by Lisa Moore
The talk in the kitchen faltered. It dipped to a near whisper while John answered the door.
And then, there he was. He walked into a crowded silent kitchen and saw Claire with a cracker and a cube of cheese raised to her mouth, the other hand cupped to catch crumbs. Claire lowered the cracker. How pink that dress is, Helen thought. It had taken a month and a half to do the beadwork. They were all waiting for him to say how beautiful, but he was taking Claire in, and the crowded kitchen and the cracker with the cube of very orange cheese and the silence.
You look beautiful, he blurted, and everybody laughed, and Mrs. Conway imitated her gout walk—across the kitchen floor, slopping champagne—and Helen told everyone to serve themselves.
This is ready, she said.
… . .
John’s Survival Training, 1992
LIKE ALL THE other men working on the rigs, John had to get into the simulator. He was wearing the survival suit. He had to strap himself in. There was a small staircase that rose to the shell of a helicopter with chairs strapped to the floor. You punched out a window. You pulled the ribbon and pushed gently with both hands so the helicopter window floated away. That was the idea. You pushed gently or you kicked the shit out of the window.
He broke into a drenching sweat. The survival suit was too warm, the rubber boots too heavy. It was a big suit, with ventilation zippers, but John had zipped everything up. He’d Velcro’ed the polypropylene cuffs. The suit stuck to his calves and his back; it rubbed against his neck. He strapped himself into the helicopter seat.
The instructor’s name was Marvin Healey. Marvin tucked his index finger under the safety belt and lifted it away from John’s stomach and let it slap back against him. Then he patted John on the shoulder.
You’re all strapped in there, Marvin said.
He glanced down at John and must have seen the lines of sweat on his brow and temple. John knew what would follow: they would sink the capsule and water would flood through all the seams, rising in the plastic bubble to cover his feet and legs and groin and chest and neck, and then they would tip it over so John would be upside down, and his face and neck and the rest of him would go all the way under.
It was that covering of the face with how many cubic tons of terror that got him. It closed in on you and pressed and was cloying, and it would be only a number of seconds before it sucked away your life. You had to trust the others to get you out. He had lost consciousness the last time.
Passing out was easy, passing back in was difficult. Passing back in required intuition and faith. Faith cannot be willed. Shame and failure and vomiting were all part of passing back in. You awoke to all that was wrong with you. You were left inside out, all your most private parts showing.
The instructor had introduced himself as Mr. Healey and he had called each man by his last name followed by the first. O’Mara, John. As if he were reading from the clipboard.
Mr. Healey said: I’m looking for a volunteer. O’Mara, John did not volunteer to go first.
Mr. Healey gave a lecture about safety and how it would change your life in ways not necessarily obvious at first, but eventually—Mr. Healey promised—there would be an occasion, such occasions fell into each modern life at least once without warning or fanfare, and then these safety skills would most definitely be required. The men would be grateful, Mr. Healey predicted.
The ordinary survival suit is a man’s best friend on the water, Mr. Healey said. It’s that simple.
As Mr. Healey lectured, John remembered a nun from elementary school talking about a boy who had died near the water fountain when they were in grade three. John had been standing behind Jimmy Fagan, waiting for his turn at the fountain. Suddenly the boy had held the side of his head and staggered to the staircase and clung to the banister as if they were in a rough sea. John remembered the little spigot, the water that bubbled up when you twisted the handle, and the boy, Jimmy Fagan, with his mouth buried in that wet silver arc.
A simple soul, the nun had said. John remembered that. It was what they were to strive towards: simplicity. As far as he had understood it, simplicity entailed a kind of forgetting. Forget that you matter. Or that anything matters.
The surface of the pool behind Mr. Healey was glaring with ceiling light, weaving and unweaving.
They were to strive towards a forgetting equal to the glacial scraping John had learned about in geography that year. A gouging out of anything that was not simple.
