White Horses On The Bay

Can't Buy Me Love

~      Fisher set off down the dirt road toward Crow Head with Jenny by his side.  He tuned the car radio to a distant station and began to sing along with the Beatles.  “Can’t Buy Me Love,” he sang.  “God, I love their music. Isn’t it great?”

    “I adore them!  Especially Paul.  He’s so dreamy.  Just like you, Fisher. You know, I’ve never met a Fisher before.  It’s such an unusual name.  Sounds like you could go out and just grab a fish right out of Twillingate Harbour with your bare hands.”

    “Funny thing is, I hate fishing.  I hate being on the water and I don’t particularly like eating fish.”

     “Why do you hate being on the water? “

     “Well, I don’t know.  Sure it’s nice to look at but being on it or in it is another thing altogether.  Maybe witnessing my friend Dinah drown, knowing my father died that way too; I guess it just has a darkness tied to it.  I never went fishing like other kids.  My mother didn’t do those kinds of things with me. I can’t really blame her.”

     These were things Fisher admitted easily to Jenny.  There was also the time Randy Miller held his head under water in a rain barrel behind the Miller shack when he was just ten.  He remembered feeling the cold water seeping into his nostrils and down his throat and how he struggled to free himself from Randy’s grip.  Just as he began to pass out, Randy let him go.  That evil joy on Randy’s grimy face was an image Fisher found hard to forget.  It was definitely not something he wanted to discuss with Jenny.  Not today.

    “You don’t even like eating fish?  That must be difficult living right beside the sea,” Jenny said.

      “You’d be amazed at how easy it is to avoid the things you hate.”

       Fisher ran his hand across the top of his head and felt the short hair on the back of his neck.  He was still getting used to the new feeling.

    “Does he cut ladies’ hair, too?”  Jenny asked, tightening her long ponytail.  “I’ve been thinking about getting a short look.  You know, like Shirley MacLaine.  I love that new pixie look she has.”

    “Well first of all, I don’t know that I’d trust Tom Lombardi to cut your hair; he’s handy with a razor but I don’t think he’s what you’re looking for.  And second, I love your hair.  It’s some beautiful! I think you should keep it just as it is.” Fisher put his arm around Jenny and gave her slender shoulder a squeeze.

     “I don’t know, I’ve been doing a lot of things completely out of character lately.  I might as well change the way I look, too.  I’ve had long hair my entire life.  I think it’s been a bit like hiding behind a curtain, though.  Do you ever feel like getting get rid of things in your life that weigh you down; getting a fresh start?”

    “Many times, I’ve thought about packing up and moving out of here, travelling somewhere.”

    “What’s stopping you?”

    “I don’t really know.  Fear maybe.”

    “What are you afraid of?” Jenny asked.

    “I’m afraid of letting go.”

    “But you can always come back.  Come home here for visits until wherever you go begins to feel more like home.”

    “There’s just something about Newfoundland that holds onto you, keeps you anchored, gets inside your bones.  This isolated little town is more than where I live; it’s my life.  Like I owe it something.  My loyalty.”

    “Are you afraid if you leave you will miss this place but no-one will miss you?”

    “What are you, a shrink?  Maybe I should park the car and lie down and you can analyze me.”

    “Oh, I’m sorry. That was awful of me.  I guess I am projecting my own insecurities on to you.  I could move away and no one would notice.  I doubt my parents would miss me.”

    “I’m sure your parents would miss you a great deal.”

    “My mother used to remind me all the time, how lucky I was to live such a privileged life,” Jenny said, as the barrens passed by in a blur of browns and greens out her window.   “And yet she was always escaping that very life.  I hardly ever saw her growing up.  She spent a lot of time visiting friends in Paris or London.  I used to envy the girls in the boarding school next to our home”

    “Why would you envy them?” Fisher asked as he drove through the small village.  Two little girls were swinging on a plank of wood under a large tree at the edge of their yard.  They waved to Fisher and Jenny as they passed.

    “They had built-in friends.  After school, they just continued on being together until the next day. I could sit on my bedroom windowsill and see them playing in the school gardens.  I always wished I had that.  There weren’t any other children living on our street.  I spent the entire school year looking forward to summer when I’d see my cousins at the lake.  At least then, I had someone to play with.”  Jenny straightened her skirt across her lap and shook her head. “Oh listen to me being all self-absorbed.  Don’t let me bore you to tears with my sad little story, Fisher.”

    “I’ve only known you for a couple of days, but I would miss you like a piece of myself if you were suddenly gone,” Fisher said lifting Jenny’s hand to his lips and kissing it softly.  “To tell you the truth, I don’t think my sisters would miss me one bit.  Well, maybe Gwen. She’s going to need some help when those babies are born.”

   “What was your mother like?” Jenny asked.

    “When my father died in the war, my mother kind of stopped caring about anything, at least that’s what my grandmother says.  I was only five when he died. I remember my mom being very sad all the time. She had a bad temper, too.  I tried to be good but I never could do right by her.”

      Fisher remembered the last day of grade 5.  He arrived home with his report card and handed it to his mother.  He sat down on the chair in the kitchen across from her.  Maggie Sullivan simply pushed the card aside without looking at it, lit up a cigarette and told him to go pick the weeds in the vegetable garden and do something right for a change.  It was the first time he’d gotten an A in any subject.  It was for art class.  He remembered feeling so proud and excited, especially at the comment his teacher had written.  ‘Fisher is a very talented artist’ she had said. 

    “I think mom got sick from the stress of raising me without a father.”

    “That’s absurd. How could you be responsible for your mother’s health?  If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die?”

    “Cancer.  She had lung cancer.”

   Fisher turned up the radio as they continued on down the winding road back to Twillingate. Jenny sat close to him and stroked the back of his hand with her soft fingers.  Every once in a while, she leaned in and kissed his stubbly cheek as they travelled in silence.  The late afternoon sun filtered through the fog as it lifted and drifted out to sea on the wind that swayed the pines.