by Hubert Furey
Jimmy had difficulty following. He had been away too long, away from a world that thought about things like catching salmon in the early summer or lying on the sand in the July sun and having a beer in the cool of the evening in a cabin by the river. In the world of cell bars and clanging steel, images like that were quickly shut out of one’s mind. They were simply too torturous.
“Who’s going to do all this stuff?”
“Tourists! My son, tourists. They’ve already started to move around Newfoundland like crazy, and they’re coming in from everywhere else, just to see us and spend their money. That piece of property, developed the right way, can be worth a fortune to whoever owns it.”
Jimmy half-laughed in response. “I expect it’s going to be waiting there a long time, Ritchie, before I can turn it inside out.” Jimmy was beginning to get into the swing of the conversation.
“You don’t have to. That’s the whole point of my wanting a few words with you, important words. When you get straightened away. No big rush. When you’re good and ready to sit down and talk, we’ll be ready to talk good money with you.”
“We? You know somebody who wants to own it?”
“I do indeed! Me and a couple of other lawyers in the firm—plus one very big name in money in Newfoundland. We want to move this spring. We’re talking big money here, really big money.”
“Big money?”
“Big money. In the thousands and thousands, my man. My partners believe this is going to be a big money-maker and are willing to pay out big bucks upfront to keep out the competition.”
“There are other people?”
“Indeedy deed. I might as well tell you, because you’re going to be approached by a St. John’s businessman with ties to some very influential Americans. I’m getting our foot in the door first, so to speak. First crack. As part of the purchase price, you could have shares, whatever.” The rest of the group were standing in various postures of readiness, and Ritchie Furneaux got up to join them, winking knowingly at Jimmy. “Get yourself a good lawyer. Talk it over with the old man. If he can’t give you good advice, nobody can. Keep the lines open.”
Charlie Mackay was hugging Mother Hennessey, his glazed eyes mischievous and winking. “We got to go, b’ys. There’s nuttin’ left to drink, and all the women here are too shart to dance with.”
“The divil bust yeh,” retorted Mother Hennessey as she playfully pushed them to the door. “Ye drank me whole flamin’ bottle.”
He looked in Jimmy’s direction, his eyes serious. “Are ye comin’ with us, Jimmy? Do a little coastin’.”
“No. I don’t think everybody in Brine Cove is ready for me yet.” He had meant it sincerely, and Charlie Mackay looked at him as if he understood.
“Another time.”
* * * * *
Jimmy watched from the window as the men slipped and slid down the path, while Mother Hennessey turned to busy herself, chuckling in obvious delight. He was rendered speechless by Ritchie Furneaux’s conversation, overcome by the shock of the unexpected revelation. Only moments before he had been a jailbird, an ex-con, the lowest on the totem pole of the world’s riff-raff—condemned to a life of job-hunting for minimum wage, if anybody would give him a job—transformed in an instant to somebody who was heir to a Newfoundland fortune in land and prospects, if he could believe what he was hearing.
“Did you hear all that? Ritchie Furneaux, I mean.” He was addressing Mother Hennessey.
“Every bit, b’y, before he spoke a word of it. I got it all from his farda the day of the funeral.”
“I mean, I can’t believe . . .”
Mother Hennessey was chomping on a hot knob, crunching it noisily. “You can believe it, b’y. If there’s one man you can trust with your life in Brine Cove, ’tis Dick Furneaux, and he brought up his chil’ren to be just like himself. You won’t go wrong dealing with them people. I’d have nothing to do with them other people, if you’d take my advice.” The old woman was right. If Ritchie Furneaux was the son of Dick Furneaux, there was no doubting the facts—or the fairness, either. In any other situation, listening to any other person but one of Dick Furneaux’s sons, he would have laughed in the speaker’s face, and expressed a few obscenities besides.
