Saltwater Cowboys

by Dayle Furlong

  As Jack walked away, the girls — webs of pink sugar around their mouths — called after him. “Where you going, Daddy?” Maggie asked.

  “Home to run an errand, my duck.”

  “I want to come too,” she said.

  “No, my girl, you stay here, help your mommy and sisters, be a good girl while Daddy’s gone.”

  “But I want to go with you,” Maggie said stubbornly.

  “Me too,” Katie said and scratched her knee, full of tiny red welts from the blackflies.

  “No, none of ye can come.”

  The girls pouted.

  “I’m sorry, my babies,” he said and softened his voice. “But I won’t be gone for long.”

  Angela, beautiful in a white sundress; Katie, hair a mess, pink sugar around her mouth, yellow polo shirt hanging out of red terrycloth shorts with gold piping down the sides; Maggie in a blue sundress, dirt on her knees, hair ragged, skin peeling, brown and fresh pale salmon pink under the scabs of skin that were too burned and dry to stay on her cheeks; and Lily, wide eyes watchful as she stared after her father from her mother’s hip in a white and yellow dress. As they all waved goodbye, Jack couldn’t help but keep looking back at them over his shoulder.

  At home to collect the money to bring to Peter, Jack opened the door and flicked on the light. The small living room was emptied of all personal items. A bottle of suntan lotion, the lid popped open, lotion crusting and drying around the lid like a clumpy salt lick, was in the middle of the floor. All photos had been taken down from their plastic frames, the nails still in the panel board walls.

  Jack walked toward the bedroom at the front of the trailer. The curtains were open and sharp beams of sunlight the colour of orange peel fell across the bed. He kept the light off and rushed blindly in the semi-darkness to the closet, removing the floor panel to grab the money. He pulled the mattress apart to grab more and tore at the lining of Angela’s vanity to find bills taped to the frame.

  It pained him to part with all of it. He wanted just a little for them. God only knew when they’d need it. So he tucked a few thousand into his socks. Angela will never know. I can’t let her starve, he thought, even though he’d promised to return all of it. If her mother knew about this, she’d know I wouldn’t have returned all of it. She’d follow me around the house until every bill was accounted for.

  The mine might even withhold my final pay because I’m leaving work without proper notice, he thought, to justify his actions. He’d made a thorough sweep; all the money was collected. He swung the bags over his shoulder, and as he left the room, in his confusion he flicked on the light.

  Sunburned parents were as hot as barn animals. They wrapped their babies in hooded pullovers, their little red faces peeping out of pointed elfish hoods as the setting sun turned the sky violet and peach. Houselights and streetlights burst on. The picnic by the lake was animated with lights from the amusements and cigarettes at the beer tent. Headlights from the fire trucks turned on as men set up the final tray of fireworks to be ignited when it fully darkened.

  A small bush plane flew over Foxville. Two great bodies of water, the Peace and Athabasca Rivers, were swollen orbs linked by a single vein of water. Tiny houses were tucked in and nestled amongst clumps of forest: endless acres of evergreen, poplar, and towering birch, with dark trunks and deep green needles and leaves. Boulders dumped by glacial melt lay along the shoreline. The plane soared over the tiny, flat rusted roof of the civic centre, took one more swoop over Foxville and headed to the landing strip just outside of town.

  Bobbi watched the plane go by, untied Winnie from her leash, and took a seat on a small rock under a towering evergreen. The pup lay flat on her belly with her head up and her tail thumping. Her tongue lolled in the heat. Her ears pricked and fell at the passage of children and parents. Bobbi lowered her head, curled over her legs, and rested her chin on her bent arms. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight clip. A few stray hairs wisped around her head like a dancing ring of light.

  Winnie yelped beside her.

  “Oh Jesus, I’m sorry, my love,” a man said in that familiar Irish lilt. Bobbi glanced tiredly up. She was startled to see a handsome man with brown hair and a freckled, round, generous face, eyebrows as thick as twigs that hovered over twinkling blue eyes, standing beside her.

  “I stepped on your puppy’s tail, my love,” he said and crouched down to inspect. “I believe she’s alright,” he said and smoothed her tail as Winnie spun around in circles, trying to lick his fingers.