Somebody has to go first, Mr. Healey said. He rose twice on the balls of his feet. He was wearing white sneakers and they were unpleasantly feminine. Marvin Healey worked out and the muscles in his chest were like those of a comic-book avenger, and he had a tan, and his hair was incandescent silver. It was an easy shade of grey to associate with wisdom.
Can I have a volunteer, Mr. Healey asked. Only two of the ten men in the class could swim. These men did not volunteer. They were mute.
O’Mara, John: Marvin Healey said. He was looking down over the names on his clipboard. Mr. Healey had divulged personal information about himself now and then during the classes, sometimes by way of instructive anecdote—he had told the men, for example, about his phobia of birds. One day he’d come out of a gas station in Bay Roberts to find a seagull sitting on the front seat of his convertible. He had gone next door to Mary Brown’s and bought a jumbo box of fries to convince the gull to leave the car. He’d called to it and clucked his tongue and stood in the sun, bareheaded, for close to a half-hour, begging the seagull, whispering and praying and tossing fries, and the bird had watched him, thoroughly unmoved. Then Mr. Healey had felt something brush against his pant leg and had looked down to see there were perhaps fifty seagulls at his feet, pressing closer and closer. The lesson, he had told the class, was not to panic.
Mr. Healey gave a little wave to someone in the office and the capsule sank into the pool.
Water has a single imperative. Every drop is hurling itself towards itself always. All water wants is to eat out its own stomach. It flushes through itself and becomes heavier and faster and it plows on, even while remaining still.
There were divers on the floor of the pool, dressed in black rubber, and when viewed from the surface their bodies warbled thin as burnt matchsticks and then ballooned squat and wide.
No man would ever survive the North Atlantic for more than five minutes without a survival suit that fit properly, even if he could swim. And the chances of surviving a helicopter crash, even with the suit, were next to nothing. Every man knew that. They all knew. But each man ever to set foot on an oil rig had to kick his way out of a simulated helicopter crash if he wanted to keep his job.
John and his plastic capsule were dropped into the pool. The water rushed in faster than anything had ever rushed anywhere. It was a property of water—it could move faster than you’d think. It moved all at once. Water came in and John’s head was under and he kicked the door.
He remembered to release the straps, which was better than the last time he’d tried, and then he passed out. Which only meant he would have to do it again.
… . .
A Storm, 1980
SOMETIMES HELEN REMEMBERS how that dog went missing a half-hour before the storm started. The rain fell in straight sheets, without a breath of wind. There were hundreds of thousands of separate sheets, one behind the other, and together they made a translucent wall. The trees at the corner of the lawn warped and wobbled behind the wall of water as if they were in gelatin. The shed was wonky. The rain danced off the flagstones. It struck the stones so hard it might have caused sparks. The water in the dog’s bowl spilled over. It was getting dark and the dog hated the rain. One of the kids had forgotten to shut the back door.
Cal put on rubber boots and an oilskin he had hanging in the back porch, and he took the flashlight. The pale circle cast by the flashlight jiggled all over the grass. He got in the truck and started the engine. Sometimes the sound of the engine was enough to make the dog come. The headlights ca
me on and the rain in the headlights fell very fast and straight like sewing needles.
Helen couldn’t leave the house because the children were asleep. There was lightning and it lit up the bedroom with a stark light that seemed blue-tinged or too white. She went to the window to watch, and the lightning showed the rain outside and it leached the green lawn of colour so that it looked grey and it made the side of the white church, far away on the hill, flash. The ocean went grey and the wild foam on the waves was ultraviolet. It was a spank of unnatural light that lasted too long, and then it fluttered and sucked itself back off the land and the ocean, and everything was darker than before. The thunder rolled a long way. It seemed to roll all the way from Bell Island, across the ocean. It came right up to the lawn. It rolled onto the lawn and boomed there just outside the window. It made the window panes rattle in the old, half-rotted mullions. This was the house they had bought around the bay, and they came out in summer when Cal was off the rig.
