The Fortunate Brother (16 page)

“Naw, be someone along soon enough.”

The knife slid down his arm, the tip pricking into his wrist. He gripped the cuff of his sleeve and straightened his arm. Heard a car coming down Hampden Hill. The shiny four-door manual Chevy, straight off the lot, bucked like a rabbit and choked to a stop alongside of him. Julia. Driving her father's new car. The passenger window rolled down. She lowered her head, staring scantways at him. Clear blue eyes, hair clamped in a messy bun, stray feathery strands tickling her face.

“Chance a ride?” she asked.

He got in, the knife sagging to the back of his sleeve. He dug his hand into his pocket and closed the door.

“Going down Beaches?” she asked.

“Yup. Yup, I am. How far you going?”

“All the way if you'd like.”

He forced a smile to his stiff jaws. He held on to the door handle as she started the engine, rode the clutch too hard, stalled her.

“Self-taught?”

“Yup.” Another twist at the ignition and the car vaulted forward, grinding first gear into a nub and then jumping into second and much too soon into third and they were bucking down the road. “Dad sees this, he'll kill me.” She laughed. “But that's how he done it—stole his father's standard and learned on a hillside.”

“We're riding a stolen car?”

“Borrowed. Not like he don't know by now. Half the outport's harping on the phone by now.
She stalled her going downhill, b'y. Can't think what she'll do going uphill.
” She laughed again. Her mouth the prettiest pink he'd ever seen. “You always so serious?” she asked him.

“What? No. No. Just busy, is all. Nice day, eh?”

“How's your mother?”

“She's fine.”

“Glad to hear that. Nice woman, your mother. We always chat at the post office or in the store.”

“Yeah. We like her, too.”

“Right. Anyway, she's interesting. Quiet without being quiet, you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

She gave him a contrite look. “We all knows about her operation.”

“Figures.”

“That bothers you?”

“No. No, I don't mind.”

“She does?”

“She's like that.”

“You Nows. Floated up the bay all those years ago and you're still strangers.”

“Jaysus. That bad?”

“Your sister hardly talked to any of us going to school.”

“She's shy.”

“And you?”

“Me? Uh, no. Nope. Hell, I'm about. You're the one who's gone.”

“Changing that soon enough.”

“How's that?”

“Not quite figured, yet. Everybody's beating a path to Toronto or Alberta or Saskatchewan. Not me. I'm the one who's gonna make it here.”

“Doing what?”

“Figure something.”

“Your folks'll like that.”

“Right. The old man pales whenever I mentions it. Wants me making it big in da big city, like Mary Tyler Moore.”

He smiled.

“You? What's your plan?”

“Still figuring it.”

“There it is. Closed-mouthed Nows.”

“Takes after Mother.”

“Yup. She don't hand out invites, either.”

“I'll tell her to invite you for tea.”

She laughed. “Roses said you were daft.”

“Roses is a thorny bitch.”

“She can laugh, though. Don't think I've ever seen you laugh.”

“Huh, maybe later.” He grabbed the door handle to keep me from jolting forward as she yanked the gear stick from fifth down to third, starting up Fox Point, tires biting into the dirt.

“Oops, forgot fourth,” she said and laughed at the concerned look on his face and he wanted to touch the creamy taut column of her throat as she tossed back her head, laughing harder. “Why are you so
serious
?” she asked, turning to him.

He smiled. Couldn't help himself. Felt like he'd slipped through a crack from gloomy skies into liquid sunshine.

“Stop chewing your nails.”

Jaysus. He dug his hand into his pocket.

“An ouroboros moment?” she asked.

“A what?”

“The snake. Feeding off its own tail while growing a better one.”

“Yeah, that's it—regrowing myself. In bits.”

“Well, you starts with your head. Then the rest takes care of itself.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you just lose your head.”

“How many headless gurus do you know?”

There was an undertone to her banter. He lowered his window, too stuffy to breathe. “Cripes, slow down, here.” They were driving through the Beaches and a dozen youngsters flew
out onto the road in front of them, hollering and yodelling. Bath towels tied around their throats, hanging cape-like down their backs. Bandanas with cut-out eyes around their heads.

