Algoma

Dani Couture

Description

One of the Toronto Star's top books of the year

A year after watching Leo go through thin ice, twelve-year- old Ferd is obsessed with the idea that he can persuade his dead brother to come home through a campaign of letters. Plaintive notes appear around the house-folded squares of paper in the rain reservoir, kitchen sink, and washing machine. Ferd’s mother, Algoma, is also unravelling; attempting to hide her son’s letters, reconnect with her increasingly distant husband, and rebuild her life.

“Algoma is a strong debut novel with a haunting landscape, convincing characters and a vivid sense of the haphazard nature of our lives.”—National Post

“A very good first novel from a refreshing new voice.”—Quill & Quire

Sujets

• Bears
• Ships
• Canadá
• Quebec
• First Book
• List of Canadian writers
• Loss
• Ship
• Algoma
• Canada

Informations

• Publié par: Invisible Publishing
• Date de parution: 15 octobre 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 3
• EAN13: 9781926743189
• Langue: English

Extrait

by dani couture














Invisible Publishing
Halifax & Toronto
Text copyright © Dani Couture, 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any method, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. The narrative in no way reflects an opinion, positive or negative, about the Algoma Central Corporation, its products or employees.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Couture, Dani, 1978-
Algoma / Dani Couture.
Issued also in electronic format.
ISBN 978-1-926743-14-1
I. Title.
PS8605.O92A64 2011 C813’.6 C2011-905769-7

Cover & Interior design by Megan Fildes
Typeset in Laurentian & Gibson
Special thanks to type designer Rod McDonald

Invisible Publishing
Halifax & Toronto
www.invisiblepublishing.com

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
Invisible Publishing recognizes the support of the Province of Nova Scotia through the Department of Communities, Culture & Heritage. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Culture Division to develop and promote our cultural resources for all Nova Scotians.
For Carolyn Black, Stacey May Fowles,
& Natalie Zina Walschots
“We all have reasons for moving.
I move to keep things whole.”

–Mark Strand

“To have joy, one must share it.
Happiness was born a twin.”

–Lord Byron
5:14 p.m. -12°C. Wind NW, strong.
Snow drifting in waves across river.

New ice groaned beneath the hard plastic soles of Leo’s winter boots. The temperature had dropped dramatically two days earlier and sealed the river, however thinly. Small pressure cracks exploded beneath his feet as he leaped to each new stretch of ice. Although the bear was emaciated—fur and skin hanging off its frame like grotesque drapery—it moved quickly.
If Leo kept a quick pace, didn’t stay on the same fragile stretch of ice too long, he wouldn’t fall through. He was sure the river teemed with a thousand toothy pike looking to exact revenge on his summer limits.
When he’d encountered the bear on the south shore, he’d immediately forgotten about his network of snares in the woods behind him. The thin coil of wire and wire cutters attached to his belt bounced against his hip like a heartbeat as he ran. Although he didn’t know how, he thought he could help the animal. And even more than that, he wanted to touch it, feel its rough fur in his hands, the sharp contours of its shoulder blades that pumped up and down like a locomotive. He’d never seen anything like it before, and he was glad his brother was not there, that he’d managed to slip away from him after school. Ferd would have only wanted to find a way to get its hide, teeth, and claws. Leo wanted it all, and alive.
Fifty feet ahead of him, the bear stopped, stumbled, then quickly regained its footing. The animal did not turn around to acknowledge its stalker, a boy dressed in a dark blue parka with white fur trim around the hood, black tuque, and a thin red scarf at his throat.
Leo took the bear’s missteps as a chance to catch up and picked up his pace. The tree line on the north shore of the river had lost definition in the last minutes of daylight and was now only a fence of black wood capped by a darkening blue sky. The bright white ice that stretched from shore to shore held the remaining light of the day and every ounce of the cold.
The bear stopped again.
The crunch of snow and ice beneath Leo’s feet was deafening. He stopped, held his breath, worried that at any moment the bear would hear him, smell him, turn on him, and it would be over. Whatever this was. He was so close, he could almost touch it if he reached out his hand.
The bear—diseased, starving, or both—struggled to release one of its front paws from the hole it had created. The animal bared its large yellow teeth at the ice, growled, and tried to gnaw its trapped limb free.
Under the weight of the boy and the animal’s struggle, the ice started to cave.
As he fell into the water, Leo reached for the bear, desperate for something to hold onto. Its fur was softer than he could have ever imagined.

