August Gale (6 page)

They believed in the old ways, and the Marystown Irish heeded the omens and superstitions that had passed from one generation to the next. A fisherman's wife dared not conjure bad luck by calling her husband back once he departed out the door on his journey; she did not wave good-bye for fear a wave would sweep her man to his watery grave. And while their husbands fished the sea, wives took care not to overturn a bread or cake pan, lest they overturn or upset their man's dory or vessel. And never did a whistle pass their lips, for the sound would surely summon a storm at sea. 'Twas understood by all that “a whistling woman and a crowing hen, bring the devil out of his den.”

Lillian and the ladies of Marystown guarded against a great many misfortunes, and they kept careful watch for omens of death. A picture or calendar falling off the wall, a moaning dog or a banshee wind, a broken clock that suddenly counted the hour portended a sudden passing of family or friend. Women and children quickly crossed themselves when a single crow flew overhead, warding off the blackbird's bad luck. Few of the young would venture out after dark or into the woods without a bit of bread in their pockets for the fairies or spirits that might cross their path. And how many wives had tokens, dreams of their husbands drowning at sea before they were lost? More than Lillian wanted to count. Her dreams were most vivid when Paddy was at sea. She dreamt of dark shapes, roiling waves, and horses galloping wildly, horses that heralded oncoming storms. When Paddy had shipwrecked
Golden Glow
on his way back from Prince Edward Island, hadn't her dreams haunted her? She heard cries among ragged waves, faceless men screaming.

The storm had blown in suddenly as
Golden Glow
sailed from Prince Edward Island past Codroy on Newfoundland's northwest coast. The winds and waves rammed the schooner onto the rocks, and Paddy and his crew scrambled into their dories, rowing safely to shore. Even Paddy's loyal sea dog floated in on the captain's sea chest. Days later, Paddy returned to Marystown unharmed with another yarn to share, one more story for the old and young lads on the wharves. There was only laughter in his voice as he bragged about boarding the train that took him and his men from the west to east coast of Newfoundland. As Paddy prepared to step onto the train, the conductor eyed the large black dog by his side. “Sorry, Skipper. No dogs allowed on the train.”

“He survived the damn shipwreck like the rest of us,” Paddy hollered. “He's coming on board.” Paddy pushed past the conductor, the dog at his heels.

Paddy did not share the other details with Lil, the ferocious wind that toppled the boat like a toy, or how quickly the schooner sank beneath the water, the sea rushing through the gaping hole in her side. No, he never shared those stories with her; she was left to imagine them on her own, and she had no trouble coming up with those visions. No trouble a'tall. She had counted him dead many times, dreamt of the telegram, edged in black, that would bear the news of his loss.
How many years could he continue?
Lillian wondered. He was nearly fifty now, surely it was time to give up the sea as his two brothers who had left Newfoundland had done. Lillian thought of them now, Ambrose and Leo, both of them living in New York. Ambrose had never taken to the fishing.
Maybe he was the smartest of them all for it
, Lillian thought. Leo had sworn off the sea in 1922 after he and his brother Ernest nearly perished on a journey to Naples to sell a cargo of salted cod. They had left in the middle of September on
The Ria
, promising they'd be home in plenty of time for Christmas. With no word from the schooner, Christmas came and went. Lillian remembered how her younger sister Catherine, Leo's wife, was certain the vessel was lost with all hands. Six months and twenty days passed as the three-masted schooner fought its way through gales and pack ice before returning to Marystown.

Catherine nearly fainted at the sight of Leo. She had already begun mourning his death. When her senses returned, she had words for her husband, “Please God, I can do this no more.”

Leo, his face still gaunt and strained from the journey, nodded.

