Blackstrap Hawco (66 page)

She is helped up by the senator. By the silver-haired man from Keep It Green who looks overly worried. Maybe a lawsuit on the way. No speech prepared for this. He says something like: what else could be expected?

The woman is led away. Crying. Her tears not for the baby seals now. But for her fucked-up face. ‘My finger,' she's blubbering. ‘Get my finger.' The senator comes back to search for the finger. But it's been eaten. Inside the belly of the harp. Blackstrap cuts open the huge seal. Fishes around in its stomach. Nothing. Slits it across its throat. Finds the finger and hands it back to the senator.

Full of the seal's insides.

‘Thank you,' says the senator. Like Blackstrap has done a great service for his country. For the US of A. He might even get a medal for it. Holding the finger in his palm. Eyes on it. Precious and revolting. He hurries over to his wife.

Blackstrap nods.
Not your world
, he thinks. Junior's voice filling his head.

 

Tiny dots

On a field of frozen slaughter

Witnessed from what once was

Thought of as the Heavens

The lesser come for it

For gulls when gone

Beak tip to the stilled

One inside another

With beating hearts

 

What you eat

When at your table

With a family kept alive

By (your) lies

 

 

(September)

Blackstrap stands on the rooftop of Andy Coffin's house. Andy's pole and brush lodged in the chimney. Too much creosote caked inside the stainless steel pipe. The woodstove not drawing like it should. Blackstrap had been driving by in the pickup, saw Andy up there. He had pulled over, rolled down his window to watch Andy struggling. Hearing him cursing on the pole. Andy's mom and dad too old to be up on the roof, so Andy's father, Billy, stands on the road. Hollering out instructions and comments, and enlisting the advice of anyone passing by.

‘I believe Santy Claus never made it up outta dere las' Chris'mas,' calls Andy's father. A terribly thin and slightly stooped man with a few days growth of grey on his sunken cheeks. ‘Ain't dat da trute, wha'?' He laughs. Looks at the other two people gathered by his side. Their heads staring up at the rooftop. ‘I dun't believe Santy managed a swift escape, wha'?' Billy laughs again, toothless and trouble-free. ‘Wha', eh?' He laughs and shuffles nearer to Mrs. Wells who's stood there in her plastic rain bonnet. Despite the absence of clouds in the September sky. Andy's father wheezes. Stares at Mrs. Wells' face. Puffs on his cigarette while shifting his attention down at her mauve slacks. ‘Lovely pants ye got dere, Missus Wells.'

Blackstrap grips the chimney pole above Andy's hands.

‘Okay,' he says. ‘Go.'

They yank at once, and the pole edges loose. Then slides free. Blackstrap notices the pole is made of copper pipe soldered together with joiners.

Andy lifts a thin ten-foot length of limbed spruce tree. Shoves it down the chimney. Battering at the creosote blockage.

‘Fuh'k,' says Andy, ramming the spruce rod against the dead-end blockage. ‘Christ!' He pulls the rod out. Shines a flashlight down there. Blackstrap supposes it's hard to see too far down. Because it's daylight out.

Billy stares up at the roof with his jaw hanging open. ‘Shock'n stuff,' he says to the two others. ‘Wonder Santy didn't go right crispy widt da fierce heat.'

Andy grabs up the mason jar of gasoline. What he's poured from the canister in his shed. He unscrews the lid and dumps the contents down the chimney pipe. He tilts his chin up at Blackstrap. ‘This'll do 'er.'

Blackstrap looks toward the east. He can see the roof of his house. Barely there in the trees. And a length of the train tracks beyond. The sound of the train in the far off. On its way from Holyrood then on to the Badger line. Not yet visible. He wants to be down for when it comes through. So he can feel the rumble in the earth.

Andy lights a match. Lights an old rag.

‘Spark 'er,' Billy calls out. ‘Watch out down dere, Santy.'

Andy drops the lit rag into the chimney hole. Nothing happens. He puts his face over the opening, waits, staring.

The lick and the roar at once. A pop and a whoosh. Practically invisible. Except for the scorch.

