Spit Delaney's Island Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Contents

  Half-title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  I

  Separating

  Three Women of the Country

  II

  The Trench Dwellers

  Every Day of His Life

  The Religion of the Country

  By the River

  Other People’s Troubles

  III

  At the Foot of the Hill, Birdie’s School

  After the Season

  Spit Delaney’s Island

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  SPIT DELANEY’S ISLAND

  Copyright © 1976, 2011 by Jack Hodgins

  First published 1976, Macmillan of Canada

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).

  RONSDALE PRESS

  3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B.C.

  Canada V6S 1G7

  www.ronsdalepress.com

  Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Granjon 11.5 pt on 15

  Cover Design: Cyanotype

  Cover Photo: “Scene at Tofino” by Aimin Tang

  Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the British Columbia Arts Council, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Hodgins, Jack, 1938–

  Spit Delaney’s island: selected stories / Jack Hodgins.—2nd ed.

  ISBN epub 978-1-55380-121-4

  I. Title.

  PS8565.O3S6 2011 C813'.54 C2010-906438-0

  for Dianne

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Some of these stories first appeared in Journal of Canadian Fiction, Capilano Review, Northwest Review, Descant, Wascana Review, and Canadian Fiction Magazine. “At the Foot of the Hill, Birdie’s School” was read on CBC’s “Anthology.”

  I

  Separating

  People driving by don’t notice Spit Delaney. His old gas station is nearly hidden now behind the firs he’s let grow up along the road, and he doesn’t bother to whitewash the scalloped row of half-tires someone planted once instead of fence. And rushing by on the Island highway today, heading north or south, there’s little chance that anyone will notice Spit Delaney seated on the big rock at the side of his road-end, scratching at his narrow chest, or hear him muttering to the flat grey highway and to the scrubby firs and to the useless old ears of his neighbour’s dog that he’ll be damned if he can figure out what it is that is happening to him.

  Hitch-hikers do notice, however; they can hear his muttering. Walking past the sheep sorrel and buttercup on the gravel shoulder, they see him suddenly, they turn alarmed eyes his way. Nodding, half smiling at this long-necked man with the striped engineer’s cap, they move on through the shade-stripes of trees, their own narrow shadows like knives shaving the pavement beside them. And all he gives back, all they can take away with them, is a side-tilted look they have seen a hundred times in family snapshots, in the eyes of people out at the edge of group photos unsure they belong. Deference. Look at the camera, son, this is all being done for you, it has nothing to do with me. He does not accept their attention, he admits only to being a figure on the edge of whatever it is they are really looking at: his gas station perhaps, or his rusty old tow truck, or his wife piling suitcases into the trunk of her car. He relocates his cap, farther back on his head; his Adam’s apple slides up his long throat like a bubble in a tube, then pushes down.

  Spit Delaney cannot remember a time when he was not fascinated by the hitch-hikers. His property is close to a highway junction where they are often dropped off by the first ride that picked them up back near the ferry terminal. On these late-summer days, they line up across the front of his place like a lot of shabby refugees to wait for their second ride. Some walk past to get right out beyond the others, but most space themselves along the gravel, motionless, expressionless, collapsed. In pairs or clusters they drape themselves over their canvas pack-sacks and their sleeping bags. Some stretch out level on the ground, using their gear as head-rests with only an arm and an upright thumb to show that they’re awake, or alive. They are heading for the west coast of the Island, he knows, the Pacific, where they have heard it is still possible to live right down on the beach under driftwood shelters and go everywhere naked from morning until night. The clothes they are so eager to shed are patched jeans and wide braces and shirts made to look like flags and big floppy hats. There is a skinny boy with a panting St. Bernard tied to his pack with a length of clothes line; there is a young frizzy-haired couple with a whining baby they pass back and forth; there is a grizzled old man, a hunched-over man with a stained-yellow beard, who must be at least in his seventies though he is dressed the same as the others. Stupid old fool, thinks Spit Delaney, and grins. Sitting on his rock, at the foot of the old paint-peeled sign saying B/A, he isn’t afraid to envy.

  There are ninety miles of road, of this road and another, between the rock at his road-end and the west-coast beaches they are heading for. It runs grey-silver over hills and along bays and through villages and around mountains and along river banks, and is alive already with traffic: tourists set loose from a ferry and racing for campsites, salesmen released from motels and rushing for appointments. Beginnings are hard, and endings, but the long grey ribbon that joins them runs smooth and mindless along the surface of things. In his head Spit Delaney can follow it, can see every turn, can feel himself coming over the last hill to find the ocean laid out in the wide blue haze beneath him. The long curving line of sand that separates island from sea and man from whale is alive with the quick flashing movements of people.

