Our Homesick Songs Read online

  And the day after that.

  And the day after that.

  And then, the day after that, after he had been out for just over three hours and was in the middle of right-hand-only playing one of his favorite new songs, “The Ballad of the Newfoundland Black Bear,” Finn felt the smallest bit of shake shudder through his left hand, just for a second before, all at once, the fishing pole pulled fast and sharp and away from him.

  He mashed the accordion’s keys as he lunged across the dory to grab it back, catching it just before it was pulled out over the side of the boat. As he did, he accidentally knocked A Collection of Local Jigs, Reels and Airs Based on the Flora and Fauna of the Region out into the water and had to stretch and grasp to get it back with one hand while holding tight to the rod with the other. The accordion on his front made him top- and front-heavy and almost pulled him over. Once the book was back in-boat, he turned back to the pulling fishing rod in his left hand. Maybe, he whispered to himself. Maybe, maybe, maybe, as he lifted, dropped, reeled the line. Maybe. Lift, drop, reel. Maybe, lift, maybe, drop, reel. Until the sun passed across a gap in the clouds and lit the water so it was clear, and, just for a moment, Finn could see what he had: not a tire or a mess of seaweed or an old lawn chair, but a back-and-forth weaving, beautiful green-gray-silver codfish, mouth opening and closing, gasping and trying and alive.

  •  •  •

  Nobody could believe it. The word spread like rain, drenching Big Running first, then out with the wind south, east and west, across the whole island. A fish? A fish! A codfish. Nobody could believe it with their ears so they had to come around, come on foot, trucks, boats and horses, to see Finn or the dory or the picture Cora had drawn of Finn with his dog and the fish, or touch the bones that Aidan had kept after they ate it, all washed and clear-white on a plate on the kitchen counter, or the guts they kept in a jar in the freezer for proof. They do look fresh, said a barely-there, thin old woman from a southeast outport.

  Can we smell them? said a man who had brought his kids. You can tell age best by smell.

  I can’t believe it, said his wife, her hands cupping the jar like a baby bird. I just can’t, while her husband went back outside. For a cough, he said, though his hands were to his eyes and not his mouth.

  What did you use?

  How deep?

  What time?

  Was there rain?

  Was it big?

  Was it old?

  And, most of all, Was it alone?

  Were there more?

  Was it alone?

  Finn, whispered the thin woman, it could be you saved us.

  Finn! shouted the kids. Finn! Finn!

  And their parents joined in: Finn! Finn! Finn!

  It could be, said the thin woman. It could be.

  •  •  •

  Their mantel filled with cards and gifts, and the cove filled with boats. Many of them had been dry for years and were barely functional anymore, and lots of people ended up doing emergency patching with gum or socks or ended up swimming and cold. Some went out in the day, because Finn had been out in the day, because he wasn’t allowed out after dark or seven p.m., whichever came first, and some went out at night, because that’s how it had always been, before. And some just stayed, day and night and day and night and day, there in the cove. They went with rods and with nets and with lights and with binoculars, with radios or with books or with nothing at all but hope and time, too much time. Finn navigated past them all as he rowed out in the morning, and back past again as he made his way home under the orange lichen sky.

  •  •  •

  Finn knocked on Cora’s bedroom door. It was late, but she was still awake; she pretty much always was. She was reading:

  Happy Backpacker Guides Presents:

  ENGLAND!

  1965 EDITION

  Yeah come in, she said.

  So, said Finn, pushing her door open enough that he could share in the light of her bedside lamp, I guess this means people will be coming back, hey?

  What does?

  The fish I caught.

  If there are more.

  Yeah, if there are more. But if there are, it means everyone will come back and you’ll owe me five dollars, right?

  I guess so.

  OK, just checking. He stepped away, started to go back to his room.

  Hey, Finn?

  Yeah?

  You want to count boat lights? Want me to come with you to count? She swung her legs across and off her bed.

  OK, said Finn. Yeah. They walked to his room, climbed up on his bed and rubbed their sleeves across the window’s condensation to get a clear view.

