Downhill Chance (26 page)

“They never drove him off—they left after Gid got his eye shot out,” returned Roddy.

“Gid?” Clair tuned in.

“Gid O’Mara, miss,” said Roddy. “He shot his eye out, rabbit catching with Uncle Luke and Uncle Frankie.”

“What happened?” asked Clair, feigning attention onto a piece of chalk she was picking up from the floor.

“Gid falled down with the gun.” said Marty.

“And it went off,” added Roddy.

“Where’s Gid now?” asked Clair.

“All the O’Maras went to Corner Brook after Gid went to the hospital,” said Marty, “and that’s where they ended up staying.”

“Not Gid, though,” said Roddy. “He was sent with the missionaries down on the Labrador.”

“And Uncle Luke won’t ever go up the shore no more,” said Marty.

“Hope now,” said Roddy.

“No he won’t,” said Marty.

“Because he got no reason to—not because he’s scared,” said Roddy.

“Yes he is, my son,” argued Marty. “Ask Mom.”

“No,” said Clair quickly. “We don’t tell tales out of school. Besides,” she added more loudly, cursing her probing tongue, “the O’Maras got nothing to do with schoolwork, so no need for ye to be talking about it.” Turning to the little dimple-cheeked girl waiting patiently, she asked, “Susie, you ready?”

“You got a way with them,” spoke a voice later that afternoon as Frannie, always the last, was hugging her goodbye. Clair straightened at the sight of Frankie standing in the doorway, lodging his fishing rod against the door jamb.

She smiled, patting Frannie on the bottom and hustling her towards the door. “They’re so good,” she said, watching through the window as she darted along the path, past the woodpile.

“Bet it helps now that we got the Hurlys out,” said Frankie, sauntering to her desk. “Strife breeders, for sure; always getting the teachers worked up and disrupting the lessons. Are the rest attending?” he asked, running a finger down the roll of names listed on the open register.

Clair nodded, wondering at his visit, when Luke strolled in front of her window, his fishing rod tossed across his shoulders, his head so close she could almost touch him. She stared at his hair, cornflower yellow in the afternoon sun, and his skin ruddy. He turned, as if sensing her there, and she caught her breath as she looked into a pair of eyes the colour of blue trapped within the contours of icebergs.

“Haven’t missed a day, none of them,” Frankie was saying. “I’d say that’s a record for this school. Looks like you got a career as a teacher in front of you.”

She pulled back from the window, her heart racing, staring blankly at Frankie. “You think so?” she asked, then chanced another look out the window. He was strolling past the woodpile, his back to her, and his shoulders a little stiff, alert to the eyes watching him. Then, with a final glance over his shoulder, he disappeared around the corner of his mother’s house.

“Manna from heaven,” Frankie was saying. “Trout,” he explained, as she turned to him more blankly than before. “From Chouse. Our daily bread, remember?”

She nodded quickly, smiling. “You spend a lot of time there.”

“Yup—always did,” he replied, turning to the long-division sum she had marked across the board. “The happiest brook in the world.”

“Happiest?”

“According to Luke, and for sure he’s the gospel on Chouse,” replied Frankie, picking up a piece of chalk and working through the sum.

“Does he—really not like people?” Clair ventured.

“Who, Luke? Oh, sure he likes people. It’s hisself he don’t like, I’m thinking. Course, who knows what another body’s thinking half the time. And it’s what they don’t say sometimes that makes what they’re doing look crazy, when most times what they’re doing fits right in with whatever it is they’re learning.” He turned to her with a grin. “I’m starting to sound as crazy as he. Next I’ll start living by his thoughts and then Willamena will be right in calling us both addled.”

“What does he think that’s so crazy?”

“Oh, that everything thinks. Trees, rocks, weeds; everything thinks, according to Luke, right along with the moose, birds and we.” He paused, and she felt his eyes watching her as she began straightening some of the desks so’s to cover her interest. “And perhaps he is crazy,” he added quietly. “Perhaps there’s nothing crazy about being crazy. There’s times I envies him his lot. It’s not easy letting yourself become a part of what’s around you, is it?” he asked, forcing her to look at him.

“I—I don’t know,” she answered.

“Isn’t that why you came here—to escape? You’re like me,” he said so low he was almost whispering, “you got to go changing things. Make a bigger world.”

“Luke’s for changing the government and you’re not,” she offered.

