Our Homesick Songs Page 11

Sixty-six,

  Seventy,

  Fifteen,

  Forty-eight,

  Forever,

  Forever,

  Forever.

  Finn wrote down all the numbers, all bigger than him.

  And I’m tired,

  I’m so tired,

  So, so,

  So, fucking tired.

  Both Finn and Cora looked over to their father, but he said nothing, just nodded a little.

  Finn, said Mrs. O’Leary, I’d still like to believe you could bring them back.

  So would I,

  So would I.

  You caught the last fish, do you think you can catch more?

  There are no more.

  There might be more.

  There are no more.

  If there are, Finn can find them.

  Yes, Finn will find them.

  We’ve tried.

  We’re tired.

  We’ve tried and tried.

  It’s you or nothing, Finn.

  Yes,

  Yes,

  Yes,

  Finn or nothing.

  •  •  •

  The room went quiet again. Finn waited, pressed his fingers around the chalk, imagined he had the strength to squeeze it flat, to squeeze it until it turned liquid and pushed through, between his fingers. A woman he didn’t recognize reached over and took the second-last piece of orange Jello. Cora reached after her and took the last one. Still quiet. Finn opened his hand; the chalk was still solid, still normal. He wrote:

  Me. (Finn Connor)

  on the blackboard.

  Does anyone have any other ideas? said Finn. Anything else?

  Quiet. Rupert Coffin scratched his leg. Mrs. O’Leary met eyes with Mr. O’Leary, then looked away.

  Finally, somebody’s sister-in-law said, How about a song? She picked up a guitar that wasn’t hers.

  Yes,

  Yes.

  For the fish, or— said Finn.

  For now, said Aidan. It was the first thing he had said since everyone arrived. Let’s have a song for now.

  After the first song there was another, and then another, and then another. Someone moved the blackboard to the front porch and started a fire. Bottles and flasks appeared from coat pockets and fiddle cases. His father went and got Finn’s accordion, helped him lift the straps over each shoulder. Arms and legs and voices, fiddles and flutes and drums, all moving together, all in time. It was warm and there was food and there was drink and all the songs were songs Finn knew. Aidan phoned Martha in Alberta and held the phone up so she could hear. Finn played and sang along as late as he could, fighting sleep, leaning into the cold of the wall against his back, the rough of the boards under his legs. He didn’t notice exactly when Cora slipped away, out.

  When he woke he was being lifted, pulled up by his father. His accordion was on the floor beside an empty Canada Club bottle. Finn let himself be helped, half carried, upstairs to bed. His father was humming; Finn closed his eyes and sank into it.

  It was past two in the morning when Cora came to Finn’s room. She had her toque and one of their mom’s sweaters on, red wool with two twisted braid patterns, one along each side. It hung down well past the pockets of her jeans, almost to her knees. I’m sorry, she said. I just want to show you one more thing. Just one more. Bring a coat.

  They walked out to Carissa Stone’s cottage, set back a bit from the other houses, away from the water. They climbed in through the window.

  Everything, all the walls, the floor, the sofa, the rocking chair, the door, the fireplace, the ceiling, the chimney, everything, was covered in blue, a mix-up of lots of different blues, cut from lots of different pictures, all stuck together so it almost looked like it was moving. On top of this was a combination of people-things and sea-things. There was a little wood cabin right next to a giant octopus, a school of green and yellow fish flowing around a tall city tower, a seahorse floating out the doorway of a post office, a crab pushing a stroller, cars sunk into seaweed. There were jellyfish hanging over the lightbulbs in the ceiling with bicycles and mittens and school buses caught up in their tentacles. They were made of plastic wrap and tinfoil. They made everything shine.

  It’s Atlantis, said Cora. There were no more Happy Backpacker Guides, so I came up with this one myself.

  Oh, said Finn. Oh wow. This is the best one, Cora. This is the best one of them all.

  Yeah? said Cora.

  Yeah.

  . . .