Jimmy rose to leave, adjusting his windbreaker about his shoulders, hauling the cap far down over his ears. As he stuffed the mitts into his side pockets, he remembered his mother’s picture and reached for it, gazing on it for just one more moment before tucking it securely within the inside pocket of his jacket. He turned to say goodbye to the old woman as she followed him to the door, but he found himself unable to speak. He didn’t deserve any of this, but to her it didn’t seem to matter, the uncanny way she had of reading his thoughts.
“Go on, b’y! Live your life and do what you have to do. God is good.”
Without being aware that he had parted from the old woman, or that he had opened or closed the door, he found himself standing on the step outside, dazed and incredulous, face to face with the world around him, an afternoon world of sharp cold and winter whiteness where cars and people and flying snowballs moved noiselessly in the distance around him, as if in a dream and he were wide awake. He was alone again, but it was a feeling that no longer induced fear, like those other times, when being alone drove him to escape from all that was tasteless and pallid and useless in his life, and made him strike out in whatever direction, to leave whatever was pursuing and haunting him far behind.
In those other times, he would walk, walk until his legs sagged and his shoulders drooped and he collapsed somewhere by the side of the road and he was drained of all feeling for life or existence or being or any connection with the alien world around him. He wanted to walk now, too, but not for the same reasons. He wanted to walk now to hold onto the wondrous sense that was taking possession of him. For the first time since he began the road to prison, he had something to think about besides crimes and sentences and cruel, wrenching, horrific memories of the past, and he would need to walk a very long time.
* * * * *
When he got to the gate, something prompted him to turn left. He wanted again to see the rest of Brine Cove, to see it again from the perspective of his new vision. The break-ins and fights on Prue’s Point were still in his memory, but they were memories of a faraway time, silent pictures on the wall of his mind, to be hung there as reminders, but as nothing more. There was more traffic now, and he hugged the side of the road by the snow cut to give the cars more room to manoeuvre, cars that contained faces he remembered from the church and the crowd across from the police car, faces that nodded and smiled to him.
Frank Ryan looked just as sullen, but he swiped his head sideways in that traditional Newfoundland male greeting, and Barry O’Keefe tooted the horn. He noticed Sheila’s hand on Barry’s shoulder as they passed, and she looked at him as the car went along, and was still looking at him as the car disappeared from sight. Vince Wilson’s car passed, and an exuberant Cheri Wilson waved from the back seat, pointing excitedly ahead, as if she were indicating a destination. He tried to read her lips but was unable to do so in the hurried movement of the vehicle. Other cars passed, too, oblivious to his presence by the side of the road, but it didn’t matter. He was beginning to realize now that it wasn’t any longer him and the world, with the world on the other side, that the drivers who ignored him could just as easily be worried about the road and the closeness of their cars.
He was about to step out into the path he had been following when a horn blasted just feet away, shocking him into instant escape. Jimmy jumped sideways to avoid what he was sure was an impending blow from a car that must be out of control behind him, but he tripped in his haste and wound up being hurled headlong in the drift, flailing his arms in a futile effort to restrain his fall. He extricated himself from the snow by rolling into a sitting position on the side of the road, where he
remained, brushing the snow from his arms and shoulders and trying to regain his composure as the car eased to a halt. He looked through snow-covered eyes at laughing faces protruding through the open windows of the car—the same faces from Mother Hennessey’s house—taking full advantage of the moment to enjoy, with obvious glee, his embarrassing predicament. Then he relaxed back in the snow, allowing himself to become part of the game that he was now sure would follow, a game in which he would be the butt of good-natured Newfoundland “tarmentin’.” Only yesterday . . .
Ritchie Furneaux was sitting behind the wheel, shaking his head from side to side in obvious enjoyment, a quiet smile on his face. Charlie Mackay leaned out the back window, a look of mock surprise on his face. “Lard dyin’, ol’ man, you got nar a drop in ye at a’tall, and still ye’re goin’ arse up in the snowbank. I’d hate to see ye when ye gets a few in.” The remark drew gales of laughter, as Jimmy got to his feet, aware that he was laughing himself. Yes, only yesterday . . .
