help.”
“Sure.”
“So when?”
“How about right now?”
He looked at me with dismay on his face.
Driving, we talked about boats and how, by then, most were on the shore, waiting for the winter. And whether there would be a lot of snow this year, and the outlook for fishing in the spring. He was slouched against the passenger door, looking straight ahead, trying to avoid engagement, but I kept talking.
“There’s a lot of pessimistic speculation about the fishery.”
He laughed bitterly. “Tell me about it!”
“What do you think?” I coaxed.
“They’re trying to kill the place,” he said finally. “The DFO
… fisheries officers, supposed to be on our side, trying to close the small wharves. Shutting down the fishery for the small boats. Setting everything up for the big draggers and the big-money people. And the Americans and Germans buying up the land and driving up prices and taxes so a local fella doesn’t have a chance. If it wasn’t for the old man having a boat and a few licences, I’d be long gone. I’ll probably get his house someday. Otherwise …” “You make it sound kind of bleak.” “It is bleak.” And after a long silence he proclaimed: “Maybe it’s time for a revolution.”
Mullins was ungracious. He took the cheque and started to deliver a little homily about personal responsibility, but I gave him a look and he stopped.
“It wasn’t about the money,” he said, folding the cheque.
“I just wanted you to be aware. Okay? We must take responsibility for our choices. I hope you’ve learned something.”
Danny nodded.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” he said as we drove away.
Driving up the Hawthorne Road, I told him I knew something about the stress of youth. And that he should consider me to be someone he could talk to frankly.
“That would be hard to believe,” he said, opening the car door to leave. He was smiling.
“What would be so hard to believe?”
“You and stress. Growing up.”
I just laughed.
“I always heard how things were simpler then,” he said.
“We had our stresses too,” I said, knowing just how lame I sounded.
“I suppose you did.” He was staring at me with new interest. “People figure growing up out here in Hawthorne … it’s all … bonach and buttermilk.”
I wanted to say: I grew up in a place like this. I think I even understand what you’re trying to say about Hawthorne. But this wasn’t about me.
“A good way of putting it,” I said. “The days of bonach and buttermilk are long gone.”
“Right. Ma and Dad used to live in Toronto and they say they moved back here because it’s supposed to be a safe place to bring up kids.”
“You don’t agree?”
“There are no safe places anymore. If there ever were.” He was outside the car then, but he turned and said he was curious about something. “If you don’t mind me asking, is it true that you were the guy who put the run on all those queer priests a few years ago?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“I was just curious. I’ve been following it. What’s starting to come out over in Newfoundland and down in the States. Somebody was saying you had something to do with it here.”
I looked away, the old tired sadness washing through me. “It isn’t something that I can really talk about,” I said finally.
“I suppose not. I admire you, though. If it had been me in your place, I’d have been tempted to do a lot worse.”
BOOK TWO
Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity; for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.
PSALMS
{7}
B obby O’Brian reminded me on a Sunday early in December that people would expect a special effort for the Christmas season. A nativity scene. Lights. The whole nine yards. In case I’d forgotten, having spent the recent years at the university, where others worried about such mundane things.
“They still take Christmas serious around here,” he said.
The challenge
“Sure.”
“So when?”
“How about right now?”
He looked at me with dismay on his face.
Driving, we talked about boats and how, by then, most were on the shore, waiting for the winter. And whether there would be a lot of snow this year, and the outlook for fishing in the spring. He was slouched against the passenger door, looking straight ahead, trying to avoid engagement, but I kept talking.
“There’s a lot of pessimistic speculation about the fishery.”
He laughed bitterly. “Tell me about it!”
“What do you think?” I coaxed.
“They’re trying to kill the place,” he said finally. “The DFO
… fisheries officers, supposed to be on our side, trying to close the small wharves. Shutting down the fishery for the small boats. Setting everything up for the big draggers and the big-money people. And the Americans and Germans buying up the land and driving up prices and taxes so a local fella doesn’t have a chance. If it wasn’t for the old man having a boat and a few licences, I’d be long gone. I’ll probably get his house someday. Otherwise …” “You make it sound kind of bleak.” “It is bleak.” And after a long silence he proclaimed: “Maybe it’s time for a revolution.”
Mullins was ungracious. He took the cheque and started to deliver a little homily about personal responsibility, but I gave him a look and he stopped.
“It wasn’t about the money,” he said, folding the cheque.
“I just wanted you to be aware. Okay? We must take responsibility for our choices. I hope you’ve learned something.”
Danny nodded.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” he said as we drove away.
Driving up the Hawthorne Road, I told him I knew something about the stress of youth. And that he should consider me to be someone he could talk to frankly.
“That would be hard to believe,” he said, opening the car door to leave. He was smiling.
“What would be so hard to believe?”
“You and stress. Growing up.”
I just laughed.
“I always heard how things were simpler then,” he said.
“We had our stresses too,” I said, knowing just how lame I sounded.
“I suppose you did.” He was staring at me with new interest. “People figure growing up out here in Hawthorne … it’s all … bonach and buttermilk.”
I wanted to say: I grew up in a place like this. I think I even understand what you’re trying to say about Hawthorne. But this wasn’t about me.
“A good way of putting it,” I said. “The days of bonach and buttermilk are long gone.”
“Right. Ma and Dad used to live in Toronto and they say they moved back here because it’s supposed to be a safe place to bring up kids.”
“You don’t agree?”
“There are no safe places anymore. If there ever were.” He was outside the car then, but he turned and said he was curious about something. “If you don’t mind me asking, is it true that you were the guy who put the run on all those queer priests a few years ago?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“I was just curious. I’ve been following it. What’s starting to come out over in Newfoundland and down in the States. Somebody was saying you had something to do with it here.”
I looked away, the old tired sadness washing through me. “It isn’t something that I can really talk about,” I said finally.
“I suppose not. I admire you, though. If it had been me in your place, I’d have been tempted to do a lot worse.”
BOOK TWO
Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity; for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.
PSALMS
{7}
B obby O’Brian reminded me on a Sunday early in December that people would expect a special effort for the Christmas season. A nativity scene. Lights. The whole nine yards. In case I’d forgotten, having spent the recent years at the university, where others worried about such mundane things.
“They still take Christmas serious around here,” he said.
The challenge
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