The Bay of Love and Sorrows

by David Adams Richards

  “I can’t go now,” Michael said. “I won’t go.”

  “If you don’t, it’ll all come out in the open,” Silver said, and he looked up at Michael. “I’ve tried to stop him — he’ll just come up and see your father with the tape.”

  “What tape?”

  “A tape he has made on you talking — over a whole month —” Silver shook his head like a little boy. “I listened to it. It’ll put us both in prison. One day on the sailboat — tons of things we said and did about the mescaline. He told me he just did it as a joke — but now he realizes how much he could get for it. That maybe he could sell it to your father — and he is ready to do that. He is thinking all kinds of fuckin things — Daryll is lookin for him — and so is that guy you met in New Carlisle. So he’s scared to go to Gail’s shack and I never know when or where he is going to show up. He’s like a fuckin ghost.”

  Silver shrugged, and a sad smile formed just slightly on his lips.

  Michael was too sickened to answer him. He looked away quickly, as if he had just been punched, and stared at the couch. The couch seemed to mock him, and his eyes blurred.

  They were in the small apartment Michael had taken in October. Books surrounded them, and a typewriter sat on the table. His article on local politicians had just been published in the local paper.

  Until a short moment ago, Michael had been pleased with the jabs he had made at the mayor and the town council, pleased with everything that had come his way in the last three months. And now — in a second — everything was as petered-out and as cold as the ash he had seen one day falling from a chimney in a snowstorm.

  “Can you help me?” Michael asked. “Can’t you get the tape — or tell him to wait?”

  “1 already asked — for you. He said no. So go down to him — if you don’t do as he says, he can accomplish it — “

  “What? Accomplish?”

  “He can finally get back at everyone who put him in jail — your dad, Laura — that’s what his real intention always was — it was underneath everything else” Then Silver paused and thought. “You have never been on your own — he has been on his own from the time he was eight. You care about what people say and think of you. He don’t care what people think — it’s not in his nature. He don’t care if the police are chasing him — or if others think he is kind. He don’t. You do. He has real power. You don’t”

  Michael listened to this, but said nothing else. He waited until Silver left. He poured a glass of red wine and drank it down. Then he made a phone call to Laura’s house* He could hear all the celebratory noise in the background, and hung up without speaking. He took more wine. The article in the paper, on the town council, sat on his small table. He picked it up and lit a match and burned it until it crinkled in his hand.

  Then he got in his car and drove back downriver to the cold deserted farmhouse on the bay, took his hunting knife that he had bought for his one hunting trip with Tom Donnerel and put it in his belt.

  He’s dead, he thought.

  He smoked Craven A cigarettes and waited. No one came. He lay awake all night, furious that he had missed the engagement party on a whim of Silver Brassaurd, and fell asleep at dawn.

  At noon the next day, December 17, he woke with a slight fever. Sick of waiting, he found an old pair of snowshoes, and set out in the direction of the gas bar. After a while he came to the spot where Karrie was killed. The path that ran down to his house and the path that ran up to Donnerel’s formed a cross in the middle of the dry wood and, except for the chattering of a squirrel and the queer clean sound of snow whispering over snow, the day was soundless. The trees were muted and caught golden rays of sun on their frozen bald tips.

  Why would she he running back towards Torn, he thought, if Tom was such a part of the murder? The question was strangely impressed upon him at that moment, and he shuddered. He turned towards the gas bar and red sunlight touched the snow. As he came behind the propane tank, which was also crusted with snow, he saw Emmett in the window serving Gail Hutch and her son.

  Across the road the potato field stretched furrowed and rutted, near where Karrie and he had once walked. And far down at the turn he could make out the stovepipe stack of the Brassaurds’. For just a second of déjà vu he felt he had entered the past world again, and Karrie would turn and smile at him. In fact, he longed for her smile one more time.

  He did not go into the gas bar but waited until Gail Hutch, with her tiny son, came out and started home.

