One Year in Coal Harbor

by Polly Horvath

  “Well, as much as I’d like to believe in your feelings, Primrose, what the fishermen’s families need is cold hard cash. I should write Miss Honeycut again. Maybe my first letter wasn’t strong enough. I should tell her about the Harrison family, with no money coming in this winter and five mouths to feed. Their oldest boy is talking of quitting high school and getting a job on one of the boats and I think Mary’s entertaining letting him. They have to eat. And what does Miss Honeycut mean, ‘Thank you for giving this matter your attention but I prefer to explore other options’?” asked my mother, rereading Miss Honeycut’s letter and waving it around. “What other options? Who else has written to her?”

  She looked forlornly at the broken dish as I swept the china crumbs into the dustpan. “And as far as I’m concerned she owes us a plate!”

  My mother stomped off to knit and I could see by her furrowed brow that she was tied up in knots over her impotence to save all the lost fishermen and their families and ease the tide of suffering in her corner of the world. “Money, money, money,” she said. “A little bit of extra money can fix an awful lot in this town. It all seems to hinge on a little bit of money.”

  “My grandmother used to say it’s not a real trouble if it can be fixed by throwing money at it,” said my dad from behind his paper.

  “It is if you can fix it with money but you don’t have the money. Those unfortunate people just need a little cash to feed those children through the winter!”

  “And they’re darned lucky to have you looking for it,” said my dad.

  “Well, it won’t do them much good if I don’t find any,” said my mother. Then she got up for pen and paper and sat down to write Miss Honeycut again.

  My mother wasn’t the only one writing Miss Honeycut. The protesters had gotten wind of the Honeycut fund and were hoping to secure it to launch a full-scale protest against the logging. And it wasn’t just the Hacky Sack kids who came to town after that. There were some older professorial types and environmentalists and a whole lot of other people. The motel filled up quickly and some of the protesters were billeted about town. None of them seemed to be the type who could afford rooms at Miss Clarice’s B and B and when she was asked to donate some housing she refused. This surprised nobody.

  The protesters did presentations in the schools to gain student support. They wrote our member of Parliament to protest the clear-cut, and the Hacky Sack kids tried to get as many people in town as they could to sign the letter.

  Miss Connon posted the letter on the bulletin board during recess and when I went to add my name, she put a hand on my shoulder and said, “The poor, poor trees,” and there were tears in her eyes. I found this a little unsettling. Seeing your teacher cry is like seeing one of your parents cry. But she quickly wiped her eyes and said, “Don’t mind me, Primrose.”

  In their school presentation the protesters showed us that even if the trees were replanted, the forest would never come back the same. When trees die naturally and are allowed to lie where they fall, they rot and the rotted wood seeps nutrients back into the soil so that the forest replenishes itself constantly. The protesters showed pictures of small trees growing out of the fallen large trees, something I’d seen many times but never really thought about. You cannot re-create an old-growth forest. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. But really, they didn’t have to get so scientific. Just the thought of the surrounding mountains treeless was enough to galvanize all of us into action. So I volunteered to collect signatures.

  After school Ked and I met at my house to continue working on recipes for the book.

  “What do you think it should be called?” I asked him.

  “Coal Harbor Recipes?”

  “Maybe something snazzier. We should go ask Miss Lark for publishing advice.”

  We got our bikes and rode out but when we got to her house, Miss Lark opened the door and glared down at us. Ked quickly took two giant steps back. Miss Lark was wearing a large man’s mackinaw over a nightgown. Her feet were bare. She had a stocking cap on even though she was inside.

  “What?” she barked.

  “Hi, Miss Lark,” I said. “I’m Primrose Squarp. This is Ked. You came to our class. I thought you might remember me.”

  “I don’t know what class you’re talking about. I go to a lot of places,” said Miss Lark.

  I thought this very odd but I forged ahead anyway. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  “Miss Lark, we’re writing a book,” I began. “And we need some advice.”

  “Don’t!” she barked, and slammed the door.

