We Came From Away, page 8
“Oh, you are such a snob,” Emma said as she took her phone back from Phillip. “It’s about the week after 9/11 when Gander—one of the places we’re visiting—hosted planeloads of displaced travellers whose flights were all diverted from New York that day. They were stuck here, and the Newfoundlanders opened their lives to their guests.” She turned and tapped her finger on the poster. “Come from away? Get it? Like Gran said in her letter. We’re all come-from-aways. CFAs?”
I rolled my eyes. Who cared?
Emma turned to Gordie. “Is there any chance we might be able to get tickets to it when we’re in Gander?”
Gordie smiled. “Funny you should ask, love. As it happens, I have a buddy who knows some people, and I can get tickets for everyone if you like.”
Of course, he knew someone. I supposed this would be the way the trip would unfold. Did everyone in Newfoundland know everyone else? I sighed. Emma looked like a delighted child—or perhaps a demented one if you remembered she was over forty.
“Let’s all go!” Emma said. “It could be a great family outing.”
Wasn’t this whole trip a family outing? I wasn’t sure I needed anything extra and said so.
Erica said, “Geezus, Eliza, can’t you get into the spirit?” She turned to Gordie. “Well, I’ve seen it before, but I’m in. I’d love to see it on Newfoundland soil.”
“Tickets for everyone, then?” Gordie said as he stood at the reception desk, checking the lot of us in.
Even I had to agree—but reluctantly. I guess I was destined to have the whole experience. I just knew I’d be drawing a line at kissing the cod—some kind of dreadful local ritual I’d read about.
Gordie passed out the keys, and I gratefully made my way to the tiny elevator behind the staircase, dragging my little suitcase behind me. I could hardly wait to get out of these clothes and chill for the evening with room service. As I passed by the reception desk, I said to the largeish woman with a broad face and toothy smile, who seemed to be very friendly with our guide, “Is the room service menu in our rooms?”
She suddenly looked startled. “Room service?” she said, shaking her head. “No, my ducky, it is not. We’re a wee place and have no such thing, but our dining room is charming. Lovely menu, too, I might add.”
I clutched at my cashmere wrap that was now festooning my shoulders. If I’d been wearing pearls, I would have clutched them, too. Dear god, it only got worse. I didn’t know the half of it.
“Listen up, everyone,” I could hear Gordie saying. “Before you all rush off to freshen up, I just wanted to tell you that we’ll meet up in the dining room in,” he checked his watch, “exactly half an hour. We’ll have a gay old time with a drink or two,” he winked at Aunt Maureen who was sitting on a sofa facing the reception desk, “a great scoff and a wee bit of planning for the days ahead.”
I wondered how Aunt Maureen was handling all this family time. I’d always liked Dad’s sister (I could forgive her for being Erica’s mother) and vowed I’d try to spend some time with her during this trip. I’d always admired her—moving away on her own and getting a PhD at a time when women didn’t do that sort of thing. I hated to admit it, but I had often felt that I respected Maureen more than my own mother. Yes, I was that kind of daughter.
“A gay old time?” Phillip said, raising an eyebrow.
“Pardon my manners,” Gordie said, hanging his head in mock contrition. “I’m just an old guy, and you know what I mean.”
Phillip smiled. “I’m just pulling your leg. But you might want to avoid that in future.”
“Will do, sir,” Gordie said. “Now, are we all settled?”
“Just one question, Gordie,” Emma said. “What is a scoff?”
He laughed. “You’ll find out soon enough, my love, soon enough.” He stared at Emma and seemed to be laughing harder.
I was afraid that I did know what it meant.
WHEN I FINALLY MANAGED to make the enormous brass key to my room work in the lock (hadn’t they heard of key cards around here?), I opened the door to find myself in a dark space with brown wall-to-wall carpets, gold wallpaper and dark wood everywhere. At least, as Gordie had promised, the air conditioning was working well.