  . . .

  Hey, Finn?

  Yeah?

  I wanted to tell you, you can go into any of the houses whenever you want, OK? I know I said before that you couldn’t, but I changed my mind. You can.

  Thanks, Cora.

  You’re welcome.

  •  •  •

  Finn updated his map before going back to bed. If it was right, this was the last empty house; Cora had filled them all now, twenty-four in total now. He fell asleep remembering what it felt like to run his hands down Atlantis’s mismatched blue walls, about how it was like being underwater and being able to breathe at the same time.

  The next morning she was gone. There was a note

  Please don’t try to find me.

  I’ll be fine.

  surrounded by empty cups and plates and bottles. Finn read it and felt like his feet were sinking down into the wooden planks of the floor. Like he and his father were the only two people left on the whole island, in the whole world.

  Martha was in the temp tool crib on the overnight shift. It was busy and it was loud. The phone was ringing, but she didn’t have time to answer it; a steady lineup of men strung back from her open window as one by one she handed them the flimsy blue coil notebook in which to write their names and the equipment they were getting while she went to find their things in the back. Denis, metal saw; Steven, cracked hat (return); Aaron, tube wrench; Ross, heat packs; Stewart, drill bit five; Patrick, drill bit six; and then John, not writing anything, just standing there. In his safety hat and glasses it took her a moment to recognize him; everyone here looked the same.

  Come for a walk later? he said.

  I don’t get off for another seven hours.

  After that?

  Where is there to walk? All around them concrete, steel, lights, trucks, noise.

  I know places.

  OK.

  •  •  •

  Is your sister doing better? At Christmas dinner, John’s sister had stayed in her room the whole time, door closed.

  She’s a bit better, said John, thanks for asking. It’s been a long winter.

  They were walking through the site, up toward the northwest corner. The machine noise was loud and his voice was soft, so Martha had to lean in to hear.

  This is the quickest way out without a truck, he said. It was all concrete, lights, noise, and then trees, the development drifting off into forest like a beach to sea. We’re still technically on-site here, said John, but it doesn’t feel like it, hey? They stepped into the forest’s shadow, the snow reaching up past the tops of their boots. The insulation of the trees muffled the site noise down, like it was under snow too.

  John, said Martha.

  Yeah?

  What was it like here, before?

  There were a lot of trees.

  There are still a lot of trees . . .

  There were only trees.

  I’d like you to tell me about it.

  Martha Murphy, I’d love to tell you all about it.

  •  •  •

  Back in her room, like it had in the tool crib, Martha’s phone rang and rang. Once every ten minutes, again and again and again, from the end of her shift, at six in the morning, through to seven and eight and nine, until, at ten minutes past nine, she heard it ringing from down the hall, still ringing as she tried the wrong key in her room door, they all looked the same here, all the small, flat, cheap kind, still ringing as she finally got it unlocked and pushed open and reached out to it befo
re even taking off her boots or shutting her door.

  •  •  •

  It didn’t say where she was going?

  No, I read you the note. That was the whole note.

  Did anybody see her? Somebody must have seen her.

  No one has. I’ve been around to everyone, no one has.

  Did you check the empty houses?

  He did, Finn did. She’s not there.

  She can’t have just left, Aidan. She’s only fourteen. She can’t have just left. Did you check the boats? Are there any missing boats?

  No, I didn’t—

  Damn it, Aidan. You have to check the boats. Always check the—

  I haven’t—

  My God, is it stormy? Did you let her go out on a—

  I didn’t—

  Oh God.

  I didn’t—

  Oh God.

  When Finn came back from double-checking the houses for Cora, in case she actually was still there, in case he had missed something the first time, his father was standing in the kitchen, just like he had been an hour before. Only now he was wearing his old green jacket and, instead of holding the phone, he was holding a very small, very worn feather. It was missing most of its vanes. He didn’t turn around when Finn came in.

