Leaving Home, of the Fields, Lately, and Salt-Water Moon

by David French

  MARY Father enlisted for the same reason yours did. Will McKenzie wasn’t in that position.

  JACOB No, he didn’t need the dollar a day they paid. The same wage as the Canadian privates. More money than he’d ever made in his life, Father. More money than he could make at fishing, especially when he went into collar to a merchant like Will McKenzie. That’s a term I bet Jerome never explained to you, in collar. He’s prob’bly too busy pulling on his oars in the Lake of Dreams to explain the real world.

  MARY I knows what it means, in collar.

  JACOB What?

  MARY It means to sign aboard a fishing schooner. The fishermen go into collar the first of May and come out of collar the end of October when the schooner is moored for the winter.

  JACOB Yes. “The first of May is Collar Day / When you’re shipped you must obey.”

  MARY If your father had been a shareman, Jacob, he would’ve come out of collar as soon as the voyage was over last summer, as soon as he tidied up his traps. No odds if they did come home early.

  JACOB But he wasn’t a shareman, was he? He only shipped out for wages. Which meant that Will McKenzie had him in collar for another two months and could do what he liked with him!

  MARY (beat) All right, but what you’re feeling right now, Jacob, has only to do with that, what Will McKenzie did to your father last summer. There’s no need to take it out on his son.

  JACOB Even Mrs. McKenzie did more for the war effort than her husband. At least she knitted socks for the Women’s Patriotic Association.

  MARY Most of the women did, sure.

  JACOB Yes, and all Will McKenzie could do was wait for a brave man to march home so’s he could whittle him down to size seven years later. The same man who was part of the famous Blue Puttees, same as your own father. The same man who crawled t’rough the trenches at Gallipoli in 1915 in his tropical fit-out, twenty-seven days on the firing line without taking off a stitch or having a wash. The same man who endured the November storm they called the worst in forty years, with two hundred men swept away in the flooded trenches or frozen to death when the rains stopped and the killing frost set in. Rubbing their feet with whale oil and stuffing ’em into sandbags filled with straw . . . He’d sit in the mud at Suvla Plain and try to eat a piece of bread and jam, and the flies that t’ick the bread would be black before he could get it to his mouth — the same flies that bred in the corpses in No Man’s Land . . .

  MARY winces, and turns away.

  . . . He still wakes up in a sweat, Mother says. Rats are crawling over him, the way they done in the trenches in France. Rats bigger than cats snapping at his boots and stepping over his face in the dark, their whiskers tickling his ears . . . But the worst of the dreams always start the same way: with the women in black ploughing the fields, no more than the fling of a stone from that tiny French village, July 1, 1916. The day he faced the German guns and lived, lying wounded in No Man’s Land, with that tin triangle of the 29th Division on his back — a piece of metal cut from a biscuit tin and painted red. He couldn’t move an inch or the tin would glint in the sun and the snipers would pick him off. So he lay there under that blazing sun of July till dark came, pressing his pain into the bloodied earth beneath him. One of the men the Germans called the “White Savages.” And this is the same man, Mary, that was under the t’umb of Jerome’s father last summer and had to do what he was told, the law being the law, Military Medal or no! (He has to turn away to hide the rage that makes him want to smash the moon from the sky.)

  Pause.

  MARY Look, you can’t keep picking away at that, Jacob, or the wound will never heal . . .

  JACOB I don’t expect it to. All I asks, Mary, is that you don’t stand there and defend him to my face. The fact that you’m marrying his son next month is bad enough.

  MARY I can’t help who Jerome’s father is, can I? Any more than he can. Any more than I can help who mine was.

  JACOB Go on with you. Jim Snow was a brave man. The one the stretcher bearers found closest to the German wire that night when they went out to collect the dead.

  MARY Yes, and a lot of good it done, his courage. He left behind two daughters and a wife who can’t look after us. Ten years later she still sets his plate at the table. Still keeps his boots polished. She sits in the rocker now with a look on her face as though she’s forgotten somet’ing . . . Some days she walks out in the road and looks down it, the way she did that day when he left to catch the boat for Clarenville and the train to St. John’s. She saw him turn the bend in the road, she said, and he was gone. Vanished from her life like a stranger . . . I’ve often wondered why she let him go at all. I’d never let a husband of mine go off to war, I guarantee. I would’ve marched into that camp at Pleasantville and dragged him out by the scruff of the neck.

