Dixon
into jars and let them cool. Claire licked her fingers, and the ~poon, smiling. She loves路sugar and cloud berries, especially when it is still hot syrup. In Quebec wild berries do not grow. Mother had to teach her how to adjust to life as a Newfoundlander. I sat in the corner of the kitchen. No fi~hing today, the sea was too turbulent. I checked my net's knots. I counted them and then rechecked this. I find solace in counting and recounting them and then reducing the number of knots to a prime number. The sea is so uncontrollable, but numbers never change. I can't control Newfoundland- the slow decay of my people and the Cod populations. When I was small my Father used to catch fish as large as I was. Now all the Cod have gone. I can't even control Claire, fiery woman. It is the French in her. All I can do is count the clouds, sounds, cracks, and words. Shamus Napier. Dear Humming, I spent all day at sea. At one point, I was sure I was going to have to sleep in my boat. I can't leave unless the number of fish reduces to a prime number. The back of my neck and my lips were burned pink. My hands felt waterlogged and cracked. The fishing line cut though my flesh; it stung as I rubbed salt in it so as not to get an infection. I sang to the Cod as I gutted them. Claire yelled at me .to leave my boots outside so I would not drag in the innards. She hates the smell of fish. Newfoundland is not in her blood. I d<? not think she will ever get used to it here. At night, when we are lying in bed, she cries because the house is sad. I would not have it any other way; the vibrations of the wind hitting the side of the house can be felt through the metal bedpost and ripple through the water in my body. Claire wants tQ move back to Quebec. She is used to the sounds of the city. She has a picture of a younger version of herself grinning while wearing a cotton dress with a giant bow. Shops line the cobblestone street and in the background you can see horses pulling carriages. I have looked at it and tried to see what the colors would have looked like, past the gray pixels that mak.e up her youthful face. I have never been to Quebec City - too many people, too much noise. Once when I came home early from fishing, I walked into the kitchen and Claire was sitting in one of the whitewashed wooden chairs, covered in flour. Her hands were veiled under layers of dough from the seal flipper pie she was making. The crust was rolled on the counter top, flour container tipped over. The face that she made was one of such sorrow. Tears poured with conviction. Swaying to her guttural wails, she was primal, manic. I have not seen her look so sad since the baby died. I know she does not want to be here, she hates this land, and me. She wishes she had never been trapped into this life. Maybe if the baby had lived. Maybe if I could say that 14
FUGUE#33