  Wow, said Cora.

  More than twelve, said Finn.

  More than twelve, she said. There must be hundreds. Like upside-down stars.

  (1969)

  Almost every night young Martha would go down to the shore, down to the singing. In bed, eyes closed, she would wait for Meredith and Minnie’s quiet talk to decrescendo into regular breathing and for the tension to fall out of Molly’s thin body next to her, and then she would ease her weight as evenly as possible off the mattress, pull on a dressing gown and pick up her needle, card, twine and boots to carry downstairs. She’d pull her boots on once she got outside so her heavy footsteps wouldn’t wake anyone. If it was raining or sleeting or cold she’d wear her father’s old rain jacket too. It still hung where he’d last left it, on a jut of board that stuck out near their front door. Then Martha would walk down through the night to the water.

  There was an old beached-up dory that she would sit in, legs curled under her for warmth. Sometimes it would be half or totally full of rainwater and she’d have to tip it up to drain first. Then, with her needle and card and twine, she would listen and knot nets, and the mermaid’s voice would cut across the water and through the mist to her, right to her.

  It wasn’t always there, but usually it was.

  She’s like the swallow.

  She’s like the river.

  She’s like the sunshine.

  And even if it was tight with fog or pouring with rain, this was warm and safe and hers. It wasn’t always there, but usually it was.

  They were all right, of course. People checked in on the Murphy girls, more at first, and now and again after that. The oldest of them was nineteen, and the youngest already twelve, so, They’ll be all right, they’ll be all right, the baker whispered to the boat-pitch man, who whispered to the priest, who whispered to the ferry woman, who whispered to her son, who whispered to the kittens he lured to his back door with fish eyes and tails while he tried as hard as he could to let their mewling blanket over the sound of the thought of the sea, the boats, both parents at once.

  After a while Martha’s net got too big to carry back and forth with her every night and morning, so she found a little canyon between two shore boulders where she could stuff it for safekeeping during the day when she wasn’t there. She marked it with a cairn made of white stones that would catch the moon in the dark of night.

  Meanwhile, one evening, while putting on his layers before going out with the boats, Aidan found a soft black feather in his coat pocket, too big and too dark to be from the down. He studied it for a while, then put it back in his pocket, careful not to break the rib. His mother was sterilizing jars in the kitchen; he walked down to say good-bye and then went out to the water.

  Storm petrel, said Dwyer. Small but strong. Barely ever on land, those. How that got in your pocket I do not know. He handed the feather back to Aidan. It from a girl? he asked. Some kind of special girl . . . ?

  No, said Aidan. No, no. It’s just something I found on the beach. It’s nothing.

  He was in the SC boat again. He asked for it. Once they were out on the big water and he was safely on his own, he took the feather out again, one hand to hold it and the other to shield so the wind couldn’t take it. A girl. There were a few girls in Little Running. Some his age, some a bit older. The McKinleys had
dark hair, like the feather color. Sophie McKinley was just one year older than him and had been the faster runner in school, back when he had gone to school. In summer she would run people’s big black pots out to Skipper Bay, where the water was cleanest, then bring them back full of salt water for crab steaming. She charged fifty cents a pot. Aidan had watched her many times, the way her legs were hard with muscle but still soft girl’s legs. She was always nice to him. Always waved if she saw him. And, Aidan remembered with a drop in his stomach, she had given him some of her coins once. Not even very long ago. Bringing back his mother’s crab pot, heavy with sloshing Skipper Bay water, she had refused payment, tossing the money over to Aidan instead. Sophie McKinley. The realization made him feel sick; he put the feather away and held on to the side of his boat to steady.

  From the time he was seven years old, from the time when he learned how to tuck himself into bed and to sing himself to sleep, Aidan Connor had sworn to himself never to fall in love. Never, never. He closed his eyes so they wouldn’t look back over toward Little Running, toward Skipper Bay.

  She’s like the swallow,

  he sang. The longest song he knew, with all the verses.

