and the Deepest Ice-Free Harbour on the Atlantic Seaboard. Thousands of people swarmed over Port Hastings. Birth of a new metropolis on the shores of the Canso Strait. HMCS Quebec, lolling like a great grey sea serpent, relaxed after its wars, fired lazy shots in salute to the future. Booom-ooom-oom-ooom rolling down the flat black fjord, vanishing behind the point of land where the Swedes would build their big new pulp mill. Bless them. Air full of the fragrance of broiled wieners, and car exhaust. And fiddle music. Always fiddle music. Somebody at school drew a mural, pinned it to the big door between the two schoolrooms, showing skyscrapers. Then all the dignitaries from God-knows-where led a march across the new link, and at the head of the crowd a hundred men in kilts playing bagpipes. You knew you’d never forget it.
Jack was at our place in the evening that day, with Pa and Angus. At the kitchen table. Having a few. Pa behaving now, a special day. Jack had been working at home for nearly two years then. Like hundreds of others, home building the causeway. Driving truck.
“You’ll be away again soon, I expect,” Pa said.
“No,” said Jack. “Going to hang around for a while. See what’s next.”
“The place is going to take off,” Angus said. Angus always sounded sinusy and head-stuffed when he was on the bottle, which was almost always.
Pa scoffed. “We should all go,” he said. “I hear there’s big money to be made in Elliot Lake.”
Jack kind of laughed. “You got her made right here, boy,” he said. “Made in the shade.”
“I’d go quick,” said Pa.
Angus was silent, after making his point. Pulling at the little moustache.
Jack thinking deeply. Making plans.
“Is there another phone?” he asks.
“Up in my bedroom.”
“You mind if I use it,” he says, standing a little unsteadily.
“Go ahead,” I say.
And he heads for the stairs. I take the rum bottle and pour a good shot into the teacup. What the hell. Drinking from the teacup doesn’t seem as dangerous. Not like the old days when I’d be sucking it out of the neck of the bottle.
2
I’m thinking: They were the days of wrath. Dies irae. A song you hear at all the funerals around here. I heard it first at the old man’s. Then after Jack’s I asked Father Duncan, What’s that about?
Days of wrath, he said. And I said, Perfect.
Jack tried to get established here, after the causeway. But there were no jobs for a fellow who’d never gone to school, never served overseas, didn’t know anybody important. Somebody incapable of sucking up. Jack knew he’d have to make his own job.
My father was on the power commission, since shortly after he returned from the war. The Masons and the war vets had all the power commission jobs and the railway jobs. Anything to do with the government. Jack wasn’t a Mason either.
This defines the difference between me and people like Sextus.
People treated me like I was lucky having a father with steady work, home.
People here used to say: Maybe if Jack had been more like his brother. Sandy, my old man. Hard. He’d have been home more. Would have been more of a father to poor Sextus. Only saying this, of course, after Sextus had become a stranger and a bit of a scandal to the place. They’d say: Poor Jack lost control of him early on. Now, you look at Johnny and see the difference. Having a man around.
Here’s the memory. I come home from school with a bruised cheekbone, blood on my sleeve where I wiped my nose.
“What happened?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing,” I said.
He had his hand on the top of my head, turning my face to the light.
“Never mind the snivelling. Just tell me what happened.”
But I can’t.
“Donald Campbell did it,” Effie said.
He didn’t even look in her direction. “Go home,” he said.
She left.
He always wanted me to be somebody other than who I was. Hard, like him.
There’s Donald Campbell jabbing me, goading me on about Effie. Half
Jack was at our place in the evening that day, with Pa and Angus. At the kitchen table. Having a few. Pa behaving now, a special day. Jack had been working at home for nearly two years then. Like hundreds of others, home building the causeway. Driving truck.
“You’ll be away again soon, I expect,” Pa said.
“No,” said Jack. “Going to hang around for a while. See what’s next.”
“The place is going to take off,” Angus said. Angus always sounded sinusy and head-stuffed when he was on the bottle, which was almost always.
Pa scoffed. “We should all go,” he said. “I hear there’s big money to be made in Elliot Lake.”
Jack kind of laughed. “You got her made right here, boy,” he said. “Made in the shade.”
“I’d go quick,” said Pa.
Angus was silent, after making his point. Pulling at the little moustache.
Jack thinking deeply. Making plans.
“Is there another phone?” he asks.
“Up in my bedroom.”
“You mind if I use it,” he says, standing a little unsteadily.
“Go ahead,” I say.
And he heads for the stairs. I take the rum bottle and pour a good shot into the teacup. What the hell. Drinking from the teacup doesn’t seem as dangerous. Not like the old days when I’d be sucking it out of the neck of the bottle.
2
I’m thinking: They were the days of wrath. Dies irae. A song you hear at all the funerals around here. I heard it first at the old man’s. Then after Jack’s I asked Father Duncan, What’s that about?
Days of wrath, he said. And I said, Perfect.
Jack tried to get established here, after the causeway. But there were no jobs for a fellow who’d never gone to school, never served overseas, didn’t know anybody important. Somebody incapable of sucking up. Jack knew he’d have to make his own job.
My father was on the power commission, since shortly after he returned from the war. The Masons and the war vets had all the power commission jobs and the railway jobs. Anything to do with the government. Jack wasn’t a Mason either.
This defines the difference between me and people like Sextus.
People treated me like I was lucky having a father with steady work, home.
People here used to say: Maybe if Jack had been more like his brother. Sandy, my old man. Hard. He’d have been home more. Would have been more of a father to poor Sextus. Only saying this, of course, after Sextus had become a stranger and a bit of a scandal to the place. They’d say: Poor Jack lost control of him early on. Now, you look at Johnny and see the difference. Having a man around.
Here’s the memory. I come home from school with a bruised cheekbone, blood on my sleeve where I wiped my nose.
“What happened?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing,” I said.
He had his hand on the top of my head, turning my face to the light.
“Never mind the snivelling. Just tell me what happened.”
But I can’t.
“Donald Campbell did it,” Effie said.
He didn’t even look in her direction. “Go home,” he said.
She left.
He always wanted me to be somebody other than who I was. Hard, like him.
There’s Donald Campbell jabbing me, goading me on about Effie. Half
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