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Big enough for two

  She thought about how one could run out at her and Giannina and Giancarlo suddenly, at any moment, and then she’d have to do something, would have to act and save the day and that maybe one of the dogs, Giancarlo maybe, since he was a little bit smaller, would be injured, a bite to his rear haunch, and the bear, a grizzly, huge, the one the men whispered about over night shifts, huge and bloodthirsty, ever since it lost a cub, a beloved albino cub that had slipped through the fence and fallen into one of the tailing ponds, where the mother could do nothing but watch it slip down and away, her humongous grizzly heart breaking and freezing over, cold and hard and broken, and they knew, the men knew, that nothing was stronger, nothing was fiercer, than something broken, prowling the area, waiting, waiting for its chance to break in and get revenge, blood for blood, until, at last, through the trees and the snow and the dark and the grief it sees Cora. It sees Cora and the dogs and its moment for revenge and so it bursts out, through the pathetic orange plastic fence, right at Giancarlo, teeth deep into his rear haunch, blood for blood, and Cora and Giannina have to work together, think fast, move fast, Giannina’s mouth open, teeth showing, making and not breaking eye contact with the bear while Cora prepares her gun and aims at the sky, to scare it off, just scare it off, to do no harm, like it says in her Official Practice book, but then the grizzly lunges again, breaks the dog’s eye contact and lunges fast, too fast for something so big, this time at Giannina, at her throat, and Cora, startled, turns suddenly and shoots, and the sound of the gun and the sound of the bear’s cry are one and the same, she’s shot, in the heart, right there, in her broken heart, right in the very middle, and she collapses back, dead, free at last from her sad life. Cora takes a minute and closes the bear’s eyes and says, I’m sorry, Grizzly. And then she and the dogs drag it back to camp and everyone, all the men, gather around and say, Wow, Don. Wow. We didn’t think you had it in you, it’s true. We teased, we made fun, because you’re a girl! we said. Because you’re Newfie! we said. I can think of better uses for a Newfie girl! we said. But no, no, no, we were wrong. We were so wrong. You’ve done it, Cora, you’ve saved us all. Thank you, Cora. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Come, they’d say, come, eat dinner with us in the hall, in the real, main cafeteria, where there’s at least two different hot-food options every day, but Cora would just shake her head and say, No, I’ll eat with Darwiish and my dogs, as always. And she’d leave the bear there with them, just there, on the floor, and would walk back to the Camp West Off-Base Supplies and Snack Van alone.

  But no bear came. Just her and the dogs and the songs.

  Cora turned the corner at the southeast edge of her route, the bit where she met up with the road for a mile. She’d been working, doing her rounds for weeks now already. There were still no bears. Or mountain lions. But, just then, just as she turned, she heard something. Not a growl or a footfall, but something. The dogs’ ears bristled, turned, and she followed them, looking back, along the road. And there was something. Not an animal, but a truck, coming toward her. It was slowing down, wheels crunching gravel and snow, until it pulled up right beside her, on the Giancarlo side, and stopped. It was a civilian truck, no Deep Wood site logo.

  The frosted-over window rolled down in clunky, manual jerks and, from inside, a man said, Hey, you work here?

  And Cora said, Yes.

  And the man said, Fuck, I’m so late.

  Yeah? said Cora.

  Yeah, said the man. I always am. Fuck. And then, Hey, where are you from?

  East, said Cora. East of here.

  Hey, said the man. Me too! Newfoundland?

  No, Manitoba.

  Oh, said the man. I see. And what’s your name?

  Don, said Cora.

  Well, how about that, said the man. Me too.

  Oh, said Cora, oh no.

  Don invited her into his truck to warm up. She made sure it would unlock from the inside and then said, Sure, thanks. They put the dogs in the back. Don had two dogs of his own back there too, in kennels. They sniffed each other quietly through the grilles. Don had coffee mixed with rum in an orange thermos. He offered the lid-cup to Cora.

  Thanks, she said, and took it. Drank. She’d never had rum before. It cut through the coffee like color. She coughed and said, Thanks again.

  No problem, no problem, said Don.

  And then she took a breath and said, I need you to go back, Don.

  Go back?

