He’d just lit the oil globe hanging over the table and the room was bathed in humming amber warmth. Summer moths, not knowing what in tarnation was going on with this kind of weather, flew too close to the hot lamp, then flopped groggily around the sugar bowl. Oak didn’t seem to notice Elva slipping into the chair beside him. A bee was crawling across the oilcloth, too cold to fly. Elva flicked at it with her forefinger just as the dainty screw in Oak’s hand slipped its mark.
“Oh, for the love of Christ!”
Oak threw it. The pocket watch bounced off the table, shattered, a fragment hitting Elva over the eye. He groaned and went outside.
“Can’t be fixed,” he said.
He wasn’t really talking to her but searching the night-darkened surf restless and angry somewhere nearby. Elva covered in her patchwork quilt had joined him by the pile of charred wood.
“You’ve fixed all kinds of things.”
“I went to see Gil this afternoon. He told me not to come by any more.”
Oak absentmindedly started on the path towards the Barthélemy farm.
“Why?”
“We fought. About her.”
“Jane?”
“Dom took a job on a fishing boat, out of Musquodoboit Harbour. Gone for three months, maybe longer. Says he needed the money to marry Jane, take her away from here.”
Oh!
“It was kinda last minute and Dom didn’t have a chance to see Jane and tell her. He asked Gil to.”
“How come Jane doesn’t know?”
“Because Gil won’t tell her!”
“Why not?”
He touched her forehead. “You’re bleeding. I’m sorry, Elva. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
She’d stolen all his secrets, and forgot that she shouldn’t know. “You love him.”
Elva could only imagine the terror on a face by night she could not see. Oak looked around, cleared his throat.
“I can’t.”
“But you do,” she persisted.
“What I do is hurt!” He groaned again, holding his stomach. “Just hurt. All the time. Hurt! Does that … disgust you?”
She shook her head.
He studied her. “Why not?”
Elva couldn’t say. Like it was natural in her, knowing that for some, it was the way of things.
“And you think Gil loves Jane and not you.”
“What?” he asked, unsure if there wasn’t a hundred years of wisdom hiding in that little deformed body. “He thinks he loves her. It’s not that he doesn’t care for me, he doesn’t want to care. He fights caring. I know he’s out there right now, just as I’m here with you, fighting against it … fighting against me. Love Jane? Not a chance! Jane’s what’s expected. Jane is easier. Gil wants escape, to be Dom and have everything that belongs to Dom. Being Dom means not being Gil, undoing things, not being …”
Gil was thirteen when Oak met him; the Meghan Rose had sunk a few months before. Filthy, hungry, he was still the most beautiful boy Oak’d ever seen on the streets of Halifax. He knew nothing about big-city ways, been begging around the waterfront for work and had been eating out of the garbage bins behind a diner. At night, he slept under the table-like tombstones in St. Paul’s Cemetery across from the lieutenant governor’s mansion, but with fall coming and the stevedores saying early ice meant a hard winter, Gil was worried about what to do.
Oak kept an eye out for boys like him, cajoled them with offers of a warm place to stay, something to eat, befriended them; he did those things for a man named Bryant Slaunwhite. Oak himself had been recruited, at an even younger age than Gil. All you have to do is close doors in your head to places you don’t want to go, he’d tell Gil later, advice Gil could never follow. Oak had been one of Bryant’s best boys, but the man’s customers were a hard-drinking, hard-wearing lot and there was always a demand for younger, fresh talent.
Oak took Gil to Bryant’s place, the Seadog Tavern on Barrington Street, down towards the docks. Very popular with the navy lads. You won’t mind it one bit, he said. At least it’s warm and there’s a square meal in it for you. For all the advance billing Oak gave it, the Seadog Tavern was a cellar where high tide often left two inches of fish-reeking water on the floor.
As Oak knew he would be, Bryant was taken with the good-looking country boy, fixed him up with a job flogging gin because he figured he’d hold his own. But Gil didn’t take to it, told Oak that the Seadog Tavern wasn’t regular, all those innuendoes and leering glances from men—it wasn’t right.
