Blackstrap Hawco (18 page)

‘Shhh, Blackstrap,' said Junior, pushing in by his mother's side. The baby fell silent, its big eyes enthralled by Junior's image.

What a queer name, Emily thought, but it seemed to suit him. Her father, Alan, would abhor it for its coarseness.

‘Blackstrap,' she said, louder this time as though testing the strength of it.

‘Blackstrap,' repeated one woman speculatively, the sound echoed like a hiccup by young Billy Coombs, who slid his back nearer along the wall.

‘Yeah,' Junior called out, startling the baby whose arms jerked away from his sides, his cry razoring the air.

This brought on a few titters of laughter and a few sighs of pity for the little one's upset, then the passing of stray comments back and forth that coaxed a bit more liveliness into the room. Caught up in the levity, the fiddler now broke loose with a heart-jigging sweep of reels. Jack Tobin's foot pounding the kitchen floor while Aunt Minnie joined in.

Emily diligently shushed the baby.

‘Sorry,' Junior half shouted.

A chill entered the room and Junior turned to see what he thought might be his father returning, but was, in fact, Isaac Tuttle stood in the back doorway, looking straight at Junior's mother, his face as red as a boiled beet.

‘Come in,' Emily called out, tipping her head in welcome.

Isaac grinned sheepishly, then edged his way in, carefully shut the door. He winked at Junior and grinned some more while fishing a black-smudged comic book from his pocket, then handed it over. Without acknowledging Junior's awestruck ‘Thank you,' Isaac commenced unloading his pockets and laying the seemingly endless string of gifts on the kitchen counter.

While the gifts were being set in order, a knock came on the door. Still clutching the comic book, Junior hurried over, brushing past Isaac Tuttle to pull it open. Stood there was Stanley Barnes, the fifteen-year-old who delivered messages for his mother, Ada, the telegraph operator up across from the church. He held his hand out to Junior. In it was a message.

‘It's fer yer mudder,' said Stanley, as every face in the room turned inquisitive. ‘From da Mental in S'int Jahns.'

 

During collecting stories for this book, I have always been attracted to Issac Tuttle and his peculiar way of life and view of things. In fact, after reading many of his journal scribblings, I felt that I was almost able to think like him, when in a certain state of mind. As might be imagined, many of the scenes involving him are of my own arrangement, but taken from the spirit of his writing. I hope that I have done him justice. Mixing speculation with fact often worries an author. Then again, approximations of your own design are sometimes all you really know of a person.

1992

Cutland Junction

I

Observances

10.40 a.m., September 16. Constable Pope drives along the west side of Coombs Hill. Pulls his police cruiser over. Parks on the side of the dirt road. Fifteen feet ahead, a backhoe. Pope has already verified the owner's name. Blackstrap Hawco: Age 37. Medium height. Blonde hair with patches of grey. Blue eyes. No recognizable scars. The backhoe was there yesterday. Exact same place. Constable Pope decides to take another look. There is no need to bother fitting on his hat. No one around to impress with formality. He steps from the car. The quietude is immediate. Captivating. Pope stands amid the wilderness. Trying to ignore the silence. He looks up at the sky. Immense. If he were a different man, a man he sometimes sees himself as, he might smile at the pure autumn blue. But he does not. The sun is on his face. Not a sound of a bug. The temperature: 73 degrees. He listens for three seconds. Then heads toward the machine. Six feet behind the backhoe. He hears a sound indicating movement in the bushes. He stops. Perfectly still. Stares into the woods toward west. Nothing in his field of vision.

There are no trails close by. Pope has already investigated the possibility. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he calls, ‘Hawco.' The sound rolls across the valley. The sound rises up along the evergreen backside of Coombs Hill. And higher. Into the sky he will not check again.

Turning, Constable Pope scans across the forest. Calls for what he decides will be the final time. Listening, he hears a distant sound. What he takes for a woman's scream. The pitch is shrill. Needles through the wilderness. It might be the sound of a hawk, Pope thinks. But remains unconvinced. The human quality of sound easily identified. Precise. Karen Hawco comes to mind. His visit with her concerning her husband's disappearance. The first time he laid eyes on her. He was struck speechless. Struck dumb. He wonders why the strong attraction. No great beauty. Plump with black hair. He prefers blondes. Wonders if she might remind him of someone. But she does not. What is it about the woman? His mind veers away from her image. Once again, he considers the source of the sound. If it were a bird, it would be large. Again, he hears the cry, muddled as if from behind glass. Rising over the hill. Then down through the density of spruce. Sound carrying the incredible distances it takes to reach one other person. Pope guesses a mile and a half away. Maybe nearer. Karen Hawco. He thinks of making a radio call. Reporting the sound. But what might it really be? An argument in a house? A woman screaming in frustration. Shouting at her children. Not Karen Hawco. He is only thinking of her. Preoccupied with the recollection of her face. He feels it though. Feels her.

