My Father's Son

By Tom Moore

Some people age gracefully as wisdom and calm come with the grey hair. Others become crotchety, opinionated, and odd. People avoid them and laugh at them. Still others give up on life, on ambition, on dreams, and settle into a pleasant wait for the grave. I was one of those people.

Felix Ryan, from Curlew, Conception Bay, is a schoolteacher on the edge of a cliff in a serious mid-life crisis. But a phone call from Tammy, an ex-girlfriend, calls him back home to help his eccentric father in his latest crusade. A big US oil company has begun fracking in his hometown. Led by a jovial Texan and represented by a crack young lawyer, the company is buying up land. The town is split in two over fracking and its new prosperity.

Sparks of attraction fly between Felix and Tammy, even though he jilted her years before. Felix's father leads the fight against the oil company, and Felix is drawn further into the fight. As the battle lines are drawn in the sand, he finds a new direction in his life, a woman who loves him, and a cause worth fighting for.

From the author of The Sign on My Father’s House- Winner of the CBC’s NL Reads 2020 Competition

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: May 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781774570333

Tom Moore

Tom Moore is an award-winning writer in St. John’s, Newfoundland. His first novel, Good-Bye Momma, became a Canadian bestseller and won a “Children’s Choice” award from the Children’s Book Centre in Toronto. It was translated into Danish in 1982 and into Romanian in 1979. The CBC produced a radio play version, and The Canadian Book of Lists named it one of the best children’s books in Canada. In 1994, Angels Crying became his second national bestseller. It was required reading at schools of social work, including Memorial University, Dalhousie University, College of the North Atlantic, and the University of Maine at Presque Isle. It was translated into Chinese in 2002. In 2000, Ghost World won the inaugural Percy Janes award for best novel manuscript. “The Summer My Mother Died,” a short story, was a winning entry in Canadian Storyteller, Toronto, in the summer of 2004. He also published The Black Heart, a collection of poetry, and Wilfred Grenfell, a children’s biography. Tom’s poems “Ancestors,” “Songs,” and “Caplin Scull” were broadcast as operatic song settings on CBC Radio by Lynn Channing, Music Department University of Calgary, and “Songs” by Peter Mannion and the Galway University Choir in Ireland. In 1997, “Ancestors” was read for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II on her visit to Bonavista. His novel The Sign on My Father’s House won the NL Reads 2020 competition, the Margaret Duley Fiction Award, and the NL Public Libraries called it “the must-read book for 2020.” Moore is the only writer to win both the Percy Janes award and the Margaret Duley award for fiction. His short story “Pegasus” won the Arts and Letters competition and was published in the Newfoundland Quarterly, Summer 2020. His reading from The Sign on My Father’s House was featured on CBC Radio’s Canada Presents. His weekly readings from his works continue to attract thousands of viewers.

Book preview

Praise for Tom Moore

The Sign on My Father’s House

This is the funny and at times heartbreaking tale of a young man’s rough ride into adulthood. Felix Ryan is on a journey to discover who he is and where he is headed. He moves from rural Newfoundland to the hectic life of Memorial University in the late 1960s. . . . A timeless, delightful novel for all ages. — The Miramichi Reader

. . . packed with believable people, and their flaws are what make them lovable. . . . Tom Moore’s first book in 15 years is certainly well worth waiting for.

The Northeast Avalon Times

It reminds you that sometimes life can take its own turn and we just have to except it for what it is and find a way to go on. A very enjoyable read overall.

Edwards Book Club

"The Sign on My Father’s House reads so authentically, it feels like a memoir. It’s relatable, briskly paced, moving, and funny. If you’re looking for a good story this is a good story (with a kicker last line)." — The Telegram

Angels Crying

This is a truly compelling book . . . carefully researched, well documented and sensitively written . . . highlights the failure of protective services, police and child welfare to protect children. The writer’s skill is such that this book reads like a novel. . . . It should be required reading for foster parents, social workers, police and for students in the helping professions.

International Journal of Family Care

"The book gathers steam like a locomotive, reaching a fevered, page-turning pitch. Angels Crying is a good read."

The Sunday Express

"It’s a well written, well researched and well developed story. It will make you think. Angels Crying is a gripping, heart-rending story you’ll have a tough time putting down."

The Newfoundland Herald

"I hope Angels Crying will be widely read . . . solidly readable, heartbreaking book . . . an excellent job . . ."

The Telegram

My Father’s Son

Tom Moore

Flanker Press Limited

St. John’s

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: My father’s son : a novel / Tom Moore.

Names: Moore, Tom, 1950- author.

Description: Sequel to: The sign on my father’s house.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210176547 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210176563 | ISBN

9781774570326 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774570333 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774570357 (PDF)

Classification: LCC PS8576.O616 M9 2021 | DDC C813/.54—dc23

—————————————————————————————————— ————————————————

© 2021 by Tom Moore

all rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

Printed in Canada

Cover design by Graham Blair

Flanker Press Ltd.