Helen had fallen asleep without ever having decided to lie down, and she woke when Cal came back. He leaned against the door frame and wept.
All I can think, he said. He must be trapped or he can’t come home. He doesn’t like the rain. Helen went to hold Cal but he shook her off.
I’m soaking wet, he said.
They’d fought about the dog. They’d fought about it sleeping on the bed. Cal left forks with wet dog food in the sink and the smell made her gag. He let the dog kiss his face. He fed the dog from the table. Cal held a chunk of barbecued steak in the air above the dog’s head and the dog looked up at it and remained very still.
Watch this, watch, Cal said. Don’t move, he said softly.
The dog stayed still and then there was a sound that was high-pitched and came from the dog’s throat, and the dog lifted one paw and put it down and lifted the other and put it down.
Don’t, said Cal. And the dog went still again. Helen could not stand any of this. And then the meat dropped, and the dog’s jaw snapped and ripped the meat out of the air and there would be two more wet snaps of the jaw and the meat was gone. This whole show delighted Cal so much he’d push his chair from the table and slap his thighs and the dog would jump up and put his head over Cal’s neck and they’d both growl at each other, and Helen would say, Not at the table.
Cal peeled off his wet clothes and he got in bed beside her and his legs were freezing, and his feet. Then he threw the blankets back off with a ripping sound and he was gone again, and Helen heard the back door and the truck and Cal driving off.
He came back at dawn and Helen dressed and went outside to look for the dog herself. She walked for an hour. Her clothes were soaked as soon as she went out. Her jeans stuck to her thighs and calves.
The river was swollen and churning brown, and there were broken trees, and the splintered wood looked very yellow in the dark. The river was rushing faster than she had ever seen, and it had pressed itself out over the banks and it was smooth and thick over the boulder the kids usually jumped off, and it was dangerous. She stopped to smell a wild rose, the petals covered with big drops of rain, and it smelled like cinnamon and a dusky sweetness that was particular to wild roses.
The dog must be dead, she thought. It was crazy how much Cal loved the dog. People said it was a Nova Scotia duck toller, but it was a mutt. Reddish brown with a curling tail, and after several summers they saw a lot of dogs with that tail in their neighbourhood. It was a small pretty dog, but it tore the arm off her when Helen tried to walk with it on a leash. Busting with energy. When it wanted to get out in the backyard the dog barked at the door and leapt up and down, yapping.
When Helen came back to the house the lawn was covered in water and only the very tips of each blade of grass stippled the glassy surface, and the rain had almost stopped. It was still falling, but it fell silently, and there was sun and the clouds and the blue sky reflected in the glassy surface over the lawn. The smell of the wood-stove smoke was very strong. Everything smelled fresh. The kids were up and Cal was cooking scrambled eggs and he didn’t turn around when she came in.
I know he must be dead, Cal said. But I can’t imagine it.
We’ll all get in the car, Helen said.
If he wasn’t dead he would be back by now. Cal put the eggs on small plastic saucers with Big Bird on each. He had a plate with the toast in the oven and he took it out, forgetting it was hot, and dropped the plate on top of the stove and flicked his hand hard, holding it at the wrist.
Fucking plate, he said.
He served the eggs and gave everybody toast, and he poured the children juice, and there was coffee and he poured two cups.
Everybody in the truck, Helen said.
Let them eat, Cal said.
Everybody in the truck, she said. The children all got in and Helen climbed up and pulled the door closed and rolled down the window. All of the land was steaming now.
Seat belts, she said. The sun had come out hotter now, and ragged bits of steam drifted over the highway, and there was a lowlying bank of fog drifting across the bay. They all called to the dog along the highway. Cal drove slowly, and then Cathy screamed.
There he is, Cathy screamed.
