Blackstrap Hawco (5 page)

‘Tis a boy,' proclaimed Missus Murphy, recapping the molasses bottle. ‘Just like ye.' Her hand came down on his shoulder, nudging him ahead. ‘'Av a good gawk at dat. Tis wondrous ta 'av a'nudder blessed one.' She moved toward the dresser and gathered up the meat in the brown wrapper. When it was adequately secured, she left the room with it in both hands.

Junior checked the baby. It looked like a creature from another world.

‘It's your brother,' said his mother. ‘Your little brother.'

In wonder, Junior stared into his mother's face. She seemed weak but she was alive, despite the blood. This was all that mattered. The coming of the baby had not killed her.

In the kitchen, Missus Murphy opened the side door of the stove and gently set the wrapped afterbirth in the fire. She stood in waiting, with the orange flames wavering shadows across her face, listening to the crackles the afterbirth made while it burned, counting each crackle until the number reached ten. For a spell of seconds, there were no more and she feared for the baby, suspecting this might be the predetermined age of its demise. A tragedy to befall the Hawco household. But then the crackles recommenced. Missus Murphy counted through several similarly unusual pauses, until reaching the number 49. And even waited a while longer, as was customary. No other crackle sounded and so she shut the side door and made a mental note of the age, putting it
away in her mind, beside the others of the babies born safely into her hands in Bareneed.

Paddy Murphy, while chopping wood, is frightened of the creature

It was Paddy Murphy who saw the creature limping through the snow, and who later told the story to every boy in Bareneed. Paddy Murphy who was splitting wood for the next morning, leaving the task until the last moments of light as he often did, his grandmother, gone off now to the Hawco house, having to pester him again and again to bring in the splits, his father not saying a word from where he was turned toward the wall on the kitchen daybed. His back to them, day and night. Not a single word. Refusing to eat even the offered spoonfuls of soup. Paddy's father soon to perish of misery through the conquering images stored in his head.

Paddy Murphy had heard a deep grunt leaning toward a growl, rising through the dusk. At first, stilled by fear, he hoped it might be the wind, for the wind was known to skim many a frightening sound from the trees, barns and houses. Paddy had merely raised his head, stayed expectantly hunched over the splitting log, not moving a muscle. He had stared up through the snow and spotted the approaching black figure.

At once, Paddy's mind darted through possible explanations for the creature. It might be a bear. Or what? What else might be that size and stood upright on its paws?

The dusk began to deepen, and the wind picked up, tearing the snow to a frenzy of misaligned bits, as the figure limped down over the hill, creeping from the direction of the church and graveyard, and dragging something horrible in its wake.

Paddy Murphy's heart sped a few beats, his breath vanishing as he heard a screech, and, darting a look overhead, saw the swoop of black like a smear in the deep grey sky circling through the blots of snow above the figure that was limping nearer now, making Paddy's skin prickle and the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He caught his breath, hoping that if he stayed perfectly still and upright, the creature would take no notice of him, would not snatch a whiff, would not rip him limb
from limb in a splatter that remained red even in the dusk and on into the blinding dark.

A growl like a choking cough with each step. The ghoul advanced. Paddy's chest throbbed to his heartbeat as his eyes trailed after the creature. The sweat warming and chilling and creeping across his flesh. Ten more steps and it would pass right by the slats of Paddy's fence.

Paddy noticed that the axe had slipped out of his hand and fallen soundlessly into the snow. He should pick it up again, just in case, but he feared that his hand lacked the power to even grasp, let alone swing the axe should there be the need, and to bend forward now would leave him vulnerable where the creature might rush at him in a bolt of savage action, a deadly throat-gashing blur.

The black flying smear circled back toward the graveyard, following after itself, the fading caw of a crow through the muffle of snowfall. The blizzard rose to a sudden, ferocious push of wind, nudging Paddy who kept watching, his face raw from the pelt of snow that thickened to a bluster before his eyes. He was not able to stand steady as the figure limped by; it was dark and white at once, snow frozen in clumps all over it, a hint of copper-coloured fur wound up around its face. Bushy and full of snow crystals, the fur seemed to move on its own, unwind from the face as though to let it breathe, then wind back.

Growling, the creature passed no more than five feet in front of Paddy's face, and continued descending the hill, dragging its slaughter behind it, until it neared the Hawco house and stood outside, watching the light from an upstairs window.

