Blackstrap Hawco (78 page)

The fiddler talking while he eats. A name mentioned that they thought they might know. Frankie Power. The fiddler telling Blackstrap to remind him later. The story of Frankie Power in the snowbank off the bridge. Then everything washed down with beers. A few more pints ordered. And leaving the mess there. Off to another bar.

Walking the streets while a story's told. A gale that blew off Outer Cove the last time Kevin Roach was home. The night of the gale that washed a dog ashore. A big black dog that sat outside the door of a widowed woman. Waiting until that woman died. Then back into
the sea. Swimming out to God knows where. Kevin himself had seen the mongrel. He tried feeding it, but it wouldn't eat a bite.

The wind begins to pick up, gaining enough force to jostle Blackstrap. So he has to shift on his feet.

‘Cruel wind,' says Kevin. Hands stuffed in his pocket. Fiddle case under one arm. Kevin winks at Blackstrap. Then musses up his hair. ‘What a fuh'kn time, wha'? Jaysus Christ, b'y. Wha' were da odds 'a run'n inta ya?'

‘No odds.' Blackstrap grins.

‘Anudder frigg'n Newf,' says Kevin, his eyes half shut. His stare unsteady. But his smile big and open. Wheezing a boozy laugh. What's stood before him in the streets of Boston. No greater gift in the world.

 

The rest of the night had been a blur. Women. Men. Beer. More music. A ruckus of conversation. The story of Frankie Power jumping off the bridge in winter. The fiddler with his hands straight up over his head to show how it was done.

‘Frankie were stood up on da rail of da bridge,' Kevin Roach had said, chuckling to himself at the end of the story not yet told. He made a motion with his knees to jump. ‘ 'N down poor Frankie went. Straight as an arrow. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.' The sound of Kevin's voice getting fainter with the fall. ‘ 'N den there were a poof. Right delicate it were. Den not anudder sound. Poof. In Frankie goes, inta da snowbank. Poof.'

‘Buried?' asks Blackstrap.

‘Da snow closed right over him. We stood dere waiting. 'N den we burst out, laughing our heads off. It were da funniest t'ing we ever saw. Until the fright set in. But even da fright couldn't bar da laughing.'

‘Wha' happened?'

‘We ran up da hill ta Tommy Gladney's 'n he came down 'n dug poor Frankie out.'

Then the only two men left in a smoky bar. Lights blasting on. Closing time before anyone knew it. That squinting brightness. No more beer served. The barmaid shaking her head. Scolding Kevin whose head wagged like a rag doll's. Watching the floor or drifting off. A cigarette burning between his fingers. ‘Go on home, Kev,' the barmaid said, refusing to listen to any more of his stories. And a man there in the
bar. One of the few left lingering. Talking and laughing. Someone who Blackstrap knew. That face. That glance out the corners of his eyes. It couldn't be. Billy Cullen. All cleaned up by the looks of him. A haircut. A confident smile. New clothes. Blackstrap staring like his eyes weren't working properly. Then needing to go over to him. Slowly because he was still unsure. Not wanting it to become an embarrassment. In profile it was Billy Cullen. Sure as shit. And as Blackstrap neared the face turned to show it was Billy Cullen. Not knowing Blackstrap. Not seeing him because one of them was good and dead.

Then out into the street. Another gust of wind shoving him. Almost blowing him off his feet. A taxi cab home. Where did the fiddler go? He had no idea.

Waking to morning. What part of it a dream?

A bus back to Toronto because he'd had enough.

 

On the bus ride to Toronto, he thinks of Kevin Roach. That fiddle going. That photograph on the stairs. The man on his knees. The music and the photograph in his head. His mouth tasting ugly. His head stogged with wet cardboard. His stomach damaged. His bag on the seat next to him to keep others away. Him at the telephone again. Lying on the bed with the receiver to his ear. Trying to call someone. Who? Heather. Heather back in Toronto. He knew her name from when she was called over the PA at work. Heather Cavanagh. He has no idea if it was her. But he talked to someone. The conversation broken up. The memory of it coming back to him in bits. Hurting him. Making him feel worse. But her voice low and understanding. Him saying God only knows what. A long-distance charge on his hotel bill. The cost unbelievable.

In Toronto, he catches the subway from the bus depot. Watching the faces. People on their seats trying not to notice him. All sorts of faces from all over the world. He can't stand the loneliness of it, and stares out the window. The solid blackness gushing by. His barely there face flashing in it.

