by Hubert Furey
“There’s nothing here for you, Jimmy Blanchard, or for any other jailbird like you. Now, we’ve already called the Mounties in Couteau and told them you were here, and they said to call right back if you gave us one peck of trouble. So the best thing for you to do is get away from my house. We’ve just finished Christmas Eve supper, so you get to Christ out of here before I make that phone call.”
Jimmy listened mechanically. In one way or another he had heard it all before. He inclined slightly forward, bringing another rehearsed line to the fore, trying to affect a pleading tone. “I don’t want to come in or nothing, Mr. Ryan. I just want a few junks of wood. It’s freezing over there. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Then he thought of the money in his pocket, what he still had left from his prison earnings—plus the money Jack Gregory had given him—and he turned back to the unmoved face. “Look, I got money. I can pay you for the wood if you want. It’s just that I was saving the money to buy some grub.”
“Yeah! Probably the same stuff you stole from Dick Furneaux. Get off my property, and get off now!”
The voice was harsh, though Jimmy could sense the fear it masked, and he thought he heard one of the bodies behind the door murmuring police before the door closed sharply. Jimmy turned abruptly and left the landing, exiting the gate with long, quick strides. Show them that you’re moving fast. You don’t want the police around. Perhaps he would have better luck at Vince Wilson’s house.
He didn’t, and he realized after that the almost identical response he received at each doorstep was the result of many hurried telephone conversations. Jimmy should have known better. It had been well talked over. Brine Cove might have lawns and late-model cars and cable television and all the other paraphernalia that passed for modern city living, but it was still a small Newfoundland outport where news travelled as fast and as far as the telephone, and was just as devastating, especially to somebody like himself.
* * * * *
Back at the house, he sat once again on the edge of the table and smoked his last cigarette, tossing the discarded package into the mess directly ahead of him. Then, realizing that he had been using the inside of the pack for a notepad, he bent down and picked it up again, laying it carefully on the edge of the kitchen table. He would want the number of his probation officer and of the detachment in Couteau if he were going to keep those guys off his back. He had written in his social insurance number, too. That had come in handy for identification in his new closely watched world.
He drew heavily on the cigarette and blew the smoke around the room. Well, so much for Christmas spirit. If the response of his good neighbours was any indication, going the length of the harbour was as senseless as expecting oil to still be in that tank behind the house.
Except for Barry O’Keefe. Which was funny when he remembered that Barry O’Keefe was one of the boys who had called his mother an old bag and Jimmy had chased him halfway up the ridge before he slipped and tore up his shin on a spruce stump. Barry O’Keefe looked like he wanted to help, but his mother put a quick stop to that. He had thought of going to the store to buy some oil—he had enough money for that—but the only store was Furneaux’s, and he dismissed the thought as totally futile.
The cold was becoming unbearable, and he walked back and forth in the small, low kitchen with rapid, quick turning movements to keep his circulation moving, blowing into his hands to warm his freezing fingertips. He had almost gone into convulsions one winter night on a street in Winnipeg, and he did not want that to happen a second time. Jimmy never experienced the luxury of wondering what it would be like to freeze to death. He had been too close, that night in Winnipeg, and he knew that the thought of it was small comfort when faced with the actual possibility.
He paced the kitchen floor, glancing periodically through the kitchen window, suddenly becoming aware of car lights along the road, their collective movements indicating some similar destination. Following his basic instinct of curiosity, he bent down close to the glass pane, watching as the lead car, followed by the others, began a slow journey along the shore road before stopping in random parking places around the church on the hill, which he could detect beyond the gulch in the distance. It was only then it struck him. It was Christmas Eve! They were all going to Midnight Mass.
Jimmy pushed his face onto the cold glass, peering as far to the left as he could, straining to watch the line of cars ascend North Hill. He was right. It must be an early Midnight Mass, though. When his mother used to take him as a child, it was always twelve o’clock, and he fell asleep every time. The earlier time fitted nicely with the idea that was forming in his mind. He didn’t know what he would do when Mass was over, but the thought was occurring to him that at least he would be warm while Mass was going on.
One thing he had never forgotten about Midnight Mass in that church was the warmth of the steam radiators that ran along the sides—once he had put out his hand across the aisle and almost burnt his finger—and the warmth was amplified in his memory by the immediate sensation of damp, corrosive cold that was pressing in on him, permeating and numbing his whole body.
* * * * *
He stepped out into the winter night once again, walking as fast as he could to generate warmth. He thought about locking the door, a thought that brought an ironic smile to his face. There didn’t seem to be anything left worth taking for Tom, and nobody would be going to his house looking for Christmas drinks.
It had gotten colder and the wind had risen, and one look at the heavy, massed darkness of the clouds overhead told him that a storm was brewing, if not ready to break. Propelled with a new urgency, he quickened his steps to get to the church faster. In the distance he could see the movement of the cars that had arrived and were parking in every available space up and down the hill, their tires whining and snarling on the slippery slope.