  That flies on high.

  He sang it slow.

  She’s like the river, that never runs dry,

  pulling his coat close, remembering his father’s father singing at their table, after dinner, before drink, years and years ago.

  •  •  •

  Sophie McKinley knew nothing about the feather.

  And how would I have got it in his pocket? she asked Patrick Darcy, who lived three houses down from Aidan and was often out with the boats on the same trips.

  I don’t know, said Patrick.

  Aidan watched from across the beach, pretending to wipe buckets.

  And anyway, why would I? Some kind of weird thing? I’m too busy for that. I’m going to be in the Olympics, said Sophie.

  In Germany?

  Yep. Probably. Or I’m trying at least. I’m hoping.

  You still gonna come to the beach party tonight, though?

  Oh yeah.

  See you there, then.

  Yep, see you there.

  Aidan watched until Sophie had picked up her crab pot again and run off toward Skipper Bay. Then he walked over to Patrick.

  It wasn’t her, said Patrick. I think she likes me, actually.

  OK, said Aidan, thanks.

  Do you think whoever it was will be at the beach tonight? I bet they will. I bet you could have a good night tonight, boy.

  I don’t know. Maybe? We’ll see, I guess. You done with your buckets?

  Yep. You can take them. I’ll see you tonight? said Patrick.

  I’ll see you tonight, said Aidan.

  •  •  •

  There was a note on the door when Aidan got home that afternoon:

  Working late, stew on back step.

  Have fun tonight.

  Rain certain. (Wear your coat.)

  He opened the back door and got the orange casserole dish off the step. There was a cat watching it. He took the lid off, picked out a bit of salt beef and threw it to her. She ran away first, then back toward it. Then Aidan went inside and put the dish on the stove to reheat, stirring to stop clumps from burn-sticking to the bottom, standing with his face right over it; the steam warm and welcome and the scent making him hungrier than he had been. He thought about kissing a girl, if it would be like the steam. Wet and warm and hungry. Never, never, never, never, he reminded himself in time with the swirling vegetables, never, never.

  Aidan was seven when his father left. Too young not to be surprised. Even though no one else was. Even his mother, feeding her husband’s things to the fire one by one by one, almost everything except the one dark red wool sweater, the one pair of dark blue corduroy trousers and the one gray-green raincoat, the same kind and color as all the other men’s, that he had walked away in. She fed almost everything else into the fire one item at a time, first underwear, then socks, then mittens and gloves, then hats. Books lasted one whole morning, scraps of razors and combs discolored and melted and hid among the ashes. Jackets and shoes were last. In order to be able to consume all those things, the fire had to stay full and hot for a very long time, so they couldn’t let it die down at all for those weeks. His mother would sleep downstairs beside it, with the door open. If the fire got too low the cold would get to her and she’d wake up and stoke it and feed it again. But even she wasn’t surprised. All Connors are cheats, her brother said when he visited, throwing a watch in among the embers and waiting for the glass face to cloud and crack.

  I know, I know, she said back.

  All Connors are cheats, the postwoman said, slipping in letters and bills; they burned faster than anything.

  I know, I know, she said back.

  Often, Aidan would sleep down there with her, because he wanted to and because, usually, she was too tired to carry him back upstairs to his room, where he belonged. Instead she would open up a gap for him to slip into between her back and the sofa, and, still in his daytime clothes, his seven-year-old body would cover as much of her, or her back at least, as it could, from the back of her knees to the place where her shoulders turned to neck, while, instead of the normal breath of sleep, she would breathe,

  I knew, I knew.