Charlie Mackay was still bellowing through the window. “We’s all goin’ down to Dick Furneaux’s for a time. Ritchie here invited us, didn’t ye, Ritchie?” The loudness of the statement was accompanied on Charlie’s part by a vicious scrubbing of Ritchie’s head.
Ritchie managed a compliant sigh, an indicator that the invitation was decidedly more invented that real, but he nodded his head in agreement, addressing Jimmy from low over the steering wheel, where he sought to escape Charlie’s over-friendly action. “Yes, come on down. There’s plenty of room yet.” Jimmy studied the car and its occupants intently. It would be the perfect ending to a perfect day—a time down at Dick Furneaux’s on Christmas Day—but something inside him was reluctant.
“I dunno. I’m on probation, you know. Maybe I shouldn’t be where there’s liquor, you know.” He desperately wanted to join them, but the inner cautioning grew stronger. Best not to rush it. There was time. Christmas had only just begun.
“I’ll tell you what. You guys go on down, and I’ll come around in a little while. I still have to clear my head after the questioning, and the lads are still connecting me with them other two. I’ll walk a little bit and see ye later.” He didn’t want to rush into Furneaux’s like that. The first time they’d seen him since he broke into their store, to waltz in with a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, as if nothing had ever happened. No, it had to be different from that. He didn’t know how it had to be, but it couldn’t be like that.
“You’re more than welcome, you know.” It was Ritchie Furneaux’s voice again, kind and direct. “You got to forget about that other stuff sometime.”
He saw the sincere honesty of the other man’s eyes, and he knew it was true, but he still wasn’t ready. He still wanted to do it his own way, whatever that way was. “No, I’d kinda like to speak to your father first. You know, before just barging in like that. But I will come down.”
“Don’t forget, now.”
“Yes, any time between now and five o’clock tomorra mornin’.” It was Charlie Mackay’s boisterous voice, and they all roared laughing again as the windows rolled up and the car went into motion. Jimmy watched the vehicle move slowly away, still hearing the loud voices. He smiled wryly as he thought over Charlie Mackay’s last remark.
“Those lads will be in good trim by twelve o’clock tonight, let alone five o’clock tomorrow morning.”
He passed the church, quiet in its solitude in the morning brightness, but there were no cars whining and growling anywhere in sight now. Fr. MacIntyre probably said Mass in Pinchgut, as he couldn’t get there last night. He stood for a time, mentally transporting himself inside, trying to recall how it had happened the night before, but all he could remember were the warmth and the movement, and the many faces of the people in the congregation. The destructive memories seemed to have been left behind.
Jimmy passed the mill again, tipped precariously on its foundation, the encroaching snow heaped on its slanted sides seemingly bent on the last stages of its destruction. Nothing remained now but the ramshackle shell of its exterior, grey and weather-beaten and crumbling, with black, depressing holes for windows. It wasn’t like that when he was a child, playing on the dam or fascinated by the hypnotic motion of the big, black belts that seemed to flap and wobble without control as they turned the snarling saws. It was one of the last of the old water-powered sawmills, but it was gutted now. People like Tom Blanchard didn’t leave an unprotected building alone for very long. They weren’t like vultures. Vultures ate because they had to.
He tipped the little rise that put the rest of Brine Cove within his view, and he could see the police cruiser pulling away from Furneaux’s store. He wondered how they had done with their investigation. Maybe they would get Tom’s fingerprints off the cigarette pack and tie him in with the break-in. Knowing Tom, this would be bad for Rocky, because Tom would sing his guts out to save his own skin.
Across from the store was the big, white, old-fashioned two-storey house where Dick Furneaux lived, and which had not been changed one iota since it was built a hundred years before by Dick Furneaux’s grandfather. It was only partially visible from where he stood, buried as it was in a forest of spruce and juniper, obscuring his view from the south side. The yard was full of vehicles of every description, and cars extended up and down the road on both sides of the narrow snow cut. Dick Furneaux wasn’t letting a little thing like a store break-in interfere with his Christmas party. With Charlie Mackay and the b’ys there, they’d be holding on to the stove by suppertime.
