Blackstrap Hawco (9 page)

jacob hawco paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, his bare arm already glistening with sweat and his tanned back sheened, making the patches of black hair seem blacker,

‘you hungry, blacky,' emily asked, fitting a clothes pin over the line and the shoulder of his father's white sunday shirt that made blackstrap think of church tomorrow,

‘no, i'm helping,'

‘okay, then,' she clipped the final item onto the line, her new sleeveless blue blouse with yellow daisies, then turned and paused to stare toward bell isle, as she often did, considering junior, blackstrap suspected, then raised the basket under her arm, swept some hair away from her face, and stepped in the open back door, blackstrap stared at the island, too, wondering about the adventures his brother must be having so far down into the earth, the shafts going down only so far and then curving out, taking the men beneath the
water, this thought suited blackstrap, he liked to ponder it, once when they had sailed over on the caribou to visit portugal cove, blackstrap had asked his father to hold him high above the ship's railing so he could stare down into the rolling blue, trying to catch a glimpse of junior and the other workers, working beneath the water, the height had felt right, hanging over the water, he wasn't scared, he had said ‘let go,' but his father had not heard him above the hum of the ship's engine,

‘i'll hammer it now,' blackstrap said as if it were simply meant to be, no question, no argument, nine years old and big for his age, he moved in beside his father and placed one hand on the wooden handle, jacob looked down at the boy's hand,

‘how old ye be now,'

‘you know,'

‘'n why'd i know,'

‘'cause it were me birt'day last week,' blackstrap professed, ‘and yer me fadder, yer supposed ta know,' jacob laughed and released hold of the maul, he stared up at the sky, his chest rising and falling to the vigorous beating of his heart, he blew out breath, then made a sound and sat on the warm grass, drawing his knees up and wiping the sweat from his brows with the butt of his palm, ‘give't a try den, g'wan, i'll rest me weary bones, dun't strain yerself, now,' blackstrap swung the maul above his head, slamming it down against the post top, dead on, jacob shook his head, glancing out across the land that sloped away from their house, toward the headland where the gulls brought their bones to pick over, and the flat presence of bell isle beyond, thinking of junior and how he was doing, expecting a visit soon, he listened to the radio coming from the open window, the news, iron ore company of canada officially announcing the opening of their project at labrador city, jacob thought of the mines on bell isle closing down, a two-week shutdown of the last surviving mine, number three, the one that junior worked in, a visit home, there was news of something called telstar that orbited space on that very day, its pioneering mission to bring the world a new voice, ears and eyes, the newsman said: ‘in triumphant baptism tuesday night, telstar sent television pictures spanning the atlantic to france and england,'

jacob looked toward the sky, and further word, something about a blast over the nevada desert, the news broadcast, never a good thing, what came at a man new, blackstrap swung the maul, lifted it above his head and grunted, pulling down with his arms and shoulders and back, jacob turned his gaze to the water and the sunlight catching on the small crests that barely rose, he considered the rumours he had heard about premier smallwood moving the people from the small communities to larger ones, idiocy, he felt sick to his stomach for the fight that he knew would prove futile against government thought, he licked the sweat from above his top lip and stood, turning to see that blackstrap had driven the post knee-level into the ground,

‘sweet christ, me son,' he snatched the maul handle in mid swing, yanked it cleanly from his son's hands, ‘wha're ya do'n,' he demanded, ‘how'm i gunna get dat back out,' intently watching the young boy, stood there without a drop of sweat on his face, his breath not the slightest bit strained, the boy staring at jacob, nothing short of offended at being interrupted, his hand out for the maul, wanting it back, wiggling his fingers, tipping his head, so that jacob burst out laughing,

 

junior hawco raced through the pitch black field, running blind, not knowing what he might strike, any moment, a wall of darkness stopping dead somewhere, laughing all the way, free and shouting in drunken merriment, singing his father's songs in excess, his voice nothing like that, his arms out at his sides, until finding the end, not as humorous but more solid than ever imagined, smacking into something hard and steady, and realizing, as the air punched out of him and he flew back with feet rising up for the plummet, by the slight rustling sound and snort of breath coming through his blindness, that a horse had turned its head to look at the inconsequential speck of weight that had slammed against its side, the sky a starless, moonless excess of black that wanted to swell inside him, he felt not a pang, not a rock beneath, only grass, but the smell of dung, cow or horse nearby, no, cow, by the sweeter smell of it, he took time standing, carefully, one hand to the moist ground, dazed, the dim stray lights from houses in the distance, touched his nose, the echo of sound from the collision in his ears now ebbing, he stood on
unsteady legs, sensed the heat, the horse, the muted glimmer of eye, the odour of hair, the sniff of soft, wide nostrils, the idea of a creature posed in darkness, blending so perfectly, solid, without worry, faith in such objects not easily moved, his namesake, mother and father, brother blackstrap, a horse, who loves you now, he loves everyone, this horse, hands on the warm bulk, junior blindly inched toward the head, feeling its body, its thick neck, its long impressive head shifting slightly, restrained force, knowing what it might do, could do, the horse knowing itself, better than anything, felt its lips, tough and so tender at once, pried his fingers past the soft lips to cup his hand against the teeth, at once, feeling unbearable sorrow, the horse shifted its legs backward,
afraid of me
, junior thought,
my touch, everyone,

