Baygirl Page 3

  When I was little and my friends asked why I had never been out on the boat, I pretended it was my choice. “Why would I want to go out on an old boat and come back stinking of fish?” Then one Saturday morning it happened. “C’mon,” said Dad. “It’s time you came aboard the Kitty Charmer.” I looked at Mom. She looked away.

  Dad and I walked to the cove. I wondered if girls my age still held their father’s hands. Not that I would or anything. I just wondered.

  As soon as I stood on the wharf, my legs went to jelly. It was a floating dock and a bit bouncy. I looked down at the water. Millions of minnows swam happily by. I wondered if there were sharks in Newfoundland.

  “C’mon, Kitty.”

  Dad had already climbed on deck. He grabbed my arm and pulled me up and over the side of the boat. I could smell alcohol on his breath. I wondered which one of his crew members it was, Johnnie Walker or Captain Morgan. They may have been just names on bottles, but those bottles held my Dad’s liquid gold. And that made them dangerous.

  While Dad prepared the boat, I peered over the side and looked at the dingy off-white paint. It was chipped and rusty. But the words Kitty Charmer were in perfect shape. They were the same sky blue that spattered Dad’s coveralls. He always protected those words. Always seemed to be touching them up. The Kitty Charmer really meant something to him.

  I reached over the edge and touched the K. It was shiny and smooth. The boat started with a jolt. I grabbed the side. The smell of diesel and fish made me feel sick. I clung to the side. Dad picked up speed, and soon the fresh salty air made me feel better. I could get used to this, I thought. It’s like an amusement-park ride. But still, my knuckles were white.

  Out in the middle of nowhere, Dad cut the engine. “Kitty, are you going to move from that spot or what? You’re like a statue.” I looked over the side and into the Atlantic. “Kitty,” Dad said again, “come and see how these nets work.”

  Can’t be trusted…irresponsible…Kit washing up on the shore.

  I was frozen. Dad came up behind me. “Kitty, love. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  The boat rocked back and forth. “I’m scared,” I said.

  “Your old man’s here, Kitty.” He put his hands gently over mine. They were rough and cold, but they made me feel warm. How was that possible? “Now come over and see how these nets work.” He took me by the hand and didn’t let go for the longest time. Even when he was showing me the nets, he did it with his free hand. And when he eventually needed to use both hands, he put mine safely back on the side of the boat first. But soon I felt able to let go. I even explored a bit. “You got your sea legs pretty quick, Kitty. You’re a fisherman’s daughter, that’s for sure.”

  Dad took me down below. I knew there was a down below because Anne-Marie had told me about the one on her Uncle Bill’s boat. She said there were bunk beds. She said she’d slept on the top bunk. I asked her why on earth she would want to sleep on a stupid boat. I told her that sleeping on a rocking boat would make me sick to my stomach, but she said it was awesome, that the waves rocked her to sleep. So down below on my own father’s boat, I immediately looked for the bunks. And there they were, top and bottom.

  “Go ahead,” Dad said. “Give it a try.”

  “Okay,” I sighed, as if it was a chore, as if I was doing him a favor. I sat on the bottom bunk for a moment. When Dad wasn’t looking, I lay down. I stared at the bunk above me. Then, when Dad busied himself making tea, I climbed into the top bunk. I had never been on the top bunk of a bunk bed, let alone one on a boat. I closed my eyes and felt the waves rocking me back and forth. I stayed there until Dad called me to the table for lunch.

  He took two sandwiches out of a little fridge, one for me and one for him. They were tuna, which I didn’t like, but I didn’t say anything. He told me stories from his fishing trips. Stories about the size of some of the fish he had caught, stories about the other men who fished with him and stories about storms, dangerous storms, where men had gone overboard.

  “You can swim, right?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he said. “Never learned. And it’s just as well…if you end up in those cold waters, you’re a goner. The sooner the better, if you ask me.” I shivered just thinking about it. Then he pulled a Kit Kat from his pocket and we shared it. “Look, Kitty,” he said, pointing out the porthole. “A minke whale.”

