reading

(1993)

There was a mermaid, said Finn.

Yes, said Cora. She pulled an old towel up over her, a blanket.

Out on the dark green night water, said Finn, there was a mermaid. And, because mermaids need to, it sang. Sad songs, homesick songs. Night after night, over a hundred thousand fish. And the only one who could hear it was a girl.

Lonely, said Cora.

Yes, a lonely girl, said Finn. Orphaned. But tying knots and listening to the mermaid sing made her feel a bit better. All through the night, she’d lie awake and knot and listen to the songs.

And then the storm, said Cora.

Yes, the storm, said Finn. There was a storm one night. And the girl couldn’t think of anything but her parents not being there, and the knots weren’t helping as much as they should, and the mermaid was singing and singing, not high and pretty, like you might think, but low and long, like she felt, so the girl got up, out of bed, and followed the song down to the water.

The sea.

Yes, to the sea. Where the storm was wild and it was probably too dangerous –

Definitely –

And it was definitely too dangerous, but she kept going anyway, the mermaid’s singing washing up to her, calling out to her. She walked all the way to the edge of the sea and then, even though it was freezing cold, she took another step into the water. She should have sunk down, but she didn’t. She stayed on the surface.

She what?

She stayed on the surface.

She did? I don’t remember this part …

She did. Because the sea was so thick with cod, brought out by the singing, hundreds of thousands of them, she could walk on them, right across their backs, out and out and out towards the song …

Oh …

And it got louder and louder until it was louder than the wind, until –

Until she saw it wasn’t a mermaid at all, said Cora.

Yes, said Finn. Until she saw it wasn’t a mermaid. It was Dad. It was our dad. Singing.

Cora and Finn were on the ferry, going west. The sun had set and their parents were asleep, leaning against each other, surrounded by bags and boxes. There was no one else there. It was too foggy to see out the windows, to check for boat lights or anything else. Too quiet and late for music, too much pull of the sea for reading. There was nothing to do but tell stories. Tell this story.

And then? asked Cora.

And then everything, said Finn.

(1992)

The lichen on the rocks was orange and yellow and green. Ten-year-old Finn hopped from one patch to the next. He was wearing his sweater with two jumping fish on it and the zipper pull clicked up and down with every jump. Green, click. Green, click. Yellow, click. Green, click. The wind pushed his hair flat against his forehead.

Up ahead, fourteen-year-old Cora was in the same sweater, only bigger and with caribou instead of fish. They were on their way home from once-a-month school, where all the home-schooled kids in the region met to do some kind of activity or go on some kind of trip. It was funded by the government, as it was cheaper than running a real school for so few of them, and usually involved a trip to the fish plant or step-dancing lessons on someone’s porch. The guides were always just someone’s mom or dad. The government gave them seventy-five dollars to do it, so there were lots of volunteers.

We have to stop at the bakery, Cora called back over her shoulder.

How come?

Mom said.

To get pie?

Yeah.

But it’s nobody’s birthday, is it, or a special occasion?

Don’t think so.

Do we get to choose what kind?

I do.

But I –

I do.

But nobody got to choose, because there was only one. In the whole bakery there was only one pie, with nothing around it and nobody there to sell it. Finn rang the bell and waited. Cora went and sat down at one of the tables in the shop’s café. There was nobody at any of the others.

Eventually, Jack Penney, the baker, came in through the back door with a book under his arm. So sorry, he said. So sorry, so sorry. I’ve been trying to learn big machinery mechanics.

You have big machinery back there? For the bread? asked Finn.

No, it’s a correspondence course, said Jack.

I bet big machinery doesn’t smell as nice as bread, said Cora, from across the room.

No, I don’t think it will, said Jack.

Are you leaving here? asked Finn.

Probably. Probably, yes, said Jack.

They got the only pie, dark berries and dark molasses crust, and continued on towards home.

