Free Blackstrap Hawco by Kenneth J. Harvey

Blackstrap dead? Junior gone. The little girl, too. All dead now?
    Restlessly standing again with a groan. He returns to the front window. Stumbles over the edge of his wife’s ship’s chest. From the S.S. Newfoundland . His leg hurts. But he holds back the curse. Out of respect for Emily. He will not touch her things. Will not lift the lid. Will not let her spirit fill him again.
    The RCMP car. Still parked where it should never be. Never. RCMP. The Canadian police in Newfoundland. A country once unto itself. The Dominion of Newfoundland. Before that bastard Joey Smallwood, that cheating, lying, fascist father of confederation, tore the lot of us from our blessed roots.
    Less than half an hour later the officer appears again. Casually moves down the steps over there. He wears the same nothing expression as when he arrived. No character. Wishy-washy mainlander. Pissy-faced. Plainly regarding the ground as he walks toward his vehicle. Climbs in.
    The cruiser backs out. Blackstrap’s driveway. The only strip of pavement this side of Cutland Junction. Jacob taps on his window with his knuckles. To snag the officer’s attention. To make a threat. He curses. And taps harder. But the cruiser is gone. Slowly rolling along the dirt road. The old man curses on Karen. Her who forced Blackstrap to have the driveway paved. He curses on her for always correcting the way they speak. He curses on her for being something they are not. And donot want to be. Ever. A townie trying to be proper. Trying to not sound like a Newfoundlander. Trying to kill off what it means to be a Newfoundlander.
    Turning, he heads through the kitchen. Stomps out his back door. Trudges past the pile of seasoned stove wood. Rows of mismatched bricks stacked beside his red shed with its white trim. And makes his way forward, angling to his right. Across the fifteen feet of back lawn that separates their houses. His son’s house built slightly ahead of his. So that it stands further up front. Karen wanted it that way. Wanted to hide what she called ‘the shack.’ Embarrassed by it. And all it contained.
    On his way toward the bungalow’s back door, he hears the screen door opening. And sees Karen sticking out her head.
    â€˜Hi,’ she says.
    â€˜Dat mountie,’ spits Jacob. Tossing one arm to the side. Pointing like the cop was just there.
    â€˜What?’ she asks.
    â€˜Where’s Blackstrap?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she says. Having to struggle to hold back tears.
    â€˜Mounties com’n ’round,’ he says. Stepping backward from it. Like a bad stink.
    â€˜He did something to Isaac Tuttle.’
    â€˜Good on ’im.’ Jacob drags a sleeve across his mouth. His eyes sudden with thought. Almost furious consideration for the consequences of his son’s actions.
    â€˜Then he left.’ Karen wipes at her eye. The butt of her palm smears warm that will not stop. Only worse. ‘No one knows where. The police…’
    â€˜Goddam, Christ-awful Mounties,’ Jacob rants. Bullied by the unwelcome presence of the woman’s untouchable pain. Softening. A woman’s tears. Crying like Emily. Weeping. The words come out of him, for Emily, to calm her: ‘Don’t worry ’bout Blackstrap, me love. You know better den dat. No need ta worry.’ He smiles at her. And watches while she tries to smile. Maybe liking him through the tears. Wanting to move closer. To comfort her. But knowing she would pull away from his touch. Or fade. Dead as he suspects she is.

    Isaac Tuttle at the kitchen table. Anxious to explain the deed to Constable Pope.
    â€˜I saw ’im hang’n ’round. Outside. Night.’ Using his middle finger, Tuttle pokes his thick-lensed glasses up on his nose. The Lord shall smite thee with madness, and blindness, and astonishment of heart. Chews on his tongue. His eyes appear large. Wide. He stares directly at the officer. Thy sons and thy