As he passed houses within walking distance, doors slammed and people hurriedly ran down steps, assuming they were late. He watched two run back and fumble with their doorknobs after they caught sight of him, obviously checking to ensure that their doors were securely locked, and then hurry on ahead so as not to be close to him while he walked the road. The people who passed him hastily, their bodies exposed to the scathing wind, only seemed to want to avoid him when they recognized his face. He didn’t call to them or taunt them, as he would have done in earlier years. He was simply too cold, and those Mounties would probably be very upset if they had to be called out of Couteau in the dead of night, especially if it were in the middle of a winter storm.
As he entered the hodgepodge of cars, parked erratically in every conceivable direction—in typical outport fashion—the thought struck him that perhaps it mightn’t go as well as he was anticipating. He knew he wouldn’t be welcome in church, but would they prevent him from even entering—or order him out after he had gone in? Again he dismissed the thought. They would have no reason to act like that if he simply kept his mouth shut and found some obscure place in the back to hide while he was warming. Besides, the way he heard things were going these days, they probably needed every body they could get to fill up the pews. And he’d never heard of any of the convicts being turned away from the prison chapel. That chaplain was a bit of a nut, anyway, talking about peace and love. Dorchester was a fine place to talk about peace and love.
He stood some distance behind a group crowded around the steps, waiting their turn to disperse through the narrow front entrance. He set his face against the loud conversations and the startled looks of those who turned and found themselves speaking to him, before recognizing him and turning away again in embarrassment and fear.
Jimmy waited until they had all entered and were moving ahead in search of pews before hunching his shoulders and ascending the wooden steps to enter the vestibule. As he stepped across the threshold, a burst of warm, humid air, rife with the mingled smells of strong perfume and fresh perspirat
ion, enveloped him, and he paused for a moment, before moving quickly through the vestibule, conscious of the condemning stares and murmured comments of those who noticed him enter.
He bowed his head and turned toward the left, along a path familiar from his childhood, avoiding the looks of the men safely ranged along the back wall, knowing he would have to endure more of the same from the people behind, as they stamped off snow and removed scarves and gloves preparatory to entering the main body of the church.
To hell with them! At least for an hour, he would be warm. Several measured strides took him to the corner by the window where he knew the two big radiators were close together, and was glad when he noticed that nobody had taken that particular spot. The intense heat that suddenly permeated his body told him the reason why. After the Trans-Canada and the dampness of his own house, it was the most wonderful feeling he could ever imagine.
The pews were rapidly filling, and he was glad he had come when he did. He glanced at his watch. It was just a few minutes before eight. Judging by the last-minute rush, Mass must be at eight o’clock. He settled himself back into the space between the two radiators on the adjoining walls and closed his eyes, relaxing as the heat permeated his numb limbs, flooding his body with a soft, embracing warmth. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was. In an effort to garner as much comfort as he could from the standing position he was in, he crossed his arms and legs and leaned his head and shoulders back against the wall and closed his eyes. In an instant he was sound asleep.
* * * * *
A burst of organ music accompanied almost immediately by the strains of a hymn awakened him, and he gazed through half-sleepy eyes at the confused movement of the congregation as they rose in a body to begin Mass, adding the shuffling of feet and the clunking of kneelers to the swelling sounds of the choir.
He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the sounds, hoping to return to sleep, but the sensation of energy which hung like an aura throughout the building conspired against it, and he found himself concentrating upon the words of the hymn, becoming amused by the irony of the invitation in the words of the title, “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Faithful! There were a lot of people he knew that one didn’t cover, including himself. There was a nice long string of thefts and assaults and convictions that was testimony to that.
The choir stopped, and the priest began the opening prayers. Jimmy allowed his eyes to range over the congregation. The word “hypocrite” formed on his tongue when he thought of the greeting he had already received. As Mickey “The Chief” Longtree used to say in Dorchester—“Jimmy, my boy, there are hypocrites and then there are hypocrites.” They were all alike. There were just shades of difference.
From his vantage point he could still make out the profiles of a lot of people he remembered—and a lot he didn’t. At times they revealed their faces fully when they turned to speak downward to a child or reached for a hymn book behind in a pew. Those who caught his eye hastily turned their faces back to the altar. Except for Barry O’Keefe. Barry tried to force a smile. But then, Barry was always a big pussycat. He studied Barry’s wife, Sheila, as she turned to toss her gloves back into the pew.
Well, she was still as beautiful as ever, there was no question about that, still as good-looking as anything he’d ever seen on television. He could detect tension in her face and a set, stony look in her eyes, but the looks were still there. The years had been good to her. The hair was just as blonde, her face still perfectly shaped. Not many girls could touch her for looks then, he had to grant her that. She could still give the young ones a run for their money twenty years later. He wondered if she were still as stuck-up, walking the roads, thinking she was the queen bee. A lascivious grin formed on his lips as his mind went back to that day in the grove. She wasn’t very stuck-up then. There weren’t many stony looks that day, although he had to push her a bit.
His eyes wandered from Sheila O’Keefe to Frank Ryan over by the tenth station, and he watched him as he carefully wrapped his parka around his wife’s jerking shoulders. In her last letter, his mother had told him the name of the strange disease she had, but he had forgotten. A deeper fear seemed to surround Frank Ryan, a fear that wasn’t limited to jailbirds looking for wood.