Martha, their mother, was outside, fixing bits of board that had blown off the house in the night. Lassie tart, she said. Good choice.

You didn’t give us any money, said Cora. We couldn’t pay for it.

But Penney gave it to you anyway, didn’t he? said Martha, in between hammer strikes.

He said it didn’t matter because he’s going to be rich soon, said Finn.

There you go, said Martha.

Still, said Cora. Still, Mom.

Aidan, their father, was inside, standing by the stove, stirring. Cora put the pie down on the counter beside him. Can I go next door to do my schoolwork? she asked.

Be home by six for dinner, said their father. And careful on the stairs, they might be rotted through by now.

Next door was abandoned. Cora liked to go there and pretend it was hers. What about you, Finn? asked Aidan. You got schoolwork?

No, said Finn.

Accordion practice?

No, said Finn.

You wanna chop carrots?

Sure. Dad?

Yeah?

Why are we having pie and boiled dinner? Is it somebody’s birthday?

We can’t just have nice food sometimes?

We don’t. I mean, we never do, other times.

Well, maybe tonight we just are.

OK, said Finn. And then, It’s nice, Dad. I’m glad we’re doing it. He chopped perfectly round medallions of carrot, like pirate gold.

It will only be for a month at a time, said Martha.

On and off, said Aidan. One month each, one of us away and one of us back here, here with you.

And we’ll both take some time off for holidays all together, once we’ve saved a bit, said Martha.

And, anyway, it will just be for a little while, said Aidan.

Until things here pick up again.

It’s really no big thing.

No big thing.

Really.

If it’s no big thing, said Cora, then take us with you.

No, said Aidan.

Yes, said Cora.

Not yet, said Martha.

Yes yet, said Cora.

No, said Aidan.

Why are you going? said Finn. He looked up from his plate, where he had arranged his food in piles according to colour. Carrots and parsnips here, potatoes, pease pudding and bread pudding there, salt beef in the middle on its own.

Finn, you know why.

But you have jobs, you have jobs here.

We have vocations, said Martha. Not jobs any more. Nobody needs fishermen when there are no fish to catch, nobody needs net. You need to be needed to have a job.

To get paid, you mean, said Cora.

Well, said Aidan.

Yes, said Martha.

What will you do? said Finn.

What?

What will you do there that you can’t do here?

We’ll be helping power the whole country, Finn, said Aidan. We’ll –

We’ll be in a tool crib, said Martha. We’ll be handing out tools. And taking them back.

Oil and gas, said Cora, towards the window, away from them. Like everybody else.

To who? said Finn.

To the whole country, the whole world, said Aidan.

To specialists, said Martha. To people who know how to use them.

You’re not specialists?

Not at everything. Not at those things.

Oh, said Finn. He pushed a piece of meat into the carrots pile, into the parsnips. Apart from wind against windows, from forks against plates, it was quiet.

Will you go on a boat? he said.

It’s too far, said Martha. We’ll start on the boat, but then we’ll have to fly.

Finn looked at Cora, then to the window where she was looking. He waited for a bird to pass, but none did. Oh, he said. Wow.

An adventure, right? said Aidan.

Not for us, said Cora.

I guess, said Finn.

Martha went first.

They drove her to the ferry, all of them in the car, Martha and Aidan in the front, Finn and Cora in the back.

It won’t be for long, said Martha, once they had arrived, taking her bag out of the trunk, after kisses, after goodbye.

Sure, said Cora.

Really, said Aidan.

No big thing, said Martha.

Finn didn’t say anything. Just watched as his mother walked on to the ferry. They’d all been on the ferry hundreds of times. Thousands of times. No Big Thing, he chanted in his head. NoBigThingNoBigThing.

Martha turned around and waved one more time after crossing the heavy steel bridge on to the deck. Finn squinted his eyes and she blended with the boat’s white-paint background, disappeared.

Before driving home, Aidan took a shining silver flask out of the glove box. There was a fish engraved across its front. He took a drink, held it in his mouth, then swallowed and started the car.

