By Blair Arsenault

PAUL leaned against the iron railing of the car ferry that sailed between New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. He followed the bobbing of a fishing boat running parallel a quarter-mile off the starboard side.

A fisherman piloted the lobster boat through three-foot swells to lobster traps or to an Island home port, the type of labour that Paul could admire only from a distance.

On an impulse, Paul waved. A flash of white, an acknowledging arm from the wheelhouse, surprised him. The exchange seemed meaningful. He’d never met the man, yet they shared this gesture linking lives on different courses.

Leaning more, Paul saw the Island’s red bluffs. Fields of green and tawny barley ran inland. Barricades of salt-burned fir clung by the coast. Beyond the ferry terminal and toll booths appeared homes, mostly white, modest and two-story. Paul imagined hearth fires, brewing tea and the aromas of home-made bread.

The rattle of liquid mixed with air from a Coke bottle broke his reverie. Ellen appeared beside him. She had the earthiness of a Bohemian gal, straight hair to her shoulders, a narrow face and chiseled features. Focusing her ocean-grey eyes on his brown, she pushed a hip against his. They’d met at a dance in New Brunswick. He studied for an English degree as she finished nursing school. She was taking him home to meet her family.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she asked, gathering her hair from her face.

“It’s a picture. Is it always this idyllic?”

“In the summer, but the winters are brutal -- lonely and cold. There’s the dock. Come on to the car.”

As the ferry trembled, its powerful pistons thrust into reverse, the captain inched its mass against the dock. The ship’s flank rubbed the pier with a scream of metal on wood. Then a ramp dropped open, and the cars were ushered off.

Paul had entered a new land. “We’re late,” he said, lowering a visor against the sun setting behind forest, silos and barns.

“No,” said Ellen. “At harvest time, sunlight matters, not numbers on clocks. Dad uses every second to bring in the hay. Besides, I’m taking you home, and they won’t eat without us. Is your interview at 10 tomorrow?”

“Yes, in the principal’s office.”

“See Mrs MacLean for a place to stay. She’s a few blocks from the high school. Her place is clean. I hear she can cook. Offer her $35 a week.”

Rectangular fields of limes and mint formed a quilt stitched by hedgerows and fences. On narrow roads and in fields, truck wagons loaded with hay-bales lumbered behind tractors. Barebacked boys, tanned and glistening, tossed and loaded the bales.

“It’s pastoral,” Paul thought aloud.

Ellen laughed. “They’re tired, Paul dear. They want showers and food. A tourist once pulled his RV to the side of the road and asked if he could take Dad’s picture. Dad kept on working.”

“What will your Dad think of an English major joining the family? Won’t I seem too urban?”

“Don’t worry. As long as you have a job by the time he marches me down the aisle, everything will be grand with Ben O’Connell. Oh, he has set-notions on work, and he’ll test your character.”

She smiled and patted Paul’s knee. “It’s haying season, so forget about sitting in the kitchen or reading. Look, there’s the farm now.”

Noticing a furrow of worry on his brow, she reached and squeezed his hand. “Everything will be okay, Mr Mitchell. They’ll love you or deal with me.”

Supper, a formal affair in the dining room, had rare china, silver and crystal on Irish linen. Ben and his son Richard ate quietly, listening to Paul and Ellen tell about the latest episodes in their lives, while Bess, a nervous woman, hastily delivered seconds of mashed potatoes and yellow beans. Over apple pie and tea, Ben picked up the conversation.

“Ellen says you want to be a teacher.”

“I’ve an interview tomorrow at the high school. I hope for a job there.”

“What do you want to teach?” asked Richard.

“I majored in literature, so English, if there’s an opening.”

“Literature,” mused Ben. The word fell softly from his lips. He showed no antagonism, but couldn’t decide where to take the conversation.

Paul shifted his gaze to Richard, a husky 24-year-old assailing a piece of pie.

“Do you work just on the farm, Richard?” Instantly, Paul regretted saying “just” as if such work fell short. But no one seemed to notice.

“I’m on the farm with Dad in the evenings and weekends, but I make a good living selling farm machinery for a company down the road. I drive a lot, especially at this time of year with machinery in the fields. Breakdowns happen, and the farmers need parts fast.”

“You make a buck on breakdowns then.”

“Yes, but you still need to know how people think. They want to believe you’re one of them.” He shrugged, a that’s-how-life-works gesture.

A shrewd farm boy with a winning personality, Richard evidently knew when to laugh, when to be serious and when to broach a sale, always carrying the credibility of muscled arms and calloused hands. He’d paid his farm dues.

After supper, Richard asked Paul to help with the barn work. Learning that the cobwebbed barn-ceiling supported tons of hay and straw, Paul climbed to the loft and helped to lug a few bales to burst open and spread as animal feed and bedding. Grain had to be crushed, fortified with growth stimulant, hauled to the troughs and mixed with water. Squealing swine and bawling cattle made conversation difficult. The old barn’s din and darkness dominated.