 

Chapter IV –1976

Viking 1

(May, 1976, 22 years old)

The Caribou Lounge is hazy with cigarette smoke. The muddled ruckus of conversations and bursts of laughter. The brief applause has just died down. Blackstrap stands on the raised stage, looking out over the crowd with his guitar in hand. His fingertips warm on the neck of the guitar bridge. He slides them back and forth. Once. Picks at a few strings without meaning anything by it. While he watches the different bodies and faces. Most of them familiar to him in various ways. The song has just ended. And people are moving back to their seats at the long tables in the hall. The scraping of chairs against tile.

Andy Coffin is behind him on drums. His face not quite healed.

Never will be. Burned smooth that way. And Pete Gilbert is on Blackstrap's right with his bass. As usual, the Saturday-night dance is packed to capacity. Drawing people from Cutland Junction, Shearstown Line, Port de Grave. And beyond.

No one ever thought that Blackstrap had such a voice in him. For someone who never said two words to most. That's what people were saying during the breaks for the first and second sets. They slapped him on the back. Told him what a fine job he'd done. It being his first time up on stage. Right on, b'y. Finest kind. People buying him beers or glasses of rum. Winking when the drinks were handed over. Months ago, Blackstrap had given serious thought to joining the band. Deciding against it at first. But then Andy Coffin had kept coming around. Asking him to play. And Blackstrap found it hard to say no to Andy. Especially with his new face. Blackstrap had thought that Andy might go into hiding after the burn. But it was the complete opposite. Like Andy wanted to be seen even more. Like he made a point of getting around. And getting right up in your face, too. He even took up smoking.

Andy had heard Blackstrap play guitar in midnight mass last Christmas. The first time in years Blackstrap's mother had led them back to church. Emily getting involved. Wanting Blackstrap to play guitar because the priest had mentioned the idea of a folk mass. Like the ones they had in St. John's. Young people enjoyed them. It opened the church to young people, the new priest explained. Made them feel more involved in the ceremony. Music has always been an integral part of the church. No harm in modernizing. Blackstrap's mother in church more often now. Telling Blackstrap she finds it peaceful to sit there in the quiet, sacred feel of the place. The wonder, she has said. The glorious, solemn wonder of those statues and crosses. All of it so ancient and ceremonial.

What Blackstrap likes most about being up on stage is the way the women's eyes keep steady on him. He likes the feeling of that. But he has to look down after a while. Watch the pick in his fingers hovering over the strings. It's too much to handle. Too many eyes on what he's doing. He looks at his boots. Smiles a little. Trying to remember the next song. Until he hears Andy Coffin's loud voice, calling out ‘Black Velvet Band,' behind him.

Blackstrap leads them off with the opening chords. Slower than the traditional version. He peeks up. Sees a few smiling women in their seats. The ones not dancing with their heads swaying a little to the music. And some of the others grabbing a glance at him over the shoulders of the ones they're dancing with. Even turning their heads to keep eye contact.

Blackstrap shuts his eyes. Sings with velvet intention: ‘Her eyes they shone like the diamond…you'd think she was queen of the land…' thinking of Agnes Bishop. Wishing she were there to see him. To hear this. He sees her eyes in all the eyes of those watching him. Maybe word will get back to her. Last he heard she had moved from Alberta to Nova Scotia. Where she was studying to be a doctor. Dr. Bishop. He opens his eyes to witness a sea of couples waltzing. Young and old alike. Couples close together. Waltzing in slow circles in the dim light. The sense of it settles his heart. The way they move together to the music at his hands. If they could stay that way. Always close and dancing. If life were only like that. Down in the back, a few others laughing and being rowdy. That sours him. Because it looks like the beginning of a fight. Most times there's one. Has to be one with the usual lot. He suspects Andy Coffin is paying particular attention to the scuffle. Watching with his eyes that look lidless now, wanting to join in if something breaks out.

Blackstrap keeps singing. Trying to keep those thoughts from hardening the lyrics. Only the words and the meaning, and the feeling from the meaning. When the door opens toward the corner at his left. His eyes rove that way. A woman coming in. And he knows her right away. The sadness and the sinking and the joy. And he misses the lyrics. The words escape him because they mean nothing to him now.

