Authors: Bill Rowe
I looked at Brent, who said, “Dad had him put down just after the last time you
were here—remember how he used to make it sound like the world’s biggest doggy
treat—and now he’s trying to make me strangle the cat.”
“What cat?” I asked. I’d never seen a cat about the house, either here or in
St. John’s.
“The one you liked so much the last time you were here,” said Brent. “The one
you wanted to take home, but you left too fast when Rosie’s father got drowned.
I asked the guy who owned it if I could have it after, and he said yes. But you
didn’t come back.”
“Oh, Brent,” said his mother. “Strangle the cat! What next?” She looked at me
with sincerity in her eyes. “That’s not true, Tommy.”
I wasn’t convinced. I looked at his dad for his side of the story. He said,
“Now, I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand like that, missus. Brent has got to
learn he can’t have everything he wants all the time without making some
sacrifices.”
“Where’s the cat now?” I asked Brent.
“Outside somewhere. She never comes in the house anymore. She’s kind of a shed
cat down on the waterfront. She likes to go after rats and eat fish guts and
that.”
“Store,” said his dad.
“What?”
“Store. Fishermen don’t call it a shed. They call it a store.”
“Jesus. Okay. Store. I told them I wanted a dog for my birthday, and Dad goes,
‘There’s no more animals coming into the house until Itty Bitty Effin’ Snookums
is in heaven.’”
“Is that the cat’s name?” I asked. “Itty Bitty—”
“Sure is,” said Brent’s dad. “That’s the name I gave her. She looked so cute
one morning trying to come into the house with that live rat bigger than herself
hanging out of her mouth that I named her Itty Bitty Effin’ Snookums. And I
didn’t say ‘heaven, ’ Brent, I said, ‘pussy heaven.’ I wasn’t implying that the
darling creature has a soul like us noble humans. I was speaking figuratively.
When I said, ‘pussy heaven, ’ what I meant was, you know, like, ‘dead as a
doornail’? And if the concept of the death of a rat-catcher is too harsh for
anyone, let me rephrase the point by saying that Brent will get his dog if and
only if, and when and only when, our Itty Bitty Effin’ Snookums shows reliable
symptoms of being negatively alive. Rigor mortis would be a good start.”
Honest to God, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing at the man. And
he was talking about the death of the cat I loved! Luckily Brent broke in with
something gruesome: “See what I mean? And he keeps dropping hints that every now
and then a cat gets caught around the neck in a rabbit snare and strangles to
death.”
“I’m sure he was just warning you to be careful,” said Brent’s mom. “Weren’t
you, Dad?”
“I certainly was. For instance, you will notice I did not urge the placing of
poison around the outside of our premises for fear that a neighbour’s animal
might inadvertently eat it too. You have to be careful and considerate about
other people in such matters.”
“Whatafuckinarsehole!” Brent breathed at me. He stood up and said, “Let’s get
our rods and go fishing in at the pond.”
“Trouting,” said Mr. Anstey. “Fishing is when you catch fish in the sea.
Trouting is when you catch trout in a river or pond.”
“What about sea trout, Einstein?” said Brent from the door.
“The exception that probes the rule. Or maybe you think I should have been
stupid enough to say ‘proves the rule.’ I know you wouldn’t think that, Tom. You
came first in the class this year.”
I stopped on my slow progress to the door. “I was lucky,” I said. “Rosie
O’Dell had a bad year. She only came third instead of first. “
“Oh, did she? What was the cause of that, I wonder?”
“Her father’s death came back on her, they said.”
“After all these months? That’s odd. And Brent, you only came second. What’s
your excuse? I never died for you, so you don’t have that to blame it on
yet.”
“Second is fine, Dad,” said Brent’s mom. “Leave the boy alone about it.”
When Brent didn’t speak, I jumped in: “Brent had to spend a lot of time at
hockey practice to be one of the leaders in the league in points like he was. He
probably would have come first if—”
“Yes,
one
of the leaders in points. And you spend just as much time at
your swimming—going to the pool at all hours in the morning and workouts after
school, so that doesn’t wash.”
“Maybe he’s just frigging smarter than I am,” said Brent. “Come on, Tom, let’s
go.”
“Wait now. You can’t fire out something totally irrelevant like that and just
take off. Smarter than you? What has ‘smarter’ got to do with anything? The
question is how can you stop playing second fiddle and take over the top spot?
You’ve got to start thinking about kicking all the scrawny little arses out of
your way.”
“Dad, what a thing to say,” said Brent’s mom. “Tom is not one bit
scrawny.”
“I don’t mean that literally. It’s just a manner of speaking. Nothing personal.
Tom is smart enough to know that. That’s why he’s top dog. So listen, boys,
here’s what you should do. Brent, you’ve got that bank account your mother keeps
putting money in for you. It’s got nine thousand dollars in it right now.”
“How do you know that? That’s my shagging account.”
“It’s not
how
do I know that? It’s
why
do I know that? Because
every solitary cent in it came from me, directly or indirectly. That’s why. Now
Brent. Here’s how you can get me off your case for only coming second. Make Tom
here an offer he can’t refuse. Tell him you’ll give him two thousand dollars,
one thousand now and one thousand when you graduate, on the condition that he’ll
let you come first from now on and right through high school.”
Containing my astonishment, I made light of it: “Well, Mr. Anstey, two thousand
dollars or not, I’d rather have you on Brent’s case than my father on
mine.”
I saw a flicker of a grin before Brent’s father said, po-faced, “I can’t say as
I blame you there.”
“Anyway,” I said, “from now on Rosie O’Dell will probably start
coming first again.”
“Now there’s a girl who has shown real character, as well as being very smart
and athletic.” Brent’s father turned to him. “That’s the girl you should start
going out with, Brent, one who can produce superior kids.”
Arms stretched out to the sides, Brent freaked: “Effin’ Jesus. Kids he’s
talking about now and me
thirteen
.” He stomped out the door.
I followed right after, hearing his mother, “No swearing around the house,
please.”
On our bikes, Brent said, “There’s no reason I can’t have that pup, except for
the old man. Strangle the cat? He’s the one I should shagging strangle.”
“How come you take him so serious? Sure, he’s only fooling around all the
time.”
“Yeah right. But even if he is, he still pisses me right off. And I will kill
the prick one of these days.”
“Don’t be so foolish. Your own father?”
“Just wait and see.”
BACK IN ST. JOHN
’
S
two weeks later,
Brent asked me if I’d ever seen Rosie’s new house. I said no, and the next
morning our meanderings through the streets of St. John’s on our bikes just
happened to bring us by the entrance to Buckingham Mews. Standing there beside
her bike waving was Suzy Martin. She told us she was waiting for Rosie, who was
due any minute.
“This is a coincidence,” she said. “We were just saying yesterday that we
should get you two guys to come on a ride with us.”
My heart leapt up. “Which house is hers,” I asked.
“You can’t see it from here. It’s around that bend.”
“What are you waiting here for? Let’s go in and meet her there.”
“Here she comes now,” said Brent.
As Rosie approached on her bike, before even saying hi she shouted to Suzy,
“What happened? Did you phone them, after?”
“No,” said Suzy, “they just showed up here out of the blue.”
“This is great,” beamed Rosie. “Must be kismet. We’re heading for Portugal
Cove. Want to come? If you think you have the stamina.”
“Jeez, don’t go daring them,” laughed Suzy. “With you three jocks, I’ll be
shitting bricks as it is.”
Off we set for Portugal Cove Road, and during the dozen kilometres
out to the cove, Brent and I jumped curbs and did wheelies and
threw up gravel from the shoulders with our tires as we vied with each other for
the title of biggest show-off or, as Suzy said, “There’s a lot of traffic on
this road, boys, don’t be such flaming arseholes.”
We stopped at a fast-food place in Portugal Cove where Suzy encouraged us to
buy some greasy french fries and gravy to supplement the tuna fish salad and
peaches Rosie had brought for two. Then we had a stand-up picnic on the big
wharf and made plans to go across to Bell Island on the ferry with our bikes
later in the summer and explore from Wabana to Lance Cove. Without thinking, I
declared what a feat it was that years ago Rosie’s father had swum across the
tickle from here to Bell Island. I could have punched myself in the big mouth.
