Our Homesick Songs Page 5

  Yes, I think so. I think it’s drying by the fire with the rest of his things, said Charlotte.

  Would you bring it to me?

  I will, said Old William. I’ll go get it.

  No, it’s OK, Dad. I’ll go.

  After Charlotte left, Old William stepped over and put his hand on Mrs. Connor’s shoulder. How old was your husband? he asked.

  My husband was thirty-one, she said. And my son is fourteen.

  Old William said nothing, just left his hand there on her shoulder until Charlotte came back in with the coat.

  It’s still not dry, she said. Sorry.

  Mrs. Connor stood and took it. She reached down and pulled out the pockets, first one, then the other. Inside there was a penny, a wet wrapper, a spare button, and nothing else. Is that all? she said. I mean, was there anything else that fell out or that you saw?

  No, said Charlotte, nothing else.

  •  •  •

  The boats searched for Dwyer all morning. They searched as the seabirds rose and then settled again, as the mist thinned and lifted, as the fish beneath them swarmed and shoaled through the refracted pillars of daylight, as the light tilted away again with the falling sun and the seabirds rose up again for their evening flight, until the mist pulled back in with the dark. Nothing, said Matthew Quinn to Donna Brown. Just disappeared, said Teresa Doyle to Frederick Begg. Nothing.

  The doctor from South Island came by again the next morning and said that, although he still hadn’t woken, Aidan was OK to move back to his own house, back to Little Running. It was a much shorter route to take him by boat, across the bay, than to walk around it, but Mrs. Connor wanted to go by land, so they did. They lined a small dory with woolen quilts and lay him in it, with his clothes and coat folded under his head for a pillow. They took turns carrying it in pairs, front and back, across the rocks, the berries, the bogs, for hours and hours and hours. First Mrs. Connor and Young William, then Charlotte and Old William, who had dressed himself in his best all-black suit for the trip.

  Over the next days, Mrs. Connor changed and cleaned Aidan’s head dressing and cloth diapers, sat him up to spoon-feed him honey mixed with water and salt, and lay him back down again when she was done. She kept his hair combed and neat for when people came over to see how they were doing or to drop off food. She sang while she did it. Although she wasn’t proud of her voice, quiet and breathy, it was fine for just them alone. She quietly sang,

  The water is wide

  I can’t cross o’er

  nor have I wings

  with which to fly

  watching his breath up and down, alive, alive; singing to fill the fear in the spaces between it.

  •  •  •

  They waited to hold Dwyer’s wake and funeral until Aidan was awake, two and a half weeks after the storm. He woke on a Thursday morning when the light was brightest, between seven and eight in the morning. He opened his eyes and saw his room, his window, his coat hung on the door hook, and his mother crouched beside it, wringing a white cloth in a pot of soapy water.

  Why don’t you do that in the kitchen? he said. And then he felt how much it hurt to speak, to move anything at all, and had to close his eyes again from the shock of it.

  When he opened them again his mother was beside him, leaning over him, right over him so their eyes lined up perfectly. Don’t you, she said.

  Don’t you ever, ever,

  ever

  don’t you ever lose a feather again.

  She took something from her skirt pocket. Black. Soft. Storm petrel. She walked over, sure he could see her, was watching, and put it in his coat pocket. Then she walked back to him and lifted him up to her and put her mouth to his head and held him close and fast. Don’t you ever, she said. Ever, ever, ever.

  That night, even though it wasn’t particularly cold yet, Martha wore her father’s old jacket and a toque and a pair of tall, yellow, knitted socks that belonged to nobody and everybody in the family at once. They came right up over her boots. She was halfway down, picking her way from rock to rock, when she heard a little cascade of pebbles behind her. She turned and there, white against the night, was Molly, not far behind her at all, in her nightgown and boots.

  Don’t be mad, Molly said. I just wanted to know where you go.

  I’m not mad.

  Is it to him?

  Him?

  Young William?

  What? No, no, no. No.

  Is it another boy?

  No, said Martha.

