Catching the Light

by Susan Sinnott

  The Saturday after the guys arrived, Hutch’s mom and dad were at a party so the boys all came round and took over the basement. First they were all talking at once, telling him about their new lives, picking out the best bits, the fun things.

  “…and you should have seen her face.”

  “…so he didn’t try that again!”

  Then Jack said, “Let’s see it then—the famous leg.”

  Hutch pulled up his pant leg and showed them his fancy new leg and how he could dance around on it and they all said wow that’s real cool and you’d never think. All evening they were laughing, and drinking the beer they’d brought in mother-proof bags, and watching the game.

  And everything was just like always.

  ***

  As the guys were leaving Hutch cracked another one-liner—he could never remember what, afterwards—and Andy gave him a punch in the shoulder. But he was just taking a step, good leg in the air, and the punch pushed him toward the peg leg side. His hip muscles weren’t quick enough and there were no reflexes to tighten up his ankle muscles—no muscles to tighten—so Hutch couldn’t correct the sideways sway, and started to fall. He put his good foot down but couldn’t get it under his body in time. He caught at the door with his hand but it swung away from him. So down he went.

  There was a huge crash then dead silence.

  Then everyone was saying Jesus and holy shit and everything else and Brian rushed in and they all tried to pull him up, holding onto different pieces of him, and he just wanted to stay still until the pain died down.

  They were all yanking him around so he roared, “Get off me!”

  Another silence.

  That vicious pain was round his hip and all down his leg and Hutch knew he wouldn’t be able to put weight on it yet and he couldn’t get either leg up under him and his back was in a knot and he didn’t know what to do for a minute. Then he remembered his rehab lessons.

  “Pull over that chair, will you?”

  The guys leapt for the chair and Hutch managed to haul himself up and sprawl across it.

  “Thought you were going to pull me up in quarters there,” he said, with the best grin he could manage. “Felt like a side of moose.”

  And they all laughed more than the joke was worth.

  Brian went out again and Jack said, “Shouldn’t’ve had that last beer, buddy.”

  The others stood looking awkward and Hutch said he’d be fine in a minute and next time somebody else could do the floor show. He said he’d be seeing them, and after they said are you sure and will you be okay a few times, they piled out onto the porch. Jack stood for a minute looking back, with that blank face like he was remembering. “Talk to you tomorrow,” he said in a flat voice. And then they were gone.

  Hutch braced against the chair arms and lifted himself round a bit and tried to straighten out. He focused on the wall in front of him to take his mind off himself, but there’s not much to see on a blank wall. It wasn’t even painted: only a base coat to seal the Gyproc. Dad had been too busy finishing the living room extension to start on the room below, so Hutch and Brian and their buddies had taken it over, playing endless floor hockey with duct tape pucks. He could hear the thuds and grunts and loud breathing, the clack of sticks. Hours and hours. And Mom would bring snacks saying she’d rather they were here, playing hockey, than up to no good somewhere else.

  Brian’s face appeared in front of him.

  “Done any damage?”

  “Nope.”

  “Go to bed, b’y. I’ll clear up.” Brian found Hutch’s cane upstairs, helped him up out of the chair, and stood by him until he could propel himself, somehow, across the room. “You’re going to have to get used to that cane.”

  And with pain exploding everywhere, Hutch didn’t have the breath to argue.

  Rear-view Mirror

  Mr. sheppard wanted portraits of Jenny and Eugene, and Cathy spent all summer painting them from photographs. It surprised her that Eugene’s portrait was so much easier to paint, even though she didn’t know him as well. Cathy captured the wide toothy smile so you could almost hear his big laugh. It was finished in no time. But Jenny…. Was it harder to paint beauty? Jenny’s features were so regular and she had no lines on her face and the copper shine in her hair was difficult. The portrait looked wooden. It didn’t help that Cathy had to keep wiping her eyes and got more paint on her own face than on Jenny’s. She kept starting again and wasted a pile of paint before she was even half satisfied.

