Our Homesick Songs Read online

  It’s traditional, said Martha. For us. Around here.

  The man nodded, took a closer-up picture of the fish, the cloth. It’s beautiful, he said.

  Martha made them coffee and they sat together in the kitchen.

  A lovely table, said a woman, an accountant. Homemade? Family heirloom?

  Yes, said Martha, even though she couldn’t actually remember where it came from.

  The art historian nodded and took a photo.

  When they stood to go, Martha took a picture out of her pocket. Cora, last Christmas, standing with Finn outside the ferry-port cafeteria, smiling. The tourists passed it around. No, we haven’t, they said, I’m sorry, no, no, but we will look. We will try.

  Before they all went, Sheila quietly put fifty dollars into Martha’s hand. Don’t say no, she said. They paid me. They wanted to.

  Oh, said Martha. But before she could say anything else, they were gone again, climbing into the bed of Sheila’s truck like a hay ride, bumping off down the frozen track.

  At the Beggs’, Finn had two lists pinned up on the Trevi Fountain fireplace:

  THINGS TAKEN

  For his conscience. For if people asked.

  and:

  THINGS BACK

  To contrast with Mrs. Callaghan’s list. To balance it.

  He had just a few weeks left of the ice, probably. Before it started to break up and pull back again. Until he could start the next part of his plan. And until he could row back over to Mrs. Callaghan’s. He wondered about her with her telescope. If she had seen him with the trucks and cars. If she had seen him with the fish. His accordion was totally dry now and not ruined; he played at least two songs a day to keep the bellows from going stiff. He had the book of tunes from Cora memorized now. He played those. Again and again and again.

  He had five months until the notices took effect. Until they were supposed to leave.

  He had a plan. He had a plan. He thought and read and circled and underlined and wrote and played and sang.

  He was circling the words “still not strictly illegal” when an envelope, then the mittened hand pushing it, poked through the Beggs’ mail flap. The hand dropped the letter and pulled back and out and was gone. It wasn’t his mother’s. The mittens were black and sleek and not wool. Not homemade. Finn slipped down off the couch and crawled on his hands and knees to the window so as to be invisible from outside, then slowly and carefully raised himself up until he could just see out. There, walking away, was a Consolidated Outports and Villages of Eastern Newfoundland Postal Service worker. Finn recognized the jacket and the bag. Annie Pike, the oldest sister of his friend Mattie, used to do that job, but they had moved away months ago, and he didn’t recognize this worker at all. Finn stood all the way up now and went over to the letter. It wasn’t a support check. The delivery address was written by hand, not by computer. The envelope was used, the official kind that had a clear section in the middle, and the address was written around it.

  Finnigan Connor

  Beggs’ House

  Big Running

  Nfld

  Canada

  There was no return address. Because it was already used, the envelope had been sealed with one long piece of Scotch tape. Finn dug under the edge with his fingernail and pulled it all up in one go.

  Inside was a single piece of paper with the top bit ripped off.

  Caro Finn,

  it said,

  Non preoccuparti di me. Sto bene.

  Ho un piano. Ti dirò più presto.

  Per favore non mostrare questo a mamma e papà, non ancora.

  Con affetto,

  Cora

  Even though he couldn’t understand it, Finn read the letter twice. Finn . . . Cora. Finn . . . Cora. The rest in code. The rest a mystery. While he read, a little piece of the Leaning Tower peeled and drooped further, toward him. Finn pushed it back into place. Then he stopped. Blinked once hard at the letter. Of course, of course. He stuffed the paper into his pocket and ran out the door, out toward the postal worker.

  Do you know Italian? he asked. Finn said it quickly, through fast breath; he had had to run as fast as he could, lifting his feet up and out of snow with each step, to catch the postal worker before she got back into her truck. She had stopped to look out at the ice, out to sea, when Finn caught her.

  Oh! she said. Her hood was up and she didn’t have the peripheral vision to have seen him coming. She turned to him, away from the water. Finn didn’t recognize her face, maybe it was a little Italian. Maybe could be.

