That was when my father moved us — kit and caboodle — to the town of Glace Bay. Although he had been born and raised in the town, he hadn’t been back since before I was born. His old man was bedridden most of his life and my father spent his teenage years looking out for his four sisters and his mother. When his father died, he abandoned Glace Bay and landed in Antigonish, where his bus fare ran out.
I remember his comment when we arrived in Glace Bay that summer. “Looks the same,” he said. It was a testimony that betrayed no emotional attachment, no sense of heritage or affinity to the community. My mother and I examined the facade of our new home. It was a double house and the shingles were peeling on the unit we were to occupy. The other half of the house was painted fire engine red. I looked up and down the street and saw that all the houses were identical in size and shape. My father answered my puzzled stare by telling me they were all company houses owned by the coal-mining outfit in Glace Bay and leased to miners. Most of the mines in the area had closed so the company was renting the houses cheap. My father said that we were lucky to get a roof over our head at such a bargain. “No argument,’’ he said.
The company house was furnished with old heavy chairs, tables and beds. The previous renters had scrubbed the walls and floors before departing, as was the local custom. The glasses in the kitchen cupboards were spotless, the worn linoleum waxed and shiny.
My father left for Labrador the next morning and my mother and I never laid eyes on him again.
Glace Bay faces into the sun and the Atlantic Ocean. Its name is derived from the French Baie de Glace, a reference to the annual drift ice from the Gulf of St. Lawrence that chokes the harbour in the spring and keeps the air cold and wet long into May. The Mi’kmaq of Cape Breton named it Wasokusegwon or “bright home.” The translation baffled me because the weather that spring was blustery and grey. The Indians must have named the town on a sunny summer day. Or before coal mining became the town’s bread and butter.
It was Easter vacation and the schools were closed for the week. There were no children in our neighbourhood and I spent the week at home. The other half of the company house remained vacant for the time we lived in Glace Bay. Our house was close to the colliery and I was not allowed to play there. My mother mentioned something about abandoned mine shafts; the earth could collapse underfoot, she said.
In the first months my mother had a hard time finding work. She finally managed to accumulate about twenty hours a week; a combination of working the lunch counter at the bus terminal on Tuesday and Thursday, selling soda pop and chips at the canteen of the skating rink on senior’s night every Monday and Thursday evening, and four hours peeling vegetables for the Salvation Army soup kitchen on Wednesday afternoons. Most months my father sent a money order to cover the rent.
My mother had to work during Easter break and I was left home alone and read the newspapers and movie magazines she collected from the bus terminal after each shift. She had also accumulated a stack of paperbacks, but these were romances, a woman’s reading, and she kept them in her bedroom, tossed on the unoccupied side of the double bed. She devoured romances for the gentle and melancholy dreaminess they awoke in her. The magazines were never in sight when my father was around.
“They make him a little jealous,” my mother told me once when I asked her why she threw the paperbacks away before my father showed up. Then she’d smile, briefly, her face crimson.
I spent some mornings watching The Friendly Giant or Mr. Dress-up even though I was about five years too old for both. There was nothing to watch in the afternoons and I used the time to read and draw.
I discovered that the highlight of my mother’s day was the mailman’s delivery. Around ten each morning she parted the curtains in the front room and peeked out to watch for his approach. She’d spot him on the corner and then creep away from the window. She went to the mirror in the hallway, checked her hair, and waited, with ears cocked, for him to climb the stoop, open the mailbox and retreat down the steps. She waited another ten seconds for him to get out of the yard and then went to the door. A quick glance and she was out on the porch collecting the day’s mail.
There was always mail. An assortment of supermarket flyers, bills, notices from creditors, but mostly free samples and brochures. Most in response to her written enquiries asking for more information on the various pitches she read in the pages of the movie magazines and on the back of matchbook covers. My mother was a compulsive consumer, but she was not a gambler. She never enrolled in the correspondence courses offered, or took out memberships to the book and recipe clubs.
And another thing. There were never any letters. No real, ordinary, “Dear Mom, how are you, I am fine,” letters.
Until that particular day during the spring my father didn’t return from Labrador.
I noticed the letter in the stack on the kitchen table. My mother was running late that morning and had only glanced briefly at the bundle before attending to the coffee percolator. Otherwise she would have scrutinized every envelope, first removing the stamp for me and then carefully opening the envelopes and removing the contents. The envelopes were then attached to the letters with a bobby pin. When the mail was sorted and indexed she fetched a cup of coffee and settled in to read. But that particular morning she was rushed and I had a chance to shuffle through the envelopes while she made her coffee. I came to an ordinary envelope with my mother’s name and address handwritten across the front. Usually her name was typed on a label and this anomaly made me linger over it a second too long and my mother, coffee cup in hand, snatched it from my fingers.
“Henry, I’ve told you over and again, wait until I’ve read the mail. You’ll get your stamps when I’m finished.” My hands were holding empty space where for a brief second a letter had been. My mother, embarrassed for wrenching the letter away from me, smiled and looked at the floor.
