Tragedy At Foxe Island

The worst summer of my life thus began, coinciding with the makings of what might’ve otherwise turned into the best …

… as the wisest prophets among us know: the things which happen in our lives, that truly make a difference and turn the chapter, come always hasty, unexpected.

*****

The rugged island was a twenty-kilometre ellipse, mere few miles from mainland of the old capital. Fraught with woodlands, beaches, it was famed throughout the region in it dwarfed all cousin isles, was the first isle ever inhabited, and additionally achieved provincial acclaim in the form of a forty-year-old bake-shoppe. Not long ago, I’d lived and went to university in the city, and a previous summer been hired on thusly at Foxe Island Bakery during the season.

An aged islander named Phillip, sole, long-time proprietor of the renowned baked-goods store, had been the authority that hired me on. He’d told me his prerogative was to handle employment issues himself, in lieu of – as with other things – leaving them up to long-standing employees. I remember viz statement, that he always preferred to gauge rationale of prospective employees, before executing any to-do-with in the decision-making process. Thenceforth, supposedly in the case of myself, hiring came due acknowledgment I’d genuinely needed the work, that I seemed well-raised, and then not anything like post-secondary-hires of the past whom sought employment not for food and rent, but for alcohol, drug and pertinent social expense.

Those advantageous, debauched prototypes of students who were bred rich, intelligently wayfaring hedonists, who’d hardly ever wanted for a single thing, so you couldn’t play on sense of good nature, namely the potential lack thereof.

I’d arrived at Foxe for my inaugural, penultimate shift on a Monday afternoon early May, prior 8:00 AM. The ferry was old and white, a tugboat-sort with elongated bow, stern and a hull which seemed double-widened. Its broad middle remained always cleared for locomotive accommodation. Starboard-and-port led up onto ramparts where you could stand, look out across the lake and back at the city, then sections inside, underneath, to rest more comfortably out of the weather, and beneath there were many windows and heavy metal doors like those on old warships.

At work I met most of the staff, and learnt much of the in-shop routine. I’d been on the island before, but it was the only time I ever visited the bakery. It was highly quaint, as were the other economical shops spread on the rustic island, a hamlet close to home stuck in an echo between the ‘twenties-and-‘fifties.

Before returning to the ferry that night, I’d been informed with absolute clarity that in-bakery wasn’t the exclusive specification in the job description befallen me …

Chris was another young person working at the bakery. He’d towered at 6’5, broad-shouldered as a linebacker, weighing an easy 280 lbs, twenty-four-years-old and freshly finished an MA in VG-VR. He was really a good guy, fiancé of a PhD, the polite and negligent kind raised old-style, who never took care to finish the words in obscene sentences, that shied away of vulgarity …

The topic had come up late in our shift, as we were sanitizing the components and mechanisms of the bakery’s various machines. It was something that had been a concern in my mind all day, in fact since the first outing I had on the island when I was hired on.

‘So I talked to Phil,’ he’d said. ‘He tells me you’re going to take over the landscaping?’

‘I guess so,’ I answered. ‘Needs to be done twice every week, apparently.’

‘Yeah, sounds right … Phillip prefers it kept flawless, but it isn’t so bad. It’s a huge lawn, but there’s a riding-mower. He’ll want you to whipper-snipper, trim hedges, but shouldn’t ever take you long.’

‘Well, that doesn’t sound horrible.’

‘No, it really isn’t,’ Chris had said. I believe now he’d been trying to put my mind at ease. ‘He’s pretty generous too, loves cooking, so he’ll make really good lunches. It’s a win-win, honestly … I did it last summer.’

‘You worked my position?’ This felt reassuring.

‘Yeah, I was a newer hire then. It was supposed to be some undergrad-student, but he never showed up. It’s sort of a schtick here, but I bet you’ll like it. Also, as summer goes on Phil hosts some parties for family and friends that’re lots of fun. It’s a pretty sweet gig, here.’

I smiled, ‘Good to know … thanks.’ He’d nodded, back.

Chris had taken the ferry, too, back over that night, then kindly driven me home to the ghetto-district, where I’d lived. I never saw him again after he dropped me off.

I was off work the following day.

Morn the day next was cold, clear, of a bitter wind still affected by winter’s chill. I’d cooped-up below, contented alone in the toasty-warmth of electrical-radiative heaters. I’d caught the ferry 8:00 AM; it routinely left the mainland on the hour, setoff from the island for return every half. Few cars had boarded the gangplank, and otherwise a couple servicemen and the isolated captain the ferry went deserted this early.

