Chapter Six

“They’re refugees. They won’t say where they’re from. They want to live in Canada. They want to live here. I found them drifting around off the coast in a boat. We need to help them, but Tamara’s father doesn’t trust anybody.”

“Who is Tamara?” my mother demanded.

“Tamara’s the girl,” I said. “She’s really something. I like her a lot.”

My mother looked at the way I was smiling. Then she threw up her hands and talked to the ceiling. “My son has a crush on a girl he just found in a lifeboat. What next?”

“Quiet,” I whispered. “They might hear. Besides, I just met her. I don’t have a crush on her.”

“We need to sort this out rationally,” my mother said, talking like my father now. “We need to call the immigration people in St. John’s right away. They’ll know what we should do.” She picked up the phone and dialed 411 for information.

“No, we can’t!” I told her in a loud whisper. I took the phone from her and hung it up.

“Why?” my mom wanted to know. She didn’t like the way I was acting.

“Because Tamara’s father is afraid of cops, of anybody in authority. I promised we wouldn’t turn them in.”

“Promised? Are you crazy? If we don’t turn them over, we’ll be breaking the law.”

I shrugged. “They need our help. Now let’s eat supper like everything is normal.”

“Normal?” she repeated, as if she’d never heard the word before. But before we could return to the dining room, we heard the front door open.

My mom looked at me. “Oh, no. There’s more of them.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

We rushed out of the kitchen. It was Harold.

“Oh, boy,” I gasped. Tamara’s father had jumped up and pulled out his knife. He had Harold pinned up against the wall with the knife poised near the old guy’s stomach.

Harold’s eyes were bugging out of his head and he had his hands thrown back. Mom screamed. Tamara’s mother was jumping up and down.

“Just everybody relax,” I said, sucking in my breath. “Tamara, tell your father this man is my friend. He’s not from the police. He’s just a friend.”

She translated.

Tamara’s father was slow to be convinced.

“His name is Harold,” I told her father. “He’s a nice guy. Don’t kill him.”

Although the tension didn’t drain from his face, Tamara’s father lowered the knife.

Harold spoke gently to the man who had been about to slice his belly. “That looks like a good knife. Had one like it once that I used to gut mackerel with. Lost it in a squall. Always liked that knife.”

“That does it,” my mother said, regaining her courage. “I want all these people out of my house,” she told me. “No ifs, ands or buts.”

Tamara’s family understood without translation. My mother was pointing toward the door. Tamara’s father looked a little hurt. Her mother just hung her head low and sobbed. They were picking up their few bags when Harold cleared his throat. He understood perfectly who these folks were.

“Now wait a minute,” he said to my mom. “I think we just had a little misunderstanding. Like you kept trying to tell me, I should knock before I come in. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks. It was my mistake. He probably thought I was some kind of prowler.”

“He thought you were a cop,” I corrected.

Harold laughed. “I assure you, I’m no cop. In fact, the Mounties still haven’t forgiven me for smuggling a little rum way back when.”

“Out!” My mother repeated. “You too, Harold. Get out!”

Harold scratched his head.

I walked over to Tamara. “Mom, you can’t ask them to leave. I promised they could stay here. For the night at least.”

“I don’t trust him,” my mother said, pointing to Tamara’s father. “I don’t trust him and that knife.”

I let go of Tamara’s hand and walked over to her old man. I held out my hand and pointed to the blade. Tamara said something to him. Suddenly he pulled the knife out of the sheath again.

My lungs stopped working and my heart went on strike. But then he placed the knife gently in my hand. “Sorry,” he said in English. “Sorry.”

And so we all sat down to dinner, Harold included. We were all nervous and uncomfortable. Harold said it was just about the best fish he’d ever seen a mainlander cook.

My mother looked at me. “Greg, I wish your father was still around for this.”

“Me too,” I said.