  Molly pulled at her sleeves, tucking her fingers away inside. But, she said, I just don’t—

  Martha sighed. OK, she said. OK, come on, I’ll show you. OK. She took off her toque. And put this on, she said. You’ll freeze.

  She led her sister the rest of the way down to the shore, to the old boat. In here, she said, I sit in here. She helped Molly up and in. They sat side by side on the old warped bench. The sky was huge over them.

  I guess this is nice, said Molly. You come here just to sit, at night?

  Kind of, said Martha. To sit and to listen.

  She told her about the singing, the mermaids. The songs, the wind, the net.

  Why didn’t you tell me before? I wouldn’t mind. It’s nice out here. Cold and nice.

  You remember, said Martha. Do you remember how before, Mom and Dad would take each one of us out to the bakeshop for our birthdays? Just the one of us, alone with them? Remember what that was like?

  Yeah.

  It’s like that. That’s why I didn’t want to tell any of you.

  Molly put her head on her sister’s shoulder. OK, she said. That’s OK. The waves pushed in and out like the water’s breath. Everything else was quiet. Maybe, said Molly, they only sing if you’re alone.

  Maybe, said Martha.

  They waited like that until Molly fell asleep, slumping heavy against her sister. Martha nudged her awake and said, They’re not singing tonight. Come on, let’s go back home.

  Will you go again tomorrow?

  No, no, I think I’m done now.

  •  •  •

  The next morning, Martha went down and got her net from between the rocks. She brought it back home and worked on it in front of the fire in the sitting room while, across from her, Minnie worked a quilt, and, in the kitchen, Meredith seasoned and jarred cod liver, and, upstairs, Molly practiced fiddle.

  After a few days, Martha finished the net and traded it with Young William for six dollars and a fish for dinner. Then she made another, and sold it to another man on his crew, from further inland, who gave her seven dollars and a pound of partridgeberries. And then another, to his sister, for five dollars and six jars of seal meat, and so on and so on and so on. For Christmas that year, Martha bought her sisters all brand-new socks, knit-fresh, never worn by anyone else.

  She could still hear the singing at night, if it was summer and her window was opened and she listened very very closely, but she didn’t go out again. Not that year, or the next, or the next or the next.

  •  •  •

  And when it was fine in Big Running, Martha would take her nets down to sell at the harbor and Meredith would arrange fish on the flake she had built and Molly would teach violin students in the upstairs room with the windows open. And when it was cold, all four sisters would sit in the fire-room with one of Minnie’s quilts spread across them, stretched over all their knees like a circus trampoline, and all work on it together as they grew and lived and worked, just normal, for five years.

  According to the doctor, Aidan wasn’t well enough to move around yet the Saturday after he woke up, but there was a tacit understanding that he would anyway, just for the one night, for Dwyer’s wake. It was the least he could do.

  Because there was no body, there was no need for a casket, just a nice framed photo with a golden nameplate that read: Joseph Finnegan Dwyer. It was placed prominently on top of the fireplace so people could pay their respects. All of Little Running was there,
and some of Big Running too, and some from further inland, even. There was family from Gander and St. John’s, and two all the way from Saskatchewan. Everyone brought whiskey. The music and dancing started before Aidan and his mother even arrived, even before sundown.

  It didn’t take much for Aidan, in his condition, to get drunk. He was at a wobbly, rowdy table of musicians; there were two fiddles, three guitars, one banjo, one bodhran, three whistles, two accordions, and almost everyone singing, though no one as loud as him. It still hurt to sing, but that was OK. That was how it should be, he told himself. When it got to be too much, he leaned back against the wall and let the pain wash over him in the same way the music did.

  At some point, Sophie McKinley appeared and tried to pull Aidan up for a dance. It was around three in the morning. One last time, she said, before I go away forever.

  Aidan resisted, stayed sitting. To Germany?

  No. Not yet. To the sport-specialist high school in St. John’s.

  Really?

  Yeah.

  When?

  Soon. Next term hopefully.

  That’s too bad. I’ll miss you.