PO Box 2522, Station C

St. John’s, NL

Canada

Telephone: [phone] Fax: [phone] Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

www.flankerpress.com

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Graphic depicting three logos in regards to government funding. Government of Canada, Canada Council for the Arts, Newfoundland and Labrador government.

We acknowledge the [financial] support of the Government of Canada. Nous reconnaissons l’appui [financier] du gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.

For Pamela

Brothers and sisters I have none,

But that man’s father is my father’s son.

a folk riddle

1

Hey! Are you all right? the stranger asked.

I opened my eyes and blinked rain from my lids. Yes, I’m fine, I said and stepped back from the cliff. I looked down over the ledge to the sea.

He stood in the rain with his old retriever, who looked idle, wet, and bored. They both smelled of damp dog. Those rocks can be slippery when wet. He smiled and pointed to my black leather shoes. His tone reminded me of my father, critical and helpful at the same time.

Have a good one, he said and walked away.

At the harbour entrance I saw an iceberg drift south on its journey from water to ice and back to water. The foghorn sent a mournful baarrmm out to sea every thirty seconds. It was another morning of rain, drizzle, and fog.

I needed a beer.

The Ship Inn is the oldest bar in St. John’s, and today I felt like one of its original patrons.

The usual, Felix? Bess pulled me a Guinness, and I found a table. I was a middle-aged high school teacher sitting in a bar with my friend, Mr. Guinness.

The door burst open on a breeze from Solomon’s Lane, and several young people rushed in. They were dressed for work in downtown offices and were here for the lunch special, a beef sandwich with fries and a pickle. Bright lives in front of them. Full of optimism. Nicely dressed, especially the girl.

I noticed one of the lads looking at me, and after he ordered, he came over to my table. Mr. Ryan? he asked.

Yes, I said.

Do you remember me? I didn’t.

Why, yes, I said.

Clarenville. I was in your English class in Clarenville.

Sure, I said. Nice to see you again.

Robert Cashin, he said, saving us both some embarrassment.

Of course, Robert.

Do you remember chasing me out into the parking lot?

Boom. The memory flashed clear as glass across my mind. It was my first year teaching, and I was writing on the blackboard, my back to the class. Other teachers had warned me about young Robert. Trouble. Attitude. I heard my classroom door slam, and before I knew it, he had fled. He was AWOL, and I was twenty-five years old.

I bolted after my lost sheep and caught him just as he reached the road. I grabbed him, avoiding his swinging arms, and got him in a headlock. We were both cursing and swearing as I dragged him back to the school.

You were a real funny guy, Robert said, jarring me back to the present.

You were a bag of tricks yourself, I said, sipping my Guinness.

I’m working here in St. John’s these days.

Staying out of trouble? I asked.

I’m articling with Barnes, Barnes and Cooper. Now I make a living from other people’s trouble. He laughed.

Clever lad. I knew you had it in you, I joked, but he was looking at me, thinking.

Then he said, I really appreciate what you did that day.

It was my first year, I explained.

No, he said. No, and we both ran out of words. Words, perhaps, about caring, and strangers, and lives not grown, and fledglings not flown. But for me the memory showed a reversal of fortune since then. He was a young lawyer on his way up, and I was in a bar drinking at noon.

Robert held out his hand, and I was happy to shake it. Thank you, he said as if he’d been practising it for some time.

You’re welcome. I smiled for the first time that day.

Can I get you one of those? He pointed at my Guinness.

No, I said. But you can get me a Scotch on the rocks.

Done, he said and went off to the bar. He brought me back a double Scotch, laid it on the table, and walked back to his friends.

Thanks, Robert, I called after him.

He waved from his table.

Some people age gracefully as wisdom and calm come with the grey hair. Others become crotchety, opinionated, and odd. People avoid them and laugh at them. Still others give up on life, on ambition, on dreams, and settle into a pleasant wait for the grave. I was one of those people.

I blamed it on a bad marriage. I never did get over Ellen Monteau and her dazzling dreams of a southern mansion in rural Newfoundland. There is a medical term called folie à deux for a couple who share a madness. I bought into Ellen’s dream of creating a version of Tara here in Newfoundland. But I had to bail out before that plane crashed into Crazy Mountain. I dated other women, but my heart wasn’t into it. One of these women was my girlfriend, Janet Reese, whom I was meeting for lunch.

When I arrived at Rocket Bakery, Janet was already sitting with a little sandwich and a coffee. Hi, baby! She waved from her table. I got in line and ordered a mulligatawny soup. When I got to the table, Janet was giving her real estate card to a couple at the next table. They’re from Hant’s Harbour. The couple smiled. They’re moving to town.

Janet smiled back at the young couple, then turned to me with a serious face. We on for tonight? she asked.

Sure. Why not?

Just that you’re so unsettled these days.

No, I’m not. I’ve been settled for years. Same routine every day, every week.

Well, school is closed now for the year. Do you have summer plans?

Janet’s cellphone beeped before I could answer, and she held up her hand for silence like a traffic cop, eyes on me, and said into the phone, Hello, Jake. Yes, I got your message.

