Our Homesick Songs Read online

  Finn?

  He opened the door a crack. Enough to see and reach through. Yes?

  What time is it?

  It’s school-field-trip time, Mom! Second Monday of the month! I brought you juice. Finn reached his arm out, into the room. He’d made orange juice from concentrate, specially borrowed from the Italy! freezer and had poured his mother the biggest glass they had, the glass so big they sometimes used it as a vase. There’s more downstairs, he said. There’s a whole jug.

  Martha ran a hand over her face. Is it me? she said. Am I the parent volunteer this month?

  Yes, said Finn. You are, but it’s OK. I know the way.

  Was there a letter?

  Yeah, last month. When Dad was here.

  OK. She got up. She was already in her robe, must have slept in it. She went to the door, took the juice and smoothed Finn’s hair to the side like she did a lot these days. Give me five minutes, OK?

  OK, said Finn. He started back, away downstairs.

  Is it the plant? The door fell closed again.

  What?

  It’s the old fish plant, yes? Should I wear my overalls?

  Nope, this time it’s ice-fishing.

  But . . . there aren’t any fish.

  Still, that’s what it said. We can learn about augers, it said.

  You want to learn about augers?

  Yes.

  OK. Extra layers, then. OK. Downstairs in ten minutes.

  •  •  •

  Even though they knew no other students would come, that there were no other students left, they walked down through the snow to the official meeting point in front of the Anglican Reform Church. They waited from eight until eight thirty. Then Martha took a clipboard with a pen attached to it with string out of her bag and wrote:

  1. Finn Connor

  on a school-board form to mail back. She did it without taking off her mittens, so the lettering was clumsy and over-big. Then she put the clipboard back in her bag and said, OK, Finn Connor, field-trip time has officially begun.

  All the equipment was there, as usual, at the meeting point. Finn picked up the covered pail in one mittened hand and the lures and skimmer in the other. His mother put the chisel in her bag and took the auger and chair in a hand each. They marched together through the snow out to the water, then out onto it, the ice solid and silent beneath them.

  •  •  •

  All right, said Martha. Her cheeks and nose were red from the wind. You want me to show you how to drill down?

  Yes please, said Finn.

  OK, said Martha. All right. She put down her bag and the chair and took up the auger. She kicked away some loose snow, clearing a small patch of ice, dark and green and clouded. You have the skimmer?

  Yes, said Finn, let me just . . .

  Good, said Martha. She was already kneeling down on the ice. Look, she said. Both hands up, here and here, see? Ready?

  Yes, said Finn, skimmer out, ready.

  His mother dug the drill down a bit, then started to turn the handle like she’d done before, hundreds of times, out with Meredith, out with Molly, out with Aidan. Easy, she said. It’s easy, Finn, once you get started. She stopped, looked up at him and, even though she didn’t smile, she did something more like smiling, her mouth relaxing, her eyes actually looking at Finn. It’s actually even fun, kind of, she said. It’s pretty fun, Finn. You want a go?

  Yes, said Finn. Yes please.

  •  •  •

  Mom . . . ? Mom?

  They’d been watching their line for about two and a half hours, Finn sitting on the bucket with the lid, Martha on the chair.

  Mom!

  Martha had gone off behind some snowdrifts to deal with her juice-full bladder. She was walking back.

  Mom! Mom!

  From that distance, she couldn’t see the details of her son’s face. Couldn’t see why he was shouting.

  Mom!

  She waved her arms and tried to run, but her boots and the snow and the ice meant she was in slow motion.

  Finn?

  Mom!

  Finn!

  Mom!

  And then she was back and there was no blood, no danger, just Finn, breathing fast, up on one knee, braced against a ridge of snow, pulling, releasing, pulling.

  Oh, said Martha.

  It’s something, Mom, said Finn. I think I’ve got something.

  Oh, said Martha, oh, oh, oh.

  Finn pulled and released and pulled and released and Martha stood by and waited and watched and waited until, finally, they both, at the same time, saw a flick of gray, not the gray of the sky or the rocks or the days, but a shining silver gray, new and real and so, so bright in the water.

