by Ed Kavanagh
“How was the Club?” Tillie asks the next day.
“Depressing,” Raymond says. “If they’re Newfoundlanders they’re not like any I ever met.”
“What do you mean?” Tillie says. “That’s where they all go, isn’t it?”
“It’s just that it was so . . . fake. Everyone was playing at being a Newfoundlander. Romanticizing it. Jesus, they got stronger accents here than they ever did at home. They had fish and brewis there and they were all diggin’ into it like it was caviar. When they were youngsters I bet they wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole. Clappin’ and shoutin’ along with accordion music. Lining up to buy tapes that had a picture of some joker sitting on a rock in the snow holding an electric guitar with the ocean in the background. I can see ’em buying that if they were home. God knows I misses St. John’s, but I will not be a bloody Newfoundland romantic. There’s too much to remember.”
“Like what?” Tillie asks.
What can he say? That he misses a city full of poverty and ignorance? Welfare money and unemployment cheques buying plastic trinkets at Woolworth’s? A port city where fresh cod is too expensive for the locals so they eat breaded fish sticks imported from the mainland?
But he does miss his late-night walks around St. John’s. He’d look forward to taking his girl home so he could have the city to himself on the way back to the Battery. He remembers waiting to glimpse the expanding ocean through the Narrows. The cutting scent of salt in the spring fog. The heavy age of the city. Hearing the whispering ghosts of drowned sailors. Seeing the figure of Johnny Burke labouring up Prescott Street, his bowler hat pulled low over his eyes. Raymond knows these ghosts. He sees the brazen St. John’s cats blinking on doorsteps, challenging dogs and pigeons and twist-tied garbage bags. Jesus, he thinks. I really am the dreamy one.
Raymond wonders if the chemicals in the factory are making him crazy. He is becoming clairvoyant. He sees himself saving money and going home for a visit. He’ll be like the relations he remembers from childhood, showing up on the doorstep wearing strange clothes and talking with funny accents.
One day a young woman stops Raymond on Yonge Street. “Well, I’d heard you made the big move,” she says. “How you doing?”
“Fine,” Raymond says. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s Lorraine Maher. She looks different somehow. Maybe it’s her clothes. “I’m all right,” he says. “I got a job. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m teaching out in Scarborough. Don’t you just love it up here?”
“Yeah,” Raymond says. “Good bookstores.”
“Well, see you.”
“Sure.”
Lorraine turns into the crowd and then shouts back, “Listen, sometimes my friends and I go to the Newfoundland Club on Saturday nights. You should come. We’ll have a ball.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“It’s great. They have Newfoundland food and music and everything.”
“Yeah,” Raymond says. “I know.”
In the winter a letter informs him that his younger brother Sean has decided to move up. On Raymond’s 167th day he knocks on the door. Sean sits on Raymond’s couch with his suitcases clustered around him and drinks tea while Tillie fusses over them. Sean is excited about being in Toronto, and Raymond tries hard to forgive him for this.
“So how you making out,” Sean says. “I suppose you gets homesick, do you? Sure what odds, b’y. You’re making the bucks.”
“It’s okay here,” Raymond says. “But I do miss the family. And the water and the gulls.”
“Gulls?” Sean says. “Jesus, b’y, it’s just as well to stay here if it’s gulls you wants to see.”
“Why?” Raymond says.
“Sure there’s not nearly as many gulls in the harbour as there used to be.”
“Why?” Raymond says, surprised. “Where’d they go?”
“Inland,” Sean says. “Ever since the fish plant closed, there’s no food for ’em. Or not as much. It’s a funny thing, but you’ll see gulls these days where you’d never see ’em before. We were off hunting the fall and the bloody woods was loaded with ’em. You’ll see them anywhere they figures they can get a meal.” Sean shakes his head. “They’re like us, b’y—bloody refugees.”
