by Hubert Furey
Jimmy shut off the flashlight and laid it carefully on the table, amazed at the speed with which Cheri Wilson accomplished things. He stared at her, for the first time conscious of admiration for another human being, conscious also of the ordinariness of her person. As the light of the lamp illuminated the small kitchen, casting their reflections on the walls, he suddenly became aware that this was the first time he had truly seen her, and he was struck by her ordinary appearance.
* * * * *
She wasn’t tall and full-bodied like the strippers he had watched in Montreal or the girls who stood on the corners of drug-ridden streets in Eastside Vancouver, waiting to pick up their next john. She didn’t match any of the descriptions in the prison novels. She was short, not much over five feet, and what figure she had was undiscernible inside the long, black winter coat that doubled as a parka and fell in straight lines toward the tops of her boots, hiding and obscuring any trace of a feminine shape.
Her hair, a difficult shade of blonde, now in disarray from putting on and taking off the hood, should have been thicker, and was set in a curly, permed fashion that didn’t seem to suit. Her pouty, sensuous lips contrasted sharply with the straightforwardness of her actions, and with the honesty of her eyes, which blinked constantly. When she smiled, her face broadened, and her eyes lit up, but when she talked, it was always in a serious tone.
Cheri Wilson had taken a cloth from the bag and had begun wiping down the table. Anticipating what she had in mind, Jimmy stepped to the table and removed his travelling bag, laying it by the wall with the two other garbage bags. He also removed the cigarette package with the numbers, waiting until Cheri spread a small Christmas tablecloth, before returning it to its original place. He stepped back, fascinated by her every move, as she set the table with a complete setting, arranging large mason jars of food carefully on the richly decorated cloth. The sight of the soup made Jimmy salivate. Jimmy watched her complete the task and stand back, flabbergasted by the quick, efficient movements, the no-nonsense approach, the get-things-done in spite of the mess in which she was standing. His mother was like that.
“After what Mom and Dad told me, I figured some hot food wouldn’t go astray. Everything you need is there for tonight. We didn’t have any fish left from supper, but Mom had a big boiler of soup ready for after Midnight Mass, and I brought over some of that. She had her roast cooked for tomorrow evening, so that’s in that bottle with some gravy. You can warm that in the little pot in the bag.” Jimmy’s eyes never left her as she continued to verbally match containers and contents. She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by his presence or his reputation.
“There’s bread, and milk and sugar and salt. The Thermos has hot tea, and we brought over another Thermos of hot water if you wanted to wash up.” She bent down to the bag one last time. In spite of the draping effect of the long black coat, Jimmy could detect the shapely movement of her hips.
She gave the table a last parting glance, then, satisfied she had included everything, turned to Jimmy as if she were asking for his approval. Jimmy looked into her eyes, but turned away quickly. He didn’t want her to see any of that. Vince Wilson was looking around, surveying the kitchen. He spoke for the first time, but he avoided looking at Jimmy, even as he spoke in his direction. “Well, it looks like you’re set up for tonight. Come on, Cheri, that storm is not getting any better, and your mother is probably worried.”
Jimmy looked in Vince Wilson’s direction, but the other man averted his gaze. He had been aware of Vince Wilson standing by the opposite wall, watching him, ready to protect his daughter, or die trying. Jimmy understood that now. Wanting to detach himself, Jimmy reached for the sleeping bag and walked toward the living room. “I’ll set this up on the settle. It’s a better room to sleep in.”
They motioned to leave, and Jimmy watched them, wanting to look again at the woman who had unexpectedly, and by such a strange turn of events, come into his life. She had gathered her hood about her head again, obscuring her face, but her eyes were still visible, and when they met, though furtively, he saw they were unafraid—like Jack Gregory’s eyes, like the priest’s, like Mother Hennessey’s. She was whispering something, just loud enough for him to hear.
