Instead (Dovetail Cove, 1979) (Dovetail Cove Series) Read online

  Instead

  a novella by

  Jason McIntyre

  Published by The Farthest Reaches

  Copyright © 2017 Jason McIntyre

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Fiction titles by Jason McIntyre

  On The Gathering Storm

  Thalo Blue

  Walkout

  Mercy and the Cat

  Black Light of Day: A Collection

  Nights Gone By: A Collection

  The Night Walk Men: A Novella

  The Devil’s Right Hand: A Night Walk Men Novel

  Corinthian: A Night Walk Men Story

  Kro: A Night Walk Men Story

  Dovetail Cove titles by Jason McIntyre

  1. Deathbed (Dovetail Cove, 1971)

  2. Bled (Dovetail Cove, 1972)

  3. Fled (Dovetail Cove, 1973)

  4. Redhead (Dovetail Cove, 1974)

  5. Zed (Dovetail Cove, 1975)

  6. Unwed (Dovetail Cove, 1976)

  7. Shed (Dovetail Cove, 1977)

  8. Dread (Dovetail Cove, 1978)

  9. Instead (Dovetail Cove, 1979)

  - 10. [COMING SOON] (Dovetail Cove, 1980) -

  Learn more about the author and his work at:

  www.theFarthestReaches.com

  Dovetail Cove

  January 1, 1979

  Part I

  A Fresh Start

  1.

  This late in the afternoon, the Pontiac Brougham’s icy blue matched the hue of fresh snow along the side of the road and clinging to the naked trees. The lane out to Grandpa Danny’s place was not well-used, but Farrah knew it from memory—even though she’d mostly traversed it on her bike when she was a girl. This moment read like a page from her mental scrap book, in spite of the strange, seldom-seen layer of bluish-white covering it all. Snow lasting a whole day? That, she had rarely seen on the island. The drive out this morning had given her time to think, to reflect. And now, on the way back, it carried the warmth of home anew, even against the coolness of her passenger’s mood and the crisp air on the other side of her car window.

  This was Grandpa Danny’s new car, bought and paid for, he’d told her. What happens if I ding the door, she’d asked. I’ll let it slide, he’d told her with a wink, followed by a coughing spell. But you won’t, he’d added when he recovered enough to speak again. Another wink, and with that, Farrah had felt just fine about borrowing the car for the day.

  The Brougham was a lovely carriage, all plush and smooth, like a limousine, even if the size of it made Farrah feel like she was piloting a boat. She’d left the island on the ferry for the mainland early this morning. Stopped for a light lunch before picking up her quiet passenger and then getting back on the mid-afternoon return cruise. She was heading for home, even though she hadn’t lived island-side for two years now.

  When you’re only twenty, two years feels like a lifetime to be away. Farrah wondered how her passenger registered a ten-year absence. If two years was a lifetime, then a decade gone like smoke was an eternity. She looked in the rearview at the thin, frail woman in the Brougham’s plush backseat with her arms crossed over her chest and resting one temple on the window glass. She could have been bound up in a straightjacket, the way she was holding herself, Farrah thought. And she hadn’t said more than a few words all afternoon. Now, the woman—forty this coming year, Farrah knew—stared out her window with soft focus, seeming to let the movement of the trees blur for her. On the glass, her shallow breath had made a patch of fogged condensation. It grew gently and diminished, then did that over and over again. Farrah took her eyes from the vista of her silent mother and put them back where they belonged: the off-white roadway on her way to Grandpa Danny’s place, east of town, and a bit further north.

  She thought she heard Mom say something, a tiny blurt of a word, almost a whisper. She glanced in the rearview mirror but Mom hadn’t moved. And she wasn’t looking anywhere but off in the distance.