  To where you’ve come from. I need you to turn around and go back there. Or somewhere else, maybe. Just not here. Please.

  Well, said the man. I—

  I’m not called Don, said Cora. You are.

  I am? I mean, I am. You’re not?

  No, I’m not. Don, I’m you. They think I’m you. Because I told them I was. And if you show up and are you, for real, they’ll know I’m not. And they’ll laugh and say they were right, they knew it all along, and then you’ll take your job and they’ll send Giannina and Giancarlo away and send me home. Where there is no money and no future. Where there are no people, no kids, no friends. Not even a dog. Not even one stupid dog for my brother, she said. Where there is nothing. They’ll send me home, Don.

  Don didn’t reply. Sat and thought. Took a drink from his thermos. Blinked. Took another drink. Then said, To Newfoundland.

  To Manitoba, said Cora. To Flin-Flon.

  Hm. And what’s so bad about Flin-Flon?

  Please, said Cora.

  OK now, said Don. He went to drink again, but the thermos was empty. What’s your name, then? Your real name.

  Esther, said Cora. It’s Esther.

  Esther, said the man. That’s a nice name.

  Just normal, said Cora.

  Esther, said the man. We gotta stick together, you know, us from Flin-Flon.

  I thought you said you were from Newfoundland?

  Same thing. Thing is, we’re orphans, us.

  Well, said Cora, not really, but—

  We are, said Don. And we come out here looking for new families, new lives, now our old ones are dead, and there are lives here to be had. He stopped, gestured behind them, out the back of the truck, the snow, the road, the flashing lights of the site. There are plenty of lives to be had here, but we know, we always know, we already know, really, that they’re not ours. They won’t be. They can’t be. That’s why I’m so late. I couldn’t bring myself to leave my real, dead life.

  My parents are OK, said Cora. I think . . .

  Anyway, there’s work along this whole highway. Camps and sites and work and work and work. A body can build a pretend life anywhere. That’s the thing. If it’s pretend you want, Esther, it can be anywhere.

  In the back Giannina started whining, which started Giancarlo, which started Don’s dogs.

  Don, said Cora.

  What I’m getting at, Esther, said Don, is that I’ll go. Won’t lose me anything to go. We gotta stick together, we from Flin-Flon.

  Cora let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Oh, she said.

  Anyway, they probably got the better Don here, said Don. Ha. Ha! Now finish your coffee if you want it.

  Thanks, said Cora. Thank you, Don. She drank. And then, Did you fish, Don?

  Of course, said Don.

  Me too, said Cora.

  Of course, said Don.

  •  •  •

  After Cora got out and got her dogs from the back, Don did a U-turn in the gravel and drove back the way he had come. He flicked his lights on and off, just once, as he went, driving east.

  Cora and her dogs finished their round as usual,

  But give me a boat,

  Big enough for two

  and there were no bears or lions or anything else except crew noise and light and dirt and snow.

  Finn carried pockets full of batteries and other supplies back to Italy! from Ethiopia! and Texas! and China! and Spain!, from Russia! and Thailand!, Yugoslavia! and England!, and sometimes the ice pans were in, a jostling mosaic of wh
ite, and sometimes they were out, the water cold and clear. Today they were in. After dropping another load at the Beggs’, Finn walked down to the shore to survey them. There were birds out on the rocks, presunset birds that flew away as he approached. Terns, petrels, gulls, guillemots. Birds Finn hadn’t seen in months, maybe years. Seabirds. Fish-birds. His heart double-beat. The pans were clean and flat and close. He started to run.

  Finn didn’t stop running when he hit the water, his legs and head and heart fizzing, he kept going, out, onto the pans, out ice-hopping. He jumped to a pan floating close. Then to another, further out. Then another and another, the jumps bigger and bigger as he went further and further out, the ice pans smaller and smaller. The trick was to not stop moving, ever.

  He was good. This year, he was the best he’d been. It felt like flying, like the birds he’d seen had given him their flight. He imagined white, feathered wings unfurling as he raised his arms for each jump, further and further and further, so easy, just like that. Like he was made for it, like breathing. The ice was soft and giving and his foot would stick to it for grip on the jumping side and stick into it again to land on the landing side, it was all about speed and weight and timing, everything was speed and height and flight.

