by Lori Weber
Every time Jim says the word tourist he gives it a bit of a kick, like he has to fling the word out of his mouth, like it bothers him that people want to come here to see the province and all its natural beauty. I guess it’s because he knows the other side of it, the side that made his dad leave home.
“Should we keep going down?” Jim asks, and I nod. He takes my hand and pulls me up. I’m wondering if he’ll keep hold of my hand, but the pathway is so narrow he has to let go. We continue on, stopping every now and then to look back at the water. Jim shields his eyes with his hand and stares intently, as though he’s hoping to see some mythological creature, like the Loch Ness Monster, spring up.
We can now see the harbour and all of St. John’s behind it. It’s a really neat view. I hold out my palm and make as though the entire city is sitting in it. At the bottom of a series of steps, we come to a curve in the path, which at this point is no more than two feet wide. Below it is a dead drop, straight down into rough water. Bolted into the rock above the path is a chain that hikers are supposed to hold and use for leverage as they pull themselves along. I watch a few people do it. I hope the chain is bolted in with a deep rivet because with each person it takes a real yank. I don’t know if I can do it.
“Look inwards, at the rock. Don’t look down. Just take it slow and hold on. You’ll be fine. I’ll be right behind you. Don’t worry,” Jim says. I look behind me and see that my only choice is either to do it or go back up the way we came, which would be a huge climb.
I grab the chain and do as Jim said. I stare at the pink rock and place one foot gingerly in front of the other. It only takes about twenty steps to get around the curve. A couple of tourists waiting to go the other way actually clap for me.
Now, it’s Jim’s turn. He starts off nice and slow, like me. Then halfway around the curve he starts doing this high-wire routine, going all wobbly like he’s trying to balance, hanging out over the cliff with one hand secure on the chain, his legs flailing about behind him. Even the tourists look scared. My heart is beating hard. I’m not ready for this.
“Jim, don’t be an idiot!” I call out, but by then Jim is around the bend and standing right beside me, in one piece.
“I had you going, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, well …” I’m too furious to speak. I try to think what the equivalent would be if Jim came to Montreal and, on his very first day, I took him somewhere dangerous and did this I’m-about-to-die act that would leave him stranded God knows where—like jumping across the metro tracks to the opposite platform, dodging the high-voltage rail, the one that can kill you. How would he like that?
“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you, Cheryl,” Jim says, reaching for my shoulder. I pull back so that his fingers only graze me.
“When I was a kid and we came to visit my aunt, my mother and father had to practically carry me past that spot, one of their arms on each of my shoulders, inching me along. I guess I’ve just gotten so used to it, it’s like nothing now.”
“Forget it,” I say. “Let’s keep going.” I turn, and Jim follows me.
We walk the rest of the path in silence, until we hit this section of pretty flat rocks that lead down to a section of houses that seem to be built into the rock.
“This is the Battery,” Jim explains. “Used to be where they stored the arms and stuff, but now people live here.” What stretch ahead of us are the most unusual houses I’ve ever seen. They’re made of strange shapes as the wood bends around, over, and under the rocks. Even the road—if you can call it that—has to widen or narrow, according to the rock’s design.
At one point we come to somebody’s front deck. I stop, but Jim says not to worry. It’s all part of the pathway and people are allowed on it, like the Parks Canada sign says. Then he points up to a house whose walls and wooden railings are covered in cartoon cutouts, like Bugs Bunny, Tweetie, and Yosemite Sam. Another tiny yard has a collage of dolls sitting at a tea party, with tiny porcelain cups on tables in front of them. A few pottery and artist studios are sandwiched between the houses.
This place is funky. Most people in the smaller towns I lived in were so square you’d get in trouble if your grass wasn’t cropped at exactly two inches. And even the so-called funny stuff that decorated lawns was kind of ordinary, like all those wooden cutouts of old ladies’ bums leaning over in the garden and pink flamingoes. Stuff anyone could buy at Zeller’s.