Through the circular windows of the vessel, I’d watched the churn of the giant, white windmills; Foxe Island had one of the largest solar-farms of the province. The power generated was mostly rerouted to the city. Their rotors eerily cut the air, beautifully with slow, graceful elegance. I had tried to sprawl out and sleep on the ceramic benches, but the sight was too magnificent … great insentient sentries crafted out the machinations of man for his convenience, commodity, they like modern-day marble pillars of the Acropolis’ Parthenon and the colonnaded structures of Rome.

I ended up spending well into afternoon working on manual labour. A trucked-in shipment of kitchen supplies had arrived shortly after myself, bringing updated parts for machines that’d otherwise became obsolete, and then dozens of huge burlap sacks; flour, salt, sugar, yeast, baking powder, brown sugar, chocolate chips, bottles of vanilla, et cetera, everything down to a very last 1/10th of ingredient for each recipe, bought-in-bulk to ensure month-long-supply.

Afterward I helped bake a while, once the truck departed. At 1:00 PM, Phillip arrived to collect my labour. In the bakery, the workers were elderly women whom I hadn’t gotten acquainted too well with; Phil said hello to them briefly, then beckoned me out the door.

We drove north a few minutes and eventually turned east onto rural, potholed thoroughfare. From there it took a couple moments going before we passed a house. Each side of the road were cornfields, plains and woods far back. Five minutes more went by until we’d crossed the second house. They’d both been vacant that time of year. The next place, several kilometres farther into the frontier of Foxe’s east avenue, ended up being Phillip’s.

He left me to it for most of the afternoon. His house was an old, beautiful Victorian. As he’d told it he lived alone, had two daughters with their own children, was divorced and estranged from an ex-wife over a decade. He kept exceptional gardens; rows of flowers, plants and shrubs ubiquitous, that overgrew the front of the house.

Phil came out to greet me, once I’d nearly finished the lawn. It were getting into the evening, and the sun was going down. He had on an apron, held a pair of barbecue tongs in-hand. The man was homely as they came; teeth were a mess, nor did he make great use of personal hygiene to any effect.

He called across the field, ‘Are you hungry, Austin?’

I’d stepped off the clutch and removed the heavy-duty earmuffs to hear him shout.

‘Getting there,’ I’d answered. ‘But no sweat. I’d planned to cook with my girlfriend later on, anyways.’

‘Well I just started a couple steaks on the grill. They’ll go bad no one eats them. How does that sound, instead?’

‘Alright,’ I told him. My girlfriend had most likely eaten. ‘Thanks.’

‘How much longer you think you’ll be?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘I’ll put the potatoes on now.’

Afterwards, the potatoes weren’t ready yet. In the meantime, Phil had wanted to give me the tour of his place. It didn’t seem an offer, rather a request. Inside, the makeup of the rooms on the main-level were stylized melanges, a hybridity between things new and old. After viewing the mainfloor, he’d led me upstairs.

The corridor atop connected with another hallway, through different doors and rooms; the juncture of the passage was filled with alcoves that all had bookshelves stacked ridiculously full of books. Phillip had possessed vintage copies of Hemingway almost a century old, maybe not First Editions yet just as elegant. Heck! I was allowed to borrow them if I’d wanted, and for-keeps even, since he’d owned so many books he’d need to get rid of eventually. I was alright, preferred my own copies despite theirs quality, thanks regardless.

We had steak, potatoes, vegetables and horseradish for dinner. I’d never eaten horseradish before and it was very good, cleared the nostrils hotly. We talked while we ate and I drank beer throughout the meal, and when I finished waited for him to be done as well.

It was late, and I was eager to get home. Initially I hadn’t planned on spending such a late day out on the island, but for a pre-emptive call into the bakery earlier Phillip had then purported he wouldn’t be able to come in to get me until hours past the prearranged time. Thence, Phil finally finished eating 7:07. The ferry would be disembarking the harbour 7:30. The car-ride into port was eight minutes, so we were in good time. Dusk was well fallen. A last glint of sunlight lingered, tinged on the horizon. Time to go.

I prepared to get going, yet Phillip made no move toward doing so. He proceeded to press discourse until minutes to the half-hour, whence it’d certainly be too late to reach the ferry on-time.

