Here's to Joe excerpt
Scott was jolted awake by a loud and insistent banging from the floor below. He jerked to a sitting position in the bed. He could almost hear his heart pounding and he could certainly feel it. He also heard an unfamiliar howling sound—almost a scream at times. He sat in the bed for several minutes, trying to decide if it was safe to get up. It was still dark outside. As he awoke more fully, he realized the howling was the wind, about which he could do nothing, but the banging was demanding his attention. He pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt and crept down the stairs. The sound was coming from the side door, so he went into the kitchen and opened the inside door cautiously, expecting to see someone outside desperately seeking refuge from the wind. He was immediately assaulted by the salty gale and discovered the screen door was being propelled by the wind into frantic activity, slamming rhythmically into its frame. There was no one there. With the inside door open, though, the roar of the wind blotted out all other sounds and, in the dim light, he could just make out the white foam of the huge breakers curling onto the beach, as if they were trying to grab the stones and drag them out to sea. The whole experience was at once terrifying and exhilarating.
He got soaked while he looked for a way to secure the screen door so it would stop banging, but he found only a couple of empty screw holes in the door frame where a latch had once been. He resigned himself to the noise, closed the inside door and looked for a towel to dry himself. All he found was a thin tea towel he decided was not up to the task. He went back upstairs to find a bath towel, all the while wondering how frightening it would feel to be caught outside in a storm like that and how desperate one might become to find shelter.
When he returned to the kitchen, he stayed there, not knowing if it was three o’clock or six. All he knew was he was unlikely to be able to go back to sleep, so he made what turned out to be very strong coffee in his new coffee maker. He checked the door periodically, despite knowing there was no one there. As the day dawned and the storm didn’t subside, he was reluctant to go upstairs more often than he had to, fearful that the added elevation was somehow riskier than staying on the lower floor. He knew rationally that it was just as safe upstairs—the house has survived many storms in its hundred-plus years—but, just the same, he felt safer where he was.
He spent the entire day in the kitchen, only venturing upstairs to use the bathroom as infrequently and quickly as he could. He prepared small meals or snacks, as much out of boredom or stress as from hunger. He watched the storm through the single pane of wavy glass in the kitchen’s window. The previous day had been so calm and bright. Some warning about this would have been nice. Maybe a radio wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
The storm continued to lash at the house well into the evening, the rain sounding like hundreds of pellets trying to shatter the windows at the same time as they rendered the glass translucent, reducing the view to a pebbly blur. Gradually, however, the storm died down and Scott felt almost comfortable going upstairs to bed. Even then, he was hyper-vigilant, alert to every creak or moan of the old structure, every rattle of window glass and the constant roar of the wind and waves, indiscernible, one from the other, and, of course, the constant knocking at the door. As he lay on the bed, he realized there was no thunder or lightning with this storm. Every storm in Toronto that even approached this kind of intensity was accompanied by elaborate displays of flashing light and crackling thunder, as well as the sirens of emergency responders rushing to traffic accidents or injuries caused by fallen tree limbs. Perhaps it was the isolation with no one to call for help and nowhere to go, or maybe it was the age of this house, but he found this weather more unnerving than any he’d experienced in Ontario.
Fatigue eventually prevailed and he fell into a fitful sleep, fully dressed on top of the bedding. At some point during the night, his sleep deepened and he missed the waning of the storm. He woke to the light of the pink sky that bled into view from the edge of the window. His first instinct was to check that the beach was still intact, that the sand and rocks had not been dragged into the ocean, leaving what? Bedrock? Water up to the foundations of the house? From the window, he could see along the coast. Everything within the range of his vision appeared to have survived, though the wind was still strong enough to lift a fine spray from the whitecaps as the waves broke on the shore. He was incredulous that a storm of that magnitude could arrive so suddenly and disappear without leaving a trace. He wondered if it was the remnants of a hurricane. He’d been warned that they sometimes tracked up the east coast of the United States and hit Nova Scotia pretty hard, but he had no way of finding out.