We continue, hiking narrow paths up and between people’s houses, close enough to reach out and tap their windows. Then we hit a more open section. I look straight up and see nothing but tall grey stone hovering above me, a few stunted trees clinging to it. I can’t help thinking that if this wall were in the city, some developers would already have turned it into a rock-climbing park and there’d be colourful plastic nubs sticking out all over it.
“Here we are,” says Jim. “Standing under eons of history—something that might have existed before dinosaurs even walked the earth. It makes us totally connected to everything that was here before us. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty amazing,” I say.
“I knew you’d like it.”
“You did? How?”
“I don’t know, I just did.” Jim looks right into my eyes for a few seconds. His eyes are hazel in this light, reflecting the copper colour of the sun. I’m not used to being stared at like this, especially by a guy. So, I turn back to the rocks.
At the end of the Battery, we emerge at the base of the hill that we started to climb so many hours earlier. Jim seems impressed that I could do it.
“I never thought you’d make it,” he says.
“Yeah, well, you obviously thought wrong,” I answer.
“Too bad the trip was a failure, though,” he says, hanging his head and shaking it exaggeratedly. My heart stops for a minute. Not that I care. But, why was this a failure? I’m too scared to ask. Maybe I am horrible company. Maybe he has done this walk with other girls—girls who actually made him laugh every now and then. Girls who know how to talk to guys and make them feel all warm inside, or who find his acrobatic stunts amusing instead of terrifying.
Ones who might have the nerve to squeeze his hand in return.
“Yep, a real bummer,” he continues. Now I’m getting angry. I thought our afternoon was pretty good, even though it started off rough. At least Jim seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Well, drag somebody else to the top of a bloody rock next time!” I snap. “I can find my own way back.” I start to turn away.
“If only we’d seen whales,” Jim says in a dreamy voice, letting the word “whales” linger in the air like a whisper. “Yep … with whales this trip would have been … perfect.”
Then something happens to me that hasn’t happened in a long time.
I feel it like a flame on my cheeks, the prickling heat of a full-fledged blush.
•
MY PARENTS STOP talking when I walk into the kitchen. I have a feeling they were discussing me, which they often do when they think I’m not listening. They examine my situation, as they call it, and try to figure out why I don’t fit in. Their theories are that I just don’t try hard enough, that it’s just my age, and that it’s hard to break into new groups. That pretty much covers the whole range of possibilities, I guess, and the one they emphasize just depends on their mood.
I can tell by their faces that they want to pump me full of questions, but they don’t want to appear too eager.
“We saved you some soup, sweetie,” my mother says. “Do you want me to warm it up for you?”
“It’s okay. I can do it,” I answer. I stand over the strange pot, waiting to see little bubbles pop up through the carrots and potatoes. I can almost feel my parents at the table behind me, holding back. As I stare at the soup, I think about saying goodbye to Jim. We lingered outside, between our houses, then I just said something stupid, like thanks for the walk. And he said no problem, anytime. If we’d stayed there any longer, we might have shak
en hands. So I just said, “See ya,” and came in.
“Well, Cheryl, aren’t you going to tell us how your walk went?” my father finally asks.
“The walk was long and hard,” I say, plunking my bowl onto the table. I’m glad the steam is rising to hide my face.
“Oh, I see,” responds my father, kind of sadly. “Did you go anywhere interesting?”
I know my father would love to hear all about Signal Hill and Deadman’s Pond and the Battery, anything that helps him get to know the place and blend in. The more he knows, the easier it will be for him to mingle and seduce people into sharing their stories. So I won’t tell him. I have no reason to help him with his book. I guess this place will be Chapter Four: The Collapse of the Cod Fishery.
“Nope. We just walked around. That’s all,” I say, shoving some bread in my mouth.
