August Gale (11 page)

Aye, Jocko could terrorize whomever he liked
, Lizzie knew, until the dog turned on the priest. Not long after Tommy served his jail time, Lizzie remembered McGettigan's eyes, black with rage, as he dragged Jocko outside and shouted: “I want this dog drowned tonight!” She ran through the woods to fetch the priest's handyman in the winter cold. Her heart pounding and her breath visible before her, she knocked on Billy Baker's door. In short gasps, she explained how Jocko had bit McGettigan's ankle after the priest tried to kick the dog's bone from its mouth.

A longtime caretaker for the parsonage, Baker knew there was no sense in trying to convince the priest that Jocko's demise could wait till daylight. When McGettigan made up his mind, no one but the Lord himself could change it. The handyman nodded to Lizzie and turned to grab his coat. From her attic window, Lizzie watched as the priest and Baker motored into the middle of the bay. Jocko, a water dog always eager for a boat ride, sat in the bow with a rope around his neck, the far end of the line wound around a large rock. McGettigan held Jocko's bone in his hand and Baker would later recount the priest's words as the reverend tossed the dog's treat into the deepest waters of the harbor: “Go fetch it, Jocko!”

No, the unruly animal didn't terrorize anyone after that night
, Lizzie thought. As she continued scrubbing dirt from the sink full of potatoes, the summer sun blazed red in the sky. A fine night it 'twas.
Too bad his holiness was not enjoying the brilliant sunset. Himself always talking appreciating the gifts from the Lord, yet the priest was all but blind to the smell of the sea and the glimmer on the harbor bay
. Lizzie knew the priest had settled in the parlor to begin his nightly bout of brooding. She heard the consistent creak of the rocking chair, a certain clue as to how the evening would play out.
He's in there alone again with his dark thoughts
. Soon he would be pouring himself a glass of rum, and then she knew the night would slip away from him in a haze of liquor and smoke. Perhaps he would write some of his poetry for a bit, or read one of his books penned by that Shakespeare character he rambled on about. Lizzie knew he pined for his high-society crowd, his family, and the friends he had left behind in St. John's. There were certainly no fine restaurants, bookstores, or high-browed plays for McGettigan to attend in Marystown. The best he could count on were the local school performances and the ceili dances at St. Gabriel's Hall. Still, the local fishermen had little to say to the priest besides “How ye getting on, Father?” There were few folk educated past sixth grade aside from some of the local merchants, Dr. Harris, and the constable.

Of course, then there was Capt'n Paddy, whom the priest had grown close to. The pair of them got on famously despite Mr. Paddy's scant years of school learning. But whatever the skipper lacked in books smarts, he made up for with his brawn and fearsome talent at sea. McGettigan dined at Paddy's grand home many Sundays, but the skipper was often on his schooner more than he was on land, leaving the priest alone to stew in his morose moods. Yet, on those lonesome nights, there had always been Jocko to comfort the reverend. The two of them had sat there before the roaring fire for hours, McGettigan rocking in his chair with a glass of rum by his side and the dog stretched out before him on the rug.
Surely the old fellow missed his scoundrel of a dog. Did the reverend feel a twinge of guilt for drowning his loyal companion? Sure now, even if he harbored remorse, the priest could absolve himself for killing the animal. He could offer himself absolution for just about anything now couldn't he?

Lizzie heard the chair stop rocking and quickly pushed her musings from her mind. She listened closely for more hints to the priest's intentions.
God forbid his holiness's dinner was late
.

In the parlor, McGettigan stood and reached for the glass decanter on the table before him. He poured himself a generous amount of the amber-colored rum and sat back down in his rocker. Taking a sip from his glass, he drew in the scent of the sweet liquor he purchased from the nearby French island of St. Pierre.
'Tis at least one benefit to living in this isolated outport
, the priest thought. Rubbing his temples, McGettigan sighed. Dusk had not settled in on the shores outside, yet he could easily retire to bed for the night. Over the last few months, a deepening fatigue had overcome the middle-aged priest, a leaden feeling he could not seem to shake.
Was it the summer heat
, McGettigan wondered,
or thoughts of the long winter ahead?
No, the priest knew it was more than the frigid temperatures that froze the bay over into thick sheets of ice. On Sunday mornings, he could hardly bear to look down upon Marystown's families as he preached from the pulpit. They sat, the men, women, and children, in the wooden benches looking to him for hope, for guidance from God, for a sign that soon things would get better; that they would have something more than turnips and potatoes for dinner, that soon the fish prices would rise again like they had before these miserable times had emptied their cupboards and forced them to live like their ancestors in Ireland: desperate and hungry, with no chance of a future, no belief of a better tomorrow.

