by Hubert Furey
Still, there was the question of retribution, of paying back. Somehow, these people had to be paid back. Maybe if they had hanged him instead of those silly concurrent sentences. In the old days, they would have been paid back. They would have strung him up or put him in prison until he had rotted for any one of those convictions, and that would have satisfied some of them. Things were easier today. What did the parole board say? Predicated upon rehabilitation. Even when Jimmy had had that explained to him, he had laughed at it. How did you rehabilitate someone like him, someone who had assaulted and brutalized and stolen every waking moment of his adult life?
The thought of paying back stayed with him, haunted him, and the more he thought about it, the more he succumbed to its allure, and the more he realized there was only one way to do it, for the sake of them all. Except for the ones here in Brine Cove, there was no way in the world he could even find any of the people he had maltreated over the years across Canada, but he could satisfy himself that he was paying, and maybe some of them would hear about it and be happy. Certainly the people of Brine Cove would know about it.
There was only one way, and the storm provided the answer. It was no longer an evil creature threatening or pressing in upon him. It now seemed to welcome him, to invite him, as the one great means of freeing himself from all that was wicked and evil and sordid and cruel in his life. This time he did not resist the thought as he had before, nor did the old revulsion arise at the thought of his deliberately taking his own life. It was not being done worthlessly or out of feelings of meaninglessness, of wanting to run away, to escape, like he had seen the people who overdosed on the streets. It was being done out of a sense of nobility. How had he read it once? As a sacrifice, a supreme act of atonement. This was a way he could pay them back. Better that one man should give his life . . . . He had heard that somewhere before.
Strangely, the thought of his own imminent suicide did not bother him. Indeed, it relieved and relaxed him. He felt a sense of release, a sense of reassurance that he was finally doing something to make up for the evil and harm he had done, something that would even things, in a way, for all those people who could never claim redress for the hurt he had inflicted. A feeling of calm pervaded his being, and he sat for a long time happy with his decision, happy that at last he would be free, released from the debt of life, released from the compunction of what he owed, what his past demanded. He rose from the pew feeling in control, and as he began his walk toward the church door and his final act of living, he did not bother to tuck his collar in close around his neck to stave off the cold.
As he grasped the latch of the door, the wind exploded with an ear-splitting roar, shaking the walls of the church to its foundations. A gigantic wet sail slapped the side of the building, seeking to lift the roof from the rafters that creaked and groaned in strain as the building fought to stay anchored to the solidity of the hill. Jimmy stopped dead, fully expecting to see the roof lifting into the openness of the night, shuddering at the strange dread that permeated his being, sensing the presence of an awesome power that invaded and surrounded the building, holding it in its thrall.
The turmoil ceased, as quickly as it had begun, permitting a strange peace to hover over the building, but Jimmy was determined that nothing would hold him back from his plan. He was about to open the door and step outside when he heard the old woman call his name, her voice resounding through the emptiness of the church.
“Jimmy Blanchard. Wait up.”
Her voice startled him, and Jimmy turned to see Mother Hennessey hobble toward him, talking, blessing herself, kissing the crucifix and folding the beads—all in one motion—as she made her way down the side aisle, grasping the tops of the pews for support. “Yes, wait up fer an auld woman on such a bad night. Sure, I was a fool to wait this long with such a terrible storm on. I thought I was alone, then I saw yerself, and I said thanks be to God I’ll have a good strong arm to help me home.”
Jimmy waited until she was beside him before speaking, his voice apprehensive. “You still remember me?”
“Remember you,” she replied. “I’d know ye if ye was boiled. Now give me your arm down the steps, and watch that door, or the wind’ll take it halfway up the harbour. Watch yer step, now.”
Jimmy gripped the door firmly with one hand as he gently clasped the old woman’s arm, stepping out into a raging storm that blasted them with wind and snow that curled around the steps and their bodies. Mother Hennessey continued to talk in muffled tones through the scarf which she held to her mouth. She didn’t seem the least bit anxious, rattling on as if she had just found a long-lost relation. “’Tis a fierce storm, I believe.”