  And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. And then there was a little bit of ice that looked just the same as the rest, still white and waiting, but that, this time, wasn’t soft, was polished slick, from wind or waves or stones or just from time. It looked just the same as all the others. But this time, his foot didn’t stick, and this time, instead, instead of gripping and landing, his foot slid back when it hit, and, instead of taking his weight up and on, Finn was knocked back and off like a punch in the stomach, and control was gone and flight was gone and he fell back and hit the water in a shock of cold fierce like a slap, and then he was underneath.

  And he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swim, it was so cold it was solid even though it wasn’t anymore, now he was down in it, it was all around him and it was in him, it was everywhere and he spat and gasped, sinking down as he pushed his arms up, his wings, up, up, his sweaters heavier than anything, colder than anything, he pushed again and again, and kicked and kicked, his boots clumsy like cartoon feet, until his head was out, almost, almost, then pulled back down again, so heavy, his boots full, his wings gone, his arms tangled in sweaters, in themselves. He could hear his heartbeat through the water, amazing, could feel it all around him. He stopped pushing, stopped kicking and just listened, amazing, amazing.

  And then his wings were back. His arms up, lifted. The light rushed back toward him, up and up and then out. He was on his side, coughing, coughing, salt water body-warm out of his mouth, down his face. And then there was no more water and, instead, there was breath, cold and new, and he was turned onto his back, faceup, on a wide, flat pan. A woman was standing over him, looking impossible-tall, her mittens dripping.

  Can you breathe? she said.

  Finn breathed. He coughed. He tried again. Yes, he said. Yes, I can.

  Can you stand?

  Finn tried. He couldn’t. No, he said. Not right now.

  That’s OK, said the giant lady, you’re heavy with water. Give it a minute. She took off her coat and put it over him, even though she was wet too, was shivering. But not too long, else you might freeze to the pan, she said. She put one leg out in front of her. Started doing some stretches.

  Who are you? asked Finn. His words had the taste of seawater around them. The woman’s voice was familiar, but he didn’t recognize her.

  I’m Sophie McKinley, said the woman. I used to live here. She reached down, pulled one knee up to her chest. A long time ago, she said.

  Before I was born?

  Probably. How old are you?

  Eleven.

  Yep. Long before you. I left for the Olympics in Germany.

  Oh wow. You were in them?

  Nope, didn’t make it. But made it to the ones after, in Montreal, and then Moscow, and then Los Angeles, but then I was getting too old to be fast anymore, and the Australians noticed and scooped me up to be a coach, so I did that instead.

  Fast at what?

  What?

  You weren’t fast anymore at what?

  Running, of course. The only real sport. The purest sport. Though swimming’s pretty pure too. I did mid-distance. Five and ten kilometers. Once they put me in for a half marathon but I didn’t do well. Just got bored.

  Wow, said Finn. He was feeling less heavy now. He sat up. Did you win any medals?

  Three, said Sophie. All bronze. Canada always gets bronze. My Australians got a gold once though.

  Wow, said Finn. That’s amazing. That really is.

  Do you want to see?

  See what?

  The medals. Here. Sophie undid the top button of her shirt, reached her hand down and pulled up three medallions by their necklace ribbons. They can get a little cold so I have to wear an undershirt too, she said.

  Finn stood, walked over to her. Without taking it off her neck, Sophie held a medal out to him. It had a waving woman on it and was the color of October. It was beautiful. I think bronze is the most beautiful one, he said.

  Thanks, said Sophie. Me too.

  •  •  •

  They carefully hopped back together until they reached shore. Sophie went first, then waited, arms out, to help when Finn lost his nerve. She walked back home with him along the road.

  You left twenty years ago?

  About that, yeah.

  When did you come back?

  Not long ago. Few weeks. Got a job no one else wanted, delivering post.

  Finn stopped. The Consolidated Outports and Villages of Eastern Newfoundland Postal Service worker. You don’t speak Italian, he said.

  Nope, she said.

  They walked a few steps, a trail of dark wet spots on the rocks behind them.

  Why did you want the job nobody wanted? Finn asked.