He stopped by the driveway of Furneaux’s house, greeted by the sounds of an old-time outport party in full swing, swelling in cadence, filling the whole yard with its rousing warmth. He could hear Charlie Mackay booming some inaudible comment, which was greeted with a chorus of laughter. The strains of an accordion could be heard amid the noisy, convivial talking that didn’t obscure the clear, trilling voice of a woman singing “Molly Bawn.” Bertha Wilson, Cheri’s mother, had not lost her voice, even though it was twenty years since he had heard it. He leaned against the gatepost to better savour the moment, listening as the noise and commotion dwindled in respect and the clearly articulated lines of the old Irish melody, blending with the gentle rhythm of the accordion, wafted down the frozen pathway.
“Here I am sad and lonely . . .” His grandmother used to cry when she sang that part, and his mother used to stop whatever she was doing to look through the window, somewhere in the direction of the mainland. At times his mother would help his grandmother out with the words, although she never sang herself. He suddenly felt an aching sense of longing, a desperate need to be with them, to be part of it, to go in for just one brief minute and be just like everybody else; to sit and listen and watch and enjoy and be a part of it—just for one minute—like everybody else. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn his feet in the direction of the house.
Jimmy left the gateway with an abrupt movement, saddened and torn by what he could not do, what he had never been able to do, what he would now like to do more than anything else in the world. He struck out along the shore road, his head bent to the rising wind, trying to imagine what it would be like to be inside, to be part of them again, like he was at Mother Hennessey’s. A flock of snowbirds chittered in the trees, calling him, prompting him to look back, and he turned as if he expected the house to beckon him to return and enter, but it just sat there among the trees, unmoving, offering nothing to his lonely spirit.
He turned back with a heavy sigh and walked on, disheartened by what he could not reach, despondent by what he could not attain, but the music and laughter followed him over the distance, persistent in their sound of hope. Perhaps it would happen for him one day, as it had happened for them, when he would walk in and feel welcome and sit quietly on some chair in the corner and watch as they sang and danced, and enjoy their closeness and cheery warmth. Perhaps one day, but now was not the time—and he knew it had nothi
ng to do with the people inside the house or with anything they had done or said. He knew now it was all about him and his past, a past which hung about his shoulders like the millstone he had heard about as a child in sermons, weighing him down, smothering every whisper of hope that tried to make its presence felt, crushing and choking it like the heavy, wet snow was crushing and choking the fledgling branches that lined his path.
He knew Ritchie Furneaux was sincere. He knew they would welcome him, make him feel at home, but he just couldn’t do it. He walked on with heavy steps, toward the other end of the harbour, toward whatever was there, continuing his solitary communion with the winter world around him. But there was no longer solace or balm in the wonderland of beauty in which he was immersed. The purity of the whiteness which extended in every direction as far as the eye could see served now only to heighten the contrast with the darkness which had settled once again over his soul, stabbing him with its relentless remorse.
How could he repay? What did he have to do?
He compulsively turned up Fairy Lane, abandoning the houses of the outport and the line of trees which skirted that side of the ridge for the open country of the highland. Even though the snow had not gathered as deeply as in the valley below, his pace was still slow and difficult, with practically every step up to his knees. Still, he welcomed the difficult slogging motion he was forced to use, a tangible challenge to his immense energy. Better to sweat and trudge in the snow than waste more effort on the draining thoughts which had returned to hound him mercilessly, torturing his flailed spirit.
He stopped, panting and out of breath, on the little rise they called the Fairy Cap, and surveyed the panorama of cold, frozen, dazzling beauty which unravelled before him. Except for the clear blue of the sky, the heaviness of the ocean, and the dark, brooding green of the spruce that skirted the base of the ridge below him, it was an endless mantle of white, silent and undulating and untrammelled. The wind was sharp and cutting, stinging his face, but he ignored it, overcome by the sweeping power of the magnificent scene before him, feeling puny and small and insignificant in the presence of so much awesome beauty.