Lauchlin of the Bad Heart Read Online Free PDF

had convinced himself, he might have moved on clearly, fluidly with his life, it would have lifted him up and over something that was still lying there in his way, and maybe he and Morag would have stayed together. In their own strange, fragmented way, they had—she went away to Boston, married a Cape Breton man there, then lost him to drink, but she kept coming back at odd times of her life, and they always saw each other sooneror later, joined up again as only they could do, touched that unassailable kernel of passion, and by summer’s end they had split apart. Morag was a pattern. He wanted her when she was not around, and when she was, he gorged himself on her and then drew back, and she returned to Boston determined to stay away from him forever. Now maybe she had.
    An elderly woman in a red Rabbit was waiting for gas, Effie Smith who lived up at the Head, her old black Newfie Brute panting in the backseat. Shane, the teenager who worked in the store, came out to pump it but Lauchlin told him to wait and leaned to the driver’s window.
    “This car is a diesel, right Effie?”
    “You hear that clatter under the hood? I wish it wasn’t.”
    “Shane’ll fill it up for you then. Nice day.”
    “What a summer for rain, eh?”
    Lauchlin put out his hand for a slobbery lick from Brute, but he didn’t mention the bad gas, it would get around soon enough and he didn’t want an exaggerated account to spread quickly one end of the road to the other, as everything did. Well, did you know up at the store they mixed diesel gas with the regular kind? Could ruin your engine, yes, it could.
    “Did you see the blind woman on the road?” Effie said.
    “Tena MacTavish you mean?”
    “Is that who it was? I gave her a wide berth.”
    “Today?”
    “She was tapping along in a big white hat.”
    Lauchlin looked west down the straight stretch of road where trees ran right to the ditch. The asphalt, rubbled with frost humps and tar ribbons, was empty.
    “Keep an eye out for her, Effie.”
    Malcolm was indeed seated in the press-back chair, the destination he’d set out for that morning, but favouring his gouty foot ona low stool Lauchlin had provided for him, near the wall chimney of painted red brick and the round Warm Morning stove—a great spot in winter. He waved hello, wincing. He’d been a railroad man in Sydney but retired to the old family house in St. Aubin. He had seen most of the Cape Breton champions in action, and many of the good fighters during the golden years of the fifties and sixties, including young Lauchlin MacLean. We’re born bachelors, boy, Malcolm told him, the two of us, and we love the ring—assertions Lauchlin saw no need to question. He had come to anticipate their Thursday evenings when Malcolm liked to call up the highlights of old matches, mull over the fates of the fighters themselves. If anyone around here remembered that Lauchlin MacLean had been a promising welterweight when Cape Breton had gyms full of boxers and a few national champions as well, they remembered nothing else about it. Malcolm had the details, he could take you there.
    “The gout’s on you today, is it, Malkie?” Lauchlin said, moving behind the counter, distracted by the thought of Tena’s face shadowed under the brim of a big white hat.
    “If it was bad, I’d be in bed, my son. Gout’s a penance for living badly, and if I’d known this was coming, I’d have lived badder than I did.”
    “I’d been wondering about you. That chair was empty for a few days, until Clement’s wife gave it a try.”
    “You know, I ran into Tena MacTavish on my way. Just about locked canes with her, she coming along bold as you please. A strong girl, taking to the road like that.”
    “Where was she going, toward home?”
    “She was.”
    Lauchlin had hoped to see her come through that door again before she forgot whatever of him she remembered, his voice or his hand, helping her into the car. If he weren’t trapped behind the