“I’ll try to persuade them to let me ask you over to Christmas dinner tomorrow. If not, when I get a chance, I’ll sneak some over, and I’ve got to come over and gut this place out.” Then she turned and left, her father still standing protectively close as she walked away from the front door. Jimmy slowly closed the door behind them, then walked into the living room and stood in front of the window to watch them as they returned to their house. Even in the storm he could see they were arguing as they trod through the deep snow. Vince Wilson would periodically stop and shake his head angrily, spitting silent words into the night, while his daughter stood alongside him, gesturing with her hands, as if she were pleading. Jimmy turned and walked to the porch for the old broken chair—the one his mother set the small washtub on—and returned to the kitchen, setting it by the table in front of the food. He glanced at the stove one last time, then, reassured by its reddening glow on top, unscrewed the jar of soup with satisfaction, feeling its warmth on his hands. It wasn’t like Winnipeg after all.
Jimmy stoked the living room fire and lay back on the settee, warm and full. The hissing glow of the Coleman lamp shone through the kitchen door, its shadowy glow inducing solitary thought. He tried to make sense of all that had so unexpectedly crowded into his life since his return to Brine Cove, trying to cope with the new feelings that were striving to make themselves felt. The feelings were confusing, but they weren’t unpleasant, not like the torturous images of his sordid past that had forced themselves into his mind in the church, images that had intruded into his consciousness to thrust him back into the evil of yesterday, to punish him for the wrongdoing of his life. The scarred face of Charlie Mackay returned again, and the anguish in the eyes of Sheila O’Keefe as she left church, but they didn’t gnaw at him as they had earlier, when they reduced his emotions to a state of abject flagellation.
Jimmy had done these things. That couldn’t be changed. But to repay, to restore. Not like he had thought at the door of the church, when destroying himself seemed the most fitting way to even what was owed. He realized now that would have gained nothing. It would have simply helped him escape from the burden of restitution, but they would have received nothing in return. He sat for a long time, thinking, poking absent-mindedly at the glowing embers, wondering. How do you undo the horrendous things you have done? How do you restore your life to the way it was before, the way it had been before starting out on the path of evil self-destruction?
The questions tantalized him, dancing in his head like the flames behind the grate in the little stove. How do you change the past? How do you undo the hurt and evil of yesterday? How do you make it the way it was? He bent his head as if the flames, flicking and cavorting in his direction, were able to provide him with an answer. But no answer came, and he lay back, exhausted with the attempt. Without bothering to lay out the sleeping bag or change his position in any way, he went sound asleep, right where he was.
* * * * *
A gentle rap roused him, and he sat up, instantly alert. He tried to see his watch in the light of the stove. It was after three o’clock. Cheri Wilson said she might be coming back, but at three o’clock in the morning? The rap sounded again, and he called, “Just a minute,” before forcing himself to stand, fighting the stiffness in his neck and back. On his way through the kitchen he checked the stove, quickly inserting three large birch chunks. If it was the Wilsons, he wanted the place warm. Cheri Wilson might want to stay awhile.
He opened the door to see Tom Blanchard and another man he didn’t recognize, ready to enter. In the light of the Coleman lamp, Jimmy could readily detect the evil in the other man’s eyes, evil that was more evident, more vicious-looking, than it was in Tom Blanchard�
�s. The smell of moonshine was overpowering. Jimmy unconsciously reverted to his street personality, leaning his arm across the doorway to impede their entry. “What do you guys want this hour in the morning?”
It was Tom Blanchard who replied. “Well, Jimmy boy, we was wondering if you’d like to jine us in a little bit of doin’s, now that everybody in the place is conked out.”
“Doin’s?” Jimmy’s suspicions were immediately aroused. If jail and the streets had taught him anything, it was that a visit from these two at this hour in the morning boded no good. Instinct told him that he should just give them the boot, but his curiosity got the better of him. They were up to something. Play them along a bit to see what was up.
“Aintcha goin’ to let us in?” It was Tom’s voice. He was visibly shivering. Jimmy hesitated, then removed his arm from the door jamb. Frank Ryan could be peering through the curtains even at this hour. Best if he didn’t see these two on his doorstep.