  Bobbi watched him nervously.

  “Percy Munn, from Harbour Grace, Newfoundland,” he said and extended his hand.

  “Roberta A. Lake, from Thunder Bay, Ontario,” she said and laughed at his earnestness and formal manner.

  “Nice to meet you. You think she’ll be alright or wah?” he asked.

  “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  He sat at Bobbi’s feet. “How long you been up here?”

  “Almost a year now,” she answered.

  “I just got here. I start teaching school in the fall. Math, physics, and chemistry to the junior and senior levels. Not many kids up here, I hear. I suppose I’ll teach gym and coach sports too,” he said, laughing.

  Bobbi nodded and smiled.

  “I couldn’t get work back home. I don’t have a wife or family so I figured I’d come up and see what was on the go.”

  Bobbi nodded again, still smiling.

  “What about you, what do you spend your time doing up here? Watching your youngsters?”

  “No kids. I’m a miner — not a miner’s wife. I’m a blaster,” she said.

  “Do you like to study rocks?”

  “Oh yes,” she said and her smile widened. “There’s a rock formation deeper in the woods, if you’d like to see it someday.”

  “That would be nice, my love.”

  Bobbi’s smile widened.

  A few women with their children in tow walked past. They were inching closer to the water to watch the fireworks. Bobbi recognized Jack’s wife and children. Her stomach lurched. What have I done? I’ve destroyed him. That RCMP officer knows. She looked around wildly; no sign of Jack. She hung her head and burrowed closer to Winnie, hoping no one would see her.

  Angela found a spot closer to the water and they all sat down. She held Lily between her legs and rocked her back and forth as Maggie rested her head on her mother’s thigh. Katie sat against a small tree stump. Dusk fell and they were engulfed by an army of whiny mosquitoes. They swatted irritably at themselves as they waited for the fireworks.

  “Write me, won’t you?” Olive said and avoided Angela’s eyes.

  Angela blanched. “How do you know that we are leaving?”

  “I seen the boxes through the window.”

  “I just can’t talk about it,” Angela said.

  “You’re not the first family to leave in the middle of the night,” Olive said and laughed. “Don’t forget me, write when you can.”

  Angela nodded. She wanted to talk to Olive, to confide in her, but she wasn’t sure it was safe — or ever would be. I don’t know who to trust. How many men are involved? Do other men know? Will any of them try to find us once we are gone?

  The display stole her attention as the first firework was lit; it squealed as it scratched skyward, climbing over air as if over concrete, hissing and sputtering, crackling loudly as it burst. The crowd sighed as the cool blues and greens tempered summer’s heat and the fire dust fell through the sky, sprinkling the air like fresh, cool ocean spray.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jack stopped at the intersection. The musky scent of leather and gas was strong as the car idled. I’ll sure miss this car. How in the world did I ever let Angela talk me into giving all of this up? With all the residents at the lake, Foxville was quiet. There were little flower boxes on many windowsills, filled with seductively draped flowers, bent like upturned wrists in the heat, their petals like beckoning pinkies. Children’s bicycles were scattere
d on front lawns. Round plastic swimming pools were empty, dented, and dirty. Sprinklers were left on to gush in the twilight, one or two lights left on in houses.

  He hadn’t noticed how quaint and full of charm the town was. He’d been too busy burrowing in garbage bags at the dump for ore. He felt a surge of guilt. He’d missed all of this beauty and noticed it now just as they were leaving.

  The grey sports bags were slumped like shells glutted with pearls beside him. He turned onto the wide, crescent-shaped street full of large duplexes, landscaped lawns, and two-car garages. Peter and Wanda’s large brown house, with cobbled sidewalk, wooden shutters, and mahogany trim, was at the end of the street, bordered by lush pines.

  The flashing red lights startled him. At first he thought the lights were from the fireworks display. He rolled down the window and his stomach lurched. In Peter’s driveway was a police car, and Peter was lying handcuffed on the lawn by two RCMP officers. He wasn’t struggling, his body limp, resigned, unassertive, a champion usurped by a younger upstart, the biggest, fastest, and best defeated.