  She’s not there, said Finn. Not in the houses, still. I checked really carefully, I checked again.

  OK, said his father. Thank you.

  Finn was afraid that he was going to offer to come along, to go check the houses for himself, but his father didn’t say anything else, didn’t move.

  Do you want me to go check again?

  No, no, it’s fine. Thank you, Finn.

  Silence again. Aidan and the feather and Finn. It wasn’t any kind of feather Finn recognized.

  Finally, his father looked up again and said, Do we call the Sea Rescue volunteers? The police?

  I don’t know, said Finn.

  I don’t either, said Aidan.

  •  •  •

  There weren’t enough people left in Big Running to have their own Volunteer Sea Rescue Scouts anymore, so they had to wait more than an hour for them to arrive from South Island, even with the motor in their boat as they had to fight the wind and cut through the floating ice. Finn and Aidan met them at the water.

  I’m Mavis, said one.

  And I’m Violet, said the other.

  They were older than Finn’s mother, but younger than Mrs. Callaghan. They both had the same white-silver hair, cut short, just barely sticking out from under their SIVSRS toques. Their eyebrows and eyelashes were crusted in matching salt-ice. Sea widows, the both of us, said Mavis, cutting the engine.

  This water can be a right bastard, said Violet, throwing a rope out so Finn and Aidan could pull the boat to them.

  But we’ll do whatever we can, said Mavis.

  Whatever we can to help, said Violet.

  Their SIVSRS vests shone bright yellow against the water.

  I’m going with them, said Finn’s father. Can you go back around to see if anyone’s missing a boat?

  And even though Finn wanted to go out in the fast boat with Mavis and Violet, wanted to sit right in between them, wanted them to put their arms around him or squeeze his hand while they all looked, all looked together, he didn’t say it. Instead he said, OK. And he turned to walk away, back toward the houses.

  AND WE’LL MEET BACK AT HOME AFTER! called Aidan, over the motor’s cough.

  OK, said Finn, though he knew it was too quiet for his father to hear.

  •  •  •

  He had already been to the four neighbors who still lived in the Big Running Greater District twice that morning, and, of course, they had already checked their boats, and nothing was missing, nothing was gone.

  Mind you, said Bill Kelly, slurring a little, still hungover, there’s nothing would have stopped her taking one of the old ones rotting on the rocks. Dozens of those up and down the water that nobody’s counting or keeping track of anymore. Doubt any of them would hold up for more than a few miles out, bumping with the ice though, and Cora’s a smarter girl than that.

  She is smart, said Finn.

  We know, said Bill.

  She is.

  Yes, we know.

  After checking with everyone, again, again, Finn went home and got his accordion and took it out of its case and strapped it onto his front. Then, without bending over, he slipped off his shoes and stepped into boots, tall black rubber with red soles, and set out across the marshes the two miles to the tallest plateau with his cairn on it. The weight of his accordion made his feet stick in the half-frozen bogs more than usual and he had to flex his toes with every step to keep his boots on.

  His cairn was still there, still standing. There was a new orange spot of lichen blooming across its lower stones. A lonely lichen is a happy lichen, Charlotte from the fish-packing plant had told him once, before she and her husband went west. The fewer of us around there are, the better for it. Finn kicked at it with his boot, first just a little and then hard, so that the whole cairn fell over, some stones tumbling down the side of the plateau into the marsh, others falling into and onto themselves in a messy pile.

  He stayed standing up to play. He wiped his eyes and nose with his already-wet sweater sleeve, positioned himself facing west, looking into the foggy sun, and began to play one of the Local Jigs, Reels and Airs Based on the Flora and Fauna of the Region. He knew them all by heart now. It started raining, which wasn’t good for the accordion, but he kept playing anyway, right through, right until he had played through them all. At one point, in the middle of “The Cotton Grass Air,” three caribou appeared from the northwest, about a hundred meters away. They stopped and stood lichen-still for the rest of the air, then two reels and one more air, then left again the same way they had come.