I immediately peeled off my black clothes and threw myself on the bed to enjoy a few moments of cool air before figuring out if, at least, I might be able to have a nice bath later. When I finally ventured into the bathroom, all I found was a vintage pedestal sink, a toilet and a small, plain bathtub with oddly short sides. There would be no luxuriating in a tub with jets this evening. That much was clear.
I checked my watch and saw that I had only ten minutes more to fluff myself up and dress unless I wanted to incur the wrath of our tour guide. I was the queen of the quick makeup fix anyway, so I got up, slapped some water and a few products on my face, grabbed a wrinkle-free travel dress I had rolled up in the corner of my tiny suitcase (yes, it was black) and slid it on. The long sleeves wouldn’t even be a problem, given the AC that I was now enjoying.
I took the stairs down, and it was only five minutes past the expected time when I arrived at the double French doors that led from the lobby into the dining room. It was called The Carriage Room. There wasn’t a carriage in sight, but I could see my travel mates already seated at a huge round table inside. It seemed I was the last to arrive. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Eight
Erica
I WASN’T SURE WHAT I’d been expecting, but our first night’s accommodation didn’t seem to fit the bill—in a good way. I had set my expectations fairly low after I’d done some intelligence gathering with Maddie in the days leading up to the trip.
“Mom,” Maddie had said as she clicked through websites, “I don’t think they have any actual hotels in that area.” She was referring to the Great Northern Peninsula because I knew very well there were hotels in Newfoundland and nice ones—just not here.
So, to find myself in a charming vintage hotel was a treat. Yes, I had noticed the peeling paint and the dingy carpets in the lobby, but none of that mattered. I had an idea for a story about families for the show and something else in my head. I wasn’t sure yet what it was, but I could feel my old journalistic curiosity beginning to bubble to the surface. There had been a time in my professional life when I’d had an insatiable desire to unearth stories—to discover what lay beneath the veneer of everyday existence. In recent years, though, I’d become a “personality” rather than a journalist. Perhaps I had a hidden desire to reconnect with who I used to be. Maybe this trip would be the catalyst. But that was a consideration for another time. I was on a deadline here and now. I had half an hour.
I settled quickly into my room because I wanted to call Andrew and Maddie before dinner, and I didn’t have much time if I also wanted to throw some water in my face.
“How are things on The Rock?” Andrew said when he answered. I told him about the flight and about Gordie. “How’s your mom doing?”
“You know, I’m not sure. She’s been unusually quiet. I guess there’s a lot for her to think about. We’ll see how it goes.”
Then I spoke with Maddie, who wanted to be filled in on every detail. I told her I’d start sending photos tomorrow. “What about video clips?” she said.
I knew she would want content for her TikTok channel, so I’d have to be judicious with what I sent to her. She was a creative video clip editor even at her young age. Kids these days were amazing.
Before I went down to dinner, I texted Sam. “Got a few ideas for the show,” I wrote. “And other things maybe. Will call you in the next few days to discuss. E.” I got a thumbs-up back from her. Now, it was time to join the fray once again.
When I arrived in the dining room, Gordie was already holding court at a large round table in the middle of the room under its beamed dome. Phillip and Emma were once again deep in conversation while Mom and Uncle Fred listened to Gordie. Eliza was nowhere to be seen. Typical, I thought. I was, however, delighted to see that Mom was more animated now. I hoped she was going to enjoy this trip as much as she possibly could. When you’re knocking on the door of eighty, it’s so important to live each day to the fullest, don’t you think? Well, perhaps it’s important at any age, but the older you get, the more significant it seems to be—at least in my view.
I walked toward them past several tables where people seemed to be enjoying their dinners, judging by the way they were heads down, not talking to one another. I took the empty seat beside Phillip, leaving one empty seat next to Gordie for Eliza. Of course, that meant we would be sitting side by side, but there were no other options.
“Gordie was just telling us about tomorrow’s plans,” Mom said as I sat down.