Raymond stares out the window and nods. On the sidewalk a scrawny starling is pecking at a McDonald’s milkshake container. Raymond closes his eyes and thinks of kittiwakes and petrels, of puffins heading home to their burrows, silver capelin dangling from their beaks.
Houses
I never knew my paternal grandfather. He has come to me only through stories and in the dog-eared snaps my grandmother kept tucked in her Sunday purse. The photos date from the 1940s, but they’re remarkably Victorian in their solemnity. I remember one in particular. It must have been taken for a wedding or funeral—some grand occasion—because he’s decked out in a rumpled double-breasted suit. His lanky frame is too big for the jacket, his sinewy neck dwarfs the crooked bow tie, and his hands, clenched in fists, hang far below the sleeves.
As a child I was intimidated by those pictures—by a man who had died years before I was born: the hardness of his expression, the stories of his rowdyism. I could never imagine him with my gentle, dainty grandmother: Gran of the clipped white hair and softly modulated voice. The pictures, of course, are black and white, but I can always imagine the red hair that Gran often spoke of. And indeed in some of the snaps my grandfather looks much like Van Gogh in his self-portraits: that relentless, penetrating stare that steels its way through you and then vanishes behind bottomless blue eyes.
Peter “Bull” Mackey died in 1951. He was just thirty-three years old and had always been a healthy, vigorous man. Six-foot-five with that bottlebrush red hair, it was easy to see how he got his nickname.
My grandfather was a fisherman. He must have thought that if he was marked for an early death, it would come on the water. Those shadowy mornings on the wharf, peering into the hissing, saw-toothed waves. Glancing at Paddy and Dennis. The men nodding or shaking their heads, flicking cigarette butts into the inky ocean. Making the decision.
Perhaps it would be the capricious pitch of the boat while he was taking a leak. Half the small-boat fishermen who washed up on shore were found with their flies open. But maybe he was too busy to even think about it. The face in the photographs seems preoccupied with work— made for work. The expression shouts, Why am I posing for this stupid photo when the new rodney needs caulking? When Charlie Rafferty’s roof is only half on? For God’s sake click the jeezly button and let me get the hell out of here.
But he didn’t die on the water: he died shaving. Lucy never believed it. “Your grandmother’s having you on,” she’d say. “People don’t die shaving—not unless they have a heart attack or something.”
But Bull Mackey did. Well, not exactly during the shave. It was my grandmother who always said he’d “died shaving.” He’d actually lived for two or three days—perhaps as long as a week. Gran was never consistent about the time frame. Just before she herself died last year, she emerged from a drug-induced delirium and, in her rambling, seemed to be saying that he’d died the same day. No matter. My grandfather cut himself shaving and blood poisoning set in. There was no doctor in St. Mark’s, and the heaviest ice and snow in years made it impossible for one to get there. The nurse, or whoever acted as nurse, did little more than set a poultice while Gran stroked his brow.
I’ve often wondered what the Bull thought about once he knew for certain that he would never rise from that bed. Were his thoughts turned to his maker? His wife and two small boys? Was he irritated at the thought of all the work he was leaving undone? Or was he simply embarrassed? Falling over the side of a boat while taking a pee was an honourable way to die compared to death by shaving. Not a fit way for the Bull to go. The manner of his death was the one thing that made my grandmother question her Christian faith. He cut himself on a Sunday morning, one of the few days of the week when he shaved. “There he was,” she
’d say, “trying to look his best on the Lord’s Day, and it ended up killing him. Makes you think.”
My grandmother was ninety-three when she died. She was with her husband for sixteen years and without him for fifty-six. And although there were offers of marriage— some, according to family folklore, quite lucrative and persistent—she never remarried. The Bull would be her only man. And for all those years she remained in their original house.
About a year before she died, when she’d finally moved to a seniors’ home in St. John’s, my grandmother bequeathed the house to me.
