Our Homesick Songs Page 14

  I’ve been calling! he said. And calling! But there’s no answer at home . . . Martha! Martha, Finn, he! . . .

  He didn’t, said Martha.

  But, you—

  I know, I know, but, Aidan, the Beggs’ freezer is full of old cod. Totally full.

  And . . .

  And, Aidan, and . . .

  And as Martha told him she listened to his breath, to hear if it got faster or shallower or if he held it, but Aidan’s breathing stayed steady, stayed just the same. It always stayed the same with him.

  OK, said Aidan. OK.

  And now we need to tell everyone, tell the paper.

  An extra breath, an extra beat, and then Aidan said . . . Do we?

  What?

  Do we need to tell them?

  Aidan, if they think— said Martha.

  Maybe that’s OK for now.

  But, Aidan, they’ll expect something, something more.

  Maybe that’s OK for now.

  Do you really—

  Maybe. It could be. OK to let people expect something. To let them hope.

  Hope? False hope?

  It doesn’t have to be false. Unless it’s dead, unless there’s nothing, hope is just hope, isn’t it? It’s just something to warm you a bit, and—

  And, said Martha, the idea opening inside her like drinking cold water, the papers and the people will keep talking about Cora, keep asking.

  Yes, said Aidan. Yes, exactly.

  Another breath, another beat. OK, said Martha. Yes.

  Another breath, another beat. Where’s Finn? asked Aidan. How’s Finn?

  He’s OK, said Martha. He’s wearing Cora’s coat. He’s sorry.

  And . . .

  And I’m not angry at him, Aidan. I should be, but I’m not angry at all. I had to leave because I didn’t want him to know I wasn’t.

  Wasn’t angry?

  Yes. I’m tired. I’m too tired to be angry.

  Me too.

  You too?

  Me too.

  Finn left a note on the front door:

  Just out for one minute. Back soon.

  and left the house unlocked, just in case. He put his boots back on, then Cora’s sweater over his own, then her coat over that, and went out back into the snow, the wind, the storm. Of course there were plenty of boats, old, unused, all along the rock shore, lots and lots of boats, probably more than a fleet, but Finn needed something he could bring out across the ice to the deeper water, out, further out than he could drag a boat, further out than he could drag anything. That’s why, instead of going straight down to the water, Finn walked two lots upwind, to the Darcy house, to Finland!, and around the side of the property, to the garage.

  Their truck was in rough shape, with a low tire and mouse holes in the upholstery. Like everyone, Geraldine Darcy had left the keys in the ignition. She’d also left the windows rolled down and there was four inches of snow on the driver’s seat. Finn got in, sat on the snow, and turned the key in the ignition. The truck coughed through its freezing motor once, twice, three times, and then rumbled into life for the first time in ten months.

  It was easy. Finn assumed an act so strictly for adults would somehow prove impossible to him, but it wasn’t, it was simple, it was just like he’d watched his mother and father do a thousand times. No secret word or knowledge required. He was a little relieved and a little disappointed.

  He stretched his foot down to the accelerator and rolled, slow and careful, down the driveway and track to the bay’s launch point, now frozen up the pier. He drove along it, careful, slow, and then off it, out onto the ice. He drove out further and further to where everything was white, nothing but white. He listened for cracking, for breaking. He felt like an explorer. Like a Spaniard, seeking the edge of the world. Like he could drive forever and ever.

  But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t fall off the edge of the world, he had to be a survivor and strong and have a plan. He listened for cracks and looked for patches of black ahead instead of white. After what he assumed was about half a mile of white on white on white he stopped and got out of the truck, back into the wind, and left it there, the truck, all by itself. He followed the tracks he had just made back to land.

  Finn did this six times. Two trucks, three cars and one van. Of the ten vehicles he tried, those were the ones that would start. From the pier, he drove each in a different direction, a scallop shell of tracks, out and out, through windshields of white, and then left them, lonely metal-bodied cairns, on the ice and followed the tire trails, carefully, slowly, back. In a month or so when the ice broke and thaw came, the vehicles would all sink. And, although they weren’t Spanish, weren’t ships, they would be something. Something that could be safe, could be home. In the underwater cold, they would be ready, would be waiting.