Lillian had hoped the haunted look in his brother's eyes would make some sort of impression on Paddy. But it did nothing of the kind. Paddy had been sailing straight through since Leo's desperate trip thirteen years ago.
Stubborn old man
, Lillian muttered. A whistling teakettle roused her from her thoughts. From the kitchen, the maid's voice inquired, “Would ye be wanting a cup of tea now, Miss Lil?” Hearing no response, Alice Brinton made her way to the parlor where she found Lillian sitting by the window. The maid took in Lillian's pale fingers, delicate and thin, wrapped around the arm of her chair, gripped as if she were holding on for dear life. Such a small slip of a woman, Alice thought, but she knew Lillian was as strong as the iron anchors that moored the boats in the bay below. No, she never cried or carried on inside or out of her home; she kept her feelings hidden deep beneath her dark eyes. Never did she raise her voice or utter a bad word. Proper as royalty she was. But she would have to be strong and proper now would she not? Being married to Paddy and all. One of them had to present some manners and civility to the children. Still, aside from Paddy's bluster and fondness for the drink, Alice knew Miss Lillian loved the captain like the day was long. Always wanting to be by his side, she was.

The young maid eyed the clock on the mantlel. Nearly an hour had passed while Miss Lil had been gazing out the window. Lost already she is.
A bit early to start fretting over this journey
, Alice thought.
But can't say that I blame the woman. 'Tis nothing for a fisherman's wife but worry and waiting. Sure, the men were gone away more than they were home
. Alice understood Lillian's concern. Her own husband, John, would soon be gone, too. He often crewed for Paddy, his mother's half brother. Alice's husband considered himself fortunate to work for his Uncle Paddy, a skipper who knew the fishing grounds as well as the meadow behind his home. But despite Paddy's keen skills, Alice would fret herself, a mother with three children of her own, and a new baby born last month. Not long after her husband John hugged her good-bye, her own dreams would soon begin, dreams of dark clouds and upturned dories.

T
he refrigerator hums, and the burst of electrical juice is jarring in the still and quiet kitchen. It is nearly one in the morning as my father and I sit alone at the table. I do not remember how or why the conversation began, but for the past three hours, my father has talked about his childhood and his feelings about Ambrose.

Over the past few months, he and his half sisters have been e-mailing back and forth, sharing information about themselves and their lives. Whether it is our research into the August Gale or the messages he writes to Ambrose's daughters, my father's past seems more present now. On this Easter weekend, I listen to his words closely, knowing that he has not shared these emotions since he was a young boy. When he talks, his brown eyes are focused on something I cannot see. He speaks in a fluid stream of memories, as if he himself needed to hear these words aloud. It is the San Francisco trip that prompts my father's voice to rise in anger; what happened there he cannot forgive or forget.

“After he left us in Red Hook, it was bad, but I cannot understand why he called us out to California. How the hell did he think that was going to work? I can never forgive him for that. Jesus,” he says, his head shaking with the memory. “What my mother went through.”

What about what you went through?
I want to ask, but I do not.

A journalist for twenty-five years, I had written many stories about tragedies. I had talked to families who had lost children or loved ones to murders, suicides, and car accidents. I was adept at absorbing their sorrow, their emotions, and conveying them through the written word. Now I was gathering details about my own father's childhood pain, and the thought of asking my dad about Ambrose left me queasy, anxious. There is no distance here; there are no strangers in this story. The interviewing skills that I have honed over the last few decades do not work on this night. Here in my parents' kitchen, I am not a journalist; I am a daughter, overwhelmed by my father's memories, struck silent with my own sadness over his past.

These feelings of grief and concern for my father are new to me. When I think of him, I conjure images of him happy, spontaneously singing Frank Sinatra songs, crooning lines from one his favorite lyrics, “I've got you under my skin . . . New York, New York, these little town blues . . .” In my mind, he is steady, strong, the source of support and encouragement for my five sisters and mother. Years ago, after I graduated with a degree in photojournalism, I announced that I was traveling alone to Ireland to find work. My father did not question why; perhaps he knew I was running from failed confidence and my professor's belief that I would be better off pursuing photography instead of writing. Rather than find a reporting job in Ireland, I worked as a photographer for a weekly paper on the west coast in Galway. I photographed Gaelic football, fishermen sitting on ancient stone quays, tinkers begging for money, small Irish girls dressed like child brides on their First Communions. Taking pictures was easier than writing. There were no deadlines to miss. I was gone a year before returning home and falling into a comfortable job: working for a small weekly paper in the town where I had grown up. I wrote stories and took pictures. It was a role I felt secure in; there were no daily deadlines. When an editor from a nearby city newspaper called wanting to hire me, my gut told me to say no. There would be more pressure, more chances to fail. My father understood my fears. “You can do it,” he told me. “Take the job.”