Up from the subway into the bright heat. The two-block walk to his rooming house on Brock. There is a woman near the doorway. A strange look to her from a distance. Like she's lost. Homeless. But as he nears, he sees that it's Heather.

He wonders what to say. Is she waiting for him? Or is it a weird coincidence? She turns to face him when he is five feet away.

His footsteps slowing. Her head tilted back a fraction. Her eyes searching somewhere to the left of his face.

‘Heather,' he says. A croak. His voice seeming unused for days. He coughs to break it up. Shifts the weight of his bag on his shoulder.

‘Yes.'

‘It's me. Blackstrap. From work.'

People pass around them. A steady flow of little Chinamen.

He will not ask how she got here. Because he suspects he might have asked her to come on the telephone. What had been said? His address given? He has no recollection. Only the beat of his words, the rhythm they sometimes took.

She says: ‘Because there is death here.'

‘What?' His eyes are hurting in the brightness. He wishes he had sunglasses. The movement around him makes it all worse.

‘That's what you said.' The tremble of a smile. ‘The poem. That line. Because there is death here. I know it.'

He watches her face. It is hopeful. Like the words she has just spoken matter a great deal to her. ‘I can sense you in passing,' she says, her lips nervous. Only fractions of a smile at a time. Coming and going. ‘Not just here. But always in passing.'

Blackstrap feels the gooseflesh creep. The same feeling as at Susan's apartment. That little girl's voice through the door. He checks over his shoulder. Across the street. A window with an old woman stood in it. Like the old woman with the story of the black sea. Mrs. Lambly. She had told him her name. Again and again, as though it might mean something to him.

Why are you watching me?

‘I gotta go in,' he says, hoisting his bag for her to see. But she does not. So he says, ‘Get rid of my bag.'

Heather nods.

Blackstrap passes by and she follows on his heels. Feeling for the doorway frame with her hands. Nudging ahead with her foot for the threshold. The toe of her sneaker. The sole testing. He does not think he should help her. Touch her in any way that would confirm her condition.

He thinks she must not be entirely blind.

The door shuts.

‘I can see dark shadows.' Her calm voice answering his thoughts in the dim, cool enclosure of the stairwell. ‘That's all the light.'

Blackstrap climbs the stairs ahead of her. Taking his time. The smell of damp wood. The heat thickening with each step. He keeps checking back while Heather gradually follows. Careful with her hand on the rail. Not enough light for anyone. Creeping in from around the door frame behind her. Should he help her?

At the top of the stairs. One of the boarders, a man called Skinny Nix, opens his door to peek out. A look at Blackstrap coming up the final stair with his sports bag in hand. Desperately in need of sleep.

‘Hey,' Skinny Nix says suspiciously. Watching through the door slit. Then smiling fast. The smile gone when he catches sight of Heather. His caved-in cheeks caving in more. His big eyes getting bigger. Sinking deeper. He nods at Heather.

Blackstrap takes his eyes off Nix. Too tired to waste attention on him. Turns to head along the uneven floor toward his room. But waits a moment for Heather.

‘I got messages.' Skinny Nix slams his door. Opens it again right away. Slams it. Opens it. ‘Liiiisten to me.'

Heather hurries her step at the sound of the outburst. Like a dog nipping at her heels. The floor tricking her. She stumbles, almost trips. Her hands out in front of her waist. Then gripping the wobbly rail.

Blackstrap reaches to help her. But she has already recovered. He shuts his eyes while searching for the key in his pocket. If only there was quiet and peace.

‘Two days they've been calling. People from New-found-land. You want it, or not?'

Blackstrap checks toward the voice. A face he almost knows. Skinny Nix smiles nervously. Sharply. Then frowns. Staring at Blackstrap's fixed expression. Nix unmoving. Then he slams the door. Stays inside. Calls from behind the barrier, ‘Your mother's dead, asshole. An emergency. Just face it. Asssshhhhhole.'

Blackstrap sighs in exhaustion and disgust. His teeth gritting at the thought of Nix. Talking about his mother. Clicks the key in his lock. He
thinks: Out of his mind. Always saying these things. Out of his fucking mind…Opens the door and steps in. Not wanting a racket. Turning, he watches Heather hesitantly enter his room. Her lips parted as though listening for someone hidden. Blackstrap glances at her feet. Then studies the unmade single bed where Heather is staring. The sheets in disarray. The rumpled pillow. He lays the bag on the bed. Always best to ignore Skinny Nix. Everything he has ever claimed to be. Through his window, a view of chopped-up lettering on a storefront. Heather there. Hands at her sides. Not a toy in either one of them.

