Our Homesick Songs Read online

  •  •  •

  But he did sleep, eventually. And he dreamed of women and waves and how you should not, should never, drink salt water, even when you’re so, so, so thirsty.

  And then his mother was knocking on the door to his room because it was time, was past time, for him to get up and eat the breakfast she’d made and go to the boats, to work. He had had more than a reasonable amount of time off already.

  Back in Big Running, there was one jar in Martha and Molly’s store cupboard, one jar of sweet pickles, that was impossible to open. It had been there since before their parents died, since their mother used to seal the jars and their father used to open them. Whenever she remembered it, when she had a minute walking past the cupboard or was in there anyway getting something else, Martha would try to force it, with new angles or hand towels or boiling water, but it always stayed shut, the metal of the lid and the glass of the jar like one.

  But this time, the morning after they got back from visiting Meredith, when Martha went to get a jar of bakeapple jam and, as usual, without even thinking, reached out to try and open the impossible jar, one arm over it, the other hand on top twisting, this time, the lid moved. A creaky resistance at first, then smoothed out like a knife past scales through to soft meat, slipping easily around and off in her hand. At once the whole cupboard smelled of vinegar.

  And that wasn’t all. Although she hadn’t noticed at the time, the days at sea, all that rowing, had left Martha’s arms stronger than they’d ever been. Stronger than she knew women’s arms could be. The wind blew hard and broke the fence and she pulled it back up, alone and fine. One of the beach cats stranded itself up on top of their roof and she pulled herself up from one windowsill to the next to get it down. The knots she made in her net pulled hard and firm like pebbles, like beads, and she made them faster and better, faster and better than ever before.

  Do you miss him?

  He’s out fishing now, Molly.

  Yes I know, but do you miss him?

  . . .

  . . .

  OK, I do. Yes, I do.

  You do?

  Yes.

  You should miss Meredith.

  Yes, her too.

  And Mom and Dad.

  Yes, them too.

  And Minnie.

  Of course, of course.

  And me, miss me when I’m not here. When I’m upstairs practicing or out teaching or when you’re out by the water—

  Molly, I—

  And then you can miss him.

  Molly, I can do it all at once. I can miss everyone.

  Yes, but us first.

  OK, you first.

  OK?

  OK.

  •  •  •

  Martha had a new project now. She did her other nets, her commissions and orders too, what people wanted and what she had to do to pay her share of the household costs, but, in between, instead of swimming before breakfast or going for walks at lunch or reading after dinner, she worked on it. She wasn’t even sure what she would do with it, when it was done, if she would want it at all, but still, she worked on it. And to everyone else, to Molly, it looked just like netting as usual. It looked like nothing was happening, like nothing was different from regular, from before.

  (1993)

  Winter pushed on and Cora made Luxembourg!, Bhutan! and Tasmania! and Finn filled in his map and Aidan and Martha worked and waited and waited and worked and January, then February, stretched on and on and on.

  Almost every night, Finn’s parents spoke on the phone. Almost every night, Finn slowed and lightened his breath, silent on the upstairs line. One February night, when the fog made everything otherwise quiet, otherwise dark, Finn heard:

  We got a notice today, Martha. His father’s voice doubled, one downstairs, one on the line.

  A notice? His mother’s voice was fuzzy, which meant a further away, off-site, phone. A temp office out somewhere darker, somewhere wilder.

  A green notice, said Aidan. Like before.

  Oh. A—

  Yes.

  Oh.

  . . .

  . . .

  It’s— said Aidan.

  I— said Martha.

  It’s almost exactly the same, said Aidan. The terms, the wording. More money this time. A little bit more.

  To where? said Martha.

  Anywhere, said Aidan. Anywhere else.

  Anywhere real, said Martha.

  We’re real.

  You know what I mean.

  I know, I—

  I mean, said Martha. Aidan, I mean this could be OK.

  . . .

  It could be time—

  . . .

  Aidan?

  Maybe.

  How long do we have?

  Half a year. Until August, said Aidan. Just six months.

  •  •  •

  As soon as they hung up, Finn hung up the upstairs phone too, pulled off one sock, put it in the pocket of his corduroys and ran down the stairs. His father was still in the kitchen, by the phone. He was holding one of Finn’s for-school pencils. He had a notepad in front of him on the table, blank.

  I forgot, said Finn. I forgot that I lost my sock down on the rocks this afternoon.

  You did? Shouldn’t you be in pajamas? Be in bed?

  Yes I did. Yes I should. But I need to go get it first. I’ll go to bed right after. I promise.

  It’s dark, and wet.

  I’ll be quick.

  You know where it is?

  I know where it is.

  Five minutes, then back to bed.

  Five minutes.

  •  •  •

  It wasn’t hard for Finn to find a notice, even in the dark. Most of the houses they were delivered to were abandoned, so Finn just pulled one out of the mail slot of a former neighbor. He held it up toward the sky, the moon, but it was too dark and foggy to see anything but the outline, so he folded it carefully in half and then in half again and put it in his pocket. He took the sock out of the other pocket and ran back home holding it.