  I’d seen lots of whales before. From the top of the cliff. But this was close. This was magic.

  Dad looked at his watch. “Better get back. Your mother will wonder what’s happened to us.”

  My mother. I had missed out on so much because of her.

  Dad let me take the wheel on the way back. He called me Captain. Captain Kitty.

  Mom was waiting on the wharf. I could tell by the look on her face that she was not happy. So I skipped off the boat with a big smile, holding Dad’s hand, telling her what a grand time we’d had, how I’d never had so much fun.

  “You were gone so long,” she said. “I was worried sick.” She reached for me, but I turned away and held Dad’s hand tighter.

  “C’mon, Dad. Let’s go home.”

  Things were good between my dad and me for exactly six days. But then he and Mom got into a humongous fight about the price of Pepsi. Mom said he bought too much of it, that it was too expensive and he shouldn’t buy it anymore. He said he needed it and for her to mind her own goddamn business. But she kept going on and on about it, and Dad exploded. He screamed until his voice went hoarse, and one of the things he screamed was bitch. It made me feel sick, but what made me feel even sicker was the sound of Mom sobbing in the bathroom.

  Still, the memory of that day on the Kitty Charmer stood out as a good one. And now it was being sold. Now it was going to disappear. Along with the rest of my life in Parsons Bay.

  Once I’d finished packing, I called Anne-Marie. It was time to say goodbye. I asked her to meet me at our usual spot. I was going to miss that grassy place at the top of the cliff. We’d been meeting there for years, and long before we should have been. Two young girls playing on dangerous bluffs high above the rocky coastline could have spelled disaster. But we didn’t care. I would tell Mom I was going down to Nan’s, but instead I’d go to Anne-Marie’s and throw pebbles at her bedroom window. She’d crawl out and up the cliff we’d go, knowing full well we’d be in big trouble if we were ever caught. Getting to the trail was tricky. Dad’s boat was tied up close to the trailhead. If he wasn’t out fishing, we’d have to wait until he was down in the hull of the boat, and then we’d run past, get on the trail and beat it up the hill until we were out of sight. We’d spend hours up there, Anne-Marie and me. We’d gossip about everyone in town. We’d talk about Fisty Hinks and why he yelled at kids who passed by. Will Hanrahan said that Fisty once had a wife and daughter, but he killed them, chopped them up in a million pieces and buried them in front of his house, and now he didn’t want people walking on their graves. Anne-Marie and I decided there was no way that could be true. We figured if Fisty was mean enough to chop up his wife and kid in a million pieces, he probably wouldn’t care who walked on their graves. The little kids in town believed that Fisty ate little children and that’s why you had to run—if he caught you, into the oven you’d go. Mom told us to leave the poor man alone, that he was just a sad and lonely man whose sadness and loneliness made him grumpy. We didn’t like that theory—it was too boring to believe.

  We would talk about my dad too. Anne-Marie knew he was a drunk. She promised she’d never tell anyone. I could really trust Anne-Marie. And now I had to say goodbye.

  I looked down at the winding trail, and when I saw Anne-Marie running toward me, carrying a worn tartan blanket under her arm, I wished things didn’t have to change.

  We flattened a patch of overgrown grass and spread out the blanket.

  “Is the shed done?” I asked. />
  “Yep. We’re painting it now.” She pointed to red spatters on her overalls. “Like the color?”

  “Yeah. Looks good.”

  We flopped down onto the blanket. The earth was damp and the air was filled with mist.

  “Stinks of fish around here today,” said Anne-Marie.

  I licked salt off my lips and breathed in deeply, inhaling the ocean air. I held it as long as I could, but sixty seconds later I had to exhale. Nothing lasts forever.

  “So you’re gonna come back to visit, right?” said Anne-Marie.

  I traced the yellow threads of the blanket with my finger. “If we can afford it,” I said.

  “A bus ticket doesn’t cost that much, does it?”

