Sea of Tranquility

by Lesley Choyce

  SEA OF

  TRANQUILITY

  SEA OF

  TRANQUILITY

  ~ a novel ~

  Lesley Choyce

  Copyright © Lesely Choyce, 2003

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

  Editor: Barry Jowett

  Copy-Editor: Andrea Pruss

  Design: Jennifer Scott

  Printer: Transcontinental

  Special thanks to Julia Sway for editorial assistance

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Choyce, Lesley, 1951-

  Sea of tranquility / Lesley Choyce.

  ISBN 1-55002-440-X

  I. Title.

  PS8555. H668S37 2003 C813'.54 C2003-900344-2 PR9199.3. C497S42 2003

  1 2 3 4 5 07 06 05 04 03

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

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  SEA OF

  TRANQUILITY

  Chapter One

  A woman’s voice rising up out of the silence of the island morning. Speaking the names of the men she once loved, still loved. A lone woman’s voice on a morning like this, conversing with no one save the wind, the young spruce trees abloom with tiny globes of crystal clear dew and the cloak of mist hanging from the sky. What better audience?

  Sylvie Young. On her eightieth birthday. She and the beginning of summer there in the great big backyard on Ragged Island. To be alive on a morning like this. Summer had finally come to Nova Scotia, damp and cool, but summer all the same. Summer had been on the mainland for a couple of weeks but couldn’t find safe passage to the island. Summer holed up in a bed and breakfast in Mutton Hill Harbour, reluctant to make the last leg, but finally, she shook herself and said, what must be done, must be done. Sylvie was waiting for summer to arrive. Never cursed its tardiness. Finally, this.

  Sylvie decided this would be the day to walk again to the graveyard. Hadn’t been all winter. Take a toothbrush and clean up the headstones of her four dead husbands. At least she could still count them on one hand, she offered to folks when they said how sorry they were that all her men had died. It was a sad thing for Sylvie, but she sometimes pretended it was the same as taking in a bunch of stray cats for pets. Fox would kill them or they’d get run over by one of the Oickle boys in his no-name, pieced-together car. Always something. Not a thing to keep whimpering over for the rest of your life.

  The truth was she missed them all and would scrub away the lichen on their gravestones with the toothbrush she’d been using on her own white teeth all winter. Use a little Javex and some Dutch Cleanser — on the headstones. Pull out the dandelions and make room for the grass to grow in sweet and green.

  “Eighty. Damn.” It was a sort of sweet, melancholy damnation that the nuthatches and cedar waxwings heard her say. The ravens had heard plenty worse and weren’t offended. Besides, Sylvie would spread seed in the backyard in about twenty minutes and they would try to get at it before the glib squirrels or the belligerent blue jays. It was just a number, eighty was. Like any other number.

  Sylvie looked around. She knew there was no one in her big, empty backyard, framed in by the tall, stately spruce trees, the good ones with deep roots, rare for these parts, planted and then thinned by her second husband, Kyle Bauer. No one was there, but she wanted to check anyway. That done, she sat down on the damp carpet of spring beauties, her favourite of all the flowers because it was the first one to arrive each summer, delicate but brazen as born-again bats. She settled there on the cold, wet grass, clutched at a little green puff of moss, and she cried.

  She cried not for all those dead men mouldering on the bedrock with gravel shovelled on their caskets. She cried not for the fact that she lived alone or had dozens of reasons to complain about her pains and minor sufferings. She cried not because she was lonely or destitute or feeling rotten as the floor-boards of Kenny Oickle’s ’59 Edsel.

  She cried because she was a woman who needed to cry. Plain and simple. Salt tears, saline as the sea that wrapped its cold, powerful arms around this island. Crying, laughing, saluting the sky, sticking your middle finger up to God. Maybe it was all the same. Life comes at you and you have to make something of it, you have to respond, Sylvie would say. You have to collect all of it and do something with it. Write a goddamn book, pick up a guitar and sing a drunken song. Shout at your neighbours for being who they are. Tell the frigging government to go shove itself up its arse until it’s inside out.

  Something to do with it. Take life and respond. Cry if you have to. There it is. Eighty. Tears falling on the little spring beau-ties. That’s done with it — for now at least. Off to the next thing. Books to be read. Things to think about. A tea kettle will boil. Birds will peck at the seeds dropped from her hand. Maybe it will be a good garden this year. But not before she wages war against the recalcitrant earwigs and the rapacious turnip bugs. Cabbage moths from hell; she’ll have to suffocate them with cold stove ash every day until they give up. All part of it, all part of living.

  She did not feel sorry for herself, but it was, nonetheless, for her own singular being that she cried. News of starving children in Africa did not make her cry. It made her angry and embarrassed to be part of the human race. But tears were saved for rare moments like this. Life coming at her like a two-by-four or a low doorway lintel. All at once — not bad, not good, just overpowering, with every blessed thing of this world and the next sweeping through her like a hurricane through a broken window.