“Well, I got to meet some of my new colleagues today and see my new office. It’s a really modern building. You’d be surprised—it even has an open glass elevator. I can take you there tomorrow, if you want.” I just shrug, wondering if my father realizes how snooty he sounds sometimes. “And I found out what courses I’ll be teaching. It’ll be a pretty heavy load, but I should have some time to travel around a bit and do some research for my book.”
I picture myself burning my father’s book when it’s finally published, holding it over a flame in whatever backyard we’re living in. When we left Montreal for Murdochville three years ago, I didn’t know he was writing a book. That was supposed to be a one-year stint, so that he could study the effects of the mine closure on the community. He claims he didn’t know either, that the idea only came to him that year, when he realized he was on to something. But I don’t believe him.
“Jim seems nice,” my mother pipes in, after she sees that I’m not offering any unsolicited information. Then she studies my face for a reaction. I hold real still, blowing on a spoonful of hot soup. I can feel how badly they want me to admit to liking something here, so that they’re off the hook.
“Jim is a nut case,” I say. I could back this up by telling them how he pulled this stunt hanging off a chain that was bolted into some rock over a deadly drop, how I thought he was going to die. But then they’d know where I went.
“Oh, Cheryl,” they say together, disappointed. I finish my soup, wash my bowl and tell my parents I’m going to bed early. Luckily, they don’t try to stop me.
Now, finally alone, I close the door to my new room and lie on top of the bed and allow myself to replay the hike over Signal Hill. I go over the whole thing slowly, again and again, lingering over the part where Jim ran his finger along my cheek.
I fall asleep with the sun high out over the water in my head.
•
I’M SORE, I’M in a hole. It’s rocky and deep. When I tear open my eyes, I discover it’s not that at all. It’s just this damn mattress. I forgot to flip it.
Chapter Three
Hard as Rock
I AM TRYING TO eat my breakfast in peace, but my father is blabbing about this beach the guy at the car rental place told him about. “It’s called Middle Cove and it’s only twenty minutes from here. Supposedly it’s a really beautiful spot.”
He has said the same thing every morning this week. I thought he’d eventually give up, but here it is Friday, and he’s still at it. I know he’s gearing up to ask me if I want to go, again, so I don’t look up. Making eye contact would be fatal right now. I concentrate on my peanut butter toast instead.
I don’t want to sightsee with my parents. It’ll just give them the impression that I’m resigned to staying here.
It occurred to me when I woke up Tuesday morning, still seeing Signal Hill in my mind, that I can’t get attached. Sure, it was pretty, but it’s just scenery. I have to detach myself from the walk with Jim and reduce it to a postcard, a paper object that I can just take with me, maybe tack up over my bed in Montreal.
That’s why I’ve been avoiding Jim, staying in my room and reading.
I’ve seen him a few times, leaving for his nightly walk with Boss. The first two nights, he looked up at my bedroom window, as if wondering whether he should ask me to join them, but I stood back, nose squished into the dusty curtain.
Last night, he didn’t bother.
My father’s managed to reel my mother in already, which isn’t hard to do since she’s game for anything, anytime. They’re talking over my head at the kitchen table.
“Well, I’ve got to go register Cheryl at the school board sometime today, but we could work around that. Do you want to come with me?” It takes me a minute to realize that my mother’s question is directed at me. I look to the side, at her hands. They’re wrapped in hot towels. She only does that when her rheumatism is bothering her. So far, she hasn’t even bothered to unpack her quilting supplies.
The silence at the table tells me she’s still waiting for an answer. If I tell her not to bother, she’ll just trick me into a discussion that I’d rather not have. Silence is the best defence with my parents. If I protest about going to school here, they’ll have a quick response, and before I know it, I’ll be drawn deeper and deeper into an argument that I have to climb my way out of. I need to stay calm and aloof.
“It’s called Holy Heart,” I hear my mother say.
“What?” I call out before I can stop myself. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should’ve pretended I didn’t hear. But that name really jabbed me.