“Yes,” Jimmy agreed, his voice unusually soft, wondering why he had stopped to help and not continued with his plan.
“Yes, I must have been an auld fool to stay in church tonight be meself, an’ the weather the way ’tis. Thanks be to God ye’re goin’ that way. I’ll take your arm, God bless ye. There’s nothing like the fine, strong arm of a young man on a cold winter’s night in a storm. Mind ye, I can’t be thinking about stuff like that, and me so close to the grave. But sure, ye can’t be hung for what ye’re thinking.”
Jimmy felt her rest on his arm as he guided her slowly down steps already packed with snow. If he didn’t count his being respectful to Jack Gregory, it was the first unselfish act he had done for a living human being in twenty years. Driving clouds of blinding snow threatened to suffocate them as they pushed their way through the fury of a storm that hammered them relentlessly from every quarter. They breathed with difficulty as swirling clouds from the tops of drifts closed in on their faces, seeking out every exposed part of their bodies. Jimmy inched his way cautiously down the slope of North Hill, hoping to avoid the more dangerous paths made slippery by the spinning wheels of the outport cars, peering sporadically in the direction of the little house on the corner of the road, shaped just like his own, that emerged into his view between the lulls in wind.
He wondered if Mother Hennessey would make it even in that distance. The cut from the plow had filled in, and one massive drift, nearly four feet high, had arranged itself directly across their path. He stepped before the panting, wheezing old woman, and thrust his feet into the snow in a side-to-side sweeping motion, clearing a path to enable her to follow him through.
“Ah for the strength of a young man,” the old woman breathed with great difficulty. “I don’t know what I’d do without ye tonight, Jimmy Blanchard.” Jimmy again started at the sound of his name, but said nothing. Then she paused and stood straight in the snow, leaning hard on Jimmy’s arm, in an obvious attempt to catch her breath. “Sure, and why wouldn’t I know ye? Wasn’t I there the night ye was borned in yer very own house? I boiled the water fer the doctor. It was almost as bad as this, and they had to bring the doctor in from Couteau on a skidoo. We stayed with her through the night, God rest her soul. I says a prayer for her every day. Thought we was going to lose both of ye. But ye were both strong, and ye pulled through, with the help of God and His holy Mudder.”
The old woman resumed her travail in silence, leaning on Jimmy’s left arm while he continued to kick a path through the drifts. It was harder going now, and Jimmy was grateful that the house was only minutes away. When they arrived at the door, she turned to speak to him, visibly panting in the light over the front door. Jimmy wondered what he would do if she had a heart attack there on the step. Would they somehow pin the blame on him—another attempted robbery?
“Your mother was a fine woman, Jimmy Blanchard, and don’t you believe a word some of ’em from around here says about her. She had a misfartune, like a lot of them has, and it wasn’t all her fault. And that other thing left and sent her nar a word or a copper to help her along. The divil will never have his own till he gets the likes of him. I says a rosary every day for the repose of her soul, may the Lord have mercy on her. I says one for you, too, Jimmy Blancha
rd, to straighten out. But I wonders sometimes if I’m wasting me breath. Although you did help an old woman home through the snow tonight, so there’s a bit of good in ye yet somewhere.”
She took a big key out of her coat pocket and rattled it around in the old-fashioned lock, fumbling with the knob until the door opened. She turned to Jimmy as she stepped inside the door. “Are ye coming in for a cup of hot tea or a bowl of soup? The kettle is still hot on the oil stove. I keeps it on the back to keep it warm. I enjoys a cup of tea meself.”
Jimmy declined, although the cheery warmth of the house was compelling after the slog through storm and the drifts, which left his legs cold and soaking wet. If somebody were watching through a window and saw him go in, the police in Couteau might just get that call they didn’t want. “No! I want to get back to the house and get a fire going, get rid of the damp. Charlie Mackay left some wood and splits inside the door, so I’ll be comfortable enough when I get that going.”
