Baygirl

by Heather Smith

  Your heart would ache, all for their sake, if you were standing by,

  To see them drowning, one by one, and no relief being nigh;

  Struggling with the boisterous waves, all in their youth and bloom,

  But at last they sank, to rise no more, all on the eighth of June.

  Wow. These people were terrible cheerer-uppers. Shouldn’t they be singing songs of hope? Or a song that reminded us of my dad? I imagined everyone bursting out into “Smoke! Smoke! Smoke! (That Cigarette)” and caught myself smiling. I hoped no one noticed.

  By suppertime, the storm had eased. The RCMP officer arrived. They had started their search.

  By bedtime, the electricity returned. There was still no sign of my father.

  Ms. Bartlett made up a bed in the spare room. “Try to get some sleep.”

  The furnace hummed, but there was too much cold to heat. I could see my breath when I exhaled.

  I was cold.

  But Dad must be much, much colder.

  Was he in the boat, lost?

  Or had it sunk?

  Was he floating in the Atlantic, dead?

  Were his eyes open?

  Was he scared?

  He said he couldn’t swim. He said it was just as well. Maybe he was right.

  If he had drowned, I prayed that he was the drunkest he’d ever been in his whole life. I prayed he didn’t feel a thing.

  I knew there was no news, because it was late and no one had woken me.

  I got up.

  The house was warm now, and sun shone into the kitchen.

  The RCMP guy sat at the kitchen table.

  “They’re still looking,” he said. “But that storm was pretty severe.”

  I nodded.

  He told me to sit down.

  “The longer he’s out there, the less chance he has of survival.”

  I nodded again.

  “At some point, the search-and-rescue mission will turn into a recovery mission.”

  He got up to leave. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear something.”

  Ms. Bartlett saw him out. Frank fixed me some breakfast.

  I watched as he made a pot of tea and buttered some toast.

  “We used to call you Fisty, you know,” I said. “Before you married Ms. Bartlett. When you lived alone.”

  “I know.” He passed me my tea. “I was a miserable bugger back then.”

  “Remember Nan’s seventieth birthday party?”

  “I certainly do. You were quite the little dancer.”

  “It’s one of my favorite memories ever,” I said.

  I was nine years old, and everyone from Parsons Bay had crammed themselves into Nan’s little house. Anne-Marie and I were under the kitchen table. Jock Wilson was playing his fiddle and everyone was singing. When Frank walked in, Anne-Marie and I held hands real tight. He’ll murder us, whispered Anne-Marie. Then we better stay hidden, I advised. No one else seemed to care that mean old Fisty Hinks was there at my nan’s party. They just said, Nice to see ya, Frank. All Anne-Marie and I could do was sit and stare, but after a while we got bored and started playing clapping games. It was during “Mary Mack” that Fisty Hinks poked his head under the table and put his hand out to me. Anne-Marie and I jumped with fright, and I didn’t know if I wanted to take that hand. After all, it was the same hand that was usually balled up in a fist. But up close, Fisty Hinks had a nice smile. So I took his hand. And we danced. I stood on his feet just like I saw other girls do with their fathers. Fisty told me I was a grand dancer and that his daughter used to dance on his feet too. That night I promised myself that I wouldn’t run past his house anymore. But as soon as I was back out playing with my friends, I broke that promise. We’d run past his house, hearts beating with fear and excitement, screaming and yelling, waiting for him to come out and run us off, and when he did we’d take off laughing.

  “I’m sorry we called you Fisty and tormented you. Kids can be so stupid sometimes.”

  “So can old men. I was a miserable old bastard.”

  “Mom said it was because you were sad.”

  “Your mother was right. I was very sad. And lonely.”

  “Why?”

  “I lost my wife and daughter. In a car accident.”

  “I’m sorry. No one ever said.”

  “People find it hard to tell children these things.”

  Another dead child swept under the rug.

  “It was a long, long time ago,” he said.

  “What was your daughter’s name?”

  “Catherine, with a C.”

  “Really? I’m Katherine too. With a K.”

  Frank smiled. “I know. It’s such a lovely name.”

  “Dad started calling me Kitty for short. Sometimes I feel too old for it. Maybe I’ll tell people to start calling me Katherine now.”

  “No matter what you call yourself, you’ll always be Kitty to your father.”

  I burst out crying.

