Blackstrap Hawco (35 page)

new management, despised by the workers, had been brought in to squeeze a profit from what was left of it, management thinking only of dollars as market forces bore down on them, while the lowest of the low, the muckers, the slaggers, the face cleaners, all worked like devils, management soon gone, packed up, shipped out, money in the bank on the mainland,

junior stared down the shaft, if they kept going the way they were digging they would hit the underwater mass of the headland in bareneed, start a vertical shaft and come up at the pinnacle of the headland, with a view of his parents' front yard and the other houses,
where gardens grew, livestock roamed and clothes flapped on the lines, the thought of digging toward them urged unease,

junior found it hard to breathe, in such depths, he sometimes lost his breath, not hearing what shab was saying as he was pulled along, the jagged shadowed surface of the rock as they moved forward, a blur of seemingly impenetrable grey and red they were violating, turning redder and redder, rock to the sides, above them and at their feet, a sudden sprinkling of dust as shab jogged ahead, turning to face junior and slamming his fist into his palm, joking, playing with him, the men tiny and far off behind the bulk of shab's big body, goodbye,

‘come on, i'll take ya, ya fuh'k'r,' shab shouted at junior, grinning widely, that missing tooth, that face, it reminded him of blackstrap,
naive and powerless, no sense of direction, possibility, just a hole he crawls through, one way and back, a mine, a cave, above or below ground, straight ahead, what bliss to be so finite, so adequate,

sprinklings of dust, the air stopping dead in junior's lungs, stilled, every sound in the mine shutting down, the rumble, tiny and far off, miles above or below, to all sides, from where, then the whinnying of horses, as though galloping through the earth, the rumble heavier, vibrating into the soles of work boots, the clatter of steel falling, picks and rods, the shadowed edges releasing, the crack wanting to close over, the weight of the broken earth, the noise of shifting, eyes toward the low ceiling, toward rock, toward the sea, toward the sky,

junior hurled himself forward, the new-found easiness of his drifting body, already half dead, as he knocked shab backwards, the collapsing of the black-red rock, the undoing weight of earth rushing loose to pound junior's spine, walloping him, snapping him down, a calamity of boulders, dust and noise releasing steadily, not moving again, and then smaller rock, harmless and vagrant, dirt, big and little sounds, a river of a landslide of a clay spill, the air popping from lungs, once, like a paper bag blown up and slammed against the knee, echoing off, one sound only for him, the surface of the penetrated earth re-forming, and he in it now, a widening of the faultline,

shab blinked away the dirt, swiping grains from his face, blinking, he spat, the noise of no harm to him, noise only, how could it, hands already braced to stand from the ground, ahead the dust sprayed out in both
directions, thick, lingering dust he could not see through, coughs from other men stood in wait, for the clearing, for the affirmation, rocks shifting as on a beach, a wave, clicking, he covered his eyes and opened them again, spat to clear the grit from his teeth and tongue, against the haze he moved through, the whinnying of the horses, plucking the blue and white handkerchief from the back pocket of his overalls and holding it against his mouth, the rubble that he tripped into, blindly tossing rocks away with one hand, three feet of refuse before him, workers tilting and ducking out of shab's way, he clawed, slicing fingers, snapping and tearing fingernails off, to find a six-inch clearing, the hair on the back of junior's head, the dirt in his fair hair, dead hair, junior's fingers uncovered, trying to move, shab placed his hand there and the other men were upon them, worried, wondering, talking in tones rarely heard, seeing shab's face covered with dark red dust and the clean wet trails running from his eyes straight down the length of his huge face, as if someone had taken a brush and painted him into disguise, into tears, into sorrow, never before, never again, he would see to that, junior's fingers stopped beneath his, he swiped the tears away, the love away, the roar,

springing to his feet, he glared at the three men, breathing through their handkerchiefs, stifling their muddled coughs, one of them glancing overhead, men who should be dead, stricken from the record, his roar at them through the grey haze, never to see him, not like this, he shoved two away, bellowing louder, bodies tripping backward to bash against the rock face, soundlessly in his ears, worthless, life, one big palm slapped against each chest, he then turned, staring down, deeper, junior's hair in the rubble, not wanting men too close, to see what had happened to junior, his single friend, clawing rocks away, breaking more fingernails, breaking fingers, breaking hands and arms and shoulders, there he was, uncovered, junior, dead, his face untouched, beautiful, dear christ, dear mary, mother of god, sweet virgin in the heavens, a rumble as great in him as that in the earth, shab spun around to shout and lurch forward to shove the men further away, ‘fuuuhhhkkkkkkerssss,' who cared about the falling rocks, shab stopped them, pinned them overhead with a roar that would not stop throbbing from his mouth,

the spill of a lamp, and the boom of nearby dynamite, they said, set off by flame and the quaking repercussions of shab reardon's rage,