  Sylvie sniffled, wiped tears from her face with a strong wrinkled hand. A lifetime stared back at her like mighty river deltas. Mississippis and Niles, Mekongs and Ganges. She had named them. Turned her palm over and there was her lifeline, strong and long and wrapping halfway around her wrist, her longevity documented from the time she was a child. Imagine what it takes in the way of courage to think of yourself as old when you are young. Sylvie had read her lifeline and believed what it prescribed. She spent afternoons as a teenager trying to figure out what she could do with all those eighty or more years. Have a couple of husbands. Four had never been considered an option. Men died easily, she knew. They were fragile beings. Men and their trouble: large egos in need of feeding and preening; dangerous work on boats or bridges, in mines and railroads.“I love men,” her own mother had once said, probably quoting someone
, for she was always quoting something she had memorized, “not because they are men but because they are, thank God, not women.”

  Sylvie had even predicted that she would spend much of her life alone. Solitude had always been like a mythical Greek god to her. Solitude was geography and body and place and a feeling of closeness — with what she was not sure. Sylvie had tried being in love with God. She had dabbled with the idea of a celestial marriage to God or Jesus or the church or any other masculine spiritual thing worth marrying. But it was a failed attempt. God was in her heart where her father and mother had put the idea and it was neither a he nor a she, and, as much as she tried, she could not externalize any god and propose marriage.

  Marriage was now a thing of the past in all forms. Divorce, the great twentieth-century deception, had certainly never been considered an option. She’d known men with pent-up rage even, but they’d never taken it out on her, not even Doley, her third husband. She would have stuck by him though, good or bad. That’s what women should do with their men. Doley had carried with him hurt and pain from one of those “traditional,” hard childhoods. No one called it abuse in the old days. They’d just say it was the way some folks brought up their kids. Good parents and bad parents. Doley grew up loving everything that lived, except for himself. He loved Sylvie dearly and was always kind to her. Then he was gone.

  Sylvie had stayed right by him and watched as he slowly travelled away from her. She had known then there would not be many more men in her life. She ached for him when he was finally gone. Ached and ached for him, just like the others. And then said goodbye and, with the help of Phonse and Moses, laid him to rest, down on the all-too-familiar granite surface beneath the deepest soil of the graveyard.

  Her only crime, it seemed, was her ability to endure. Long lifeline, good blood, heart like a mighty backyard hand pump, set nonstop from here to eternity.

  What was there in a day? A book to read. Birds coming to you from all directions, flying out to visit you here because you leave them seed on the ground to find. Mist, soon and certain to lift from the feather tops of those trees. A blue sky waiting for the right moment of surprise. Summer coming out to Ragged Island, off the coast of Nova Scotia.

  Summer and the tourists again. Sylvie loved to see the tourists come out on the old ferry boat from Mutton Hill Harbour. Not like Peggy’s Cove. Not like that at all. Tourists could not bring cars here, but they brought families, most of them. Walked around the island in disbelief.“Like going back to another time,” they’d say, ever and again. They were sometimes exasperated by the old wrecks of cars, however, driven around by the islanders. No mufflers, lots of noise. Noise was sometimes good on an island as quiet as this one could be. No one who lived here would ever complain.

  But she knew the only thing that brought the tourists now was the whales. Moses Slaunwhite’s boat tour out of the little harbour. Mainlanders wanting real adventure would take the ferry out from Mutton Hill Harbour in the morning and then go to sea with Moses, out in front of the island, out where the big waves rolled and rolled in the deep. And the whales were there waiting. Every summer. Whales guaranteed. Right whales. The same whales that had disappeared altogether early in the century. Vanished. But they’d come back, once the whalers of this island had stopped killing them.

  Sylvie believed that the whales had come back for her, because of her. She was one of the few who had been around when island men killed whales. She had seen the butchery ashore and openly cursed the men who did it. Tried to get it stopped. And succeeded. Or at least she had taken credit for it. And then the whales began to come back. Close enough to shore that you felt you were there with them. Deep water right up to some of the rocks out near Nubby Point. Deep, deep and dark and treacherous and secretive in ways that Sylvie understood and the whales understood.

  And she did not curse Moses Slaunwhite for his boat and his tourists. The tourists came and brought children again to the island. The sound of their voices like choirs of wonderful noise. Their parents would buy the baked bread and cookies Sylvie made in her wood stove oven. And they would talk. They would reassure her that life went on beyond the refuge of her island. Sometimes she thought the world was coming to an end and it was only the sound of children’s voices in the summer that reminded her the cycle was continuing. She loved all the children and tucked candies into their hands and they stared at her in a kind of fear and wonder. Was she an old witch? Was she a sea hag? No one was ever cruel to her, though, and the parents were polite. They would all ask, “Have you seen whales? What do they look like? Do you think we’ll get to see any when we go out on the boat?”

  And Sylvie would say,“The whales are great and wondrous creatures. Kind and friendly and playful and talkative and you must listen very closely to hear them singing.” She would never tell one of the children, or even their wide-eyed, curious parents with their hand-held video cameras, that soon the whales would be gone from the waters around the island. Soon, she knew, the whales would stop coming here in the summer.

  For Sylvie knew silence to be a reliable ally, a dedicated friend and advisor who had carried her through many bad moments. Silence was almost always hand in hand with wisdom. And so the children continued to smile for her.