Gil bolted the first time the place got raided. Oak knew where to find him, it not being hard as Gil had nowhere to go. Raids like that happen all the time, Oak said. Nothing to worry about. Bryant pays the cops to leave him be. It was just the way men like Bryant had to do business down in the docks. And pay no mind to what the regulars say. They’re just in their cups funnin’ ya when they talk about wantin’ to suck your dick. C’mon. Come back.
And for once, Oak wasn’t pretending to be a friend to the new kid around. He liked Gil, and their friendship from the get-go was genuine.
“Hey, thanks,” Gil said when Oak gave him the watch.
Oak had found the broken timepiece in the bar. Said he had a knack for fixing them.
“My father had one like this. Like his dad’s. But he lost it when …”
Oak said he should get over the sinking.
“How can I? It was up to me to be watching the weather. Not drinking coffee and sleeping.”
Oak said that coffee kept him awake.
“It’s my fault, Oak! After that mast went down, they had to cut my old man’s legs off when they took him off the wreck. You don’t know what that was like for him.”
“I’ve seen worse.” But Oak didn’t say how.
“Don’t think poorly of me for it, do you?”
“No.”
“Guess I’m lucky. And thankful for what Mr. Slaunwhite’s done for me. I’ll make a few bucks and then I’m out of here.”
“Gil, be careful.”
“Of what?”
“Bryant. He’s, well, he’s into a lot of things. He’s not the sort of man you want to cross.”
“If you mean he’s a bootlegger, I figured that out.”
“Then you’ll understand he never takes no for an answer.”
Bryant had been very persuasive in making sure Oak understood that Gil owed, and was owned by, Bryant.
“There’s money in it, Gil. Lots of money,” Oak said. “More than you’ve ever had. Just one or two blokes a night. Set yourself up in no time, then get away from here and no one ever knows.”
“You’re fucking crazy!”
“Just close your eyes and don’t think about it. It’s over before you know it. A few months’ work and you can do whatever you want.”
But truth was, Bryant would never let Gil go, and Oak knew that.
Gil knew all about pork-bellied shopkeepers slobbering into their brew before slobbering over you. They had it in Demerett Bridge, but it was the lot of women, and women thought most unkindly of. Women like Elva’s mother. Stained women. Once they were stained, there was no going back, never getting it out. And a man to act that way? Just what would that make him? No way! No how.
Away from the regular clientele, in a small brick-lined room upstairs, Bryant and a couple of his best boys pushed Gil up against the wall and Bryant raped him. He called it a love tap, saying there’d be a lot more after him, but he’d make sure Gil remembered his first. And this: for each time he said no to Bryant, he’d lose a finger. After that, Gil could pick which body part came off next.
The only thing Gil ever said to Oak about it was that while Bryant did him, he watched a roach hiding in the mortar between the bricks, twitching its antennae, staring up at him as if to say, And you think I’m nothing. For a long time after that, Gil hated Oak for drawing him into this world.
Gil stopped talking about running. There’d been boys who’d run b
efore. They’d find parts of them in the harbour. Bryant had no choice about that. His rent boys knew too much about smuggling gin and cocaine and which customs officials were getting the payoff. And of course there were the customers, who’d just as easily have sliced the giblets out of Bryant as his boys to keep the white marble stoops of their domestic reputations unsullied. So who cared a goddamned about dead nancies who let their arses out by the quarter hour? Didn’t even make the papers unless some politico was making hay by cleaning up street vermin.
But Oak knew that Gil was thinking about it just the same. In fact, there was precious little Gil said even though he and Oak were locked up together after each night for the next five years. The hatred eventually gave way, eroded mostly by Oak’s feelings for Gil. Oak was never fooled as to how Gil came around. Close quarters, shared sympathies after a licking from Bryant, reading together on cold winter nights. Take your pick. But not love. Not at first. More like a yielding that meant more to one, nothing to the other. Oak wondered how men could come round night after night and find pleasure in an act when one of the players was absent in every way that mattered. And he wished Gil would come back. They shared a bed but it was like Gil was not even there. Instead, there was a face creased with self-loathing and contempt, a mind feverishly planning, always waiting for an opportunity.
