Making it Home Read online

  Advance Praise for Making it Home

  “Presenting the Syrian refugee through fiction is a challenging task, but DeLory writes the Syrian characters in Making it Home with an understanding of the Syrian culture, minted with love and empathy towards the refugee experience. Her strong command of her tales stands out through the many engaging stories she tells. Making It Home is a testament that DeLory is a wonderful storyteller, as well as a hardworking researcher.”

  –Ahmad Danny Ramadan, award-winning author of The Clothesline Swing

  “From the broken streets of Aleppo to the quiet of Cape Breton Island, Making it Home follows two families scattered by grief and conflict. Though Canadians are familiar with the story of Syrians from the headlines, DeLory takes us into the heart of Aleppo and what it is that one family loses when bombs shatter their lives. Forced to flee on foot from their beloved home, they escape through collapsed streets with children in tow. Meanwhile, in Cape Breton, a community is whittled away by economic hardship as it seems an entire generation leaves in search of work. No matter where they are, characters discover that they are capable of more than they know, for both good and bad.

  Told from a variety of perspectives, DeLory’s novel explores family from all angles, from the strength of love to its selfishness, guilt, and resentment. Making it Home finds the intersection between cultures in our human need for more than just shelter, but acceptance too.”

  –Nicola Davison, author of In the Wake

  Copyright © 2019, Alison DeLory

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Vagrant Press is an imprint of Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3660 Strawberry Hill St, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  NB1368

  Cover Design: John van der Woude Designs

  Editor: Stephanie Domet

  Editor for the press: Whitney Moran

  Proofreader: Penelope Jackson

  This story is a work of fiction. Names characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Making it home / Alison DeLory.

  Names: DeLory, Alison, 1969- author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20189068612 | Canadiana (ebook) 20189068620 | ISBN 9781771087254 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771087261 (HTML)

  Classification: LCC PS8607.E48865 M35 2019

  | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to those searching for home, be that a place or a state of mind.

  Chapter 1

  Cape Breton, August 2014

  The water around its stout body was still comfortably cold, but less so. It surfaced, blew spray upwards, dipped back down. The sand and seaweed on the ocean floor came into view, but others in its pod swam on either side and even in front of it, so it journeyed on. It heard the muffled sounds of crashing waves, not the comforting clicks that echoed in deeper water. Its fins grazed the sand as the ocean tugged it into shallower waters and then spat it onto the hard, cold shore. It waited for a wave to pull it back out. None came. It lay still, conserving energy. Waiting.

  Meanwhile, driving along the squiggly road that traced the coastline, Tinker glanced out across the Atlantic. Seagulls wheeled and screeched overhead while whitecaps on the navy blue water mirrored cotton-ball clouds in the sky. Mainland Nova Scotia was visible on the horizon; a fine enough place to visit, but home for Tinker would always be here on Cape Breton Island. A scattering of small boats dotted the outer Canso Strait. Though he’d seen the view countless times from multiple perspectives, it never failed to seduce him. He breathed in the salty air through his open window, let the warm wind whip his weathered face, and turned the radio off, straining his ears to hear the distant rumble of the incoming tide.

  Lulled by the beauty, Tinker’s concentration waned and his Buick drifted seaward until he almost grazed the guardrail. He swerved to avoid busting through it and toppling down a rocky cliff. “Holy Mary Mother of God!” he blurted as his wheels made black skid marks on the road, jerking him to a stop on the shoulder. He sat motionless for a few seconds, his white-knuckled fingers glued to the steering wheel, until he snapped to and exhaled. His torso felt sore underneath the taut seat belt, and he rubbed his instantly aching neck. I may be old, he told himself, but it’s not my time just yet. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and placed them back on the steering wheel, then continued on toward home.

  It was Tuesday, so his wife, Florence, would be in the kitchen patting out fishcakes. He pictured her heating oil in the cast iron frying pan and stirring a pot of brown beans. She’d have the table set with green tomato chow in a bowl draped with a tea towel to keep the flies off. He licked his lips thinking of it, but sadness tinged his excitement for supper, knowing he’d have to avert his eyes from the empty chair his son once occupied.

  Approaching town, he glanced at the now-visible familiar sign, written in English and Gaelic, Welcome to Falkirk Cove: Fáilte. It needed a fresh coat of paint and was slightly off kilter, neglected. He was surprised to find his buddy Bob standing next to it, waving his arms.

  “Bob,” he called out, pulling over. “Need a drive?”

  Bob climbed into the passenger seat. “Tinker, we’ve got to get down to the shore right away. Steel yourself. Apparently it’s quite a scene.”

  “An accident?” Tinker asked.

  “Of sorts,” Bob said. “A mass beaching of pilot whales. Charlie called me to round you up so we could help rescue ’em. He and Nell are already down there.”

  They got to the beach quickly. As they raced through the dunes, the sharp marram grass slapped against Tinker’s Levis. Over the sound of his own laboured breathing he heard people shouting and waves lapping. His grandson, Charlie, ran up the beach carrying two buckets.

