The Bay of Love and Sorrows Read online

  ALSO BY DAVID ADAMS RICHARDS

  Mercy Among the Children

  Lines on the Water:

  A Fly Fisherman’s Life on the Miramichi

  Copyright © 1998, 2011 by David Adams Richards

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  First published in 1998 by McClelland & Stewart Inc., Canada

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61145-587-8

  For Alistair MacLeod

  and, too, for our Lady of light

  Content

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  PART TWO

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  PART THREE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  PART FOUR

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  PART FIVE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  PART ONE

  ONE

  Karrie’s father owned the gas bar just above Oyster River, a small gas bar, a hang-out for kids, with a penned-in mass of dark, worn tires in the back yard — tires worn by miles of travel to places going nowhere along the hard-bitten coast — and with the grass unkempt and bordered by a rundown fence, A circular drive led to their gas pumps and small store that sat dead in the heat on summer days.

  Tommie Donnerel was a neighbour. He was busy renovating his house, building a new room for his brother and restoring the front porch. Sometimes he would come down to the gas bar for a moment. Or he would be seen at the dances at the community centre. Karrie liked him, but he never seemed to pay much attention to her.

  He had the run of the farm now that his parents were dead, and people seemed to empathize with him, because his older brother was retarded.

  Karrie liked to think of him as heroic, and to think that she was willing to invest in him because of his sterling qualities, which were apparent to everyone.

  The trouble, if it could be said to be trouble, was that his best friend was Michael Skid. Michael was the person who helped him with the renovating of his house, the one with him after the death and during the funeral of his parents, who were killed in an accident at Arron Brook, Karrie had to weigh this as a serious problem, for, all in all, she wished to be liked and side with the right people on her road. And Michael Skid was well known as wild and unpredictable. Besides this, she didn’t like the way he looked at her. And there was that fling he had had with Nora Battersoil. And what became of it no one knew. But Karrie’s stepmother said he was awful, and that like most rich people from town he loved to argue about the world and used some kind of drugs.

  So Karrie bided her time and waited. And just as she suspected, the summer following Tom’s parents’ death the two men had a falling-out of some kind. In fact, she heard they had almost had a fistfight Michael went away, and Tom was left to finish the porch and the room alone.

  For a long while, Tom seemed to be unmoved by Karrie or her reddish blonde hair. She had invited him over to the local graduation party at the church centre — as soon as she had heard about the falling-out between him and Michael — but he had not come.

  She then sent him an invitation to come to her graduation, which took place a week later. Yet, in the cramped auditorium with so many sweaty people, the gowns of the graduates half-askew, and the outside June evening pale with gusts of heat, she couldn’t see him.

  She won the prize for Home Economics, but when she received it she felt that no one clapped for her like they did the others.

  Then she went to the prom with a boy from her class, who wore an audacious white tuxedo and kept saying he knew where all the parties were. They ended up driving the roads in his father’s car until after midnight, finally finding a party at a house of a boy neither of them knew. The boy, whose name was Lyle McNair, saying: “Come — get acquainted — please don’t stand back, now”

  They spent the evening sitting in the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. McNair, who tried to make them feel welcome.

  But after an hour Karrie insisted that she go home. She let her date kiss her once, smelling stale aftershave on his white chin. Going up to her bedroom she combed the perm out of her hair, and got into bed with a romance novel.

  Sometimes that summer she would go to the first Mass on Sunday instead of the late Mass, because Tom was known to do so. After Mass one morning she stayed behind to light a candle, just to see if he would stay behind too. But he didn’t. And she left the church by the back way and ran home down the narrow path.

  Later, in July, she walked the highway when she knew he would be bringing hay up from the lower field. She would pretend to be surprised every time she saw him.

  This, in fact, went on for a long while. She was very sad about this, and quite sensitive. And she would write in her diary: “How can he go out into the middle of the bay alone? I went out to the shore — but as always — he came in on the far side of the wharf and didn’t even notice me — why is he so cruel?”

  It was very strange, but all this made her feel somewhat special She found her stepmother cruel to her too, and bossy. Especially once when Vincent, Tom’s brother, came by the gas bar with a note written on his shirt that Tom had pinned there. There was a great deal of gaiety about this note, and everyone had joined in this gaiety except her. Her stepmother had laughed the loudest, looking around at everyone with her face beet-red and startled.

