All is Clam

by Hilary MacLeod

  All is Clam © 2012 by Hilary MacLeod

  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, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

  P.O. Box 22024Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island

  C1A 9J2

  acornpresscanada.com

  Cover illustration by Matt Reid

  Editing by Sherie Hodds

  eBook design by Joseph Muise

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  MacLeod, Hilary

  All is Clam / Hilary MacLeod.

  ISBN 978-1-894838-81-8

  I. Title.

  ebook ISBN 978-1-894838-81-8

  The publisher acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund of the Department of Canadian Heritage and the Canada Council for the Arts Block Grant Program.

  To all the students, in 22 years at Loyalist College, who challenged me, laughed with me and kept me young. Chase your dreams.

  “Si-i-len’ nigh’…ho-ho-l-e-ee nigh’

  All is clam…all is brigh’”

  —“Silent Night,” as sung by Millie Fraser,

  The Shores Hall, Christmas 2012

  Prologue

  A sparkle of light glimmered beside a deep blue coastline, like a diamond set in a sapphire sea. It was a still photo, but the light appeared to move, to radiate.

  The tiny jewel was The Shores in a satellite photo taken of the island from space on a late December night. The newspapers had dubbed the shot “Star in the East.”

  It was that time of year again, and, in The Shores, everything that didn’t have the legs or sense to get away was strung with lights. Thousands and thousands of Christmas lights. More every year. The Shores was just catching up. Electricity hadn’t arrived until the 1960s. When it came, the villagers lost all their traditional restraint.

  One year The Shores was strung with so many lights, it caused a province-wide power failure, plunging the whole island into darkness on Christmas Eve. Except The Shores. The villagers were used to power failures. Those who had generators fired them up and plugged in the lights again. An official limit had since been set on how many they could hang, but they ignored it.

  There were Santas and reindeers and elves. Christmas angels and stars. The holy family – complete with crèche and wise men – on roofs, on front lawns, on mailboxes and well houses, in empty lots and on boats parked on land for the off-season. The Hall, at the centre of the village, blazed with lights on a massive spruce at the front of the building, and Santa and his sleigh and reindeers rode the green steel roof. Some houses dripped lights like falling snow; others had clumps tossed up on their roofs – shining drifts of lights. There was hardly a tree or plant of any kind – lilac, maple, dogwood, anything that had branches, that was without decoration. The Shores glistened in the night, from everywhere within plugging distance of an electrical cord. Extensions snaked around the village, straining every household’s fuse box. Breakers hadn’t reached The Shores yet.

  The villagers’ Christmas spirit had created the twinkling diamond seen from space. From the first of December until the New Year, The Shores lit up the Red Island sky at night – announcing the existence of this tiny village to the universe.

  Apart from Ian Simmons’ place, and he was from away, there was only one house in the village that wasn’t lit up. It had been dark for years. That was about to change. Wild Rose Cottage was about to be lived in – and died in – again.

  Until then, the villagers wished for snow to complete the Christmas portrait.

  They would regret it.

  Chapter One

  The house appeared to be weeping. The tears fell from its eyebrows, the high gables with teardrop gingerbread trim, and dripped onto its eyes – windows clouded and streaked with grime running like mascara over the sills.

  Wild Rose Cottage was massive and ancient, nothing like a cottage, and in the summer, rose bushes grew around it out of control. They had become an eyesore, like the house itself, windows broken, shingles rotting, deserted.

  Except for the rats.

  Rats skittered across the wood floorboards stained with their excrement, competing with mice and ants for crumbs still to be found in the floor cracks.

  And, today, one two-legged rodent.

  Jared MacPherson was tearing away at the walls and floorboards, finding plastic bags of rodent treats that someone had buried there years ago. Whenever he found one, he flung it across the room and the rats scrambled for it, tearing at the plastic, wolfing down the poison.

  Dead or alive, the rats didn’t bother Jared. He had them at home. If one got in his way, he just kicked it aside. It would squeal, run off, and start a stampede of scurrying rodents, melting into a stream, flowing like liquid across the room.

  Jared was looking for something. His job was made easier by the plaster peeling off the walls in big chunks, baring lath made of fish crates. The first owner, a young architect, had constructed his house on the cheap, with leftovers from his wealthy clients and whatever building materials he could scrounge in the village. Even so, when finished, it had been magnificent. That had been more than a hundred years ago.

  Now the floors were littered with the remains of lives lived – broken furniture, clothing, old books, toys, hockey equipment, all chewed and peed on by rats.

  Frustrated at finding nothing, Jared stood up and planted a dirty boot on a plastic place mat. It was the one with the satellite photo of The Shores, lying with the garbage on the floor.

  Hy McAllister was the last in the village to string her Christmas lights. Even Jared had already put his up. That was still causing a stir. He’d never done it before. Maybe because he was usually in Sleepy Hollow, the provincial jail, at Christmastime. Not this year. Busted for dealing cocaine, he’d served almost no extra time for the grow-op he’d been operating from inside.