  •  •  •

  It was raining on the beach, but not too hard. A group of kids were blowing on scrunched-up bits of beer boxes, trying to get them to light; they’d hollowed out a sort of shelter for it in a circle of beach stones. There were girls, quite a few of them. Sophie McKinley was there with her sister. And off to the side, sitting on an overturned boat, were Clemmie Begg and Rebecca Ryan. Some girls from further out, Nessa Doyle and Iona Quinn and Kerry Brown, were standing in a cluster by the water. And Dwyer’s cousin Siobhan sat on a rock off to the side, with a wet guitar. Aidan stood a bit up the beach and tried to make a plan. He wished that once, just once, he could go to a party without his coat on. He had chosen a nice shirt to wear tonight. A newish shirt. Blue and red plaid. But no one would see it. No one ever got to see much of what anyone had under their coats. Unless . . . his stomach tightened. He scanned the party again. He kind of knew Siobhan, she’d been at a couple funerals he’d attended, but they didn’t know each other well enough to be embarrassed or awkward. Maybe she had remembered him and asked Dwyer to put the feather on him. Some kind of special girl . . . Dwyer had said. She was strumming her guitar casually, watching the party. It was beautiful. She probably didn’t really know anyone there. She was probably lonely. Sad and lonely and beautiful. Despite the fact that he was already cold with it still on, Aidan took off his coat and slung it over his arm as naturally as he could and started to walk down toward her.

  Aren’t you freezing? It was Sophie. She had snuck up behind him.

  No, said Aidan, I’m fine. Although he wasn’t, he was freezing. The back of his shirt caught the angle of the rain and pressed cold into his back.

  ’Cause I’m freezing and I’ve got my coat on, said Sophie. That’s why we’re trying to make the fire.

  I guess I just don’t feel it. He glanced back toward Siobhan. Patrick Darcy had wandered over to her and was offering her a beer. She had stopped playing.

  Well, if you don’t need it, how about you let me wear your coat over mine? I’d take the extra layer. Trying to keep my muscles warm, you know.

  He passed it to her in a bunch so she wouldn’t see his shivering hands. Patrick Darcy was now sitting beside Siobhan, trying to teach her some guitar thing. He doesn’t even know how to play, said Aidan.

  Neither does she, said Sophie, pulling his coat on over hers. And that thing’s totally out of tune anyway. Sounds terrible. Here, you want a drink? She lifted a flask toward him.

  OK, said Aidan. It was whiskey. Sharp and cheap and warming. He took another deep drink.

  Want to go for a walk?

  OK.

  •  • �
�•

  It kept raining as Aidan and Sophie made their way along the shore, less walking than climbing, stumbling over the wet rocks. It kept raining when they finally stopped after half a mile, taking shelter in an overhung cove. It rained when Sophie took the flask from her pocket again and pressed it to Aidan’s mouth, rained as she purposefully spilled some onto his lips, cold and burning at once, and rained as she took the flask away and replaced it with her own mouth, her warm double-jacketed arm around his back, her hand warm through the thin, soaked cotton of his shirt. She tasted like whiskey and fire-smoke. She tasted amazing. And for one moment, one brilliant moment, even though it was still raining, Aidan felt hot. He leaned heavily, fully, into it, into her.

  And then the cold metal of the flask pressed through her pocket into his rib and the whiskey around his brain cleared and he pushed away, sudden, abrupt.

  No, he said.

  What?

  No, no, he said.

  What? Why? she said.

  I’m sorry, he said, now fully awake, back. He sat down.

  What? she said again, standing over him.

  I promised, he said.

  Who?

  Myself.

  What?

  I promised myself, he continued, never to fall in love.

  Sophie started to laugh but stopped herself, and instead sat down next to him. Yeah? she said.

  Yeah, said Aidan.

  Why?

  Because all Connors are cheats.

  You have a point. But, I think we can kiss without falling in love.

  I don’t know . . .

  I do. Trust me. I won’t even talk to you tomorrow. I’ll be horrible.

  Promise?

  Promise.

  And the day after that?

  And the day after that. And I’ll be hopefully going to Germany pretty soon after that, so it won’t be an issue. She started leaning in, back toward him.

  OK. He sighed. So it was you, after all, with the feather?

  What? That thing Patrick was talking about? Oh no, I have no idea . . .

  In my pocket? You didn’t put the petrel feather in my coat pocket?

  No . . . She patted her front, his coat. Which pocket?