‘I’ll take you in for the next,’ he said, past half-hour, looking plainly at his watch. ‘I hope that’s fine?’

‘It’s alright.’

‘Good. Are you tired, Austin?’

‘A bit.’

‘You worked a long day. Have another beer.’

I’d insisted several times that I didn’t need another. Yet he’d persisted, was very adamant.

He brought me an organic beer from a minifridge in the dining-area. Thus far I’d drank three craft brews, contrast to his only sipping a glass of wine throughout the meal. He cracked the beer, handed it my way.

‘So, what’s best about Spain?’ He’d talked about a month-long sojourn he spent in Barcelona and Catalonia, quite incessantly … I’d always desired to travel Europe, so didn’t actually mind.

‘Seriously, you can’t truthfully answer that. It’s all much different over there. The culture, and the food, and the people, are all so much better.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. It’s my opinion, then.’

‘What’d you do while you were there?’

‘Well, I like to cook, so did some classes that ran two weeks … I simply lived, Austin, went around seeing the things on my list, beaches and mountains and coastline. Astonishingly outstanding beauty is everywhere over there. You need to go sometime, honestly.’

Sure,’ I agreed. ‘Did you pull any tail while you were there?’

I’d spoken in this slightly rude way because, if there were any bond to be established between us, it’d have to be a masculine one.

He’d chuckled. ‘Oh my, what’d you just ask me Austin?’

‘Were there any Spanish princesses for you to chase and woo?’

‘Well like I said, I spent my vacation cooking, sight-seeing.’ He seemed disgruntled in an affectatious way. ‘I cannot believe you’d ask that … so bold, Austin.’

‘I’m sorry, then.’

‘No … no need, don’t be … I’m just too old for that. Unless I’d wanted old saggy women. That you don’t. In fact, a few definitely had interest I think. One neighbour a bit younger and recently divorced wouldn’t leave me alone. She tried to eat every meal with me, always trying to butt her head into my business … it was like, go away please!’

‘She’d didn’t actually go for it though?’

‘No, she never did. She was alright I suppose, but nothing happened. Maybe I should’ve.’

Phil then got up, walked into another room.

When he came back in he made a suggestion to invite me into the jacuzzi. Said we’d might as well, to pass the time. Hesitantly I’d acquiesced, asked to borrow a pair of shorts to wear in.

He’d laughed a contrived way, smiling down at the ground, avoiding eye-contact.

‘We don’t wear anything in,’ the old man said.

Then he’d walked around the kitchen, for good measure, shirtless, ratty shorts hanging halfway off his ass. Slouched, I think he let them sag more on purpose. Making sure I got some point, maybe.

He went outside next, through the side-door. Perhaps he’d been joking … if I’d went out he’d be suited-up, wearing his trunks. I wasn’t going to check. I got up from the table, poured the beer he’d presented me down the sink, and began pacing in the kitchen like a lunatic in a cage.

I waited ten minutes. Why? Darkness … freezing … I’d no idea where … for miles only forest, foxes coyotes and Phil, who was I guess such as those canine cousins. Soon enough, I’d heard the side-door snap open, heard wet feet patter along the tile. He’d stepped into view, waist wrapped in a towel, moved toward the threshold and closed the door between the rooms. Just then, I’d seen the look on his face: palpable disappointment, reticence to look at me.

Time to go.

I sprinted out the back, dashed the long driveway and peeled off the way we’d come, back towards town. I literally ran that road a good half hour plus, and the whole time my body feeling frozen with fear; anxiety an alarm-system firing rapid surges, maddening and screeching in my head, heart a repulsifying device doomed to repeat the momentary, singularity of detonation eternally – what if I suffered a heart-attack or had been drugged – and all extremities icy-fiery, crumbly beneath each stride, threatening failure every second …

Lights ahead. Hidden in distant brush, well off the road at two-hundred-metres distance, were two vehicles: an enormous tractor and 4x4 truck. Yet then soon as I turned on trail the truck veered away and revved off down a side road. And the tractor also started going, at first very slowly, gaining considerable momentum.

It wasn’t possible I’d catch it going along the perimeter of the road. Thus headlong I changed course, cut through an extensive cornfield, feeling the brunt of many bushels smacking my face, booked it along a couple minutes until I cleared out. From there I zoomed along the embankment to catch up the side of the tractor, and sprinted aside the giant machine waving wildly for a minute, whilst realizing I probably wasn’t going to get noticed.

