Where I Belong

by Alan Doyle

  One benefit of going to school in Petty Harbour was that we got to have lunch at home (which we called dinner; what Mainlanders call dinner, we call supper). Mom would usually have sandwiches and soup or, my favourite, potatoes fried in the pan. Once, my brother and I were sprinting home from school for lunch when we noticed Will’s car was gone and assumed he was in town. The crabapples were a perfect bluish pink. They were calling out to us. We had no choice. And with Will away, this would be a walk in the park. We didn’t even bother going home to change out of our gym-time shorts and put on protective gear (meaning jeans and a jean jacket to drape over our heads as we ran away).

  Bernie and I casually jumped the fence.

  “Bern, are we sure there’s no one here?”

  “No car, no dog in the yard. Everything points to an empty house. Gotta jump at these opportunities, Al.”

  It was all too easy. Bernie and I strolled up to the tree and started grabbing apples.

  And that’s when we heard it. “Ye! Ye bastards!”

  We turned, and there was Will on his back step, with his dog behind him barking madly through the screen door. Will’s brother must have driven the car elsewhere and the dog had been inside the house the whole time. Frig. Frig. Frig. In one fluid motion, Will opened the door, never taking his eyes off us, and that rabid Irish setter sprang our way. Bernie and I made for the fence, but we were not going to make it. The hungry dog was just about to take a chunk out of my arse when the clinking of a chain being pulled tight and a whimper from the dog turned us around. Will had forgotten that the dog was on a leash tied to the back step rail.

  As soon as we figured this out, Bernie and I started laughing and teasing the leashed dog from about six inches past where he could reach with his flared teeth. Will was scowling when he turned to go back in the house. We’d won! Victory was ours! All that was left was to claim our prized apples! I turned away from the house to high-five Bernie, but when I looked at his face I saw that he was not laughing. He was pale and his eyes were wide.

  “Run,” he managed to whisper.

  “Why?” I asked.

  And even quieter than before, Bernie said, “He’s getting the gun.”

  I did not need to hear any more. We bolted for the fence. My brother was still in shock and his pause cost him a step or two. And that’s all the head start Will needed. I jumped and cleared the fence, and as I landed I heard a single pop, like a balloon bursting. I turned to see my brother caught halfway over the fence, his arse and bare legs waving on the other side. His face was clenched in a wince and I could tell he was trying hard not to cry.

  “I got you, ye little bastard!” cried Will from the steps. “Get away from my crabapples!”

  My brother used all of his remaining energy to jump clear of the fence. Safe on the other side, he stood next to me, panting.

  A few seconds later, once he’d caught his breath, he yelled out, “You didn’t get me, Will! You’re too blind and old! You couldn’t hit a moose if it was sitting on your lap!” Then Bernie grabbed my arm and we bolted into the bushes and ran till we came to a clearing.

  As we slowed, I heard Bernie fighting back tears. “Eff me,” he said. I looked down and that’s when I saw that the backs of both of his thighs were covered in red welts as if he had been bitten by a hundred giant mosquitoes. Not only that, there were two open wounds on his right thigh where larger bits of salt were lodged deep into his skin. There was no blood per se, but I could see the chunks of sparkling salt melting into the tender gashes in his flesh.

  I leaned forward.

  “Don’t touch them!” he said. “You’ll just drive the salt in farther. I just gotta wait it out.”

  And so, we sat in that clearing for about fifteen minutes as the salt melted and eventually the pain and most of the redness subsided. When Bernie was ready, we wandered home, defeated yet determined to take another crack at the apples the next day.

  But when we waltzed through the door as usual, Mom saw the red marks on my brother’s thighs. “Oh my Lord in heaven! Look at this child’s legs! What happened?” she exclaimed.

  “Nothing. Nothing. Must have walked through some sting nettles or something,” Bernie said, wincing.

  “Yeah, wild old stuff growing over behind the church,” I added. “We’ll stay clear of it next time. What’s for supper?”

  “That’s no sting nettles. Ye were up after poor old Will’s crabapples, weren’t ye? Jaysus Christ, he never turned the gun on ye, did he?!”