  Martha still had ten hours left before her next shift started. She sat down on her bed and looked at the phone. She had no reason to pick it up. No news, nothing to say. More than sleep, more than crying, she wanted to pick it up, but had nothing.

  Mavis and Violet dropped Aidan off as close as they could to dry rocks, but he still had to wade in from shin-deep ice water, the cold of it first shocking, then numbing him. Once home, he took off his boots and wet socks and left them by the front door. He could see that Finn was there already, his smaller boots fallen over in the entranceway, his accordion out of its case, wet sock marks on the rug up the stairs toward his room. Aidan walked past them, into the kitchen, and sat in the chair nearest the phone. He had no news, nothing to say. But he didn’t know what else to do, so he sat there, just sat there.

  Finn stretched the phone cord the other way, out along the hall, around the door and into Cora’s room. There were no lights on in their house or any house, no boat lights on the water. He sat on the floor, back against her bed.

  More? asked Mrs. Callaghan.

  Please, said Finn. Please.

  (1974)

  After their journey, once everyone was back and things were normal and Aidan was out fishing again for long nights and days and nights, after that, when he came in to drop off his catch in wet and shining piles like pirate treasure, then, before going home, before seeing his mother, Aidan would row over to Big Running, to Martha. She would meet him on the shore, working nets, or, sometimes, if she saw him coming a long way off, in her own boat, she would row out to meet him. It was almost always morning, almost always early.

  In clenched fists, Martha would bring Aidan sea glass, round and smooth and blue and green and clear as sky. Mermaid’s tears, they called them, in the Runnings. Cried for people left back onshore, hardened by distance.

  So many tears, said his mother. Aidan arranged the glass on the mantel over their fireplace, sorting it so no two of the same color were next to each other. When the fire was lit the light shone through them and onto the walls and ceiling and onto their hands and cheeks and mouths, blue, green, clear as sky.

  In buckets of cold seawater, Aid
an would bring Martha the strangest, most wonderful things he found in his nets. A tiny, bright red fish like a spark. A sea snake black as tar spiraling around and around itself. An explosion of a sea urchin like a living firework.

  Martha built rock cages for her creatures. She’d wade into the water and use small and medium rocks to build circular cages in the shallows. She poured the fish, the snake, the urchin out into these. She made them in a row so she could walk along, like a zoo. She brought Molly down to see. Do you think it’s cruel? she asked, the water pushing and pulling into the rock cages, in and out, against their calves, bare, trousers rolled up.

  I don’t know, said Molly. Do they escape?

  They all do, eventually, said Martha. Does that make it better or worse?

  Hm, said Molly. I’m not sure. Better, I guess.

  (1993)

  The next day was a Friday. An accordion lesson day. Should I go? asked Finn, downstairs for breakfast. They were out of cereal and the milk was bad so he was eating crumbled up jam-jam cookies with water.

  Of course, said his father. Why wouldn’t you go? He wasn’t eating anything. Just drinking black coffee in his bright orange SQUIDJIGGINGGROUND! mug.

  What will you do?

  What I normally do. I have things to do.

  Go fishing?

  Maybe. Maybe stay in and work around here. Make things right for when your mother and Cora come home.

  I could stay and help?

  No. No, you should go. Go.

  OK.

  Because it was always freezing now on the boat out to Mrs. Callaghan’s, and because Cora wasn’t there to get mad at him for it, Finn went into his sister’s room and got her bigger, caribou-head sweater and put it on over the top of his own fish one. He wrapped up his accordion, too, first in its case, then in one of Aunt Minnie’s old quilts, then stuffed it into a black garbage bag that ripped a little from the expanded bulk. He carried it like a big, ungainly baby down to the ice-docked boat. Once on the water, the double-thick wool over his arms made it hard to bend at the elbow, so Finn’s rowing was slow and clunky, pushing frozen-fingered through patches of sugar-thin ice that cracked against the boat like cellophane.