“Be careful you don’t slip, I spilt some coffee,” she said. I chose to look at her cup instead. The coffee was still swishing like waves in a tempest from one side of her cup to the other. I let my hands fall to the table and folded them. My mother slid into the chair across from me and carefully placed the letter on the table and smoothed it out with the heel of her left hand.
“This is a surprise,” she offered. “What nice penmanship,” she remarked, tracing and admiring the letters of her name on the envelope. “Shall we open it?” she asked.
She extracted a bobby pin from her hair and slit the envelope under the sealed flap.
“California, Henry. The stamp is from California.”
She removed the letter from the envelope and set it on the table. I could see that it was handwritten with lots of flourishes in the letters. Probably a girl’s handwriting. She glanced at me before she commenced reading, inhaling the scent that rose from the letter.
“It’s got some perfume on it,” she said. Her face was beaming. She lowered her eyes and I followed the flickering of her long eyelashes as she read. She silently mouthed the words of the letter and as she continued to read, her lips tensed. A wrinkle appeared on her forehead. She caught me probing her expression.
She no longer beamed; a look of disturbed concentration had replaced the brilliance in her eyes. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand and her elbow wobbled on the table.
“It’s nothing,” she stated, not looking at me. She folded the letter and rose from the table, moving to the range to refresh her cup. She faced the window above the sink and I watched her shake her head abruptly as an unwelcome thought passed through her mind. She whirled around and leaned against the sink with her hands behind her back.
She crossed the floor and disappeared into the bathroom off the kitchen.
This was my chance. I tentatively reached for the letter and read it while she ran the water in the bathroom sink. There was no opening salutation; the letter began at the top of the page:
A kind a
nd sincere friend has chosen to send you this letter of good fortune and health. It has circled the globe thousands of times and has been translated into every language known to man. The bond it nurtures flourishes with each sending. Its message is universal. “Good fortune and health to those who continue the cycle.”
It has been scientifically documented that the recipients of this letter have gone on to live improved and fulfilled lives. A lady in Yorkshire, England, inherited a fortune worthy of a King ten days after sending ten copies of this letter.
An elderly gentleman in Chicago awoke from a coma after his wife sent ten copies of this letter. The man had been asleep for ten years.
Ten orphaned sisters in Manitoba were reunited after ten years apart. Each sister, unbeknownst to the others, had received a copy of this letter from a nurse at the orphanage where the children had been raised. Miraculously, the ten sisters began to trace each other at exactly the same time, which led to the wonderful reunion.
These are only a handful of the tens of thousands of miracles that have occurred for recipients of this letter and their loved ones.
But the chain must not be broken. Do not throw away this letter. Do not be a sceptic. It could be detrimental to your well-being. It could bring misfortune to you and your loved ones.
To ensure the continuance of this cycle and the good fortune and health that will grace your house, make ten copies and send them to ten friends. It is not necessary to write your name. The good fortune and health will happen automatically. It will find you!
But remember: do not break the chain.
God bless you.
I had never read a letter like that before. It caused the same sensation in my stomach as when I angered my father, a need to get to the toilet, which seemed to start whenever he laid eyes upon me.
“It’s a chain letter,” my mother explained. I swung my head and saw her standing in the door casing to the bathroom. I felt the grip of my fingers relax and the letter slipped to the table. My eyes were on my mother.
“I think I’m coming down with a cold,” she continued, returning to the table. “We’re not allowed to handle food when we’re sick. I’ll make the call.” She nodded to herself and walked slowly out into the hallway and dialed the number to the Salvation Army. She leaned her forehead against the wall as she spoke.
I hadn’t noticed that my mother was ill when she came down to breakfast that morning. As usual, I was up first and put the water on to boil for her coffee. I made myself two slices of toast with grape jelly, leaving the crusts on the plate. My mother always scampered down the stairs and invaded the kitchen, humming. She consistently greeted me with a wide smile and a loose hug around my shoulders and a peck on my cheek. She popped the crusts from my toast in her mouth, while she waited for the coffee to finish percolating. She relished the aroma of fresh coffee and invariably made a big show of inhaling deeply. This morning was no different, except that she had been delayed by fifteen minutes. “I had to finish a chapter in the Harlequin,” she explained. My mother always read for an hour before getting out of bed. I don’t recall her saying anything about a cold.
When she finished her telephone call she removed a tissue from under her sleeve and dabbed her nose. She had a slight sniffle. She replaced the tissue in her sleeve and vanished to the living room. I found her standing beside the bay window.
“Do you know what a chain letter is, Henry?”
I didn’t.
“It’s a letter people send. You’re supposed to make ten copies and send them on to ten people you know. It’s bad luck to break the chain.”
I felt the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. I asked her if she had any idea who had sent her this chain letter. She shrugged her shoulders. “Any one of a number of people,” she answered.