  Peter sorrowfully met Jack’s eyes. A stout RCMP officer shoved him headfirst into the back of the car. He looked out the window and mouthed “Go now.”

  Jack nodded slowly and continued along the street. He watched the car in the rear-view mirror as a single tear trickled down his face. The police officer turned off the crimson flashing lights and the car drove away as fireworks banged and illuminated the night sky in the distance brightly.

  Jack’s hands shook and tumbled over themselves on the wheel. All he could see was red: the police lights, the fireworks, and the beady eyes of a fox caught in the headlight as it burrowed from the bushes and emerged across the road. It was finished scuttling from backyard to backyard, prowling for vegetables to pilfer from gardens. Jack swerved and his car rocked back and forth as the white-tipped tail of the red fox disappeared over the bank at the side of the road.

  The stars hung mercilessly low, dripping points of light, fingernails pointing at Jack with wordless accusations: How dare you steal. He thought of Father Donnelly in Brighton at the pulpit and shuddered. The black sky resembled a nun’s swarthy black dress that did not clothe his guilt but baptized him with shame and fear.

  A black truck with its headlights turned off passed him. The driver was hunched forward protectively, the rim of a cowboy hat pushed down over sulky, shifty, eyes. It was one of the cowboys in town for a pickup. Jack honked his horn but the truck sped up quickly and drove away.

  What do I do now? What about Malcolm Johnson? Do I tell him? Jack drove to Johnson’s end of town and found him out on his picnic table, drinking beer with a few miners, oblivious to all else.

  He got out of the truck and whispered in Malcolm’s ear. Malcolm stood up, spluttering. He got in his truck and drove away. Jack knew he would leave, just like that, with no word or explanation to anyone.

  He wished he could just leave right now. He got back in his car and drove mindlessly toward his trailer. He pulled into his driveway. Angela’s home, he thought as he peered at the light in the bedroom window. The street was deserted. He stumbled over the stairs, untreated wood splintered and swollen from the heat, and charged through the door. “Angela?” he yelled. He raced to the bedroom. The mess he had caused was undisturbed: open closets, upturned boxes, a torn mattress, and ripped floorboards. “Angela?” he called out again and dropped the bags full of money at the foot of the bed.

  He ran from room to room and grabbed the suitcases Angela had packed, piling them up at the front door. We never should have left home. We never should have, no place for us here, we should have stayed home, I should have insisted. Jack’s heart pounded and his hands trembled. He smoothed back his hair. He’ll never implicate me, ever. I know that, he’ll watch my back. He’ll never tell. Like the time we skipped school and the nuns caught us. He took the blame, told them he’d forced me into following him. And he took the paddle for me, he took Sister Moriarty’s wicked backhand, repeated her whiny old chants and prayers for forgiveness. My friend, Peter, oh God, Peter, my brother.

  The low sound of a vehicle approached. “Angela,” he whispered, and jumped up. The red flashing lights of the police car pierced through the window and travelled the length of the room. Jack sat down and put his head in his hands. He sat slack-jawed, awaiting his fate with some relief. At last, it was over.

  The fireworks sounded like a wrecking ball on concrete.

  “Too loud, aren’t they?” Angela shouted.

  Olive nodded as she squirmed to move away from a spider. She was on the ground at the foot of the picnic table, Monique tugging at her breast.

  The sky was red as Angela smoothed Lily’s hair and rocked her gently. Maggie and Katie jumped and cavorted, exhilarated by the show. Angela felt a sudden sucking in her gut, a tugging at her heart.

  “I have to go home. Can you give me a lift?”

  “You don’t want to stay for the end?” Olive asked.

  “No,” she said as she stumbled to her feet, grabbing Katie’s hand and hauling her gruffly toward Olive’s truck. Maggie trailed behind, bewildered, panting, and protesting. “But Momma, the fireworks aren’t finished yet.”

  “Angela?” Wanda said as they passed her at a picnic table with Tanya Ann and her son Tyger. She rose, the folds of her white cotton dress falling to the ground, edges soiled and ashy grey with dirt. “Everything alright?”