Gordie poured me a glass of wine from the open bottle on the table. I had to stifle a snicker when I noted it was a bottle of Lindemann’s Bin 65 Chardonnay, something I hadn’t had since Andrew and I were first married over twenty years before—before we became those insufferable wine snobs who chose their wines based on some wine critic’s snotty rating and drank only from the right shaped crystal glass. This was not, in anyone’s world, a chardonnay glass, and it certainly wasn’t crystal. I hadn’t had a glass of wine from one of those little round diner glasses in years. However, I had promised myself (and Phillip) that I’d throw caution to the wind and go with the flow. Lindemann’s it was. I took a sip and was transported back in time. But what surprised me the most was how much I liked it.
“We’re off on the Viking Trail bright and early,” Gordie said as Emma and Phillip ended their tête-a-tête to pay attention to the itinerary. “About an hour’s drive will get us to Gros Morne National Park. You’re in for a treat tomorrow. Hope you all have your hiking boots.”
That was the moment Eliza appeared. “Did I hear someone say hiking boots?” she said as she slid into the seat next to me like a slithery snake. Okay, so I needed to get off Eliza’s case, but in my defence, I only thought those things. I again refrained from saying anything. I was gunning for a medal.
Gordie half stood with his hand on the back of Eliza’s chair as she slid in. “We’ve got about a couple of kilometres hike in and back out from Western Brook Pond. I suppose if all you have is sneakers, that’ll have to do.”
I happened to know that Eliza was a sneaker person, but only when it meant tennis sneakers with whites to play at her club in Manhattan. She’d mentioned it enough times five years ago.
“Well, that’s for tomorrow,” Gordie said, lifting his menu and turning to Emma. “Now, let's get at that scoff.” And the light seemed to dawn on Emma’s face.
The menu was not unexpected as far as I was concerned. There was seafood, seafood and more fish. Sprinkled in were chicken, a bit of pork belly, and, oddly for this time of year, I thought, a roast turkey dinner. That sounded divine since turkey only made it onto our household menu at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I thought I might skip the appetizer. Gordie had other ideas.
“Ladies and gents,” he said, “a trip such as this one can’t start well without a feed of cod tongues to begin. It whets the appetite, as it were, for all that follows after.”
I was sure I heard Eliza retch. She seemed to recompose herself quickly and said, “What precisely are cod tongues, if I may ask? I was unaware that fish had tongues.”
“Well, lovely lady, strictly speaking, I suppose, if I’m being completely honest, you do have a point. There are no real tongues like ours—we all know fish can’t talk, don’t we?” His eyes sparkled. “But there is a piece of flesh at the base of a cod’s throat that we call the tongue. A bit of flour and salt and pepper, then fried up in pork fat with a few scrunchions, and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Scrunchions?” Eliza asked as she reached into her handbag for her bejewelled reading glasses, a notebook and a pen.
“Delightful, crispy pieces of fried pork fat, my dear,” Gordie said, practically smacking his lips.
Eliza made a note as I heard what sounded distinctly like quiet gagging—the dry heaves, perhaps—from Emma, who was just on the other side of Phillip.
“Mr. O’Brien—Gordie,” Emma began, “as I mentioned to you at the donut shop, I’m vegan.”
I snorted as quietly as I could and looked across at my mother, who was looking confused. Phillip dug me in the ribs and joined me in the snorting. Before we knew it, we were both laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Emma said earnestly.
“You say it like you’re a member of some kind of religious sect,” I said.
“Erica, I’ll have you know that veganism has a long history.”
“I’m sure it does,” Phillip said with his head turned fully toward me so that she couldn’t hear. “So does meat-eating.”
“You’re only flippant because you know we have the moral high ground,” Emma said. “So, I’ll not be partaking in anything animal-related, no matter how authentically Newfoundland it is.”
“The rarefied air of the higher moral ground must interfere with sanity,” Phillip whispered, which started me snorting again.
“More for us, then,” Gordie said, taking it all in stride.
“Emma, dear,” Mom said from across the table, “how long have you been vegan?”
“Ten years, Aunt Maureen.”
“That explains her pallor,” I whispered to Phillip.
“Ah, the creature of moral superiority and kale-infused righteousness,” Phillip said out loud this time. “I suppose you’re about to wax poetic about the environmental benefits of your chosen lifestyle while scoffing down a kale salad with quinoa on the side.”