 

‘end of story,'

‘it's all there ever was,'

‘goodbye then, say goodbye,'

‘to who,'

‘all the friends you never had,'

‘like us,'

‘yes, only so long, these thoughts we're having, caught or gone,'

‘the voice as two, always talking,'

‘say goodbye now, lover, say the end,'

‘why me,'

‘i'll say it then,'

‘what,'

‘the end,'

‘thirty letters and a period to go,'

‘you're gonna cream your jeans'

‘i can't—'

‘.'

 

In order to learn the details of all that happened between Isaac Tuttle and Blackstrap Hawco, I read the unpublished book,
Always the Infant/Toujours l'Enfant en Basâge,
written by Constable Pope/Pierre LaCrosse when he was incarcerated in Cutland Junction Maximum Security Penitentiary in Newfoundland. In the manuscript, Pope explained the events of the day when Isaac Tuttle was taken into custody. The sections where Isaac Tuttle travels through the woods are copied, in part, from his journal entries written during his two months hospitalization at the Waterford Hospital in St. John's. Sections of the now-famous videotape of Karen Hawco were found on the Internet, her identity validated by her brother Glenn, who helped with the reconstruction of that scene.

1992

Cutland Junction

I

The trees smell of God

5.42 p.m. Constable Pope parks the cruiser along Cabin Road. Adjacent to a narrow tree-shadowed path that leads down into the woods. According to the given description, this was where the break-in took place. He waits and watches the cabin. Then hears the giddy scream of a child through his opened window. He leans out and pushes the vehicle door shut. Carefully with both hands, to listen. Through the autumn sunlight, in the narrow gaps between dark spruce, fir and speckled birch. He witnesses the flashing movements. A blue sweater. He steps away from the car and takes the path. Catching a scent of sweet wood smoke or trash burning. The freshness of the air giving the smoky odour fullness and reach.

A blonde-haired girl of seven or eight in a blue sweater plays by the side of the cabin. She sings and scrapes the dirt at the end of
the driveway with a rock gripped in her hand. She outlines a small circle and jumps into the centre of it. Then she notices the policeman, immediately rushes ahead to greet him, as if he is an old friend who was expected. But then halts.

Constable Pope smiles at the girl's pretty face. Her big blue eyes and cherub lips. A picture-perfect child.

‘
Bonjour
,' she says, holding a shredded slice of white bread in one hand, a stone in the other. ‘You're a policeman.'

‘
Bonjour
, yes, to you.'

‘I'm in French Immersion. I can speak French. My mom says I can get a job better if I speak French.'

Delightfully caught off guard, Pope slowly asks her a question in his native tongue.

‘
Oui
.' The girl points toward the cabin.

‘Very good.' Pope looks ahead. ‘Your mom and dad are at home then?' He regrets having said ‘home.' The instant the words leave his mouth. He knows – by the fierce clarity in the child's eyes – that each of his words will be challenged. And corrected.

‘This isn't our home,
monsieur
,' says the girl chidingly. She points back at the cabin and laughs,
like the tinkling of a wind carillon,
Pope tells himself,
a jingling of broken Noël bulb glass.

‘They're in the woods,' the girl says. ‘
Forêt
.' Her expression more reasonable now as she comes nearer to stare up at him. One eye squinting. ‘You're here about the bad men, right?'

‘What bad men?'

‘The
bandits
, robbers.'

‘Ah, yes, of course.' The thought of robbers. A smile to Pope's lips. He reflects on the image the child must be thinking. A man dressed in black. Black eye-mask and black cap. Black pants and black turtleneck. One leg raised. Sneaking through the window. A flashlight in one hand. A sack in the other.

‘How long ago for your mother and father to leave?' The thought of them leaving the child alone troubles him.