  “Do you think we should ring the bell again and ask if she wants to sign the petition?” I asked, because I had brought that, too.

  “No,” said Ked, turning around and walking back to the bikes. “I don’t want to collect signatures. I’ll ride around with you while you get them but I don’t want anyone to see me doing it.”

  “Why not? There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “It makes me nervous, okay? In my last foster home I was helping to build a set for our school play and I accidentally bonked a teacher with a piece of wood I had over my shoulder, and he immediately thought I was ‘becoming violent.’ If you collect signatures, you’re aiding the protest. If I collect them, I’m looking for trouble.”

  I don’t think people in Coal Harbor are that narrow-minded but I guess he had a right to be nervous. I couldn’t imagine getting picked up and plunked down, never knowing what was going to happen next. You can’t make permanent friends, you can’t make plans, you can’t join teams. And why was his home available to him and then unavailable? What was the deal with his parents? He must have had some if he went home between foster homes. Was he from a family of career criminals? I was sure I had heard of such things. I knew I shouldn’t pry into his life but I was so curious. I cast around for a question that wouldn’t be too intrusive.

  “Do you think you’ll be in Coal Harbor long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I bet Evie and Bert would keep you permanently if they knew you wanted to stay.”

  “Well, I don’t,” he said tersely.

  This floored me. “Don’t you like it here?”

  “Yeah, I like it, Primrose. I like it a lot, but I’ve got things to do elsewhere. You know, responsibilities, people counting on me.”

  “But you must hate just going from place to place.”

  “I don’t mind so much.” He shrugged. “I’d like to know how long I’ve got places, though. That would help.”

  “Can’t you ask?”

  “It depends on forces beyond my control. Listen, I don’t really want to talk about this anymore, okay?”

  It is very odd to find yourself in the position of trying to help someone who has other plans.

  Since we were headed to town, I decided to get signatures at The Girl on the Red Swing first.

  “Hello again,” said Miss Bowzer to Ked as we came in the front door.

  “Again?” I asked Ked. “Were you here earlier?”

  “I can’t sign it!” interrupted Miss Bowzer when she saw the sheet. “I’ve had six people in here already asking.”

  “You don’t want to save Mendolay Mountain?” I asked. “But you love that mountain! The Hacky Sack kids say that once the loggers start, they’ll do the whole coast.”

  “Scare tactics,” said Miss Bowzer. “Listen, the logging company is only planning on that one mountain. That’s it. I know that for a fact. And that’s jobs for loggers, too, you know. It’s fine to say they should stop logging but that’s practically the whole economy of B.C. Anyone think of that? Besides, Dan’s staying at the B and B and he says he doesn’t think the clear-cut will much affect the view.”

  “But the B and B faces Mendolay. Its porch looks onto the mountain.”

  “Yes, Primrose, but there are other mountains. Mendolay is only one. A little clear-cut will get lost in the vast range that the B and B faces. I doubt you’ll even notice it. Dan doesn’t think people wil
l.”

  I looked at Miss Bowzer as if she were from the moon. I never expected her to be on the side of the loggers. Never in a million years. And what did Dan have to do with it? Maybe the torturous choice between Dan Sneild and Uncle Jack had fragmented her brains.

  “Anyhow, I’ve got pierogies to make. It’s pierogi night,” she said.

  “PIEROGI night?” I said.

  “Dan’s Ukrainian,” she said, and shrugged.

  She never changed her menu for anyone, except for the one dish she’d added for Uncle Jack. And pierogi night was a much more serious commitment than air-dried beef with lentils. She was devoting a whole night to it. Miss Bowzer must have fallen back in love with Dan Sneild! She’d probably want to become Ukrainian herself next! This was terrible! I tried to imagine Miss Bowzer in a long colorful dress and boots and a scarf, doing wild dances with a lot of other Ukrainians, as I had seen on TV once. Could Uncle Jack continue to love her through such a metamorphosis?