  JACOB I wouldn’t worry too much about Jerome. With his eyesight, he’d never get past the medical exam . . . By the way, where’s he to? Standing in front of the looking-glass in Country Road, polishing his bald spot?

  MARY No, he is not standing in front of the looking-glass. He drove Doctor Babcock to French’s Cove. Betty Tucker’s in labour.

  JACOB He could be quite a spell then, couldn’t he? Last time Betty had twins . . . That would serve him good and right, wouldn’t it? Leaving you here alone, with a moon in the sky and an old sweetheart fresh off the train?

  MARY Yes, one I can’t wait to get rid of.

  JACOB No. One who’d sooner look at a yellow satin dress with you inside it than the blue star of Vega. One with no bald patch on the crown of his head, and him only twenty years old.

  MARY He can’t help that, can he? That runs in the family.

  JACOB You ever watch him on the sly, Jerome? How he yanks out the hairs one by one and bites ’em?

  MARY He does no such t’ing. Besides . . .

  JACOB What? Besides what?

  MARY Besides, Jerome says bald-headed men are more potent. So there.

  JACOB Potent? What’s potent?

  MARY (beat) Well, I didn’t ask him at first. I was afraid he’d t’ink I was ignorant . . .

  JACOB It prob’bly means dull as a turnip and twice as t’ick.

  MARY It don’t mean that at all. I looked it up in that dictionary Mr. Dawe keeps on a stand in the parlour. It means . . . strong.

  JACOB Strong? Yes, I’d like to see Jerome McKenzie go into battle with sixty-six pounds of gear: his haversack, his gas helmet and goggles, a rolled-up ground-sheet . . .

  MARY (cutting in) It don’t mean strong like that, potent. It means . . .

  JACOB It means what?

  MARY Well, it’s more like . . .

  JACOB Like what? Spit it out.

  MARY Well, like . . . like in the Book of Genesis.

  JACOB The Book of Genesis?

  MARY Yes. Do you recall how Lot and his two daughters went up in the mountains after God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah? And how the daughters hatched a plan to get their father drunk and sleep with him?

  JACOB I’m not likely to forget that story. They told us in Sunday school to skip it.

  MARY That first night in the cave, remember, the older daughter lay with Lot, and the second night they got him drunk again, and the younger one crawled in.

  JACOB I remembers. So?

  MARY So the older one had a son and she called him Moab; the younger one had a son called Ben-ammi.

  JACOB Look what’s all this to do with Jerome? Has he been crawling in with his mother?

  MARY Oh, don’t be foolish . . . So according to the Bible, Lot gave each of his daughters a child, and not only a child but a son, and him after bedding down with each only that one time apiece.

  JACOB Imagine.

  MARY And not only that, boy, but he was half-asleep, the poor old soul, and so drunk he didn’t know what he was up to. I t’ink that’s what they means by potent.

  JACOB So Jerome told you he was potent, did he, like Lot in the Book of Genesis? Oh, that’s a good one, that is.

&nbs
p; MARY That’s not what he said, and you knows it. I was just explaining what the word meant.

  JACOB I suppose he couldn’t wait to tell you that, could he? That must’ve preyed on his mind all last summer.

  Slinking around here, his cloth cap on his head, his shoes all shined.

  MARY Why shouldn’t he drop in? Mrs. Dawe and his mother are sisters.

  JACOB Yes, and him with a bag of oranges or peppermint candies, and neither of the Dawes with a sweet tooth. Oh, he didn’t fool me for a minute.

  MARY Stop it, Jacob. I don’t want to hear any more. I means it.

  JACOB Looking sheepishly t’rough those spectacles like he had a secret too large to bear. Well, tonight, Mary, the cat is out of the bag. The secret is loose in Coley’s Point at last: JEROME MCKENZIE IS POTENT!

