The Bay of Love and Sorrows (4 page)

The hash was worth five times as much as the shine, so Everette was pleased. Everette, pleased with how his comment sounded, said it again.

“Means it’s good.”

Everyone in the small, meagre shack, in the middle of broken windfalls and trees, began laughing, and their laughter, filtered by yellow light, caressed the snow and reached almost to the dump in back of them, where a rat burrowed down to suckle her nine young, her favourite, one with a small, black, slick face.

Silver stood near Michael, agitated and restless. He hadn’t had any moonshine as yet because Madonna had been keeping an eye on him. But now she was at home and he was here. When the jar was passed to him, he tried to remember what they had told him at the hospital about peer pressure, and how miserable he had felt just a year ago when he was sniffing glue. He closed his eyes and bolted it back.

“Eeeeuhhhoo!” he called, banging his foot on the floor, and waking Brian, the little boy.

Although he was only a few minutes from Tom Donnerel’s and could go there at any time, Michael spent the rest of that winter at Madonna and Silver’s place. And once in a while they would meet Everette as they came and went. They were always pleasant with him and he with them, sharing a toke of hash oil, which was plentiful, and a drink of moonshine, and going on their way.

Michael, all during this time, lived with Silver, began, at the exact moment she wanted him to, to sleep with Madonna, grew his hair even longer, and read many books of popular philosophy, which continually reaffirmed Michael’s overall perception of himself as a good and caring and decent human being. He inquired about renting a farm and buying some chickens and living in a way like Tom Donnerel lived back on his farm.

Each time Madonna, who now looked upon Michael as her boyfriend, wanted to encourage a reconciliation between the two she said: “Why don’t you ask Tom to help you out? See if he can get his tractor going up next spring and plough those fields for you.”

Michael would frown, close the paperback book he was reading — a Kurt Vonnegut novel or some other popular book — light a cigarette, and say Tom’s advice about anything was the last thing he was after. So Madonna would only nod, smile, and in a moment curse Tom in agreement.

Michael had one or two run-ins over the winter, and gained the reputation of being a rich boy from town, devil-may-care, because of how he drove his old car down a ditch one day for a quarter of a mile.

“And he a judge’s son,” Everette Hutch said, feeling obligated to be as startled as everyone else. It was also known that Michael said nothing bad about anyone. And this attitude served him well along the road.

But one night in February, just after the incident with the car, Mr. Jessop stopped Michael on the road, near the gas bar. He was an old man, who had conducted his own life a certain way, and now wanted to give advice to a young man he admired — or hoped would admire him. He remembered Michael’s father as a young boy, and he was one of the few to know the true story about Michael’s former girlfriend, Nora Battersoil.

What Jessop said made Michael realize that people were watching him, which annoyed him slightly. Mr. Jessop started slowly, clearing his throat and breaking out into a rather loud, nervous laugh every two or three seconds.

“Madonna and Silver — look up to you a awful lot. They are always talking about how good you are to them, and how you are helping them out. Silver was in hospital, and Madonna had to take care of him — so you are — “Here he paused, laughed, and tried to think — “a real blessing to them. They had nothin in their lives — and look up to you. I mean it would be real good for them if you could help them see things the right way.”

“Oh, of course — I’ll do what I can,” Michael said as snow fell out of the sky onto his head and shoulders. It was the casual and presumptuous tone in Michael’s voice that made Mr. Jessop frown.

Mr. Jessop told him the following story:

“I knew your daddy — I was building yer cottage when you was in diapers. Once I met Lord Beaverbrook — I had three men workin for me and Lord Beaverbrook he said: ‘Be careful if people look up to you — you have an added responsibility — ‘”

“Well — I’m not that fond of Lord Beaverbrook,” Michael said, as a youth who wants to clarify all his opinions immediately. Mr. Jessop gave another abrupt laugh.

“No — maybe not, but even
he
had his points — however, let me tell you, those poor little Brassaurd buggers never had a thing. Never had a bicycle — a toy — nothing. I always thought they needed a guide — a person to show them — and I was hoping
you
would. I was hoping you’d get back with Tom Donnerel — you two were close once. He’s a good lad, and he don’t like that Everette Hutch. You have a right attitude about things. They will do what you say. So don’t lead them astray. Like with that Everette Hutch. There is nothing in him for them — “Here he gave another short burst of laughter.

But Michael felt he had already done whatever he could for them, and treated them kindly He gave them hash oil whenever they wanted, and helped Silver split four cords of wood, and talked to them about Kurt Vonnegut. And except for teasing Madonna now and again, he was straight with them. He felt loyal to Everette Hutch now because of the opinion Michael felt Everette now held about him. And this made him feel a sense of security As well, he saw a pedestrian quality in Mr. Jessop, emanating from his nervous bursts of laughter, which he hated.

Michael thought he was very responsible towards Silver and Madonna in his own way. Yet, he liked the notion that Mr. Jessop, pedestrian or not, thought he, Michael, was superior to other people. It made him think once again that he would do his article on his former school and put everything in its proper perspective.

The next night he took Madonna and Silver to a restaurant and ordered a meal, and spoke about India and London, England, told them that Heathrow Airport was as big as any town on the river. He saw how Madonna watched to see which fork he was using. Madonna had to pay for herself and Silver because Michael didn’t have enough money at that moment. And she opened her purse, almost in delight, as he sat there.

“We should do this a lot more often — I like to dress up — “

By the next week he had forgotten about his conversation with Mr. Jessop, except for the fact that he now had a certain dislike for him. And he went and asked Silver a favour.

“You think you could get me some blotter acid?” he asked.

Silver looked at him a moment, and then shrugged.