  I don’t know, said Sophie. I just figured it was time to come home. I wanted to. I missed it.

  You did?

  I did.

  Do you think everybody does, or would? Miss their homes enough to come back?

  If there are enough postal service jobs, then sure, I guess. The problem is, you have to have something to do, like that, like delivering welfare checks. No matter how much you want to be somewhere, there’s no point if you don’t have something to do.

  Even though Finn was freezing, was shaking through his shirt and both sweaters and Sophie’s coat, his face got hot, his heart faster. Will you stay? he asked.

  I don’t know. I guess we’ll see. I’m not sure what there is here for me to do beyond post, not many races, and someone’s turned my parents’ house into a sort of beach . . .

  You could coach me. You could teach me to run for the Olympics.

  Maybe, said Sophie. She smiled. Maybe.

  •  •  •

  They came to Finn’s house and he invited Sophie in for coffee and cake, even though he knew they didn’t have any cake.

  Sure, said Sophie, so long as you go change into dry clothes before making me anything.

  OK, said Finn. Deal. He left her on the living-room sofa with an Absolute Angling magazine. It’s a few years old, but still pretty good, he said, then ran upstairs.

  •  •  •

  Sophie McKinley was there, reading about “Effective and Noneffective Homemade Lures” on the couch in the living room when Aidan came in from the backyard through the kitchen. He’d been washing paintbrushes in white spirit, had the smell in his fingers and on his hair. He stopped when he saw someone new in the house.

  Hello? he said.

  Sophie looked up from the magazine. Oh, Aidan, hello, she said. She smiled and stood and the medals under her shirt clanged softly against each other.

  Oh my God, said Aidan. Sophie McKinley.

  What? said Sophie, because he’d been too quiet, because he was whispering.

  Sophie McKinley, the crab
runner, said Aidan, louder. Oh my God. Welcome home.

  •  •  •

  Sophie stayed for dinner. Aidan made a new recipe, a sort of layered thing with lots of very thin potato slices one on top of the other, and then, afterward, because they had no cake, took out a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard over the stove and poured some out for Sophie and himself while Finn made himself hot chocolate in the microwave.

  I don’t normally drink, said Sophie, not while training.

  But this is your homecoming celebration, said Aidan. He didn’t really need to say anything, though, because Sophie had already pulled her glass toward her, was already taking a deep drink. A drip made its way down the outside of the glass, onto her finger. She brought her hand to her mouth.

  •  •  •

  Sophie McKinley stayed past Finn’s bedtime, not that anyone told him when to go to bed anymore, but past when he could stay awake, could follow their conversation about years and years and years ago and events and things and people he’d never heard of. She stayed late into the night, so that when Finn half woke, every now and then, her conversation with his father would float up to him like steam and he’d nestle into it and sleep warm.

  Sophie came over lots after that. My own house has sand all over it, she explained. Somebody filled it with sand. I’ve vacuumed and dusted and picked at it grain by grain by hand and I just can’t get it all. It sticks to me when I sit and when I sleep. So she spent most days either out running along the roads and shore, or jumping from one boulder to another inland, or over at Finn’s drinking and laughing and talking with Aidan, late into the night. Finn would get back from Italy! and creep past them, unseen, up to bed.

  Martha was fresh off-shift, just on a break, only an hour until she was back on. There was a knock on her door as soon as she got her boots off. Like someone had been waiting. Yes? she said.

  Can I come in?

  Of course, John. Of course.

  He closed the door after him. Was in off-shift clothes. Corduroy trousers and a red and blue and white plaid shirt buttoned all the way up. Soft flannel. No one else on-site wore corduroys, just jeans or work pants, work pants or jeans. In his hand was a plastic bag with knitting needles poking out of it. Inside were both of their projects, her sweater with two standing caribou on it for Cora, his green mittens with white four-leaf clover shapes over the hands for his sister. He had warned Martha, back when they’d begun, when she was just learning, that a sweater was much too complex, too difficult for a beginner, that a scarf, maybe, would be better. But she wanted to do a sweater, had insisted. Twenty-five years of making nets, she said. Let me do the sweater, John, let me try. She had her hand over his on the needles. OK, he’d said. As you wish.