  Got it! said Finn.

  His father was exactly where he’d been when he left. Still standing by the phone, like it might ring again any minute.

  OK, good. Good work. Now go to bed.

  OK. Goodnight.

  Goodnight.

  Finn ran up the stairs and into his room. He closed the door as much as it would close when the weather was wet, sat on his bed and took the notice out of his pocket. It was on light green paper, the color of early-morning sea.

  •  •  •

  The first time the notices arrived, seven years earlier, it was Finn’s job to collect the mail in the mornings. He was four years old and could read some words and most numbers, but the black lettering on the notice was too tight and too small for him. He brought it up to the house, into the kitchen, where his mother was making coffee in her work overalls. Dark stains all over the legs like the pattern on an eel. Just one thing, he said.

  Thanks, said Martha. She was pouring milk with one hand and took the notice with the other.

  The milk was old. Finn saw a lump drop down into his mother’s coffee.

  Mom? he said.

  Oh God, said Martha.

  The milk, said Finn.

  Where’s your father? said Martha.

  He’s on-boat, like always, said Finn. Mom, the milk.

  I’m going to the neighbors’. You wait here. Don’t go anywhere.

  She left the notice on the counter, her coffee and the open milk beside it. Finn poured out the milk, lumps clogging in the drain, then went to wake his sister.

  •  •  •

  It says: Everyone out! said Cora.

  It does?

  Basically.

  Out of what?

  Here. Out of the village.

  Really?

  Yep. Everyone out! Time to move to a bigger town!

  But why?

  Not so many fish anymore, not so many jobs, so w
hat’s the point of living here?! it says.

  But I like it here.

  Too bad! it says. Lots of people left already, so off you go!

  There are more fish in the bigger towns?

  I guess so.

  What else? There are a lot of words.

  We’ll turn off your heat! Your post! Your water! You won’t be able to take baths! You’ll freeze in winter!

  Really?

  Really. It says, We Really Will. Don’t think this is a fake, it says. Because this is not a fake.

  When?

  Um. Cora looked back down at the green sheet, ran her finger along to the bottom. There’s going to be a meeting, she said. After that.

  Soon?

  Yep. Very soon.

  •  •  •

  Four months after the arrival of the first notice, the one Finn couldn’t read, he had stood with his sister and father on a large flat boulder and watched their house float away. His mother was out on the water in a dory, helping pull it away from their east-cove village, Little Running, toward the slightly bigger west-cove village of Big Running. She was in charge of ropes and knots. It took two hours and forty-seven minutes to pull it across.

  Theirs was the very last of five once-east-cove homes, now west. Resettled. Just like that, said Finn’s father. Just like that. There was only one house left over in Little Running: Mrs. Callaghan’s. She wouldn’t leave. Not even when the government said they’d pay her twice the amount everyone else was getting because she’d been there so long. Not even when they said they would cut off water and electric within twenty-four hours. Not now, not ever, she said. Not now, not ever.

  Finn didn’t need Cora’s help to read the notice this time, but he still went to her room, still woke her up.

  Wake up, said Finn.

  No, said Cora.

  Wake up, you have to.

  I don’t.

  Look, said Finn. Look. His whisper cracked. Cora lowered her blanket off her face, opened her eyes. Look, Finn said again. He handed her the paper.

  They were silent while she read. Finn sat on the floor, close enough to follow Cora’s eyes but far enough that no part of him touched any part of her or her bed. She finished and folded the green paper in half and handed it back to Finn, still silent. She closed her eyes but not to sleep, sighed.

  I’m going to hold a meeting, said Finn. I’m going to fix this.

  Yeah? she said.

  Yeah.

  •  •  •

  He made his own notices. On white paper:

  NO

  WE DON’T HAVE TO

  GO.

  A MEETING TO TALK ABOUT WHAT TO DO INSTEAD

  WEDNESDAY, FEB 17th, 6 P.M.

  CONNOR HOUSE

  SNACKS INCLUDED.

  His father watched him. He stood behind Finn at the kitchen table while he wrote them out one after another after another. Can I help? he asked.

  No, said Finn. Thanks, but no.

  So Aidan made him hot chocolate and picked up paper scraps and got out a spare black felt pen in case Finn’s ran out of ink. When that was done and there was nothing else to do, he just stood there, behind him.

  Are you sure? he said.

  Yes, said Finn.

  •  •  •

  Finn delivered them on his bike to the four still-occupied houses first, then to all the others too, just in case. He pushed them through metal-cold mail slots, then stood outside and waited, ten seconds, thirty, sixty, in case he heard anything inside. Anything moving, anything living. When he finished, the sun was almost gone, Wednesday, February 10, almost gone.

  Five days before the meeting Finn borrowed the Today’s Specials blackboard from the empty bakery, along with two boxes of pink and white chalk he found in a drawer behind the counter. He carried it all back to his house, the blackboard balanced across his back, the chalk in his pockets.