I first met Lucy at an Open House I’d tagged along to with a friend. Lucy’s a chronic real estate addict—the kind who enjoys a leisurely Sunday brunch with the Home Buyer’s Guide and then maps out a pleasant afternoon of looking; the kind who can spend twenty minutes staring at mouldings. We struck up a conversation because the house had Belgian stained glass windows and she was dying to talk to someone about them. Not that I have the first clue about stained glass—Belgian or otherwise. But her animation was infectious, and I liked her flecked grey eyes and French bangs.
As I listened to her, the seed of a word stirred in my head and finally blossomed: chic. Glossy magazine chic. I had never met anyone quite like Lucy. It’s safe to say that none of my previous girlfriends subscribed to Vogue or Glamour. They favoured pastel cotton skirts, turquoise bead necklaces, and tended to be rather windblown and wan. I’ve forgotten its name, but I still remember the scent of the perfume Lucy was wearing. Perfume, I would soon discover, was her other addiction. It struck me long afterwards that, in all the time we were together, I don’t think I ever truly smelled or tasted her.
Lucy often dragged me along to Open Houses—or attempted to. I thought it was a waste of time. She never intended to buy, and there was certainly no need. Her own house, if not exactly a mansion, was pretty close. When I’d moved in with her, she told me that she’d bought the house—despite the heavy mortgage payments and all the fixing up—because of its winding staircases. She’d wanted a winding staircase, she said, ever since she was a little girl and had seen one in a storybook. How could she possibly pass up a house that had two?
A few weeks after my grandmother had told me about her gift, I turned the car down the Trans-Canada, and Lucy and I drove the three and a half hours to St. Mark’s. I could tell that Lucy wasn’t too excited. It was, after all, a Sunday, and she’d had to change some of her plans. She attempted a brave face, but a pout lurked on her cherry lips.
“What’s the problem?” I said. “You love looking at houses.”
“Yes, but this is not really a house.”
I shot her a sidelong glance. “It’s not?”
“You know what I mean. It’s old, right? Isn’t it just another saltbox?” She laughed. “They’re all like that down the Shore—saltboxes or bungalows.”
I gripped the wheel harder. “Not all of them. Not this one.”
“No?”
“I mean it is old, but, now that I think about it, it’s actually very unique.”
Lucy laughed. “I can’t wait.” She gazed out the window. “When was the last time you were there?”
“A couple of years ago. I took a friend down to the bird sanctuary and we dropped by Gran’s for tea on the way back. It was just before she moved into town.”
“She didn’t hint that she was thinking about giving you the house?”
“Not that I can remember.”
Lucy shook her head. “That’s odd.”
It was a stark blue day in June and surprisingly calm for the Cape Shore. I almost expected the slanting tuckamore to spring straight up any second.
“Look,” I said, when we stopped to stretch our legs at Gooseberry Cove. “A whale.” It was a minke, its black body glinting in the milky, turquoise water.
Lucy shaded her eyes to look at it. “You know, I don’t really get whales. Or whale-watching. I mean it’s not like you can really see anything.”
I shrugged. “I guess some of it is just knowing they’re there.”
“I suppose.” Lucy rummaged through her purse for a mint. “So did you spend a lot of time in St. Mark’s when you were a kid? I practically lived at my gran’s.”
“A fair bit—considering the distance. And we moved to the west coast when I was ten. But whenever we came east we made a point of visiting. Parts of the road weren’t even paved then, so it was usually a bit of an adventure. But I always liked coming down the Shore—Christmases, in particular.” I laughed. “Although once I spilled syrup on the organ and got a good smack from a great-aunt. But it was cosy at Gran’s. And it was typical Cape Shore—lots of music and dancing. Storytelling, recitations—the works. I wasn’t getting too much of that kind of thing at home.”
“You got your dose of culture.”
“I did.”
Lucy paused. “So tell me—why do you think she gave it to you? What makes you so special?”
I laughed. “Beats me.”
“You must have some idea.”
“She just said I was the proper one to have it. That’s exactly how she put it: the proper one. She wouldn’t elaborate.”
“Strange.”
“There might be other reasons.”