  “The way my parents talk, you’d think it was a small fortune. They’ve already told me not to set my sights on too many visits back to Parsons Bay.”

  “Do you really have to go?” asked Anne-Marie. “Can’t you stay with your nan?”

  “I already asked. I practically begged them. They said no. They said Nan’s too old to look after a teenager. They said she’s slowing down. And I said that if she’s slowing down, we should stay in Parsons Bay and look after her. But they won’t listen. They’ve made up their minds.”

  We could hear the waves crashing a hundred feet below us.

  “It’s going to suck,” I said. “I don’t want to go to a new school.”

  “At least you’re starting at the beginning of the year and not in the middle of it.”

  “Yeah, but now I have to spend the rest of the summer in St. John’s. With no friends and nothing to do.”

  “I’m sure you’ll meet new people, Kit.”

  “I don’t want to meet new people. Especially townies. They’re probably all snobs. They’ll just think I’m some stupid baygirl.”

  “Maybe they’ll think you’re quaint,” said Anne-Marie.

  I frowned at her. “Quaint?” I ran my fingers through my hair. “Maybe I should get a haircut before I go. Something stylish.”

  “Your hair is fine, Kit.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s boring and straight and dull. Maybe I should get blond highlights. I read that golden tones bring out blue eyes.”

  “I like the color of your hair.”

  “Dad says it looks like dirty dishwater.”

  “And you believe him?”

  I wound a strand around my finger. “No, but—”

  “Your father is full of crap, Kit. Don’t let him get to you. And anyway, do you really think making new friends is going to depend on your hairstyle?”

  “I just want to fit in.”

  “You will.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m kind of jealous, actually.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because St. John’s has two big shopping malls,” she said. “And movie theaters and museums. It’ll be exciting. There’s never anything to do here. Parsons Bay sucks.”

  I stood up and walked toward the cliff’s edge. A whale-watching boat was leaving the dock. Tourists with binoculars filled the deck. Some had traveled from faraway places to experience Parsons Bay—the rugged coastline, the wildlife, the peace and quiet.

  Anne-Marie came up behind me. I was glad it was misty. My face was soaked.

  “We’d better go now,” I said.

  We hugged each other tightly, then headed back toward home. There was one more person I needed to say goodbye to.

  Most people used the doorbell at Ms. Bartlett’s house, but I preferred the knocker. It was a goblin. Ms. Bartlett called him “the bronzed brute.”

  “I’m going to miss that goblin,” I said when Ms. Bartlett opened the door.

  “Oh, Kit.” She gave me a big hug and led me through to her living room.

  I was going to say, “I like your dress,” but I wasn’t sure if it actually was a dress because it was all silky and flowing, like a robe. Dad probably would have burst out laughing and called her the hippie-dippie freak show. He thought she was weird, but I loved her.

  “I like what you’re wearing,” I said.

  Ms. Bartlett gathered up the billows of brilliant blue material and sat down on the couch. “Thank you, Kit. It’s a kaftan. I found it in Morocco.”

  Ms. Bartlett’s house was full of artifacts and knickknacks from around the globe—African masks, Japanese wall hangings, Persian rugs. Mom told me once that Ms. Bartlett could travel the world whenever she felt like it because she had lots of money. Ms. Bartlett’s father left Parsons Bay to start a business in the city. Soon he owned all the Bartlett’s department stores in Atlantic Canada. When he died he left the business to his children, but Ms. Bartlett wanted no part of it. Mom told me Ms. Bartlett had laughed and said, “Can you picture me in a business suit?” Her siblings bought her out and she moved back to the Bartlett family home in Parsons Bay. The town gossip was that Ms. Bartlett was sitting on a small fortune. Mom didn’t doubt it. She said that if you could afford to waste your money on a six-foot-tall sculpture of a giraffe, then you must have plenty of it.

  “I wish I could travel,” I said as I made myself comfy on the couch.

  “Maybe you will someday.”

  I reached into the candy dish on the coffee table. I didn’t have to ask.

  “Mmm, Turkish delight.”