‘I don't know. Leave where?'

‘Into the trees.
La forêt
.'

The girl shrugs. She drops the stone and lifts one empty palm, shrugs,
holds the pose for a moment. She looks at the piece of bread in her other hand. ‘They're just down in the woods. They go there a lot, leave me here to play.'

‘You don't care that I wait?'

‘I don't care. As long as you don't touch me,' the girl insists. She hears the quick trill of a bird and jerks her head in the direction, her big clear eyes searching into the woods. Pope notices her lips parted slightly in amazed concentration. ‘
Oiseau
.'

‘I won't harm you.' Constable Pope offers a kind expression. Honesty. Although it is difficult to hold. He is nervous, considering the possibilities. How this child could claim he has done something. The precocious sort. It would be wiser to wait in the car. To avoid the mess that might be made of this.

The child shifts her attention back at him. ‘You're really handsome,
beau
,' she says, seizing hold of his hand – her small fingers so cold – and dragging him toward the trees. ‘The squirrels are over here. I've got stuff for them.' She raises the flap of bread and waves it in the air, beaming up at him. ‘
Pain
. That's what bread is called in French. Like pain. Maybe we can catch the squirrel and keep it for a pet. You have some kind of cage, right?'

He looks back toward the police cruiser. A cage, yes.
Un camp pour la fille.

‘Say something in French.'

‘I don't know. What?'

‘Tell me a story, that's what, like when you were a little
garçon
.'

Constable Pope recalls a story, one that was told him by his grandfather. He begins. It is not so long. It is like a parable. While telling it, he is reminded of Karen Hawco. It is a story about death in the woods. Peril fashioned in a benign way for a child.
Un conte de fées.

The little girl watches Constable Pope's mouth move, catching the familiarity of a word here and there. ‘I know that one,' she interrupts, smiling more and more at what she can pick from it. The name Karen is spoken. The name sticks out because it is in English and a girl in her class is named Karen back in St. John's.
Je violerai Karen. Dans son cul.

The little girl tries to understand, but cannot. It is all going by too quickly.

Blackstrap Hawco hears the noise ahead. Through the trees, he cannot see. But a thrashing like a wounded animal. Its final moments caught in wilderness hold. Only to tread closer to find it on its side, struggling with terror eyes or stopped. Another blast ending it.

Last night, Blackstrap had gone to Tuttle's house. Shotgun in hands. The door kicked open. No one. Nothing in darkness. Tuttle's bed empty. Blackstrap had wrecked the room. Money under the mattress. Newfoundland dollars. Canadian dollars. All stuffed away in a hole in the boxspring.

He sat in the living room chair beside the shrine. Not even noticing it was there until later. He waited. Lights clicked off until morning made its own. And then outside where he found fresh boot prints. Down the lane and into the woods. It was there Blackstrap took up the trail. Suspecting that Tuttle was hiding. Knowing that Blackstrap would be tracking him.

It is not so difficult to follow a trail. An escape route that leaves its mark. Tuttle's path frantic. A man scrambling off without purpose. A wide trail of destruction through the trees. Branches snapped as though a moose had passed through.

Blackstrap pauses to listen.

The whimperings of a man toward the east. A sob.

And the grey clouds close over. What sun there was in the distance. It hides behind.

It begins to rain.

 

The trees smell of God.

Pain the Purifier stitches complexity to the name of Thing. More than crawling up off his knees. All dead once alive centuries of it making birth sucking him to stumble and dribble he scrambles to stand. Out of cave, burrow, nest, the step and the snap of What. Here in the absolute. His own Book built from the snap of the other shut. Sky. Tree. River. Colour. Animals never marvel at. Alive only to sniff and search. Intuition no invention. These whorebastardtwatfriggers. Head bowed. Plumb inside to nose loose the dirtiest of words: Soul. No slang explicit enough to twin. No higher animal higher than itself.