  Once she’d heard the full story, Mom called my father in from the shed. He raised an eyebrow and flashed us a look that clearly said, “What did ye two do to get your mother so riled up?” Then he saw the salt welts on Bernie’s legs, sighed and shook his head. “Ye foolish bastards,” he said.

  “Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph, Tom. This harbour is full of goddamned hillbillies. Imagine shooting at little fellas over crabapples. This place is cracked altogether. I think we should phone the police,” Mom decided. “Tom, what do you say?”

  My father shook his head and crossed his arms across his chest. He looked at both of us boys.

  “I’d say ye two fools should have listened to me when I told ye not to be up at Will’s crabapples.”

  Then he turned and went back to the shed.

  Apart from the odd mishap, I was quite content in Petty Harbour as a kid, and quite content at St. Edward’s School, until I hit Grade 7. By that time, I was almost a teenager and wanted to play on a school sports team, which of course we didn’t have. I’d heard that the Protestant kids who went to school in town played in school bands and performed in school plays. This sounded like a dream. I was also really eager to meet new people, particularly girls.

  But more than anything else, I wanted to get away from my teacher, Mr. Gushue. Mr. Gushue had been transferred to St. Edward’s to teach Grade 7 and 8 just as I was to enter that split-grade class. Unlike all the other teachers, Mr. Gushue did not seem to enjoy our town, our school, children or anything about teaching, as far as I could tell.

  Early in September of Grade 7, just weeks after the start of what would be our two-year stint together, I asked Mr. Gushue a question in history class. Mr. Gushue did not know the answer, and for some reason he scolded me for speaking out of turn.

  I was very confused. “Sir, if you don’t know the answer, just say so. I’ll look it up tonight in Granda’s encyclopedia,” I said. For once, I wasn’t even trying to make all the kids laugh, but for some reason they did.

  Mr. Gushue went red. “Being smart, are you?” he shouted. He walked down the aisle and grabbed me by the collar, yanked me out of the classroom and dragged me into the hallway. Once we were outside, he pushed me against the wall. I was scared, as I thought for sure I was about to be yelled at. But Mr. Gushue did not yell. Much worse, he whispered.

  “You listen to me, you little prick. I did not come to this backward arse of a town to get laughed at. You embarrass me like that again and you’ll feel my belt long before you gets to the principal’s office. Got it?”

  I was so terrified I could not speak. I just nodded and fought back tears.

  And so the relationship with Mr. Gushue began. Some days were better than others, but generally I thought Mr. Gushue was a bully who was not very knowledgeable and was desperately afraid of being exposed. Mr. Gushue likely thought I was a know-it-all show-off who sought to humiliate him and win the class’s favour at every opportunity. I’m pretty sure both of us were right.

  By the eighth grade, I was getting increasingly bored in class. I had heard all the lessons for both the Grade 7s and 8s the year before and occupied myself by being the class clown. By this point, I was becoming quite a good entertainer and could sing and play guitar. This made me a really good class clown. I’m sure Mr. Gushue hated this and probably felt I undermined his authority, which I did.

  Late in the school year, at a school outing to an indoor swimming pool in St. John’s, there was a bit of tomfoolery in the boys’ dressin
g room. After swimming, we had all dressed and were chasing each other around before going back to the school bus. Mr. Gushue came through the change room door just as I was darting out. The door bumped into him hard and we both hit the ground. All the boys howled with laughter and pointed at us. I jumped up and said, “Sorry, sir,” but Mr. Gushue was turning red … then redder. He was so angry that I thought he was going to hit me, right then and there.

  This is my Grade 8 graduation photo. Photo-conscious even then, I took off my glasses for the pic.

  He got to his feet and yelled, “Shut up! Now!” The room went silent. He stood in front of me, pushing a finger hard into my chest, hard enough to leave a mark. “You’ve just had your last laugh at me,” he whispered. “Get on the bus and stay after school. Let’s see who laughs when it’s just me and you in the classroom.”