“Anyway, that’s not important. Sometimes it can be a mere acquaintance. It’s not always friends that send chain letters.” She sought a diversion and glanced out the window again. “What’s important is to send it on.” Suddenly her smile returned. “You have nice penmanship, Henry. Would you like to help me copy out the letters?” Before I could answer I was ushered to the kitchen.
She rooted through a drawer of broken clothespins, pencil ends, the cardboard from panty hose, the jack of spades, thread, string, box tops and a block of writing paper. My mother flipped through the first several pages, tearing them from the pad, and stuffed them into the drawer. The corners of these discarded pages had been torn away by my father for use as toothpicks after our monthly feed of corned beef and cabbage.
My mother found ten clean sheets and placed them on the table.
I spent the next two hours meticulously copying the letter in longhand, printing instead of writing. Shortly before noon I completed the last letter. My fingers were cramped and since I’m left handed my baby finger was ink-stained. I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. By now I knew the contents of the letter by heart. I recited the passages that intrigued me the most.
It has circled the globe thousands of times and has been translated into every language known to man.
Did that mean this particular letter had circled the globe? Maybe I was only supposed to make nine copies and include the original as number ten. If this letter had really been around the world so many times, was it valuable? Was it old?
It has been scientifically documented that the recipients of this letter have gone on to live improved and fulfilled lives.
Even scientists had examined the letter. That was proof in itself of the validity of the epistle. Our priest in Labrador had told us about the Shroud of Turin. It too, had been scientifically documented.
But the chain must not be broken. Do not throw away this letter. Do not be a sceptic. It could be detrimental to your well-being. It could bring misfortune to you and your loved ones.
There it was again. I quickly counted the letters to make sure I had made the required copies. I’d let my mother decide whether or not we should keep a copy for ourselves. After all, she had experience in this area. She had known what a chain letter was.
I took the letters into the living room. My mother was on the chesterfield, the contents of two shoeboxes before her. One of her movie magazines was on her lap and she had written several names across the cover. She gnarled the end of a pencil between her teeth and ignored me.
“I’m putting together a list of ten people,” she finally said. “Ten good people.” She glanced at my stack of copies and clasped her hands.
“You’ve been clever, Henry. We’ll address the envelopes after lunch.” She tossed the magazine to the floor and hopped up from the chesterfield. As she passed me, a slight scent of sweat followed her. I picked up the magazine and read the names she had scribbled across the cover. There were only three and all were crossed out. I couldn’t decipher what she had written. We ate a Spartan lunch of Campbell’s tomato soup. My mother forgot to crush the crackers and she had mixed the soup with water rather than milk because she hadn’t collected the milk from the back step. Two ringlets of hair had come loose from behind her ears. They dangled precariously above the bowl of soup as she dipped her spoon.
She pushed her half-empty bowl away from her. I didn’t like water-mixed soup. It tasted of the tin can.
“Stop daydreaming, Henry, and eat up.” I was upset by the sharpness of her voice. There was no way I could continue eating.
“I’m sorry,” she said. And she was.
“Daydreams are not such a bad thing, Henry. I have them myself. You get your idleness from my side of the family. From my father,” she was quick to add, before I could pucker my lips in disbelief. I didn’t remember my grandfather, and Granny had never struck me as a person who dreamt about anything.
“I think daydreams are what keep us on this side of the bend, Henry. Not over, not under. But safe. And have you noticed, that you only discover you’re daydreaming when you’re finished? T
hen they slip away. I’ve often thought about keeping a pen in my pocket to jot down some of my daydreams, but I don’t think it would work. Like trying to peel a reflection off the face of a mirror.”
I was staring into my soup bowl. I didn’t have the courage to meet her glance. Her voice cracked. Was it the cold? Was it something else? Something that eluded the rousing and unformed sensibilities of a child? I was startled by the gentle cold touch of her hand. She had my chin in her palm.
“You look awfully gloomy, Henry.” Her voice was strong again. I smiled, but her eyes were veiled in sadness. She ruffled my hair and cleared the bowls from the table. I took our spoons to the sink and wiped the plastic tablecloth with the dishrag. She dried it carefully before setting the letters and envelopes on it, along with the shoeboxes from the living room.
“I’ll start by sending a letter to the people who have been good to us. I’ve underlined what you should write on the envelopes, Henry. Don’t use a big scrawl. Leave room for the stamp.” She nudged her pay slips from the Salvation Army, Miner’s Forum and the bus terminal toward me.
She watched as I wrote a name on each envelope. Then she showed me which address to write under each name. It was easy enough with the Salvation Army and the bus terminal, the addresses were printed on the pay slips. We had to look up the Miner’s Forum in the telephone book.
“Three down, seven to go. I’ll make some fresh coffee.’’
I pondered over the three envelopes. These weren’t my mother’s friends. They were employers. Maybe they were the acquaintances she had mentioned earlier. “It’s not always friends that send chain letters,” she had said.
Great Cape Breton Storytelling Page 10