you there?”
“Bit past midnight.”
“Was there anyone else there besides you and Kate Mackenzie?”
“Father and a buddy of mine showed up. Hooker.” He looked over to where his father was no longer shovelling, but standing straight backed, face to face with the sergeant.
“Would that be Harold Ford?”
Kyle nodded.
“When did Harold Ford leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I left before he did. And went home.”
“What time was that?”
“Around midnight. I couldn’t sleep. Jaw hurt. And so I was sitting on the wharf when Father showed up. We both went inside together. I remember the clock on the stove—it was twelve-thirty or twelve-forty.”
“Who was home when you went into your house?”
“No one. Mother. She was in bed.”
They both looked up as MacDuff approached. He was scanning the shoreline, and then looked at Kyle questioningly.
“When’s the squid rolling?” he asked.
“Squid don’t roll,” said Kyle.
MacDuff looked puzzled.
“Squid strike. Capelin roll. We done here?” he asked Canning.
“For now.” Canning snapped his notebook shut.
“When do squid
strike
then?”
“Early June.”
“Perhaps I could buy a few. Anybody selling a few dried ones?”
“Nobody sells dried squid.”
“That’s a shame. Anybody I can pay to jig me a few?”
“Sure. Working for minimum wage—cost about hundred and fifty dollars to jig, gut, split, salt, and dry a pound of squid. Still interested, talk to Hector Gale. He might cure you a pound. Yellow house up the road, green facings.”
MacDuff stared at him suspiciously and then went to his car. Canning was ahead of him, door opened and scuffing the muck off his boots before getting in. The old fellow sank into his seatand took off his hat, scratching his grey scraggy comb-over and squinting along the shoreline. He gave Kyle another suspicious look and then turned to Canning, who was peeling back the pages of his notebook and holding out something for MacDuff to read. Yet another suspicious glance at Kyle—from both of them this time. Or perhaps the look wasn’t for Kyle. His father was approaching from behind—step soft, wary. As if he was hunting.
“What did you tell them?” Sylvanus asked as the cops drove off up the road.
“What I told you.”
“Is that the truth?”
Kyle looked into his father’s eyes. They were hot with tension, frightening and vague. He felt his own tension rise, the same sense of vagueness overtaking him.
“Back to work,” said Sylvanus.
Kyle followed him across the site. His hand kept going to his pocket where Bonnie Gillard’s car keys lay. He should’ve told. But gawd-damnit, it wasn’t his to tell.
“I told them to go on home, ain’t no one here bawling over Clar Gillard,” his cousin Wade called out to him.
“Ye gonna cut that fucking plastic?” Kyle went over to where his father was now on his knees, hammering in a peg. He touched his hand to the keys. His father glanced up at him and jabbed a finger at his spade lying on the ground.
“Pick it up, pick the gawd-damn thing up,” he ordered.
He let his hand fall to his side. Jaysus.
FIVE
T he long trumpeted cry of a gull awakened him. The heels of his mother’s good shoes tapped the floor as she hurried down the hallway and then back again, pausing by his door.
“You up? We leave in a half hour.” Her voice strained with forced lightness.
“Right.” The hospital in Corner Brook. Her operation.
“Your father already left for the site. He walked.”
“Walked?” Hell. Aside from hunting and logging, his father hadn’t walked farther than his nose his whole life. “I would’ve drove him down.”
“There was no talking to him.” Her voice faded off and he heard the washroom door open and close. He dredged himself from his bed, the floor cold beneath his feet as he dressed. His tea was poured and stirred and waiting by a plate of toast and eggs. His father’d walked. Well, sir. He
“Bit past midnight.”
“Was there anyone else there besides you and Kate Mackenzie?”
“Father and a buddy of mine showed up. Hooker.” He looked over to where his father was no longer shovelling, but standing straight backed, face to face with the sergeant.
“Would that be Harold Ford?”
Kyle nodded.
“When did Harold Ford leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I left before he did. And went home.”
“What time was that?”
“Around midnight. I couldn’t sleep. Jaw hurt. And so I was sitting on the wharf when Father showed up. We both went inside together. I remember the clock on the stove—it was twelve-thirty or twelve-forty.”
“Who was home when you went into your house?”
“No one. Mother. She was in bed.”
They both looked up as MacDuff approached. He was scanning the shoreline, and then looked at Kyle questioningly.
“When’s the squid rolling?” he asked.
“Squid don’t roll,” said Kyle.
MacDuff looked puzzled.
“Squid strike. Capelin roll. We done here?” he asked Canning.
“For now.” Canning snapped his notebook shut.
“When do squid
strike
then?”
“Early June.”
“Perhaps I could buy a few. Anybody selling a few dried ones?”
“Nobody sells dried squid.”
“That’s a shame. Anybody I can pay to jig me a few?”
“Sure. Working for minimum wage—cost about hundred and fifty dollars to jig, gut, split, salt, and dry a pound of squid. Still interested, talk to Hector Gale. He might cure you a pound. Yellow house up the road, green facings.”
MacDuff stared at him suspiciously and then went to his car. Canning was ahead of him, door opened and scuffing the muck off his boots before getting in. The old fellow sank into his seatand took off his hat, scratching his grey scraggy comb-over and squinting along the shoreline. He gave Kyle another suspicious look and then turned to Canning, who was peeling back the pages of his notebook and holding out something for MacDuff to read. Yet another suspicious glance at Kyle—from both of them this time. Or perhaps the look wasn’t for Kyle. His father was approaching from behind—step soft, wary. As if he was hunting.
“What did you tell them?” Sylvanus asked as the cops drove off up the road.
“What I told you.”
“Is that the truth?”
Kyle looked into his father’s eyes. They were hot with tension, frightening and vague. He felt his own tension rise, the same sense of vagueness overtaking him.
“Back to work,” said Sylvanus.
Kyle followed him across the site. His hand kept going to his pocket where Bonnie Gillard’s car keys lay. He should’ve told. But gawd-damnit, it wasn’t his to tell.
“I told them to go on home, ain’t no one here bawling over Clar Gillard,” his cousin Wade called out to him.
“Ye gonna cut that fucking plastic?” Kyle went over to where his father was now on his knees, hammering in a peg. He touched his hand to the keys. His father glanced up at him and jabbed a finger at his spade lying on the ground.
“Pick it up, pick the gawd-damn thing up,” he ordered.
He let his hand fall to his side. Jaysus.
FIVE
T he long trumpeted cry of a gull awakened him. The heels of his mother’s good shoes tapped the floor as she hurried down the hallway and then back again, pausing by his door.
“You up? We leave in a half hour.” Her voice strained with forced lightness.
“Right.” The hospital in Corner Brook. Her operation.
“Your father already left for the site. He walked.”
“Walked?” Hell. Aside from hunting and logging, his father hadn’t walked farther than his nose his whole life. “I would’ve drove him down.”
“There was no talking to him.” Her voice faded off and he heard the washroom door open and close. He dredged himself from his bed, the floor cold beneath his feet as he dressed. His tea was poured and stirred and waiting by a plate of toast and eggs. His father’d walked. Well, sir. He
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