She stood and walked to a corner of the room. I tried my soup. Hot. My cellphone rang. It was my buddy Charlie Ward. Can you meet me for lunch?

I’m having lunch right now with Janet, I said.

Is she there? At the table?

No, she’s off on a call.

Good. Meet me at the Duke when you finish.

What for?

I’ll tell you then. He hung up.

I got a new listing in St. Philip’s, Janet said, all grins. She was a short, confident woman with a frantic energy, always rushing somewhere. She was continually on one diet or another in spite of her many exertions. Janet always dressed well and had great teeth, full lips, and a peaches-and-cream complexion.

That’s great, sweetheart. That’s great, I said.

Janet survives all circumstances. The oil fields Hibernia and White Rose took a big hit with the slump in oil prices. The real estate market suffered, but Janet thrived.

On the other hand, I fretted and packed on forty extra pounds. My life was in a rut, and my mind was frozen in time. I was waiting for the big melt, the thaw, and for life to find me. And soon it did.

Janet got another call and rushed off with a quick kiss and a promise. Gone.

I walked down Water Street, then up McMurdo’s Lane to the Duke of Duckworth, a bar well used by filmmakers and the arts community.

I found Charlie and plopped down beside him. How’s Janet? he asked.

We had lunch.

How you guys doing?

Good, I guess. Together now almost two years.

Charlie looked around the room, sipped his beer.

Why do you ask?

He looked at me for a moment and said, Janet is seeing another guy.

What? Why?

You mean, ‘who,’ don’t you? It’s Ronnie Lake, a drummer with The Distraction.

Are you sure?

Everyone knows but you.

But we’re pretty happy, most of the time, I said.

Let’s face it Felix, you’re older than she is, and you’re not much fun.

To hell with you, I said to the messenger.

I’m trying to be your friend here. No one else would tell you.

Thanks for nothing. I got up and left. I should have felt more upset, but instead there was a calm, an unconscious realization that this was a good thing, something to stir up the pot of life.

That night Janet lay asleep in my bed. She slept solidly, untroubled by life’s complications. Nestling into me, or into a pillow, or creeping across the bed like a glacier. Arms around my waist or around my neck in her sleep. Usually we wake knitted together like a vine around a tree. On other nights she drops off to sleep on her side of the bed, distant, cold, remote.

She was up at dawn, bounding into the kitchen like a deer. Soon the smell of coffee and bacon filled the apartment. I decided not to ask about the drummer. But I was glad when she went back to her place Sunday morning, and I was drinking again by noon. Stuff like that doesn’t seem to affect me much. I lived in a dull calm where little affected me anymore.

Later that afternoon the phone rang, but I rolled over on the couch and slept my fitful sleep. I was dreaming about lions coming to the edge of the forest in the evening to drink. The setting sun hit their sandy heads, and they lapped the water with big pink tongues.

2

The phone rang again the next morning. You gotta come home.

I am home. Who’s this?

No, I mean home in Curlew.

What time is it? I was slowly coming to the surface.

It’s eight thirty a.m. This is Tammy.

Tammy?

Remember me?

It’s not every day you get a call from an ex-girlfriend from decades before. I awoke with a snap. Are you in Curlew? I asked.

Her voice brought me safely back to my apartment. Yes, I’m here in Curlew with my son. He’s working for an oil company. She had a son? Suddenly I remembered the trouble between us, the sour breakup, the hurt I caused.

An oil company in Curlew?

They’re buying up the land for a big drill.

I didn’t hear anything on the news.

You will. Now get out here before it’s too late.

What?

You have to come home.

Home, I thought out loud. I didn’t visit Curlew anymore. Father and Shirley were old, and Mom was in her grave. Old Clara White rested stiff and still beside her son, Dick, and husband, Wayne. Grandfathers and grandmothers all waited in their graves for Gabriel’s big horn. The last I heard, Tammy was in Toronto, married to a guy named Green, or Brown, or some boring colour.

They’re stealing your land, she said.

I rarely thought about the land Old Clara White left me. The house, shop, and storerooms that I burnt to the ground in one defiant act. Let’s call it a matrimonial dispute. I remembered the warm fires against a black winter sky. The volunteer firemen and their trucks came too late. Father said I picked a good night to burn her down because there was no wind. I smiled to remember that kind remark from him.

Jeez, Tammy. I haven’t heard from you in a while. I swung stiff legs onto the floor and paced around with the phone to my ear.

Someone had to tell you.

About the land?

The surveyors are all over your land. And your father’s, too.

Surveyors?

I was going to call him, but I figured I’d call you, even if . . .

Thanks, I said.

That’s it, she said. I can hear you got company there, so I’ll let you go.

No, that’s the TV. I flicked it off, and the room went silent, and her voice sounded loud and clear now, like an accusing voice from my past.

Well, goodbye, she said.

I’ll be out there tomorrow morning, I said, feeling great to have a plan, however small.

Bye. Click.

Now that was something. An oil company was surveying my land. But who cared? They may buy it from me, and I’d be clear of it. Who’d want my land? No gold there. Land in