  A fish, whispered Martha.

  Finn got it out and onto the ice and clubbed it with the skimmer all in one motion, all at once.

  A half-sleeping winter fish, after the knock on its head it didn’t fight, it didn’t flip. It lay still, there on the ice between them, bright and silver and new. A fish. A codfish. Another.

  Finn sat down beside it, exhausted. He looked up at his mother, who looked down at him and, with one mittened hand half-covering it, smiled.

  Oh, she said. Oh, Finn.

  I knew it, said Finn.

  Me too, said Martha. Me too.

  •  •  •

  Finn put the fish in the bucket and put the lid back on and they picked up their things and walked home, and the sun shone through the mist in spots and flecks so everything looked new, looked magic.

  They called Aidan first. Before even taking the fish out of the bucket, before even taking off their boots. He’s done it, he’s done it, said Martha, to the woman who took messages when phones rang through, when people were busy on-shift.

  Done what? she said.

  Just say he’s done it. Write that. Write Finn has done it. With an exclamation mark. Write: Finn! Has! Done! It!

  With all the exclamation marks?

  Yes.

  OK.

  •  •  •

  Then the O’Learys, but there was no answer. Finn knew they’d gone, they’d left the morning after the meeting, but he didn’t say anything.

  Then Molly, out west, in the middle of a violin lesson, then Meredith, in St. John’s, mashing garlic for a bourguignon, then Sheila McNabe, in the ferry office, in the middle of module 2B of her correspondence IT course, and then, when they finally put the phone down to take off their boots and coats, puddles of melted snow and ice around them, faces and hands hot, it rang back at them. Martha picked it up.

  Hello?

  . . .

  Yes . . .

  . . .

  Yes!

  . . .

  Yes he is, yes you can, here, here.

  Martha held the phone out to Finn, It’s the paper, she said, and then, covering the mouthpiece, from the city! From St. John’s!

  Finn took the phone, and Martha went, at last, to get the bucket from the front step.

  Hello? said Finn. Yes, yes that’s me.

  A wash of cold air from the front door, opened, closed, as Martha carried it into the kitchen and up, onto the counter.

  I did. Again, yes, again.

  She pulled at the lid, it was on tight, a good rubber seal.

  Well, the first time was with a rod, from my dad, and now, just now, was on the ice, with my mom.

  When it opened, a spray of water, of salt, splashed up against Martha’s cheek, a few drops flying further, onto Finn’s arm.

  No, nobody else has. Nobody else has been able to.

  She poured the rest of the seawater out, into the sink.

  Oh yes, oh yes, they tried. But then they gave up.

  She lifted the fish up onto their chopping board, worn smooth from years and years.

  Well, they said it had to be me, that if anyone could, it would be me, they said.

  The fish hung over the edge of the board, long and beautiful-smooth.

  If there are fish, Finn
can find them, they said. They said it was me or nothing.

  Martha ran her hand along the fish, smooth.

  Well yes, I guess they were. I guess they were right.

  She carefully flipped it over, felt the other side, smooth.

  I do, I do think they’re coming back, yes. Yes, yes.

  She took a knife and split the fish right up the middle of its belly, one clean motion, like she’d done a thousand times, like she’d seen Meredith do ten thousand times, then slid her fingers in and along to scoop out the guts, out and down in one clean motion, but there was nothing. Nothing there, just her fingers again, mostly dry.

  So we’re going to be OK, yes. We’re going to be OK again. Yes, you can print that, yes, it’s Finn. Finn Connor. F-I-N-N C-O-N-N-O-R.

  Martha tried again, got nothing again. She cut up the neck and up the tail and opened up the fish all the way, exposing the pink and white flesh, smooth like ice, empty like the sea.

  And, can you put a note in for Cora, my sister, Cora Connor? Tell her she can come back now, she should come back home.

  There were no guts. Nothing but flesh.

  OK. Yep, any time, OK.