  “Brian,” he said, and the little boy turned. He had on a jacket with a worn American flag on its arm. Gail carried a tin of beans in her hand.

  “You want to buy a treat?” he asked, and he handed the boy a dollar. He saw his own hands the way a condemned man might, and he thought of the knife in his belt.

  The boy had some coloured paper to cut out Santas to paste over the back window. But the store did not have any party hats for his birthday, which was on December 19.

  “Where’s Everette,” he asked.

  Gail said she hadn’t seen him, but she thought the police were looking for him.

  “Why is that,” Michael asked.

  “Because he tried to hurt Laura McNair.“

  “When in Christ did this happen?“

  “Last night —” Gail stopped speaking and looked up at the sky, where thin, rice-like snow began to fall. “Its been on the radio today — Constable Delano on the radio — we heard it at lunch —” Gail rubbed her nose, coughed a short, hot cough, and began to tremble slightly.

  Michael found himself inside the store, standing in front of Emmett, asking for the phone.

  “You’re down here to do research for the book,” Emmett said, and smiled.

  The door opened as Emmett handed him the phone. The bell tinkled and Michael felt suddenly that the day was too bright, and he shuddered.

  He didn’t remember dialling Laura’s number. But the line was busy and remained busy for twenty minutes. Finally, with people coming into the store and staring at him, and seeing old Mr. Jessop pull up in his truck, Michael decided it was time to go.

  He crossed the yard quickly, back onto the path, down past the scene of Karrie’s death — turning this way and that through the naked birches, feeling constantly as if he were being watched, and came out behind the farmhouse.

  The accord he had paid to high frivolity and rebellious youth now seemed like paste in his mouth. He tried to start his car and couldn’t, and he found himself, after agonizing about what to do, in the barn.

  The barn had a few cords of wood, the dinghy rested against it. The Renegade was wintered there, resting on sawhorses and blocks. The small river that ran behind the property was frozen, with traces of thin white and yellow ice.

  The inlet was frozen solid, and he could see puffs of smoke far off.

  He spent the late afternoon trying to get his car started. He took the manifold off and checked the carburetor. He was doing work as Tom had taught him. The problem was that he had known all along Everette would attack Laura. And it was clear that the attack on Tom, which he had heard about as soon as it had happened, and the attack on Laura were linked.

  He spent four hours in the cold, trying to start his car, and finally, exhausted, he went back into the house.

  “I will hitchhike up in a minute,” he thought. But then a feeling overcame him that he would wait for Everette — that he would have to settle with Everette now, before he could possibly go on.

  He sat in the kitchen, with its windows low to the floor, with a blanket over him. It was an hour later, and he had fallen asleep in his chair.

  He awoke with someone talking to him.

  “How’s it going?” the voice said from the far, deep side of the room.

  The man was sitting by the stove. It was Everette Hutch. He looked ragged and filled with energy like a man on the run. His thick legs were wrapped in snowpants strapped to his boots. His boots were caked with snow, his Ski-doo suit unzippered at the chest.

/>   “I have been sneakin around. Daryll don’t trust me no more

  — I never cared for him no how,” Everette whispered hoarsely, as he had since his motorcycle accident. “They want to arrest me. And the police have already been at Gail’s, so don’t you fuckin say you’ve seen me. So I want you to get me some tickets — train tickets — I can’t chance going up there again — you’ll have to do it. Have them made out for a Gary and Susan Jones. I always liked the name Gary.”

  “What tickets?”

  “Go away with — get rid of Daryll Hutch — get away from him for a while. You go to your old man — tell him I have a tape that will put you away — he’ll give you five thousand for it — no problem. If your old man wants to turn me in, then he’ll turn you in. That’s the chance I’ll take. Then buy two tickets first-class on the train for me — go to B.C.”

  Everette sat back and looked at him, and took an envelope from the inside of his heavy jacket.

  “Who for?” Michael asked.

  “For me and someone — you don’t need to know that.” Then he paused. “If you do this it’ll be the last thing I ask. You and your father can pretend you have done nothin wrong — and you can go on with your weddin.”

