“Now you starts hauling it back in, giving little tugs, like this, every few seconds. That’s jigging.” Then he whooped. “Got one.” He pulled the line rapidly in, then held up a huge fish.
“That’s a cod?” I had imagined something the size of the battered fish from the takeout.
“I’ve caught bigger.” He unhooked it and threw it in the blue plastic bucket beside him. Then he threw his line back overboard again, spooling it through his fingers, and repeated the process, hauling up another fish. I managed to untangle my line and throw it overboard while Doug was busy with his catch.
“You got any yet?” he asked.
“Maybe there’s no more fish around here,” I said.
“There’s enough fish in this ocean to last ten lifetimes.”
I jiggled—jigged—my line every few seconds, my fingers stiff in the old gloves Doug had insisted I wear. The line felt heavy now, and harder to pull.
“You got one,” shouted Doug. “Haul ’er in.”
As the fish breached the surface, I leaned over the side and pulled it in with both hands. Sea water dripped from my catch, landing on my sleeve.
“She’s a beaut,” Doug said. “Lucille will be some pleased. That’s your dinner sorted.”
I looked at the fat mouth and dull eyes of the fish dangling from my hand. I barely managed to put it down before I retched repeatedly over the side of the boat. I slumped down, burying my face in my hands. But Doug couldn’t have been sweeter. He told me to put my head between my legs and take deep breaths until the queasiness passed.
“Plenty of fish on board now,” he said. “Probably time we heads home, if that’s okay with you.”
If it was obvious he was lying, I didn’t mind. I nodded and Doug started the engine and motored slowly back, talking aimlessly, somehow managing to never say anything that required a response. Back on shore I struggled out of the life jacket and overalls and sat down on the grassy hill while Doug cleaned and gutted the fish, whistling to himself. He handed one over; I didn’t ask how he knew it was mine.
“You all right to get back on your own?” he asked.
I nodded, then mumbled my thanks and headed up the hill towards Lucille’s.
“Rachel,” he called.
When I turned around, he said, “You done good.” He paused a beat, then added, “For a mainlander.”
6
The bathtub at Lucille’s was a large claw-footed beast. I topped up the hot water twice, my toes resting on the tap, trying not to race through my novel. Unless I found a library soon, I’d be reading the Bible for pleasure at this rate. I reluctantly pulled the plug only after repeated shouts up the stairs from Lucille. When I descended, Our Lady of Perpetual Smoke was pacing up and down in the hall, practically chewing her cigarette.
“Jaysus, Mary and Josephine,” she said, her voice high. “What’s after taking you so long? It’s getting late.”
“For what?”
Her eyes widened and she forgot to exhale. After a prolonged bout of coughing, she wheezed, “Mass.”
I looked from Lucille’s frilled red blouse and black skirt to my ratty sweatpants and ran back upstairs. Dammit! The only time I’d been inside a church in the last five years was Dad’s funeral. But even a Catholic as lapsed as me should have realized that in a small community like Little Cove, there would be no escaping the Lord.
Lucille bellowed up the stairs. “We needs to go.”
I grabbed my trench coat. It could hide a multitude of sins, as Mom would say. And God knows I had plenty of those as far as the Church was concerned.
Nothing was far away in Little Cove, so I drove slowly. Nonetheless, Lucille clung to the grab handle with one hand and braced herself on the dashboard with the other. I glanced across at her hair. The curlers were gone, replaced by a tall curly mound, the hairspray on it glistening like dew. A tornado wouldn’t shift it.
The wooden doors of the church were propped open and the small parking lot was full. Lucille blessed herself as we came level with the church, then gestured to a small lay-by on the roadside.
“Park there, luh. That’s for stragglers. We’ll not leave it so late next Sunday.”
We hurried up the steps, slipping in just ahead of Phonse, who was closing the doors. “Evening, ladies,” he said, winking. Lucille scowled at him and I regretted my role in this minor embarrassment.
The central aisle was heavily scuffed; the wooden pews on either side were mostly full. I tried to slink into the back row, but Lucille prodded me on towards the front. Students were dotted throughout the congregation, the younger ones sitting with parents, the older teens pressed in together at the back. I looked straight ahead, but from the corner of my eye, I could see elbows poking ribs and heads tilting in our direction.
We were getting so close to the front of the church that I decided Lucille must be heading for the altar to say Mass. But at the last minute, she steered me to the left and into the front pew. She creaked to her knees and I followed suit. I’d taken the job at St. Jude’s because I’d missed the entire Ontario recruitment process, having parked my job search when Dad got sick. I hadn’t given the Catholic angle much thought, not fully appreciating that it would necessitate regular attendance at Mass. I wasn’t sure I could handle a year of that and bowed my head to pray for a solution.
The organist began playing a vaguely familiar hymn and the congregation rose as one. I recognized the two altar boys walking solemnly up the aisle. Behind them was Sister Mary Catherine, holding the Bible like a shield. A fat priest, in full regalia, brought up the rear.
During the service, I mumbled half-remembered prayers and responses. Periodically I glanced around.