  Back at the shore, before going home, Finn climbed up and lay on top of one of the abandoned fish flakes like he and Cora used to do when they were much smaller. If he balanced his body weight just right, spread it out so that every bit of him was the same amount of heavy and none of him was any more than that, he could lie on there and not break it and not fall through. The wooden struts and beams pushed into his back through the sweaters and coat and the wind squashed his hair flat against his head.

  Windy weather boys

  he sang,

  Oh stormy weather, boys

  just as loud as he could,

  When the wind blows

  Oh we’re all together, boys

  and the wind was as loud as his voice and pushed it out over the ice to the open water, the words dropping in like pebbles one at a time,

  Wind

  Oh

  Storm

  Oh

  Oh

  Oh

  and all the lights of all the houses all around were just as dark as the night he sang into.

  Martha sat on the paper couch with the blanket around her and the phone next to her. She wasn’t going to use it again. She wasn’t going to phone anyone else. It was full dark now, outside and in. The Beggs had left a lot there, in their strangely decorated house, but had taken their clocks and VCR, so she couldn’t tell exactly what time it was, only that it was in-between sunset and late. Without clocks or people to pace it out, the darkness spread out and out like the sea, like she could sink into it, away.

  But she couldn’t. She had to go home. She got up, found a pair of boots close enough to her size in the front closet, and, keeping the blanket wrapped around her, she went back out, into the night, and the dark wasn’t so dark once she was in it.

  She walked the empty road. She leaned into the wind and it leaned into her and, there, there at the edge of it, she heard something, a song. A mermaid. She put her hands to her face, blanket corners against her eyes, and took them away again. It was still there. A song in the wind, coming off the water. Cora. It had Cora’s voice. She sat down on the roadside, blanket wet beneath her, and closed her eyes.

  When the song finished she waited, she strained, but there was no more. She opened her eyes, got up and kept walking, back to her house, back to Finn.

  •  •  •

  The tips of Finn’s hair and his eyebrows and eyelashes were still frozen, still crusted with bits of ice when his mother got home. It melted and ran cold down his face and her jacket while she helped him take his coat and sweaters off, even though she still had her own on.

  I’m sorry, she said, even though everything was his fault.

  Me too, said Finn. I was stupid.

  I know.

  And mean.

  I know.

  I didn’t want to be, I didn’t mean to be.

  I know, said Martha.

  His outside clothes were off; hers were still on. They were standing in the entranceway with all the boots and the coats and no chairs; they were just standing.

  Sometimes, said Martha, we’re all stupid, we’re all mean.

  Even mothers?

  Even mothers.

  And even though hi
s legs were still stinging from going from cold to warm too fast, and even though he’d led his mother to Cora’s Italy! house and he didn’t know if he was allowed, and even though he had lied to the newspaper and, then, maybe, to all of Newfoundland because of that, and to his mother, who had been more angry at him than ever before, and even though Big Running was hollow, was barely breathing, even though he hadn’t seen anyone his own age for almost a year, Finn felt OK, Finn was OK.

  His mother finally took off her borrowed boots and took and squeezed his hand and they breathed and they breathed in together and they breathed and they breathed out together.

  Cora was dropped off in Edmonton by a family from Manitoba on their way to the mountains for a lessons-for-the-kids, wine-for-the-parents ski trip. Before driving away, the mother had beckoned Cora back to the window and, at an awkward angle so the kids in the backseats couldn’t see, handed her a juice box and twenty dollars. Just . . . be careful, she said. Then her three-year-old noticed the reflection of the juice box in the window and screamed, and her five-year-old brother started kicking the seat backs as hard as he could and the mother had to wind up the window and drive away before Cora could say, Thank you. And, I know, I will. And, Wait. And, Maybe, I changed my mind. Can I come with you? And, I’ve never been skiing. I’ve never even seen a mountain. And climbing back in between the kids and reading them stories from chewed cardboard books and riding over and up and into the mountains with this family, who would jokingly call her theirs until they forgot she wasn’t, and she became their actual daughter and sister and went skiing up high in the mountains in the winter, every winter.