After a large breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee, he ventured outside. The sun was brilliant, but the air was much too cold for a mid-summer day. The wind was strong enough to discourage him from trying to set a large canvas on an easel outside; it would behave like a perfect sail, or more likely, an untethered kite. He returned to the kitchen and decided he would paint later, when the wind died down enough that he could go outside and work in plein air.
After he washed and dried the dishes, it was still too windy to work outside, so he went upstairs and found the novel he’d brought. He took it into the living room, squirmed into a corner of the old, lumpy sofa, and opened the book. He wasn’t a big fan of mystery novels, but he’d realized, during his drive to the coast, that he’d forgotten to bring anything to read, so he’d picked one of the few books that wasn’t a Harlequin romance from the dismal selection at a gas station convenience store. He’d read three pages of it when there was a quick succession of six knocks at the door. Damn wind. He continued reading until another series of knocks interrupted the less-than-stimulating prose. These were louder than the previous ones. He placed the book face down on the sofa and went to the door. He opened it to see a grizzled-looking man with wind-blown white hair and a long beard, wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt under denim coveralls. He had no jacket. He was standing a few centimetres from the outside of the closed screen door.
“I seen a light on last night,” said the old man, through the screen. Scott didn’t know how to respond to this statement, so he waited for more information. After what seemed like a very long and uncomfortable pause, the man continued, “Nobody’s been in this old place in a long time.”
“I rented it for the summer,” said Scott. Then, to break another long silence, “I’m Scott.”
“Joe.”
The two of them faced each other through the mesh, neither saying anything for an excruciating fifteen or twenty seconds. Finally, Scott said, “Would you like to come in?”
“Can’t. Just wanted to see who’s here. Make sure you come through the storm OK.”
“Thanks,” said Scott. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” Joe turned and walked toward the shore. Scott watched for a long time as he plodded along the beach until he was no longer in sight. He returned to his book, but had difficulty concentrating. His thoughts wandered to the old man who called himself Joe. Where did he live and how did he see his lights last night? There were no other houses within sight of this one, so Joe must have been out in the storm. After reading the same passage several times and realizing he wasn’t absorbing any of it, Scott gave up on the book. He went to the kitchen and poured himself another cup of very strong coffee. He sat at the table, stared out the window while he drank the bitter brew, and wondered whether or not he’d hallucinated. Had there really been an old man at the door—a man who couldn’t have seen lights on unless he was walking on the beach in the storm—or was the solitude of this place playing tricks on him? Perhaps, he thought, the insistent knocking at the door and his fear of the storm . . . but he dismissed the thought. He wasn’t crazy. The old man was real.
While he was grappling with these thoughts, his coffee got cold, making it even less palatable. He went upstairs, picked up his sketchbook and a pencil, returned to the kitchen, and sat at the table again, leaving the book unopened. He sat that way for almost twenty minutes, simply staring at the beach, then suddenly stood, put on his hiking boots and down jacket, picked up the book and pencil, and went outside. He walked along the beach in the direction Joe had gone, wishing he’d remembered his hat. When his house was barely visible behind him, he stopped and sat in the shelter of a shallow depression in the steep bank, out of the worst of the wind. He opened his sketchbook and made a quick, rough rendering of the grasses, the clouds, and the half-metre-high waves breaking on the stony beach. He wished he could capture the sounds, as well. He looked at his sketch for several minutes and was listening to the water’s rhythmic shushing as the waves collapsed onto the beach, when he heard another sound: the high-pitched voice of a child, yelling to be heard over the roar of the ocean and the screaming of the gulls.
“What’re you doing?”
Scott turned toward the sound and saw a child, perhaps six or seven years old, standing above him on the bank, about a metre and a half behind his left shoulder. He couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl. Shoulder-length ends of blonde hair poked out from under a blue knitted hat and were blown across the small face. The child didn’t seem bothered by the hair and did nothing to brush it away. The clothes looked as if they might have served several children over the years and gave no clues as to the gender of the wearer. The facial expression suggested a serious curiosity but no hint of fear or suspicion.
“Hi,” said Scott, somewhat tentatively. What if this child was another apparition? “Where did you come from?” The child simply pointed vaguely inland. “What’s your name?’ asked Scott.