  MARY Oh, hush up, boy! You want him to hear you in French’s Cove?

  JACOB What odds? He’ll just suppose the word is out and puff up his chest like a blowfish. Next he’ll be drawing a stallion on the blackboard and asking his class, “Guess who?”

  MARY I’m not listening to this a second longer! I’m going inside! Goodbye! . . . (as she start up the stairs) And don’t walk off with that telescope, either, or Mr. Dawe will have your head!

  JACOB (bitterly) What cradle will you be using, Mary, once your first child comes? Jerome’s old one? That hardwood cradle his father bought him as a child?

  This stops MARY just as she opens the screen door. She hesitates, standing with her back to JACOB.

  It has a lovely antique finish, don’t it? Last a lifetime, that cradle. You can set it on the porch on a nice day and rock your first child. Sing him a song to the creak of your foot on the rocker . . .

  MARY slams the door, turns, and gives JACOB a reproachful, almost defiant look that makes him turn away.

  . . . Sing him a sea chanty all about the good ship, Trinity, in the summer of ’25. How she sailed out of Bay Roberts harbour in the spring of the year bound for the Labrador and how they struck an east wind and put into Harbour Grace to wait it out. How Captain Abe Wheeler hired a driver to take him back to Bay Roberts, and when he come back two weeks later, the wind was just shifting. All the men, Father included, was in their bunks when the Captain stepped aboard, but he couldn’t say a word to the others: they was sharemen. Father was lying there with his boots out over the bedboard, when he heard Captain Abe say, “So this is what you do behind my back, eh, Esau?” “I wasn’t doing no harm behind your back,” says Father. “We woke up this morning and the day was fair. We done all the work we could.” They went up on deck and had more words. Father was not the sort to take dirt from any man. “Go below,” says Captain Abe, “and get in the bunk!” “And that I wunt,” says Father. “Go below, I said, and get in the bunk!” says Captain Abe. “No,” says Father, “I wunt.” The Captain looked over at old Bob Foote. “Bob,” he says, “go fetch the constable.” Old Bob lowered his eyes and didn’t move. “Do as I say, Bob,” he says. “Take the punt and fetch the constable.” Still Bob wouldn’t move . . . At last Father said, “No odds, Bob, I’ll go below.” And he went down and got in his bunk and stayed there till Captain Abe told him to get up. It was either obey or be clapped in jail for six months! . . .

  MARY (gently) You mustn’t do this to yourself, Jacob. It’s going to eat you up alive . . .

  JACOB What? A lovely sea chanty that every child in Newfoundland should learn by heart? How the Trinity came back early that year with a poor catch, and how the merchant looked around for someone to take it out on and his eyes settled on Esau Mercer, the only one who wasn’t a shareman, the only one who had crossed the Captain that trip. He marched Father up to his house in Country Road, Will McKenzie did, and brought out the hardwood cradle that belonged to Jerome as a child. He sat Father down in the chair on the porch and told him to rock the cradle, and that’s what Father done, day in, day out, from morning till dark, his foot going up and down, up and down on the rocker of that empty cradle, till he was out of collar two months later . . . (He stands in the yard, his face raised, still trembling from the memory of his father’s shame.)

  Slight pause.

  MARY That cradle, Jacob, will never be rocked by my foot, rest assured of that.

  JACOB No?

  MARY No. I won’t allow it in my home, and Jerome knows it.

  JACOB (beat) You’ll be having your own home, will you? You must want it some bad.

  MARY Yes, and in a month’s time I’ll have it. No more carrying the breakfast tray to someone else’s bedroom. Shining someone else’s silver. Polishing another’s floor like a looking-glass. I’ve been in service since I went with that old Mrs. Jessup in St. John’s. The one who locked me in the closet for taking a piece of butter. Well, once I steps in my own home, I won’t be locked up or locked out. I won’t be browbeaten or chastised, or ordered here, ordered there. And any breakfast tray I carries will be for my own husband or children, and any silver I shines will be from my own service, and any floor that I can see my face in will show only my face looking up and no one else’s chin over my shoulder. My children will not be taken from school before the year’s out and sent to the Labrador so’s they never can get an education. They’ll go to Bishop’s Field College in St. John’s, the same as Jerome, and they won’t go near the sea, not even to get their socks wet, not even in the Lake of Dreams! So goodbye! (She exits into the house and slams the door.)

