Free Fit Month for Dying by M.T. Dohaney

Cove’s first female Member of the House of Assembly. Indeed, I would be the first female Member of the House of Assembly in Newfoundland. And best of all, Dennis Walsh was back in my life, and I would be with him as soon as we both could discharge our day’s duties, mine to my constituents, his to Dolph.
    To be favoured so magnificently, I was certain I had to be the darling of the gods. In fact, I was so sure I had fate clasped tightly in my fist that I neglected to hedge my bets. I didn’t knock on wood, say God willing, throw salt over my shoulder or make the sign of the cross over the single crow that sat on the telephone pole waiting for the Cove to wake up. Grandmother would not have been so smug. She would have known that such cockiness would offend the gods, or the saints or the angels or whoever keeps tabs on the unbridled conceit of human beings.
    Before the day was over I came to believe that my cockiness must have been exceedingly offensive to those who tally up sins of conceit; otherwise they would not have brought me to the ground so mercilessly, would not have trounced me so savagely. Surely it wasn’t simply a stroke of bad luck that had placed that car from St. John’s en route to a village beyond the Cove, its driver and passenger intoxicated, on the same road and at the same time as the car Dennis was in as he drove to Dolph’s headquarters.

Chapter Three
    Sitting behind the sheltered rock at the beach, my mind leaping across meadows and hills and oceans and years, searching for yesterday’s faces and voices, I forget time. I forget that Philomena has no idea where I went when I left the house. I am even oblivious to the fact that it has turned very cold, and I am chilled to the bone by the time I arrive back at Philomena’s house and grateful for the warmth of her kitchen.
    â€œWhat happened to ye?” she asks even before I’m fully in the door. “I wondered where ye’d gone. I was worried.”
    â€œJust out for a walk,” I dodge, feeling guilty. “Just wandered around. Just wanted to get away from the house for a while.”
    â€œI know how it ’tis,” she says, foregoing her usual cross-examination. “I knows you loved Hube, too, and the packing away of his things must have hit you as hard as it hit me. Meself, I put me head down but I couldn’t sleep a wink. The house is so bare with him gone. Not even an old shirt of his hanging on a nail. I sat in the den and tried to smell his tobacco. Couldn’t even do that with all the airing out that’s been done, so I decided instead to do some baking.”
    She pulls open the oven door and, using a dishcloth for an oven mitt, hauls out a pan of jam-jams and brings it to the table, setting it on a Simpson’s catalogue that she always uses as a trivet. The scent of allspice and molasses is inviting to my nostrils after the cold tang of the salty beach air.
    â€œSit yerself down, girl, and we’ll have a bite to eat. Looks like yer half-frozen. Tea’s already on the table. And fresh biscuits made. I was goin’ to help meself if you didn’t show up soon.”
    Philomena always makes a great cup of tea, and I tell her so after the first swallow.
    â€œYe only have to do it right, that’s all,” she says modestly. “Boil the water until ’tis lurching back and forth in the kettle like a big swell. Heat up the teapot with water first. Throw that out. Then add the tea and more water. Let it steep for a few minutes. And loose tea. Never those tea bags. I always keeps King Cole on hand. Wouldn’t use any other brand, although every time I goes to the store there’s a new brand on the market that they’re flauntin’ in front of yer face. ‘Try this! Try that!’” She twists her mouth. “And those perfume teas. Rose hips. Apple blossoms. Chamomile. Poison stuff, if you ask me. Don’t know whether to drink it or