  “Please send home by ten o’clock,” the note read. Vincent started laughing also, without knowing why

  And then one night, Karrie invited Vincent into the house for a Coke. The house was very warm, had a miserable quality permeating it, which Karrie herself had understood from early youth. It was not that the house, with its pink shutters and long wainscotting, was a violent house. It was the absence of affection.

  Karrie wandered about, as if sleepwalking, got Vincent a Coke and a dish of ice cream, and watched him eat at the kitchen table. It was her stepmother, Dora’s, quart of strawberry ice cream, and Dora watched her to see how much she was going to take.

  “Do you like that, Vincent?” Karrie said.

  He looked up a
t her, wiped his mouth, and said, “I gotta come home by ten.”

  “Would you like me to walk you home, Vincent?” she declared suddenly, as she rested her pretty head on her hand in a bored way There was a fly walking up the wall behind him, and watching it made her eyes brilliant and bright.

  “Let him find his own way,” her stepmother said, in characteristic meanness that Karrie was so familiar with. She looked over at Dora, who was only eleven years older than herself, and said nothing.

  Karrie put on a kerchief and lipstick, and she and Vincent started on their way it was well after ten.

  They could hear the waves crashing far beyond them and, beyond the dark immovable trees, they heard the roar of Arron Brook, which always stayed high, and which Vincent was told never to go near.

  Thin clouds swept the night sky, like crooked hawks, and the moon shone on the old potato field to their right, behind some forlorn hedges. Wrappers and cardboard lay in the ditches that once had many flowers. It made Karrie melancholy and sad to think of this road, and those broken trees, and her mother, who used to come in from work every night at quarter past five all winter long, and who died during a simple appendix operation.

  As they approached the halfway mark of their journey Karrie ran out of things to ask Vincent about Tom, and things to say about herself, so she kept talking about the moon, and the clouds, and wasn’t it a lovely night — and how many more nights would they have just like this?

  They saw a man approaching them along the road. His body looked strong and fit, without ever taking pains to be.

  “Tommie — Tommie,” Vincent yelled, and ran up to him, patting him all over the chest and shoulders. “Tommie, Tommie.”

  “Thank God,” Tom said. It was at this moment, and with a certain amount of emotion, that Karrie realized how protective Tom was of his brother.

  “I brought him home for you,” Karrie said, and emotion rang in her voice.

  “Thank you,” Tommie said. “Thank you, thank you. My God, I thought he had gone up Arron Brook.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Vincent said, turning around. “But she has to come and see my puppy”

  “Oh, the puppy,” Tommie said, smiling.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Karrie said.

  “Oh no — come on up to the house — come on — have a cup of tea — all right?” Tom said. “Please, I want you to — I wanted to invite you over before now.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  And off they went, the three of them together.

  The puppy, named Maxwell, stayed in Vincent’s part of the house, and Vincent had his own key to the door. He was proud when he was able to open this door, and prouder still that Maxwell ran to him before anyone and began to pee. Karrie did not like puppies very much but she pretended to for Vincent’s sake. And she patted its matted fur with her painted fingernails, crouching down on her haunches.

  Vincent was very pleased that Karrie could see his pictures of his mom and dad, and even more pleased when she said she liked the room, and found it “just right” for him.

  She had a cup of tea. The wind was blowing, and the trees waved in the darkness. Far below them they could see the streetlight over her house, which her father was proud of.

  Each time Tom spoke she would nod and look away from him, and then bite at her lower lip, as if afraid that she was going to say something inappropriate. He seemed so strong and self-reliant at this moment that she felt he wouldn’t look upon her as anything but a schoolgirl. And as she sat there she felt her legs shaking just slightly.

  She finished her tea too quickly, she thought, and then thought she was too abrupt when she said she didn’t want another.

  “Do you want me to walk you home?” Tom said.

  “Well, okay,” she said, as if angry with something.

  And they started down the road together.

  “I didn’t come to your graduation party, or your graduation either,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. There was a peculiar emphasis on the word know that sounded, in the dark night, longing and sensuous.

  “I wanted to — but I don’t know what to do at them things — and then I wanted to tell you that in church — but you were busy lighting candles, I think to your mom’s memory, and so I couldn’t. And then — well, you ran out the back way, while I waited for you. I haven’t been able to figure out when I was going to see you at the right time. A long time ago I tried to ask you for a dance — but I couldn’t get up the nerve, I s’pose.”

  “You did — ?” she asked. There was a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth, just visible, which because of the way she was walking, with her arms folded like a country girl, seemed indispensable to her character.