  Martha leaned in, so close she could feel the cold off the fish when she breathed. It was obvious. It was easy.

  Any time, any time at all.

  She could see where it had been cut before. One clean motion, a beautiful cut, more perfect than hers, more practiced. It was obvious.

  Finn put the phone down. Wow, he said.

  I need to go outside for a minute, said Martha. Her voice quiet. The fish still lying there, head and tail over the sides of the board.

  Outside? OK. Do you want me to finish that? Set it cooking?

  I don’t know.

  And keep the head and bones to show people? For proof?

  I don’t know. Martha left, went out. She didn’t put on her boots, she didn’t close the door after her. Finn went to the fish, looked at its glass-cold eye looking at him. Wind from the open door was blowing old crumbs around on the floor. His mother didn’t come back. He covered the fish’s head with his hand, but could still sense the eye through his fingers, still looking. They never blink, fish never blink. Bits of snow blew in too, chased the crumbs. His mother still didn’t come back. He bent down, into the under-sink cupboard, got a rag, and put it over the fish’s head, over its eye.

  Mom? he said.

  She was outside. She was too far away.

  Mom? he said again, louder, not moving, still there by the fish. Mom?

  Where did the fish come from, Finn? Her voice, around the corner, out the door, had wind all around it.

  What?

  Where did it come from, Finn? Where did you get it?

  From the water, Mom, the sea, you were there, you saw me get it, you—

  Before that, Finn, from where?

  I . . .

  Finn.

  The wetness of the fish was soaking through the rag, spreading out in dark splotches. I— said Finn. He stared at the rag, at the dark. I— he said again.

  It’s somebody else’s fish, said Martha.

  Finn stared at the rag, at the dark. I— he said.

  Already scaled, already gutted, said Martha. Somebody else’s fish. Gutted fish don’t bite hooks, don’t swim free.

  I caught it, Finn could have said, I caught it before, when you were away. I caught it and gutted it and scaled it and saved it for you, for when you were home, Finn could have said. He said it in his head, fast, maybe, maybe.

  Where did it come from, Finn? Again. Before the water, before I was there.

  The bucket, said Finn.

  The wind blew and it was like his mother sighing.

  And the Beggs’, he said. Before that. The freezer in the Beggs’ basement. There are ten there, still. Ten more.

  And the wind blew.

  Mom?

  The Beggs. She was beautiful with a gutting knife. He was beautiful with a net. One of her nets, one of Martha’s.

  Mom? said Finn.

  Just wind. And the all-wet-now rag, and the eye underneath, and the crumbs and the snow and the cold.

  Mom?

  The door was still open, but she was gone. The wind blew sparks of snow into his eyes and up his nose with each inhale. Finn left the door open and went back to the kitchen. He got out the plastic wrap and wrapped up the fish, with the rag still on its head, and put it in the freezer. He put soap on another rag and wiped down the chopping board and propped it against the faucet to dry. The house was cold and getting colder, but Finn’s face and chest and stomach were uncomfortable hot, pulsing hot. He filled the sink with water and soap, washed and dried the gutting knife, and put it away in its drawer. The door was still open. His mother still wasn’t back. He gathered up the other dirty dishes from around the house, cups from his bedroom, mugs from his parents’, plates from the front room, nothing from Cora’s, and washed those all up too. He wiped the table, and the counters. He swept the crumbs and the snow off the floor and out the door. He sat. He waited. He was so hot, he was burning hot. He filled one of the now-clean glasses with cold water and drank it, then washed it and put it away again. He sat. He waited. He should probably have dinner but he wasn’t hungry for dinner. He sat. In one of the hard, non-cushioned kitchen chairs. He could have moved to the sofa in the living room, or a cushioned chair at least, but he didn’t. He waited.

  When the microwave clock showed that his mother had been gone for an hour, he filled the kettle and put it on the stove, and, when the water was ready, Finn poured it out into one of the now-clean mugs, stirring in bits of an old chocolate bar he’d found in his parents’ room. It would be better with milk, it should have been with milk, but they didn’t have any milk. Then he put on his boots and, even though he was too hot for it, knew that he would sweat right through, a coat. He took the hot chocolate, and went out to find his mother.