Julia hauled the stick into neutral, slowing to a crawl. Kyle yelled out the window,
Won't be enough of ye left to pray over, you gets struck.
He rolled the window back up. “Look at that little devil,” he said to Julia as the eldest—one of the Keatses—waved a silver plastic sword at him with one hand and gave him the finger with the other.

“The finger? He gave you the finger? My God, what is he, ten? Eleven?”

“Been giving me the finger since he was four,” said Kyle. “Rimmed or warped, that one.”

“Oh my lord, brazen little bugger.” She honked her horn and laughed and he loved how she was always laughing and he hated driving past the last house and her pushing the stick into neutral and coasting to a stop.

“Too hard on the brakes. Ought to gear down.”

“Yeah, I'll figure it.” She leaned against the wheel, watching him, smiling.

“Yeah, see you later, then.”

“Just a sec.” She reached for him as he was opening the door and too late he twisted away, her hand already enclosed around his forearm, her palm against the bone-hard handle of the knife. She pulled back, shocked. There wasn't a man, woman, or child in all of White Bay whose hand wouldn't intuitively know the feel of a trimming knife. Fear chased across her face with dawning clarity as she stared at him.

He cursed. Sat back in the car, closing the door.

“Say nothing,” she whispered.

“I found it.”

She nodded.

“I can't talk about it right now,” he said. “Maybe—well, when it's all done with.”

Her hands gripped the wheel. He moved to reassure her and she shrank against the door. He gaped at her incredulously. “You're not scared of me? Holy Jesus. Look, I didn't do this thing. There's stuff going on—Christ, I don't even know myself what's going on.”

A sharp whistle sounded from the beach. His cousins. They were off by the shoreline, having a smoke. He held up his hand to them and Julia pulled the stick to reverse.

“Listen,” he began, but she interrupted with a shake of her head.

“You can't talk now, I get it. And you shouldn't. I have to get home.”

“I'll—I'll talk to you. Later.”

She nodded. Her mouth, her face, all concerned. She wouldn't look at him. He got out of the car, closed the door, and stepped back. She sat quiet for a moment, then looked up at him. She gave a slight nod and he put his hand to his heart in gratitude.

“Hol-ee jeezes!” Wade had come up behind him, watching as Julia rode the clutch hard, burning through the gears as she drove back up the road. “That her father's new car?”

“Come on, let's go to work.” Kyle walked onto the dark raw earth of the site, looking at the dug trenches for the footings, already encased with honeyed two-by-twelves and carpeted with beach rocks. Lengths of rebar were laid out, ends interlacing and tied with steel wire. Mounds of sand and gravel and bags of cement mix stood next to a wheelbarrow by the eastern corner. Everything tidied, strips of plastic anchored down with rock. Waiting for a clear sky and his father to come and start mixing the cement.

“How's Aunt Addie?” asked Wade.

“She's fine, just fine. Looks good, buddy. Lot of work done.”

“That's your father. Hard man to keep up with when he gets going.”

“Hooker and Snout came and give us a hand,” said Lyman, joining them.

“They're gone back to the plant. Working this evening,” Wade added. “Heard you got hauled in agin. Awful stuff, hey, b'y?”

“Questions, Jesus. Don't know why they thinks I got the answers. Come on. Let's mix cement.” He started towards the wheelbarrow, the knife sagging heavier in his coat sleeve.

“Hey? But we got no mixer,” said Lyman.

“We'll mix it ourselves. In the wheelbarrow.” Kyle looked skyward. The cloud was thin. “Won't be raining for a while. We'll have the footing poured by then.”

“What about Uncle Syl? Who's going to do the mixing?”

“Your brother, nutcase. Graduated Boudine High, suppose he can handle a bag of cement.”

“You sure?” asked Wade. “Uncle Syl mightn't appreciate us going it alone. And without a mixer.”

“What's the matter, forget your recipes?”

“One part, two parts, three parts. Mix, sand, and gravel. Let's get at her, then. If that's what you wants.”

“That's what I wants.”

“Fine, then. Go get the hose,” Wade said to Kyle. “And you get them spades over there,” he ordered Lyman. “Over there, stun arse, next to the wheelbarrow. Never mind, I gets them myself. You run up to Vic's and get her rake.”

