The Seary Line (14 page)

For some silly reason, Stella thought of the grunt Mrs. Hickey had intended to bake with her, and knelt in the near darkness, picked two cupfuls of berries, laid them in her lap. Before she stood, she gathered the fabric to create a pocket, held the hem of her skirt against her waist as she walked home. She trod lightly, so as not to crush the berries or blemish the cloth of her calico dress.

Along the path, she heard her steps return to her in an uneven echo, but when she glanced around, she could identify no one behind her. Except for the glow of diluted moonlight, there was no guiding light. She had to rely on the sounds of her shoes touching the earth, her own inner compass.

Just before Stella came to the pebbly trail that led to her doorstep, she stopped short, listened. There it was again. Scrape, clomp, scrape, clomp. She sighed, looked up at the lantern in her window, saw the people in her doorway. Now she knew who had been following her. At a mindful distance, Leander Edgecombe had walked her all the way home.

“Hi, Nettie Rose.”

“Hello, Amos.”

Amos watched her climb the stairs to the church, body bouncing beneath a plain brown woolen coat. For three years, he had wanted to claim that bounce for his own, and he carefully scrutinized her every move for the receptive hints other boys had described: fluttering lashes, blushing and stammering, two-second gazes over the shoulder. “If she fancies you, she won't face you square on,” Dennis Brown had explained. “She'll be looking at you from the side, pretending she idn't.” When Amos had asked why, Dennis only said, “Girls is like that. That's just the way they is.” But Nettie Rose had only flitted past, friendliness etched in her teeth, leaving Amos to continue in his secret state of despair – the backdrop to his life since he discovered that he loved her.

“I'm leaving tomorrow, Nettie Rose,” he hollered after her.

She paused in the arched doorway, but did not turn. “Yes, Amos. You and everyone else that counts.”

With those words, Amos felt a quick jolt move through
him. He wiggled his fingers inside his gloves, would have wiggled his toes too, but his boots were too snug. Did she mean that he counted? That perhaps she might prefer him to stay? There were no simple rules to explain such a statement, and he sighed with confusion. It made little difference now, anyway, as he had already signed up. If only she had given him some indication earlier, he would have remained by her side, in her shadow even. Rubbed salt in his eyes until they oozed, complained of chronic infection, and eliminated any expectation. But that choice was gone now. Tomorrow morning at sunrise, the men and boys were meeting on the docks where a boat would take them around to St. John's for basic training. And shortly after that, they were going to war.

“Nettie Rose,” he called.

But she was already inside the church, and the only response he received was from the cluster of boys beside him. “Nettie Rose,” they sneered, grabbing their chests as though to keep their hearts from splitting. “Oo-oo-oo, Nettie Rose, I loves you, I do. I do-oo-oo. I's leaving, Nettie Rose. Maaaaarry me now, maaaid.”

Amos felt his cheeks burn, and he was grateful for the dark night, the gentle sifting of snowflakes that landed on his face, cooled him. He glanced over at Leander Edgecombe, leaning against a fence post. Amos saw him shrug, frown, drive his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. Nettie Rose was Leander's sister, one year his junior.

The mocking never lasted long. Within moments, they were clapping each other on the back, pumping clasped hands in manly fashion, saying,
You in? You in?
Plenty of
Yups, You bets. Better believe it, by Christ. We'll be the ones to finish this off
. Pride, courage, and biting unemployment had been the hooks, and they were united already, these
newest members of the Newfoundland Regiment. As they talked about the future, their young fists formed in their knitted gloves, as though the battle were about to begin. They were a strong group. Some lied about their age, Amos included. Everyone knew, but no one dared to speak up. At such a sensitive time, there would be little tolerance for a weasel.

“Hey, Fuller,” Dougie Arnold called over to the group of boys lingering beside snow-laden spruce trees. “Where's your mommy?”

“Letting you out tonight, is she?”

“Not even holding your hand.”

“To hell with youse,” a sulky Alistair Fuller replied. He kicked one of the trees, and a load of snow plopped down on his mottled rabbit fur hat. “Mother says your brains is going to be spread all over some field somewhere, while my brain stays right here.” He knocked his hat off, punched himself in the side of his skull, then plucked his hat from the ground.

Alistair was among several boys who were struck from the rolls because their mothers had written letters, protesting their loved one's participation. Dear Sirs, I respectfully request that my son . . . These boys now skulked about, weaving amongst each other, a mixture of shame and anger hunching their backs, pushing their faces down behind their coat collars. They would be marked from here on in, the others knew. Trapped in the world of boyhood, pressed into a safe place by their mother's tongue.

“Can't wait to get out of this shithole.” This was Hopper Johnson, a fifteen-year-old who had stretched himself to reach the five-foot-three height requirement. “Thumb stuck up my arse half the day, other half running around doing stuff for Nan. What kind of life is that for a growed man?”

“You's hardly growed, Hopper,” his uncle joked as he strolled by, creaked open the gate to the church walkway. “Least I hopes not.”

“I'd say they'll give you the job of stepladder,” Dennis Brown said, stomping snow beneath his feet. “You's the perfect size.”

“You can't bring me down,” Hopper screeched. He clapped his gloves together, shook his rump, then hooted and hollered, head hanging back like a wolf under a full moon. “I got those nurses all over my mind,” he sang. “All over it. Wanting to keep me in peak health, they is. Maybe I'll get some lessons in personal hygiene. Private lessons.”

“You'll need it,” Dennis replied. “The way you reeks some days.”

“I'll submit myself to a daily exam,” Hopper's brother announced. “Head to toe. I'll do my duty, if that's what it takes.”

“You said it.” Gus Smith now. “As long as she's blond and out to here.” Hands jumping two feet away from his skinny teenaged ribcage.

