White Horses On The Bay

Force 2: 4 - 6 Knots Light Breeze

Force 2: 4 - 6 Knots

Light Breeze

Small wavelets, still short, but more pronounced. Crests have a glassy appearance but do not break.

The violent storm left as quickly as it came, unveiling patches of creamy blue sky. The thunder was only a faint echo of itself, like a distant fire battle in some heavenly war. All that remained of the rain receded to a soft drizzle over Twillingate. Fisher, reluctant to let the moment pass, finally broke the awkward silence. 

"Will you want to continue your look around St. Peter's now that the rain has stopped?" He hoped she'd say yes. 

"I would like to take a few more photos if that would be all right. The lighting is superb now." Jenny surveyed the land around them, gently lifted her camera from its bag and wiped the lens with her sleeve. "My father gave me this camera for my birthday. It's the very latest model. Takes wonderful photos. Do you like photography?" she asked as she fidgeted with a setting. 

"I don't know much about it, really. I don't have a camera." Fisher felt dull saying this. "I love the pictures in Life Magazine and National Geographic, though," he added hoping to sound a bit more sophisticated. 

Jenny smiled and opened her car door. She stepped out into the fresh scrubbed air. There were puddles to navigate and Fisher rushed to Jenny's side to assist her over the road's deep ruts. He offered his hand and led her back into the graveyard.  

"I'll let you get on with your work there, my dear. If I can help you with anything, just ask." Fisher felt uneasy and disconnected as though he was watching a movie and not actually living the moment. He wondered if he only imagined that intimate moment in the front seat of Mrs. Laidlaw's car. He picked up his rake and half-heartedly combed some dead grass away from the edge of the fence. 

Jenny wandered down to the end of the graveyard again, stopping occasionally to capture another stone in her lens. For the next few minutes, Fisher only pretended to work as he studied every movement she made. Watching her delicate form, her red hair fluttering in the breeze sparked urges and feelings inside him that seemed out of place in the middle of a church graveyard.  

The bones in his ankles cracked loudly as he bent his tall frame to retrieve a soggy cigarette butt from the edge of his mother's grave. He saw the bit of dried blood on his jeans just above his right knee and ran a finger across his temple where the welt still protruded at the edge of his hairline. Saturday night's kitchen party at his sister's home flashed through his mind.  

As usual, it was an evening of singing and drinking that ended in a fight. The Miller kitchen was the go-to place on Saturday nights for Fisher and his sisters, their husbands and friends. The crowd fed their egos with loud arguments and bad jokes and Gwen's good food filled their appetites all night. That party, like the others, went on until the sun came up Sunday morning. It started out on a friendly note with Newfoundland songs sung loud and proud, but then a small tussle turned into a feud with fists flying and Fisher ending up bleeding. Merriment could turn to mayhem on a dime. Through the course of a night, it would happen many times, like a series of flash floods. 

Fisher remembered the moment it happened replaying it now in his mind in slow motion. His sister Gayle was sitting on Steve's leg as he balanced the accordion on his bad knee. Beside him Sean, Randy's First Mate, played percussion on his ugly stick; an old broom handle with rows of beer caps loosely nailed to its length, a doll's head at the top and an old boot at the bottom. When that thing banged on the linoleum floor it sounded almost like a full drum kit with symbols. 

In the corner, holding his court, His Royal Highness Randy played his bent harmonica badly. Gwen with her huge pregnant belly served pastries and beer, ricocheting like a pinball off the crowd. Fisher remembered when Randy ran his hand up Gwen's skirt between her legs grabbing her plump rear-end as she swayed past him. It made him want to swat Randy's hand away, but true to form, Gwen handled herself nicely with a 'hands off you dirty old man or I'll dump you for the real father of these babies in here'. 

Someone yelled at him to open the 'Goddamn door and let some bloody fresh air in'. Fisher thought it was probably Gayle. She was always prefacing everything she said to him with words like 'make yourself useful for once'. He swung open the kitchen door and propped it up with little Tyler's hockey stick and then that's when things went south. Gwen joked about him being 'as skinny as a gaff' and to be careful not to blow off in the wind. He recalled saying something in return about Gwen making 'a nice anchor for the Kyle if they ever sailed her again' and that's when Randy Miller dropped his harmonica on the floor and the shouting began. The bastard practically spit out a 'mind your fucking business, B'y, that's my fat fucking wife you's insultin and in my own fucking house, to boot!' The bottle cap he flung across the room missed his right eye by a half an inch and cut the side of his face pretty good.  

Fisher dealt with Randy Miller's torment like he was living with a permanent disability; he accepted the aggravation and tried to carry on despite it. It was all he could do. He hoped secretly sometimes, that Randy would meet an early death, like maybe fall overboard off The Mary Bea, and end up buried at St. Peter's Cemetery. He would go out of his way to ignore Randy's plot and let the weeds and trash simply take over his eternal un-restful place. This would be his sweet revenge over Randy Miller in the end. 

Fisher realized at that moment, that Jenny was standing right over the old Miller plot photographing the simple gravestone. The same stone, Fisher had fanaticized seeing Randy's name on someday. A chill shivered down his back and his pulse beat in the cut by his eye. Jenny was standing on the ground that would eventually cover Randy Miller and there was something unsettling about that.  

"I think that's all I'll photograph today. I've got to pick up some more film, anyway," Jenny said as she rejoined Fisher. She stopped a few feet away from him.  

Fisher wanted to move closer and touch her again, just to make sure she was real. He wanted, in fact, to pull her into his life and keep her there. 

"Ah, there's a general store about a half-mile down the road on the right. Crosbie's Five and Dime. They sell most everything. I'm sure they have film, although I've never needed to buy any myself, so I'm not certain." Fisher helped Jenny back to the car and held the door open for her. 

"Thanks for letting me look around. I hope I haven't disturbed your day too much."  

"No, my dear. Of course you haven't. You've been the liveliest part of it so far." Fisher laughed nervously as he rolled his eyes toward the cemetery. 

"Oh, right. The graveyard. I get it. Well, you're funny, too!" 

He wondered what she meant by 'too'. Tall and Funny? Charming and Funny? Handsome and Funny? Or maybe, Pathetic and Funny? He stood there mulling over the meaning of her words. She tied her scarf around her hair, started Mrs. Laidlaw's car, and smiled up at Fisher.  

"It really would be nice to meet your grandmother. Do you think that could be arranged at some point in the next few days?" 

"You bet, my dear. I'll be seeing her after work today. I'll ask if she'd mind a visit. Can I drop by The High Cs and let you know later?" 

"Sure!" Jenny winked at Fisher and then drove off toward the main road.  

"Well Mom, that was some strange, eh?" Fisher scratched his bushy head of hair before replacing his toque. He gave into the urge to kick up his heels like Danny Kaye and began whistling as he picked up his rake. For a split second, he wondered if Jenny could see him in her rear view mirror and now he worried what she was thinking of his little burst of joy.