“Your new school. That’s what it’s called—Holy Heart of Mary.” That name implies that the school will be full of open arms waiting to embrace me, lovingly. But that’s never been my experience.
It’ll more likely be full of kids, staring me down as I walk by, my eyes straight ahead, trying my best to look like I couldn’t care less. And I’d die if what happened in Saskatchewan ever happens again. I had refused to take the school bus, so my mother drove me to town, twenty-five miles away. I was late and had to walk into the classroom after everyone else had already settled in. The silence was deafening—no rustling paper or shuffling feet, just thirty pairs of eyes following me as I walked to the back of the class, clunking down the aisle in my heavy boots. I’d worn the boots even though I knew they’d make noise because I liked the fact that they were black and hard and would at least give some part of my body a shell to hide in. I’d have encased my whole self in a suit of armour if I could have.
“You can register me at Holy Heart or Holy Lung or Holy Whatever. I couldn’t care less,” I blurt out. “I’m not going to a new school.”
Then I turn and stamp back up to my room, my footsteps booming in the silence. So much for calm and aloof. I just hope no one follows me. I’m in no mood for another long discussion. We said everything there is to say back in Saskatchewan. That’s when they first announced that we’d be coming here instead of going home. There is no argument left to make on either side, for or against. We left a whole field of words behind us, stretching out along the endless prairies. My mother and I also cried enough to fill the entire rain barrel that sat beneath the eaves of the old farmhouse. Enough to keep our angry field watered for a whole year, in spite of prairie droughts.
•
EVEN THOUGH I said I wouldn’t see Jim again, that I’d put our hike on Signal Hill out of my mind and just hole up in my room until I could find a way home, my mother’s plan to register me at school has me panicked. I’m not going to find a way back to Montreal sitting here. I need to be “proactive,” one of my father’s favourite words.
Who else can I ask for help but Jim?
Maybe he can show me some places where I might find a job. I figure a one-way ticket back to Montreal can’t cost more than three hundred bucks. Even if I work for minimum wage, I could save that in a few weeks, I think.
As for what I’ll do when I get there, that’s another question. I suppose I could see if the family renting our house would let me have the basement. Or maybe Janna’s family would agree to take me in for the year.
&nb
sp; As I’m getting dressed, I think of sitting on that rocky plateau halfway down the path on Signal Hill. Everything seemed so far away and unimportant up there, with nothing but the ocean stretching all the way to Ireland in front of us and everywhere else like a loose jigsaw puzzle behind us. I wonder if it would seem that way again if we went back up there today.
When I step outside, I almost choke. The entire street is covered in fog. I can barely see the other side. It’s as though everyone in St. John’s is exhaling smoke at the same time, except the fog isn’t thick and grey, like cigarette smoke. It’s white and wispy, like cotton candy that has been stretched between the houses, thick in some places and thin in others. It’s actually kind of neat, in a freaky sort of way.
I take the few steps to Jim’s front door cautiously, using my hands to guide me. I probably don’t need to, but I ring the doorbell. I could never just walk right in to somebody’s house, especially the first time going there. It wouldn’t feel right. I was raised in a city where people keep their doors locked at all times, and only speak to strangers with the door opened a few inches and fastened by a chain.
“I might’ve known it was a mainlander,” Jim says with a wide smile on his face. If he’s surprised about finding me on his doorstep, he’s not letting it show. “How do you like walking in the clouds?”
“What?”
“The clouds—that’s what fog is. You really don’t know much, do you, city girl?” Now Jim’s got something to put next to rocks on the list of things I know nothing about.
“It’s okay. Nobody knows fog like Newfoundlanders. Our veins are probably filled with it. Anyway, what’s up?” He tugs my arm and pulls me inside. “Gotta close the door or it’ll roll in.”
“I need a job,” I say.
“Are you asking if we need a maid?” he asks.
“Very funny. You know what I mean. I was hoping you could take me around, show me where to apply for jobs.”