  Not too much . . .

  No, no, not too much.

  She left him alone and got Patrick Darcy to dance instead. Aidan watched them for a while, then got up to get some fresh air to clear his head of whiskey fog, and, maybe, if he could find one, sneak a cigarette to calm his aching lungs. There were still at least three hours until sunup, and he planned to stay them through. A bunch of people had gathered on the front stoop retelling each other Dwyer’s favorite jokes, so Aidan slipped out the back instead, walking a few shaky steps toward the bogs until he came to the low, red rock where he and Dwyer sometimes used to smoke. He sat down and checked his pockets for any stray cigarettes. He found a penny, a wet wrapper, a spare button and the new petrel feather from his mother. He put everything else back and held the feather up so it was silhouetted against the moon, stringy and imperfect. The whiskey pulsed hot through him. His stomach, his heart, his head beat and burned.

  Oh God, he said, what did I do?

  The darkness of the night was like deep water. He closed his eyes and opened them and it was practically the same. Oh God, he said. Oh God oh God. He closed his eyes and opened them and there was Dwyer, out from the night, walking toward the rock.

  Calm down, said the ghost, sitting down beside him.

  I . . . said Aidan.

  It was my own stupid fault, said Dwyer. I could have held the boats back. I didn’t. My fault, not yours.

  No, said Aidan, you don’t know; I lost the feather. I almost lost myself and I lost the feather.

  OK, maybe, said Dwyer. Maybe you did. But that just means your own broken body was your own fault. Not mine. Not this.

  Aidan let his hand with the feather drop. You’re really sure?

  Well, I guess we can’t ever be sure, with the sea. But, yep, that’s what I’d say.

  I guess we can’t ever be sure, repeated Aidan.

  Dwyer didn’t respond. Just smiled and nodded a little, half to Aidan and half to the house, the light and the noise and the music.

  I used to sing this, remember? I used to sing this one.

  Of course I remember, you sang it terrible.

  Terrible and loud, that’s the trick.

  Will you sing now?

  No, not now. Not anymore. I can’t. Can’t make the right sounds.

  They were never the right sounds with you . . .

  Still.

  Still, you can’t?

  No, the dead can’t sing, Aidan, that’s why the living have to.

  Oh, oh. OK. I can, I will.

  They watched the house awhile more. Dancers had started leaking out onto the porch; the wooden beams dipped and creaked.

  Can you smoke?

  Nope.

  Me neither.

  Still, it’s not so bad, is it? said Dwyer.

  No, no, I guess it’s not, said Aidan.

  Dwyer left and Aidan sat there, on their rock, for another minute or so, letting the cold night air wake and sober him. Then he got up and went back to the warmth and the people and the music, went back to sing, even though his throat and heart were sick and sore, to sing the night through until sunrise.

  •  •  •

  After three months Aidan was well enough to go back on-boat, back to work, and he did, and he and his mother and Little Running carried on just as they always had, just normal, for five years.

  (1992)

  Finn, in his small dory, went out in between and around all the other fishers in all the other boats every day except Sunday school day.

  And Cora, finished with the Ryans’, moved along and spent every day except Sunday at their neighbors’ on the other side, another empty house.

  On Sunday they sat at the kitchen table and worked on why-did-Canada-confederate-and-how-many-of-this-triangle-fit-into-that-triangle and Cora would look out the window toward the houses and Finn would look out the window toward the boats.

  And, at night, he’d breathe quiet, hold the phone close, listen:

  Hello?

  Hi, Aidan, it’s me.

  Hi, Martha, you OK?

  I’m just tired, said Martha. The food here is awful.

  I know, said Aidan.

  •  •  •

  Aidan, no one’s caught another fish yet, have they?

  No, not yet.

  Two Sundays went by, and it got rainier and windier and colder and closer to real winter. And some of the fishers, the oldest and tiredest ones, stopped coming out.

  And then three Sundays, and colder and windier and rainier and some of the fishers, those with families to think of or those who struggled most out there to keep their minds off what they suspected to be true, whose thoughts were too fast and heavy for books or song to block out, stopped coming out.

