Blackstrap Hawco (96 page)

Two days later, he drives to Patsy's parents' house in Heart's Content with his father's pickup to start moving them. Just the basics. Clothes and toys. The TV. The rest can be collected later. The children are happy to see him. The comfort from them absolute.

Patsy tells Blackstrap she doesn't care much for the new house. He knows that she can tell it was a mistake with that St. John's woman living in it, decorating it. The smell of her in it. Patsy went in there once, her eyes going over everything, growing more vexed with every step, because that house had been meant for her. She left right away.

‘Not having my children living in dat,' she told him. ‘Widt da stink of dat uppity c'nt all t'roo da place.'

At night, sleeping in Blackstrap's bed, Patsy gets up to check on the children, even though she already did before turning in. Blackstrap wonders why she does this in the middle of the night. Her spot empty beside him. And he's gotten up, too, to go to the bathroom. His father's big bed in his parents' bedroom. Junior's small body lying in it. Ruth in her crib that Blackstrap set up in the corner between the dresser and the washstand.

Patsy watching Junior and Ruth sleeping. Her return to his father's house not fully right. Not natural. She stays clear of him in bed, her back toward him. Maybe there's a space between them that Karen fills up. They don't go near those unspoken words, waiting to gain distance from the way things were.

Blackstrap watches Patsy's neck, the hair that grows along there. Moving close, he slips his hand over her stomach and lets it rest in the hollow. He kisses the back of her neck, carefully rubs her belly. Patsy does not stir. He is struck by the thinness of her body, like what they once were has wasted away. His fingertips still accustomed to Karen's solid loving body.

Blackstrap rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, thinking of his father. The darkness he cannot see into. The funeral. Jacob's face. The white gloves on his hands that he sobbed into, right there in the front of the church, in front of everyone he ever knew. Sobbing into one of those soft white gloves.

He gets out of bed and moves into the kitchen. A vague heat from the woodstove still lingers. His father would often sleep on the daybed by the window, to keep the fire going at night, waking at all hours to put another log in.

Blackstrap finds himself staring at Jacob's daybed. He can almost hear the old man talking, yarning on about Uncle Ace and the sealing fleet. How his father was lost by that pirate of a captain, Abram Kane. The father he suspected was dead, but lived for years off the bounty from shipwrecks. Never returning when he could have returned. There were boats that might have brought him home. What prevented him? What made him want to lead another life? About Blackstrap's mother and what an angel she was. How her father was a big-time criminal from England who went loony. And how the wind had taken Emily, the wind and the cry of a cat, and about Isaac Tuttle and his lifelong attempt at romance. Da scoundrel. Jacob watching Blackstrap with uncertainty. Then laughing at the idea, laughing so hard he had to swipe the tears of pain from his eyes.

Blackstrap notices the pile of cut wood beside the stove. He sets aside the memories of his father, concentrating on the shadow of his backhoe through the window, a newer model bought from money left by Jacob. A bank account that the old man had in Bay Roberts where he deposited every one of his old-age pension cheques from the federal government. The bank manager had called to tell Blackstrap. The money sitting there for years. Not one withdrawal from the account. Blackstrap suspects that Jacob wouldn't touch a cent of it, but left it there for his son to take because times had changed. Money always from no good source.

The jobs set up for tomorrow. He will ask Junior if he wants to come along. Sunday. His father would never work on Sunday. Only church on the Lord's day. Even the wood would be chopped on Saturday. The bread baked. The vegetables peeled and cut for the cook-up. The laundry taken in off the line. Every chore completed. A day of rest.

How many years ago was that?

No rest now with the bills needing to be paid. Not enough money coming in from the backhoe alone. He should have kept some of his father's money and bought the backhoe on credit, but he doesn't trust credit, knowing it accounted for the death of many a man and many more to come. Nothing to do but hope for more work. He's heard of jobs that'll be there in the spring. A company harvesting water from icebergs. Work on a tugboat to hook or net the pieces of berg. The growlers that snap off and drift down in iceberg alley from the north. Twelve-thousand-year-old water to be sold to Saudi Arabia. An outfit from the mainland getting in the business. Making booze too. He'd heard from Paddy. ‘The cleanest booze in the world' was the slogan. The idea of floating on water. Afraid again of sailing after the trip with the Portuguese. Too much attention coming from it. Too many people making you question your every move. Land is where he'd rather be. He touches the scar on his cheek and looks at the table with the pale yellow oilcloth. The chair where Karen used to sit, eating her muffins with dates and orange peels that she liked. The one thing she knew how to bake. Having a cup of Earl Grey tea, she would paw the strands of her black hair away from her lips. Her laugh and her naked body on the rumpled white sheets. In the new clean house beside his father's, the fresh carpet and smooth walls, Karen's peaceful smiling face, her shut eyes as he came into the room, with her knowing he was standing there, watching her, pretending to be asleep until he touched her and her eyes opening with that smile that never failed to weaken him.

The fresh, clean memory of things in that new house.

But it all went to shit.

There's a photograph he keeps of her in the bedroom dresser. Sometimes at night, he goes over to the new house and stares at it. Karen's underthings still in some of the drawers. He thinks he was not in love with her at all, but with who she looked like. Noticing now with that photograph in his hand. Caught by the image of his mother. In her company, if only for a few days or weeks, he would endure anything. His heart rotting inside him for the prospect of a life not possibly his.

 

(November, 1993)

‘You gonna eat?' Blackstrap asks.

‘I got no appetite.'

Ruth on Patsy's lap, reaching for the table, taking something, dropping it.

Blackstrap scoops up the last of his scrambled eggs, using his thumb to shift the pieces onto his fork. Eating, he glances at Junior who brashly pushes a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

Mimicry.