I had no idea Phillip was so anti-veganism. I’d have to ask him about that later, but he was on a roll, and I was enjoying this.
“I’ll have you know, there are statistics backing up the vegan lifestyle as the only way for planetary survival while at the same time ensuring the death of the commodification of animals,” Emma said.
She sounded like someone rattling off a memorized catechism at Sunday school.
“Well, I didn’t expect anyone to embark on a moral discourse, Emma dear,” Mom said. Did I mention that Mom used to be a philosophy professor—with a specialty in ethics? No? Well, Emma had come to the wrong table if she thought she was going to make a moral argument that a philosopher and a bunch of hedonists would buy.
“I will eat nothing that has ever had a face,” Emma said like a petulant schoolgirl.
“What about shrimp? Lobster? No face there as far as I can figure out.” I couldn’t help myself. Emma shook her head. I shrugged. “I’ll try the cod tongues, and then I’ll have the turkey dinner,” I said.
Everyone except Emma agreed to the cod tongues, along with orders of lemon dill salmon and stuffed chicken. Gordie ordered creamed spinach cod, but that seemed a step too far too soon for the rest of us. Since there were no vegan entrees on the menu at all, Emma ordered French onion soup (no cheese and no slice of toasted baguette. Dear god, French onion soup without cheese and bread was just a bowl of wilted onions) and a Caesar salad—no bacon, no anchovies, no parmesan cheese and no Caesar dressing—since it’s made with egg yolk. As far as I’m concerned, a Caesar salad without bacon, anchovies, parmesan cheese or Caesar dressing is just a bowl of lettuce. I wasn’t sure why she didn’t just ask someone to kill her now. She wasn’t going to have any fun.
When the cod tongues arrived in advance of our main meals, we all tried them. Mom and Uncle Fred had both experienced them as kids—Mom liked them, Fred, not so much. Phillip loved them, and I thought the consistency was something I might not repeat. Eliza pronounced them interesting and made notes in her little red notebook. I wondered what she was writing.
Gordie had arranged for us all to sample his favourite Newfoundland dessert.
As the two servers arrived with steaming bowls on large platters, Gordie announced, “Now we’ve had quite a time this evening getting to know one another, but we’re not quite through. I’m after chatting to the pastry chef here earlier, and she’s made us proud again. Ladies and gents, may I present a sample of my favourite Newfoundland dessert. I give you Blueberry Duff with a large measure of rum and caramel sauce.” Then he stared right through Emma. “My love, surely you can eat a bit of dessert, can’t you?
Emma looked like she was sucking on a lemon. “Does it have dairy in it?”
“If by dairy you mean the milk and butter and eggs that stand as culinary cornerstones to every good dessert ever made, then the answer is yes, my dear.” Then he turned to the server who was just about to place a steaming bowl of what smelled to me to be an aroma just this side of heaven and said, “Alice love, better not put that in front of her lest she be tempted into the iniquity that is the heavenly hedonism of tantalized tastebuds.”
I had to hold my hand over my face to stifle a giggle. Phillip didn’t even bother. He erupted, which got the rest of the table going. Mom even cracked a smile.
“Ah, you are a testament to the power of conviction, my dear,” Gordie said to Emma. “But mark this. We shall have you this week as a reminder that in a world full of choices, it is still possible to avoid opening oneself to experiences.” Then he looked around at the rest of us as he sat down. “Bon appetit!”
I raised the first spoonful of the caramel-sauce-covered blueberry studded cake-like pudding to my mouth and swooned. The hell with the diet this week. I almost felt sorry for Emma as she sat there toying with her bowl of raisins and bananas—the only thing the servers could find for her. God love them, I thought, at least they’re trying.
“Well, I know I’m stogged,” Gordie said as he wiped the last morsel of rum caramel sauce from his chin. “Breakfast at eight, then.”
I just assumed that stogged meant full. I was stogged, too.
Along the Shore & Up the Pond
Iris’s Steamed Blueberry Pudding – a.k.a. Newfoundland Blueberry Duff