  Behind him the trunk lid slams shut. His wife’s footsteps crunch down the gravel towards him. He can tell without looking that she is wearing the crepe-soled shoes she bought in a fire sale and tried to return the next day. Spit Delaney’s heavy brows sink, as if he is straining to see something forty miles across the road, deep into brush. He dispatches a wad of throat-phlegm in a clean arc out onto a stalk of dog-daisy, and doesn’t bother watching it slide to the ground.

  She stops, a few feet behind. “There’s enough in the fridge to last you a week,” she says.

  He ducks his head, to study the wild sweet-pea that twists in the grass between his boots.

  She is going, now.

  That is what they have agreed on.

  “Sit down when you eat,” she says. “Don’t go standing up at the counter, the way you will.”

  The boy with the St. Bernard gets a ride at this moment, a green GMC pickup. They leap into the back, dog and boy, and scramble up close to the cab. Then the boy slaps his hand on the roof, signal to start, and settles back with an arm around the dog’s neck, laughing. For a moment his eyes meet Spit’s, the laugh dies; they watch each other until the pickup has gone on past the other hitch-hikers, on up the road out of sight behind trees.

  I am a wifeless man, Spit tells the disappeared youth. This is the day of our separation. I am a wifeless man.

  In his fortieth year Spit Delaney was sure he’d escaped all the pitfalls that seemed to catch everyone else in their thirties. He was a survivor.

  “This here’s one bugger
you don’t catch with his eyes shut,” was his way of putting it.

  And wasn’t it obvious? While all his friends were getting sick of the jobs they’d worked at ever since they quit high school and were starting to hop around from one new job to another, Spit Delaney was still doing the same thing he’d been doing for twenty years, the thing he loved: operating Old Number One steam locomotive in the paper mill, shunting up and down the tracks, pushing flatcars and boxcars and tankcars off and onto barges. “Spit and Old Number One, a marriage made in heaven,” people joked. “Him and that machine was made for each other, a kid and his toy. That train means more to him than any human could hope to.” Only it wasn’t a joke, it was true, he was glad to admit it. Who else in all that mill got out of bed at four o’clock in the morning to fire up a head of steam for the day’s work? Who else hung around after the shift was over, cleaning and polishing? Roy Rogers and Trigger, that’s what they were. Spit and Old Number One. He couldn’t name another person whose job was so much a part of himself, who was so totally committed to what he did for a living.

  In the family department, too, he was a survivor. While everyone else’s kids in their teens seemed to be smashing up the old man’s car or getting caught at pot parties or treating their parents like slaves or having quiet abortions on the mainland, Jon and Cora looked as if they were going to sail right through their adolescence without a hitch: Cora would rather watch television and eat chocolate cake than fool around with boys or go to parties; Jon would rather read a book than do anything else at all. The two of them looked safe enough. It was a sign that they respected their father, Spit would say, though he admitted some of the credit had to go to his wife.

  Stella. That was one more thing. All through his thirties it seemed as if every time he turned around someone else was splitting up. Everybody except him and Stella. Friends broke up, divorced, couples fell apart and regrouped into new couples. The day came when Stella Delaney looked at him out of her flat, nearly colourless eyes and said, “You and me are just about the only people we know that are still married.” You couldn’t count on the world being the same two weekends in a row. It was a hazard of their age, boredom was doing it, Stella told him, boredom and the new morality. People suddenly realizing what they didn’t have to put up with. There was no sense inviting anybody over for Saturday night, she said, they could be separated by then. But, miraculously, by the time Spit reached his fortieth year, he and Stella were still married, still together. However, if they intended to continue with their marriage, she told him, they’d have to make some new friends. Everyone else their age was newly single or newly remarried or shacking up with people half their age; what would they have in common?

  The secret of his successful marriage, Spit insisted, was the way it started. Stella was a long-legged bony-faced woman of twenty-two, already engaged to some flat-assed logger from Tahsis, when Spit came into the kitchen at the back of her father’s store. She was doing peach preserves for her first married winter, and admiring the logger’s dinky little diamond ring up on the windowsill in front of her. Her big hands, in the orange mess of peel and juice and carved-out bruises, reminded him of the hands of a fisherman gouging out fish guts. The back of her cotton dress dipped up at the hem, to show the tiny blue veins behind her knees and the pink patches of skin where she’d pressed one leg to the other. He touched. She told him “Get lost mister, I got work to do,” and he said “That logger musta been bushed and desperate is all I can say” but stayed to win her anyway, and to rush her off to a preacher’s house on the day before her intended wedding. With a start like that, he said, how could anything go wrong?

  It couldn’t. He was sure of it. Things that were important to him, things that were real—his job, his family, his marriage—these things were surely destined to survive even the treacherous thirties.

  But before he had time to congratulate himself, things began to fall apart. He insisted later that it was all because the stupidest god-damned question he ever heard just popped into his head all of a sudden. He didn’t look for it, he didn’t ask for it, it just came.