  And then four Sundays, and many of the remaining fishers, struggling to keep their minds off what they suspected to be true, whose thoughts grew too fast and heavy for hope to block out, stopped coming out.

  And Finn would count the boat lights at night. He counted down night by night, twelve, ten, seven, three. And sometimes Cora would come by and count with him and sometimes she wouldn’t.

  The first day Finn was completely alone again out on the water was the first day the rain turned to snow. He had worn fingerless gloves, but his hands were still stiff with cold as he held his father’s old fishing rod in one hand and played the bass line of “The Ballad of the Newfoundland Black Bear” over and over and over again with the other. Normally he would do a mix of tunes so the other fishers wouldn’t get bored or annoyed, but now that he was the only one it didn’t matter. After two hours he pulled up his line and, because it was a Friday, an accordion lesson day, he rowed east, across to Mrs. Callaghan’s, with no fish in his bucket and no other boats blocking his way.

  Mrs. Callaghan lived all alone. She lived in Little Running, across the sound from them, and was the only person in the only house left there. The only way to her was by boat. Until he was ten, his mother or father or, sometimes, Cora, would row him over once a week unless it was too stormy. It took between forty and fifty-five minutes. Then his mother or father or Cora would help him ashore with his accordion case, as heavy as the neighbors’ dog, and then they’d sit and wait in the boat while Finn had his half-hour-to-forty-five-minute lesson. Then they’d row him back.

  To fill the in-between time, his mother would bring a needle and work nets. His father would bring a small bottle and sing. Cora would bring handfuls of pebbles from the beach to drop one by one and watch sink through the light-streaked top water into the colder disappearing dark.

  Then Finn turned ten and was old enough to go alone, so long as the wind didn’t have the flags straight or the fog wasn’t too thick to see his own shoes or the ice wasn’t in. For balance, he would put his accordion in one end of the boat and seat himself in the other end. If it was raining, he’d put a black garbage
bag over it. If it was hailing, he’d put two.

  •  •  •

  All utility services to Little Running had been turned off, so Mrs. Callaghan drank seawater boiled and distilled back into fresh. The purple Kool-Aid she gave Finn always tasted a bit like salt and a bit like fish through the grape flavor. She had a giant gas-powered generator in her backyard that hummed gently under everything. Under everything they said and everything they played. It was a low C, so they mostly played in that key.

  Did you know Aunt Molly’s gone? asked Finn.

  Gone west, I know, I saw her go, said Mrs. Callaghan.

  She didn’t even tell Mom. Cora just turned up for her lesson and the house was empty. There was a note on the fridge that said, Take what you want, but Cora said there was nothing in there but mustard and gone-off milk.

  She left on Tuesday, with Nessa and Robert Doyle, said Mrs. Callaghan. I’m sorry.

  It’s OK. I didn’t see her much. Mostly just Cora did.

  I’m still sorry.

  Mrs. Callaghan?

  Yes?

  How do you know that? About who’s gone and when?

  Maybe I’m a witch.

  Are you?

  Maybe. Come with me, look, she said.

  She led him upstairs, where Finn had never been. They were both still wearing their accordions on their fronts, like heavy, backward backpacks. Look, she said.

  The room was empty except for an old wooden rocking chair, a small table and a telescope, pointed out the window. Look there, she said. But be careful not to knock it.

  Finn pressed his eye to the round black eyepiece and saw, in surprising detail, the ferry port. There was no one there. No boats until tomorrow. You watch every day? he asked.

  Somebody has to, said Mrs. Callaghan. Beside the rocking chair, on the table, were a plain coil notebook and a pencil. The notebook was open and showed a list of names. Molly Murphy was the third-last name. Up, in an earlier column, Finn saw, in Mrs. Callaghan’s shaky, penciled letters: Martha Murphy/Aidan Connor. I saw all the fishing boats too, said Mrs. Callaghan. All the fishing boats that came out because of you.