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Authors: Howard Norman

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That morning, Helen wore a housedress, a knit sweater, a shawl, long underwear, and black galoshes.
“Hello, Helen,” I said, just loud enough so she would hear, yet not be startled. “Good morning.”
“Loathe to anyone steals my milk,” she said. Her eyes were bright, with the shocking beauty of a goat's in a decrepit goat's face. “I can be a harpy if I choose to.”
“I respect that, Helen. I'm just passing by. I'm going off to try and find a bird to draw for my fiancée.”
“Where's the wedding?”
“Halifax. In October, most likely.”
“Yes, yes. I heard that you and Margaret Handle have been practising all along. I always liked that Margaret. Ever since she was a little girl, she never came near my milk.”
“I like her, too.”
“Why are you two going down to Halifax for the ceremony?”
“I'm not marrying Margaret.”
She put a finger to the side of her head. “I get it. Margaret's been practising for somebody else, too.”
“I suppose that's true.”
“Margaret's had a difficult past. I hope her future's better. I hope no man ruins it. I hope she won't let that happen. The bicycle accident, you ask me. You ask me, that was the start of Margaret's troubles on this earth.”
Exactly on her thirteenth birthday, July 2, 1900, Enoch had brought Margaret a bicycle from Halifax. There were few bicycles in Witless Bay then, not a lot of good places
to ride them. But Margaret learned to ride hers quickly. She would risk various horse trails as well as the path that ran behind the lighthouse, high above the water. She would careen around the wharf. She would skid sideways to the last slat of a dock, front wheel spinning over the edge. She spilled in a few times and the bicycle had to be salvaged. It got rust-pocked.
One morning in late August of that year I had just come into the store to buy groceries when I heard a loud slap. This was followed by a girl's voice crying out, “I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” At first I did not recognize the voice. I walked to the counter. My father was away visiting Bassie in Buchans. My mother was just getting over the croup and had not been in the village for a week. I had been back and forth to Lambert's trout camp. All this to say, we had not heard any news.
Boas LaCotte was in the store. “Fabian Vas,” he said, “let me introduce you to the constable, Mitchell Kelb.”
Mitchell Kelb stepped forward and we shook hands. “Son,” he said, nodding.
“He's come down from Her Majesty's Penitentiary in St. John's—well, the magistrate court up there, to carry out a formal investigation,” Boas said.
“What's that?”
“Investigation's when a British official looks into the hows and whys and wherefores of a crime,” Boas said.
“Or an accident,” Kelb said.
“That's Margaret Handle in the back room,” Boas said. “Poor girl, she collided on that bicycle of hers with Dalton
Gillette, on the path behind the lighthouse. I have to put this plainly, Fabian. Dalton fell to his death.”
Dalton was Romeo's father, who was slowly recovering from a heart attack.
“That can't be,” I said.
“It could and is,” Kelb said.
I looked into the storeroom, the one old Dalton Gillette had been recuperating in. Romeo stood over Margaret, who was sprawled on the bed. He had just slapped her and looked almost as shocked at what he had done as Margaret did. His face was contorted and he was trembling, staring at his hand.
Mitchell Kelb now stood next to me. “Mr. Gillette,” Kelb said into the storeroom, “you just struck a witness. Don't do that again.”
He said this with such severe reprimand that Romeo retreated to a corner like a schoolboy dunce. Finally, head down, Romeo walked to the front door of the store, turned, and said, “My father died in a humiliating way, after all that hard labor to be able just to take a walk again.”
Mitchell Kelb was a short man, no more than five foot six, I would guess. He was in good trim, had curly brown hair, a fair complexion, and wore spectacles. There was a bookish aspect to him. He spoke with authority, though, and said to Romeo, “That's a personal matter between you and your God, and the girl there, and maybe her father. I'm just taking down the facts of this incident on paper”—he held up a leatherbound pad of paper—“to report back to the Board of Inquiry. I've been out to the exact spot it
happened. It's hardly a blind corner, that I'll admit. This is tragic, Mr. Gillette. You've lost your father. I'm sorry for you, for the girl. But don't hit her again.”
