The Most Perfect Gift
Page 26
Jimmy found himself being jocose, totally surprised at the teasing in his voice. “Good cover, Ritchie.”
Ritchie Furneaux was laughing over his shoulder as he walked away, zippering his parka. The Mountie was not unattractive. “Hey! Lawyers and police have to have a close working relationship. Who knows how close you can get.” They were still laughing as they got in the car and drove away. Jimmy could never remember in his life having passed a lighthearted comment like that to anyone.
They had hardly left when the door burst open and Charlie Mackay stomped heavily on the wooden veranda, swaying slightly from the effect of a lot of drink. He was followed by Sheila O’Keefe and Barry. Charlie was being boisterous, but his eyes looked like they were going to burst. He had grasped Jimmy’s hand in both of his. Jimmy felt the strength and hoped in his drunken state Charlie wouldn’t squeeze any harder.
“Me farda, God rest his soul, used to say it was an honour to take a trimmin’ from a good man—and certainly he could take a trimmin’ with the best of ’em—and I’ll be able to brag to me children I took a trimmin’ from Jimmy Blanchard.” He held Jimmy’s hand for what seemed a long time, his eyes filling, his lips quivering, trying to choke back the emotion. Then he turned to the O’Keefes, waiting patiently in the doorway. “Barry here is giving me a lift home. Wouldn’t take the truck today. I always knew you was a good man, Jimmy Blanchard. I just could never bring meself to admit it.” He patted Jimmy on the shoulder and walked heavily down the steps, using the railing for support.
Jimmy turned to watch Sheila O’Keefe emerge with Barry standing behind her, his arm around her waist comfortingly. She stood for a moment, simply looking at him, then she grasped his cheeks in both her hands, holding them as she looked into his eyes. She pulled his cheek to her lips and held it there, while her body shook and tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. She held him for an instant, tightly, then stepped back, in her full regal beauty, like he used to see her standing on the head of the wharf on summer evenings. She didn’t speak, but he could read the thoughts in her eyes, and he knew he was forgiven. He knew he had repaid.
She stepped around him and followed Charlie Mackay to the car, while Barry O’Keefe, totally overcome with emotion, grasped Jimmy’s hand tightly. He seemed unable to speak with the intensity of the emotion that surrounded him, but the firmness of the grip and the eyes that cried unashamedly spoke for him, attesting to the undying love he had for his wife, and Jimmy felt glad Sheila O’Keefe had Barry for a husband. If anybody would be able to wipe out an evil memory, it would be him. Barry disengaged himself and walked down the steps, still overcome with emotion. He could see now he had always had the wrong opinion of Barry O’Keefe, too. If he hadn’t been there, Barry O’Keefe would have been the first to go down.
Cheri Wilson nudged him out of his thinking. “Come on. Let’s walk. It’s a perfect evening. I can see the first star. And there’s the moon, over Saddle Mountain. You won’t have to beat the path for me this time. Come on.”
She had extended her arm, but he remained motionless, reluctant to accept the emergence of a totally different future. The past had been evil, but it had been comfortable, and he knew it well. What about if he went back—tomorrow? “I don’t know, Cheri. I still have a long way to go. I’ve only been back twenty-four hours, with the kind of life I’ve had behind me . . .”
“One day at a time, Jimmy Blanchard. That’s how the song goes. One day at a time.” She waited with her arm still extended, and he moved to embrace it, not wanting the moment to end, for fear it might never return again. At the gate, they met Mother Hennessey, clinging to the side of the road in her hobbling gait. She stopped at the sight of them.
“Ah, fer young blood. Yer the talk of the harbour again, Jimmy Blanchard. Now thas people fer ye. A few hours ago they was prayin’ ye’d never come back, and now they’re all gloryin’ that ye did. I see ye took me advice and did something good. Yer mother will be at peace now, God rest her soul. Now, give me yer hand again up Dick Furneaux’s path. I knows ’tis slippery. She’ll wait fer ye. I can see by the cut uv ’er.”
Cheri Wilson laughed as Jimmy led the old woman up the hard-crusted slope. When he had deposited her safely by the door, he turned and ran down the steps, sliding like a teenager down the icy surface of the path. Cheri Wilson had come back to meet him, and she stood deliberately in the gateway to have him catch her. They walked arm in arm along the road, now beginning to appear more sharply white in the descending darkness. He would have to light the fires before he went to Cheri Wilson’s place. He knew there was still no way Vince Wilson was going to let him stay overnight, even if he grudgingly allowed him to supper, after all that had happened. His fingers found the key in his pocket, and he clasped the medal, fondling it thoughtfully, thinking back to the Fairy Cap.
Was there another explanation?
He turned to look at Cheri by his side, imbued with a feeling of warmth that he was experiencing for the first time. Her hood had dropped, revealing the curled perm that just didn’t suit. Yet it radiated its own form of beauty in the moonlit night. He fell in step beside her, absorbed in her physical presence as she walked beside him. He thought back to the first time he had gazed on her like this, and how ordinary she had appeared to him then. The word had no meaning for him now. It was so out of place. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks to Joan Tubrett for the initial reading of the manuscript and for her very positive review; to Elizabeth Malischewski for her reading of “A Very Blue Christmas” and her constructive corrections; to David Furey and Nanette Bishop for their technical assistance; to Robin McGrath for a thorough editing of the text; and to the staff of Flanker Press—Garry, Margo, Jerry, and Nick Cranford, Ed Oldford, Peter Hanes, Bob Woodworth, Cassandra Aucoin, and Grant Loveys—for their ongoing interest and affirmation. Thank you also to Charles Detiege, Maureen Woodford, and Anne Marie Carroll for their interest and helpful suggestions. Lastly, a huge debt of gratitude to my wife, Eleanor, for her continued support and loving encouragement.
About the Author
It started with a comical tale about raisin bread, baked in an outport kitchen without raisins. Today, Hubert Furey has been more surprised than anyone by what has followed for him. The outpouring of interest for his recitations about rural life in yesteryear Newfoundland and Labrador led to a full-length recording of stories. Concerts, live theatre performances, television and radio appearances promoting recitations, and the resurgence of the art form have been a delight for this former district superintendent of education and lifetime Harbour Main resident. Hubert and his wife, Eleanor, have five children and six grandchildren. The Most Perfect Gift is his second book. His first, As the Old Folks Would Say, earned critical acclaim and a permanent place among Newfoundland and Labrador’s finest literary works.