Ah, how could he expect anyone to listen to his sermons, about the love of God, the fear of the Almighty, when their stomachs rumbled and ached from the emptiness? He saw it in the fishermen's eyes, their defiant glares, the anger and resentment of working so hard for so little. Even his good friend Paddy, who was never troubled by anything a'tall, appeared worn down, burdened by his mounting debt. McGettigan had done his best over the past nine years to bolster the spirits of his parish and to grow the community as well as the economics allowed. He had brought in the Sisters of Mercy to better school the children; he had built a new parish hall and a new school. He had counseled and chastened Marystown's wayward sinners, broken up more fights than he cared to count, married young and naïve couples, and baptized innumerable babies. In return, the village men and women offered him what they could: spare vegetables, an odd chicken or two, a bucket of milk, a few pennies in the collection box. From the start of his appointment at Sacred Heart Church in 1926, McGettigan had admired the determination of Marystown's men and women, how they made do with so little, how they kept their pride despite their tattered clothes and humble homes. But by the mid-1930s, the will and fortitude of the fishing community slipped away like the tide; despair and death shrouded the outport like the smell of fish that hovered incessantly in the parsonage meadow.

In recent years, he anointed holy oil on the foreheads of far too many of Marystown's young and old, parents and children, their malnourished bodies succumbing to epidemics of tuberculosis and pneumonia, typhoid and diphtheria; diseases that routed the small village like a blighted crop. McGettigan murmured the prayers of the Extreme Unction over their bodies in their final hours. The scent of the sweet balsam oil and the voices of weeping mothers returned to him now as he uttered the Latin words that had become so familiar to him: “
Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti. Through this Holy Unction and through the great goodness of His mercy, may God pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed
.”

There was nothing more horrible than counseling the mothers who lost their babies to the illnesses that killed the tiny souls with swift vengeance. He would rather fend off the Black and Tans, as he did in Dublin during his seminary days at All Hallows, than listen to the wails of the grieving mothers. Their shrieks haunted him at night when he tried to sleep; he tossed and turned, willing himself to forget their screams, to conjure instead the shouts of the Black and Tans, the British auxiliary soldiers who had marched onto the fields surrounding the Irish seminary.
Aye, he'd fight a dozen of the Black and Tans again on the soil of Drumconda, rather than meet the eyes of a child who understood he would never grow old
.

Across the narrow swath of bay, children's voices cut through the quiet night air, echoing across the water; their singsong words and joyful cries carried through the meadow and into the open parlor window, pulling the priest from his grim thoughts. McGettigan stood and turned to the thick panes of glass and focused his gaze on Paddy's wharf. Across the inlet, the skipper's young sons, Frankie and Jerome, ran toward the deck of
Annie Anita
. Their small duffle bags dwarfed their thin frames as they climbed on board with their gear. Further along the pier, McGettigan spied Paddy's broad silhouette as the skipper walked to his sons.

The priest knew the skipper planned to depart not long after midnight this evening. McGettigan took in the sight of Frankie's slight frame. The boy now stood quietly, perhaps fretting over his seasickness and his fear of the water.
Ah
, the priest thought,
the lad would gladly stay on land for the rest of his life, if it was not for the shame of being a sissy, a lass who could not weather the sea like his father and grandfather before him
.