Romeo left the store.
Flung across Dalton Gillette's bed now, Margaret looked as though she was stretching her arms and legs as far out as possible, clawing at the bedcover, trying to get purchase. She went into a weeping jag unlike any I had heard; her shoulders quaked, great sobs welled up. She wailed, almost a howling. I could not seem to turn away.
“If you had any sense, boy, you'd bring her a glass of water,” Kelb said. “She's crying for her own future, as she's got to live with what a goddamned stupid thing she's done.”
Years later, I came to believe that every drink of spirits that Margaret took had, in a way, its wellspring in that incident. And that no amount of whiskey could take a complete enough vengeance on herself. But at that moment in the store, I simply carried in a glass of water and handed it to her.
Mitchell Kelb had questioned Margaret for over an hour, and had made her go out to the cliff and show him exactly where she had crashed into Dalton. Boas had gone along, too, as Kelb had requested. Later, Boas said that Margaret had collapsed in tears, and that both he and Kelb had to keep her from flinging herself over the cliff. She had actually run toward it. “She was kicking and screaming,” Boas said. “Saying suicidal things nobody that young should've even had in their vocabulary.”
By the time I had seen Margaret in the store that morning,
Dalton Gillette had already been laid out in Henley's Funeral Parlor overnight. He had fallen onto some jagged rocks, then rolled into an inlet and was easily found. Mrs. Henley had washed all of Dalton's clothes, hung them out to dry, and, when they had dried, sewn together rips in the shirt and trousers. She had hung up his shoes by the laces to a clothesline. Romeo had provided his own suit for his father to be buried in. Now Romeo would need a new one.
I was eight, and that is about all I remember, except that at the funeral the reverend at the time, Weebe, said, “Dalton Gillette has surely established our strong and loving memory of him, and God resides therein.”
I did not see Margaret for three weeks after, some feat in Witless Bay. My mother at first said that Margaret had gone to live with her aunt in Bonavista, north up the coast, because that is what my mother had been told. But rumor was mistaken. It turned out that Margaret had been home all along and simply could not be consoled. She had lost a startling amount of weight and vomited up each meal, or most of it. Enoch finally told Boas, who of course told some others, and so on. “She was under sedation,” my father said one morning at breakfast, then explained what sedation meant. I would have thought that such news might draw sympathy from my mother, but I was wrong. “I don't know. I just don't know,” she said. “Sometimes I swear that Margaret's got an untoward mind, just a little right or left of center. Mind you, my heart goes all the way out to Romeo and Annie Gillette, and to Enoch, of course. But I'm afraid only half as far to Margaret.” I was at best puzzled. I looked
at my mother, waiting for her to say something more. She only shrugged, pouring herself a cup of tea.
Helen leaned against her shack. “Well, whoever your bride is, when you bring her back here, keep her away from my milk,” she said.
“If we come back, I'll do that.”
“You know, this shack's my true address.” Helen sighed deeply. “I only sleep in my house. I generally stay away from people. Everyone's jealous of me, because I'm old enough to have witnessed mermaids and mermen, and they aren't. Nowadays, people have to travel to get important memories. Not me. Mark my word, Fabian Vas, jealousy leads to stupid behavior, even among Christians. Where they could delight in my memory of mermaids, they hold it against me as eccentric. They think I'm lying. Memory is a pox. A
pox
, to remember all that I still can. It won't leave me alone. One night, I saw mermaids and mermen attain a shipwreck. Right out there on the rocks.”
She looked out to sea. She heaved another sigh, and it made her lose her balance slightly. I reached out to help, but she pushed me away. She raised her fists in anguish to her face. “What difference, anyway—there's nobody left to talk to. I could have educated the village children.”
“I'm going now. Goodbye, Helen.”
She turned back to her bottles.