  In the fall, Dad said Josh Parsons wanted a picture of his grandson, Hutch. Cathy had no photographs of him and the only good sketch she found was from grade four. Parsons had just jumped in a puddle, water spraying everywhere, him with his two feet off the ground and all folded up like he’d just pulled up his landing gear. Dad said she couldn’t possibly paint that—not with the grandson having such fun on two legs.

  He found one in his own collection, with Parsons standing in his Uncle Em’s skiff, his uncle hanging over the engine and somebody else bent down at the other side. Off to do something with fish. Parsons was wearing those yellow coveralls with straps over the shoulders, the front sticking off, all stiff, and definitely rubber boots, although you couldn’t see them. Sarah always freaked when she saw all the rubber stuff, said everything would fill up with water and sink so fast. And none of them wore safety gear.

  Captain Parsons had been moved to Dan Parson’s house after the stroke and when Cathy took over her small painting he was sitting in the window in a scuffed leather arm chair. His own chair, he said, from his old house. He could see the harbour from that window. Mr. Parsons had built out over the hill with another room under it. Dad had helped, said it was a real nice job. Josh Parsons had scoffed at first: what did they need all that for? Looked like a townie house with that basement. But now he liked the big window. No day bed in the kitchen for him. He loved his chair in that window.

  Tears came when he saw the painting and Cathy hated to see him cry. He would never have cried before the stroke. Maybe the muscles round his feelings were paralysed too. She had brought extra-small muffins from her mother—easy to eat with one hand, Mom said. Cathy laid them on the table near his good hand and fled.

  Gearing Down

  Hutch was off his feet for a while after the fall. Then he tried to get out and about again. He walked over to White’s Convenience, took his time and used the cane with an ice pick on the end, but he left it at the door. Mrs. White was stacking cans but she came round the counter with her arms out for a hug, her glasses smudged with something greasy.

  “Great fingerprints for a crime scene,” Hutch said, and she took them off and wiped them on her apron and smiled.

  “None of your sauce.” She called to her husband who was banging around in the storeroom, “Hutch is here.”

  Alvin White blew out his mustache and pumped Hutch’s hand. “Wait now, I’ll bring out that chair. Have it behind the door for when Old Mrs. Tucker gets one of her spells.”

  “No, no. Don’t need…don’t bother.”

  But the chair was placed with ceremony on their tiny bit of floor space, over the stew-coloured linoleum, worn and taped down for safety. Centre stage. Shit.

  He didn’t stay long.

  Later, Hutch went with Brian to check his snares but the snow was deeper in the woods and he couldn’t get through the thick brush, even with crutches. Still, he might manage where there was more of a trail.

  And all through the season there were gatherings at the homes of neighbours and his parents’ friends and relatives from both sides.

  “You’ve lost weight. Have some of this chili.”

  “Will that tin leg rust in the fog?”

  “Same young scallywag. Same grin. Haven’t changed a bit.”

  It was all said with hugs and smiles and Hutch felt comforted—still himself in spite of everything.
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br />   When he squeezed past his uncle and said, “Excuse me,” Uncle Cal said, “Why? What have you done?” And Hutch said, “Not telling,” the way they’d been doing for years.

  Then there was Phyllis Barnes. It was a surprise to see her at a Parsons event but it turned out she was dating Hutch’s cousin Dave. Dave winked at Hutch so it was all good until Phyllis said, “That’s going to cramp your style on a date,” with a nod at his leg. She wasn’t keeping her voice down either.

  Hutch turned his back on her but he could hear her sniggering and Dave telling her to hush. To think he’d had his eye on Phyllis for ages before he took her out. They didn’t go out for long either because her dad had put his foot down. Gave Hutch a tongue-lashing in the middle of Parsons Lane—had all the dogs barking and faces popping up at windows. Chewed him out for leading his daughter on. Ha! If he only knew. Phyllis did all the leading. Hutch had been part delighted, part shocked at how daring she was.

  Now he blanked his face, pushing down a wave of anger and then a wave of worry that other girls might think the same way, and they flooded first one way then the other like water on a tray.

