Free Cape Breton Road by D.R. MacDonald Page B

pleased with himself and ready for talk. If anyone phones, he told Innis, we are not at home. He brought in sacks of groceries and sat at the table smoking cigarettes and drinking rum while Claire cooked them thick steaks and potatoes and peas on the big old stove instead of the smaller propane one, amused, Starr coaching her, You got to be a bit of a fireman, dear, to run that thing. Russ the ex-whatever had not been home after all, his car was gone, and Starr had gathered up the suitcases, one of them lying open in the yard, her underthings a scatter of color. Innis stayed out of the conversation, content with his meal, listening, cadging looks at Claire. He’d thought her eyes were dark brown but they were really an intense, inky blue.
    “My dad was a crackerjack farmer, Claire, you know,” Starr said. “Maybe we could get this place going again, you and me.”
    “What about Innis?” she said.
    “Innis is just passing through. He’s got other fish to fry, if he can hook them.”
    “Yep, I’m always on the move.” Innis tried to sound flippant but he was hurt. His uncle’s plans were fantasies anyway, so all the more reason to include him. “I need a city. A big city.”
    “Yeah,” Starr said. “One without cars in it.”
    Innis shot him a look but Starr, his hands working the air, had already forgotten, his scenario was expanding with eachglass of rum as he gabbed away to Claire as if they were newlyweds. He would sell the old farm and move to British Columbia, good work and wages there, or he’d re-enlist in the navy, they had such good pensions now he could put in ten more years and be sitting pretty. He could get his license on the Great Lakes, the lakeboats needed men with his background, engineer types. Good money, but maybe he shouldn’t be away from home that long. No, he wanted to be here, he was sure they could make something of this land again. Hell, at the very least he would turn his woodlands over to silviculture, the government would kick in the money for that and he’d have an income steady as trees. Full circle, he was back on the farm, even ready to pull Innis into it.
    “My father ran this place almost alone. Him and his brother, Uncle Malcolm, they could make damn well anything they needed, iron or wood, b’y, they had their own forge. We could get into the swing of it, sure, we’ll bring the old orchard back, we’ll plow a few acres, get us a few cows, pigs, some laying hens, we have great water here. Sheep I don’t care for, though I know people who do. We could farm this, me and you. Eh, Innis? Couple strong lads like us? Claire behind us?” Their eyes met and for an instant Innis wanted to believe him, believe in some wild idea of work, of family, brown furrows trailing behind them, the clash of machinery, grain running through their fingers, their hungry talk in a hot kitchen at noon, hollyhocks under the window like he’d seen in a photo in the hall, someone calling them home, a woman like Claire in the house. “What would we grow?” Innis said, and Starr’s grin brought them back to earth. “You’d want to raise opium poppies or something along that line, eh?” and Innis, hismouth suddenly dry, smiled stupidly. Were his precious seeds waking, right over their heads?
    “Not me,” he said, turning away. “How about potatoes?”
    Innis rinsed dishes slowly in the sink. He did not want to leave Claire to his uncle, she looked wiped out, chin in her hand, smiling now and then by way of reply while Starr pulled his horizons back to the borders of his own land. “B.C.? It’s full of hippies. There’s not a speck of farmer in me or Innis either. Leave here? God, I joined the navy to get away from it. Then home I come and my dad dies sudden, before I figured anything out.” He laughed, there was a scrape of a match as he lit another Export. “Jesus, Claire, can you see me out there haying? You bringing me out a jar of spring water sweetened with