Mary Margaret was what islanders called a sturdy woman, big boned and husky with muscular forearms and an overall build more suited to driving rails than delicacy. She could out drink, out curse, and out fight almost any man in the village - and often did on summer Saturday nights - when the week's work was over and done. She kept a store of homebrew in the root cellar just for the occasion.
After her common law husband had tripped and fallen down those very dimly lit steps one chilly winter night and died of a broken neck - he'd been a mean drunk and a sorry son of a bitch by most accounts - Mary Margaret planted him and moved on, raising four sons on hard work, whiskey, and a small government pension.
Hell raisers all, so folks said but never to her face or their's as the boys tended to travel in a loud, defiant pack, ragged and poor and ill tempered, and their mother - who stood just over six foot in her stocking feet - made impressive figures.
Gawddam, if those boys aren't bigger'n most houses, Uncle Shad remarked to my grandmother.
Come to a bad end, they will, Nana agreed sourly, Jist like they's daddy.
Uncle Shad snapped a kitchen match with one practiced, toughened thumbnail and it burst into flame with a bright, sulphury-y hiss.
There be some still say he didn't fall, he said mildly and exhaled a stream of silvery smoke.
Reckon so, my grandmother nodded, But sayin' and provin' ain't even related.
Don't 'spose, Shad allowed, but gawddam, ain't those boys big as trees.
On the morning the sturdy woman came to our back door, looking like the wrath of God and blotting out the sun with her sheer size, I liked to swallow my gum in fear. Nana gave me a brisk clap on the back before chasing me off with a Shut yer mouth, child, you'll catch flies low growl.
Got me an errand in Digby, Missus, Mary Margaret muttered, Heard tell you was goin' come Sat'day. Wondrin' if you'd oblige me.
It was a common enough request as anyone making a trip to the mainland always traveled with a list of places to stop or things to pick up for others in the village - liquor from the province-run liquor store mostly - but also fabrics or small machine parts, veterinary drugs or packages too big for the mail car. Once Uncle Willie and Uncle Shad had loaded a second hand pump organ for the Baptist church into the back of a pickup truck and worried it all the way back. And once they'd transported a carefully wrapped grave marker from Jayne's Funeral Home, coaxing John Sullivan to ride in the back and keep watch over it.
Ain't gon' do that a second time, Long John had told Nana with a curiously fragile shudder, Give me the fidgets somethin' fierce to ride sixty miles with a tombstone.
So Nana smiled and nodded and took down her little notebook from its hook by the back door, neatly wrote Mary Margaret's name and looked up expectantly. The sturdy woman shifted from one foot to the other, big hamhock hands jammed into the pockets of her overalls, eyes looking everywhere but at my grandmother. It was an odd stand off and Nana waited patiently.
Prob'ly wants her to pick up a body, my little brother hissed in my ear, surprising me into a muffled shriek and earning us one of Nana's patented, narrow-eyed warning glances. Mary Margaret didn't seem to notice.
Mary? Nana asked encouragingly, What is it you need?
Got me a letter, Mary Margaret said finally, producing a folded over and dirt stained envelope from her back pocket, It's private like. Don't rightly trust the mail. She handed it over hesitantly and Nana took it. For a moment it hung there, half in my grandmother's well cared for hands, half in Mary Margaret's overworked ones.
Then, as if it might bite, Mary Margaret let go.
I'm obliged to you, Missus, she said in a softer tone and then the screen door slammed and she was gone.
Burning with curiosity, my brother and I descended on Nana like locusts - we'd seen her eyes widen when she looked at the grimy envelope and read the address - but she'd have none of it. She waved us off and tucked the envelope into her apron pocket.
Not your business, she said tartly, not your burden. Go before I decide to take you both to the woodshed for listenin' at keyholes!
This being no idle threat, we went.
By Saturday we'd all but forgotten about Mary Margaret's mysterious letter. Nana made no mention of it as we all piled into the old Lincoln and nothing out of the ordinary happened until we were on our way home and without a word of explanation, made an unscheduled stop of the headquarters of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
I'll be back directly, she said, pulling into a vacant space, Stay put and behave.
But Nana.......we started to protest and she silenced us with a fierce glare.
Curiosity killed the cat, she told us abruptly, slung her purse over her elbow and marched toward the official looking and slightly intimidating building.
Somebody's in trouble now! my little brother whooped and gave me a sharp dig in the ribs. I shoved back and called him a nasty name and my mother turned in her seat and clapped her palms together sharply.
That's enough! my mother snapped angrily and clapped her palms together, They have special cells for children who don't do as they're told!
I was old enough to recognize that this was a tactic but my little brother cowered at once, curling himself into a ball against the passenger door, white faced and looking close to tears. Feeling guilty, I shook my head at him and patted his shoulder, mouthing No, they don't. He shivered and uncertainly reached for my hand. The ride home was quieter than usual and although nothing was said, I sensed trouble brewing between my mother and grandmother and was sure it had to do with Mary Margaret and the letter but it would be another few days before the trouble bubbled to the surface and spilled over like an unwatched pot.