In Shoe Cove, between Witless Bay and Portugal Cove, I saw the garganey. It was a male, asleep in the early sun, head tucked to his breast. There were no other birds or
people in sight. It was a small, high-cliffed cove, and I made my way down to some flat rocks near the water, where I sat watching the garganey for a few moments. Then, moving to a more comfortable rock hollowed out almost like a chair, I sat sketching the garganey for a good two hours. I drew him as he slept. I drew him as he lifted his head, preened, skitted across the surface. He mostly held to one place, though at a certain point he flew off, circled, then lit down on what I thought was the exact same spot, hard of course to determine on a sun-glinted sea. It was as though he had enacted his own dream of flying, then had returned to his body. He fed awhile, scooping, shoveling, shaking his head, dipping, drifting, slowly turning with the random eddies. The sea brightened, the wind picked up, and there were whitecaps. I drew. Those were the elements: water, rocks, sun; the garganey, a migrant here for a short stay, whose life I had only happened upon because of that morning's particular luck. Luck like no other I had ever had, or have had since.
Three days later I purchased a simple wooden frame from Gillette's store, with money I had earned from
Bird Lore.
On the back I etched:
This is for Cora Holly, my fiancée. Begun June 26, 1911, completed June 29, 1911.
C
ora
H
olly
M
y mother smuggled Cora Holly's photograph into our house. On the evening of September 17, 1910, we had cod, bread, and potatoes for supper, apple cobbler for dessert. During the cobbler, my father said, “We've been hired to repair the
Aunt Ivy Barnacle
. A crack in the hull, warped cabin planks, and the like. We need the money, eh? It's already hoisted up. Enoch, he'll be there to watch, 5 a.m. on the nose.”
“Ah, Enoch's home,” my mother said. “Poor Margaret, nights alone in a cold bed.”
“Alaric, that's not the present subject,” my father said. “Anyway, it being the mail boat, Enoch will be there but won't give advice. He just likes to see things get patched up, so he won't worry at sea. It soothes his mind about it.”
“I'll get up at 4:30 to make your coffee,” my mother said. “But I won't be in a civil mood.”
“You'll hardly know we're here,” my father said. “We'll be father and son ghosts at the table. Just set out coffee mugs, scones, you'll see bites disappearing. The table'll be cleared. The door'll open. The door'll close. You can go right back to sleep.”
“It should all work out fine, then,” she said. “I'm in for my bath now.”
My father pointed to my sketchbook, which I'd placed on the table. “Is that your day's work?” he said.
“I was out at Lambert's camp. Ospreys.”
“How's Lambert?”
“A man of one motto.”
“Nothing to hope for from any promise, nothing to fear from any threat,” he said, laughing a little. “He hasn't changed that tune since he was fifteen.”
“You want to take a look?”
“Yes.”
I slid the sketchbook across the table. He took in each page. Finally, he sat back and folded his arms. “These ospreys are highly recognizable,” he said.
“What about the harlequins?”
He looked at the harlequin ducks, four or five of them. Pointing to one, he said, “This captures a harlequin's nature. But what I most admire is that it doesn't resemble
every
harlequin. It's got its own character as well. But these others fall short.”
“Short of what?”
“Of your best harlequin. You told me yourself, Fabian—all these drawings you do every day, you've got a standard
to uphold. But you don't always know the standard until you look over your day's accomplishment, drawing by drawing. For my money, today's best is this last harlequin. And the ospreys.”
“I've got a commission.
Maritime Monthly.
Crows, and whatever ducks I prefer. They sent an advance. That's a first. A one-dollar advance.”
“It's their confidence in you, that dollar.”
“There's a lot of people drawing birds in Canada.”
“That's some sort of attitude, I suppose. Better than none at all.”
“Okay, I'm pleased.”
“I said once to Lambert that if a bird, even a buzzard, spoke to me in a dream or nightmare, I couldn't ever shoot another one.”
“How'd Lambert reply?”
“Lambert said that he didn't dream, so didn't worry about such things. Then he added that if I did have such a dream and it stifled my hunting, he'd get a new hunting partner. He boiled it down to that.”
“A practical man.”
We heard my mother come out of her bath.
“Before I go in, I'll let her stare out the window,” my father said. “At the lighthouse. Or more likely the stars. It's a clear night out.”
Then, as I had heard it said when two people fall silent at the table, an angel passed.
