floor. ‘Watch out, laaaaddeeeees.'

‘You know Teddy?' Karen asks.

‘Yeah.'