‘This is your room.'

‘Yeah.'

The stutter of a smile and her teeth revealed. Crooked. Jagged. Half rotten. She chuckles and changes.

Blackstrap hears the rattle of a knob down the hallway. The squeak of hinges. Footsteps toward his room.

Heather with one hand rising as if to trace the air. ‘You said the poem and I knew who you were. I never knew before.'

The footsteps pause. An ear listening at Blackstrap's door. Fingernails tap. Fingertips rub against wood. A whisper, ‘Hey, you okay?'

‘Get lost,' Blackstrap barks right away. His voice scratchy and rumbling. His vision burned around the edges. He coughs. Pats his pocket for a smoke. His pack left on the bus.

‘It was your father,' Heather whispers. Her eyes on the bible by the bed.

Something pounds the door, and Blackstrap cannot help flinching. Cursing under his breath. Skinny Nix punching. Kicking. Or hitting his head off of it.

Blackstrap strides toward the door. Throws it open. A smile twitching on Nix's thin lips. ‘Oooooow, brought to a rise!'

‘Get the fuck outta here, or I'll break yer fucking neck. G'wan. Off.' His arm shoots out. Pointing toward Skinny Nix's room. In his rage, he suddenly feels dizzy. The floorboards tilting, as though the house might be afloat.

Nix with his eyes on Heather who has not turned. In a long dress with faded flowers. Her back to them. ‘He said you had to go home. I could barely make out what he was saying. He kept calling.' Nix talking
to Heather, not Blackstrap. ‘A long time since I heard his voice. You were gone somewhere, so I barely recognized it.' Skinny Nix drifts back, deeper into the empty shadowed hallway. His face frightened and frightening. ‘Hawco. That's your name. I remember.'

Blackstrap slams the door. And the house steadies itself. The pay phone jingles on the wall down the hallway. The noise from the impact. Then it rings. Blackstrap hears Nix pick it up.

‘Yeah,' he says, then calling, ‘Blackstrap Hawco. Come get it.'

‘Father,' whispers Heather. Drifting toward the corner chair where she cautiously sits. Like she has forgotten how. ‘That poem was lovely, Blacky. Just like the ones you used to read.'

He remembers another line:

Meet me where I dwell.

And the one after that:

Because there is death here.

Blackstrap leaves the room. Skinny Nix stood with the receiver held out. He strides there and yanks it away. Nix flinching, but then giggling secretly. The fright a merry rush. His hand up near his face. Cupped over his mouth.

Whose face becomes the nightmare now?

Blackstrap says hello with eyes on the wooden floor. To listen to his father's voice.

‘Is turrible,' says Jacob Hawco through the wire. ‘Turrible…yer poor mudder…'

The floorboards tilting again. Holding the receiver tighter. Blackstrap feels a hand on his shoulder and spins to see Skinny Nix's face on an angle. The man's eyes dead. Licking his lips. Then chewing on a corner.

Blackstrap's stomach churns.

The cradle we grow toward.

‘Cry,' says Skinny Nix. ‘That's okay.' He nods intently. His hand slipping lower over Blackstrap's chest. Giggling. Then serious with a hand against the wall to steady himself. The slosh beyond the walls. ‘Come on, cry. It's time.
All these years meant to happen
.'

Blackstrap lunges ahead. His grip on Nix's throat. Nix's back slammed against the wall. The house listing and slowly righting itself.
The sickening flow of gravity. Blackstrap raises the receiver. The cord too short. It drops. A fist now instead.

Nix shrieks and darts his face away. Eyes jammed shut. Lips pinched tight. Fingers shivering up near his lips.

Blackstrap snorts. His eyes searching for what? The fist held back. Held tighter to let go. His body slackens. Turning, he sees the telephone cord dangling. Picks it up and listens.

But his father has been disconnected.

‘People dying,' Nix quietly says. Near Blackstrap again without a stain of fear. A smile of knowing and understanding. ‘You have a family, they all die. Everyone except you. Isn't that right? Everyone except me or you.'

‘Shut up.' Blackstrap bangs down the receiver. It misses and falls. His feet unable to walk a straight line. He sways off, into his room. Shuts the door. Twists the lock to be sure.