“Wait a minute.” Mother Hennessey had disappeared into a room in the house and almost as quickly reappeared, holding a stocking cap and a pair of old-fashioned grey, woollen mitts. “Here, I knits these in me spare time. Gives ’em to the church when they wants to raise a bit of money. They’ll keep your head and hands a bit warmer. Sure ye’re not coming in?”
“No. No.” Jimmy was hesitating, having difficulty articulating. He gratefully accepted the mitts and cap and put them on immediately, savouring the warmth of the thick wool. He was feeling grateful, too, that Mother Hennessey hadn’t brought up the business of the obscenity, although, as he thought about it, maybe it should be brought up. He spoke haltingly, unused to the form of expression he felt compelled to undertake, fumbling with the words.
“Mrs. Hennessey, I never did say thanks for all those vegetables and things, and the way you were good to my mother. She talked about you all the time in her letters. And that day on the steps—I wasn’t mad at you or anything, it was just that . . .” He couldn’t finish, because he didn’t know what else to say. In the half-light of the porch the old woman was listening, ready to complete the thought.
“You were kicked in the arse that much you didn’t know what you were saying. Put the past behind ye, Jimmy Blanchard. Ye’re only a young pup yet, and there might be a lot of auld women needing a lift through the snow. Ye got a fine strong back and a good head on yer shoulders. Put ’em to good use and do a bit of good in the world. There’s enough people doin’ the other. Yer after doin’ enough of the other yerself. Now, be off with ye before ye loses the bit of heat ye got in the church and before ye freezes me out.”
She went to close the door but abruptly changed her mind, hauling it farther apart so Jimmy could see the authority in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid, either. “And another thing, Jimmy Blanchard. You make sure you sees Dick Furneaux and tell him you’re sorry you broke into his shop. That broke me heart when I heard about that—and he so good to the two of ye. They weren’t going to give her welfare because they thought yer father was sending ye money, and he kept your gut full and your arse warm when she didn’t have a cent to her name. And he never got paid back, neither. She was always goin’ to pay him back. She was always talkin’ about it. But how could the poor divil do it? You should go see him and tell him ye’re sorry, supposing you have to crawl through the snow on yer hands and knees to do it. D’ye hear what I’m telling ye? Heed me now!”
So saying, she gently edged the door to, keeping her eyes fixed on Jimmy’s until she was no longer in his sight. Jimmy turned and headed into the storm again, the news about Dick Furneaux leaving him numb. It came together now. So that’s why Dick Furneaux didn’t press charges. They had dropped the whole thing because Dick Furneaux didn’t want to go any further with it. Not even his mother knew—she kept telling him in her letters about the mysterious theft at Furneaux’s store—but everybody else knew who did it.
The snow wasn’t as deep here, and he quickened his pace. The faster he got through the drifts to home, with a nice, roaring fire in, the quicker he would get the house warm. He continued his way down North Hill and past the old abandoned coal shed, shrouded in lashing whiteness, stopping behind a stable on the High Bank to rest. His breath came in heavy gasps as he surveyed the distance he yet had to go, casting his eyes over the winding drop around Brandy Gulch with some trepidation. He had never realized how dangerous that really was in winter, and yet, for some strange reason, the Highways still hadn’t installed a guardrail.
As he clung to the shelter of the stable wall, sweeping the arc of the Gulch to ascertain the easiest route through the gathering snow, the storm abated momentarily, and he discerned the tail lights of a car, stuck in the narrowest and most dangerous part of the Gulch road, within feet of the cliff edge. At every lull in the wind he could hear the spinning of the tires in angry bursts and crescendos as the driver rocked the car back and forth in a fruitless attempt to dislodge the vehicle. Instead of moving forward, however, the car was edging sideways, toward the precipice overlooking Brandy Gulch, just feet from the rear corner of the car.