  “I suppose now she’s going to put sauerkraut in everything the way Evie does mini marshmallows,” I said to Ked, who had pulled me nervously outside.

  I had a vision of an all-Ukrainian menu and that reminded me that I hadn’t passed on any fake French food comments from Uncle Jack in a while, and I told Ked to wait for me a second while I dashed back into the kitchen of The Girl on the Red Swing and said, “Miss Bowzer, by the way, Uncle Jack said that a real cook could make coq au vin.”

  “Coq au vin?” Miss Bowzer put down the pork roast she was carrying from the freezer.

  “Yeah,” I said, and then dashed out. I decided it was best just to let this simmer.

  Outside, Ked was standing where I’d left him but had been joined by Bert and Evie.

  “PRIMROSE!” said Evie in her wildly enthusiastic way. Sometimes she reminds me of a puppy, the way she greets people. And then, as if to be sure he didn’t feel left out, she added, “AND SHE’S HERE WITH OUR FAVORITE BOY, KED!”

  She would adopt him in a heartbeat, I thought. What kinds of responsibilities could he possibly have that would keep him from living in Coal Harbor? That would send him back to the kind of life that kept jettisoning him into foster homes?

  “What are you kids up to?” asked Bert. “We’ve been to the library.” He hefted two big bags of books to illustrate.

  “To use the Internet!” said Evie proudly.

  “You went on the computer there?” I asked.

  “We got some help from that nice librarian,” said Bert.

  “Ms. Andersen,” said Evie.

  “The one with the long hair.”

  “And the glasses.”

  “She showed us how. We were looking for cockapoo breeders.”

  “We found all kinds of sites.”

  “They’re called sites. Like building sites, the places where you go.”

  “There’s more breeders than you’d think.”

  “Are you getting a new dog?” I asked. This was surprising news because they were so broken up about Quincehead that I’d have thought it would take much longer until they were ready.

  As if reading my mind, Evie said, “We know there will never be another dog like Quincehead.”

  “Evie thought if Quincehead ever died it would be years, maybe never, until she could get a new dog.”

  “That’s what’s so amazing,” said Evie.

  “Because we realized the big hole Quincehead left in our lives.”

  “And Evie said to me, Let’s get a dog.”

  “But that’s when we decided to do lots of research first.”

  “Because Quincehead was a fluke.”

  “We didn’t research or nothing to find Quincehead. He just fell into our lap and he was the perfect dog.”

  “We’ll never see his like again.”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  “So it’s only fair to try and find a nearly perfect dog.”

  “Because it wouldn’t be fair to the dog if we didn’t.”

  “He’s got so much to live up to as it is.”

  “So we’d even drive to Alberta to get a perfect one.”

  “How can you tell if it’s the perfect dog before you know him?” asked Ked.

  “Ked’s so smart,” said Evie to me.

  “He hit the nail on the head. He’s got us there, Evie,” said Bert. “You can’t.”

  “You can’t tell at all,” said Evie. “Not really.”

  “But you can guess,” said Bert. “We’d be guessing, really.”

  “We just feel, you know, compelled to do our best,” said Evie. “To find perfect candidates and then visit them. I think I could tell if I picked one up.”

  “You could tell with Quincehead, Evie.”

  “Because he snuggled into me. First time I picked him up.”

  “He snuggled.”

  “Not that the perfect one might snuggle next time.”

  “Not that there will ever be a perfect dog again. But we owe it to the new dog to get one nearly perfect.”

  “Because of Quincehead.”

  “And his perfection. Now, what are you kids doing in town?”

  “We were going to get my uncle’s signature on this petition to save Mendolay Mountain,” I said.

  “We’re going to the council meeting after supper. That’s on the agenda. We’ll see you then. Are you going inside with Primrose?” Bert asked Ked.

  “Because I thought we’d have an early supper,” said Evie. “So we have time to digest before the meeting. I’m making Tater Tot casserole.”

  “I’ll go back with you,” said Ked, and he took both book bags from Bert, who looked frankly relieved. Bert was pretty short and I imagine it took more muscle than it would a taller person to keep the bags from dragging on the ground.