“Oh?”
“It’s like I told you: as soon as I was old enough— eighteen, nineteen—I was always away: seeing the world. Gran called me the ‘traveller.’ My hitchhiking around probably gave my mother a few grey hairs, but Gran liked that I was visiting all those faraway places—places she’d never seen and never would. I used to send her postcards from Paris or Tangiers or wherever and she kept every one. I don’t know. But that might be why: she probably figures I’ll never settle down long enough to get a house on my own. I mean, look at me even now—living with you. She still considers me a bit of a vagabond.” I paused.
Lucy raised her eyebrows at me. “And?”
“Well, you’ll probably laugh, but when I was little I used to write to her—you know, because she lived so far away and I didn’t get to see her all that often.”
“How sweet.”
“To tell the truth, Mom used to make me. And, as kids do, I’d send her drawings—crayoned barns and cows and ships—you know: fridge magnet stuff. I remember once I sent her a picture of a house. She wrote back thanking me and hoping that when I grew up I’d get to live in one just as beautiful.”
Lucy sucked on her mint. “So what are you saying? She’s trying to make your crayoned mansion come to life? She doesn’t want you to end up as a squatter or on the street?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really want to know. I just think it was very good of her to give it to me. Maybe that’s enough.”
Lucy shrugged. “I guess.”
We didn’t say much for the rest of the trip, just took in the scenery and listened to the radio.
The lane to the house was bordered on each side by a tangle of ancient aspens and maples. As we drove in, drooping branches brushed the car. The trees would need to be cut back. I grinned to myself: already I was thinking like a homeowner. But there, finally, with the violet, white-capped ocean in the background, was Gran’s house. My house.
We got out of the car and looked it up and down. Sheer curtains furled and unfurled through an inch of open kitchen window. Sun-dazed houseflies bounced against the windowpanes. Vacant for more than a year, the house looked surprisingly lived in and welcoming.
Lucy turned to me, one eyebrow raised, her normally smooth forehead creased with wrinkles. “My God,” she said, “it’s like a doll house.” She punched me in the arm and laughed. “What were your grandparents—pygmies?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. A lot of people have got cabins bigger than that. Why didn’t you tell me it was so small?”
I looked again at the house. “I don’t know. It never struck me as small. I guess I’m just used to it.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Lucy said, “it is cute. But—how many kids did you say they ha
d?”
“Just two: my father and Uncle Jack.”
Lucy looked at me wryly. “Good thing, I’d say.”
I opened the lock on the side door and we stepped into the kitchen. The air was hot and dry, but the room was immaculately clean. Even the blanket on the daybed was pulled as taut as a soldier’s army cot. The kitchen led into the sitting room: bright even with drawn curtains. The Heintzman organ looked as if it had been recently polished. Lucy glanced around and peered through the windows, but then she flopped into an armchair and started leafing through an old Reader’s Digest.
“Coming upstairs?” I asked.
She put down the magazine and grinned. “There’s an upstairs?”
We climbed the short stairwell. Light from two windows lit the polished landing. I went into the south bedroom and sat down on the quilted bed. Lucy was examining a wash jug in the other bedroom.
“How come everything is still here?” she called.
“Well, I guess the Home would only let her take so much.”
Lucy came in and sat down beside me. “It’s a real blast from the past.”
“I wonder which room,” I said.
She looked at me blankly.
“Which room he died in—the Bull.”
Lucy shrugged and bugged her eyes out. “I can’t even imagine how he’d get through the door. Didn’t you say he was a big guy?”
“Huge apparently. Six-five—something like that.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. I can barely get around in this place.”
“I know. It is a little on the small side—now that you mention it.”
“I mean you’d think they would have had something bigger.”
I nodded. “I guess you would.”
Lucy got up and stared out the window. “So what are you going to do with it? Sell it?”
“I could never do that. Besides, Gran wouldn’t let me. That was her one condition.”
Lucy turned to me and grinned. “You’ll think of something.”