“Come on. I got nothing to drink. It’s part of the probation crap. Anyway, I was just getting ready to hit the sack. So make it quick.” He was still pretending innocence. The two men followed Jimmy into the kitchen, where the Coleman lamp was dimming. Jimmy thought of pumping it up, but the less light the better, especially with the lack of curtains on the kitchen window. Tom hunched over the stove, spreading his arms to catch the heat. His companion crossed the kitchen and slouched in the back porch door, the evil in his eyes even more visible in the half-light of the kitchen. Tom’s eye alighted on the kitchen table, still attractively set.
“Well, ye got a royal reception after all. Who brung ye all the stuff?”
“Charlie Mackay sent it up. He wanted to forget about everything, and he sent up all this stuff. Kind of a peace offering.” He didn’t want to drop Cheri Wilson’s name in front of these two. They wouldn’t dare challenge Charlie Mackay. Tom slid his eyes from Jimmy to the table, not sure if he wanted to believe what he was hearing. Jimmy’s face was blank, unresponsive, giving no further clue. The voice of Tom’s companion came from the doorway, sounding very irritated.
“Let’s get to the point, Tom. We only got a coupla hours.” Jimmy set his teeth, restraining himself. That guy was getting to him very, very fast. Tom picked up on the silent signals that passed between the two men, looking quickly from one to the other.
“Now, don’t get yerself all hot ’n’ bothered there, Rock. Jimmy here don’t like to be rushed. Jesus! Talk about stund. I never innerduced ye. Jimmy, this here is Rocky Bates. He’s not a Newfie like us. From upalong. Just finished a stint at Stony Mountain. Me and him was buddies a way back.”
Buddies? So they did time together. And Rocky must be on the run from something heavy to be in Newfoundland. These fellows from upalong didn’t stray far from the big cities.
Tom Blanchard was laughing, the evil still dancing in his eyes. “Rock here is down on his luck. Not having any success, so to speak—and he’s gettin’ right put out about it.”
Jimmy was vague, playing for time. “Look, I got no money, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Tom laughed, shaking his head toward his companion, but the scowl hadn’t left Rocky’s face. “Now, money. Strange thing you mentioned that little word. Thas just what me and the Rock here wants to talk about. Money. Lots of it. Rocky and me have figured out a little plan fer tonight—to get our hands on a bit of money—but we needs ye to help us out.”
* * * * *
“Plan?”
Jimmy thought of all the old people in Brine Cove who still didn’t use the banks, who kept their money in bills under their mattresses. One old man in Deep Bight had over thirty thousand dollars stolen, all in small bills and coin, savings since the Depression. He crossed the kitchen and unscrewed the Thermos bottle of tea, slowly filling a cup which he had taken from one of the bags. Still playing for time, he slowly measured out two teaspoons of sugar and carefully added milk. Tom Blanchard followed his movements, his voice mounting in excitement.
“I been watching the doin’s at old Dick Furneaux’s over the last coupla weeks. My son, he’s rakin’ it in since he got that liquor thing. They comes from all over the shore, and you knows what people spends on their Christmas booze—along with everything else. What with that big job in Bide Arm, wit’ all the money dey’re makin’, fellas makin’ thirty and forty and fifty dollars an hour. My son, there’s thousands of money there—thousands.” Tom Blanchard had paused, awaiting Jimmy’s reaction. Jimmy blew on his tea before sipping it, biding time. Rocky, still slouched against the door jamb, shifted his weight impatiently. Jimmy gazed into the teacup and twisted his mouth as if he were pondering something very deeply. Whatever other store he was going to rob while he was on the shore, it wasn’t going to be Dick Furneaux’s.
“Why would old man Furneaux keep that kind of cash around his store—with people like us in Brine Cove?”
Tom Blanchard snickered. “He was takin’ it to the bank in Couteau, but he was waitin’ till the last minute. You knows what old Furneaux is like. Got to get every last friggin’ cent. That Christmas rush on the booze, I s’pose. Anyway, he ran into a tractor trailer across the road ’bout halfway to Couteau, an’ I guess he got narvous about the storm and turned back. With all that money.”