  “Does Tater Tot casserole have mini marshmallows in it?” Ked asked, rather nervously, I thought.

  “It does if you want it to!” said Evie.

  “Wait a second,” I said to Evie. “Can you just stay here one second so I can get your recipe for Tater Tot casserole? I’ve got my notebook. I’m collecting recipes for the cookbook Ked and I are writing.”

  So Evie stayed behind and I took down the recipe and Ked and Bert trotted home with the books.

  After I had finished writing, I said, “Would you adopt Ked permanently if he wanted it?”

  “Of course, Primrose. But you know, honey, that that isn’t going to happen. He has a home. This is just temporary.”

  “But don’t you think he would be happier if he could just be in one place?”

  Evie thought a second. “I’m trying to remember what the social worker said. She said he was actually anxious to get back to his own home.”

  “But what kind of home can it be if he’s hardly ever there?” I asked.

  Evie put her hand on my wrist. “Well, you know we’ve talked about these things before. Some of these kids are ashamed of their families. The social worker said Ked didn’t want anyone to know about his family but she’d tell me anyhow if it would be a help to us and I said to her, ‘Dearie, I don’t need to know nothing he doesn’t want me to know.’ And maybe the way I think of it would help you, too, Primrose. I think of it as having this moment in time with him and doing anything I can. Maybe we’re just like a vacation spot in the schedule of his life—like a little spa trip. Someplace he can be warm and dry and fed. And maybe part of that for him is being someplace where everyone doesn’t know where he came from. Like we’re a little vacation from shame. Anyhow, honey, I gotta go make dinner. I’m glad you’re getting on so well with Ked. He needs a friend, that’s for sure.”

  But that didn’t even begin to cover my feelings about it. I wanted to keep him safe.

  She moved on and I crossed the street and went into Uncle Jack’s restaurant.

  There were plastic sheets hanging all over the place and plaster falling everywhere and things didn’t look any further along than they had the last time I’d been there. Uncle Jack was in the back, covered in white
plaster dust and looking distracted and furious. I held the signature sheet out to him.

  “Save Mendolay Mountain?” he said, signing it. “Sure, sure. You know that’s on the agenda for the council meeting.”

  “Are you going tonight? Ked and I are.”

  “If I can get away from business. Right now, between the restaurant and a bunch of irons in the fire down island, I’m working sixteen-hour days,” he said. “Hey, you and Ked haven’t borrowed any change out of the change jar the last couple of weeks, have you?”

  “No, I would have told you,” I said.

  “I know, I know,” said Uncle Jack. He sounded tired and discouraged. “Maybe I’m mistaken but I could swear about a third of it is missing.”

  “Wow. Who would take all your change?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to think one of the hockey players is stealing. It’s not the change. It’s feeling taken advantage of after I trusted them with the open door. I’d hate to tell them they can’t use the gym anymore unless I’m around to open and close. I guess I’ll have to talk to them. I don’t want to make any accusations when I don’t know anything for sure.”

  “What if no one comes forward?”

  “I don’t know,” said Uncle Jack, and there were huge bangs from the back room. “Hey, watch it back there!”

  “Miss Bowzer wouldn’t sign the petition. She wants them to log the mountain!” I said. It was as well he knew what a pretty pass things had come to since he had neglected his courtship of her.

  “Of course she’ll sign the petition,” said Uncle Jack, who was busy writing something on a clipboard.

  “No, she won’t. I just talked to her.”

  “She’ll sign. She’ll find somewhere to sign where it won’t get back to us she signed.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would she do that?” I argued.

  “There’s more here than meets the eye, Primrose,” said Uncle Jack, and he winked at me. “But don’t worry. I’ve got plans and I’m sticking to them.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. By plans, did he mean his restaurant? Did he mean he was going to keep building it even if it drove Miss Bowzer into the arms of Dan Sneild? Didn’t he see that she was worth more than a business enterprise?