Amos laughed, did not resist when Gus grabbed him, shoved his head into a mound of powdery snow. Hopper piled on, then Bobbie and Cliff and Dennis and the rest, until a great heap of young boys were tumbling around in the drift, punching each other, diving and screaming. They were light inside, and this allowed for higher leaps, softer landings.

“Time of our lives, fellers,” Amos yelled, breathless. He sprang to his feet, brushed off his clothes. “Is you ready?”

“Good times await.”

“The women loves the war, they does. Thinks it's right romantic.”

On his way into the church, Fuller stopped beside the
boys, said through scowling lips, “Well, too bad it'll be rats you'll be kissing when you're stuck in some homemade sewer hole.”

They pelted him with snow, bumped him until he fell, then forced handfuls of snow inside his jacket, down his pants, in his mouth and ears. Hopper grabbed Fuller's fur hat, stuffed it with salted slush, then forced it down over the boy's fat head.

Fuller squealed, like a child with a lobster pinching its backside. Freed, he shook and shook, ripped his hat off, and stomped it. “You's all a bunch of quiffs. Quiffs, you hear me?”

He stormed into the church, fiery cheeks, snow falling out from every crevice, and the boys roared, shook hands again.

Calmed now, Amos said, “Well, I heard we might see camels. Ride them, even.”

“Long as they's girl-camels, and got two humps. Squat myself right down between them. Mmmm-mmm.”

“That's right. I idn't no sort of one-hump man.”

Amos noticed Leander staring down at his bad foot, a tightly laced miniature boot covering it. Leander cursed softly, crushed a hunk of dirt-crusted ice. Balance shifting, he skipped two steps in order to right himself.

“Look at you, Lee,” Amos said, going over to put his arm around his good friend. “Face on you long as a loaf of bread.”

“Sure, Leander, you've got the job of kings,” Dennis called out. “Keeping all the girls happy while we's gone.”

“Nar bit of real competition. You'll have your pick.”

“Yes, and you better keep them away from Darcy over there.”

“If we gets back and finds out Darce had his greasy little mitts on either of them, we'll thrash you.

They all turned in the direction of Darcy Norman, standing on the steps of the church, grinning widely at each female – child, girl, or woman – that passed alongside him. Though he met other requirements to join, he had been turned away because every tooth in his head was like a burnt stump, blackened with rot.

Leander grinned, danced a little on his uneven feet. Then Amos punched him in the arm, had to lunge to catch him as he began to topple.

“Sorry, buddy. Didn't mean it so hard.”

“I knows,” Leander replied as he began to scrape, clomp towards the church. “Come on.”

“Yeah.” Amos scooped the air. “Come on, fellers. I believes the show's about to start.”

Inside the church, William Moore was setting up his newly acquired Magic Lantern. His cousin had sent one to him from England, a shiny metal contraption accompanied by a handful of slides in a box. Earlier that day, he had announced, with permission of Reverend Hickey, that he was putting on a show for the community. “A bit of a high time,” he had said. “'Tis what we all needs.”

Amos plunked down in the pew closest to the back door. Stella was beside him, and on Stella's other side was their father. Amos had pushed him to the church in a hard-backed chair, sleigh-runners attached to the base of each leg. If they had waited for him to shuffle with his two canes, they would have missed the entire show.

When the Abbott family was whole, they would never have dreamed of occupying this pew – one normally reserved
for visitors, or reformed sinners who were trying to inch their way back into God's fold. When they were four, every Sunday the Abbott family marched proudly up to the third row from the front. This happened until the week before their mother died. Then, during her funeral, their father refused to walk up the middle aisle, sit with the mourners. He told Amos he didn't dare risk touching his shoe to the place where she took her last breath. Said that even though the church was holy, the air in there haunted him now, offered him no comfort at all. “If no one sees fit to complain about it,” he told the Reverend, “we'll be taking the last pew, next to the door.” He wanted to be close to the outside, he explained. The enormity of the open sky fuddled his brain, and there was relief in the fuddling.

“We have certain conventions here,” the Reverend had said to them. His voice was soft, and he had nodded his head ever so slightly. “But I assure you, none of it applies to seating.”

“You cold?” Stella whispered to Amos. “We could move up closer to the stove.”

“Let's stay put. Too much fuss with Father.”

“Guess so,” Stella responded, put her mittens to her mouth, blew.

Amos was still, except for his knees. They rattled, jerked, the bound up energy seeping out. He kept his gaze firmly locked on the back of Nettie Rose's head, her beige tam tugged down over her curls. She was seated next to Gus Smith, and Amos's near-empty stomach wrung itself when he noticed their coat sleeves touching. People continued to mill about, blocking his view, and he craned his neck, willing everyone to be seated.

Up near the altar, Ned Wilkins opened the door to the stove, crammed in an armload of dry wood. “Good thing I
brought that load of junks. She's crackling now.”

“What a sweet little thing,” Mrs. Hickey said when Mr. Moore pulled the Magic Lantern from its box. “What they won't think of next.”

“Almost puts me in mind of a miniature pot-bellied stove,” said Mrs. Primmer. “Got a tiny chimney and all.”

“Do it give off much heat?” Ned said with a smile.

Mr. Moore cleared his throat, turned towards the congregation. “'Tis a mishmash of slides, I believes. I got no idea what's here. If it idn't no good, don't shoot the showman,” he said, then gazed out at the young shiny faces, laughed nervously. Unclipping the side door, he lit the kerosene lamp. Projected warm light bathed the wall of the church.

“Before we starts,” Mr. Moore announced, “I just wants to say this is our first show, and we'll wait until youse is all back for the next one. That way, we'll have something to look forward to.” He hung his head for a moment, then looked up, offered a lopsided smile to his son. “May God watch over each and every one of you.”