  But instead, they drove away and she walked into the first still-open place she could find, the Buffalo HOT Times Bar and Grill. Not very nice or clean, but open.

  You want some food, or you looking for the bar? ’Cause it’s over there. The waiter pointed to his left, where a wooden screen, the kind normally used for growing vines in gardens, separated the building’s two halves. Behind it there was a light that flashed blue and green and purple with shadows of bodies moving across it. Cora was the only customer on this side of the screen.

  Food, thanks, said Cora.

  Oh, OK. In that case, sit wherever you want. Most of the food’s gross though. Except maybe the Vegetarian Option Pasta. If I had to eat something here, I’d probably be able to stomach that.

  Cora sat at a corner table, as far away from the bar barrier as she could, her paper tablecloth changing color every two seconds, blue, green, purple, blue, green, purple. She spread her hands out on it, watching them change too. She could be anyone, she could be anywhere.

  OK, here you go, good luck with it, said the waiter, putting a plate of over-boiled spiral pasta in thin red sauce in front of her. And I forgot to ask, before, if you wanted a drink. Do you?

  No thanks, I’ve got a water bottle.

  I don’t think that’s allowed.

  Oh.

  But I don’t care. It’s smart of you. Important. Staying hydrated on the road. I have an idea for an invention for that, you know.

  Yeah?

  Yeah. Here, move over. The waiter shunted Cora along the bench and sat down beside her. He took a crayon out of the kids’ activity cup in the middle of the table and drew out a shape on the tablecloth in front of them. A sort of oval with a rectangle coming off the back of it.

  See? he said.

  Kind of, said Cora.

  It’s a water bottle with a belt strap. So it just hooks onto your belt or your jeans. Because it’s too big to fit into a pocket, isn’t it, a water bottle? But you don’t want to have to carry a whole separate bag just for that . . .

  No, good point.

  I’m working on what to do about dresses now. I’m sure I’ll think of something.

  I’m sure you will too.

  Thanks . . .

  Claudia-Anne.

  Thanks, Claudia-Anne. I’m Stuart.

  It’s nice to meet you, Stuart. I’ve never met a real inventor before.

  Well, I still work here to get by, you know, but, thanks. I’m trying. I have thirty-two different inventions so far. One of them will go big, I’m sure.

  I’m sure too.

  They were quiet for a while; Cora eating pasta one spiral at a time and Stuart coloring in the shading for his bottle drawing. When he was done he gave a little nod, satisfied, and put the crayon back in its cup.

  You from around here, Claudia-Anne?

  No, just passing through. On my way up north. To work.

  At the camps?

  Yep.

  Which one? Blue Horn? White Prairie? Deep Wood?

  Deep Wood. That’s the one.

  Nice. Not too rough, that one, I’ve heard. Still too much for me, you know, that’s why I’m down here, but I’ve heard it’s not the worst, that one. And plenty of money.

  And mountains?

  Mountains? I don’t think so. I could be wrong. I mean, I’ve never been up there, but I’m pretty sure those are all over the other way. West. You know?

  Yeah, of course. I know. She ate a spiral. Red sauce dripped thin as water back onto the plate.

  You know, said Stuart. I’ve got an idea for a compass that you can read by sounds, that gives a nice ding when you face directly north.

  That could be helpful in the dark.

  That’s what I was thinking. And it’s dark up there a lot in the winter months, like now. Hey, Claudia-Anne?

  Yeah?

  Do you need to go right away? Because if not, if you don’t mind waiting around until I’m off at eleven, I could run home and get you a prototype. And maybe people up there would see you use it and would see what a good idea it is . . .

  Sure, I don’t mind.