  “We need to wet them quick. They’re drying out,” Charlie said, tossing a bucket at Tinker, then the other at Bob.

  Tinker froze when he saw the whales lying on the sand. There looked to be about a dozen, and a few people were pouring seawater over their glossy black bodies. Though in his past he’d seen migrating whales from his fishing boat, in all his seventy-three years Tinker had never seen one on land. His urge to get closer to them was strong, but when his feet started moving again he kicked off his shoes and instead ran into the cold waves to fill his bucket.

  Nell was on her way up the beach, a full bucket in each hand. “Keep their blowholes clear so they don’t suffocate. Wet them down, and if you see one on its side, whistle so we can roll it upright,” she said.

  He listened carefully to Nell, trusting she knew what to do. She could be a bit of a bossy boots but that girl was smart, no question; university educated on the mainland and now back in Cape Breton, trying to figure out how to put her science degree to use. Charlie was lucky to have her. Tinker hoped like hell they’d land permanent jobs here soon.

 
Charlie was off to the side on his phone. “Call yer grandmother—tell her we’ll be late for supper, would ya?” Tinker yelled, wistfully thinking of the fishcakes he wouldn’t get to eat for some hours yet. Charlie gave him a thumbs-up.

  Tinker lumbered through the sand toward an unattended whale, about two metres long. It was so still and quiet he wondered if it was alive. It was on its belly, with its blowhole clear, so he angled around to look into its eyes. They were like small black bowling balls, and inside those eyes he saw not only intelligence but also pleading. It rattled him, and he waved his palm over the blowhole to confirm the whale was breathing. He felt it emitting warm puffs of air, then he stroked the whale a few times, not sure if he was comforting it or himself.

  “Hey there, feller. What are you doing up here on land? You belong out there, in the Atlantic,” Tinker said. Charlie hadn’t been a baby for twenty-two years, but the soothing voice Tinker had once used to talk to his grandson came right back to him.

  The whale wasn’t used to the sound of human voices. It wanted to swim, but its flippers were stuck. It looked at the man, less than half his size and ten times his age. It had no choice but to accept his help.

  “Tinker…keep running buckets. We’ve got to keep them wet until enough people arrive…that we can push them back into the water,” Nell said, breathless. She was doing double duty, directing the bucket runners and checking the status of each whale.

  Cold sand stuck like grit between Tinker’s toes. “You look some foolish, Bob,” Tinker said to his friend as their paths crossed. Bob’s thinning salt-and-pepper hair flopped around his head and water sloshed out of his bucket. The two of them used to play on this same beach as boys, hauling water out of the waves to fill the moats in their sandcastles. Later, as teenagers, they’d made bonfires here on warm summer evenings and guzzled swish from Mason jars.

  When he bent to fill his bucket Tinker stopped, hands on knees, panting. He’d fallen out of shape in the seven years since the arthritis in his shoulder had forced him to retire from fishing. He’d gone a bit soft and his skin was droopier by the day. He wore his pants low now and his belly flopped over his belt. His body startled him when he saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror. How could it be that he felt mostly the same on the inside and looked so different on the outside? He hoisted the bucket up and clambered back up the beach.

  Charlie was still on that damned phone. Tinker shot him a “hurry up” look and Charlie met his gaze with a blank stare before turning his back to Tinker. Charlie had been coming and going at all hours recently, and even when he was home he seemed distracted. Tinker couldn’t get a bead on him and had given up trying. Charlie was a man now, after all, even though he still acted like a boy.

  Some of Charlie’s buddies started showing up. Where once they’d run in a big pack, there was now just a handful left. Most youngsters had moved out west for work. Those who remained here, like Charlie, mostly worked seasonal or odd jobs trying to eke out a living. Despite his and Charlie’s differences, Tinker felt lucky to have his grandson close. He was glad Charlie understood that if he moved away and left him and Florence alone it would break their hearts. Charlie belonged here in Falkirk Cove with him and Flo. He was their only family left.

  Nell hollered for them all to huddle up. Other folks from town were now pouring in, buckets in hand, and soon they had a crowd of thirty-five or so. Nell reported there were thirteen whales, but four were already dead. Only one of the remaining nine—a baby—made any noise. Tinker had to fight the urge to clap his hands over his ears so as not to hear it whimper. He hoped its mother wasn’t one of the corpses.

  “We have to start pushing them back into the water. The tide’s starting to pull out, so the longer we wait, the farther we’ll have to go. Can you guys divide yourselves up and start pushing?”

  They did as Nell asked. Tinker returned to the first whale he’d befriended, locking eyes with it every minute or so. Bob and his granddaughter Catriona joined him. Grunting, bending their knees with arms extended, they could barely budge the whale, and it was small as whales go. Tinker’s bad shoulder started to ache. He’d helped push trucks out of ditches with less effort.

  “Why would they do this to themselves? I don’t get it,” Catriona said. Tinker saw bewilderment on her face. She was young—still a teenager. The random cruelty of the world was only starting to hit her. But she was holding it together as best she could.