  “Yes, fine, but I’ve got to go,” Angela said.

  Lily started to cry and Maggie crossed her arms while Katie dutifully climbed into Olive’s truck. Maggie gulped as she sobbed about missing the fireworks.

  “Brandi gets to stay and watch the fire,” she said between hiccups.

  “Brandi is with her father. You can blame your father when you see him, ask him why he didn’t come back, ask him why he made us wait here for so long, ask him why —”

  “Angela!” Olive said and ran her index finger across her neck in a straight, sharp line. “Cut it out, eh?”

  Angela sat back, stunned. Her body felt like it was on fire — as if a hundred insects were crawling all over her. When they turned onto the dirt road of the trailer court, the swollen red lights from the police car were spinning quickly.

  They pulled up in front of the house and Angela ran toward the front door and the girls tumbled out of the truck. Olive shepherded them next door to her place amidst their wailing and cries for their mother and father.

  All the while, the celebratory fireworks, a shower of golden light, cracked and banged, fizzy pockets of silver rolled across the sky. White smoke stains left a bright white trail behind.

  Epilogue

  July 1, 2012

  In the silent blue light of morning, sky full of roiling grey clouds, Angela rose and wiped a tear from her face. A tear that didn’t wash away or cleanse, a tear as heavy as stone rolling down her cheeks, pooling like sediment in the swell of her heavy breast. Stop it, woman, she thought, you’ve got things to do today, he’s coming home. After all these years, he’s coming home.

  There was a party tonight to prepare for. Her mother had been baking all day and would scold Angela if she didn’t get the meat ready for the barbecue. She tried to rouse herself but grief had become an anchor that moored her in a glum harbour of lethargy.

  This unremarkable summer had been punctuated by rainstorms, brief intervals between lightning bolts a welcome and blessed silence, yet alive with a blue-grey numbness. She’d go and sit by the ocean today in the afterglow of the storm and cry, spend five minutes numb between tears. In these moments she ached so much, all she could do was sit by the ocean. The glorious watery Atlantic blanket, clear blue and foaming at her feet, in the hopes that it could offer relief or sustenance, as if the sheer arrogance of a huge body of water could somehow make her abundance of tears smaller, so the burden of being drenched and full to overflowing with achy, salty, snot-inducing tears, threatened less to drown.

  She walked to the ocean almost every day.<
br />
  This was her life. She lived with her mother. Her children were grown now. Katie, an engineer, worked in Fort McMurray and was married to an Albertan, happily wrangling oil. Angela would hear from her once a week. She had travelled extensively; she’d been to Mozambique, Brazil, Turkey, and Prague. She always sent cards and souvenir magnets for Angela’s fridge. The most recent one was from Ireland: Lovely Day for a Guinness the magnet read, with a picture of a glass of Guinness on the orange and reddish snout of a toucan.

  Maggie had remained unmarried. She had no man yet because she “feared abandonment,” her therapist told her. She was “unable to form attachment bonds,” she told her mother over the phone, mocking herself. She kept herself busy with work. She was a teacher in St. John’s and on weekends went to rallies to protect Newfoundland’s offshore oil. Angela worried about her, much more than about the other two. She seemed so stiff around people, constantly on guard, afraid to let her emotions show.

  Lily, a cook at the Brighton Hunting and Fishing lodge, was petite and cute. She was interested in baking and playing hockey with the boys. She was full of life, eager and earnest. Happy-go-lucky, content with cooking and conversing with the wealthy British professors who came to spend summers in Brighton, always in her flour-stained apron and floral dresses. Just like her nanny, Angela thought, and would smile at how her mother’s traits were exhibited in her youngest child’s character.

  Angela managed the hunting and fishing lodge. Dr. Nelson was in the process of opening it when Angela returned from Alberta and had hired her on the spot. All those years ago she had started out as the cleaning woman, and now she was the manager. When Doctor Nelson passed away they’d held a wake at the lodge, and over 1,500 people came from around the province. The premier had sent condolences.

  Sheila would be home tonight, back from filming a movie on location in Toronto. She’d come to support Angela.