Just ahead of Frank Ryan stood old Mother Hennessey, a little square block of a woman hardly tall enough to see over the end of the pew. He could still see the look of shock on her face when he told her what to do with the cardboard box of food she was leaving on their front step. Crazy old bitch!
He looked around for Charlie Mackay, but he couldn’t see any sign of the big red-haired Charlie. Charlie had always said he would get him back. He was probably out in Fort McMurray with the rest of them.
The people were sitting and the readings were beginning. Jimmy looked through the window, attracted by the sight of a car almost teetering over the sharp edge of North Hill to his left, where the hill dropped sharply. He watched the efforts of the five men, clearly visible in the light shining from the church windows, to push the car back to safety. He noticed that the snow was falling more heavily now, and he could tell by the smoke-like clouds that engulfed the struggling men that the wind was rising. Well, he was right about that storm.
The car settled into place, and he watched the men walk toward the church, slapping themselves in a congratulatory manner. He couldn’t help noticing the stature of the man who led the group as they emerged into the light. Only when they had entered and crowded themselves into the few remaining places along the wall of the far side was he sure. It was the massive torso and bushy red hair of Charlie Mackay. One side of his face was scarred almost beyond recognition and the red hair was receding, but he still gave the impression of a gigantic bull of a man in powerful shape. Charlie Mackay was a big man. He hadn’t gone west after all. Jimmy wondered if he would have as easy a time with him now, hungry and cold like he was.
The shuffling of the congregation standing for the Gospel made him aware of his discomfort, and he tried to settle himself more easy within the corner. The voice of the priest narrating the story of the nativity sounded far away, from a point in the distance he couldn’t locate. It was a long time since he heard that story—except for that one time in Dorchester, he had not been inside a church since he was fifteen—and he had almost forgotten it.
What had the angels told the shepherds? “A saviour is born.” They should go and tell it to the pimps and junkies on the east side of Vancouver. They could do with a saviour. Jimmy grinned to himself. Maybe he should get religion, too. The Chief got religion after, and Jimmy had made the height of fun of him. Talk about hypocrites. He could never understand how anybody could be “saved,” could turn on a dime just like that. The Chief was just as big a hypocrite as the ones he had criticized. He remembered the teacher in grade four going on about what’s-his-name’s conversion with a bolt of lightning. Maybe that’s what he needed, three or four million volts up the side of his head. Down in some of the States, he would have got it.
The people sat down for the homily, settling themselves in various positions of comfort. Jimmy noticed several people yawning. Instinctively, he relaxed back, too, although he had made up his mind that he had no intention of listening to anything the priest had to say. He’d heard enough of that crap, in school from the teachers, and in prison from the chaplain, and everywhere else.
Still, phrase after phrase of the homily intruded into his consciousness, in spite of his efforts to shut them out: “another Christmas season,” “the ways we have not lived up to our faith,” “look into ourselves,” “rid ourselves of,” “cleanse ourselves,” “welcome the babe in the manger,” “only through Him,” “a new life.” The language seemed weak, vapid. What had happened to mortal sin? Hell? He used to hear his grandmother talking about those old mission priests. They could make you roast in the pew. What difference did it make? It was all bunk.
Jimmy was beginning to fee
l sleepy again, and the soft tones of the priest’s voice blended with the accompaniment of the hissing radiators and occasional subdued coughing to affect a soothing calm on his spirit. He was overcome by drowsiness, his eyelids drooped, then closed, and he once again fell sound asleep.
Somewhere in the distance he heard the strains of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” as the choir rendered the offertory hymn, and he gazed through sleepy, disinterested eyes as the collectors made their rounds of the pews, bending and grasping one pew as they thrust the basket into the one behind. He slept soundly as the priest raised the host and cup for adoration and heard nothing of the prayers that followed. He caught himself murmuring the Our Father along with the congregation, but instantly checked himself and was only awakened by a fresh jostle of movement as people came physically alive to join in hand-shaking and well-wishing, in a relatively loud and boisterous manner.
He remembered watching some prisoners do that the one time he went to Mass in prison—he had left the church laughing his head off just after—and he thought it just as silly then as he did now. The “Sign of Peace”! You’d get a long way with that one on the streets of Montreal. He closed his eyes again to shut out the movement, not wanting to be part of the general conviviality that had spontaneously arisen among the people around him, but he was forced to acknowledge the presence of the immense form with bushy red hair who was walking toward him, the scars on the right-hand side of his face still evident from the brutal beating.
Jimmy tensed, trying to sum up his fighting instincts. In the tired and hungry state that he was, it mightn’t be that easy. Charlie Mackay was now directly in front of him, a towering giant of a person dwarfing Jimmy at six foot one. Would he actually start something in the church? If Charlie dragged him outside in the snow . . . . Then there was the hatred in the eyes of every man who had passed him on the way in. Yet there was no trace of malice on Charlie Mackay’s face, or in the eyes that looked imploringly toward Jimmy. Jimmy remained poised, at a loss for understanding. Now Charlie was extending his right hand forward, speaking in tones just loud enough for Jimmy to hear.