  “I’ll send you some when you’re in St. John’s.”

  I secretly hoped that if Ms. Bartlett knew how badly I wanted to stay in Parsons Bay, she’d offer to let me stay with her. So I built up my case. “I don’t want to go to St. John’s, Ms. Bartlett. For one thing, I don’t want to leave Nan. I’ll miss her so much. And I really, really, really don’t want to go to a new school. Especially a big-city school. It’s going to be terrible.”

  “I’d love to have you stay with me, Kit, but I can’t.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just took another Turkish delight and looked at the rug.

  “There are some things that can’t be changed, Kit.”

  “Then I guess this is goodbye,” I mumbled.

  Ms. Bartlett stood up. “Come here, Kit.” She took my hand and pulled me to my feet. “I learned a wonderful word when I was with the Apache Indians down in Arizona. Egogahan. It means ‘until we meet again.’”

  “Then egogahan, Ms. Bartlett.”

  Ms. Bartlett held me tight. “Egogahan, Kit.”

  two

  Poor Old Dead Aunt Margie

  We drove across the province in our old Buick, a flatbed trailer hitched to the back with Dad’s smelly old recliner strapped to the roof of the car. We’d sold practically everything we owned, but Dad wouldn’t part with that stupid chair, and I dreaded pulling in to Uncle Iggy’s fancy neighborhood with it attached to our car.

  Dad chain-smoked the whole way. I spent part of the journey with my head out the window, like a dog, just to get a breath of fresh air. The Trans-Canada Highway was boring, the only excitement being an unplanned stop to yield for a herd of caribou. I slept for ages, and when I woke up we were in an industrial area just outside the city limits.

  “How long until we’re at Uncle Iggy’s?” I asked.

  “About fifteen minutes,” Mom said.

  Dad looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Make that thirty,” he said. A few minutes later we were driving through downtown. Colorful row houses lined the streets, their bright paint reminding me of the homes along the coastline of Parsons Bay. Dad parked at the harbor. “Just going for a quick one at the Ship.” Mom didn’t comment. She never did. But it was a wonder she didn’t fog up the whole car with the amount of air she expelled from her lungs.

  Some boys in baggy jeans were skateboarding up and down the harborfront. One of them had a mohawk. “What a state,” Mom said. “They look like a bunch of thugs.�
� But I thought they looked cool.

  I rolled down the window. The harbor’s fishy air was like a little bit of home. In the distance, a cruise ship appeared. It was massive. I wondered how it would fit through the narrows without hitting the cliffs on either side. I settled in to watch the whole thing. But Dad came back too soon.

  “What a bunch of dirtbags,” he said, pointing to the skateboarders. “Look at the size of their pants. Have they never heard of a belt?”

  “I think they look cool,” I said.

  “If you ever bring the likes of that home, Kitty, I’ll probably keel over and die.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” I muttered.

  “Let’s get going, Phonse,” said Mom. “Iggy’s waiting.”

  Suddenly I didn’t want to leave. Going to Iggy’s meant starting over. And I didn’t want to. Not yet. I needed more time.

  Dad put the key in the ignition. The second the car started, I took a big breath, holding in the ocean air as if I’d never have the opportunity again, as if moving to Uncle Iggy’s was the end of my life as I knew it. We drove up Hill O’Chips, one of the steepest streets in St. John’s. I didn’t exhale till we reached the top.

  The colors of downtown faded quickly. Before I knew it, we were in a dingy neighborhood.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked. “This doesn’t look like Uncle Iggy’s neighborhood.”

  “It is now,” said Dad. “So much for Mr. Engineering Degree and his successful life.”

  Mom shot Dad a dirty look. “Now, Phonse, we all know how hard it is when a man loses his job, don’t we?”

  “He lost his job?” I asked. “How come no one told me? Why did he move?”

  “Because he can’t afford that fancy house anymore. Lost that high-paying job of his because of depression or something,” said Dad. “Probably just as well. A big house like that for one person is a waste of space.”