McGettigan watched as Paddy's eldest son, James, stepped on board the
Annie Anita
, joining his family on deck. The slender young man squared his shoulders as he looked up to his father's eyes. Paddy placed an arm around James's shoulder and drew him close, offering him words, advice the priest figured, guidance about the sea and the fish to be caught beneath the shoal water. McGettigan knew this journey, James's first as a captain, would set the course for the young man's future, and there was no son more eager to prove himself and earn his father's pride.
But what a father to live up to
, McGettigan thought.
How does a son measure up to a fearsome legend like Paddy? Big boots to fill, my son
, McGettigan whispered.
Big boots, indeed. May God watch after you all. Fair winds to ye
.

From the kitchen table, Lizzie peeked through the parlor door. She glimpsed the priest's profile in the window, the serious look beneath his spectacles. She could hear Paddy's laughter across the bay, and she knew that it was the skipper who had captured the priest's attention.
Aye, the captain would soon be off, and then the priest would miss his weekly card game and laughter with Paddy. 'Twould be no one around to distract the reverend from his gloomy thoughts. She'd make herself scarce this week, she would. She didn't want to have another bucket of suds upturned on her. No, indeed. She'd leave the priest alone with his moods and his fierce temper. No telling what he'd do in the next fortnight if he had to bury more of Marystown's young and old. No, McGettigan
, she knew,
could not bear to counsel another woman keening over a dead child or a lost spouse
.

Another tragedy, Lizzie reckoned, would drive him mad.

I
had never seen my grandfather's eyes. Never glimpsed his face. I had never even considered what Ambrose looked like. Now on this summer morning, I stare at a photograph of my grandfather, mesmerized. For several long minutes, I take in every detail: his tanned skin, thick brows, his dark eyes, broad smile.
This is Ambrose. This is my grandfather
.

The photograph is one of three that I receive in an e-mail from my father. In the electronic note, he does not comment or share his opinion about the pictures; he simply passes them along with a message from Jerome Walsh, my father's second cousin who lives in Marystown, a relative we will meet when we travel to Newfoundland in a few weeks.

The former mayor of Marystown and a genealogy buff, Jerome has researched the family back to the early 1700s, accumulating hundreds of photographs, including these three he has sent my father. The first picture I pull up on my computer screen is a black-and-white image of my grandfather; he stands between his two brothers, Leo and Ernest. All three men are smiling, their arms wrapped around each other. The youngest of the brothers, Ambrose's hair is jet-black though bits of gray peek from his sideburns and his mustache. His head is cocked slightly to the right; his smile is natural, confident. He appears happy to be among his brothers.

He wears a T-shirt that shows his muscled and trim physique. He is strikingly handsome, his features reminiscent of Clark Gable. His older brothers appear to be in their seventies and eighties; Ambrose is perhaps in his late sixties.

While Leo and Ernest are light-skinned, pale, Ambrose's face is tanned from the warm Californian climate of his home. His gaze meets the camera straight on, and I magnify the photo several times, until Ambrose's eyes and his thick brows fill my screen. I search for guilt, remorse, recognition of wronging his first two sons, and his wife Patricia. But there is no malevolence or sorrow, only softness, an impish glint in his brown eyes, eyes that remind me of my father.

The second picture portrays Ambrose many years earlier. He and his brother Leo stand in a garden in front of Leo's Staten Island home. The summer flowers are in bloom; carnations and petunias frame the picket fence that rises up behind the two men. In his thirties, Ambrose wears a short-sleeve, buttoned-down shirt, trousers, and a tie that is loosened around his neck. While Leo smiles and stares at whoever is taking the photograph, Ambrose's gaze is unfocused, haunted as if he had just learned of some terrible news. His left hand is clenched, ready to strike something or someone. His shoulders slump forward, his mouth remains slightly ajar, like he had been suddenly sucker punched. I wonder what troubles my grandfather in this frozen moment of time. Was the photograph taken in August 1935? Snapped days or weeks after Ambrose had learned about the August Gale that tore up Newfoundland's coast? Was it the killer hurricane that preoccupied my grandfather?

Except for the wedding band on my grandfather's left hand, there is no hint of my Nana in the photograph. Was she standing in front of Ambrose and Leo? Did she take the picture? Or was she inside her home, cradling her newborn son, Ronnie, holding a warm milk bottle to his mouth.