  Three days before the meeting Finn drafted an agenda, including seven minutes for greetings, five minutes each for everyone to speak, two minutes each for two votes, should they need votes, and five minutes for scheduling the next meeting and plans. He wrote it out and taped it to the mantel. No fires until after the meeting, OK?

  OK, said Aidan.

  •  •  •

  Two days to go and Finn made reminder notices, drew stars on them, underlined the date and place, pushed them through the mail slots of all the houses. At the third house a hand caught his as he posted it through. Cold, salt-rough fingers around his.

  Finn?

  Yes, Mrs. O’Leary?

  You have time for a tea, Finn, a chat? Her voice was quiet but close; she must have been kneeling down, whispering into the slot.

  Thanks, Mrs. O’Leary, but I’ve got all the other houses to finish.

  OK, maybe next time.

  Maybe next time. See you Wednesday?

  Yes, yes, Wednesday.

  •  •  •

  One day before the meeting Finn took a rag and wiped all the dust off the shelves and window frames and Cora’s violin case and the blackboard, now propped in front of the fireplace. He melted Jello powder into bowls of warm water and carefully filled the fridge with the green and orange liquid, pushing all their other food to the sides.

  Is there anything I can do? asked his father.

  Don’t bump the bowls, said Finn.

  •  •  •

  Two hours before the meeting Finn made a small pile of all the pencils and pens and scrap paper he could find, neat on the living-room coffee table. He chopped cheese into cubes and put it on a plate to one side of the pencils. He chopped Jello into as close to cubes as it would go and put it on another two plates to the other side of the pencils.

  Where’s Cora? he asked.

  I don’t know, said his father. She’ll be back soon though, I’m sure.

  •  •  •

  Fifteen minutes before the meeting Finn wrote:

  BIG RUNNING TOWN MEETING

  on the blackboard in white and underlined it in pink, leaving lots of room underneath. He sat in the chair nearest to it, rolling a piece of chalk between his thumb and finger. He could see out the front window from there.

  Is there anything I can do? asked Aidan.

  Do we have enough chairs? asked Finn. He had moved all of the kitchen ones into the living room, and all of Aunt Molly’s too.

  I think we do.

  I guess you could help take coats and arrange boots, when everyone gets here, if they all get here at once?

  OK, said Aidan. OK, I can do that.

  He stood by the door and Finn sat in his chair and they both watched the window, both waited.

  •  •  •

  The sun set just before six o’clock, spreading across the evening’s mist pink and orange and red.

  That’s nice, said Aidan. Isn’t that nice?

  Yeah, said Finn.

  •  •  •

  It was almost fully dark when Cora got in. Sorry, she said. Sorry I’m late. Where should I sit?

  Well, said Aidan.

  Anywhere, said Finn.

  Can I eat some Jello?

  I— said Finn.

  Not yet, said Aidan. Not quite yet.

  •  •  •

  At six fifteen Cora snuck a piece of green Jello. Finn saw but didn’t stop her.

  At six eighteen there was a knock on the door. Aidan moved toward it, but Finn was there, turning the handle, before he could get to it. Hello! he said. Hello hello hello.

  Three people were on the doorstep, Mrs. and Mr. O’Leary and Bill Kelly, who had a guitar case on his back.

  Come in, come in, said Finn.

  Let me take your coats, said Aidan.

  You might want to keep them on, said Cora. Since we’re not allowed to have a fire.

  •  •  •

  The next group arrived just as Bill was finding a place to lean his guitar. This time it was five people, some recognizable, some
not.

  My cousin, back visiting from out west, said Sheila McNabe.

  My sister, said Charlie Brophy, over from South Island.

  The cousin carried a flute with no case, the sister a set of pipes.

  •  •  •

  By six thirty the room, and all the chairs, were full. Cora had been shifted to the floor to make room. Aidan still stood by the door. All the green Jello was gone and most of the orange. Under chairs and across knees and between bodies there were three fiddles and three guitars and two bodhrans and four whistles and two accordions and one flute and one set of pipes. Everyone was talking to everyone.

  OK, said Finn. It’s time to start.

  Everyone kept talking to everyone.

  OK, said Finn, louder, lower. He knocked his fist against the blackboard, once, twice. Heads turned, voices dropped.

  IT’S TIME TO START, he said. Please.

  Everyone went quiet. Everyone looked at Finn.

  OK, said Finn. He exhaled, held up a green notice. The thing is, he said, we don’t have to go. Right? Not unless everyone wants to. It has to be unanimous. That’s what it says.

  Near-unanimous, said Cora.

  Ninety percent of us.

  Of residents.

  What does that mean?

  People who live here.

  Or own property here.

  And if they’re gone, already gone?

  That counts as a yes.

  Yes to staying or yes to leaving?

  Yes to leaving.

  OK, said Finn, still. Still, we are still here, we are enough of us.

  When do we have to decide?

  Six months.

  Less now.

  Six months minus a week.

  I’ve lived here sixty-seven years, said Mrs. O’Leary.

  Fifty-two, me, said Joe Blacks.

  Thirty-six, Sheila McNabe.

  Twelve, said someone.

  Thirty-nine, someone else.