Read Online Saltwater Cowboys by Dayle Furlong - Free Book Online Page B

and fat around the face and hips. They’d spent the night with Angela’s sisters Cynthia and Marie, both bartenders on George Street.
    â€œThe apartment will be quiet,” they’d promised since they’d both be working the night shift. It was a loud downtown apartment close to George Street, the thumping bar noise intolerable, horns from traffic, drivers drunk and confused pulling into Water Street backwards, disrupting traffic.
    When Angela and her mother had driven to town, a moose had come out of the forest, charging so quickly, Angela was instantly engulfed in its shadow. It came so close she could see its underside, shaggy hairs matted with muck and bits of spring green moss. Its hind muscles were bulky against lithe bone. Suddenly, without prodding, the hulking beast changed course, sparing the lives of Angela, her mother, and the baby.
    â€œAn Act of God,” Grandmother McCarthy said and crossed herself repeatedly.
    â€œMoose never, ever change course,” everyone said.
    They could have been killed.
    Angela thought the moose had sensed the baby’s rapid heartbeat. Compelled by instinct, it had swerved to preserve the young life it sensed. Angela knew nothing about animals, or moose, but that’s what she thought.
    So on the day they drove to catch the ferry with Jack brittle and nervous at the wheel, mood as sharp as glass, she worried little, lulled into a sense of grace by the rapid heartbeat in her belly.
    â€œMoose come out at dawn and dusk, don’t they?” Angela asked.
    â€œYou’re thinking of mosquitoes,” Jack said sourly.
    â€œI’ll keep an eye out,” Angela mumbled and took her eyes off the road to assemble lunches of cheese and sandwiches for the girls.
    After lunch they stopped for gas just outside of Stephenville.
    â€œWashroom key’s at the till,” the high-school boy pumping gas said. His beanie was emblazoned with a Quebec Nordiques emblem.
    They bought a small brown paper bag filled with penny candy, yellow and orange chewy cones and five-cent sour jelly candy drenched in coarse sugar. The store smelled of flour. There were fillets of dried salt cod, gutted and spread like stingrays, in cardboard boxes next to the till.
    â€œCan I get you some?” the chubby cashier asked and gestured to the cod.
    Angela and Jack both shook their heads.
    â€œGod only knows the next time we’ll have dried cod,” Angela said.
    Jack looked away.
    They’d had cod last night at their going-away party. It had never tasted so fresh — buttery soft, chalk white, and saltier than the ocean — it was one of the best meals they’d had in a long time. The party was held at Jack’s parents’. It was a bleak evening, cold and rainy, sparsely attended — not too many left in town to see them off — no music, no grand speeches, awkward and depressing, save for the food.
    Angela ran her finger over the edge of the cardboard box with the cod in it. She wanted to take the silvery wet-dog scent of the dried fish with her.
    â€œYou sure you don’t want any?” the cashier asked.
    B ack on the road, the fog had lifted. They cruised through several bay towns and saw lovely homes, all in shades from a springtime palette, almost Easter-egg looking, pass by, homes snug by the shore or at various altitudes against rock cliffs overlooking the ocean.
    When they arrived at the ferry, Jack paid for their passage with a small packet of bills he took from his wallet. He had all the money for the trip allotted into envelopes marked for their purposes. This one said FERRY in block letters across the front. He had others marked HOTEL, FOOD , and GAS . His fingers shook nervously as he handed over the money. He’d better have calculated correctly; this was all he had.
    As they waited with the queue of cars leaving Newfoundland, Jack stared straight ahead while Angela sang with the girls and played “I spy with my