  “I don’t know ‘nough to go up to no graduation,” he said. “I shoulda answered ya — and then I thought ya might have been mad at me — or eventually I thought you had a boyfriend — Bobby Taylor is always over there at the store.”

  She burst out laughing and turned and hugged him. He could feel her warm body press into him, and he was somehow overwhelmed by her. Instinctively he felt he must hold her the right way or lose her to someone else.

  “Bobby Taylor,” she laughed. “He’s already engaged!“

  She looked up at him in a very strange way, as if asking a question, and then, without finding an answer, hugged him hard again.

  TWO

  Snow started falling by November, like ash out of the sky, over the tortured clearcut to the north.

  The sun sat all day in one angry spot, which showed a cluster of dead crab-apple trees, and sometimes in the wind there was a rush of small, grey birds, taking wing at the exact same time. The potato field was nothing more than stubble and cold earth, and the great bay had turned black and solid.

  Karrie had gone away to a community college and Tom was alone. He would take walks down the dry lane, in the afternoon, while the sky was red, and come home, seeing Maxwell sitting near its doghouse with its tin disk

  That fall there was a large ten-point buck roaming the chop-down, and by the second week of November Tom was in the woods every day crossing Arron Brook and waiting for it above the small interlinking deer trails.

  The path to Brassaurds’ lay through thick woods, where the buck had left scrapes, and once in a while Tom would see the tawny bronzed back of the two year-old doe just out of sight along the upper ridge.

  The path to Brassaurds’ never seemed to catch the light of the weak sun that filtered in strange dark sadness in Arron Brook’s pools. Old deadwood and fallen leaves and parts of broken machinery lay along this trail, where the wind seemed to whisper. And halfway along the path was the old gravestone, half buried and moss-eaten, of Guillaume Brassaurd.

  One day during the last week of November Tom put on his boots, took his rifle, and walked far into the woods, almost to Brassaurds’ property. He picked up a fresh trail, and in a snow-squall at mid-afternoon saw the buck coming towards him, nose to the ground.

  He fired somewhat thoughtlessly, and was suddenly sorry. The buck turned sideways and ran, and Tom followed it, picking up a trail of blood, just before dark.

  “Damn me — the poor old boy’s gone to lay down,” Tom thought. He was angry with himself, because he thought of the doe, and how she was alone. He stood and looked at the trees, and felt sad. Then he heard another shot, from a shotgun, very close to him.

  He waited a moment and walked, bent over, through some tangle and brush, and in a few minutes came out on the old deer trail near Brassaurds’ property line. He saw the buck down and Madonna Brassaurd kneeling beside it with a scarf about her face, and a twenty-gauge pump in her hands. The buck had its head turned back, its tines dug into the snow behind it.

  She looked up at Tom and, taking the scarf down, smiled.

  “You sent it right to me,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “It was real sick after I shot it — “

  “Oh, but I was the one who killed it,” she said. “Karrie’s go
ne?”

  “Commun’ty college,” Tom said.

  “Oh — I bet she’s already at you to take upgrading, so you be smart as she is, or she’ll fly away from you,”

  Tom gave a laugh because of Madonna’s remarkable eyes fastened upon him, “What are you lads doin in here, poachin moose? I found half a carcass up near Arron — and you’ll find a 30.30 bullet in your buck.”

  “Tom, yer just scared there won’t be any left for you,” she said,

  The Brassaurds always said what they felt others were thinking, and never minded what they said. And the fact that Tom was very protective of animals made this remark scald him. But many untruths had been said about him, just as they had been said about his parents, who were both wild, and he felt the untruths would continue,

  “Don’t want you up on my property killing moose,” he said, though he liked Madonna and always had,

  “Do you know who came home last night?” she said, deflecting his statement with customary nonchalance, as she took out her knife,

  “No — don’t,” he said,

  “Mike Skid.”

  Tom didn’t answer. The wind blew against his open coat, and his grey eyes watered.

  “He’s been to India and back,” she said.

  “Well, he’s got time on his hands.” Tom smiled. “Don’t he?”

  She glanced up at him and cursed, her hands over blood, and said: “He’s turning into something of a photographer — and is going to put all his photographs out in a book. A publisher has already talked to him. So I want him to take some photos of me — it’d be my chance.”

  Then she moved around him on the path, and pumped her shells out. “And he is writing an article about the private school he went to and is waiting for the right time to publish it.”

  Tom had heard all of this before. He felt a little resentful that Michael was now telling these same stories to Madonna Brassaurd.

  Tom looked at the air directly in front of him and could see the sky blurred by small flakes of snow,