Forgiveness Read Free Page B

the windshield as a brace. He let out a grunt when he was in the seat, followed, as always, by a cheerful “Okay—I’mgood—thanks.” I closed the door as he did up his seat belt, then walked around the back and got in the driver’s seat.
    We were in a bit of a hurry. We were headed to Grosse Île, which was tucked away in the northeast corner of the island. Grandpa always stayed with his cousin Margaret when he came home, which was about every ten years. Margaret was sure to have dinner ready by now.
    Margaret’s house was straight out of a children’s tale. Like her, the house was tiny, old, and full of warmth. Everything was small and made out of wood. Every tabletop was fitted with a knitted doily. You never knew when a teapot might show up. There was a painted cuckoo clock above the archway that led from the living room into the dining area and kitchen. Neither Margaret nor her house quite fit in the twenty-first century.
    Margaret embraced us and poured us tea. Halfway through the first cup, a truck came barrelling up her gravel driveway. Through the window we saw the rusted-out Chevy swerve as the driver tried to light a cigarette. It looked like his eyes were closed. He was drunk. “Right pissed” were Margaret’s words. We smelled whisky before we heard the door open.
    Margaret met her brother Frederick in the foyer.
    “You can’t come in here now. You go home, make a pot of coffee, and come back when you’re presentable,” she told him.
    Grandpa explained to me that Frederick had been thrown out of Margaret’s house more times than he’d been thrown out of the local tavern. He put up no fight.
    “I’ll see ya soon, Ralph!” he yelled as the door closed. A few minutes later the engine rattled away.
    Margaret apologized profusely. It was unnecessary, of course, but she was mightily embarrassed. We sat down to a wonderful dinner of herring, lobster, and mashed potatoes. We drank milk. Margaret spent the dinner updating Grandpa on who had left and who had died.
    Frederick dutifully returned four-and-a-half hours later smelling of coffee and cigarettes. It seemed as though he had willedhimself sober so he could see my grandpa. His mission was simple: he wanted us to come to his house so he could give us his stash of canned haddock.
    Grandpa could not say no to this gift; it would be a devastating insult. Fortunately, there was a lobster trap in the cab of Frederick’s truck, giving us an excuse to follow him to his place in our rental car. We passed the post office, the graveyard, and two rabbits. The dark and the fog conspired against me as I struggled to follow Frederick’s rear lights. There was not a street light to be seen.
    We wound our way through a wooded area as the road deteriorated into a well-worn trail. Houses appeared out of the woods like ghosts. We pulled into a muddy ditch that served as a driveway, climbed out, and carefully made our way up to a rickety veranda.
    The house was a dump. It reeked of whisky, canning brine, and sweat. It had not seen a cleaning product in a decade. The coffeepot had been left on. There was a canister of coffee whitener and an overflowing ashtray on the small kitchen table.
    Frederick invited us to sit. The three kitchen chairs look liable to buckle. We took our chances and sat as he rifled through the cabinet under the sink for his stash—our gift. Half of Frederick’s body was under his sink; it was as if he were rooting under the deck of a boat. He emerged with a sly grin, exposing broken, nicotine-stained teeth.
    “Here you be,” he said, holding out four Mason jars jammed full of haddock. Grandpa was clearly eager to leave and after some small talk about recent fish hauls and mutual friends, he used his time-tested escape hatch: “Well, we won’t keep you.”
    “Don’t want to stay for a nightcap?”
    “Oh no, we’ve had a long day of travel.”
    And with that, we were off.
    We were both glad to return to Margaret’s. Her house hugged us