  The Brougham passed a small clearing. Out at the far side of the snow-covered gap, next to the frosted trees, a pack of animals was moving away from the road. To Farrah, it looked like Grandpa Danny’s old lab, Barrington. Couldn’t be, though, Farrah thought as she rounded a bend. The white-coated trees took up residence closer to the edge of the lane again, blocking the view of that disappearing pack in quick strobe flashes of far versus near, light versus dark. The sun was low in the sky over those trees now, and as Farrah turned her full attention back to the winding lane that led to Grandpa’s place, she thought she knew the blurted word that her mother had used.

  The engine hummed. The tires spun on the mix of chewed asphalt, gravel and ice.

  One last glimpse back at her mom. The thin woman’s eyes didn’t deviate from their empty stare at the nothingness of a million frosted tree branches and the spot where maybe Grandpa’s lab had been frolicking with some pals. Her eyes gaped as if they could peer through the knotted thicket and suss out the pack. The pair of those portholes matched the late afternoon snow of this eastern half of the island. Matched the Brougham too. An unblinking, steady and resolute icy blue.

  Like a child, the woman had said, “Puppies.”

  2.

  The Brougham pulled into the Hellegarde drive at about half-past four. The island would usually see a few snowfalls each winter, but hardly ever did they stay the night. Farrah remembered once or twice as a girl when a snow would last the whole day without melting off. Today was a third such time. It had been coming down last night and there it remained in the morning when she’d headed out from Grandpa’s place in his new car. She was surprised to see it had lasted. When she got out of the heated cab, she knew why. The temperature had stayed low. It bit her lungs with her first breath and she coughed.

  Grandpa Danny had come out onto the front porch and was ambling down the slick steps. She wanted to tell him to wait there, that she didn’t want him slipping. But she knew he was anxious. He’d not seen his grown daughter in years. “Kathy!” he called as he made his way down and out on to the drive. Farrah couldn’t help smiling, but then she saw the look of strain in his reddened face. She reached for his elbow but he brushed her aside. “Kathy,” he said again and went to the Brougham’s back door to let his daughter out.

  She stood, unfolding from the back seat like a set of wrinkles being instantly smoothed. Farrah remained stolid, quietly in wait. Kathy blinked back against either the cold or a tear and then cracked an obligatory smile at her father.

  “How are you, my lovely little lady?” That was Danny’s pet name for his only daughter, had been since long before Farrah had come along, she knew that.

  A pause and then Kathy said, “Come on Dad, you know how I feel about Mondays.”

  The two of them broke into a shared peal of laughter.

  Danny threw his arms around his daughter and all the coolness bled away. Farrah felt it leave instantly. It was New Year’s Day. Mom was finally home too.

  3.

  The sun was gone before five. Farrah took one longing look out the kitchen window while she poured a pitcher of tap water for supper. Blackness now, the twilight had not lingered. Mom had retreated to the den and curled up on Grandpa Danny’s leather club chair under an afghan. Like she had in the Brougham on the drive, she now
stared vacantly into the empty darkness beyond her father’s den window. This wasn’t the house she’d grown up in, but Farrah was sure flavours of her childhood home lived all over it. Farrah didn’t think Grandpa ever threw anything out. Certainly, that club chair was older than she.

  Across from her at the kitchen island, Danny cut vegetables and put them into a bubbling pot on the stove. He glanced across the house and through the foyer to his daughter in the den, looking over the top rim of his reading glasses, which he had put on to see one of his wife’s filthy cookbooks. Grandma Kit had been gone since Farrah was a girl. She, the only grandchild, had always called her Granny Kit. Danny was the last remaining of her grandparents. Both her dad’s parents had been gone for years by now and when she’d gotten to Danny’s in December for the Christmas break, she’d noted how thin he was.

  Her mom coughed and Danny appeared as if he was going to say something, then thought better of it. He’d never been a vocal man, as Farrah recalled, despite what her dad had always claimed. But then she’d never seen him take a nip either, and Police Chief Birkhead—Danny’s son-in-law—had told Farrah the older man drank like a fish and used to knock both Kathy and her mother around. Happened too many times to count, Dad had told Farrah.

