Forgiveness Read Online Free Page A

tired-looking, smoke-stained place with six tables and some old bar-room chairs. I felt like we had stepped into an ATCO trailer. But the people huddled inside were some of the warmest I had ever met. It was the kind of place where, as the door opened, everyone paused to see who was joining them. They smiled with anticipation.
    Today, they looked us over and I could tell everyone had the same question in their minds: Who are his people? I was a write-off on that front—I was clearly a “come from away.” But they got forensic with Grandpa. Eyes were squinting, searching for a telltale family feature: Big ears? A particular nose?
    I was looking through the room for a table to sit at and quickly get out of everyone’s line of sight when I noticed that Grandpa was scanning their faces too, on the hunt for familiarity. From a table near the back of the room just beside the men’s washroom came a holler. “MacLean!” It rang out with the excitement of a call of “Bingo!” Grandpa had been identified. Three old ladies at the table closest to us nodded in agreement. We had apparently been tagged and fit for release. We meandered our way to the back table and shook hands with one of Grandpa’s old acquaintances. He was a member of the Sumarah clan—a cousin, I think. The family still owned the general store, and the man told us they had dramatically increased their operations by moving into the business of smoking fish.
    These folks were tough. They stubbornly clung to this island, daring time to try to change their way of life. They lived by the ageless rhythm of the sea. We shared a cup of coffee with them and took our leave.
    Just as we rounded out the walk, we came upon the Notre-Dame de la Garde hospital, a four-storey solid brick building. It was a big rectangle with a cross on top and eight windows per side. It was well kept—newly painted and without a brick out of place. The hospital was the last stop for most people on the island.
    “If the sea doesn’t get ’em, most folks around here will meet their Maker right here,” said Grandpa.
    In a way, he had almost met his Maker here too.
    The Magdalen Islands were founded by shipwrecked people. Close to its shores, there have been over one hundred wrecks. It is an island of castaways. Folks from the mainland washed up onto the beaches of the island, leaving their old lives beyond the Gulf of St. Lawrence behind. They had little choice but to make a go of it on that lifeboat of land. No one was coming to look for them. Time moved on, just as the families of those who washed up there.
    Ralph’s father’s name was Stanley MacLean. He was a carpenter, which on the Magdalen Islands meant a shipbuilder. He was a mean, violent man who belittled those around him, especially his children.
    Ralph remembers one day when he was eight, his father entered the living room and strutted up to the phonograph. He put on a two-step jig. He was in a foul mood. You could feel it.
    “Dance, boy,” he commanded.
    Ralph looked down; all he saw were two left feet. His mother had been too busy trying to put food on the table to take time to teach her second youngest son to dance. He just stood beside the couch with a bowed head.
    “I can’t. I got two left feet, Pa,” he whispered.
    Ralph was upset that he could not please his father. More thananything, he was afraid of what would happen next. He was right to be afraid.
    His father used his big boot to kick Ralph into the couch. His small frame hit the couch hard, bouncing him straight back onto the hardwood floor. Violence of this sort was unpredictable. Was it a brief flash of rage that would quickly retreat into its ugly old cave? That was rarely the case, but there was always hope.
    “Quit crying, boy,” Stanley threatened.
    Ralph knew more was to come if he didn’t stop. But he just couldn’t. He was eight and he was gasping. He lay on the wood floor, seeing two big boots right in front of his face, then one. The next kick