  He took a tape recorder from the envelope and pressed the play button. He seemed as curious as Michael to hear what it had to say. Michael saw a small red light, and heard his voice. He didn’t recognize his own voice at first — but as the tape moved, it became clearer.

  “Make the tickets for December 20 — the evening train — and meet me at Tom Donnerel’s tomorrow night — not leaving from here, mind you — from Campbellton,” Everette said.

  Then he sniffed, satisfied with himself, and nodded to no one in particular. Dante had said betrayal was the worst, the most private sin, Michael had learned studying the classics. It flitted through his mind that he too had betrayed.

  “What happened to Laura?” Michael said, and he slowly moved his hand towards the knife.

  “Quiet. Nothin happened — but don’t worry about her until you worry about me — “

  “I swear to fuck if you dare go near her again — “

  Michael lunged at him, the knife in his hand, and found himself a second later sprawled on the floor against the stove.

  He heard Everette leave as he regained his feet and stumbled, himself, towards the door.

  It was now after eight at night. Far away, up on the highway, a remote light twinkled and a car passed on in a drift of snow.

  Michael needed to find a phone to call Laura.

  Again he went to the gas bar, and this time Karrie’s aunt was there. Again he asked to use the phone. This time Laura picked up.

  “Michael,” she whispered. “Where are you? What has happened?”

  “I am downriver doing research and my car couldn’t start — and no one was here to drive me — I’m sorry.”

  “Michael,” Laura said again, in a fearful voice, “Michael — “

  “Everything will be fine — everything — I’ve just got to be by myself another day. How are you — how — ?”

  “Michael,” Laura said again, “Michael — I’m fine — everyone is being so kind to me — I’ve — got my passport photos done —” Here she laughed. “I look like a criminal — I — “

  “Yes,” Michael said, “I know — we always do.”

  He placed the phone down and turning, his eyes looking so frightful that Karrie’s aunt backed away from him, he once again found himself on the road. He turned impulsively towards Gail Hutch’s.

  The moon was high, the river glassy, the bay black as stone, and everything outside looked serene. The temperature had dropped to minus-twenty. And yet Michael didn’t close his red coat.

  The lights of stars were far away, behind the moon. Somewhere up the road, Christmas music played.

  As he walked, with every thud of his heavy boots, he thought of the wedding.

  Now, just when it seemed impossible, Michael wanted to be married, wanted a small house, children, even have a minor, nondescript job. And he still could. That is, everything was settled except for this,

  By the time Michael got to the shack, Gail and her son were asleep, but he went to the door and knocked anyway. There was a shuffle inside.

  The little boy opened the door, and looked up, seeing a man with long dark hair and brilliant black eyes.

  “Can I come in for a minute?” Michael asked, remembering that innocent smile from months before. “I need to speak to your mom.”

  Gail lifted herself from the bed and snapped on the light. Wearing long underwear and a woollen sweater to bed, like her son.

  The fire had burned down and it was icy, her breath was pale. There was plastic over the window and plastic up the wall behind the bed. Michael kicked off his boots at the door and entered. He took a cup and poured some moonshine, and drank it down.

  She went to work lighting the stove and he watched her.

  “Everette’s not here,” she said, jabbing at the half-burned and still-damp wood. “The police was here earlier asking about him.”

  “That’s okay — I didn’t come to see Everette,” he said. “I came to see you.”

  “Why?” she smiled, looking over her shoulder.

  “How much wood do you have?”

  “We have six pieces a day till February 4,” she said. “Or we have five pieces a day till March 21 — “

  “How much have you been burning?”

  “I been burning nine or ten pieces some days,” Gail said, rubbing her thighs with her hands to warm herself.

  “And what do you plan to do?”

  “Burn garbage,” Brian said. “There’s lots at the dump.”

  Michael looked at Gail’s straw-like hair, and her crinkly soft smile. She rubbed her nose, and stood.

