 
DAVID SHATH SQUARE Chapter Seven
NOBODY WAS IN A MOOD to party as the Swede coaxed the truck along the berm. I was sandwiched between him and Thoreena on the front seat. Thoreena jabbed me in the ribs a couple of times. She seemed edgy. Something important was on her mind, but she was saving it for later when the Swede wasn't around. In the excitement, I had completely forgotten our earlier conversation. I tried to relax but every time I did the truck hit a bump.
When we rolled into the Pointe, I was glad to get out of the truck. The Swede had driven to the machine shed so we could report the accident. The machinist, Bud Craven, took one look at our motley crew and burst out laughing. My father said Craven was one of the meanest men God ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the Earth. Ravin' Craven, as he was known behind his back, liked to get shitface drunk and shoot animals just for the thrill of killing something. My father only hunted for food. He said everything God put on the Earth was sacred and should be respected.
Ravin' Craven didn't respect anything or anybody. He was built like a bulldog and kind of resembled one: watery eyes, jowls, creased forehead, and a flat face. The type of guy who was an asset on a football team as long as you didn't have to fraternize with him after the games.
"Well, looks as if you boys had a little accident," said Craven. "Where's grandpa Stricker? Did the old blowhard finally get himself killed."
"Shut up, Mr. Craven," said Lee Chang.
"What did you say to me, Chink?" said Craven, who stepped directly in front of Lee Chang. "Maybe I should cut off those pigtails you're sportin' and feed 'em to my pigs?"
Lee Chang stood his ground, even though he was several inches shorter and 50 pounds lighter than Craven. The two men stared at each other: Lee Chang's composure was disconcerting to Craven, whose victims usually ran away after looking into his crazy eyes.
The staring match was interrupted by Craven's assistant, Myron Mann. Soft spoken, well mannered and capable, everyone knew that Mann did most of the work in the machine shop, even though Craven was in charge. Myron was tall and slender with flowing blond hair. He was more beautiful than handsome. Some folks compared him to the Swede in his youth without the broad shoulders.
Myron stepped between the two antagonists and attempted to calm Craven by talking quietly, as a mother soothes an angry child. But Craven was not to be assuaged; he punched Myron in the solar plexis; the beautiful man hit the ground like a swan shot in flight.
Craven stepped over Myron and threw a left hook at Lee Chang. The Chinaman dodged with ease and was about to throw a punch of his own when Thoreena stepped into the fight. She decked Craven with a roundhouse right.
"Glass jaw," she said, inspecting her bruised knuckles.
Suddenly everybody was laughing. It had been a long day and the spectacle of Craven knocked out by Thoreena was a great tension reliever. Men were doubled over with laughter, some gasping for breath. Others had tears in their eyes.
My father walked over to Myron and helped him to his feet. He wrapped his arms around my father's shoulders and for a moment the two of them looked like a couple on a dance floor. Myron was a head taller than my father but less broad through the shoulders. I had a vision of a tall blond woman dancing with a shorter male partner. I don't know why, but all of a sudden I wanted to get away.
Thoreena caught me by the wrist before I was out the back door. She looked serious and I had a feeling we were about to have meaningful conversation.
We walked toward my grandfather's house in silence. Behind us, I could hear the men calling to each other as they broke up into groups and started toward their own homes. I remember my father calling to me that he would take Myron home to make sure he was okay after the gut punch. "I'll meet you at the house later," he yelled, but I didn't answer.
Thoreena and I walked down a steep hill. The sides of the path were lined with ash seedlings my grandfather had planted the year before. The schoolyard was on our right and as we walked the four o'clock bell rang and kids began to run across the play ground. At the bottom of the hill, we turned right onto the river path. The left fork led to the power plant. I could hear the hum of generators and see the water churn as it exhausted from the turbines at the base of the concrete building.
On the other side of the plant, there was a forebay to collect water before it fell into the turbines. Two years ago, Dean Potter was killed while swimming in the forebay. We tried to warn him off, but he wanted to impress his girlfriend with his powerful crawl stroke. As it turned out, the strongest swimmer at the Pointe was no match for the undercurrent that sucked him into the turbines. The searchers never found his body.
We followed the river road for a half mile until we reached my grandfather's house. It was more a cottage than a house built on a granite cliff that overlooked the Winnipeg River. From the verandah, the dam was visible to the north, spanning the river for a half a mile; millions of tons of water funneled through the gates and cascaded down granite boulders to rejoin the main river.
When he wasn't working a shift at the power plant, my grandfather sat on the porch and stared at the river. He said LaVerendrye and his friend Gooseberry had traveled this way to the rich fur trade routes of the West.
Thoreena and I sat on the verandah and listened to the distant thunder of water pouring over the dam. My dog, Shadow, a black Newfie, scratched a the screen door, demanding to be let in. When I opened the door, he jumped up, placed his big paws on my shoulders and began to slobber kisses all over my face. Then he did the same to Thoreena. He was a very affectionate dog, but he didn't know his own size or strength. He thought he was still a puppy even though he was six-years-old.
When Shadow had finally settled at my feet, a whiskey jack landed on the bird feeder my father had put in the branches of a red pine. The tree grew from the base of the granite cliff and towered over the roof of the cottage. The bird chattered when it discovered the feeder was empty. I got up to refill the feeder but Thoreena said "Sit down, Hardy", and I knew the there was nothing for it but to sit and listen.
"Hardy, do you know how babies are made?"
"Of course," I scoffed, "my father told me that birds and bees stuff." Actually, I had watched some kittens being born. My father had been too embarrassed to explain sex, although he did try, once. It was one area of my home schooling sadly lacking.
"That's good," said Thoreena, "so I don't have to explain what it means when a girl is late for her period?"
I burst out laughing. "Of course not. What do you take me for, a kid?"
"Well, Hardy, I'm late for my period."
"That's wonderful news," I ventured, "I couldn't be happier for you, Thoreena."
Thoreena looked at me, astonished.
"Do you really mean that?"
"Of course I mean it. I want you to be happy."
"I didn't think you would be so understanding. I'm proud of you Hardy."
"Hey, don't worry about it," I said, feeling important and generous. Until I noticed Thoreena had this inward-looking, girl-type smile on her face; very uncharacteristic of her.
"If it's a girl we'll call her, Hilda. And if it's a boy, we'll call him Hardy, after his father," Thoreena said.
Suddenly I had a feeling that something was very wrong: that somehow I was missing a critical piece of information concerning our conversation.
To Chapter eight
Copyright © 1998 David Square/Log Cabin Chronicles/1.98 |