  The wire had become tangled. Hy hadn’t bothered to straighten the twisted cord before she’d climbed the ladder. She struggled with it, and the ladder jumped off the wall and slammed back onto it again, nearly making her fall. As she steadied herself, she saw a strange entourage coming down the road.

  The circus has come to town, she thought. Leading the parade, at a snail’s pace, was a half-ton pick-up. A young boy or girl with blond hair, head stuck out of the passenger window, was keeping an eye on the uncertain load, covered with a tarp. Hy could see it was filled with household goods – a microwave and a couple of chairs sticking out the back. A dog ran slow circles around the truck. The driver paid no attention, not bothering to alter his speed when the animal darted past the front wheels. Its paws were bloody.

  Behind the truck was a donkey, tied to the bumper. Behind the donkey was a woman, her brown hair streaked with grey and tangled in a scarf wound several times around her neck. She had one hand on the donkey’s rump, guiding it and steadying herself. Her shoulders were slumped, feet dragging, her head down.

  They descended into the “holler,” a dip in the road where there was a sad collection of abandoned or rarely used houses, and Hy turned her attention back to the lights. She reached up and they cascaded down. The ladder rocked and she gripped the gutter. It creaked, and she felt it give. She brought her hand back onto the rocking ladder, shimmied down, and ripped her jeans and gashed her leg. Wincing, she raised her pant leg for a look. A big lump was swelling up, a bruise forming along the scraped and bloody shin.

  The ladder fell and hi
t her on the head.

  Trembling with shock, she hopped inside, stumbling and teeth clenched, to clean and bandage the wound, and make herself a cup of tea.

  There was a message on her phone. That would be Ian. No one else in the village left messages. They felt embarrassed talking to a machine. She’d call back later, because right now she might be tempted to ask him for help, and she didn’t want to do that.

  After she’d finished her tea, she fastened her jacket and clipped on her earmuffs. They disappeared into her thick red curls. The cold air pierced her skin through the ripped jeans when she opened the door.

  There was a man on her ladder, a child holding the lights up to him, the dog now dancing around them. The overstuffed truck was parked in her driveway. The woman and the donkey, no longer attached to the truck, were still walking up the road.

  The man grinned down at her. One front tooth was missing and he was unshaven. An unwashed smell wafted off him. But he had a peculiar attractiveness. Rakish, Hy decided. The child looked like a fairy tale prince, with chin-length golden-blond hair. Great big eyes in a face with the flawless complexion of youth. An open, honest face. Smiling. Hy smiled back, then cast a look at the woman labouring up the road.

  The man caught her expression.

  “Her…don’t worry about her. She could of got on the donkey if she wanted.”

  Hy winced at his grammar, and looked at the animal. The donkey’s ribs were sticking out, its breathing laboured. It didn’t look able to carry itself.

  “Give me that, boy.”

  The man grabbed the lights, secured them, and dropped down off the ladder with the agility of an acrobat. Up, down. Up, down. He kept going until they were all in place.

  Hy was relieved. She wouldn’t have to ask Ian after all.

  She held out a hand to the man.

  “Hy McAllister,” she said.

  He dusted off his hands on the seat of his pants and shook hers.

  “Patrick Fitzpatrick. Fitz.”

  A small hand thrust at hers.

  “James Fitzpatrick. Jamie.”

  “Like father, like son.” The man swiped his son across the back of the head.

  “And this is Freddy.” Jamie grabbed the dog’s collar. It was a black lab. Skinny.

  “Freddy?” Odd name for a dog. “Where’d he get that name?”

  Jamie grinned a wide grin. Toothless, too. His eyeteeth gone, and one just growing in.

  “He’s a she. Frederica. After Dad’s mom.”

  “Both bitches,” Fitz snarled like a dog himself.

  The woman coming up the road with the donkey had passed Jared’s place.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  The man flashed a smile. The missing front tooth, oddly, had a certain charm.

  “Wouldn’t say no.” He and Jamie followed her into the house.

  She poured the tea, filling the boy’s with lots of sugar. Fitz pulled a flask from his jacket pocket, and poured a slug into the tea. It was then that she noticed the chain around his neck, a bicycle chain. He saw her looking at it.

  “Last bike I ever rode.” He plucked it with a finger. “Used to do stunts. Gave that up when I was eighteen for bigger and better things. Had the chain made into a necklace.” He stuck a finger under the chain and yanked it. “I’ll die with it on. They’ll bury me in it.”

  He looked around.

  “Cozy place.” It’s what everybody said. It was tiny and as overstuffed as the truck outside in the driveway. Fitz was standing right in front of the woodstove. Hy sat with Jamie at the harvest table she used for eating and working.

  Fitz pointed at the computer.

  “You a writer?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I edit and write for websites. Content, that’s my company.” Which syllable of the name she stressed depended on how she felt. Today it was the first.

  “Do you now? Maybe you could write a website about us.”

  “That’s not really how it works.”

  “We’ve got quite a story.” He held out his cup for more tea, but didn’t budge from the woodstove, hogging the heat. Hy got up and poured. He splashed more rum into the cup.