Jeans and a loose pink top. Boots. Leather purse over her shoulder. She watches ahead toward the tables. A few women wave excitedly to her. And she calmly waves back. Not so wound up. Gentler. She smiles. The women who were waving all point toward the stage. And the woman turns to look. At him. In wonder. Not singing anymore because she is there. She stares with those eyes that know him from childhood. Not the eyes of other women. The eyes that have been watching him all evening. But with the eyes of Agnes Bishop. She smiles in the way he remembers best. And he tries, but cannot sing. His voice lost while the
band plays on. So the people can keep dancing. So the song doesn't end so badly.

 

‘Where's
Bareneed's Pride
?' Agnes asks. Glancing around the community wharf.

‘Smashed up years ago,' Blackstrap says, like she should know. In fact, he's certain that she knows because she was in Newfoundland when it happened, even though he never spoke to her before she went away. She never heard of it from his lips, but she's heard of it. He's sure of that, and her asking now is only to make it seem like she has forgotten. It has slipped her mind. Being away, in her new life, has made her pretend to forget, because all the things from here, from Bareneed and Cutland Junction, cannot amount to anything compared to the really important things in her new life.

The idea of it irks him as he digs his boots into the side of the bank. The bank that used to be much steeper. A dead drop down to Bareneed beach. Until the grade was angled off. A make-work project years ago. A new wharf. Building a wharf on top of a wharf. The way it used to be. Money for doing nothing really. Only because people were out of jobs and needed to do something. He fast-steps down toward the shore. Keeping his balance. Trying not to tip his beer bottle.

‘Aunt Myrtle told me, but I wasn't sure.' Agnes carefully stepping from the top of the incline. ‘You know what she's like.'

‘Yeah.' An intake of breath. Like the way things are is the way they were meant to be and there's nothing to be done about them. Steady with the beach rocks underfoot. He watches up at Agnes. Her figure stood there against the dark sky. He can't see her face, only her profile when she turns a little and watches the ground. Blackstrap making certain she doesn't slip. Her sneakers down over the bank. The momentum rushing her toward Blackstrap who catches her. Just to be safe. Her in his arms. He lets go right away. Because of the way she watches him. Too good. Too bad. He tips back a drink from his bottle. Then hands it to Agnes. Old friends despite everything. She takes hold of it, but doesn't drink. Her eyes filled with interest and worry. Not what he wants.

‘How?' she asks.

‘How what?'

‘How was it smashed?'

‘Don't remember.'

‘Yes, you do.' The tease of a smile. Genuine or not.

‘Storm.'

‘Was it stolen?'

That had been the story that came out of it. That's what people were saying. Stolen and smashed up by young delinquents.

He shakes his head.

‘Who was in it?'

‘Me.' He admits this for her. Not for anyone else ever.

‘Were you alone?' Interested now in the truth of what happened. She has a careful sip from the bottle. Slowly hands it back to him. The way she is looking at his face. Different. He knows that she is thinking of him in the water.

He nods, recalling the feeling of heading for those rocks. His eyes on her now, knowing it was about her. Him almost dead. But feeling good now to have Agnes back. Worried a bit for him. How much? Not enough. Back in the place where they used to come. Feeling sad. And a little angry. His thoughts going to years ago. Their plans for a house. An old house in Bareneed all done up. He wonders if she is home for good now, but he won't ask. His eyes go to her hand. He wants to hold it.