  “I’m going to leave you some money,” he said. “Karrie would want me to.” And he took from his wallet three crisp, brand-new twenty-dollar bills and placed them before her.

  She objected by saying she was sure things would be very different by the New Year because she would have another cheque, and by next fall she was sure to have a job at the fish plant.

  “No, you must keep the money,” he said. He looked at her squarely as he spoke, and bolted back another cup of moonshine. “But there is something you can do — Everette has a tape, and I need it back,” he said. “Can you help me?”

  Gail came and sat down and said with some urgency: “Everette has a tape on everyone. On Silver — and all his transactions. On Madonna and the robbery of Mr. Jupe. Even on me,” she said. “All them times when you were laughing and talking — when Madonna burned the picture of the Virgin — when you laughed — the night you came down and Everette talked about pooling all the resources to make it a family — Do you remember in the hospital when I prayed? I — “

  Michael waved his hand at this but Gail screwed up her nose and then put her head down. “I’m sorry.”

  Michael thought this a profound act of cowardice, on Everette’s part — but he didn’t say so. And it was too late now. He only realized that he had not used sound judgement in any of his dealings. And that he was dealing not with bodies but with souls. And the souls of men and women lived inside those bodies and flitted in and out of consciousness.

  It was in the soul where everything was determined. And this is what people must have recognized in their dealings with him.

  “It’s not your fault,” Michael said softly. “Ill make out okay — no matter what comes out of this or what they say about me. They cannot take my spirit — only I can take that — only I can get it back — no one else. That’s God’s plan.”

  Gail found it strange that this man who teased her so much about religion would mention God. There was a long silence.

  “It’s too late,” Gail said, after a time. “I guess we’re all in the same boat. I’ll probably go to jail too “

  “Why would you go — to jail?”

  “I stole two jelly rolls �
�� for Brian and me — and I told Everette — “

  “God, Gail — you can’t go to jail for that — “.

  She smiled, and the little boy smiled, as if both of them were suddenly relieved to hear this. That both of them had worried about the jelly rolls.

  “We’re all in the same boat,” she said. “Everyone suffers the same amount, I guess.”

  Suddenly Gail began to cough and the boy began to pat her back. Then he ran over to the counter to get her inhaler. The inhaler, shaped like a squirt gun, with yellow tape about the handle, looked in part as if its function was to be a poignant reminder of Gail Hutch’s humanity, a humanity, when looked upon, as glorious as any other.

  And seeing this, Michael realized that he did not want to suffer as she did. Or as Mr, Love, his old drama teacher who had taken an overdose of sleeping pills after Michael’s article came out, was suffering. Or as Karrie must have suffered that last moment.

  As Gail coughed, he looked about the room. He spied on their mat two pairs of rubber boots — a large pair and a little pair. Each boot had a woollen sock sticking out of it. There was a small candy cane hanging from the door handle for Christmas.

  The wind howled outside. The light bulb shook. Suddenly he was desperately ashamed of himself. But had no idea why.

  His visit initiated one event neither of them would ever know about.

  A medium-sized rat with a slick, black face, which had smelled the blood on the money beneath the floorboard, had come down from the dump that afternoon. It had come up inside the shack that night when it smelled the tin of beans cooking. It was behind the stove and made a dash for the door when the boy opened it for Michael. It found itself outside. It turned, trying to find a way back in, lifting itself on its hind feet in the moonlight, and then, fearing the white sky, it scampered over the snow to the back of the shack. There it found the open cement pipe that followed the road, and began to move inside it.

  In a little over an hour, it caught the almost indiscernible scent of maggots and blood and, moving to its right, hopped like a dark spectre across the frozen, windswept field to the back of the Brassaurds’ shed. Clawing its way down, it found two other rats and a nest of young. There it settled, squeaking its own brand of power, upon the pants and scarf that Silver had hidden three months before, until it was pushed out by the other male into the inside of the shed, and sat on the back counter near the tool board, under the rafter where Madonna had hung the buck,