  “Whales are social animals. They travel in pods, which are like their families. Just like Cape Bretoners, their families are close. They look out for one another,” Bob said. He straightened his body and, with his palms on his hips, arched his back until it cracked.

  “This looks more like a suicide pact than a family vacation,” Catriona said, her face whiter than sea foam.

  “Well, sometimes a member of the pod gets off course. He might be sick and trying to rest on shore to breathe more easily. The rest follow him, whether to help him or keep him company, no one knows. They all end up beached.”

  Tinker looked up from the whale toward Bob. His old friend had always been a reader and a thinker, as long as he’d known him. While Tinker had hated school and left as soon as he was able, Bob had stayed much longer, even doing seven years away at university to train as a doctor before returning home.

  They grunted, sweated, and pushed. The whale smelled faintly fishy, salty and sulfuric. Its firm, smooth skin was cool against Tinker’s chapped palms. It barely budged. Tinker ran back to his car for a tarp. They tipped the whale onto its side, and then back onto the tarp. Then he, Bob, and Catriona grabbed corners and with small, laboured steps, managed to drag it into shallow water. Tinker’s heart was thumping hard and his brow was dripping. The water churned around his legs as he felt the outward pull of the tide, but the whale stayed still and Tinker wondered if it was no longer able to swim. “G’wan, whale. Swim away,” he said, to no effect. The whale hovered.

  Other teams edged into the water with their whales. Tinker had watched his community pull together to help one another out plenty of times, whether it was to raise a barn or re-house a family after a fire or what have you, but he’d never seen anything like this. The floating whale still wasn’t swimming away.

  “What’s going on, Grampie?” Catriona asked. Her eyeglasses were spotted with sea spray and her brown hair was falling in chunks out of its ponytail.

  “It’s waiting for the rest of its pod, darlin’,” Bob said, draping an arm around her shoulders.

  Just then Charlie waded over to Tinker. He dragged his feet in the sand. “Grandpa?” he said, looking past Tinker at some invisible spot on the horizon.

  “Yeah, what?” Tinker looked exhaustedly at his grandson, his adrenalin giving way to fatigue. Charlie’s hair was too long and he must’ve had the dullest razor in Cape Breton; as usual, his chin and cheeks were some stubbly. But his eyes were still big and brown, and if Tinker focused squarely on them and let the rest of Charlie’s face go blurry, he could see his dead son in Charlie’s face.

  Charlie paused and shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. “You know that phone call I got earlier? It was from the oil sands. They’re hiring again and offered me a job.”

  Tinker snapped to attention. “That so? What’d you tell them?”

  Charlie kicked the sand and met Tinker’s eyes. “I told them yes, I’ll move to Alberta. I got a job fitting pipes, like I was trained to do.” He said more words, but Tinker didn’t register any of them. Charlie spoke quietly and with acceleration, words spewing from his mouth like he just wanted rid of them.

  Tinker looked at the whales hovering near the shore. Some people were trying to rotate their stubborn bodies around so the whales would be facing deeper water.

  “Like hell you will.” Tinker knew he was being selfish and he didn’t care. It’d been seven years since his son made a similar move, and five since the explosion that killed h
im.

  “I’m not him, Grandpa. I’ll come back. Promise.”

  “No. I’ll not let you go.” The breeze must have been picking up, for Tinker now felt chilled.

  “It’s not your decision. I’m going and you can’t stop me.”

  All the living whales were in the water now. They hovered close to shore, their dorsal fins sticking out. A long minute passed.

  “Look, they’re leaving!” Nell shouted, waving both arms goodbye. Did she know about Charlie’s plan to move out west?

  Slowly, reluctantly, the whales regrouped and swam out and away from Cape Breton. Tinker turned and walked back toward his truck, brushing away tears, muttering under his breath about the damn wind making his eyes water.

  Chapter 2

  Walking into the Legion, Tinker glanced around to see who’d turned up tonight. Florence was working in the canteen as usual. Only her head and shoulders were visible above the counter, but he knew she was adding up purchases and figuring out change without even needing a calculator. She’d always been good at sums. Every week she came to bingo early and stayed long after the last card was played to help close up, catching a ride home with her friend Jean. She’d climb into bed late, her hair smelling of hot dogs, but Tinker never minded.

  Bob was sitting near the front of the room and Tinker thought for a second about joining his pal but then remembered how serious Bob’s bingo friends were. They all had lucky daubers and superstitions about when to buy their cards and how to arrange them on the long, warping wooden tables. The worst case was when those folks asked Tinker to play their cards so they could go to the john. Some played a dozen cards at once. Tinker knew if his slow reflexes cost someone a bingo victory he’d be run out of town.

  He grabbed a seat near the back of the room and waved to Catriona, who was walking up and down each row selling cards. He felt kindly towards her tonight, remembering how they’d rescued the whale together a few days earlier, and he gave her a nice tip with his card purchase. A full fifty-cent tip.