From the train bridge, Ferd stood on the slippery railway ties and watched Leo chase the bear across the ice as darkness fell. Frightened for his brother, but more afraid that Leo would find out he’d tailed him after school, he remained quiet. He watched the gap between brother and bear grow smaller and smaller until it was difficult to make out two distinct shapes. They appeared as one mass until they disappeared into the river leaving Ferd to stand on the bridge. Alone, it felt, for the first time.
DECEMBER – JANUARY

7:04 p.m. -14°C. Light, crisp N wind.
Salt glittering on the sidewalk like costume jewellery.

Inside the darkened lobby, Lake used both hands to flip on all the light switches at once. Outside, the marquee bulbs flickered and popped on to reveal her six sisters shivering on the cold sidewalk, a mix of steam and cigarette smoke rising from their mouths as they waited for her to open the doors. She took a rare moment to watch them all without being noticed. They were never together like this—alone—without partners, children, or friends. She wished times like these happened more often and not just on the anniversary of their parents’ deaths.
“Unlock the goddamned door,” Bay yelled. “It’s fucking freezing.”
Everyone always did what Bay said, mostly because she was the loudest.
“Your mouth,” Port said. “Watch it.”
Bay flicked her cigarette into the street and sulked. “It’s cold is all.” It was as close as she could come to an apology.
Cen and Steel rolled their eyes. The eldest of the seven, they had gone from trying to manage their siblings to being resigned to the realities of their personalities. Easier to go with the river than against it. Algoma and Soo huddled together to stay warm, their arms wrapped around one another’s waists. They rarely got into the middle of any argument, preferring to let things resolve on their own.
Lake opened the door to the ticket booth and stepped in. She leaned down to the hole in the glass: “Did you see the marquee? Go look.”
The women looked at one another and stepped back.
“3 rd Annual Mom and Dad Film Festival,” Cen read aloud. Steel looped her arm with Cen’s and put her head on her sister’s shoulder.
Lake exited the booth and propped open one of the four main doors. “Come on in. Have your tickets ready and grab a glass of wine. Show starts in twenty.”

The theatre was the only one in town. Built in the sixties, it was abandoned by the early nineties, until a local man had renovated and reopened it under the name Fox Theatre after a theatre he’d visited in Detroit in his youth. Thomas Deneau had spent his early twenties thinking he’d make films; thirty years later, he had several uncut reels in his basement that he tried not to think about. Buying the theatre seemed like a good compromise. Instead of making films, he’d show them.
After five years of running the theatre by himself with the help of an ever-changing roster of teenagers to run the ticket booth and concession stand and clean up after each showing, he decided he needed a business partner. Someone to help run the place so he could have a few days off every week. Maybe finish one of his films, even though the actors were likely too aged, missing, or dead.
Lake had just graduated from the University of Montreal with a degree in demography and geography, but she didn’t want to work in her field because it would take her away from home. She’d applied for the job and was immediately hired. “If someone ever needs a map so they can find their seat, we’re set,” Thomas joked during her interview.
He treated Lake like a daughter, giving her free rein of the theatre when she wanted it; and for the past three years, she’d hosted an evening of home movies for her sisters on the anniversary of their parents’ deaths. The first year, Lake had had to explain to an angry would-be patron that the theatre was closed for a private event. The man had pounded on the ticket booth glass until she’d appeared.
“One ticket for the eight o’clock,” he’d said. In the end, she’d let him sit in the back like an extended family member no one could remember.

Lake brushed her bangs out of her eyes and ducked behind the concession stand. She pulled out a half dozen bottles of red and white wine and placed them beside the boxes of Whoppers and bags of Swedish Berries and Sour Patch Kids. “Small, medium, or large?” she asked.
Bay pushed passed her sisters to the front. “Large,” she said, pointing to a jumbo soda cup.
“I have to set up the movie,” Lake said. “Pour some for everyone else first.” She never gave into Bay’s demands.
“But…” Bay started. Undeterred, she emptied the better part of one of the bottles of red into a cup. She took a sip and nodded. “All right, who’s next