“Jackie,” replied the child, not helping with the gender issue. “I never seen you here before.”
“I just got here. I’m staying in that house.” Scott pointed in the general direction of the old house. “I’m Scott.”
Jackie clambered down the bank and stood next to Scott. “What’re you doing?”
Scott could discern the reassuring smell of laundry detergent on the child’s jacket. “I’m sketching.”
“Can I see?” said Jackie. “What is it?”
Scott held up his book. “It’s the ocean and the sky.”
“Doesn’t look much like it to me,” said Jackie. “Just looks like scribbles.”
“It’s just a sketch,” said Scott, more defensively than was warranted. “I’m going to do a painting of it later.”
“OK. See ya,” said Jackie as he or she scrambled up the bank and disappeared.
Scott struggled to his feet. One of his legs had fallen asleep so he almost collapsed as it buckled beneath him. Strange, he thought. Two people appeared out of nowhere on the same day—one very old and one very young. When his leg could once again support his weight, he looked over the bank to see if he could determine which way Jackie had gone, but there was no sign of him (or her) in the tall grass. Scott walked slowly toward his house, looking back every few steps. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
At the house, he opened a beer and, to get his mind off Joe and Jackie, he took it upstairs along with his sketchbook, and set a new canvas on the easel. He primed the canvas and selected the paints he’d need. He primed another and another until all his canvases were ready to receive paint, before taking his beer back downstairs, leaving the canvases to dry. As he considered the picture he’d start the next day, he couldn’t help thinking he was somehow painting it for Jackie, to demonstrate how his scribbles could be reimagined into a beautiful painting. He knew this was ridiculous. He didn’t need to prove anything to a child.
The next morning, rather than painting the scene he sketched, Scott sat at the kitchen table with his sketchbook and tried to draw Joe’s face from his memory of their brief encounter. He detailed the eyes first and as he filled in the rest of the face, he had an eerie sensation that those eyes were watching him. He took frequent breaks to get away from the image’s gaze. With the pauses, it took him over an hour to complete the sketch. He tore the page from the book and taped it to the kitchen wall. Then he went out, got into his van and drove away from the house, with no particular destination in mind, the image of the old man haunting him.
He drove for over an hour, turning down small back roads, looking at the landscape, the hills and forests until, realizing he was lost, he stopped at a small gas station. He filled the van with gas and asked the attendant for directions to Antigonish. The young man barely concealed an eye-roll as he directed Scott a quarter mile farther on, to the highway that would take him another mile or so into the town. As he left the station, Scott noticed the sign near its entrance that pointed toward Antigonish and told him it was two kilometres away. He felt a sight flush of embarrassment as he imagined what the attendant must have thought of him. As he turned onto the highway, he realized he was near the road to his house. He should have bought his groceries in Antigonish. It was closer and easier to get to than the little market he’d found a few days ago.
He was getting hungry as the sun moved closer to the western horizon. He spotted a sign that looked home-made, fastened to an unassuming building that was set back from the road: Jake’s Tavern. The only other time he’d driven this way, he hadn’t noticed it.
When he entered and his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he saw only one other customer; a man who appeared to be in his mid-forties who was sitting alone in one of the booths, a nearly full glass of beer on the table in front of him, along with an empty one. A “dead soldier,” thought Scott. It was a term he’d only heard a few times, and he wasn’t sure why it popped into his head but, in this rather dismal place, it seemed appropriate.
The only other person in the place was the bartender. She appeared to be in her thirties, though Scott knew he was a terrible judge of women’s ages. She was about five and a half feet tall and she had the slim, muscular build of an athlete. Her fair complexion contrasted with dark brown or black hair (it was hard to tell in the low light), which was tied into a single ponytail that terminated just below the nape of her neck. She was wearing faded blue jeans, a dark blue logo-free sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up past her elbows, and sneakers that had once been white, but were now varying shades of grey. The feature that Scott found most alluring, though, were her pale green eyes, which almost seemed to glow. Her demeanour and obvious efficiency gave the impression she would tolerate no abuse and could take care of herself if necessary. Scott chose a booth near the window and she approached him, dropped a menu on the table, and asked if he wanted something to drink. Her slightly raspy voice, like that of a smoker, completed Scott’s assessment that she could hold her own in a confrontation. Scott was a little intimidated by her.