It came during the distraction of loading a schooner. It was to be the largest cargo of spirits Bryant had ever planned to run past the customs blockade outside Boston. He had the bottles of gin and rum packed in crates marked as Bibles.
Oak was with the first crew back from loading the ship. One of Bryant’s boys was sitting on the tavern steps. Sniffling, he pointed inside to where Bryant was, face down behind the bar. A rowing oar mounted for decoration behind the gin bottles had been taken to his face, scattering his teeth about like stars. No need to wonder who’d done it. Gil was gone. Last thing Oak heard before he went AWOL too was that Bryant, who had friends in the Halifax police, had sworn a warrant against Gil.
They stood before the blackness of night, breathing in harmony, shivering. Elva was feeling very grownup.
“Hear that?” Oak said. “It’s gotten real quiet.”
“What about that fella, he okay?”
“Bryant? He’s alive. Probably wished he wasn’t. Bryant was right big on his looks.”
They were standing by the shore at the end of the slate road by Kirchoffer Place. The wind had ceased. Oak swiped a handful of pebbles and cast them one by one into the placid water. Then they were silent for a long while.
“I … I never thanked you. For not saying anything … you know.”
Elva guessed Oak meant about Gruson’s Field.
“My folks were killed in the Halifax explosion. Baby sister too. I was delivering newspapers. Came to under a bathtub. It saved me. I have trouble with loud noises now. I’m okay if I know they’re coming. It’s when I don’t, well … Son of a bitch!”
It was snowing.
AN EERIE SILVER IRIDESCENCE bathed the room as Elva lurched sleepily towards the window, then flinched from the glare. From down the hall, Amos was yelling, What in Christ is going on with the weather? Brilliant white snow covered the black top of the tar ponds, crushed the fields of seagrass, weighed down the pink blossoms on the primrose bushes and clung tenaciously to the drooping green-leaved tree branches. Only something this magical would cause Elva to forget what she had to tell Jane about Dom.
At breakfast, which Jane barely touched and over which Rilla hovered, there was no chance to say, Hey, Jane, Dom wants to marry you and he’s working on a fishing boat to save money and won’t his ma be pissed off with the both of you when she finds out? With that snow out there, who cared if Oak didn’t show for breakfast and Rilla said if you go out, take Elva, it’s safer and don’t go near town.
The morning sun was already working on dispelling whatever cosmic oops had conspired to turn the sixth month into December. Seven village children waving driftwood festooned with frozen kelp whirled in unison on the distant breakwater. Others were singing “Jingle Bells” all the way into making snow angels by the beach. With so many folks about making light of ankle-deep snow while being dressed for summer, Rilla’s concern seemed overdone.
“We’re not supposed to go near town,” Elva said when she realized where Jane was heading.
“I’m not.”
“Why so fast?”
“You’re slow. That’s not my fault.”
A distant dog was barking the untie-me-please bark.
“You’re going to the Abbey!”
Jane said she wasn’t.
A lie, and Elva didn’t have to wait until they got to the lake to know that. The ruins, usually with exploding colours and wrapped under the weighty boughs of emerald foliage, appeared to float disembodied through frothy clouds. The island was releasing itself from its earthly confines, slowly returning to heaven.
“Rilla said—”
“Shut it, Elva, will ya!”
She could have responded that she knew what was up with Jane. Something to do with that letter, Elva figured. Maybe Jane hoped to meet Dom again, but he’s not here.
“Jane, I have to tell you—”
“Can’t you shut up even for a minute? I’m going over there and you’re staying here.”
“Rilla said to stay together.”
Jane only got angrier when Elva sulked; she hated to be reminded that Elva had feelings.
“Fine! What did you want to say?”
But Elva did have feelings and they’d been hurt. To hell with telling Jane about Dom, then. Easily enough remedied. Jane pushed her into the snow and slipped barefoot into the water.