 

Karen Hawco, Blackstrap Hawco's second wife (who later kept the Hawco name despite the hardships associated with it), underwent a great transformation in 1992. Although the changes were severe, she assured me that they were necessary. After leaving Newfoundland in 1993, she returned seven years later, to care for her brother, Glenn, who was stricken with MS. When I spoke with her, in her home in Port de Grave, she told me it was only after surviving her much-publicized near-murder that she was able to truly come to grips with the psychological problems that had plagued her from early childhood.

1992

Cutland Junction, Newfoundland

I

The hole in Isaac Tuttle's house

‘'E be a crooked ol' man like me.' Jacob Hawco shifts in his chair. Eyes more on Karen than Blackstrap. The words for her. ‘Saucy as da black, Tuttle is, and da wors' sort o' Jew.' His old hands are scarred. Weather-beaten. They grip the padded seat beneath him. Jerk it slightly forward. Closer to the steel table legs. ‘I'm telling ya, he's rotten widt money. Miserable miser. 'E'd skin a louse fer a cent.' He taps one set of fingertips on the tabletop. In beat with his words. Like a tune playing in his head. Always. ‘His father were a grand boat builder in 'is day, 'e could sneeze or spit a boat. 'E'd do dat when 'e weren't shovelling coal. His fadder's fadder were da bastard o' some missionary went sail'n up 'n down da coast a hundred year ago.' Jacob's clear blue eyes brighten. He tugs lightly on the bill of his baseball cap. Winks. Lifts his mug of tea with both hands. Cherubs painted on the mug. Brings the rim to his lips. A saucy boyish grin. He slurps with relish and wishes that his wife were there to chide him. If only it were possible. He slurps again. Her name?
He tries to remember. Slurps to summon it. Casts a look at Blackstrap's wife, Karen. That's not her name. His wife. His son's wife. But she has not noticed. Too busy loading the dishwasher. Not that she ever cared one way or the other. Ever. Not now, in these years. That woman. What was her name? He looks at the tabletop. Thinks hard on something. Then forgets. Nothing anyway to remember.

Blackstrap Hawco shuts the refrigerator door. Steps up to the table. His heavy boots against linoleum flooring. Hollow sounding underneath. He sets down his beer bottle. Rolls up the sleeves of his blue and black flannel jacket. Grabs the back of the padded chair. Pulls it out.

His father looks up.

‘Heard it,' Blackstrap agrees in a gruff voice. Still standing.

Karen leans in front of him. Lifts his plate away. The canned carrots and peas. And a few strips of breaded chicken from a box in the freezer. Heated. Warmed. Untouched. Toss it in the trash.

‘No doubting that,' he says. Catching the lovely smell of shampoo. And perfume off his wife. It makes him want to grab her backside. For the feel of it through cloth.

Without regarding Blackstrap, Karen turns. A glass and a plate. One in each hand.

Blackstrap pays no further mind to her. She seems nervous lately. Out of sorts. Worse and worse. What's to be nervous about? Everything she wants she's got. He sits across from his father and sets both elbows on the table. He joins his hands in front of his lips. ‘Isaac Tuttle,' he remarks. No need for anything but a plain expression. Maybe he's holding back. Maybe not. That is how he looks. No longer certain.

‘'E's da one,' says the old man. Squinting, his bushy white eyebrows twitch. He points at his son's face. ‘Ye knows. Ye jus dug dat well fer 'im back 'a Coombs Hill. It be years since I clapped eyes on 'im. Hidin' away in da woods like he do. Crazy as da loon.'

‘Who?' asks Karen. She glances up from wiping out the microwave. Then the kitchen sink, around the rim. Scrub and scour. Any hint of bad news never fails to alarm her. Her nerves. They can't take the thought of it. Any sort of altercation. A plump woman with a soft attractive face. Long, thick, black hair. Her features say gentleness,
except for the brown arcs under her eyes. They say: Worry and defeat. New-blue jeans hug wide hips. A pink T-shirt loosely hangs from her shoulders. Concealing large breasts that wobble at the slightest movement. Above a thick mid-section. When she speaks, the tip of her tongue pokes out, between upper and lower teeth. This makes her seem even gentler. Her softness. Her voice.

‘Ye never 'erd tell 'a Isaac Tuttle?' Jacob gasps playfully. Turning more in his chair to catch a reaction.

‘No,' she says, flatly.

Jacob shifts his attention. From Karen back to Blackstrap. Bewilderment in his eyes.

Blackstrap stares steadily at his father's face. Gives nothing away.