He had seen a burger-and-beer special at a very reasonable price advertised on a chalkboard near the door, so he asked for that. The other patron finished his drink and headed to the door, leaving two dead soldiers in his wake. He and the bartender waved quickly to one another, but he made no attempt to pay. This small event made Scott happy for some reason. It implied that this was a place where friends met and everyone knew and trusted one another. It didn’t occur to him that the customer might have already paid.
As he waited for his meal, Scott looked around the room. There really wasn’t any décor to speak of. So many of the establishments back home were decorated to look like traditional Irish, British, or German pubs (as if those were the only countries with authentic pubs), with dim lighting, dark wood panelling, ornate fixtures, and faux-heritage kitsch competing for wall space with big-screen TVs. Here, however, aside from the windows along the front wall, the only illumination was provided by a few fluorescent tubes that added a rather sickly greenish tinge to the pale-yellow walls, which were unadorned by any artwork or decorations. The windows had no coverings. The booth seats were upholstered with red faux leather. Grey duct tape covered the rips and cuts. The booth tables had chrome edges around wood tops that featured an assembly of initials, most of them in the square font peculiar to engravings gouged hastily with a pocket knife. The free-standing furniture in the middle of the room consisted of mismatched tables and what looked like kitchen chairs someone back home might have set out by the curb. He imagined this place had seen its share of brawls, a thought that contradicted his earlier assessment about everyone being friendly to one another.
The bartender brought his food and beer. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you. This looks great.”
“You from away?” she asked. Scott was surprised. She didn’t seem like the small-talk type. Perhaps she actually did know all her customers, and she was suspicious of strangers. Maybe he was being paranoid, but between the old man and the kid and now this bartender, it seemed like a lot of people had taken an interest in his presence.
“I live in Toronto,” replied Scott. “I’m just here for the summer.” He almost added apologetically, “I promise,” but refrained. “I rented a house on the coast about half an hour from here.”
“You might be the guy my kid told me about,” said the bartender.
“You mean Jackie?” asked Scott, more than a little surprised.
“Yeah,” said the bartender. “He told me he saw you on the beach yesterday, drawing something in a book.” So, Jackie is a boy, thought Scott.
Scott said, “I’m an artist. I’m here to get away from the city for a while and work on a series of seascape paintings.”
“So . . . you staying in the old McIntyre place?”
“Maybe,” said Scott. “But that’s not the name of the people I rented it from.”
“Yeah.” The bartender picked up the menu. “It’s been bought and sold a few times, but everyone still calls it the McIntyre place.”
“Do you live near there?” Before she could answer, Scott continued, “I guess you must if Jackie was out there on his own.”
“He stays with my dad when I’m here. I don’t think he gets much supervision, but it’s safe enough, I guess.”
Scott unwrapped the cutlery from the rolled paper napkin. “It’s funny. On the same day I met your son, an old man named Joe came to my door. He came by to check on me after the storm.”
“That’d be my dad and he wasn’t checking on you,” she said with a small laugh. “He was probably checking you out. He’s a nosy old coot.”
So, I’m not crazy, thought Scott. Joe was real.
Feeling he might have judged this woman too harshly, Scott said, “I’m Scott, by the way.”
“Emily,” she replied and extended her hand. Her grip renewed Scott’s earlier assessment that she shouldn’t be provoked. “Enjoy your meal. If you want anything else, just call.” With that, she disappeared into the kitchen and Scott didn’t see her again until he stood to indicate that he was ready to leave. When that didn’t get her attention, he knocked softly on the kitchen door. At the cash register, she told him the amount he owed, without benefit of a written bill. Scott paid her with cash, added a generous tip, thanked her by name and walked to the door as she went back into the kitchen. Neither of them said any more than necessary. It was as if their previous conversation had never taken place.