But then the old farmer finally saw me, and he stopped abruptly. The tractor jangled to a rickety halt, he swung open the door and exclaimed with a rattled, disconcerted look.

‘The hell’re you doin’, son?’ yelled down at me.

In a breathless shock of words, I explained the situation, and my ultimate decision. The old-timer was very sympathetic. He got on the phone, called back the truck which had been driven by his two forty-year-old sons. I soon realized my situation to be an affair of concern for their family beyond neighbourhood consideration, hence innately amplified in that they owned the house which for forty long years had been rented by bakery Phil.

‘S’wrong?’ a son shouted, not unkindly, clambering out the truck. They walked up.

‘Well … s’ppose Phil got a lil’ weird with this poor kid here,’ said the father. ‘You’ll have to take him in to the ferry.’

The two of them made sure I were alright, and the rest was no problem. We boarded their truck, and I like a vehicle onto the ferry via the gangplank … I’d elected riding and freezing my ass of in the flatbed … wasn’t in a mood to trust anyone. The winds were frigid as April rivers and subdued me.

Near the docks, they’d waited with me for the boat to come, at the 9:30 time, the final island-pickup any night. Both stood rigid and leaned against the grill of the truck, and though it seemed definite I wasn’t a kid who needed protecting, it’d sure felt like it then. And when the white bakery van with its emblem painted red on both sides floated down the adjacent road, stalling a minute in the middle, they tensed up, took a few intimidative steps at it before good ol’ Phil hauled ass away.

I cannot express just how much how strongly I’d felt extremely grateful … a feeling insomuch pertaining how incredibly the simple decencies and kindnesses of some can be so meaningful to others in spontaneous situations, when there arises a clear and right thing to do out of the strife of any unsuspecting victim. When those times call, not everyone would do it. But the best always will. So, that’s all I’ll mention on topic of the Salmon boys and their father, they’d wished for discretion as is. They’d seen me on and waved goodbye once I boarded the ship, until it took off from the shore.

Everything that night away from the danger felt electric, alive. The pitch-black darkness seemed full of secrets. It was cold, clearer than by day, and the atmosphere of it bit you alive. Throughout all of it, I’d felt very enlivened.

I stood upon the port rampart, feeling childishly vulnerable, watched the Maple-Leaf sway above in the wind, flutter uncannily. Gazed ripples in the dark waves, the sky, blue stars, pale violet moon. Felt like there was nothing to do, yet also everything then. Despite the chill, there wasn’t any possible that I could bring myself below, to sit idly and be down there contained.

I’d chosen to stand amidst the port section because it had facilities for the boat’s operations. I’d walked up to the glass shelter for the first-mate, knocked. She’d opened the door, stepped out, asked politely what I needed.

‘May I use the phone?’ I’d replied. ‘I need to call for a ride.’

*****

In the end, the rest weighed heavily for weeks afterwards. Hence, what if I’d been the one to make a bad call, misinterpreted, presumed? Had I been wrong in mistrusting Phillip’s intentions?

Those closest; mother, brother, girlfriend, certainly didn’t think so.

But just what if my sudden and suspicious absence led to a chain-of-events amongst the staff which wrongfully ruined his career, that I troubleshot a cataclysm in the life of their commander-in-chief, that it were all on me?

Hence I’d realized these feelings were arisen from products of doubt, shame and guilt, happened yet nothing.

Almost a year later, during exam-period of our final semester, I was confided in by a rather self-misleading, flamboyantly-self-aware friend who had experienced obsequious flattery, bribery and propositions at the hands of none other than the owner of the island bakery. A payout and gifts were transferred, in a circumstance which falsely led Phil to believe sexual favours imminent, and in the excitable prospect of a potential youthful resident.

My friend, confided, he’d pondered extortion toward garnering additional funds to finance an expensive coc-habit. See he was the sort from a wealthy family, self-entitled, ruthless. Whose nature you couldn’t play, nor prey on. He’d taken the money and ran. So I told him, if ever he were bothered again, let me know, we’d present our information to the authorities together.

Last time I heard from that conniving opportunist Phil, came weeks following the incident. An envelope had been mailed to our postal-box, addressed for me, cheque in the envelope for fees owed, and a letter: I’m sorry you mistook hospitality for anything but hospitality.

The bastard … just imagine the look of fury on a mother’s face as she’d rigorously, contemptuously read that, and her response.