  Danny opened his oven and checked on the roast. Farrah put the clouded pitcher at the centre of the handmade oak table. It started to clear up. Farrah wiped her hands on the apron she wore. It was Granny Kit’s sunflower and blue one. It smelled of must and grease, but Farrah didn’t mind. She always wore it when she came to stay with Grandpa Danny. She knew he’d never throw it out. But she wondered how many more years she’d be coming.

  “How’s Dad?” Danny asked as he basted the roast. Farrah knew the old man almost never cooked. He probably lived off handfuls of pretzels and TV dinners. There were cases of empty beer bottles stacked up in the back entry. A paper grocery sack full of medication vials was in there too.

  “Good,” Farrah said. “You know how December is around here. Quiet. Couple fights down on Beacon Street, Fridays and Saturdays. The odd squabble here or there, but nothing like high season.” She meant tourist season. Here on Deus Island, it began with May Day and usually chimed out at the end of August, or, on some years, pushed into September. Those months were rowdier for the police chief, but nowhere near what they were back when Dovetail Cove and Neckline Beach were tourist destinations for British Columbians, Washingtonians and Oregonians who wanted the beach life for a few weeks.

  Farrah knew darn well that her grandpa didn’t give two hoots about the well-being of her dad. He was just filling the space with talk. If it was strange for Farrah to be back island-side after two years away, it was surely odd for Danny Hellegarde to have both his granddaughter and his daughter in his house. He was doing everything he could to get through this, to get used to it, to make it a place that his girls wanted to be. Even so, it must have been the strangest thing for a man who’d lived alone since Granny Kit had died fourteen or fifteen years ago.

  4.

  “Time for supper,” Danny called to his grown daughter who sat with her feet curled up under her mother’s afghan on her dad’s leather club chair.

  A pause from Kath. No flinch but then she blinked, as though a tear was ready to come and she didn’t want it to. “I saw Baz,” she said, almost so inaudible that Danny wasn’t sure she’d said it. He set the plates down on the table while Farrah started bringing cutlery.

  Danny went to the foyer, getting closer so he could aim his good ear closer to his daughter in the den across from the dining room. “What’s that you say?” he asked, squinting to concentrate on the coming answer.

  Again, there was an awkward moment of nothingness.

  “I thought Bazzy was gone,” Kath said at last. “But I saw him out there. In the snow.”

  Danny’s face broke from its strain as he was able to decode what she meant. “Nuh,” he said, turning back to the kitchen and dining room. “Bazzy’s still with me. He’s a good boy…but he’s getting up there. Can’t hardly see.” Danny started placing plates at the three spots on the table. “Hardly leaves the yard anymore.”

  He looked back up at Kath, who still hadn’t moved. She only stared out the den window as if Barrington, the golden lab, was out there now. She’d started calling the dog Baz, or Bazzy for short, long before she’d gone away. He must be pushing fifteen or sixteen by now and was the latest (and likely last) in a long lineage of labs that her dad had kept.

  “Come to the table, Little Lady,” Danny said at last.

  “Not hungry,” Kath said.

  Danny pushed it only once more. He said, “It’s gonna get cold.” But when Kath sat in continued silence—only kept that stare locked on the window glass before her, watching the world get darker—Danny said nothing further.

  He shrugged to Farrah and the two of them sat down to eat. No grace was said, hadn’t been said in this house in more than a decade. Kathy’s plate sat plain and empty. Farrah had some roast, and though it was delicious, best home cooking she’d had in months, she didn’t take a second helping and only ate about half of her first. She thought of calling out to her mom again, thought of reminding her what the doc had told her—that she needed to take her pill with food. But Farrah thought better of it.

  This was a massive change for Mom. This was coming home after being away for years and years. To push her might mean she’d have a setback. Farrah would never let that happen. This was too big, having mom back at home—well, as close to Farrah’s home as could be, given everything—was what she’d been hoping for since she was a girl. Farrah felt the importance. Danny gave her a regrettable smile as he chewed slowly, silently. She knew Grandpa Danny felt it too.