  For the whole ride home on the bus, I tried not to show how scared I was. We made it back to the safety of Petty Harbour, the bus unloaded, and all the kids left to go home. Except for me. Mr. Gushue grabbed me by the sleeve and dragged me into the empty classroom, slamming the door behind him. The whole school was empty. Not even the principal’s car was in the parking lot.

  Mr. Gushue took off his coat as he walked to his desk at the front of the classroom. I walked behind him, about to sit down in front of his desk.

  “Stand up like a man!” Mr. Gushue shouted. “You were acting like a big man earlier.”

  Then he reached into his desk and took out a long wooden ruler. It was the type that teachers used to draw long, straight lines on the board. It was heavy enough to hurt.

  “You think it’s amusing to make fun of me? You think you can knock me down and get away with it? Let’s see who the real man is. Put your hands on the desk.”

  I had seen the principal’s strap before but had never felt it. And I’d certainly never been hit with a ruler. I was so scared at that moment, but what I wanted most was not to cry.

  “Sir, I’m sorry for what happened. I was running for the door. I didn’t know you were—”

  “Bulls—t,” he said. “Put your hands on the desk.”

  I put my hands flat on the desk, palms up. Mr. Gushue laid the hard wooden edge on my palms.

  “Thems your guitar-playing hands, aren’t they? Shame to beat them up.”

  He pushed the ruler between my hands, separating them a few inches. Then, whack! He struck the ruler down as hard and quick as he could. He hadn’t touched me, but the noise startled me and my knees buckled.

  “You sure you’re a man? Thought I saw you blink just then.” Mr. Gushue was grinning. He was enjoying this.

  Whack! Down came the ruler again between my shaking hands. My lips trembled as I fought back tears.

  “You’re not going to cry, are you? Men don’t cry. I’m not crying.”

  Whack! Down came the ruler a third time. I felt one tear escape my left eye. I couldn’t stop it. Even now, so many years later, I can still feel the path of that tear on my cheek and taste its salt as it passed the corner of my mouth and travelled down my neck.

  “What’s this?” Gushue asked with a grin. “Are you crying? Well, that proves it. You’re not a man at all. You’re just a little boy. Go home to your mommy.”

  With that, he put the ruler away and walked to the back of the room and opened the classroom door. He had a wide smile on his face as I approached. At the door, he stopped me.

  “This will be kept between me and you, right?”

  I nodded and ducked under Mr. Gushue’s arm. The moment the school door closed behind me, tears came like a river. I ran around the corner of the school where no one could see and I cried a thousand tears.

  I walked home, a little later than normal, and went right up to my room until suppertime.

  “What’s your problem?” As soon as he caught sight of me, Bernie knew something was wrong. But I would not say what.

  Later, when I came down for supper, Mom asked, “Everything all right, Alan, honey? You’re some quiet.”

  “I’m fine. Just not very hungry.”

  I did not tell anyone about what happened. I doubt Mr. Gushue did either.

  A few weeks later, at the end of the school year, I was graduating. I was so excited to leave St. Edward’s and go on to a new school in the Goulds. There was a ceremony in the basement of the church. At the front of the room stood Mr. Kelly, our principal, the priest and Mr. Gushue. All of us graduates were called up front, where we were handed our diplomas and where we shook hands with the principal and posed for a photo. Then the priest made the sign of the cross over each of us as we passed him. Finally, Mr. Gushue shook hands with every graduate.

  When my turn came to receive my diploma, I walked to the front and smiled for the camera as I shook hands with Mr. Kelly. I walked to the priest and stood, head bowed to receive the sign of the cross. Then I walked right past Mr. Gushue. Nobody noticed.

  After the ceremony, as parents and graduates were milling about, Mr. Gushue came over to me.

  “Not shaking hands today?” he asked.

  I looked him right in the eye and said, “Shame to beat them up.”

  I never spoke to that man again. The following September, I went to Grade 9 in St. Kevin’s High School in the Goulds. There were as many kids in my grade as there were in the entire school in Petty Harbour. Almost none of the girls were my cousins. It was awesome.