  Poor Frank didn’t know what to do, so he ran outside looking for Ms. Bartlett, and when he found her, she rushed in and held me until I was all out of tears.

  Mom, Iggy and Elliot arrived in the afternoon. Mom looked terrible. Iggy said she’d been beside herself since she heard the news.

  “I came as soon as I could,” she said. “They said the storm was bad and the roads were closed and—”

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  Elliot hugged me. “I’m sorry about your nan. I’m sorry I missed the funeral. My parents, they wouldn’t let me come and—”

  I hugged him tight. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

  “I told them I didn’t care what they said, this time I was coming no matter what.”

  “I’m just glad you’re here.”

  He gave me a card from Mr. Adams.

  Dear Kit,

  I heard your father is mia (missing in action). I sincerely hope he is found alive and well. But if he happens to pop his clogs, I will be here for you, in St. John’s, with open arms and an overabundance of bickies. (I received a case full of digestives in the mail as a result of my complaint letter.)

  Sincerely,

  Reginald Adams

  Iggy gave me a strange look. “What’s so funny?”

  I passed him the card. He grinned and passed it to Mom.

  “I suppose that’s one way to put it.” She managed a laugh. “But let’s hope his clogs aren’t popped yet. It’s only day two. There’s still hope.”

  Everyone nodded.

  Except me.

  We went back to Nan’s.

  And waited.

  Day three. recovery mission.

  They found the boat. Battered and empty. Mom bawled when they told her they were now looking for a body.

  I grabbed my coat and ran.

  Ten minutes to the top of the cliff.

  A record.

  The water was choppy.

  Did he get smashed against a cliff?

  Do whales eat dead bodies?

  I closed my eyes. I pictured him floating gently on the waves, bobbing this way and that, smiling.

  I squeezed my eyes, as if to make the image stick.

  “I’m sorry, Kit.”

  I jumped. It was Anne-Marie.

  “About your dad. And everything.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She put her arm around me. “Are you going to stay in Parsons Bay?”

  “No. St. John’s is home now.”

  “Will you visit?”

  I wanted to say, Yes, to see Ms. Bartlett and Frank, but that would have been mean, so I just said, “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to come back to my house for a cup of tea?”

&nb
sp; “No, thanks. Elliot’s here. I’m going to go hang out with him.” I was tempted to add, For some qt—you know, quality time?, but now wasn’t the time for spite.

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Laters.” I couldn’t resist.

  I walked down the trail and left Anne-Marie at the top, staring into the Atlantic. Elliot was at the bottom, waiting. He took my hand and we walked home.

  That night while everyone slept, I sat in the living room, staring at my father’s empty recliner. Why he loved it so much was beyond me. Its orangey-brown plaid material was hideous. It was tattered and worn. And it smelled.

  I imagined him in it. Passed out, sleeping it off, dead to the world, sloshed. I wanted to kick the hell out of that stupid chair. I hated it. And I hated him in it. I wanted to throw it over the side of the cliff so that they could be reunited, the stupid man and his stupid chair.

  I stood up, walked over to it, ran my fingers across the arm. The material was rough and scratchy. I couldn’t understand how he could even bear to sit in it. Then again, he was drunk most of the time and probably never noticed.

  I sat on the arm and draped my upper half across the back. What a stupid chair. It was even uglier up close. Smellier too.

  I imagined him in it. Sober this time. Me lounging above him, chatting to him. Father and daughter, having a laugh. Sliding my arm casually from the back cushion to his shoulder.

  I slid into the seat. I’d never sat in his chair before, not even indirectly via his lap. Not that he hadn’t tried. Come here, Kitty. Come sit with your father. But I could never stand to be that close, to smell his breath, to look into those red eyes, to listen to his gibberish.

  I imagined he was the chair. He was the ugly fabric and the whiskey-soaked foam. He was the old wooden frame and the broken springs. I slipped my fingers into the rips that covered the arms, felt the spongy innards. Then I pulled. I clawed and I scratched and I tore, like a crazed cat with a scratching post. I cried and I bawled and I grieved. And I wished. I wished I was crying because I missed my father, not because I wished things had been different.

  I loved him though.

  And he loved me.

  This was true.

  And that was all that mattered now.

  It had to be.

  I curled up in a ball and slept, clutching a scrap of fabric from the stupid, ugly chair that was my father’s.