‘shhh, don't be afraid,' he whispered, calling up a recollection of worn-out, crippled horses stood before a ragged hole in a cliff at the back of the island, two-hundred-foot-deep crevice with ledges along the way down for smacking hard against, the crack they called it, a shotgun raised toward the horse, people often gathered to watch as the old horses, with a bang through their heads, went over, dropping onto their sides and tumbling with a kick or two or three, over the grassy lip, into the brownish-black gap of merciless rock, the crack, where garbage and excess of refuse was tossed down, too, at night, on his walks, junior visited to aim a flashlight down at rotting carcasses of horses, young boys' voices coming up behind, paying little attention to him, with flashlights and twelve-gauges, they shone lights down into the crack, shouting for an echo then blowing holes in the sides of the meaty horses as a dark greyish wash of rats streamed out both ends, a feast of creation cut short in the crack,
a pretty trick
, junior thought,
i wasn't made for this,
he rubbed the side of the horse's face, scratched the short smooth hair along the bridge of its nose, even though he pretended familiarity with the dark fields, his head was rattled, he vowed to stick to the roads from there on, safer, except for the barking dogs and the stray body of a drunk miner to stumble over,

‘you weren't made for this either,' junior whispered, ‘were you,' smiled in the darkness and the horse shifted its head, nudging his arm so that he almost tripped backward again,

‘hey,' his grin felt wonderful, in the darkness, as if it might be aglow,
the power,
he thought, for all to see, his grin from hundreds of feet above the dark field, marvelling at the texture of the horse's nostrils, then startled as something touched his back, nudged him hard, from behind, his breath jammed by the thought of another seeing him there, expecting a voice, what are you doing, who are you, he spun around, hoping against hope, for norman, his friend, or shab reardon, following him, sniffing, coaxing, wondering who he was, norman, another horse, not the might of his friend shab reardon, in the dark, shab not so calm, not so silent, but a horse regardless, then another horse at his side, and another, sniffing, expecting, what did he have for them, what had he brought to them,

 

shab reardon found the door unlocked, stumbled quickly through it, booze shuffling a feet–brain mismatch, slamming into the staircase post, a thunderous crack, it hurt more than him, then tilting off into the wall to his right, one hand up to save himself, someone had tipped the floor, he stayed on his feet, knowing better than to fall, to fall meant black end end end, grumbling toward action, he shoved himself away and tripped over a stray boot, grumbling more, searching for what it was, a boot, a cat, a lump, staggering down the hallway, his eyes raised without knowing, seeing ahead now, practically no difference, he stood in a doorway, braced a hand against the casing to either side, eyes staring straight, unseeing from the momentum of his stride, all a blur, leaving himself, re-entering himself, his body must be steadied, then his vision, the kitchen, he coughed loudly, wondering where in christ's name he was,