  He reminded Hy of Jared. Two of a kind.

  As Hy had guessed, the two would find they had more than a few things in common.

  Causing trouble was just one of them.

  Chapter Two

  Wild Rose Cottage had been the pride of The Shores. It still was, in a way. The villagers basked in its former glory. It was what was called a Victorian cottage, a simple house in a rural setting, simpler than the grand mansions in town, used in the summer to escape the heat. The cottage had eighteen rooms, almost twice as many as any other house in the village. It had six peaked gables, front and back, and a wraparound verandah.

  The main body of the house had never been painted, and the grey cedar shingles that looked charming on smaller buildings looked grim. The trim and gingerbread hadn’t been touched since the turn of the last century. The paint was almost peeled off. The house looked as if it hadn’t been lived in for years, but it had. Just a few rooms on the first floor. The rest had been empty for decades. The foundation was caving in at the back.

  It was through the rotting foundation that Jared MacPherson had entered the house. A tarp had been stretched across the crumbling island sandstone. It would have been easier if he had brought a knife. There was one in his truck, concealed in the woods behind the house, but he had been too lazy to get it. So he had ripped away at the tarp with bare hands, hands red and cracked, stained with nicotine. He held a cigarette in his mouth as he worked. When it came close enough to burn his lips, he spat it on the ground next to several others, and crushed it under his boot.

  Finally, he had been able to rip off a big strip of the tarp, only to find another layer underneath. Probably the best insulated part of the whole dump. He had yanked the new layer free.

  He’d been in there an hour and had found nothing. He stood where he was, big dirty boot on the placemat, thinking, and smoking another cigarette.

  “What is your story?”

  “We’ve just come all the way from Dawson Creek, British Columbia.”

  The kettle was boiling. Hy took it off the stove.

  “Did your wife walk all the way?” She was grateful that he’d put her lights up, but she didn’t like him. Little Jamie was different. He grinned at her, and she smiled back. She was nearly forty. She’d never had kids. She couldn’t imagine it. Except she thought about it sometimes at this time of year.

  Jamie jumped up from the table. “We took a train.” It sounded like “twain,” which made him seem even younger than he appeared – eight, no more than ten.

  “All the way across the country?” Hy popped several bags of tea in the pot and poured the water. Jamie’s head bobbed up and down.

  “Did you have a sleeper?”

  “We had a whole car.” Fists to mouth, giggling at her look of surprise.

  “A boxcar,” said Fitz. “I rented a boxcar. We put everything in it and came across the country.”

  “Including the donkey?”

  “Including the donkey.”

  “And the dog!” Jamie jumped up, his eyes laughing. He liked how people reacted when they heard the story.

  Hy loved animals, but crossing the country in a stuffy, closed boxcar with a donkey and a dog? It must have reeked. It must have been cold. For the man and the boy, an adventure, maybe. For that poor woman struggling up the road…

  “Why the donkey? Why The Shores?”

  “That’s not just any donkey. That’s a guard donkey.”

  “A guard donkey?”

  “For guarding sheep…from wolves.”

  “But there are no wolves on Red Island.”

  “Give it time,” said Fitz, breaking out a pouch of
tobacco and rolling a cigarette.

  “In the meantime, there are coyotes.” He didn’t light the cigarette, just played with it.

  “But you’ve no sheep.”

  “Give it time,” he said again. “I’ll get some, or maybe I’ll just raise guard donkeys.”

  Hy smiled. “You’ll need another one to do that.”

  “Give it – ”

  “…time,” she finished for him.

  “Exactly.” He stuck the rollie in his mouth and chewed on the end. “You’re like the wife – finishing sentences for me.”

  Hy looked out the window at the woman just cresting the long, low hill before the house. Please God, not like his wife.

  He spat bits of tobacco out of his mouth.

  “Not on my floor...”

  “Like I said, just like the wife. S’pose that means I can’t smoke in here neither.”

  She shook her head, lips pursed. Now she wished she’d asked Ian to help her with the lights. Except this was going to be a great story to tell Gus. Hy liked to be the first one with the information on what was going on in the village, and Gus, who couldn’t get around as well as she used to, liked to be the first to receive it.

  Fitz strolled outside, pulling a lighter out of his back pocket and lighting the cigarette when he was just barely through the door. He took a puff and then yelled down the road, “Hell, woman, haul your ass up here.”

  The smoke from his cigarette drifted into the house, chased by the cold air through the open door.

  She was a faded beauty, two or three years older than Hy, and he must be about fifty, like Ian. She was as tall as Hy, long-legged, but where Hy was willowy, the woman’s waist and hips were thick, and the camel coat a bit tight. Her hair colour was as dull as the coat, her complexion grey, her large eyes ringed with red and suffused with sadness. Still, Hy could see she must have been pretty once.

  The woman had tapped on the door, her ungloved hand shaking with the cold, the other barely able to grasp the rope that held the donkey.

  Jamie flew past Hy and launched himself at his mother. She almost fell backwards as he landed against her, arms unable to squeeze her all the way around.