Elva waited until her sister had disappeared into the trees on the other side, then she followed. The water was stinging, but Jane be damned, Elva wasn’t going to miss seeing the Abbey like this and so what if she spied on Jane again. Serves that Jane right.
Ipswich Abbey was a remarkable place at any time of year, but ice-crystal-covered grottoes and cloisters, stone paths frozen into mirrors and icicles made Elva almost forget about Jane. As the June air melted the snow, Elva gathered frozen blossoms, made a snow angel that looked like a gnome and ate handfuls of snow until her head ached and she heard their voices.
“Every morning I’ve been here waiting, at the same hour,” he said. “Since I got your note.”
Elva had not realized she was so close to them, separated only by a clotted row of shrubs. She worked her way into the branches, having to dance out the snow that fell down the back of her dress, until she could see Jane smother his face with kisses.
“This was the first morning I could get away,” Jane said. “My mother thinks there won’t be much union trouble ’cause of the snow. She made me bring you-know-who, though. As if that thing would be any help if I got into trouble.”
“Where is she?”
She wrapped her arms about his neck and laid her head against his chest.
“Don’t you worry about Elva. Ditched her way back.”
His large hand reached behind Jane’s head and easily cradled it. He dropped his mouth to hers.
Jane pulled away.
“What?” He held her but she resisted.
“You can’t fool me.”
“Jane, don’t.”
“Gil, let me go!”
Jane clawed. A short scream fanned across the placid waters of the lake.
“Be quiet!” Gil slapped her, then dragged her down into the snow. “Oh Jesus, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t, please don’t!”
He tossed off his shirt.
“Gil, why?”
“I have to … you know I do.”
“Dom’ll kill you for this!”
Gil pressed down on her, covering her, entangling himself in the idea of her to the tearing of fabric and rapid short breaths. Jane turned her face away from Gil’s body and saw under the snow-covered green the brown-strapped shoes, the sagging socks, the twisted face watch
ing her. Elva receded into the shrubs, confused by words that didn’t match actions, the call for help that never came.
He was supposed to be mine, she thought. Mine.
She’d seen that look on Jane before, on someone else.
Jane lay motionless. Was she breathing? Her eyes were open and, thank god, she blinked. Gil wearily struggled into his clothes and stumbled into the trees, stopping once to glance back and throw up. Elva thought he was crying. Jane rolled on her side, clutching her dress, and saw Elva still squatting under the bushes.
Now she reached out a hand. “Get me home.”
It took some doing, Elva being her crutch, stopping only when Jane faltered. They did not speak. It took them a very long time. When they reached the fields skirting the tar ponds, Jane collapsed.
“Say nothing. Ever. Swear!”
Elva couldn’t speak. Why wasn’t Jane angry? Across the road, Rilla got into the truck and pulled out of the laneway. Laundry run.
“Swear!”
Jane believed her sister was beyond jealousy, because Jane could not comprehend that crippled and ugly Elva was capable of feeling anything, least of all the sting of passion.
“Okay,” said Elva.
The last few steps to the house were the hardest for Elva, fading fast under the weight of her sister’s ordeal.
“Get me upstairs,” Jane said on the porch, “and don’t let Amos hear.”
Melting snow was dripping from everything, everywhere. Their clothes were soaked, Jane’s torn.
“Bury them in the garden,” she said after Elva helped her into bed.
Elva did as she was instructed, then crawled in beside her sister to warm her. Then out it came, a torrent of I knew about Dom being away, Oak knew, and I tried to tell you I really did but the snow and the letter to Gil, but he promised, he promised to give it to Dom and Dom on a fishing boat, hiccup, hiccup, and he wants to marry you.
“I’m sorry! It’s my fault!” Elva was sobbing, hardly comprehending her own words.
Jane was not at all angry. Something else. Elva remembered where she’d seen that look on her sister’s face before. Pleasure from pain. Gil and Oak.
Miss Elva Page 10