Jimmy stared in horror through the blinding storm, seeing, even from that distance, what the driver could not—that with every roar of the engine and every motion of the vehicle, it was coming closer and closer to the sheer drop of the Gulch cliff, and, for those inside the car, certain death in the roaring maelstrom below. Jimmy looked up and down the road, searching for some visible soul he could call to help, but all that greeted his vision were shifting clouds of blanketing snow. Even the houses were removed in both directions, far toward the church on one side and far beyond the Gulch on the other. By the time he got to the nearest one and back, it would be all over. Only seconds remained before he would witness the frightening spectacle of death being played out in the churning breakers below—death made terrifying and horrible by the towering waves that crashed on the cliff bottom and shot spray well above the rim of the Gulch.
He stood transfixed, feeling the powerlessness of being alone, watching in horror as the car continued its rocking motion, with each motion inching irretrievably closer to the precipice, and to the waiting hell that fumed and screamed below. What was the driver doing? Didn’t he know? If the wheels grabbed and the car jumped again . . . . The engine roared in frustration over the distance and the car sidled ominously again, this time almost to the very edge. Only the fact that the car had momentarily bottomed on the snow kept it from hurtling into the breakers below.
There was no time left, and Jimmy instinctively sprang into action, bounding away from the stable wall with frantic strides, trying to overcome the inertia of the deep snow. He pushed himself ruthlessly, trying to remember how he did it that night in Winnipeg, driving himself in a desperate effort to cover the remaining distance before the car took the next desperate lurch and tumbled into certain and instant oblivion. He hurdled the last drift and arrived by the side of the car, simultaneously grasping the door handle to open the door while pounding on the car window to attract the driver’s attention. The car door opened in response, revealing the anxious, frustrated face of a young woman, alone in the car, a pink-banded stocking cap hiding her hair, a scarf woven tightly around her neck.
Jimmy was oblivious to the frozen pellets of snow blinding his eyes, to the confused way his words sounded. “Stop the gas. You’re putting the car over the cliff.”
The woman looked at him in disbelief, startled more by his sudden appearance than by the expression on his face and the tone in his voice. “Cliff! What cliff? Am I that close? Good God! Are you sure?”
The woman reacted instantaneously, reaching to turn off the ignition. However, the action was clumsy, the motor was still running, and her foot slipped on the frozen snow on the car mat, accidentally thrusting the weight of her foot upon the gas pedal. The engine roared again, and Jimmy felt the car move. The rear tires bit into the solid ground and the car lurched viciously, edging the far wheel over the cli
ff edge.
He screamed in panic, grabbing her angrily by the shoulders as he felt the car tip and slide. “Get out of the car now. She’s going over.” But she had frozen in response and Jimmy had to wrench her from the lurching vehicle. The force of the action hurtled both of them backwards into the snow, where they lay, shaking in horror as the car began its slow, inexorable slide over the edge of the cliff. It seemed to pause, teetering as if reluctant to continue, the pink-banded stocking cap still visible on the seat through the open, swinging door. In one final gesture of movement, it teetered and pointed skyward, then plummeted into the roar and spume below.
Jimmy felt the woman tremble, then convulse, as her breathing came in panicked gasps, trying to get air into lungs that were collapsing under the pressure of panic and fright. Darryl Curran used to breathe like that, gasping whenever he had an asthma attack. The terror of the moment was now placing her in just as much danger as when she was close to death at the edge of the cliff. Jimmy found himself holding her and rocking her gently, like he had seen actors do in the prison movies, talking to her soothingly, the words coming out of his mouth sounding strange and foreign. After what seemed like a long time, she detached herself and tried to stand up, using his arm for support. He got up with her, steadying her as she rose.
“I’m all right now. Really, I am. I thought for a minute there I was going to get sick.” She pulled the hood of her coat over her bare head, then straightened, leaning ahead to stare aghast at the tumultuous scene before her, at the violent waves that thundered and crashed on the rocks below, pummelling the car mercilessly. A monstrous wave roared up to the very edge of the cliff, and they ducked their heads to avoid the freezing spray. Jimmy felt her sway and thought she was going to faint, but she composed herself, looking up into his face, before staring once again into the abyss of the cove.