‘Hawco,' he calls. And the woman-like scream sounds again. It might be a crow. Or a bird capable of mimicry. Responding to his own outburst. Are those birds native to Newfoundland? He cannot recall. No knowledge of the wilderness. At this point, he steps toward the backhoe. Grabs the cold rail. And climbs up one step. Then grips the parallel rail with his other hand. Takes another step. At that height, he can see into the compartment. Ripped black seat with the stuffing worn dirty grey. Taped with silver duct tape. A dusty green baseball cap. A greasy rag of red and black flannel tied around one of the long black shifts. No sign of recent activity. The interior is exactly as it was when he checked yesterday.

Constable Pope turns. Gazes out over the land. With his weight shifted, he must tighten his grip on the rail. He is aware of his boots against the narrow steel steps. He notices the autumn colours. Mingled amongst the spruce. No movement that he can see. Nothing that might indicate the presence of a man. The presence of a body. He eases up on his focus. Takes in the entirety of the scene. The brash, heart-tightening beauty of the immense view. The land reminds him of Mount Royal. The park in Montreal. But no open space. More desolate with its black-green stunted trees. Kept from reaching mainland heights by the brief summer season. The harsh, punishing winter winds. The salty mist from the ocean. And the rocky barren soil. A more natural uncultivated beauty. The land purified through some sort of rugged aching.

Climbing back down, Constable Pope glances back to check the cruiser. The sun is warmer than he assumed it should be. In this part of the country. Since transferring to Newfoundland, two months ago, he has been ceaselessly surprised. Newfoundland was supposed to be freezing all the time. Nothing but snow. People living in igloos. The people a big joke. Newfies. He finds them more dangerous than charming. Liars and thieves. Half-honest gangsters. Always after something for nothing.

Static from his radio. A call coming through. He forgets the landscape, the colours. The cries of large self-governed birds. He strides for his vehicle. Pulls open the door. Sits in. Leans across the seat. Snatches hold of the mouthpiece. Speaks. Someone responds. Relaying information. He inspects the dashboard. Glimpses up at the sky. Stares into the trees. The meshing of limbs. Dense furry evergreens speckled with orange and yellow leaves. The stench of rot. He recalls the odour from his times in the woods as a boy. Back to school. The nip in the air. The rot underfoot. A piece of clothing in the woods.

The view blurs. The dispatcher gives mores details. He puts it all together while he listens. His eyes fixed on the seat. His own com position. Sketchy details. A break and entry four kilometers further down the same dirt road. Deeper into cottage country. No, not cottage country. But cabin country. That's what the Newfies call their summer places.

Families from St. John's filling their cottages with valuable toys. The impoverished local Newfs envying so many expensive gadgets. Here in
the woods. Such wealth. For profit or revenge, the locals find communal joy in robbing the townies blind.

 

Karen cannot gather the strength. Cannot pull up her jeans. Bunched down around her ankles. Cover herself. On her back. It doesn't matter now. Air on her calves. Thighs. Wet. Spot. Dot. Trickle. Drip. On the kitchen floor. Fluid warmed. Now chilling outside. Not hers. But from inside. Her head languidly dips left. A television program. Something like this once. A survivor. She thought the woman might be angry. But wasn't. Like it was natural. Supposed to happen. Expected. Where is anger? Hate? Eyes transfixed. By the silver refrigerator vent. Dust in grey clumps. Where is anger? It didn't happen. Not angry. Dead. Silently. She shifts her gaze. Along the floor. The stove drawer. A chip out of the almond enamel. In the left corner. The infraction an emotionless observation. A speck gouged.

Chipped.

Enamel.

Fingernails.

Gouged.

Out of her.

Her T-shirt torn down the centre. Hangs away. Fabric like skin split open. From the centre of her chest. Bra still fastened in the back. Yanked up. Away from her. White breasts. Weight loosely resting. Against the sides of her arms. Loose. Flesh. Flat to the floor. She feels so. Nothing. Only so. So is what she feels. In her body. Next week. Lop them off.

Observances
, she thinks. A word. Lodged in her mind. A marble stuck in wet clay.
Observances
. She cannot cry. That was taken. Her voice shrunken. So small she cannot possibly. Speak. The refrigerator clicks on. Flinching. Something whirring. Then the ringing. Of the telephone. Flinching. That cracks inside. Like eggshells. Not dead, she thinks. Eggshells cracked but nothing born. Blankly looks up at the telephone. So high above her. Looming. Unseen before. From this angle. Vision like weight. Presses down on her. She might be scared. If there was hatred. Her skin is cold. Things so high. Above her. She had never suspected how cold. The floor could actually be. Blank against her back. The feeling spreading. Into her spine. Her legs. She concentrates on
holding it. In one place. Just there. Between her legs. Just there. Push. It out. Dot. Trickle. Stream. Gasp. Bear down. Her nipples. Body. Deeper than body. This freezing urge. Hatred. Hatched.

Her heavy arms. Lifted. She folds them. Across her breasts. Blinks at the ceiling. The flat glass shade. With the bulb not on. Behind it. The aluminium back door opens. Footsteps in the floorboards. Bootsteps. Against her back. Vibrating. In her. Through her.

‘Dear Jaysus,' a voice says. Nearer now. Standing over her. She sees that it is the old man. Tries covering herself. Turns her face. Away. Realizes her mouth is. Open. A rat hiding in there. Curled up. Like a baby sob. She bursts out. Crying. So is an infant. A rat shrieking. The bugs and rodents infesting every hole. Scurry across her. House. Home. House. Another man. Making it all too real. Blimp.

