The Long Stretch by Linden McIntyre Page A

down the lane. The old man and Angus. Heading into town.
    And Squint is staying around for a while, helping Grandpa clean up around the barn.
    “Wicked with a knife, Angus is,” says Grandpa.
    “Aah haha,” Squint says, putting another half-hitch in the rope suspending the pig.
    Then the two of them coming in for tea.
    The sun rouses me early the next morning, revealing through my window that his truck is neither home nor over at MacAskill’s; downstairs, Ma sitting at the table, a mug of tea in front of her, just sitting there with her hand under her chin, like she’s been there all night. Her face all red welts, as if slapped, but surely not. He isn’t like that.

6
    Sextus retrieves the photograph of Uncle Jack and the sawmill from the tabletop. Studying it, sadness in his face.
    “Like day and night, they were,” he says.
    Tell me about it.
    “Two fellows, cut from the same piece of cloth, set out in life down the same road. Come to a crossroads, go different directions.”
    Some crossroads.
    Christmas Day 1964, Squint was at the house for dinner.
    “You were in the war,” I said.
    “Uh-huh,” he said, with a questioning look.
    “With Angus and the old man?”
    “Well,” he said, “it’s a complicated story.”
    “How complicated?”
    Leaning forward, elbows on knees. “We were all in the CBH together…but your father…he transferred out. To the North Novies. You knew that?”
    “No,” I said. “I didn’t know anything.”
    He shook his head slowly, studying the floor.
    “So why did he transfer out?”
    “Och…it’s a long story.”
    Ma came into the room then and he changed the subject.
    “The old man never really forgave me. For Christmas ’64,” he is saying.
    “Not true,” I say.
    “He comes home. I’m off to Bermuda,” he says, not listening to me. “He never forgave me, did he? You and him home from…where was it? Quebec? No. Newfoundland. Tilt Cove. Home from the salt mines. The two of you home. Special.”
    “Copper,” I say.
    “Wha’?”
    “Copper mine. Tilt Cove.”
    “Whatever. The first normal Christmas after Uncle Sandy. And me in Bermuda. Imagine what was going through the old man’s head.” Swallows a mouthful. Sighs long. “What a prick I was.”
    Was?
    “Nobody ever missed Christmas. Not if you didn’t have to. A war or something. But I missed Christmas.” He grinds outthe cigarette, exhaling thin smoke. “Went to Bermuda with a broad from Halifax. You never met her?”
    No!
    “Boss’s daughter. Slick like you never saw. Out of the blue she says, ‘Let’s go south for Christmas.’ ‘South where?’ I say. ‘Bermuda,’ she says. ‘Daddy’s got a place there.’ She was kind of the first, how shall I put it…mature relationship.” He winks at me. “She couldn’t get enough of it. So…how could I say no? Ma wasn’t too pleased. But I half expected the old fellow would understand. I mean, he’d seen a few Christmases from away. Himself and Uncle Sandy. The mines and the war and all.”
    “Didn’t seem to bother Jack one way or the other,” I say, looking him in the eye.
    He holds me there. Then: “When you get right down to it, by Christmas ’64 there wasn’t all that much between him and me. Not really.” He laughs. “There was no dramatic breakdown. Just something gradual, over the years.”
    He’s dabbing the cigarette in the pile of butts in the ashtray.
    “Back when I was feeling sorry for myself, I’d tell anybody who cared to listen that it was because he got physical. Punched me out once. But thinking about it, honestly. It was just once. And, fuck, I sure asked for it. So. It was something else.”
    Going back to Tilt Cove after Christmas, it was clear I had to find out how much Uncle Jack knew. About Angus. About what Pa’s problem had been. About their whole history. Maybe understand November 22, ’63. I kept watching for an opportunity to ask him about them overseas. To intercept the propermood, get access to their