  He was lying on his back in the sand at Wickanninish Bay, soaking up sun. He’d driven over with the family to the west coast for the weekend, had parked the camper up in the trees above the high-tide line. Stella was lying beside him on her giant towel, reading a magazine, oiled and gleaming like a beached eel. The question just popped into his head, all of a sudden: Where is the dividing line?

  He was so surprised that he answered out loud. “Between what and what?”

  Stella turned a page and folded it back. Most of the new page was taken up with a photograph of a woman who’d increased her bust measurements in a matter of days and wanted to show Stella how to do the same.

  “Wha’d you say?”

  “Nothing,” he said, and rolled over onto his side to face away from her. Between what and what? he asked himself. Maybe he was beginning to crack up. He’d heard of the things that happened to some men at his age.

  Between what is and what isn’t.

  Spit sat up, cursing.

  Stella slid her dark glasses down her nose and peered at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” he said. Where is the dividing line? When the words hit him again like that he jumped to his feet and shook his head, like a cow shaking off flies.

  “Sand fleas?” she said.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, and stomped around to shake the sand out of the hair on his legs.

  “Too much sun,” she said, and pushed herself up. “We better move up into shade.”

  But when they had settled down by a log, cool in the shade of the windcrippled spruce, she told him it might just be this beach that was spooking him. “This Indian Lady at Lodge,” she said, “told me her people get uneasy along this beach.” Spit knew Sophie Jim by name, but Stella always referred to her as This Indian Lady at Lodge. It was some kind of triumph, apparently, when Sophie was finally persuaded to join the Daughters, their first native. “She said there’s a story that some kind of Sea-Wolf monster used to come whanging up out of the Pacific here to gobble up people. It came up to sire wolves for the land too, but went back into the sea to live. She says they’re all just a little nervous of this place.”

  Spit’s brain itched from the slap of the sudden question. He wanted to go home, but the kids were far out on the sand at the water’s edge, and he could holler at them till he was blue in the face without being heard above the roar of the waves.

  “She said all up and down this coast there are stories. About monsters that come out and change people into things. To hear her tell it there must’ve been a whole lot of traffic back and forth between sea and land.”

  “A whole lot of bull,” he said, and put on his shirt. It was cold up here, and what did he care about a lot of Indian stuff? He knew Indians. When he was a boy the people up the road adopted a little Indian kid, a girl, and told it around that nobody, nobody was to dare tell her what she was. When she was ten years old she still hadn’t figured out that she wasn’t the same as everybody else, so Spit sat her down on the step and told her. He had to tell her three times before she believed him and then she started to howl and cry and throw herself around. But she dried out eventually and went Indian with a vengeance, to make up for lost time. He couldn’t go near her without having to listen to a whole lot of stuff she’d got soaked up into her brain from hanging around the Reserve. So he knew all about Wasgo, Stella couldn’t tell him anything new about that guy. He knew about Kanikiluk too, which was worse. That son of a bitch would think nothing of stepping out of the ocean and turning a man into a fish or making a piece of seaweed think it was human. He knew all about the kind of traffic she meant.

  “They say we crawled up out of there ourselves,” she said. “Millions of years ago.”

  “Let’s go home,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Within fifteen minutes they had Cora and Jon herded up off that beach and pu
shed into the back of the camper and had started on their way back across the island to their little house behind the gas station. It wasn’t really a gas station any more, though he had never bothered to pull the pumps out; the shed was a good place to store the car parts and engine pieces he kept against the day they would be needed, and the roof out over the pumps was a good place to park the tow truck. Nor was it a real business—his job at the paper mill was enough for anyone to handle—but he’d fixed up the tow truck himself out of parts and used it to pull people out of snowbanks in winter or to help friends when they got their tractors mired in swamp.

  When he got home from the coast he did not go into the gas station to brood, as he might have done, nor did he sit behind the wheel of his tow truck. This was too serious for that. He drove all the way down to the paper mill, punched himself in at the gate, and climbed up into the cab of Old Number One. He knew even then that something was starting to go wrong. Where is the dividing line? He sat there with his hands on the levers deep into night, all the way through to the early morning when it was time to fire up her boilers and start getting her ready for the day’s work ahead. And what does it take to see it?

  And, naturally, that was the day the company picked to tell him what they’d done with Old Number One.

  Sold her to the National Museum in Ottawa.

  For tourists to gawk at.

  Sons of bitches. They might as well have lopped off half his brain. Why didn’t they sell the government his right arm too while they were at it?

  The hundred-and-thirty-ton diesel-electric they offered was no consolation. “A dummy could run that rig!” he shouted. “It takes a man to put life into Old Number One!”

  He ought to be glad, they told him. That shay was long past her usefulness, the world had changed, the alternative was the junkyard. You can’t expect things to last for ever.