  He followed her sock prints in the snow, down, out, along the road, and then up again, to the Italy! house. The Beggs’. He rang the doorbell. No answer. He went around to the window, breathed on the glass to warm up a circle to see through. His mother was there, in the living room. She was sitting on the floor beside the Leaning Tower of Pisa lamp, fiddling with the gray paper at its base, ripping it off in thin strips. There were little gray bits of paper all around her. Finn knocked on the window, she looked up. He waved. She hesitated, didn’t smile, but did wave back, a little. Finn pointed at the hot chocolate, now mostly cold, and set it on the windowsill. Then he took a folded note out of his pocket and left it there too, under the side of the mug so it wouldn’t blow away. Then he turned around and walked back home. He would come back again in an hour. And again after that and again after that and again after that.

  Martha waited for him to go. She counted to thirty, then got up and went to the window and opened it and took the mug of cold chocolate and the note:

  I’m sorry.

  F

  In the distance, through swirls of snow, she could see his dark outline. He was in his sister’s coat. He looked tiny. When she squinted she couldn’t see him at all.

  One hour later Finn went back to Italy! His mother was asleep on the flag-couch. He knocked quietly, just twice, on the window, left a note and as much of a wool blanket as he could fit on the sill, the rest dangling over the edge but not quite touching the snow, and went home again.

  Don’t be mad,

  I’ll fix this. I promise.

  F

  Martha heard the steps, the knocks and then steps again. She counted to thirty, then got up off the couch. It was covered in red and white and green paper, noisy and uncomfortable. But it looked nice. She opened the window and saw her faraway son, halfway home. She took the note and read it and smoothed it between both hands and put it in her pocket with the other one. She took the blanket and shook the snow off and wrapped it around herself like a cape. She had to phone Aidan and her sisters and the paper and tell them the truth about the fish. She had to collect he
rself and be an adult, be a parent, and go back to Finn. But this house was so cold. The fireplace had pictures of horses and muscular men taped all along and inside it instead of wood or coal. So cold and so strange. Martha pulled the blanket up to her mouth and lay back down on the paper couch. Just once more. A count up to thirty and down again. Just once more.

  Finn didn’t go home. He kept walking past his house, all the way out to the library boat. There was no librarian on the library boat anymore, just a key that was kept in a lockbox on the door that everyone knew the code to, 3145, that was also written on the underside of the box in case you forgot. It was freezing inside, and the ice had pushed it up so the floor was uneven in a way that made him dizzy. Finn collected Clams, Crabs, Fish and Other Animals That Aren’t Quite like Us and 101 Fail-Proof Lures and Techniques and The Intermediate Undergraduate’s Guide to Marine Biology: Ecology and Economy and Can You Hear What I Hear? Animals and ESP. He wrote the name of each book, his name and the date in the self-serve checkout notebook in the TITLE, NAME, and DATE OUT columns. The previous entries in the NAME column, going all the way up to the top of the page, were:

  Cora Connor

  Cora Connor

  Cora Connor

  and

  Cora Connor

  There was nothing in the DATE BACK IN column for any of these.

  Finn locked the library behind him again and walked home with the books. The wind blew snow sparks into his eyes and he thought of Mrs. Callaghan and the Spanish ships. He took heavy steps through deep snow and thought of all the fish in the world, of how there must be fish still, somewhere, in the world. Things can’t just end. Not forever.

  He had an idea, a plan. No more faking. He was Finn Connor and he was the only one who could get the fish back, which meant he was the one who had to, so he would make a real plan and he would start tonight, and when his mother came home he’d make her real hot chocolate and he would, yes he would, yes, he, Finn Connor, would bring the fish back, he would bring them all, everything, everyone, back home again, for real, for good.

  He had to and he could. He would start like the Spanish, he would start with a fleet.

  The Beggs’ phone still worked. Martha dialed and Aidan picked up the other end on the first ring.