Cora stared fixedly out the window, away from her father and away from her brother. Finn tapped his finger against the seat’s vinyl, NoBigThingNoBigThing.

That night, at home, the phone rang. Aidan picked it up downstairs, in the kitchen. Finn picked it up upstairs, in the hall, as quietly as he could, breathing sideways out the corner of his mouth.

Aidan, said Martha, everyone on the flight was from here, going there. Everyone.

The hotel line was fuzzy-quiet, far away.

And, she said, the plane was bumpy, less graceful, than I thought it would be.

And, she said, Aidan, when we arrived and all stepped out and down the airplane stairs and all looked around, looked up, there were no mountains.

Of course not, said Aidan, those are miles away. By Calgary.

I was hoping, said Martha. I thought maybe, in the distance.

I know, said Aidan. But no.

Finn listened until his father hung up the downstairs phone, until the gentle clatter as Aidan went back to putting away dishes, humming like he always did when he was alone. Finn quietly put down his phone and avoided the two creaky boards on the way back to his room.

Before bed, he ducked his head under his bedroom window’s curtain to count boat lights out on the water. Finn had started doing this when he was three and scared because there were high winds and his father was out on-sea. Cora had come into his room to tell him to shut up because his crying was keeping her awake. She told him he should calm himself by counting boat lights on the water, that shining lights meant safe boats.

So Finn counted every night, no matter if his father was out or not, or if the wind was wild or small. Shining lights mean safe boats. They were like upside-down stars.

Sometimes, if she wasn’t mad at him, Cora would stick her head into Finn’s room and ask, How many?

That first year, Finn would say, Twelve, the highest number he could count to.

And then, two years later, Eight.

And then, Five.

And then, Three, all far away and slow.

Until, six years later, when Finn would squeeze and squint his eyes to try and see one, just one faraway fishing-boat light, and Cora would say, How many?

And Finn would say, One, at least one.

And she would say, Really? Still one?

And he’d say, Yes, I think so, still one.

Tonight Finn didn’t see any. Not one. Since Cora was already in her room, had gone there as soon as they got back from the ferry and closed the door, there was no one to lie to. Zero, he said quietly to himself. Zero lights. He lay down, pulled up his quilt and, through the pillow and the bed and the floor, listened to the faraway song his father was humming. A familiar, old song. He closed his eyes and let it fill him up, let it spread out and over all his other thoughts, his own heavy heartbeat.

When Finn woke again it was full night. All dark, all quiet. He listened for Cora or for his father, for humming or breathing or snoring, for something, but there wasn’t anything. He tried closing his eyes again, but the silence was too big, too full. He tried counting boat lights again, but there were none. There was nothing but the always-there wind and the always-there waves and him, just him. Miles from morning. Miles from his mother.

He got out of bed, went to the hallway phone and pulled it as far as it would reach towards his room. He dialled the number off by heart, stretched the curly cord around his door and, leaning on his bed, the furthest he could get without the cord breaking, Finn listened to it ring, one, two, three times. Mrs Callaghan always answered on the fourth ring. Even if she was right there beside it, she would wait, she would count.

Good evening, Finn, she said. She had a satellite phone. It made everything sound underwater.

Hi, Mrs Callaghan. Finn was whispering; he didn’t want to wake anyone up. Mom left, he said.

I know, said Mrs Callaghan.

She’s gone, said Finn.

I know, said Mrs Callaghan. But not for good.

Still, said Finn.

I know, said Mrs Callaghan.

Will you tell me the story again?

Their story?

Yeah, said Finn.

OK, said Mrs Callaghan. But don’t worry if you fall asleep. I’ll just keep going.

Until it’s light?

Until it’s light. I promise. Ready?

Ready.

(1969)

When Aidan Connor turned fourteen, his mother put a navy-blue toque on his head, looked him in the eye and said, Don’t drown.