  Chapter Two

  Phonse’s Lighthouse, they called it. But it wasn’t a lighthouse at all, more like a mirror. Only worked on sunny days with all that sunlight reflecting off the windshields of maybe five hundred wrecks of cars. You could see it, though, and use it to guide a boat home from as far away as Indian Harbour, Pearl Island, or even Peggy’s Cove. Phonse’s Light.

  Phonse Doucette was forty-six and he was that rare man who had lived his dream. Born on Ragged Island, all through school he pledged to stay there, spend as little time on the mainland as was humanly necessary. He was one of those blessed men who had a dream and knew how to follow it. The dream: his own junkyard. Went through several incarnations: Phonse’s Junk Yard, Phonse’s Salvage Yard, Phonse’s Quality Used Car Parts, and, most recently, Phonse’s Auto Recycling and Environmental Control. Well, that was stretching it some, but Phonse thought it might make him eligible for some government incentive programs.

  When Jack Zwick looked at his new hand-lettered sign and stated flatly,“Environmental me arse,” Phonse said in defence of himself, “I’m hauling junk cars off the mainland, aren’t I doing that? Cleaning up the place. Putting some of the parts of them bloody cars back into circulation.”

  Everybody still called the place the junkyard, though, even Phonse. And there it was: Phonse’s Junkyard, on the hill with its beacon of car windshields all facing south, tail lights all pointed toward the mainland, some of the trunk lids propped open like the cars were mooning the people who lived way back in Mutton Hill Harbour. The well-to-do inhabitants who used lawnmowers on their lawns, or hired people to use them. “Lawnmowers kill snakes,” Phonse muttered to the ferry captain one day. “I love snakes, ’cause they’re natural and they’re good for the environment. There oughta be a law.” Against killing snakes, he meant.

  Right off to the side of Phonse’s litter of cars was Oickle’s Pond, which had ended up somehow, through an ancestral convolution of gambling negotiations and a bad year of herring fishing, in the Doucette family. Oickle’s Pond. Could swim in it once, he remembered, but old transmissions kept finding their way to Oickle’s Pond, rusty gas tanks and oil pans, the odd driver’s seat from an old Mustang with springs popping through it like so many toy snakes from a Chinese store.

  People other than Phonse found Oickle’s Pond suitable for depositing old stove oil tanks and oil barrels, other kinds of barrels with warnings about toxic substances all rubbed off or camouflaged with rust. People used to swim there once. Phonse remembered that Sylvie did when she was younger. Phonse talked about cleaning it up, swore that people sneaked in and threw things in there. Well, that was partly true, but Phonse had probably started the problem himself. Back before anybody thought anything about tossing garbage wherever
it looked like it would fit. Phonse was always amiable, trying to please. Back then, if one of those big American warships had pulled up in the deep channel out front of the island, if the captain had come off the ship and knocked on Phonse’s door and said,“Excuse me, but we happen to have several containers of nuclear waste, uranium, plutonium, and methalonium aboard and we were wondering if you could take it off our hands,” Phonse would have considered it. Or what’s a junkyard for? Sure. Hell. Oickle’s Pond would do the trick. “Dump ’er in there, buddy. Just back up your boat to the government wharf and I’ll bring down the truck for ya.”

  Since then, of course, Phonse and his recycling yard had gone green. Someday Oickle’s Pond would return to its natural state, but it would take scuba divers and cranes and some sort of newfangled toxic sludge incineration plant like the one that never worked right on the Sydney Tar Ponds. Government money, big wads of it, would have to be involved. Phonse would have to wait for that.

  Phonse was Acadian by blood. His people had been escorted out of Grand Pré by the Brits and tossed ashore in various American locations. The Doucettes had ended up in Virginia and were not wanted by the snobbish English living there. The Virginia House of Assembly had been generous enough to provide a ship and a few crusts of bread to send them back to Nova Scotia. So Phonse’s people were set back down along the shore near Lunenburg. Not much to work with, but after a couple of generations they got their pride back intact and handed it down like a cherished heirloom from father to son until Phonse received the gift. Phonse was proud, resourceful, cussed at times, but a guy who, if dropped from a twenty-foot ladder head down while trying to paint the side of his big pink and blue house, would always land on the balls of his feet and be back up the ladder again with a fresh can of paint in no time flat.

  “My people knew how to care for this land,” Phonse assert-ed.“The English knew nothing. If we didn’t feed them way back when, they all would have starved.” Way back when was a muddle of history, mostly bad news for the worthy Acadians. Way back when it took two generations for an Acadian family to build a dyke, say near the Cornwallis River, and create beautiful, fertile croplands and pastures. Two generations and it didn’t seem a problem.“They were this close to the land back then.” Phonse pinched his finger and proved the point.“Soil in their blood. An Acadian could grow anything anywhere. Set a cabbage seed on top of a rock out there at Nubby Point and make it grow into a big, beautiful thing that’d make five of us a good dinner. Piece of salt pork and that cabbage grown on a rock and we’d be full up, belching and farting like a big happy family.”