Isaac gawks up. Hands and face scratched filthy. Bits of brittle leaves stuck in hair and clothes. From moving all night in near darkness. Only moonlight. One cockthrobbingburstforward. Always forward for what might be made to happen. Never a plan hinged to action. Who he has wounded. Made no one. Who will come for him? He stills himself. Heart to hold his burning breath. The voice. Birds. Tittering. With pin-prick dicks. Why so hard to say? Insects with 10 x tinier dicks. And microscopic cunts. Impossible to imagine. Who fucking invented fucked? Each Thing asking from trees, earth, water. All as one misunderstood echo. Drilling the tight-lipped confessional holes into a viscous smudge. Fish in the swim. Eggless dead to bacteria its own living Thing. What we invented. I am not blessed. Every creature. I am not blessed, yes. Every hole punctured. All sounds of bloodbeat. Connection dotted to rapture. No clamorous decree to Saviour. NotStarve salvation when finally decoded. Reamed into decodation. Heartbeat. Buggered into assembly and disassembly. A string of throbbing pearls strung toward the blazing sun. Grey and raining now in its grim Christness. Consuming yet and yet blessedly giving. Hovering this maze of a court so warm in the autumn chill. They are sleeping. These litters born. They are sleeping as YesFuck watches over YesFuck. Always, YesFuck to continue. Adolescent urges forging the industrial ingenuity of abortion. This patch of land trapped in where he fucks the slit in the earth that is his burial.

Isaac says, ‘Yays.' Bloody clump of tongue come unglued alive with the rend of pain.

How else to know? If not spoken if not done.

 

Blackstrap pushes down an evergreen bough. Leaning to step, he sights a small clearing ahead. Where a tree was blown over by wind so strong it splintered. Blood on the jagged stump.

Tuttle has fallen there and been pierced by the grey branches pointing up. Not stopped though. The trees could not stop him. Not an animal that big.

The rain barely makes it through the mesh of overhead limbs. Rain gives everything a smell. There is light up ahead where the clouds have parted. A warmth. A sharpness where Blackstrap might see more clearly
than before to better take aim. The fur. The mud. The filth. Whatever that must stop breathing.

 

Isaac Tuttle crosses himself, a flurry of arms. Whose arms, not his. Left and right crossing the tripping rush of wilderness. He plummets a blur. What will happen next? Cursing the message. Meaningless. Only to know, to hear and mis-exact the segregation of sacred utterance. Slap the calamity of sound no measurement. Broken gestures. Something to look forward to to quit toward. Isaac whimpers. Exile burning in his cheeks.

Pray to that his tongue a sticky gob of paste his mouth a jar in which to store his eyeballs. He tries to stir the tip. Stiff it hurts thick spilled along his chin. Blood and black afterbirth the effects. We come together to join hands and commiserate. How miserable were our lives yet so astonishingly beautiful if only our eyes punched out. Not by what seen but haven't.

How deep da cut?
he himself aware of walking into through it to its source. These fuck-ugly pray-ers exorcize the dead from nearliving. Half awake in obliteration and counting down from 1,000,000 in slow motion to…If a Thing can count that far and then you are due. Unwashed all men born smooth-foreheaded in the arms of ignorant mothers learn their duty. Plugged thoughtless by sleepless disease and time the simple time the period the era. Excuses for plunder or sentimentality he remembers of course he would perish a wasted shell. But he would remember scrambled in disarray his brain faltered one memory with the face of another. A man in a room with nothing less and less of nothing. Set in order only his death finally there is order. Zero blank X. Scarlet-black gash in his mouth that he treads toward to enter Zero blank X. Nothing beyond morphine administered. His dying moments life's lie. Painless nothing in white and the soft-shoed step of ‘nurrrrssseeee!' God created the end so it might end he says over and again. He has cried to believe but the end never ends. Only Zero blank X. Blank meaning multiply.

 

Constable Pope notices movement in the woods. The vague sound of a man in distress.

‘What's that?' asks the girl worriedly. ‘It's the
bandit
!'

‘Stay in your place.' Pope treads alongside the cabin. In the back, there is a propane barbecue and wooden lawn chairs. A circle of planted flowers. A small white plastic chair.

The girl has followed after him. ‘It's a black man.'

‘
Qui
?' Pope asks, distracted, noticing the girl. ‘Sit over there.' He points to the chairs.

‘A bad man.'

Confused, Pope nears the edge of the woods. He hears another sound, one not so much in pain. He checks the girl. She has moved toward the chairs. But she is not sitting. She is standing.

Ahead is a small bank. Pope digs the edges of his boots in and descends, faster toward the bottom. Now lower than the child, he checks her again. She has come closer. He raises his palm to her and she trembles.