The boats left at night, just after sunset.

And then he was off, on the rocking, pulling water for eight or ten or twelve days at a time, more of his hours spent on-boat than ground. Soon enough, Aidan couldn’t find sleep on land, its rigid stony silence unnatural and unnerving.

One night, back at his mother’s and unable to sleep, Aidan got up, pulled his fishing coat on over his pyjamas and went out. Little Running was a small place, only six houses; if anything was happening he’d be able to tell. Five dark houses, and then Dwyer’s, where the lights were still all on. Aidan walked over and tapped on the kitchen window until Joe Dwyer, big as an iceberg, noticed and opened it.

Evening, said Dwyer.

Evening, said Aidan.

Then Dwyer reached out and down and half-helped, half-pulled Aidan up and into the drink, the cards, the fire going within.

Three jacks, said Aidan.

Liar, said Dwyer’s grandmom.

Look, said Aidan, turning his hand around, fanning it out. The cards had shamrocks instead of clubs.

Cheat, said Dwyer’s grandmom. All Connors are cheats.

It was hot in the kitchen, the wood stove was going strong. Aidan wished he could take off his coat, but he only had pyjamas on underneath, grey-white and thin.

Are you cheating my grandmom, Connor? said Dwyer. He stood up.

All Connors are cheats, repeated Dwyer’s grandpa.

It felt like all the heat in his room was going straight to Aidan, straight to his head. All Connors are cheats. Everyone was looking at him, waiting. All Connors are cheats. He laid his cards face up on the table and stood.

Look, he said. Let’s take our money back and start the hand over. Dwyer chuckled a little under his breath and sat down.

Aidan played as poorly as he could, lost five dollars and went home.

The next night he was assigned to the furthest downwind boat, the SC, Solitary Confinement, because if you were in it you could shout all you wanted but none of the others would ever hear you. Dwyer, who was in charge of allocations, patted the back of Aidan’s coat, making a hand-sized divot in the down. He handed the boy a small flask with a jumping codfish etched on one side, streaked from years of whisky drippings. And then we’ll call it even, he said.

HELLO! shouted Aidan.

And, AHHHHH!

And, HELP HELP!

And, AHH! AHH! AHH!

No response from the boats in front. Just their stern lights bobbing calm and regular, from small to smaller. Aidan pulled his jacket sleeves up over his hands and blew warm air into them. The wind pushed against his neck, back towards the Runnings. No one could hear him and, apart from his boat’s two lights, bow and stern, no one could see him. He took a deep breath. The air was cold and fresh as drinking water.

The water is wide,

he sang,

I can’t cross o’er,

and the wind blew his voice away from him,

Nor have I wings,

still high and young like a boy’s,

With which to fly,

he sang,

and sang, and sang, until the sun was up and the nets were down and the golden morning warmth cut through the mist and wind and let him sleep.

And, because Running Bay’s prevailing winds had a bit of tilt to them, a bit of westward swagger, his voice was pulled across the water and away from Little Running, where his mother and Widow Callaghan and Mrs Dwyer would have known it to be his, and, instead, landed in the stranger front rooms and bedrooms of Big Running, coaxing the wood fire at the MacDowells’, unnerving the cats picking fish guts on the shore and catching the ear of thirteen-year-old Martha Murphy, who, sat up in bed, was still awake, tying and untying knots in a length of rope twine while her sisters slept around her. Oh, she whispered under her breath. Mermaids.