Her hand rises. Her bare flesh moving. To cry. She covers herself. Tries her voice. So small, ‘goaway.' Only the size of a frozen pea. But it works. When she clicks it loose. Smearing beneath. Her dry tongue. Through the parchness of her throat. The wetness of her sobs. What will eat. And drink. In her. Discontinuity – ‘help.' Hatched and crushed. Insects. Trickling out of her. She retches. The old man steps back. She retches again. Vomits. Into her hair.

Jacob Hawco's breath turns heavier, hotter, in his throat. His eyes shift for the window. Stare out into the back yard. He squints at the buzzing in his ears. Trying to decipher what might be bearing down on him. His weathered hand starts for the door frame. She has fallen. Emily. He goes to help her up. But it is too late. She is already dead. Emily has fallen. It was that sound that did it. The cry of the baby she heard. Emily. He knows who has done this. The wind. No, a man. He was witness to the van that came, that carried the man, the man that wanted, the man that owned. Fleeing like the wind. The living drift.

Jacob will not trouble the woman. Who was it he thought was Emily? Who? A blanket will help. But he takes heed of the woman's violent moans. She gasps for air. Is Emily dying? He goes to her. Kneels. Looks into her face. Which face? Whose? A pain flits in his left eye, a slicing sharpness cuts through his brain. A razor over notched feelings. His wrinkled eyelids jam shut. Flinching, he jerks violently to one side. Time not being right for him. What year was it, he wonders. Is it. Him on the
floor. Three feet from Emily. His son's daughter. Emily, is it? Ruth. His left arm out to her. If it is his arm. He sees it. But not for what it is. Reaching out. Fingers creeping. Then. He cannot. Remember.

A thing.

Karen turns. Her head to see. The old man. His eyes. Vacant. White. Eye to eye. Him. Her. Watching. Her. So is what? So is her.

II

Two missing weeks

Blackstrap Hawco charges the dozer ahead. Shovelling a mound of freshly unearthed rust-coloured clay down over the bank. Where the trees grow off into miles of distance. The smell of earth and sod. The roll of large rocks and chainsawed stumps. Torn clear with their tangle of roots. The machine roars back and forth. Heaping up soil until the space is clear. Level. Nothing but rich flat earth on the lot where he'll build Vardy's cabin. Him and Paddy. A week and a half's work.

Leaving the engine idling, he climbs down. And steps backwards. Regards what he has accomplished. Sees the scope broaden with each step in reverse. Beyond the lot, the grey and beige boulders spotting the barrens. And further off. Sharp rocks jutting out of low purplish hills. A line of stunted spruce beyond. Landscape unyielding inside him. He stops. Then returns. Leans against the side of the vibrating steel, its pulse working through his body.

Rolling a cigarette, he notices his boots are caked with mud. Bangs them against the steel. Then strikes a match to the cigarette. Cups his hands around the flame. Tilts his head forward. His unshaven cheeks sucking in.

The smoke drawn deep into his lungs. Then streaming to blow out the match. Thinks of the Soiree dance later that night. The people setting up for it on his way over. Thinks of Karen. She wouldn't go with him. Never out anywhere with him. He hears her laugh. The raunchy
laugh new to her. The way she was when he returned. His father ill. He turns his head from the thought. Eyes on the land. Karen's laugh. Like she had something to do with it. A crackle shot through both of them. He sees her smoking. The store-bought cigarettes in the red package. He pictures her name on his arm. The new tattoo he had cut into his skin on a tear in St. John's. The first time he'd been there in a year or more. Having to return to Cutland Junction. To face the changes. Just like that. His father struck down. His wife not herself.

It was one of Karen's brothers, Tuffy, who told Blackstrap. Everyone was looking for him. When he stopped by Tuffy's apartment. After the third day of drinking. Have a wash and get the news. Blackstrap had called home. Heard Karen's strange nervous voice. Loud and laughing and cursing over the phone. And he'd known then that something terrible had happened. His wife no longer quiet. Refined. He thought maybe she was drunk. But it was different from drunk. Wilder. With a skittish wind in her voice that clattered through her.

Blackstrap pulls off his blue and black flannel jacket. Yanks up his sleeve. Turns his left arm to look at the skin. Her name, KAREN. Beneath an outline of a naked lady with dark wavy hair like Karen's. Long like Karen's used to be. Before she cut it off. Blackstrap had even made the fat man with the crew cut dot a few freckles in place along her throat. He couldn't do them along the back of her neck and shoulders. The way they actually were. Because the tattoo was only front-on. Blackstrap had argued with drunken logic. That the freckles could be put on the back of his arm. But the man said it would cost extra. Like doing another tattoo. And Blackstrap had demanded that it be done. Threatened to destroy the cramped tattoo shop on Water Street West. Step out from behind the divider. Rip the samples off the walls. The fat man had stood. Pointed his thick arm toward the door. Roaring, ‘Get the fuck outta my shop,' pudgy fingers held out. ‘Money first.'