  I’ll get you some free buns for while you wait. They’re basically rocks, but there’s unlimited butter.

  Stuart slipped out of the booth and walked back into the kitchen. Once he was gone, Cora took a red crayon from the kids’ cup and wrote Deep Wood on a napkin, then put the napkin into her pocket.

  •  •  •

  She waited with her suitcase outside the apartment building. There were snowdrifts pushed up between the sidewalk she was on and the road, the snow gray-brown with street grit. She had never seen it that color before.

  Next time it snows it’ll get all covered and look nice again, said Stuart, back down from his apartment, standing in the fluorescent light of the building’s entrance. Cora turned toward him. He had a plastic grocery store bag in his hand; he held it out to her. The sound-compass.

  So, I just follow it north from here and that’ll get me to the Deep Wood site? she said.

  Basically. You gonna drive through the night? Want me to walk you to your car?

  No, that’s fine. I don’t have one. I was going to walk.

  Walk?

  Yeah.

  Walk.

  Yeah. North of Edmonton, follow the sound-compass . . .

  Claudia-Anne, it’s more than a five-hour drive to the sites from here.

  I . . . I know. I know that. Walking to the bus, I mean. I was gonna walk to the bus from here.

  Is there a bus this late?

  Yeah.

  Oh, OK. Still. It’s minus fifteen out. Probably at least twenty with wind chill . . . Wait here. Stuart ran back into the building, up the stairs. Cora put her hands into her armpits to keep them warm. She would take one out, she told herself, and stick up her thumb as soon as a car passed. But none did.

  When Stuart came back there was another man with him. He was in pajamas, lightweight pants like from the Thailand! book, with a robe on top. He squinted at the cold air. This is Luke, said Stuart. My boyfriend. He’s going to drive you to the bus station. I can’t because I failed my test.

  Twice, said Luke.

  Twice, said Stuart.

  Hi, Luke, said Cora.

  Hi, said Luke.

  OK, said Stuart. Let’s go. I’m fucking freezing.

  •  •  •

&n
bsp; The bus station was empty but unlocked, with the lights on.

  You’ll be OK? said Stuart.

  I’ll be fine.

  He handed her the bag with the sound-compass in it. I also put a card in there with my name and phone number on it. In case you need it. Or in case anyone wants to get in touch about the compass. It’s from the restaurant, but ignore that part.

  OK. Thank you, Stuart.

  You’re welcome, Claudia-Anne. Any time.

  Luke stayed in the car, but waved before they drove away again.

  There was a handwritten sign on the ticket desk that said:

  Back at 5 a.m. First bus at 5:30.

  Cora opened up her suitcase and took out her towel. It was faded orange with tassels. Back home, Finn had the same one in green. Lying along the plastic bench seats, she used her suitcase like a pillow and pulled the towel over her like a blanket, covering her from the neck to just below her waist. I am strong, I am alone. She watched the headlights of cars as they reflected off the snow and through the windows like slow-motion lightning until she fell asleep.

  The next day another newspaper called. And then another. Two in the morning and three in the afternoon. Martha told them all the same things: Yes, Finn did catch the fish. No, he could not talk right now. Yes, he would try for more. No, nothing yet. Not yet. Yes, yes, she was proud. And each time, before she let them go, she’d have them promise, swear, to add a picture, and a line for Cora, We miss you, come home. We miss you, come home.

  Sheila McNabe called from the ferry office to say she had some tourists who wanted to come visit the house, see the fish, see Finn, was that OK?

  No cameras, said Martha. And Finn might not be home, but OK. And how’s your course, Sheila?

  Module 4, said Sheila. Chugging along. I’ve got a cousin with connections in Vancouver, once I finish, if I finish.

  Finn snuck out the back door, inland across the rocks to Italy!, just before Sheila and the tourists arrived. They brought cameras. They took pictures of the fish, of Martha holding it, just out of the freezer, the small green rag still covering its head.

  Why the cloth? asked a man who, back home, taught art history.