One month earlier, both of Martha’s parents drowned. Or so everyone said. When a body, or two, go out with the boats and don’t come back again after a storm, people say they drowned, even though there are, really, any number of ways they could have lost life. Certainly, there are lots of situations where a body, or bodies, end up breathing water instead of air; hurried, panicked lungs sucking it in, spitting it out, sucking it in, spitting it out, until the water makes the body heavy and there’s no power left for spitting. But, also, a body can, for example, be tossed up in a big wind and smashed back down again, broken on the wood of her own boat, or maybe something even harder, like a bucket or a mast or an anchor. Or a gust can bring to life something otherwise dead, like a pole or a tool, and it can fly into a skull, crashing and shattering, and that’s that. Or a boat can get pounded into bits by the waves and a body can die of thirst or hunger or loneliness while clutching a bit of floating debris, floating further and further and further out for days and days and days. There are any number of ways a body, or bodies, can die at sea, so people just say drowned to simplify things. Martha Murphy was thirteen years old and had three sisters, two older, one younger, when both her parents drowned.

She was wearing itchy black tights that, as she had grown an inch already this month, were too small for her and pulled down with every step. Over these she wore a black dress that had been her sister’s up until that morning, when she had gone to put on her own and found it indecently short.

Wear mine, said Meredith, her sister, throwing it over her bed on to Martha’s. But don’t give it back. You’ll probably stretch it weird.

What will you wear? said Martha. You don’t have another black one.

I’ll wear Minnie’s. It pretty much fits already.

What will she wear?

Mom’s.

Oh.

And you can give yours to Molly.

What if Minnie doesn’t want to wear Mom’s?

She’ll be fine.

What? said Minnie, coming into their shared room. She was still in her nightgown. It had to pass through three more of them and already had holes along the bottom.

You’ll be fine, said Meredith.

So Martha wore her sister’s black dress, now hers, and her too-small black tights, with her yellow rain jacket over both and her almost-black hair in a braid that bumped awkwardly over the jacket’s hood. She walked in line with her sisters, first Minnie, then Meredith, then her, then Molly, down Big Running Main Street to the church that looked like the wind should have got it down years ago, where her grandparents were waiting, along with the rest of the town, to start her parents’ funeral. Since there were no bodies there were no caskets either, and when the time came for throwing earth, they all took turns throwing handfuls into an empty hole.

That evening, after the wake, Martha’s grandparents from her now-dead mother’s side gathered all the Murphy sisters into their front room: Minnie, Meredith and Martha side by side on the small sofa, and Molly on the floor leaning against their legs, her feet tucked away so as not to touch the wood stove and burn. Outside it was raining and raining and raining.

Leaving them there, their grandparents went upstairs; Martha could tell by where the wood was creaking overhead that they were in her parents’ bedroom. They were walking back and forth, speaking softly to each other. Downstairs, Martha listened, Molly sniffled rhythmically every five seconds or so, Minnie smoothed her littlest sister’s hair in even strokes and Meredith stared straight ahead, into the fire.

After half an hour, their grandfather called for Minnie to come up. She went and stayed for about ten minutes, then came back down and told Meredith to go up. Then Martha, then Molly. Downstairs, they didn’t talk. They just listened and sniffled and stroked and stared. Then, after it was all done and their grandparents had left to catch an overnight boat back to St John’s, Molly said,

I got a fiddle.

But you already have a fiddle, said Martha.

I got a better one, and a bow with hairs. And rosin.

I got a splitting knife, said Meredith.

I got a quilt, said Minnie.

I got twine, said Martha. A needle, a card and twine.

They took a few minutes to look at each other’s things, then quieted the fire, went upstairs to their room, took off their black clothes and went to bed, Martha sharing with Molly, Meredith and Minnie not sharing, but with their beds pulled up close to one another. Martha could hear them whispering.

… but you don’t actually believe in them.

I don’t know. Maybe I do. Maybe tonight I do.

What are they saying? whispered Molly into Martha’s back. Warm breath.

Mermaids, said Martha.

Oh, said Molly. Do you?

Of course. Yes I do, of course.

Because everyone did. Everyone believed, everyone knew, that mermaids were the sea-dead, singing their love back to you. If it wasn’t too loud with rain or waves, you could hear them in the wind, most nights.

By the same author

Emma Hooper

OUR HOMESICK SONGS

FIG TREE

(1993)

(1992)

(1969)