But, instead, he turns away a little to get the pain out of his back. When he walks, his back and right leg still hurt. From the fall off the ladder. On the drive from the Caribou Lounge. On Shearstown Line down to Bareneed beach, Agnes had asked about Andy Coffin's face. Blackstrap had explained about hauling Andy down the wooden ladder. Blackstrap pulling Andy close to the edge of the roof where the ladder was set. The cursing and sounds of misery. And the smell of burned flesh had scared the hell out of Blackstrap. Regardless, he had managed to position Andy on his back. With his head close to the eave. Then Blackstrap had stepped onto the ladder. Taken a few rungs down. His upper body still above the roof. The only way to get Andy down would be to grab him under the arms. And slide him down the rungs. People had gathered at the base of the ladder. The ambulance was on its way. Coming from Brigus or Bay Roberts. That's all that
mattered. He wouldn't listen to anything else. The calls to be careful. The voices telling him. Andy's father trying to climb the ladder. All of that just made him nervous. He kept blocking it out. Something had to be done right away. He couldn't stand the sight of pain. He couldn't stand looking at Andy lying on the roof. Gritting his teeth and beginning to sob. Trying to touch and not touch his face. The roof not a place to be. He had pulled Andy's arms until Andy's face was beneath his. Then he hooked his arm under Andy's left arm. Wrapped it around Andy's chest. Then backed down the ladder. Taking the weight of the body. The smell of charred flesh nearly a retch in his throat. Like a God-awful barbecue. As he slid Andy down. Easy at first. Until Andy's legs and then his boots made it from the roof and all of Andy's weight was on the ladder. And instead of keeping straight up, Andy's legs swung toward the ground. The back of Andy's head in Blackstrap's face. The smell of scorched hair. Andy made a sound. And the weight yanked at the muscles in Blackstrap's back. Blackstrap held on. Holding the body weight in against him. A mistake. Trying to move. So that Andy could get his scrambling feet on a rung. Blackstrap with one hand on the rail. Squinting with the pressure. One hand around Andy's chest. Muscles tearing up in his neck and back. The weight too much. He tried squatting Andy against the ladder. And clutching on to the ladder with his left hand too. But he missed his grip. Drifted away in a motion that could almost have been stopped. But not quite. Gravity pulling. Weightless and weightless and weightlessly heavy to the ground. Holding on to Andy. Hugging him from behind. So that he would land on Blackstrap. Then came the slamming. Rattling. Rock-hard ground smack. The crack to the back of his head. Skull harder than earth. How that was made. Andy on top of him. The crowd of people around him. Looking down. He was fine. He could not yet move. But not dead. The crowd picked Andy up and helped Blackstrap to his feet. He could hear the ambulance in the distance. His back hurting. His head a mess. A rumbling in the earth. The train passing through. Before he realized the ambulance was in the driveway. And the paramedics took Andy away. Asked if Blackstrap was okay. Checked him over. Sat him down to be sure. Because people said what happened. Blackstrap not saying a word.
Nodding. Fine. Yes. Then the ambulance gone. All of it in what seemed like seconds.

Andy's sister had driven her mother and father to the hospital. Following after the ambulance. And after a session of spinning in his head that gradually focused, Blackstrap got back in his pickup. Took a good look up at the roof while people on the street still watched him. The height making him feel sick in his stomach. Noticed that there was smoke streaming from the front eaves. He drove home. Called the volunteer fire department.

Eight months ago. Andy's hands not too badly burned where they had gripped the inner brick edge of the chimney. Still able to hold drumsticks. His face a different story. His face able to hold the attention of anyone in a room.

Agnes watching Blackstrap finishing the story. ‘You've got a great voice,' she says. Because she had finally heard it. It had come back to him after her smile at seeing him. ‘It's beautiful. When'd you start that? You never sang before.' She nudges him with her hip. ‘Not to me.' A sweet smile that makes him want to sing. That reconnects the two of them just like that. But he won't sing. Not like this. In the dark. In the quiet. He stares out over the calm water. Shrugs. He feels the heat in his cheeks. He looks up. Over his shoulder at the headland. A hole in the deep-blue sky. He's heard something about an excavation company wanting to dig into the head land and truck off loads of fill. Turn it into a pit. But the government has said no. Despite the fact that most workers in the area wanted the project to go ahead. For the sake of the jobs. But an environmental group led by Mrs. Foote kicked up a stink, and the project was cancelled. For once, Blackstrap sided with the protesters. Without telling anyone what he thought.

‘Why didn't you ever sing for me?'

‘I never sang.'

‘Until when?'

‘While ago.'

They both look out over the water. A sound of small waves brushing up against the shore. A thousand trickles in the night. Beach rocks quietly shifting. No wind to speak of. Plenty of stars. No moon and no clouds.

Blackstrap turns to look for the moon.
I never sang until you left
.

‘What?' Agnes asks. ‘What're you looking for?'