“I know this is a curious aside,” he said, “but your mother's the only woman I've known or heard of who dresses
for bed in more layers than she wears during the day. She makes a man work at it, all right. Our wedding night was like that, and it was unseasonably warm. Just about this time in September.”
He said all of this with some humor in his voice, tinged with resignation, and when my mother appeared in the doorway, he cut himself short, then winked at me.
“I overheard clearly,” she said. She did not seem angry at all, only about to state a fact. “It's not so much against feeling cold, the layers, as it makes me feel girlish and secure. And it helps me to sleep.”
My father stood up. “Look at that, will you?” he said. “Fabian and me sharing coffee and father-and-son talk, and you fresh from your bath, and suddenly a new revelation about what you wear to bed. A simple life still leaves room for being surprised, doesn't it, Alaric?”
“I'll bet Margaret Handle's a lightly clad sleeper,” my mother said, looking past us out the window.
She was wearing thick woolen socks folded over once into reverse cuffs of equal width. She had on red long johns under a cotton nightgown. Over the nightgown, she wore a faded white robe. With her right hand she held the ruffled lapels of the robe together at the neck. Her left hand was deep in the one pocket.
“I'm going to bed now,” my father said. As he left the kitchen, he kissed my mother on her forehead.
I prepared tea for my mother, then said good night.
In my bedroom I put on my nightshirt. Then I noticed the photograph. It was in an ornate frame of darkly whorled
wood, on the table next to my bed. I kept little else there: a sketchbook, matches, lantern. I got into bed and turned the lantern down to a faint. I took up the photograph and looked at it closely. I had absolutely no idea whom this face belonged to, or in which country in the world she lived.
The next thing I was conscious of were the words “Knock, knock,” which is what my mother usually said after she had knocked on my door. I had fallen asleep with the photograph facedown on my chest. My mother looked pleased. I quickly set it upright on the table.
“The picture is of your fourth cousin,” she said. “Her name—dear thing—is Cora Holly, of Czechoslovakian descent, like your father. She's a cousin on Orkney's side, by way of England. She lives in Richibucto, New Brunswick, a coastal village like ours.”
“What's her picture doing here?”
“I just
knew
you'd ask that. Well, your father and I are interested in her. In your marrying her, more precisely.”
“What?”
“That Margaret Handle, whom you've been sleeping with. You know what people say, that she's better to visit than marry.”
“What people? You're like someone gossiping with herself.”
“Calm down, Fabian. Think Cora Holly over, will you, darling? All I ask is that you turn your thoughts to her, for my sake, for your father's. And of course eventually for yours. Because it's our understanding that even the lovely face in that photograph hardly does Cora justice.”
“When's the last time you saw this Cora Holly?”
“I've never seen her.”
“And the mother and father?”
“Pavel and Klara? Well, let's see. It would be twenty years.”
“And given that, how'd this photograph get here?”
“Well, Klara and I have been exchanging letters.”
“You've kept it a close secret.”
“When the mail comes in, you look for letters from Mr. Sprague. You don't ask for anything else.”
“True enough.”
“Cora is keen on marrying you as well.”
She closed my door.
It took two full days to repair the
Aunt Ivy Barnacle.
The crew was made up of myself, Boas LaCotte's nephew Giles, and my father. I spent hours next to my father, hammering, prying, planing, caulking, sanding, painting, yet he never once mentioned the photograph, and neither did I. He did, however, reminisce about a group of Beothuk Indians he used to see as a boy. At the outset of the conversation, I told my father that in my history primer all we had were watercolor facsimiles of Beothuks paddling, fishing, tattooing their bodies, smoke-drying fish in domed huts, staring out to sea.
“Well, nobody ever got a photograph of a Beothuk,” he said. “A book might say they all died out in the early 1800s, but I swear I saw a few stragglers after that. Those Indian faces were not, I guarantee you, commonplace. And you
could tell Beothuks from Micmacs and Eskimaux. A few —Beothuks, I mean—seemed lost stumbling drunk in the century itself, a sad sight. The ones who ventured into the general store, then run by Romeo's father, came to buy fishhooks, not to converse. There was one old woman I remember in particular. She bought the hooks. She'd say, ‘I'm baptized. I want fishhooks.' I don't know if it was true.”