“You’re the boss,” he said, “but I don’t want to get back into all this — I’m not s’posed to — my head gets all mixed up. Already I got some bennies — so — “

Then Silver shook his head and smiled, as if he himself shouldn’t be worried about himself if Michael wasn’t worried about him, even though he might be destroyed.

“Well, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to,” Michael said. “It’s just for some friends of mine. I got into a little argument at the tavern with them and said I could get it. I guaranteed them. They are having a party in town tomorrow night.”

“For you, no problem,” Silver said.

Michael handed him forty dollars, relieved because he did not want to lose face with his friends from town. Still, Silver had to clear this with Madonna.

“He wants some of the blotter acid Everette has — there are some kids who want it for a party, I guess — and are relying on him, he says. They take it and sit in the graveyard and babble.”

“Michael must understand that Everette Hutch is crazy. Does Michael know that? Once he starts dealing with him he won’t be able to get rid of him.”

“Oh, I think he does — he must understand who he is. I mean, his own father put Everette in jail for cutting a man, so he must have understood it.”

Then, with Madonna’s permission, Silver went to Everette. He stood in the shack and looked at Everette from under furry eyebrows.

“I don’t understand what Michael Skid would want to do this for,” Gail said.

“Oh, he’s just selling it to some of his friends,” Everette said, happily, because he had just thought of something to do with the money he owed, and how he could get that money. “He don’t like to be known as the judge’s son. He pretends, don’t he? But you three come to see me if you want to make some
real
money — I mean twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty thousand,” Silver said, in disbelief. He had never in his life come close to twenty thousand dollars.

“We can make twenty or thirty thousand this summer if Michael has his sailboat. Now I’m not saying we will use the sailboat — but we
might
But don’t tell him anything yet.”

Silver looked like a man who not only cannot believe his sudden good fortune, but who thinks it all came about because of divine forces in his favour.

He used to like Tommie — but Tommies too much a prude, so now he likes me,
Silver thought about Michael, as if he, Silver, had done something very special to warrant this consideration.

Then Everette added in a whisper, “You get me a date with Madonna — let me see her sweet little pussy, just once — and you’ll be my partner. Here — see?” And he hauled out a folded twenty-dollar bill.

Silver said nothing. He only nodded, his grin fading. And he left soon after.

Throughout the winter, Everette wanted Madonna to sleep with him. This was the real reason he spent so much time at Gail’s instead of at his house in Chatham. And this was one part of the ongoing tension that Michael did not see or understand that his recent presence had placed on Madonna Brassaurd. Already his relationship with Everette Hutch had created problems for this young brother and sister, who had made a pact of loyalty with each other when they were left on their own.

Silver came home, and Madonna quietly listened to him speak about some fantastic plan involving the sailboat and all the money. She listened pensively, and now and then snapped her gum slowly. Then she said this:

“We should go and tell Tom. Nip it in the bud. I don’t like this — Everette will use Michael. Michael is smart — we both know he’s smart — brilliant even — at talk. But he don’t
know.
He’s not smart the same way
we are
smart. Nor is he smart the same way Tom is smart. Everette’ll get Michael to go to jail for the exact same amount of time Judge Skid give him. We should go to Tom and get him to help us.”

“Tom is too big-feelinged to help us. He won’t even look at Michael now,” Silver said. “Besides, Everette isn’t smart enough to think of a way to get Michael to spend time in jail”

“Who says he has to think it? It’s in his nature,” Madonna answered. “A part of his blood. He’ll never be able to
stop
doing it.” Then they both laughed at this because it seemed so true. The wind blew down the flue, the fields were raw and flat in the twilight.

Suddenly what they had just said sobered them. They both stopped laughing.

They sat in their little house in silence, as they had when they were children, frightened of the bogeyman, and of all those things that went bump in the night.

During that winter Tom walked down to the mailbox at the end of the lane to look for letters from Karrie. When he got one, about once a week, in a pink envelope with a happy face drawn on it, he would put it in his pocket, go over to Jessops’ farm where he would do the afternoon work, feed the pigs, and send the cows out for a walk. Then he would read his letter.

One day Mr. Jessop brought him out a piece of warm corn-bread his wife had made, and Tom sat near the barn door with his letter in his hand and his cornbread on his lap. Mr. Jessop wanted to talk.

“The people say they are going to get the police — if they don’t stop being rowdy,” Jessop said.

“Who?”

“Your friend — and Madonna and Silver — throwing a big hulloo about somethin — roaring and fighting.” Here Jessop spat. Tom felt a certain kind of hollowness. He felt childish, as if Michael and Madonna were doing these wild or impractical things just to spite him.

“Well, that’s too bad” Tom said. “I hope he don’t get himself in trouble. I hope they all grow up,” And he nestled himself down to read the letter.

“Maybe you could talk to him?”

“No,
I don’t want to. Maybe some day. But not yet. He said somethin to me you don’t say. I didn’t expect him to. It was a — betrayal.”

“Listen,” old Mr. Jessop said, “I ran for four elections. I won one. I seen a lot. Our values are no longer important to him. That’s what it is.” Here he spat again. “But when you throw out one plate of values, you have to go get another. If it’s not Tom Donnerel, it’s Everette Hutch. And that’s the choice he
wants
you to know he has made. Madonna too. Maybe they don’t see it that way yet themselves, but there it is.”

“It don’t matter none to me,” Tom said. “I’m no big fan of Everette Hutch even if they are, so don’t you worry — no one’ll bother you.”

But after the old man left, Tom thought. The road had become a very different place in just four months. He tried to remember how it had all happened.

Silver, who had been in hospital in Campbellton, came back. Everette, who had not been here for a year, after beating a store clerk, got out of jail And people whispered that he was back too.