  Italian, said Finn. Do you know it, at all? Even a little bit?

  Oh, she said, um, no . . . I know a little bit of Gaelic . . .

  I need Italian, said Finn.

  Sorry, said the worker. She held her black mitten-hands out toward him, empty. I don’t. I’m sorry. Do you?

  No, said Finn. Not at all.

  Well, said the worker.

  It’s OK, said Finn. Never mind.

  Well, said the postal worker again. Guess I better go before the ferry leaves.

  OK, said Finn.

  I’m sure someone around here will know Italian.

  Finn didn’t say, There is no one around here. Just you. He didn’t say, You should miss the ferry. You should miss the ferry and teach me Gaelic and have coffee with my mom and wrap your hands around hot coffee mugs together and look out at the ice, at the sea, whenever you want. He didn’t look up from her hands, still open, still empty.

  OK, he said. Thanks anyway.

  See you later, OK? she said.

  OK, said Finn.

  She walked the rest of the way over to her truck, got in and drove away.

  •  •  •

  Finn pulled his sleeves up over his hands, fabric held in place by his squeezed fingers, and ran down to the docks.

  The Italian–English dictionary was missing from the library boat. It had been signed out more than two months ago under the name:

  Cora Connor

  It was overdue. There was still an Italian–French dictionary there, though, and Finn knew some French from school, back when school had been normal. Finn took the dictionary and went back to the Italy! house.

  There was a bowl of dry cornflakes and a cup of frozen-on-the-top juice on the windowsill. He brought them in with him and ate the cereal dry, like a horse, while he looked up words one at a time, first from Italian to French using the dictionary, then from French to English using what he remembered from school, until he got:

  Beloved Finn,

  Do not fret about me, I’m fine.

  I have a strategy. I’ll tell you sooner.

  Please do not show this to Mom and Dad, not yet.

  With affection,

  Cora

  A strategy, whispered Finn. He unballed a fist. He put the letter back into its envelope and slid it down the front of his shirt, tucked into his pants so it was hidden but also wouldn’t fall out. Then he pulled the two sweaters on top, took his accordion and his notebook, and went home.

  The tourists were gone, the house was quiet. His mother was in the kitchen, by the phone, as usual. Finn felt the envelope’s corners cutting into his stomach as he walked past, but he didn’t stop. He practiced his accordion songs with his bedroom door open so his mother could hear.

  There were some tourists again the next day, and the day after that. There were some tourists, not a lot, but some, all week, and two more newspaper calls.

  The next week was the same, though fewer on Thursday, on Friday.

  And then fewer again on the weekend, even though it was the weekend.

  The next Monday there were just two tourists, one of whom was the art historian again.

  Tuesday there were none, and Wednesday there was just one, the art historian’s mother. He said this place was beautiful, she said. He said you made wonderful coffee.

  On Thursday morning, again, no one came. Thursday afternoon Martha phoned the paper in St. John’s.

  Have you caught anything el
se?

  Not yet, but—

  Has anyone else caught anything?

  Not yet, but—

  So, nothing to report . . .

  Yes, but—

  We’re sorry, but—

  But—

  Look, um . . .

  Martha.

  Martha, look, we’ve heard things. People calling, people telling us this isn’t the first time this miracle has happened with this same boy. Telling us that no one else can ever find any other fish. Angry people, Martha, some of them are angry.

  But, he—

  We’re dedicated to the truth, it’s our motto, Solummodo—

  But he’s just—

  In Veritatis. We can’t print anything we don’t—

  a boy.

  We’re sorry.

  And my daughter, and Cora—

  We’re sorry, Martha. I’m sorry, I really am.

  •  •  •

  On Friday Sheila came on her own, sat with Martha, had coffee. She brought some of the sandwich cookies they sold on the ferry.

  I’ve only got one module left on the IT course, she said.

  Finn has a plan, said Martha. For the fish.