At first the dog didn’t move and it looked like he was dead for sure, but then he lifted his head and Cal pulled over. They ran down the steep bank, and the dog was hurt. He was lying in a puddle of water, and the cold, and his fur was soaked, and he looked like he might die even though they’d found him. His fur had been scraped off his hind leg to the bone, which was yellow-white, and he was shivering violently and hardly able to move, and Cal picked him up and spoke to him.
Cal said, It’s okay, we’re not going to let you die.
Cal drove them all to the vet, and they drove back home at the end of the day. It had taken a long time to get to the vet in Carbonear and so they left the dog overnight. His back leg was broken but there were no internal injuries and it was going to cost them two hundred dollars.
When they got back to the house it was dark, and Cal turned on the light. He had Lulu asleep in his arms. He and Helen got the children settled. Then the two of them went back downstairs, and the scrambled eggs were still sitting on the yellow Big Bird plates and there was the untouched orange juice in three small glasses. They both stood looking at the table. The overhead light bulb was bare.
The eggs and the Big Bird plates and the juice and the smell that comes after a rain—Helen remembers how all of these things made her think for a moment that she was walking in on a scene in a museum, a tableau from a lost life: Outport Newfoundland, circa 1980.
… . .
John’s Girlfriend, 2005
JOHN HAD HAD two of the sort of relationships he would call serious. The question of children had come up with both of the women. They had each fallen in love with him not quite believing he couldn’t be convinced or tricked into fatherhood.
Both times the end had come down to a cauterizing discussion. The end with Sophie took place in her basement apartment; they had just painted the kitchen pale green and the paint was scented. Forever after, the smell of mint reminded him of the late hour, the stark walls, and how Sophie had slid down one of them, leaving a streak in the wet paint. She sat on the floor, her shoulders hunched, elbows together between her knees, her wrists loose so that her hands were hanging limp near her face.
She was shaking with hard sobs but there was very little noise. John tried to pat her, or smooth her hair, but she slapped his hand away. She looked up, her face slicked with tears and snot, pink with ferocity.
You will be alone, she said. A lonely eccentric old man with no one to change your colostomy bag, you won’t even have a cat, or you’ll have thirty cats shitting on the kitchen floor. You’ll stink of loneliness.
He left the apartment without another word. It had got dark outside Sophie’s apartment while they’d been painting. The heavens had opened up. The rain was lashing the sidewalks and bouncing back up under the street lights. It ran in little streams nea
r the curb, piling against a pop can and hurtling on, dragging brown leaves. It glassed over the street in overlapping sheets that flared with the reflection of passing headlights. John’s socks were soaked inside his shoes. What he didn’t feel was regret or sadness. He felt exhilarated.
He had loved Sophie; or he had enjoyed her cooking and the dope she grew in her bedroom closet. A big closet with grow lights. The dense green stink and tickling leaves when you stepped inside. The bushes were almost as tall as she was and half a joint could knock you silly. She had a way of rubbing the leaves and then bringing her fingers to her nose to smell them that he found erotic. There were things she claimed she could tell by smelling the leaves. She spoke as if the plants had an inner life and he didn’t question her because he was afraid of what she might say. Sophie knew an esoteric vocabulary of wattage and seed and water and she tended those plants with a feeling that verged on respect.
She sold her weed for reasonable prices; that was important to her. She liked the social aspect of meeting with her customers. She liked the secret lazy hours she’d spend with unemployed people or university professors or retired lawyers. They talked about politics and ways to change the world.
John had admired the way she set a table: chunky and tarnished candelabra, a hand-woven Mexican tablecloth with a stripe of outrageous pink down the middle. She went in for novelty drinks and the sort of gamey meat that was full of tiny bones and that she covered in pastry. Or she went vegetarian for weeks. Sometimes the entire surface of her kitchen table had been covered with drying chanterelles. She frequented poky health-food stores and bought grains and spices John had never heard of, and she spoke about putting together a barbershop quartet. If she had a gift, it was for harmonizing. She was smarter than John and had a way of narrowing her eyes while she waited for him to catch up.