‘You make sure he's in sight all da time.'

Blackstrap looks at Patsy, but does not respond. He already understands about boys, having been one himself.

‘Okay?' she says, like always. ‘He's only six.'

‘Almost seven,' Junior protests.

‘A small job,' Blackstrap says. ‘We won't be long at it.' He eats the last corner of toast, pushes his chair back from the table while still chewing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He knows this bothers Patsy. When he glances at her, he sees that he has succeeded, but she's half smiling and shakes her head.

‘Nuisance,' she says. ‘G'wan.'

He leans close to kiss her, but she turns her head, allowing him her cheek. He kisses Ruth, takes her small hand in his, her small warm fingers. ‘Bye, beauty.' Straightening, he smiles for the smile that she gives back. Then turns for his lunch on the counter, his heavy boots sounding across the wooden flooring.

‘Junior's not ready,' Patsy calls.

‘I'm just getting things together, womb'n. Don't fret. Ya worries too much.'

She looks at her son who lifts the bowl to his mouth, to drink back the milk.

‘Finish yer juice.' She nods toward his glass.

‘Jus,' says Ruth.

‘Where's the dozer?' Junior asks his father.

‘Up on Cabin Road. No one touches it.'

Junior laughs under his breath. ‘Not with Dad, right.'

Blackstrap likes the sound of that.

Dad.

‘You be careful, ya hear.'

Junior stands from the table, leaving his bowl and glass there like his father.

Blackstrap at the counter, checking over the lunch in his tin. Extra food in there for Junior.

‘I'll put yer dishes away, g'wan now.'

The boy waits a moment, then turns to face his father. Blackstrap notices him there at his side. The boy's eyes on the scars on Blackstrap's arms. His sleeves rolled up. ‘Where'd you get them?'

‘Nowhere.'

‘Leave yer fadder alone now, Junior.' But she laughs so loud that Junior turns to look at her.

With Blackstrap's eyes now on Patsy, she says: ‘I t'ought you'd be right proud ta tell 'im.'

The thought of Jacob's presence settles in the room. The empty daybed. Blackstrap's changing face because Patsy had been referring to Blackstrap's father. The willingness to always tell, to bend anyone's ear with a yarn.

Junior kisses Patsy goodbye and pokes Ruth before racing for the back door. Shoving it open with both hands, he's out before Blackstrap.

Watching him leave, Patsy's face goes sad. ‘Blacky,' she whispers, looking at him, strange like.

Ruth begins crying from the poke that Junior gave her. Patsy distracted now. She gets up and goes into the other room to silence the cry.

Outside, Junior is in the pickup, bouncing on the passenger seat. There's a flat on that side that needs changing. Always something to bother a man, just like his father used to say. The truth to that stronger than ever, now that he's left to do every scrap of work himself. No one to ask advice from or complain to who would ever understand.

He calls to Junior to get out of the truck and come help.

 

The man from St. John's has a healthy tan. Dirty-blonde hair combed in a nice way. He's watched every move of Blackstrap's bulldozer. The man has even gone so far as to scramble up the hills of fresh clay and stare down. Not as big as he thinks he is, not realizing that those hills will all
be moved again once the foundation hole is dug. Blackstrap has had to shut down the machine and climb out, tell the man to move for his own safety. The second time just sweeping his arm through the air without saying a word.

‘What's he doing?' Junior asks, stood beside Blackstrap in the dozer.

‘Fucked if I know,' Blackstrap snaps, not meaning to curse in front of the boy. But feeling it won't harm him. Just a word he'll hear soon enough, if not already.

The man becomes a major aggravation. People getting in his way. People telling him what to do, like they know better, like he'll make a mistake. How long you been doing this? he wants to ask the man. How long you been clearing land for a living?

When the job is done, the man wanders around the site with his hands on his hips. Then steps over to Blackstrap and the boy with a you-done-good wink and a big smile on his face.

‘Not bad,' says the man. He searches Blackstrap's eyes, like he's trying to figure out something, maybe put a name on his face. He gets that a lot since being on the news.

Blackstrap nods and rolls a cigarette.

‘You take a cheque?'

Blackstrap glances at the man's face. It's hard to tell if the man is sincere or not. Always hard to tell with that sort.

‘You got cash?'

‘No.' The man puffs out a laugh, suspiciously looks from the boy to Blackstrap. ‘I don't carry cash around with me. Who uses cash anymore? Tons of plastic though.' He shows Blackstrap his wallet, all the different coloured cards, some of them flashing like metal in the sun. ‘You take plastic?' He keeps the wallet open, holds the pose, his eyes a little wider than usual, like he already knows the answer.

‘No.' He'd like to feed him plastic. ‘You got no cash.'

‘That's what I just said.' A smile like an asshole tightening.

‘I guess I'll take a cheque then.' He wants to add,
So why bother asking?

‘I'll need a receipt, too. You have a receipt book?'

‘Junior.' He looks down at the boy while he rolls the string of tobacco tighter in the thin paper.

‘Yeah.'

‘G'wan up in the backhoe and get the blue book outta the little box front of the seat.'

Junior smiles. ‘Sure.' He races toward the machine parked out on the road.

Blackstrap strikes a match, puffs his cigarette to life, shakes out the match, cracks it in half between his thumb and middle finger and lets it drop.

The man keeps staring at him. ‘I know you from somewhere.'

‘Probaly recognize me from da movies.'

The man is confused, but still trying. ‘Right.'

‘Here,' Junior says, his breath straining. ‘Fast, huh? You time me?'

‘One second was all it took.' Blackstrap nods toward the man. ‘Give it to him.'

The man takes the book reluctantly.