  Oh, said Sheila. She lifted her mug but didn’t drink. Set it back down again. I’m gonna look for Cora in Vancouver, Martha, she said. After I go, I’ll keep looking.

  Who will direct the ferries?

  Ottawa will send someone. They always have, so far.

  So far, said Martha. The cookie in her mouth was too soft, too sweet. She had to force herself to swallow. Cora might have changed her name, cut her hair, she said.

  I know, said Sheila.

  Finn has a plan, said Martha.

  I know.

  Cora rolled her suitcase up to the security booth at the entrance to the Deep Wood Energy and Industry site. I’m here for a job, she said.

  The man in the booth lifted his sunglasses off his face onto his hard hat. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows and said, Huh. We only do prearranged. You prearranged?

  Yes, said Cora. Of course.

  He ran his finger down a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. Sorry, no, he said. I don’t see any . . . I don’t . . . unless you’re . . . Don?

  Yes, said Cora.

  Don Coffin . . . the new bear-scarer?

  Yes, said Cora.

  Spelled like that?

  What’s it say?

  Don. D-O-N.

  That’s it.

  Not D-A—

  No. Just like it is. Don. That’s me.

  Huh. Where you from, Don?

  East.

  Huh. Well, that’s what it says here. Same as me. He looked up from the paper, at her. Then back down again, then back up. He sighed. Don, he said.

  Yeah?

  If I call the office, if I call HR, and tell them you’re here, give them a quick description of you, girl, about so-tall, about so-old, are they gonna be happy? Are they gonna be expecting you, as such?

  Yes, said Cora, looking straight ahead. Straight at the man. The rhythm of his voice was just like her father’s.

  Yes?

  Yes.

  The man looked at her and then away, back down, and then back up again. I got two kids you know, he said. A boy and a girl. Boy about your age, probably, girl a bit younger.

  Yeah?

  Yeah.

  What are they called?

  Steven and Jen. I figure another few months up here, maybe a year, and Steven can go to college. Another couple years and Jen too. University, even, if that’s what they want.

  I bet they will.

  I hope so. I think so. You gonna go to college, Don? College or university, one day?

  Yeah, yes I am.

  Good, said the man. You should. Maybe even at the same time as Steven, be in a class with him. English lit, is what he’s thinking of. He bought me Wuthering Heights for Christmas.

  Did you read it?

  Twice.

  Kind of scary, hey?

  Terrifying.

  The man didn’t call the office. Instead he picked up a pencil and made a tick mark on his paper. OK, Don, he said. OK. You go in there, work hard, get out and go to college, OK?

  OK.

  Promise?

  Promise.

  OK. OK. Good. The man reached up and took his sunglasses off his hat, smoothed his thin gray-brown hair. Now, he said. Down to business. You got your own dogs or using ours?

  Yours.

  OK. Another tick. And you got good boots, Don? Good steel boots? For the dogs if they get out of line, and the bears. And the boys.

  I’ve got good boots.

  Good. OK, then. OK. I’ll radio you through. He smoothed his hair once more, picked up his sunglasses and put them back on. Lenses all scratched. Someone’ll be here in five with a truck to bring you in, get you started, he said. Welcome to Deep Wood Energy and Industry, Don. Good luck with those bears. Don’t be afraid to shoot, OK?

  No, said Cora. Never.

  Here are your dogs, said the assistant site foreman.

  He didn’t tell Cora what their names were. He seemed uncomfortable. Thanks, said Cora. What are—

  OK, said the man. He thrust the leads out toward her. She took them.

  Thanks, she said, but—

  OK, said the man, and turned and left, getting back into his truck and driving away.

  Since nobody told her the dogs’ names, Cora gave them new ones: Giancarlo and Giannina. They stood up to her waist, one on either side of her. They were like German shepherds but with lighter, whiter fur. Like wolves. They stood perfectly still there, next to her; Cora could feel their tension through their leashes, like they could just go, at any minute, just go.