Ruthie and I were in the playhouse, serving imaginary tea to the dogs and a collection of imaginary guests, when the official RCMP sedan came cruising slowly down the gravel driveway. We watched breathlessly as two officers in their familiar traditional uniforms - red shirts with brass buttons, dark trousers, shiny boots and stiff-brimmed hats - knocked politely at the back door and were ushered inside. Half an hour or so later, we watched them leave, heading further down The Point, and in our best stealth mode, we crept through the tall grass and across Aunt Lizzie's back pasture to a vantage point just beyond the barn. The sedan pulled slowly into Mary Margaret's rutted driveway, raising a small cloud of dust and sending a flock of scavenging chickens scattering in all directions. Their indignant protesting was loud but not loud enough to drown out Ruthie's sudden sneeze and one of the mounties casually looked our way before calling out a dry humored Gesundheit!
A well trained and polite child, she immediately called back Thank you! and then covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide with shock at what she'd done.
Oh, hellfire and cracker crap! she gasped, They know we're here!
Run! I yelled, barely conscious of the mounties laughing in the background. We took hands and ran for all we were worth, plowing through the high grass blindly and fully expecting to be chased and apprehended.
I can't be arrested! Ruthie cried with big tears running down her pale cheeks, I'll get a whippin' if I ain't home for supper!
For whatever childish reason, this made perfect sense to me.
Just run! I hollered back, Make for the woodshed!
We hid out with the kindling, the spiders and the woodbugs the rest of the afternoon and when the factory whistle blew at four, crept out and made our way through the back pasture to Uncle Shad's, across Uncle Willie's strawberry field to the Old Road and finally to the square. Two little girls in tattered and dusty overalls with their faces smeared from dirt and wood shavings might've raised questions if the entire village hadn't been so scandalized by the news that the mounties had discovered no trace of Mary Margaret or her four big-as-trees sons, that the house was cold, dirty, and empty. Not a solitary soul would admit to having seen them since Saturday.
There's only one way off this island, the mounties had allegedly told Cap, They had to cross, wouldn't you say.
Ay-uh, the ferry boat captain had nodded, Be hard to miss'em, I reckon. Them boys be as big as gawddam brick sh....big as trees, they be. But they ain't crossed on my boat and that's a God given fact.
Maybe they swam, one of the mounties suggested with a slight sneer.
Mebbe they did, Cap allowed impassively, Reckon you gon' drag the passage? Current's mighty strong this time of year, even for a sturdy woman like Mary Margaret.
The mounties left empty handed and the scandal, unfed, thirty years in the past and nowhere to go, died down by Labor Day. The rumor that Mary Margaret's letter had been a confession to the killing of a mean drunk and a sorry son of a bitch stayed a rumor. No one mentioned the second rumor, that four young boys who hadn't always been the size of trees might've had enough of their daddy's abuse and done a little housecleaning on their own.
The truth, J. K. Rowling wrote, is a beautiful and terrible thing. It should be treated with caution.
Uncle Shad snapped a kitchen match with one practiced, toughened thumbnail and it burst into flame with a bright, sulphury-y hiss.
There be some still say he didn't fall, he said mildly and exhaled a stream of silvery smoke.
Reckon so, my grandmother nodded, But sayin' and provin' ain't even related.
Don't 'spose, Shad allowed, but gawddam, ain't those boys big as trees.
On the morning the sturdy woman came to our back door, looking like the wrath of God and blotting out the sun with her sheer size, I liked to swallow my gum in fear. Nana gave me a brisk clap on the back before chasing me off with a Shut yer mouth, child, you'll catch flies low growl.
Got me an errand in Digby, Missus, Mary Margaret muttered, Heard tell you was goin' come Sat'day. Wondrin' if you'd oblige me.
It was a common enough request as anyone making a trip to the mainland always traveled with a list of places to stop or things to pick up for others in the village - liquor from the province-run liquor store mostly - but also fabrics or small machine parts, veterinary drugs or packages too big for the mail car. Once Uncle Willie and Uncle Shad had loaded a second hand pump organ for the Baptist church into the back of a pickup truck and worried it all the way back. And once they'd transported a carefully wrapped grave marker from Jayne's Funeral Home, coaxing John Sullivan to ride in the back and keep watch over it.
Ain't gon' do that a second time, Long John had told Nana with a curiously fragile shudder, Give me the fidgets somethin' fierce to ride sixty miles with a tombstone.
So Nana smiled and nodded and took down her little notebook from its hook by the back door, neatly wrote Mary Margaret's name and looked up expectantly. The sturdy woman shifted from one foot to the other, big hamhock hands jammed into the pockets of her overalls, eyes looking everywhere but at my grandmother. It was an odd stand off and Nana waited patiently.
Prob'ly wants her to pick up a body, my little brother hissed in my ear, surprising me into a muffled shriek and earning us one of Nana's patented, narrow-eyed warning glances. Mary Margaret didn't seem to notice.
Mary? Nana asked encouragingly, What is it you need?