He nodded. “And that’s what I charges him with; he’s no better than me because in the end he goes for what’ll serve him best. And as always with me and Luke, it’s never the one thing that’ll serve us both.” The shrieks of a couple of youngsters assailed the air from outside, and Frankie started. Taking a step towards her, he spoke with sudden earnestness. “Clair—I have to leave for Corner Brook in the morning. I may not get back in time for the vote—and chances are I’ll

have a teacher with me when I comes back.”

Her hands fell.

“It’s not what I wants to do—” he half whispered, then broke off.

The youngsters shrieks became louder, more persistent, “Teacher, Teacher—”

“There’s a family near Howley,” he began again quickly. “The mother’s sick—they have five youngsters. They can use a serving girl. The pay wouldn’t count for much, but they’re good and kind. And they’d give you a comfortable bed and lots to eat. I—would see you,” he faltered. “I stays over with them every time I goes to Corner Brook and—if we lose this vote, I’ll be going there quite a bit—perhaps moving to Corner Brook.”

“Miss, miss, Mommy wants to know if you’re going to mop the floors this evening,” shouted Frannie, bursting in through the opened doorway. “Are you, miss?” she asked as Clair gazed past her, watching as Frankie lifted his fishing rod away from the door, sliding it across his shoulders.

“Miss?”

“Come, Frannie,” said he, taking hold of her arm. And raising his eyes to Clair’s, he backed out the door, pulling Frannie with him, oblivious of her protests. Clair stared back, never faltering. And as he disappeared around the corner of the door, she kept staring, hearing from a distance his coaxing Frannie to run along home and tell her mother the teacher was taking a spell and that she’d come for her when she was ready to start the cleaning. She caught sight of him through the window, his shoulders gracing the same path as Luke’s had but a few minutes ago, and she drifted towards it, watching till he turned, his eyes colliding briefly with hers, then disappearing around the other side of the woodpile.

Raising her eyes, she stared piercingly through the cloud-broken blue. “Downhill chance, Daddy?” she asked.

More the weak horse, she thought dismally that evening, pacing the confines of her room. More a weak bloody horse. The accordion started up, and flicking aside a corner of her curtain, she watched as Luke slouched on his stoop, the yellow of his hair heightened by the light of his mother’s lamp as he cradled his accordion as one might a newborn babe, his fingers slowly caressing his melody. He turned to her, and caught once more, she dropped the curtain, stepping back, tripping over her suitcase and sitting down hard onto her bed. The tempo of his music picked up.

“Fool!” she exclaimed loudly of herself. “Fool!”

CHAPTER NINE

N
OW, SEE, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED,”
says Roddy. “Henry, Conner and Sammy was all upon the rock and Conner was getting crankier because he wanted to go live in Henry’s house. And he was starting to get a bit jealous of how well Henry and Sammy was getting on. So, he tries to turn Henry against Sammy.

“‘Brothers, that’s some ugly scar,’ he said to Sammy. ‘How come you won’t touch it, Henry—go on, touch it,’ he coaxed, taking another poke at the scar. ‘Whassa matter, my son,’ he bawls when Sammy shoves his hand away, ‘it’s nothing we ain’t seen before, is it, Henry? Go on, feel it, Henry.’ And grabbing Sammy by the shoulder, Conner knocked him flat on his back so’s Henry could have a good look. And with it right close up like this, Henry couldn’t help looking—just a little thing it was, red and soft looking. But Sammy was clenching shut his eyes as if it was his private parts that Henry was staring at.

“‘Let him go, my son,’ Henry ordered Conner, and lying back, he closed his eyes and made out he was sleeping. And that’s what they all did. And because the sun was so warm on their faces, and the water nice, lapping upon the shore, they all forgot about Sammy’s birthmark and went to sleep.

“Then, Henry woke up, hearing something. ‘Putt-puttputt,’ and he sat up straight. Guaranteed it was Sammy’s father come looking for his gun and ten cents. Bawling out to everybody, he jumped off the rock and made for the woods. Sammy was right behind him, but not Conner. No sir, Conner was just sitting up, making out he was still half asleep because, see, he was wanting to get caught, so’s Henry would be made to go home.

“‘You sliveen, get off the rock!’ screamed Henry. The boat was almost in sight by now, and they was almost caught. Running back, Henry grabbed Conner by the scruff and dragged him off the rock and up across the beach into the woods. Then he looked back and seen the gun still lying across the top of the rock in plain sight. Sammy seen it too, and before Henry had a chance to do anything, Sammy was running back to the rock. Grabbing the gun, he pulled it down and ducked with it behind the rock just as the boat cut into sight. And that’s when Henry near fainted. It wouldn’t Sammy’s father after all, coming after them. It was Henry’s mother. Sitting up at the bow, she was, staring as hard as she could at the beach, looking for him.