  •  •  •

  How do you want to be paid, Don? asked Cheryl, the financial affairs foreperson, one of the only other women on-site. Looks like I haven’t got your forms through yet.

  Cash, please, said Cora.

  OK, said Cheryl. I understand. She patted Cora’s shoulder.

  Well, said Cora, I’d better go. Better get back to Giannina and Giancarlo.

  OK, said Cheryl. But you know you can always come around here for a break when you want. Come around my office. To talk or just sit or whatever. The dogs’ll be OK in back.

  Cheryl’s office was her truck. A mobile office, she called it. She had nameplates on the doors.

  Thanks, said Cora. I know.

  OK, said Cheryl. She looked like she was going to cry.

  Cape Breton, Cora decided. That’s where Cheryl’s accent was from. Familiar, but not too. Cora listened to each new person she met on-site carefully, mapping the pull or push of the vowels, the Rs, the gaps between words. If they pulled too far east she shut up and left them alone as soon as possible. She practiced shaping her mouth along with the neutral-flat Ontario tones of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation radio on break and at night.

  •  •  •

  Even though it was winter, when the bears should all be sleeping, Cora’s job was to walk with Giancarlo and Giannina, along with a big stick, a can of pepper spray, a silver handbell and a small gun, all the way around the borders of the camp, from an hour before sunrise until an hour after sunset, shouting to keep them away, just in case. When her voice got tired she could ring the bell. Mostly she did both. She’d shout-sing to keep herself entertained and play along on the bell. The only songs she knew all the words to were ones from home or Christmas songs, so she’d sing:

  She’s like the swallow

  That flies on high

  or:

  I saw three ships come sailing in

  On Christmas day, on Christmas day

  or:

  The water is wide

  I can’t cross o’er

  Giancarlo and Giannina didn’t mind the noise, trotting along at her sides, always half-tense, always silent and ready.

  Apart from the dogs, Cora worked alone.

  Every morning now, Finn would check each of Cora�
��s international houses, the mailboxes of the ones that had mailboxes and the floor under the mail slot of the ones that just had mail slots, and then he would walk up and down surveying the water and shoreline for changes, counting the dark spots on the horizon, the vehicles, one two three four five six, and waiting. He watched and waited for the ice to go.

  And then, just before the month was out, just before it was his mother’s turn to go meet the ferry and leave the car running in the parking lot with Finn in it and for his father to pick it up and take them home again, just before the month was out, the ice cracked and creaked and started to break. Finn heard it from his bedroom. He got up and walked across the hall to Cora’s room and looked out her window. He didn’t see any boat lights, of course, but there, there across the heavy dark, he could see movement, he was sure he could.

  •  •  •

  Dad?

  Yes?

  They were eating dinner. Mostly potatoes again. His first night back, Aidan had asked Finn what his favorite thing for supper would be, and Finn had said, Potatoes, so they’d had potatoes almost every night since.

  Do you think it’s wrong to steal something that nobody’s using?

  Hm. Something nobody’s using today, or for a week, or ever again? Tonight’s potatoes were pan-fried.

  For a long time. Maybe not forever, but for months. Maybe even a year. Or more.

  Well, I guess it’s probably not too bad if you, say, used the thing carefully, gently, and then were able to return it or replace it if they ever wanted it back. Still, probably best to ask them, if in any doubt.

  And if they’re not around? Finn’s hair was sticking up and sideways with static from his toque. Aidan reached across the table to smooth it.

  Finn, he said, don’t worry. Your sister won’t mind you wearing her sweater, I’m sure. And besides, we know she’ll be back before a year, right? Long before.

  Finn reached up and felt his hair, smoothed it himself. I wasn’t thinking of her, he said. Of her things, I mean.

  Well, if you were, in case you were, I’d say it’s OK. She’d probably want someone to be using it, and probably want that someone to be you.

  And, otherwise, for things that aren’t Cora’s sweater?

  Otherwise, think of what you’d like done with your own things, in the same situation.