  They never did find his body. So we packed up and left. Elliot and I sat in the back of Iggy’s car. I slept against him the whole way to St. John’s.

  Mr. Adams shook my hand, said, “My condolences” and put twenty-four digestive biscuits out for tea.

  “He told me he loved me the day before he left,” I said. “Everything was kind of okay between us for once. Why would he take off like that?”

  “I don’t know, flower. Maybe he knew he’d just go and disappoint you again.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Will there be a funeral?”

  “Yeah, Ms. Bartlett is going to organize some kind of service. Mom can’t deal with it herself.”

  “Well, those details are hard to deal with. Let me tell you a story. About a Yorkshireman whose wife died.”

  I took a biscuit and wondered if this Yorkshireman was really Mr. Adams.

  He slurped some tea and smacked his lips. He rubbed his hands together, took an exaggerated breath and began.

  “So, the Yorkshireman decides that his wife’s headstone should ’ave the words She were thine engraved on it. He calls the stonemason, who assures him that the headstone will be ready a few days after the funeral. True to his word, the stonemason calls the widower to say that the headstone is ready and would he like to come and ’ave a look. When the widower gets there, he takes one look at the stone and sees that it’s been engraved She were thin.

  “He explodes. Hells bells, man, you’ve left the bloody e out, you’ve left the bloody e out!

  “The stonemason apologizes profusely and assures the poor widower that it will be rectified the following mornin’. Next day comes and the widower returns to the stonemason. There you go, sir, I’ve put the e on the stone for you. The widower looks at the stone and then reads out aloud, E, she were thin.”

  Then Mr. Adams screamed with laughter. He slapped the table and wiped tears from his eyes.

  I stared at him.

  “I thought you were going to tell me some deep, meaningful story.”

  “It’s a joke, girl! A joke! To cheer you up.”

  I dropped my biscuit onto my plate. “Well, it’s not particularly funny.”

  “Okay, how ’bout this one. A Yorkshireman with hemorrhoids on his bum asks the pharmacist, Now then, lad, do you sell arse cream? And the pharmacist replies, Aye, chocolate or vanilla?”

  I burst out laughing. “Arse cream, ice cream. Good one, Mr. Adams.”

  “See? See? Bet that cheered you up, flower!”

  I nodded and smiled. “Yep, that cheered me up.”

  I reached out and took his wrinkled hand. It was rough and cold, but it made me feel warm. How was that possible? I looked at the brown patches that covered his hand and knew that meant he was old. Nan had had those patches too. I hoped Mr. Adams lived a long, long time. I hoped he knew how much I cared.

  He tried to pull away like he always did. He was probably thinking up some wisecrack. But I held his hand tight.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  His eyes were wide.

  “I just want you to know that I’m really glad you’re part of my life. You are very, very important to me.”

  He relaxed his arm and squeezed my hand.

  “You’re a crackin’ lass, Kit. A right bobby dazzler.”

  I assumed it was a compliment and released my grip.

  “Another cuppa?”

  He nodded and started to get up.

  “Sit your bum down, Mr. Adams,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks:

  ~To my two in-house teen critics: Duncan, for thinking out of the box, and Rosie, for her honesty.

  ~To April, for playing independently when deadlines loomed.

  ~To my siblings, for knowing things that I don’t and sharing them with me.

  ~To my mother, whose creativity inspires me, and to my father, who, truly, knows everything.

  ~To the Schramp family, for being Mr. Adams’s first fans.

  ~To Kathy Stinson and Nan Forler, who gave criticism and encouragement equally, with no holds barred.

  ~To Bob MacDonald, for writing “Gold in the Water” and allowing me to use his lyrics.

  ~To all the writers and musicians who keep Newfoundland folk music alive. “Tickle Cove Pond” by Mark Walker and “The Petty Harbour Bait Skiff” by John Grace are but two examples of this vibrant tradition.

  ~To my editor, Sarah Harvey, who made me a better writer with each stroke of her proverbial red pen.

  ~Finally, to my husband, Robin Smith, for giving me the mantra “The laundry can wait.”

  Originally from Newfoundland, Heather Smith now lives in Waterloo, Ontario, with her husband and three children. Her Newfoundland roots inspire much of her writing. For more information, visit www.heathertsmith.com