‘'E be da one who says 'e owns da land,' Jacob laughs. Shuts his eyes to laugh heartily. The humour surges right through him. His entirety. Until practically losing his breath. Breathing and wheezing. Bracing control. Calming with a sound like a sigh. And wiping at his eyes. ‘Sweet…gentle Jaysus…Dis land.' His laughter quiets. He licks his lips. Gives his head a slow shake. He waits in silence before laughter bucks up again. Again, he shakes his head to rid himself of it. ‘'E sold da land ta da gover'ment fordy year ago, fer a few coppers, 'n 'e still t'inks 'e's Lard over ever'tin.'

Blackstrap Hawco regards his wife. One arm over the back of his chair. He thinks on the name: Isaac Tuttle. The man has surely turned crazy. Once a fit man. Once a decent, generous man. A friend to the family. But more a friend to his mother. A man who secured a job for Junior in the mines. On Bell Isle. Back before they were shut down. The mines where Junior perished.

Blackstrap frowns casually. Catches his sharp reflection in the toaster on the counter. Prematurely grey and white hair. Tinges of blonde still lingering in his bangs. Hard features. Unshaven. Tired but clear eyes. Like his father's. But his character nothing like his father's. Or maybe more. But no effortless laughter. No such ease from Blackstrap. What has been removed over the years. He watches his reflection lift the beer bottle. And take a steady drink. Done. He presses his lips together. Glances back at the table. Notices the rolling papers and pouch of tobacco. Reaches for them. Considers his father's face. The humour
giving way there. More now that he is old. Content to laugh away matters. Not to bother with them. Not to fight. Dead soon enough, he often says. Or just to laugh, unknowing. His mind adrift.

‘Isaac Tuttle.' Jacob widens his eyes.

‘You mean our land,' Karen quickly says. She watches the old man. Then her husband. ‘Is that what you're talking about?'

‘Yays.' Jacob sputters. He tries but cannot contain the laughter. His chest rises and falls beneath navy, zip-up coveralls. ‘Imagine dat!' He shifts in his chair. Sees that no one else is laughing. So his mood levels off. Watches Blackstrap's face with keen fatherly interest. Valuing his son's reaction because he has made him.

‘Blacky?' asks Karen.

Blackstrap Hawco uses his fingers. Works the moist tobacco into a straight line in the paper. Increases the pressure. Tightly rolls the cigarette with stained fingertips. Dabs at the thin line of gum with his tongue. Then gives Karen a steady wink. He sticks the cigarette between his lips. Nods once, assuredly. ‘Taken care of,' he says through the corner of his mouth. Pokes two fingers into the top pocket of his blue and black flannel jacket. Digs around for a pack of matches. Strikes a match head against the flint. Lifts the flame to the tip of his cigarette. Puffs twice. Fire blazing. He puffs it out. Through the cloud of smoke, he watches his wife.

Karen knows, by his faint crooked smile, he has a plan. No regard for the law. No concern for the consequences of his actions. The men do as they please out here. No regard for anything. A way of life. To evade the law. Her nerves crackle. Seem too near the underside of her skin. The surface. She looks toward the clock on the stove. Only fifteen minutes more and she can have a Valium.

Blackstrap winks at Jacob. Puffs on his cigarette. A generous intake of smoke. A swig of beer.

He's crazy, Karen thinks. Just like his father. She hears both of them laugh. Jacob's easy laugh. Blackstrap's deep guttural soundings. Rumblings. How did I let myself be brought out here? Isolation. I thought it would be different. Interesting. Country living. It's cold. No one. Stagnation. Small communities around small communities. The names all foolish. Sounding wrong. And too bright. Too colourful for the simple people who live there in old or new houses. Others clustered
together on black rock. The ocean down in nearby Bareneed. Cliffs and barrens and sparse scattered trees.

Blackstrap stands. Treads close by Karen's side. Not a hint of unease in them. Prepared for anything.

Karen leans back slightly. A delayed reaction. Meant to imply she was taken by surprise.

Blackstrap watches his wife's eyes. Not one moment longer than needed. ‘What're ya thinking, woman?'

‘What're you going to do?' she whispers.

Blackstrap says nothing.

He is happy, she tells herself. No, confident. Confident with his mean thoughts. But he is not a mean man. Not at all. He just acts that way. Why? She smells the sweet smoky scent. Burnt wood on him. The lingering stink of diesel from his backhoe.

Blackstrap glances over her features. Trying to fix the particulars to memory. Then, just like that, he turns away.