  They cleared the dishes together and Danny started running hot sudsy water when they both heard the scritchy-scratch noise coming from the back door. Farrah jumped with a small start.

  Danny reached for a dishtowel to dry his hands, but Farrah said, “I got it, Gramps, you keep washing.” She gave her Grandpa a smile and that deflated some of the worry they both had felt at Mom not coming to the table to even try some supper.

  “Wipe his feet, towel’s there,” Danny said.

  Farrah went to the kitchen door and bent down as she opened it up. There was Bazzy, the greying pooch, with his yellowed teeth and stinky breath. He panted hard, as if he had been running. His grey-pink tongue lolled out. “Bazzy!” Farrah said as though she hadn’t seen him in a year. She of course had let him in and out a few times over the last couple of days. Grandpa Danny was desperate to be a good host and take care of everything. But his advancing years had slowed the man down. It was just easier for Farrah to help with the dog, wipe his feet, and do the bending over to fill Bazzy’s dish and water bowl.

  In her baby voice, Farrah said, “Did you make some friends? Did you? Big boy!”

  Still hovering in the doorway, Bazzy looked from Farrah over to Danny. He panted like he’d been running for an hour. At his age, that probably wasn’t even close to the case, but the dog sure sounded like it. One eye was milked over, and the other had a yellow sheen. Regardless, he sized up both Farrah and Danny, looking from the man to his granddaughter and back again, as if to say, “She’s still here?” Even still, the dog’s mouth hung open and his greying tongue wiggled. He looked like he was grinning, cheek to cheek.

  He finally made up his mind and came in. Farrah shut the door, shivered against the cool evening, then grabbed the ragged bath towel from the hook where Baz’s rarely-used leash hung, and started with his muddy front paws. “Atta boy,” she said and started rubbing his cold back. That was nice, he liked that. Maybe this gal wasn’t so bad.

  Baz snuffed at the air. He might have been catching the remnants of tonight’s roast, but he dutifully waited until Farrah had rubbed the mud from his paws before trotting slowly into the kitchen. If Danny was slowing down in his old age, Barrington Hellegarde had reached the lowest setting on his gas pedal.

  Farrah hung the so
iled towel back up for next time and turned back to Danny, catching him in the act of dropping some of the leftover roast heels in the dog’s food dish under the steaming dining room window.

  “Grandpa!” Farrah scolded, like she was six again and catching him with his tobacco tin after promising Grandma Kit he’d have none today.

  Again, he gave a shrug as if to say, “What’s the harm?”

  Baz went to the dish, and though it likely smelled delectable, he kept toddling on past it. Farrah knew the dog’s sniffer was still intact, even if his vision and knees didn’t work much at all anymore. That he’d miss the roast heels was a surprise. She noticed he had a bit of a limp in him after being out in the yard. It would go away, but right now he hobbled his way past the kitchen counter, the dining table, and out into the foyer. He went in the opposite direction of his bed in the living room and Farrah and Danny both followed him to see where he was headed.

  To the den. He’d smelled Kathy.

  And, lo and behold, Kathy finally snapped out of her séance with the outdoors. She turned to the dog ambling in towards her. Kath leaned forward and clapped her hands. Her smile grew to match the one that Baz wore. “Bazzy, my boy!” she said with gusto and breath behind her voice. “My good boy!” The dog made it to the club chair and dutifully sat at attention.

  She reached out and scrubbed at the dog’s head and, if Farrah could imagine it, the dog shut his glazed eyes against the scratches and seemed to grin even wider. He panted out a deep growl of pleasure. Danny and Farrah stood dumbfounded at the door to the den.

  Kath scratched and rubbed for a few moments, used both her hands to move up and down the dog’s thick, greying neck. She fussed at him and her voice dropped a bit. She was using all those words that Baz or any other pooch loved hear. All about how he was a good boy, and if he liked that, and if he’d been out chasing rabbits, and if he missed Kath, and how much Kath had missed Baz, and on and on.