  Slight pause.

  JACOB (to himself) By the Christ, Jacob, that’s some wonderful girl . . . (He removes his coat and sets it on the railing. Smoothing down his hair, he walks to the door and knocks.) Mary! (then) Mary Snow from Hickman’s Harbour! Come out, Mary, and look at the moon! There’s never been a night like this before, and there’ll never be another! (then, taking a new tack) Say, Mary, did you hear about the time the King paid a visit to St. John’s? They decided to introduce him to the oldest person in Newfoundland, which was Miss Snook from Heart’s Delight. In honour of the occasion, the King was to present Miss Snook with one hundred and four brand new dollar bills, one for each year of her life. When it was over, the King took Miss Snook aside. “Miss Snook,” he said, “it must be wonderful to be one hundred and four years old and in such good health. Tell me,” said the King, “was you ever bedridden?” “Only twice, me baby (rhymes with “abbey”),” said Miss Snook. “Once in a haystack out behind the barn and once in an old dory.” (He listens. Then he walks down the steps into the yard and faces the house.) Come on out, Mary. Don’t be like that. Sometimes I gets carried away, that’s all. I’m no different from you in that respect . . . You’m prob’bly peeking t’rough the curtains right this very minute, wondering to yourself, What’s that fool up to now? Where do he get the gall to be standing in the yard of the Right Honourable Henry Dawe, Member of Parliament, waking up the half of Coley’s Point that isn’t at the wake? . . . And won’t Lady Emma be some cross, once she finds out the girl she’s had in service for four years is causing a disturbance loud enough to start old Bob Foote knocking on his casket? . . . (peers in the window) And poor Jerome, let’s not forget him. He might be persuaded to call off the wedding, once he discovers that Mary Snow was carrying on with an old flame . . . (walks farther into the yard) So you decide for yourself, Mary, ’cause I’m not budging. I’ll just make myself at home till Jerome comes driving down the road, innocent as the day he was born. Won’t it give him a lesson in life, to find a wolf in the yard and the lamb cowering behind the curtains? . . . (He crosses quickly to the porch and sits in the rocker. Begins to sing “Wedding in Renews.”)

  There’s going to be a jolly time,

  I’ll have you all to know,

  There’s me and Joe and Uncle Snow

  Invited for to go.

  I have the list here in my fist,

  So I’ll read out the crews,

  There’s going to be a happy time

  At the wedding in Renews.

  (louder)

  There’s Julia Farn, from Joe Batt’s
Arm,

  She’s coming in a hack;

  And Betsy Doyle from old Cape Broyle,

  She’ll wear her Sunday sack;

  And Prudence White, she’s out of sight,

  She’ll wear her dancing-shoes.

  We’ll dance all night till the broad daylight

  At the wedding in Renews.

  The door bursts open, and MARY comes striding out.

  MARY Will you stop that! My God, what’s wrong with you? I never would’ve said hello in the first place had I knowed you’d carry on like this! Now go home!

  JACOB (rises from the rocker) Suit yourself, maid. It’s just that I t’ought you might like to see what I brought you all the way from Toronto. It’s in my suitcase.

  MARY I don’t want it, whatever it is. Just go.

  JACOB (crosses down the steps to the suitcase) Is that what they teaches you in the Church of England? To slap the gift from a man’s hand before you’ve even seen it? (He sets the suitcase on the ground and undoes the rope.) Now close your eyes.

  MARY No . . .

  JACOB Turn away your head then, or it won’t be no surprise.

  MARY Oh, for . . . (Exasperated, she crosses down into the yard and stands with her back to JACOB.)

  JACOB opens the suitcase and brings out a pair of silk stockings. He removes them from the package and drapes them delicately over his outstretched arm.

  JACOB Now you can look.

  MARY does. Slight pause.