‘fack'n khhhh,' he said, disgruntled, head drooped to his chest, with a quick shove, he hurled himself around, trudged back up the hallway, toward the shut door on the right, maybe a bedroom, maybe gertie sprawled out there, waiting for him, one hand slid against the door, harder now, pressing, he rattled the knob with the other, it turned and the door flung open against his weight, he fell inward, striking the table below the knee, the heavy glass ashtray thudding onto the floor, then his body hitting an orchestra of noise, music that suited him, good for a laugh, that sound, booming, the piano the key to everything, the
jumbled musical sound he soon recognized to be something other than the catastrophic score of his actions, gertie didn't own a piano, he cursed, ferociously, stomped his boot against the rug, savagely dissatisfied by how the rug had muffled the racket he was intent on making, he shoved himself toward the parlour doorway, catching hold of the banister that led upstairs and holding it with one hand, an anchor that secured him against the gale blowing out through his eyes, swirling around to dizzy him, he swivelled toward the stairway, clung to the banister before it had the chance to bend away, he did not see old missus babb standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs, in her night coat, whispering, ‘our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy…' missus babb praying to saint jude, the saint of lost causes, as shab attempted a step, lifting one foot, he slammed sideways into the wall and fell backward onto his side, goddamn stairs, he always hated, the rise in his ribs, the rise and the flat, the rise and the flat, how was he supposed to know, how they worked, level was bad enough, he managed a barking laugh while getting up, reaching out for the banister, a man set perilously adrift at sea, his fingers needy as he grunted, he pulled himself to his feet and shakily navigated a succession of two impossibly difficult stairs, up, level, up, before missus babb screamed and shab flew backward, imagining an attack of birds, his heavy body crashed so soundly onto the floor that missus babb heard the china rattling in the dining room cabinet, saw the unlit light fixture sway above the staircase, thinking it might snap from its wire, one hand to her mouth, mumbling, shab wrestled with himself until near the open doorway, he raised himself to his feet then smashed into the door framing, whacking his head with such force that he was dazed for seconds, perfectly still, wondering about an old orange cat he had as a boy, a moment later, he mumbled something resembling ‘oh,' yet was not quite that, a sound as plain and clear as any word spoken by a sober man, but unknown, then shab lurched forward through the doorway, into the blackness, compelled to do so only by his feet, but not really wanting any part of it, gertie and her big tits, he'd find them, fucking titties, he grabbed at his crotch and laughed, wavering blindly across the yard, one like the other, all the same, they should suffer, he howled at the moon
that was up there somewhere, meaning to pull it down from the smothering sky,

 

there was a fire across the flat expanse of bell isle, the crescendoing wail, the siren-like whistle from the mines alerting everyone, people stood vigil in windows or out in yards, searching the flames in the night, the height, the distance, the speculation, they soon discovered, this fire was far from junior hawco, where he stood behind his window, spotting the flames off toward the section of the island they called the green, they called shacktown, flickering lowly, colours shifting, orange, red, seemingly so small, he lifted his hand to use the space between thumb and forefinger to measure the size of the blaze, took a slow toke from the jay pinched between his other fingers,
a few inches
, he thought of the fire,
what harm could possibly come of it, too much time before flames reached there,
he would step on them, turning away, he stared at his work clothes on the floor in the dim bedroom, left there, covered in red dust, add water, what have you got, he chuckled, stood naked and looked down at his body, took another toke, his long toes, the hair on his legs, taut stomach, as if to determine the nature of his penis, he tapped the tip with his finger, then wet two fingertips and doused the flame on the tip of the jay, out, no damage done, he sniffed his fingers, the resin, he loved that smell, a tantalizing aroma,

‘trouble there,' he whispered, exhaling smoke, eyes heavier, buzz-thinking on the middle-aged man in the old raglan who, day in, day out, stood beside the monument in town square, his face a question mark of trepidation, his voice insistent, ‘trouble dere,' while he pointed out spaces in the sky, ‘trouble dere,' carefully moving his finger, tracing out what he saw as no one else, ‘trouble dere,' stuck in the scene where he had witnessed his friend's head sliced off in the mines, years ago, his friend (junior names him buddy) standing in the tram car, coming up from underground and the other men pulling buddy down, knowing better, the danger, their concern too late, buddy's body headless, head bouncing high then dropping, landing with a sloppy thud in trouble dere's lap, its helmet still on, the lamp shining up, buddy's eyes blinking, maybe still seeing, all his friends, the vibration of the car opening
buddy's lips, junior imagined, lips about to say something, but, finally, buddy's face nothing other than perplexed, so much for buddy, trouble dere for sure, trouble dere forever, it would not let you forget, why did it not let you forget, junior found himself, standing too still, his body, what was it, really, ugly thoughts like these, they were with him, then gone, he was real and in them, then not, they reminded him of writing to his mother, back in bareneed, she liked the stories he sent her, sitting on the edge of the bed, he laid the snuffed jay on the night table, next to the white paper, leaning, he clicked on the small lamp, aware of the soft amber light cast against his flesh, speculatively touching the back of his right hand with the fingers of his left, the vein,
how come i can see everything, except my face and my asshole,
he smiled to himself, a good smile that he felt might help him, s
omething to that, question number 3,567 to ask god,
lifting the pen from the night table, he pressed its tip against the top sheet of paper beside the lamp, his hand holding a pen, that was all he saw of himself, that was the portrait now, he took his camera from the bed beside him, aimed with one hand, at his hand holding the pen, an awkward attempt to focus and press the shutter button, the picture might be blurred, the shutter speed slow in this light, he laid the camera down, he wrote: question 3,568 – why are men so horribly afraid of loving other men, tempted to add: mom, but refrained, tempted to add: how stupid to even ask, but refrained, and moved the sheet aside to write a letter: