The Second Life of Samuel Tyne (17 page)

Soon, over the next few months, there would be little enough humour in their lives. Even those used to the abuses of settlement were surprised at how brutal the land was. They chose the northern areas of Alberta left alone by earlier settlers, areas overcome with brush and ankle-twisting swamps. Their southern corn, wheat, barley and oats could not be prompted to grow in this pauper’s soil; it seemed to be armoured in a crust of rock. Unwilling to let the land control them, the pioneers tackled the task of clearing with vigour. Armed only with axes and grub hoes, they tore through putrid foliage and trunks of spruce so large that Saul and a friend could sit and circle their legs around them without their feet touching. In the sulky heat of summers so parched they threw dust in your face at every step, Aster was plagued by voracious bullflies, primitive drainage, a lack of doctors and the burden of no good roads to and from the cities. The rain produced mud so thick they swore the children would drown in it. Winters were even worse. Not only could flesh freeze in less than one minute, but the cold seized what few paths they had slashed clear. After a week spent pinning chickens at Canada Packers, Harlan Porter returned home freezing, utter defeat written on his face. With the regret that characterized all his decisions, he commented to Saul: “Any country where a man’s got to wear three pairs of socks ain’t fit to live in.”

Little did Harlan know how precisely that argument would be used to keep his friends from following him north. No one wanted them for neighbours, blacks bringing with them a plague of racial problems. The government decreed immigration akin to suicide; Negroes simply could not adapt to the rigorous northern climate. No one was more supportive of that view than groups who were themselves marginalized in the province: various women’s groups including Eudora’s pet project and the Imperial Order of Daughters of the Empire, and the French of Morinville, all of whom put forth petitions to the federal government. The Edmonton Board of Trade finally declared a large-scale campaign, using the neutral grounds of banks and downtown hotels to stock their petitions. In a perverse tactic, the board canvassed door to door to stress the urgency of the crisis and get more signatures. The campaign was troubled when several black settlers took to harassing the canvassers, Harlan and Saul among the few but ruthless disrupters.

Their intrusion prompted the secretary of the board to admonish the protesters for not recognizing what was done for the good of their own people (the smaller the black community, the better the privileges), and the petition continued to collect a wealth of signatures. The blacks of Aster were slandered in the newspapers, which assured readers that every measure was being taken to stall their immigration.

And yet, despite hard social and climactic conditions, the settlers found much to love in their small piece of the West. It was lush with water and grass, never lacking for timber. Their isolation gave them the gift of a close-knit community. They built their own school of hand-hewn logs and wooden shingles. Some even supported their families through hours of construction or service in Edmonton. But when they heard of government tactics to thwart new black immigration (including the deployment of a black doctor to lecture on the horrors of Canadian life), they were weary. And when they heard the migration had ceased completely, they were weary. They watched their boys get rejected for war service, only to be accepted the second time around, and they were weary. They watched Harlan buy the horse that had supposedly killed cowboy John Ware, and watched it die trying to escape its pen. They watched the Depression devastate nearby small towns, and then their own. The farms collapsed. Saul Porter’s family took great pains to survive, scouring fields for metal, bottles, anything of value. People left to be educated or employed in Edmonton, or returned to the States. The Second World War opened the town entirely, the line of its founders extinguished, and now it is the Aster of Samuel’s time.

Porter ended his story with distaste, clearly mourning that ruined, irretrievable Aster whose hardships had roused purpose and fellowship in the community. For a minute he muttered to himself, glancing around with an intensity that set off a wave of nervous movement. He collected himself, smiling at no one in particular, and his wife looked at Maud and said, in an attempt to change the subject, “Which is the more painful—your broken leg or your father’s illness?”

Akosua was of that clumsy, self-conscious sort who ends up offending when meaning to console. All in the same breath, she managed to condole with Maud about her father but still imply that Maud was in the wrong for not going to his sickbed. She also suggested that perhaps father Adu Darko was dying of grief for his absent daughter. That she knew so much about Maud’s father was cause enough to distrust and revile her.

But Akosua soon appealed to Samuel’s sense of humour, and he took pleasure in the crass and thoughtless insults tucked like trapdoors in all she said. The twins, too, seemed amused, every few minutes laughing out loud. Only when Maud mentioned the Porter children did things become outwardly funny.

“Lot of the children are from my first wife, who died,” said Porter.

Akosua made a noise of incredulity. “Eh! You think it is all for me? Do I look so old? Believe it or not, the good Lord has been more merciful than the two of you have been today!” She gave a restrained laugh. “Have I lost my knees already, at my age?”

Samuel and Maud instinctively looked at each other, as much to say,
How old is this woman, anyway?
Chloe skulked towards the only empty chair. So casually the company missed it, she gave Yvette a guarded glance; dismayed, Samuel watched Yvette sit where Chloe’s eyes positioned her.

Mrs. Porter, who, in Maud’s eyes, had spent the whole visit tricking them into paying her attention, stuttered once her desires were realized. She licked her lips, and her laugh became dry and plaintive. She spoke as though she feared what her nervousness would prompt her to blurt out next and yet could not stop talking. Samuel liked her fidgety cricket’s hands, and the way she acknowledged their attention, like a child at a recital. It astounded him that this woman, so accomplished in the cruel art of insults, was really just another washed-up housewife, nervous under her husband’s eye. Samuel searched her face for irony, finding none. When she attempted to speak Twi with Samuel (who responded with boyish gusto), Maud put a stop to it.

Mrs. Porter retorted, “This is bad-o. When it is a woman herself who wants to kill her heritage, then the children have black days ahead.”

Maud’s surprise mingled with a singular dislike for this woman. She was livid, trying to think up a response, but Saul himself silenced his wife with one wield of the eye. Akosua flinched.

The conversation became a low-key exchange between Saul, Maud and the reluctant Samuel, who felt genuine remorse that his talk with Akosua had been cut short. Letting his eyes linger on her face, he rebuked himself for the haste with which he had first judged her. It was true, there was a fastidiousness in her features that was decidedly un–Gold Coast, but perhaps that gave her more appeal, for her beauty was an afterthought, acknowledged only by that brand of man who could willingly admit when he was wrong. And so those privy to her grace were more shaken than they would be had it been blatant. Only when she gave him a questioning look did Samuel realize he’d been staring at her. He shifted his eyes to see Yvette looking at him.

The men went outside while the women cleared the table. Among men, Samuel was a much more voracious speaker. He thanked Porter for cutting the grass and, despite weeks of distrust, even confessed to his success in business, thanking Porter again for the silent role he’d played. Porter nodded absently, as though scanning Samuel’s chatter for something of worth. Samuel sensed his indifference and grew quiet, following Porter through the yard. As they walked, Porter kept his eyes on his house in the distance, which in the afternoon light looked so worn it might have been the detritus of a fire. Even from their position they heard the wind in its cracks. Porter skirted the ankle-high grass with little effort, while Samuel found he was winded by the time they reached Maud’s laundry line at the edge of the property. Four pristine, damp sheets weighed the line down, and as the men ducked through they found them hard with the freak summer frost. Porter coughed, spat in the grass and pulled a crude, yellowed pipe from the pocket of his striped jacket. From a separate pocket he drew a tobacco pouch, and Samuel watched as with shaky hands he crushed the roots into the stem. The pipe was a primitive one, just like Jacob’s from the early days, and the slow recognition of this put Samuel on guard. Porter indulged in the sweet fumes, his eyes closing ruminatively before he jerked the pipe at Samuel, who declined. For a time they stood in what appeared to be a moment of complicity, but Samuel intuited a prelude to graver business.

Porter chinned towards his house. “See that? For years that house and this one owned Aster. When they were both just log cabins with off-kitchens. Not one thing was decided without permission from one of these houses. This was before the others came and split it into districts and what have you. Aster was run
by
us and
for
us.”

“You can find no greater admirer of the early Aster than myself. Never mind this nonsense about districts. I moved here because I thought nothing would have changed. Maud said to me, she said, ‘One should not dream when he is awake,’ but I brought them anyway.” Samuel looked at Porter for approval.

Porter sucked on his pipe without the least sign of having heard. “These houses were the heart of Aster life, and my father built mine, Jeff Snick the other. Weren’t much to look at back then, but look at them now. Snick was more of a handyman than Daddy, and so yours has the more attachments. But they’re both good homes, and it broke my heart to see yours fall to pieces at the hands of bums. Sickening, stupid lodgers who didn’t treat the house no better than if it were a way station on the way to a better slum. It was even a brothel, once, run by some harlot widow. I was damn glad when Jacob turned up—he looked just the man to right things, you know? And he was, he really was.” The wonder in Porter’s voice was genuine. He overturned his pipe and looked Samuel in the eye. “Your uncle was the best kind of man there was.”

Samuel gave a hesitant laugh. Porter appraised him.

“Life’s a low-down shame shouldn’t happen to a dog. And your uncle’s life ended worse than that. I was here, caring for him after the first stroke happened, then I cleaned his house some after the second stroke took him away.”

Samuel started at his words. He wasn’t aware Jacob had endured a first stroke that hadn’t killed him, that there had been a window in which to make amends. He turned coldly to Porter. “So.”

With provoking slowness, Porter thumbed the mouth of his pipe to crush out the last embers. He gave it a vigorous shake and returned it to the appropriate pocket. Only when Samuel reached the edge of his rage was Porter prompted to say something. “Did you get the quote I sent you for the property? A little low, I know, but your house ain’t in the best shape, and now’s a good time to sell.”

“Eh! Do not fool with me.” Samuel’s voice cracked with suppressed anger. He resisted the urge to point a finger in Porter’s face. “It’s
you
who needs to give
me
land. You think you can stand here and make an ass of me? I have seen the records. Oh, I have seen them, brother. How dare you demand what you’ve already stolen?” Samuel walked a few steps away, then returned, shaking his finger. “Watch yourself, eh? You are my elder, but you watch yourself.” Samuel began to walk away again when he was arrested by Porter’s voice.

“Hear me out.”

Brought almost to tears by his anger, Samuel walked back to Porter. He finally abandoned his vague notion that Porter was irreproachable, the naïve idea that people who’ve endured hardships are cured from causing harm themselves.

“Your uncle left me that land in his will.” Porter spoke as though it was an irrefutable fact. “When I called you about your inheritance, I was referring to the house and the few acres around it.”

“Is that so?” said Samuel, mockery in his voice. “Where is this so-called will?”

“I handed it over to the town officials. And, I know you ain’t going to believe this, but when I requested to have it back so you and I could mull over it together, they told me they misplaced it among paperwork, and why don’t I come back in a few days time. Well, I went back, but they still couldn’t find it. Never tried again. But you don’t believe me, do you?”

Samuel made an incredulous sound with his lips. Did this man think he was an imbecile? He brushed a fly from his cheek.

“Listen, that will kept them from turning your place into a heritage site. I turned it in for you. I did it because Jacob had so much integrity that it’s a rare man who wouldn’t die to bring about his last wishes.”

Samuel felt this last phrase was calculated to sting him, he who had refused to view the body and dispensed with the forty days’ ceremony. “So then why are you now trying to take the land and the house from me, if Jacob willed it so?”

Porter pursed his lips. “You have to admit you ain’t done the soundest job of keeping up the place.” He paused. “You’ll be well compensated. You surprise me, Samuel. Your uncle had such integrity. Go to the authorities if you don’t buy my story about the will. Or don’t, what do I care? But to call me a thief? To call a thief the man who cared for your uncle as he died?”

“A man who had no right,
no right
, who didn’t even call me after the first stroke, if indeed he hasn’t made the whole thing up—”

“It’s on
your
conscience, Tyne. It’s on your conscience. That’s all I got to say.” Walking away, Porter paused. “But think about the quote. I’ll by no means be as generous later.”

Samuel restrained himself from calling the old man names. Watching Porter return to the house,
Samuel’s
house, to continue the afternoon as though nothing had happened, Samuel grew furious. Twiddling the bowler in his hands, he set his jaw. But trying to suppress his anger only worsened it, and he looked blindly around him for something to break. The sheets on the laundry line buckled in the wind, and in a lapse of feeling, as if watching another man act, he ripped down every single one. The thrumming sound of them falling pacified him a little, but it was only when he’d yanked down the line itself that he felt better.