  About a year ago, I was at a gym working out when an older gentleman approached me and said hello. He must have recognized me as the Doyle fella from Petty Harbour who sang in Great Big Sea. He was a nice gent and we had a lovely little chat. After a few pleasantries, he asked if I really had grown up and gone to school in Petty Harbour.

  “I did indeed,” I said.

  “Oh. You must have had my brother, Mr. Gushue, for a teacher.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I just nodded.

  The man continued. “My brother was a bit of a hard ticket, but he was good to our mom when she was dying, and he was always really good to all of us. He passed away, you know. Died a hard, slow death with a long and painful illness. Nobody deserves that, do they?” He sighed, wiping his forehead. Then he asked, “So what was my brother like as a teacher?”

  I looked into the sad eyes of Mr. Gushue’s older brother. I paused. “He was great. Smart teacher and really kind to all the kids,” I said.

  And that was all.

  After my workout, I walked to the gym’s change room and paused for a second by the door. I read the sign: Men.

  I pushed the door open, got showered and went home.

  I could taste salt in the corner of my mouth the whole way.

  CHAPTER 9

  A day or so after my birth, I was baptized a Catholic in St. Joseph’s Church in Petty Harbour, Newfoundland, and I suppose some or a lot of Catholic moral programming was installed from that moment. I’m sure I sat in a high chair or crib while Mom and Dad said prayers or the rosary. I’m also sure I was told as a toddler that misbehaving was a sin that resulted in a trip straight to hell and behaving properly would get me on the high road to heaven. But I have no memory of this.

  I do remember noticing that religion dictated many massive things in my tiny town. Apart from literally splitting the town in half, people got up early on their one day of rest. They dressed up more to go to their respective churches and participate in a ceremony than they did at any other time of the week. I’d seen the Protestant ceremonies and the Catholic ones, and to me, even as a five-year-old, they looked really similar. When I was growing up, everyone seemed to take this religious divide as a given. Things in my town were a certain way because they’d always been that way. But I was a curious lad, and I had a lot of questions.

  “Why do all the Protestants go to school in town when we Catholic kids walk to school here in Petty Harbour? Why do we have one small convenience store for the Protestant side and one for the Catholic side instead of one bigger, better one for everybody? Why don’t we all use the same church inst
ead of having two? What exactly is the difference between them and us?”

  I asked all these questions repeatedly throughout my entire young life and I could not find a good answer. I still can’t.

  The first confusing religious tradition that I recall in our house occurred every Friday. Catholics of a certain vintage agree that eating meat on Fridays is a sin, and my family concurred. But here’s the thing. We lived on the edge of the sea. We ate fish a lot. I mean, a real lot. You could walk down the road to the wharf and get a cod caught just a few hours previous. In fact, when Petty Harbour folk ask, “When was the fish caught?” they’re not asking what day—they mean what time. And fish was free for anyone from the harbour. I got tired of it from time to time but mostly all of us kids loved fish. So did my folks. But if it was Friday, we were supposed to act like eating it was something special.

  “Why can’t we eat meat on Fridays, Mom?” I asked.

  St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, Petty Harbour. This is where I served mass and learned to play the difficult guitar chords in folk mass.

  St. George’s Anglican Church. Well-dressed girls I never met but admired from afar went here on Sundays. According to Catholics of my Nan’s generation, this was the house of people unfortunately bound for hell.

  “We sacrifice on Fridays to remember Jesus’s sacrifice for us.”

  “How is eating fish that we eat every day a sacrifice?”

  “Because it is. Now go run up and down the hill.”

  To make the whole situation more confusing, when we had access to certain fresh meat, we had the church’s blessing to eat it on Fridays. When seabirds were in hunting season, for instance, we would eat turrs (seabirds) on Fridays instead of cod. Mom would roast them in the oven and serve them up with a delicious thick, brown gravy. One day, despite my better judgment, I asked why we were allowed to eat turrs on Friday when we weren’t allowed to eat any other fowl on that sacred day. “Mom, aren’t turrs a kind of meat?”