“A rake?”

“Just go get the fucking rake. Come on, let's get at her,” he said to Kyle and shifted the wheelbarrow closer to the bags of cement. “I've never done it without a mixer. But I suppose it's the same mix, hey, b'y?”

“Yes, b'y.”

“Now, let's see here—for a wheelbarrow full, we'll need two bags of mix.”

“Where's the hose?”

“Tucked over there by the bottom of the hill. Set her up this morning. Running her from Billie's Brook up there.”

Kyle went over to where the rubber hose coiled like one of Julia's snakes near a clump of dried brush and hauled the end of it back to the wheelbarrow.

“Here, give it to me, I hoses down the wheelbarrow first,” said Wade. “We'll start pouring there, the east corner. Go check it, make sure she's ready.” He stuck one of his fingers into the opening of the hose, jettisoning a spray over the wheelbarrow. Kyle went to the east corner, letting the knife slip from his sleeve into his palm. He checked that Wade had his back to him, then bent to brush away the small pebbly rocks beneath a strip of rebar. Quickly, he dropped the knife, covering it with the pebbles. Then he stood, looking down to make sure it was fully concealed, and walked back to Wade.

“Looks good. Let's get her started.”

“Grab that bag of cement. Hold on, now. We puts the water in the wheelbarrow first, cuts down on the dust when you add the mix. Open the bag from the end, there. Hold on now, we gets the water in—not flowing very good. Slower than Lyman.

“All right, start measuring the water. We measures the water before we pours the mix. Get that bucket, there. Has to be same amounts every time else it'll look all patchy. Get the spade, start mixing in the mix. Rake is better, if bonehead ever gets back.”

“How's this? I think it's good…add the sand?”

“That's right, add the sand. Grab the shovel. Slow—mix it in slow. That's the way. Now then, shovel in the gravel. Okay, start mixing.”

“Right. All right. There she goes, mixing just fine,” said Kyle. “How's your father?”

“Contrary as Mother.”

“Don't change.”

“Got hisself a shack built down Big Island. He's the only one there.”

“That should do him.”

“You'd think. So contrary he built another shack right alongside it. And he made the rule he's not allowed in there. Imagine that now, his own rule. Gives him something to complain about.”

“Go on, b'y.”

“Swear to Jesus, that's what he done. Here comes poke. What took so long, dicked the dog?”

“Dick you.”

“Here, give me that rake.”

“Move over, I does it myself.” Lyman stuck the prongs of the rake into the mix in the wheelbarrow and started raking. “Bit more water, she's drier than the Pentecost.” He raked slow and easy. Folding and blending till it looked like a load of mouldy cottage cheese. Kyle lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the eastern corner as Wade started shovelling the thick mix into the casings.

“Get over here, Lyman. Grab the trowel, Kyle, man. Hold on, now. Hold on. All right. Start levelling. Smooth her out.”

Kyle followed behind Wade, flattening and smoothing the cement with the rake. Lyman followed Kyle, smoothing it with the trawl. They poured and levelled and smoothed till the wheelbarrow was emptied and a good length of footing filled. Kyle checked where the knife was buried beneath the cement, resisting an impulse to bend down and mark the sinning spot with a cross.

They mixed another batch of cement and Wade poured, Lyman levelled, and Kyle smoothed. He kept looking for his father; no sign. The wind took a turn into a southerly, the air warming on Kyle's face. A meagre shaft of sunlight limped across the site and one of his cousins muttered
What the jeezes is that.
They mixed up another batch, and then another and another. Batch number eight and Kyle's back started stiffening. He took off his coat, switched from raking to pouring and then back to smoothing. The sea grumbled along the shoreline. Gulls squawked. It had begun to darken when Wade touched his shoulder.

“We better get it covered—can't trust it won't rain before morning. Expected Uncle Syl before now.”

Kyle looked up the road for the hundredth time. He took the hose and sprayed clumps of drying cement off the wheelbarrow. Lyman cleaned the spade and rake and they all took a hand in covering the poured cement with strips of plastic. It was nearing six when they finished, Kyle's stomach rumbling. Couldn't remember what he ate last.