Jimmy continued to ponder, staring into the semi-darkness of the floor. “So where’s he got it? You’re not thinking of breaking into his house this time of year. His two sons are probably home from the army. I used to hear the b’ys talk about them in Dorchester. You’re cracked. One of them is with the Airborne, with a dozen black belts.” He was still playing for time. He could say no any time. Rocky Bates interrupted the conversation, speaking for the first time, in a low, growling voice.
“It’s not in his house. We follied him all the way up and back. We was goin’ to jump him on the way, by that little park on the creek up a ways. Leave the old bastard under one of them picnic benches.”
Jimmy barely raised his eyes. This Rocky was a dangerous man—and Dick Furneaux was a very lucky one, or he would be floating in the Goose Pond River by now. Tom shot a glance at Rocky as he interjected, his voice quivering with nervousness.
“But the traffic got to be a mile long. Too many people around. So we just turned back like everybody else. When we follied him back to Brine Cove, we watched him from the hill with binoculars. He went into the store, casual like, with the big suitcase.” Tom Blanchard leaned over, breathless with excitement. “We watched him come out, too. No suitcase. Arms swingin’ like an angashore on dole day. He left it in the shop.”
Rocky continued as if he had not been interrupted. “We figure he’s usin’ that old safe again, the one Tom told me about—the one in his office in the back.”
Well, well. So the b’ys had gone out to waylay Dick Furneaux. The storm that had almost killed Cheri Wilson had saved Dick Furneaux’s life. Life was more than a mystery. So the money was in the safe where the b’ys couldn’t get at it. Now he knew why they were here. Tom Blanchard seemed to be reading his mind.
“Neither me nor the Rock here knows a t’ing about safes. The store is easy, easy as pie to get into. That back door on the side or any of them windows on the back. Lots of money in there—split three ways. Whaddaya say? Thas an old safe. You knows how to open it. You’ve cracked a few in your day.” He had, and he had paid for it. That was one of the three concurrent sentences. Why didn’t he just say no and boot them out like his instincts had suggested earlier?
Jimmy responded evasively. Besides, he had always worked alone. If he were going to do something, he wanted to be in control. And it could be a set-up. He set the teacup back on the table, affecting a tired tone of voice. “I think you better get somebody else, Tom. You’re clean, but the cops are watching me like a hawk. As soon as somebody breaks a sugar dish, they’ll be crawling all over my back in jig time.”
“Fer Chrissake, Jimmy, nobod
y will ever know you was involved. You don’t even have to take any of the money if you don’t want to. All you got to do is go in with us an’ open the safe—and go out again, money or no money.” Rocky shifted his weight and leaned against the other side of the door as Tom continued in a pleading tone. “I got the skidoo and sled. That can take the three of us. You won’t see a track in this storm. Nobody will ever know. Get you back here, us to the house, stash the money somewhere until it blows over.”
It sounded like an unassailable idea. There was probably a lot of money in Dick Furneaux’s safe, a lot of money for a Newfoundland outport. Jimmy studied the two men in the kitchen, waiting for his move in the spluttering light of the lamp on the table. Out of instinct he reached down and turned off the gas, then blew it out, as if the darkness somehow would hide the presentiment of the criminal plans, leave no clue as to their discussions.
He walked to the window and looked across the road, and for the first time since the church he could feel the old urges return, the old way, the only way he knew. Maybe they were right. Take the money, head across the Gulf, get to Vancouver, maybe even down in the States. These were big countries. Maybe this was the one, like the ones he had read about. The great train robber from England who never got caught—living in Brazil with a barrel of money. Christmastime, there could be a lot of money in that safe!
Jimmy searched outside the window for some beacon to guide him, but saw only the solitary streetlight maintaining its lonely vigil in the middle of the shrieking storm, silently casting its yellow hue over the heaving, shifting drifts, obliterating the dark shadows that ran before the wind. The Christmas tree lights had all been unplugged, and the houses were in darkness. His eyes fell on Vince Wilson’s house. Cheri Wilson was sleeping in one of those rooms. He tried to picture her asleep, the curled perm that just didn’t suit. He turned abruptly and faced the two men, awaiting his response with sullen anticipation. Jack Gregory was right—no matter how long he stayed in jail, he still wouldn’t own the place.