  ***

  Over the Christmas break, Hutch saw his buddies in between family stuff, mostly in a group. But Jack came round alone on his last night, telling Hutch about this girl he’d dated a couple of times from St. George’s Bay, sounding excited, telling Hutch how he’d be seeing her again on Thursday.

  “What’s she like?”

  “Pretty. Nice smile. Short.” He grinned. “Says I give her a crick in the neck.”

  Hutch swung down the steps to the basement three at a time on his good leg with the new handrails, Jack following behind him. They started a half-hearted game of foosball but Jack kept talking about his date so Hutch left off playing and just stood listening instead. Then he started to tell Jack about Phyllis Barnes, said in a sour voice at least Paul wouldn’t have trouble finding someone new, with girls trailing after him all the time.

  Jack stared at him, mouth open, looking mad—horrified and mad. “You really mean that don’t you? You really fuckin’ mean it.” Jack stepped up so close that he started to blur and Hutch had to take a step back to keep him in focus. “Paul doesn’t want someone new,” Jack said. “He wants Jenny. They were together—”

  “Hey, simmer down.”

  “He’s not interested in chasing every girl, like you. He just wants Jenny. She told me she was going to apply for nursing school in Halifax so they could be together and…they had it all planned.” Jack’s face was turning red round his freckles. There was sweat on his forehead so when he pushed his hair back it stuck up at the front, like an orange rooster.

  Hutch took a deep breath. “Dumb thing to say. Wasn’t thinking.”

  He flicked a line of defencemen forward and back, forward and back, then gave it a vicious tweak so the players did a rattling somersault.

  “Phyllis just made me think my injuries and stuff might turn girls off. Got me wondering, that’s all.”

  “Oh, that’s just Phyllis. Real bitch.” Jack rubbed two hands through his hair and made it stick up even more. “She’ll be putting down Dave the minute they’re through. You watch.”

  They went on with their game in a twitchy, have-to-do-something sort of way.

  “Paul’s not like you, you know, starting up a conversation with a total stranger and best buddies in five minutes.” Jack half smiled at him then was serious again. “Jenny could do it, though. It’s like—she got things going and Paul joined in once things were warmed up. Anyway he’s not into groups these days.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “Called me. Month or so after the crash. Round Easter maybe.”

  “Never called me. Never came to visit either.” But Hutch remembered Paul’s face hanging over him, hazy. Maybe he had, once.

  “And you never called him.”

  The buzzer went off on the dryer and his mom’s feet clattered down the stairs. The dryer door clunked then clunked again. Hutch stopped even pretending to play.

  “Paul tell you that?”

  “Paul didn’t call you because he didn’t know what to say. Said ‘hope you’re feeling better’ sounded frigging stupid.”

  “So what’s he say to you?”

  Jack had his back to Hutch now. “Talked about Jenny. Helped a bit. Me anyway. Both of us maybe.” He was hunched over with his hands stuffed in his pockets, walking three paces one way, three paces back. “Can’t talk to anyone home. I just stick to things that need doing: groceries and stuff. Mom….” He took a deep breath. “Mom’s sick. We take turns looking after her. We try thinking up things to talk about but you got to be so careful. The littlest thing sets her off. Wears you out, thinking.”

  God. Mrs. Sheppard had been so full of life. Mom used to say she didn’t know where she got her energy. Always dancing around, singing to herself.

  “Dad keeps himself busy, off in the woods getting logs or cutting them up at the mill. Never had so many piles of two-by-fours. And nobody wants them.” Jack shrugged and stood still for a moment then set off again. “I’ve tried to talk to the others but we never did talk much. It was always Eugene and Jenny….”

  Hutch limped over to the nearest chair, lowered himself down with his arms, and eased out the leg.

  “My brother, Pete, got Dad to let me go to trade school in St. John’s,” Jack said. “Said I needed something to work at and I could stay with them. He’s just started out on his own, Sheppard’s Electrical. His wife does the books. Says I can go in with him when I’ve finished but I think I’ll go to Alberta.”