Karen watches him step off through the kitchen archway. She hears the front door opening. ‘Careful,' she calls. But the sound is high and frightened. It barely wiggles free. She glances over. Blackstrap's father staring at her pink T-shirt. Then down further. His eyes linger along her thighs. He is forgetful lately. His mind just not the same. She thinks of turning away. But there is something pitiful about his attention. As if he is stuck somewhere. In memory. And she wrongly feels compassion. Because sometimes he does not know. Just does not know. Who he is. Where he is. Stop fooling yourself, she warns herself. Give it up. But the old man laughs away the idea of whatever he was thinking.

Emily is the single word in Jacob's mind. Emily being from St. John's. Just like this woman. This one in front of him. Could be Emily. A townie girl. Shaking his head. He sees the caring look on the woman's face. Stares at her eyes. Haunted. What is she frightened of? The same skin as his wife's. The white skin giving to the touch. He swallows hard. What was her name? Bravely offers a head-tilting wink. So old now. Never again. Emily, he is about to say. Wondering why she is that way now.

‘I'm off den,' he says instead. Rapping his knuckles on the tabletop. Then rising from his chair. Walk away from it. What he does now. When he does not know. Walk away.

Karen nods. Returns to arranging plates. Glasses in the dishwasher. Listens until the old man is gone. Her thoughts on how much she hates doing dishes. Washing clothes. Vacuuming. Cleaning. The house. It never. The house. Never. Ends. Day in. Day out. The suffocating. Monotony. When does it get any better? She wants to know. Tears. In her eyes. When. Does life. Get easier?

 

The backhoe idles on the dark dirt road. Its headlights reaching high into the black ragged silhouette of spruce trees. Blackstrap Hawco sits in the earth-moving machine. Feeling the idling steel work its pulse through him. His legs and spine. His hand looks to be shivering against the glassy black knob. But he knows better. Switches off the engine. Kills the lights. Sits for a moment. In the silence. Watching into the black trees from his special height. Isaac Tuttle's house.

Climbing down the steel steps, he reaches the bottom. Feels his feet flat on the worn clay road. He takes a step through the still air. Pauses at once to hear something startled. Scrambling through the black dry brush. The clear sound to his right. An animal. Always there. Always moving in secret. Too big to be a rabbit. Too small to be a lynx. Must be a fox or a cat. By the amount of sound. Unseen. It stays that way.

Blackstrap glances up at the moon. The dull blue brightness on his face. He sees Tuttle's place ahead. Black rooftop at the edge of darkness. Imagines the well hole still fresh. Not yet rocked in. No plastic well-liner for Tuttle. Rocks. Slate. That's what he wanted. The way it used to be. The red ditch. Earth torn open. The gash running toward the new house. Where the pipe will be laid below the frost line. The wider, deeper hole where the flat-rock walls will be built. Like a chimney underground. He remembers the price he gave Tuttle. And the old man's angry blinking eyes behind thick-lensed glasses. His face reddening by the instant. ‘Sure I owns da very land ye be settled on. I t'ought dis would be fer free on account o' yer mudder. Yer mudder, she be roll'n over in 'er grave if she could hear da words sprung frum yer mout'. Best of friends, we being. I gave 'er dat land. I gave it to 'er, when ye were 'ard up and ye yerself were but a pup. Ye dun't see me giv'n ye no bill fer dat parcel 'a land. I built da 'ouse fer ye, too. Didn't know dat, did ye? Now ye knows. Now ye knows da trute. I kept dat ta meself long
'nough. Yer mudder tol' yer crew dat it were built from money from 'er fadder. Da one in da insane asylum. T'weren't true. I built yer 'ouse when yer fadder were up on da Labrador. Lost in da woods sumw'er like 'e were wont ta do. Always lost sumw'er dat feller. I paid fer it.'

Saying such things to Blackstrap. It had been a sizeable mistake. Even Isaac Tuttle knew how wrong he was. Just as the words left him. His mind stuck on the notion. Give unto Caesar what is Caesar's. And give unto the Lord what is the Lord's.

Miserable old coot, Blackstrap tells himself. Using one of his father's phrases. One heard less and less in these worthless days. Standing in the dirt road, he lights a cigarette. Stares at the faint image. Listens to the quiet. Tuttle's new house under the moonlight. Liar. Tuttle likes houses. Tuttle has built quite a few. Built them. Then sold them. Blackstrap tells himself, Tuttle likes property. But he's a liar. Where is all his money? Strange for a religious man. But that's religion there. That's the church in a nutshell. Lick the altar rails. Pass the plate.