Got me a letter, Mary Margaret said finally, producing a folded over and dirt stained envelope from her back pocket, It's private like. Don't rightly trust the mail. She handed it over hesitantly and Nana took it. For a moment it hung there, half in my grandmother's well cared for hands, half in Mary Margaret's overworked ones.
Then, as if it might bite, Mary Margaret let go.
I'm obliged to you, Missus, she said in a softer tone and then the screen door slammed and she was gone.
Burning with curiosity, my brother and I descended on Nana like locusts - we'd seen her eyes widen when she looked at the grimy envelope and read the address - but she'd have none of it. She waved us off and tucked the envelope into her apron pocket.
Not your business, she said tartly, not your burden. Go before I decide to take you both to the woodshed for listenin' at keyholes!
This being no idle threat, we went.
By Saturday we'd all but forgotten about Mary Margaret's mysterious letter. Nana made no mention of it as we all piled into the old Lincoln and nothing out of the ordinary happened until we were on our way home and without a word of explanation, made an unscheduled stop of the headquarters of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
I'll be back directly, she said, pulling into a vacant space, Stay put and behave.
But Nana.......we started to protest and she silenced us with a fierce glare.
Curiosity killed the cat, she told us abruptly, slung her purse over her elbow and marched toward the official looking and slightly intimidating building.
Somebody's in trouble now! my little brother whooped and gave me a sharp dig in the ribs. I shoved back and called him a nasty name and my mother turned in her seat and clapped her palms together sharply.
That's enough! my mother snapped angrily and clapped her palms together, They have special cells for children who don't do as they're told!
I was old enough to recognize that this was a tactic but my little brother cowered at once, curling himself into a ball against the passenger door, white faced and looking close to tears. Feeling guilty, I shook my head at him and patted his shoulder, mouthing No, they don't. He shivered and uncertainly reached for my hand. The ride home was quieter than usual and although nothing was said, I sensed trouble brewing between my mother and grandmother and was sure it had to do with Mary Margaret and the letter but it would be another few days before the trouble bubbled to the surface and spilled over like an unwatched pot.
Ruthie and I were in the playhouse, serving imaginary tea to the dogs and a collection of imaginary guests, when the official RCMP sedan came cruising slowly down the gravel driveway. We watched breathlessly as two officers in their familiar traditional uniforms - red shirts with brass buttons, dark trousers, shiny boots and stiff-brimmed hats - knocked politely at the back door and were ushered inside. Half an hour or so later, we watched them leave, heading further down The Point, and in our best stealth mode, we crept through the tall grass and across Aunt Lizzie's back pasture to a vantage point just beyond the barn. The sedan pulled slowly into Mary Margaret's rutted driveway, raising a small cloud of dust and sending a flock of scavenging chickens scattering in all directions. Their indignant protesting was loud but not loud enough to drown out Ruthie's sudden sneeze and one of the mounties casually looked our way before calling out a dry humored Gesundheit!
A well trained and polite child, she immediately called back Thank you! and then covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide with shock at what she'd done.
Oh, hellfire and cracker crap! she gasped, They know we're here!
Run! I yelled, barely conscious of the mounties laughing in the background. We took hands and ran for all we were worth, plowing through the high grass blindly and fully expecting to be chased and apprehended.
I can't be arrested! Ruthie cried with big tears running down her pale cheeks, I'll get a whippin' if I ain't home for supper!
For whatever childish reason, this made perfect sense to me.
Just run! I hollered back, Make for the woodshed!
We hid out with the kindling, the spiders and the woodbugs the rest of the afternoon and when the factory whistle blew at four, crept out and made our way through the back pasture to Uncle Shad's, across Uncle Willie's strawberry field to the Old Road and finally to the square. Two little girls in tattered and dusty overalls with their faces smeared from dirt and wood shavings might've raised questions if the entire village hadn't been so scandalized by the news that the mounties had discovered no trace of Mary Margaret or her four big-as-trees sons, that the house was cold, dirty, and empty. Not a solitary soul would admit to having seen them since Saturday.
There's only one way off this island, the mounties had allegedly told Cap, They had to cross, wouldn't you say.
Ay-uh, the ferry boat captain had nodded, Be hard to miss'em, I reckon. Them boys be as big as gawddam brick sh....big as trees, they be. But they ain't crossed on my boat and that's a God given fact.
Maybe they swam, one of the mounties suggested with a slight sneer.
Mebbe they did, Cap allowed impassively, Reckon you gon' drag the passage? Current's mighty strong this time of year, even for a sturdy woman like Mary Margaret.
The mounties left empty handed and the scandal, unfed, thirty years in the past and nowhere to go, died down by Labor Day. The rumor that Mary Margaret's letter had been a confession to the killing of a mean drunk and a sorry son of a bitch stayed a rumor. No one mentioned the second rumor, that four young boys who hadn't always been the size of trees might've had enough of their daddy's abuse and done a little housecleaning on their own.
The truth, J. K. Rowling wrote, is a beautiful and terrible thing. It should be treated with caution.
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