Eventually, Richard invited Paul to rest on a stool in the milk-room. From the rafters he pulled down a pint of rye, poured some into plastic cups, mixed it with water, and they sat to catch their breath.

Out of nowhere, Richard began: “Once in grade nine, I had to help Dad with the potatoes. I packed up and went for the door. Mr Callighan asked, ‘Where are you going?’ I told him, ‘I gotta help Dad with the potatoes this afternoon.’ Well, he wanted a note, and I said, ‘I’m old enough not to need notes.’ But he said, ‘Richard, you’ll miss work here.’ I told him, ‘I’ve real work on the farm,’ and I left.”

Confusion surrounded Paul like the squeals of pigs. What could he say? He looked about, uneasy, smothered by the animals’ cacophony and a suggestion that farming counted as work but school distracted. Evidently, education suited the idle, and he was an academic talking to a man he’d never really understand, taking a crash course in meaningful labor.

“Do you read much, Richard?”

“Not since grade nine,” said Richard, flicking dregs from his cup onto the floor. “Let’s finish here. We have a sow about ready to pig, and I want to check the heat lamp. Grab that bucket of water.”

Richard followed, amazed at the water’s weight, wincing as the wire handle bit into his soft palms. He didn’t let Richard see him shift the bucket from hand to hand.

At the far end of the barn, he joined Richard and Ben silhouetted against the heat lamp’s red glow.

“WHY do we need to know this?” asked the red-haired boy slouched at the back of the class. His legs jutted into the aisle.

At the blackboard, Paul had explained how verbs shift tenses. “Because it’ll be on the test, if you care,” he replied, bearing down with authority. “In the larger world, in business for example, people know language. Grammar mistakes cause confusion and cost money. Some students here will enter that world.”

Paul knew that he poked at the student’s ego. No academic, the boy had deemed English to be tedious.

The burly student spoke: “I’m not moving away.”

Paul retorted. “Where you live isn’t the world.”

“It’s this world.”

Fingering a piece of chalk, Paul looked out the window. Maybe his adversary had scored a point.

IN the O’Connell attic, a sagging bed with a huge headboard snuggled against the east wall. The smell of age covered everything. Here lived the linens and satins of old ceremonies: a first-communion dress hung on a beam, near a wedding frock. Split-open shoes poked from boxes, as did old games and puzzles. Broken furniture leaned against walls, and musty school scribblers made a stack. An orange crate rested by a window.

After pulling a light cord, Paul walked a splash of moonlight to sit by the window.

The drone of an Argus sub-hunter filled the sky. Three miles to the east, parallel rows of white lights marked the runway at a military airbase. A searchlight swept the sky. Red, green, and blue lights adorned the hangers and tower.

Paul watched the plane descend and dip behind the rise, its red wing-lights winking out. He waited for the engines to be cut. For a few moments, silence prevailed.

Then a roar rose as the pilot powered the huge plane up and over the bay again. He must be a student learning to land. Probably his coach had spotted a technique problem. Maybe the wings weren’t level. Perhaps the speed seemed wrong.

From the attic hatch, a slash of light appeared. Ellen rose like a specter and walked the pale light to Paul’s side.

“Still awake? What’re you doing?”

“I’m watching that Argus. The pilot’s new and keeps needing to repeat his landing. I’m admiring the moon over the bay too.”

Turning, Paul saw her face alight in silver. “But it’s not as beautiful as you. How was the bridal shower?”

Ellen placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch relaxed him.

“I enjoyed myself. Some of my high-school girlfriends married local boys. They’re farm wives with babies already.” She kissed him and winked.

“You hussy,” he teased. “Someday I’ll teach their little farm boys – if I stay around and teach, which isn’t the same as working in this neck of the woods.”

“What do you mean ‘if’?”

“Sweetie, I’m not exactly Mr Popularity at the high school. I’m Mr Ivory Tower, the city mouse come to educate young country mice.”

Ellen’s brow furrowed. “I don’t mean you, Ellen.” He kissed her as reassurance and turned to the window.

The pilot gunned the Argus engines. He’d missed another landing. Lifting into the moon, he banked around for another try. Touching down was harder than lifting off. He needed to land just right between the rigid lines of lights, trying again for as long as necessary.

“Dad and Richard are good people. They’ll learn to love you as I do,” Ellen said. “You’ll be part of everything here soon enough. Give it time.”

“I’m on edge -- self-conscious or something,” Paul admitted.

She sat on his knee and kissed his forehead.

“I’m no farmer. I’ll live with that.”

Moments later, they watched blinking lights as the Argus slowly approached the runway. It descended over the rise, the wing-tip lights winking out. Silence ensued, leaving just their breathing.

Ellen stood, and Paul turned on the orange crate. His voice held the determination of a man setting his course.

“He’s down. He’s home.”


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