“Henry’s stomach started getting bad. She looked right sad, she did, sitting there, leaning over the boat, looking for him. She’s gone off head with worry, he was thinking, and she’ll be worse if she gets all the ways up the shore and still haven’t found me.

“Then he seen Conner staring at him, and no sir, he wouldn’t going to let that sliveen see how bad he was feeling. He knowed the kind of fellow Conner was; he’d never let him forget he got mommy-sick. No sir. He wouldn’t going to let no sliveen like Conner have that kind of say over him, so after the boat had gone around the cliff, Henry grabbed Conner by his shirt and they both fell onto the beach rocks.

“‘You asshole,’ Henry bawled out, ‘you ever tries to get me caught agin, you won’t be living in no house with me!’

“‘Oh yeah, my son, I never tried to get you caught,’ said Conner.

“‘Yes you did, you asshole, and you tries it agin, I’ll womp your arse—’”

“Mind your language, Roddy,” said Clair. “No, don’t stop,” she added as Roddy was about to walk back to his seat, “just watch your language, that’s all.”

“That’s all I’m going to tell,” said Roddy. “Except, after he lets Conner stand back up, Henry starts leading them up over the path through the woods, to get past the cliff.”

“Perhaps you can tell us a little bit more,” coaxed Clair. “What do you think, everyone? Want to hear more of Roddy’s story?”

“Don’t know it, miss; only Henry knows it,” said Roddy. “And he don’t know either till the rock tells it to him.”

A pang gripped Clair’s stomach. “The rock?” she asked, over the guffawing from Marty and the others.

“Yup. It was a rock that told it to Henry.”

“He got a talking rock,” shouted Marty. “Hey, miss, you hear that—Rod got a talking rock.”

“And a mighty fine one,” said Clair, fasination mounting in her. “Roddy, does this rock know the rest of the story yet?”

Roddy shrugged, his ears reddening.

“Just a minute, Marty—”

“But it’s my turn, miss; Rod had his.”

“Roddy—?”

“I don’t know it yet, miss.”

“My turn, miss?”

“Ohh, go ahead, Marty.” And she turned in exasperation to the window at the back of the schoolhouse, looking up over the hills.

Marty scrambled out of his seat, talking excitedly about “… . this boy hears a great big grunt under his bed one night, like a—like a beast—a great big beast, and the great big beast was grabbing hold of the fellow’s bedsprings and jiggling the bed hard—right hard—so hard that the fellow was knocked right out of his bed, right onto the floor next to where the great big beast was waiting to eat him—”

“It’s quite the imagination young Roddy’s got,” Clair commented to Nora on her way across the patch that afternoon, waving to Frankie’s mother peering at her from behind her flapping sheets.

“Nice way of putting it,” said Nora, hanging out her window, fiddling with a jammed pulley. “What’s he up to, now?”

“I allows you’ll have to take the bell away from Marty,” called out Beth, stepping onto her bridge with her basket of colours. “I swear to God, he was crawled up under the house this morning, ringing it.”

Nora laughed. “Perhaps he thought Roddy was up there, snoozing—and perhaps he was.”

“They minds me of Frankie and Luke,” said Beth, “when they was younger; never got along for a minute, but always up the other’s rear end.”

“My oh my, they’re going to be drowned, they’re going to be drowned,” cried out Prude, bustling through her door out on the stoop. “They’re skinning the pudding over the stagehead agin—ye won’t be standing gabbing when they falls off and drowns,” she warned over her daughter’s groans.

“They swims like fish, Mother. My Lord, it’s addled they’re going to be if you don’t leave off,” said Nora as her mother waddled across the patch, arms swinging.

“They can’t swim if their brains is knocked out,” cried Prude, “and youse won’t be standing gabbing then, they got their brains knocked out—”

“She been sitting all morning, sir, staring straight ahead, thinking up something to worry about,” moaned Nora as Prude vanished around her house, her cries sounding over the snipes as she started bawling out to youngsters.

“Clair, what’s the youngsters up to—heads in their scribblers every night, writing—and no one’s allowed to look. And Frannie, God bless her, got me mesmerized with spelling out words.”