  The phone rang and his mother’s voice answered, sounding surprised, and the dryer thump, thump, thumped.

  “You’ve lost a lot, Hutch. I know you have. But you haven’t lost a person. You don’t understand.” Jack’s voice was strained and he gave a swipe at his face with the back of his hand as he walked to the door.

  “I’ve tried not to think about Eugene and Jenny on purpose,” said Hutch. “Couldn’t handle it on top of everything else.” He spoke in a hurry, wanting Jack to understand before he left. “But you don’t know how often things remind me of Eugene: guitar riffs or someone saying ‘go on’ in that way he had.”

  “Yeah. Catches you off guard, that stuff. Right in the middle of a conversation sometimes and you forget what you were saying.” Jack zipped up his jacket, pulled up the hood. “Guess you would miss Eugene. You’ve just never said.”

  Jack was turning the handle of the door to the back porch. “Leaving early in the morning so…I’ll see you at Easter.” And as the door closed he said, “Talk to you before that though.”

  And he was gone.

  New Look

  “We’re going into Gander to get your hair cut,” Mom said just before Christmas.

  “But it’s a perfect morning for painting: eight degrees, dry, wind hasn’t got going yet—”

  “It’s a perfect day for the drive into Gander. I’ve already made an appointment.”

  All the way in, Cathy slumped in the passenger seat and glared at the glove compartment. She didn’t join in her mother’s comments, didn’t listen, so Mom talked to the phone-in guys instead: “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” and “Well, I couldn’t agree more.”

  There were three women working in the beauty parlour and the girl who washed hair was Jen Abbott. “You must be Cissy Abbott’s great niece,” Mom said to her, and launched into a load of questions about the Abbott family while Jen shampooed and rinsed and shampooed and rinsed, using enough shampoo to wash a Newfoundland dog. Yes, Jen had finished grade twelve last year and Cathy would have graduated this June past—maybe—if she hadn’t had to repeat grade seven, so Jen was Cathy’s age and already earning her own money.

  Cathy stared at the ceiling all tipped back in a black plastic chair, her head dangling like at the dentist’s, with a big lump s
ticking into her neck. She shuffled down a bit so the lump was in a better place. Aunt Maisie had always cut Cathy’s hair. She cut a lot of the family’s hair and everyone said she had a real talent, although they all ended up looking kind of the same. Except Cathy. You just went over to Aunt Maisie’s with fresh-washed hair and bent forward over the wash basin so she could wet it again before she started cutting. Bending backwards must be a step up in the world.

  Raylene was the main stylist so Cathy sat in Raylene’s chair and saw herself in the mirror under a row of lights that took all the colour out of her face. How grouchy she looked. She sat up straighter and smiled a bit. Raylene studied Cathy’s hair from all sides like she was checking out a painting, lifting up sections here and there, dribbling them through her fingers. Then she beamed at Cathy in the mirror.

  “You have lovely, thick, heavy hair.”

  “Don’t be talking,” said Mom, coming over to stand behind Cathy. “Always hanging over her face. Dead straight. Won’t take a curl no matter what you do. Curling irons, rollers, hairspray…soon as Cathy walks out the door it’s all flat and in her eyes again.”

  “Yes,” said Raylene. “This kind of hair likes to go its own way. It needs shaping more than curling.” Raylene smiled at Mom. “We’ve just got some new magazines you might like. There’s everything from wedding outfits to teen clothes.” Mom had on her now-just-a-minute-young-lady face but Raylene kept going: “…and there’s a pale-blue outfit in one of them that was just made for you.” Mom’s eyebrows went up and her thinking look slid in from the sides like there’d been a change in the wind. “Jen’s Aunt Cissy told me all about your marvellous sewing and rug hooking—bet you could copy that outfit, easy as anything.” Raylene called to Jen, who was sweeping up hair at the other end of the room. “Can you make Betty a cup of tea and make her comfortable? The magazines have got scattered around a bit.” Next thing Jen was asking how much milk.