Here we were having fun and I had to go and spoil it by reminding her of when
her father’s friends had made that comment in their forlorn hope he might not
have drowned in the river.
Rosie was standing close to me. Without looking at me she said, “You remembered
that. This is the first time I’ve been down here since before Daddy died. I
wanted to look across again.” She bent her head to the side towards mine until
our hair touched for a moment. I glanced at the other two. Brent was studiously
gazing out to sea, but Suzy was looking over at us smiling.
Then we rode on through St. Philip’s and along St. Thomas’s Line to Topsail
Road. There, only now realizing the time, I used a pay phone in a convenience
store to call home and say that Brent and I were going to miss lunch. “You’ve
already missed lunch,” my mother said. “Where are you two scallywags?”
“Paradise.”
“By yourselves?”
“We ran into Rosie and Suzy.”
“Paradise.” She paused. “That’s a fair distance away. Try not to be late for
supper.” I thought I heard a smile in her voice. But maybe not. Maybe I put it
there.
Every day for the next ten days, except for two rainy, windy ones, we met at
the entrance of Buckingham Mews and went riding on our bikes. We pumped our legs
up over the South Side Hill and all the way out to Cape Spear. Rosie said, “Out
here once I told Gram, ‘This is the closest point in North America to Ireland
and England where our people come from.’ And Gram goes, ‘Thanks for the
warning.’” Rosie laughed: “I really
miss her. She was great.”
Then we watched in awe the huge billows from an early southern hurricane coming
up the great convex belly of the Atlantic Ocean and breaking on the rocks below.
I mused aloud that every now and then some imbecile leaves the safe viewing
spots high up here and wanders down too close to the rocks and is caught by a
surprise surge more towering than the rest and swept out into the briny deep,
never to be seen again. It was out of my mouth before I remembered that every
now and then this imbecile, me, should shut up. What was it Samuel Johnson said?
In the house of a man that was hanged, don’t talk of rope? But Rosie responded,
“Yes, I hope they never put up a big fence and spoil this view.”
We rode around St. John’s harbour and out to the ruins of Fort Amherst. We rode
down through Quidi Vidi Village and watched the swell of the sea ebb and flow
through the narrow Gut. I regaled everyone with the cheerful story of the small
fishing boat that had gone out through Quidi Vidi Gut on a sunny windless day
only to encounter a sudden unforecast storm on the ocean that swamped the boat
and drowned all hands. To hide my red face, I got on the saddle and pedalled
away.
We struggled up over Signal Hill to Cabot Tower and looked across Quidi Vidi
Lake to Sugar Loaf and Red Cliff, and beyond to the Beamer between Torbay and
Flat Rock, and on to Red Head in the distance. The next day we rode through Logy
Bay and Outer Cove and Middle Cove, to Torbay, where a gigantic iceberg was
floating by on the Labrador Current. We spun down to the Gallows Cove trail and
planned to go on a good hike all the way to the end of the Beamer later in the
summer. On the way back on the Marine Drive, Brent and I were all for riding up
over the gravel road to Red Cliff and having a look at the abandoned American
buildings there. But Rosie said she didn’t feel like going up to Red Cliff. Why
not? I asked. Suzy said she didn’t want to either and that ended the discussion.
I wouldn’t find out for two or three years why Rosie avoided Red Cliff and no
other place during our explorations.
We rode out to Bowring Park twice. The second was the best of our rides. The
first time there we had our picnic by the statue of Peter Pan. We read the
inscription:
In memory of a little girl who loved the Park.
And, of
course, me, good old Mr.
He-knows-everything-morbid-and-grisly-that-ever-happened, I had to babble on
about how the statue was erected in memory of Sir Edgar Bowring’s small
grandchild, who had been with her father on board the
Florizel
over fifty
years before when the ship struck a
reef at Cappahayden on the
Southern Shore of the Avalon Peninsula, causing him and her and scores of others
to drown.