Blackstrap Hawco by Kenneth J. Harvey Read Free Book Online

ghoul advanced. Paddy’s chest throbbed to his heartbeat as his eyes trailed after the creature. The sweat warming and chilling and creeping across his flesh. Ten more steps and it would pass right by the slats of Paddy’s fence.
    Paddy noticed that the axe had slipped out of his hand and fallen soundlessly into the snow. He should pick it up again, just in case, but he feared that his hand lacked the power to even grasp, let alone swing the axe should there be the need, and to bend forward now would leave him vulnerable where the creature might rush at him in a bolt of savage action, a deadly throat-gashing blur.
    The black flying smear circled back toward the graveyard, following after itself, the fading caw of a crow through the muffle of snowfall. The blizzard rose to a sudden, ferocious push of wind, nudging Paddy who kept watching, his face raw from the pelt of snow that thickened to a bluster before his eyes. He was not able to stand steady as the figure limped by; it was dark and white at once, snow frozen in clumps all over it, a hint of copper-coloured fur wound up around its face. Bushy and full of snow crystals, the fur seemed to move on its own, unwind from the face as though to let it breathe, then wind back.
    Growling, the creature passed no more than five feet in front of Paddy’s face, and continued descending the hill, dragging its slaughter behind it, until it neared the Hawco house and stood outside, watching the light from an upstairs window.

 
    Karen Hawco, Blackstrap Hawco’s second wife (who later kept the Hawco name despite the hardships associated with it), underwent a great transformation in 1992. Although the changes were severe, she assured me that they were necessary. After leaving Newfoundland in 1993, she returned seven years later, to care for her brother, Glenn, who was stricken with MS. When I spoke with her, in her home in Port de Grave, she told me it was only after surviving her much-publicized near-murder that she was able to truly come to grips with the psychological problems that had plagued her from early childhood.
    1992
    Cutland Junction, Newfoundland
    I
    The hole in Isaac Tuttle’s house
    â€˜â€™E be a crooked ol’ man like me.’ Jacob Hawco shifts in his chair. Eyes more on Karen than Blackstrap. The words for her. ‘Saucy as da black, Tuttle is, and da wors’ sort o’ Jew.’ His old hands are scarred. Weather-beaten. They grip the padded seat beneath him. Jerk it slightly forward. Closer to the steel table legs. ‘I’m telling ya, he’s rotten widt money. Miserable miser. ’E’d skin a louse fer a cent.’ He taps one set of fingertips on the tabletop. In beat with his words. Like a tune playing in his head. Always. ‘His father were a grand boat builder in ’is day, ’e could sneeze or spit a boat. ’E’d do dat when ’e weren’t shovelling coal. His fadder’s fadder were da bastard o’ some missionary went sail’n up ’n down da coast a hundred year ago.’ Jacob’s clear blue eyes brighten. He tugs lightly on the bill of his baseball cap. Winks. Lifts his mug of tea with both hands. Cherubs painted on the mug. Brings the rim to his lips. A saucy boyish grin. He slurps with relish and wishes that his wife were there to chide him. If only it were possible. He slurps again. Her name?He tries to remember. Slurps to summon it. Casts a look at Blackstrap’s wife, Karen. That’s not her name. His wife. His son’s wife. But she has not noticed. Too busy loading the dishwasher. Not that she ever cared one way or the other. Ever. Not now, in these years. That woman. What was her name? He looks at the tabletop. Thinks hard on something. Then forgets. Nothing anyway to remember.
    Blackstrap Hawco shuts the refrigerator door. Steps up to the table. His heavy boots against linoleum flooring. Hollow sounding underneath. He sets down his beer bottle. Rolls