My father has always bolstered my courage and understood my frailties. Now for the first time in my forty-five years, I see him as vulnerable, and it is odd and unnerving. He has always been the protector, the provider, but on this spring night as we sit alone, I find myself wanting to change roles with my father. But how does a daughter fix her father's past, repair the hurt inflicted so many decades ago? As the refrigerator hums in the corner of the kitchen, I sit quietly at the table and I fall back on what I have done since I was a small girl: I listen and put my father's words into stories.

I imagine Ambrose's son, a dark-haired child on the playgrounds of Staten Island, following his father's footsteps, eager to be in Ambrose's presence. The boy is too young to understand why Ambrose draws the attention of both men and women alike. The Newfoundland immigrant charms women with his easy smile. Men admire Ambrose's rough nature and enjoy his stories about his seafaring family's Newfoundland home.

Though he has but a sixth-grade education, Ambrose is quick to learn on the jobs offered by his father-in-law, Thomas O'Connell. A builder with an Irish temper and an eye for perfection, O'Connell is not easy to please. But when Ambrose begins working for his father-in-law, painting houses, sanding and shellacking floors, O'Connell is surprised at Ambrose's skill and work ethic. “He's the hardest-working goddamn Newfoundlander I've ever seen,” he boasts to family.

Still, something about the dark-eyed immigrant makes O'Connell uneasy, but the builder knows there is little use in voicing his concerns. His daughter Patricia is crazy about Ambrose and refuses to acknowledge any harsh words about her husband. When the Second World War comes, it brings opportunities for Ambrose with his knowledge of ships and sails. The young man who grew up on fishing wharfs and in schooners earns a job at the Arthur Tickle Engineering Works, repairing the torpedoed Liberty and Victory ships. In charge of the rigging loft, Ambrose supervises eighty men from all walks of life: bookies, tailors, sail-makers, carpenters, and dozens of Newfoundland immigrants. He convinces each of them they have the skills to repair the massive cargo steamships battered by German U-boats. Ambrose's crew learns how to sew rigging ropes and make canvas hatch covers; they master splicing cable two and three inches thick—sturdy wire rigging—that will keep the ships' one-hundred-foot-tall masts and five-ton booms strong and steady.

At the height of the war in 1944 and early 1945, Ambrose and his employees work seven days a week, twelve-hour days, and sometimes around the clock, repairing and rebuilding rigging for the 455-foot-long Victory ships. Pushed to return the cargo workhorses to sea as quickly as possible, Ambrose has little use for laziness or incompetence. Men find themselves knocked to the floor when their boss discovers shoddy work or overhears an insolent remark. The rigging loft crew quickly learns: Ambrose has a sharp temper and powerful punches.

Despite the respect and admiration Ambrose earns at work, the long hours take a toll on his family, which has grown to include another boy, William Patrick, named after Ambrose's brother, Paddy. While his mother tends to the new infant, Ambrose's son, Ronnie, looks for company. Lonesome for his father, he sometimes visits Ambrose on Saturdays. Ten years old now, he grins with pride when his father places his arm around the boy's shoulders and boasts to his crew, “This is my son Ronnie.”

Ambrose's workers notice how the boy's face brightens, how the child seems to grow taller in his father's company. Left under the care of the men in the rigging loft, nearby sewing machines clatter as the child watches Ambrose disappear among coils of rope and sheets of canvas cloth.

Months later, when the war ends, Ambrose, like many of the workers at Arthur Tickle, is out of work. The money that once was plentiful is tough to come by. To pay the bills, Ambrose seeks odd painting jobs and is gone now for days and weeks at a time. In between working, he is also secretly meeting with a woman he met while his family vacationed at Long Island's Mastic Beach. Eighteen years younger than Ambrose, Arlene has honey-colored hair and a slim waist. Ambrose spends more and more time with her, and these sudden absences confuse Ronnie. The eleven-year-old boy grows angry and refuses to come in from the playground one evening to say good-bye to his father.