“Which thing?” I said.
“About her being baptized. Anyway, she looked shabby and was polite. The others just stood staring at the floor.”
“I wish I could've seen them.”
“Enoch here has Beothuk blood, and that's believable,” my father said. “Try and find cheekbones like his elsewhere in Newfoundland. Other than in Margaret's face, naturally. Enoch can say words in Beothuk.
Mammatek
—that means ‘house.'”
“You pronounced it wrong,” Enoch said, annoyed. He had been eavesdropping from his chair, which he had placed near the rail of the
Aunt Ivy Barnacle.
He had been on deck, writing in his leatherbound log, sharpening pencils with a strop razor.
“Enoch,” my father said, “what's Beothuk for ‘bird shit'? You told me once, but I forgot.”
“
Sugamith,
” Enoch said, emphasizing the first syllable about twice as loud.
“Enoch can resurrect some truly ancient words,” my father said. He admired this.
“Tell Fabian about the parrot,” Giles said.
Enoch jumped down. He was a stocky man, with a visegrip
handshake, wisp of beard, black hair slicked with grease; he had to clean the inside rim of his pilot's cap with rubbing alcohol.
“See,” Enoch said, warming up for a long tale. “This Beothuk twosome lived off by themselves, north of Witless Bay. ‘North' is as accurate as anyone knew. This was back when Orkney and I were kids. Back before we even had a local doctor.”
“We'd try and stop bleeding by putting cobwebs on it,” my father said. “Or turpentine of fir.”
“My mother knew a secret prayer to stop a nosebleed,” Enoch said. “Anyway, when I say the Beothuk twosome lived off by themselves, I mean a location meant to shun a bear. You didn't see them for a long time. Then, one day they'd just show up in the store. To buy flour, fishhooks, whatever.
“They owned a parrot. A lice-ridden bird, green with some yellow. The old man, hell, he could've been part of my direct ancestry, he had a beat-up coat. French-made. The parrot rode there, clamped right on with its claws to his shoulder. The parrot spoke a lot of Beothuk words. I think whole sentences. I don't have the foggiest where they got the parrot. But they'd clipped its wings and cut its tongue and it liked to say Beothuk words to any audience. And of course it spoke parrot garble, naturally.
“The twosome had a fishing camp out where Lambert Charibon's trout camp is today, along the Salmonier River. When they died—rumor had it on the same day—they were found at their camp. Some trouters notified the church.
“Now, the reverend at that time was named Clemons.
Broderick Clemons. He performed the funeral. Rainy day, a few curious onlookers, but who knew how to grieve correctly for them? To grieve on their behalf?
“Clemons took money from the church till, and there were later complaints about this. He had two grey slabs put over their graves, with the first verse of the Lord's Prayer chiseled in.
“Afterwards, Clemons adopted the parrot. He'd stay up late by lantern light, writing down Beothuk words in a ledger. He kept the bird in a room behind the pulpit. To many, it seemed rancorous to worshippers in an uncalledfor way—but you'd hear the bird squawking and carrying on during sermons. ‘Hey, hey, hey, hello, hello,
Nonsut, Demsut!'
That's as close as I can recall the pronunciations.
“It echoed all throughout the church, belfry to pews. Clemons never muzzled the bird, either. Who knows why?
Nonsut, Demsut
—everyone figured those were the twosome's names. They may not have been, though. Who knows that either? It might've just been the mad ravings of a parrot in Newfoundland lonely as hell.”
At dusk on the second day of work, I was sanding a new cabin plank when I jammed a long splinter clean through my glove, lodging it deep in the base of my thumb. It was a stupid accident, out of tiredness, and when I reported it to Enoch, he gave me a swig from his flask of whiskey and said, “Quitting time.” At home I soaked my hand in hot water. It took my mother fifteen or so minutes to work the splinter out. She dabbed on iodine, then set the splinter on the table to show my father.

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