Author: Jeannette Ferrara

Fingernails

It showed a bloody pulp where fingernails should have been. I remember running from the picture, an artist's sketch, to trace the familiar ridges and cracks. Yes, they were all there.

He never talked about it much. I mean, it wasn't as if he wouldn't. If someone asked a question, he answered. I knew, of course, that he had once talked about it in great detail. The two page article in the magazine was proof of that.

The story had traveled across time and space all the way from the tiny village of Grates Cove; where a small cluster of colourful frame houses still perch defiantly on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. He was born there, at the very edge of the new world, close to where Cape Spear reaches as far as it dares into the North Atlantic.

It was a harsh existence, even before polio struck at the age of three; the same year his father died. Odds were that he would die too; but he survived, a skinny, wiry boy who was determined to live as all the other boys lived, even as he dragged a heavy metal brace on his withered left leg. He wore that brace for fourteen years. I think he expected it to heal the leg. When that didn't happen, he discarded it, a couple of years before that day; even though he walked with a severe limp that was painful to watch.

It certainly didn't stop him that afternoon. No matter that the temperature was eight degrees below zero and falling. No matter that the freezing rain that fell over night had solidified the snowy ground into glittering cement. No matter that the wind howled and whistled through the cracks in the old family home. It was the kind of day that dared anyone to venture outside but begged everyone to stay by the fire.

He took his shot gun with him. He was not returning home empty handed. He was tired of hearing his step-father complain and besides he wanted something more than salt cod for dinner.

It always came down to money or the lack of it. Of course money could only be made by fishing and that could only be done in those brief summer months. How he hated fishing. He hated everything about it. He hated every net of squirming fish that he hauled out of the icy water.  He hated their weight, their slimy, innards, and their stench. He especially hated eating them after they had been salted and dried. No he wasn't eating that again to-night.

His energetic half skip propelled him along the path that skirted the cliffs leading out of the village. There they were - terns galore. He hurried now, eager to get the birds within firing range. Too fast! His left leg buckled under him and he went down hard. As he slipped off the path, he reached out desperate to grab anything to stop his slide across the icy ground. Nothing! He tried to dig in his heels. The glitter was impenetrable as bed rock. He was picking up speed. He clawed and kicked wildly; all to no avail. The edge raced towards him!

I don't know when that steely, stubborn resolve of his set in. Was it as he shot over the cliff? Was it as his body pierced the icy water some three hundred yards from shore? I think it must have come with the surprise of surfacing; because he couldn't swim. He should have drowned; but as he thrashed about, shedding his hat, mittens and boots, he drew closer to the shore. Finally, he grabbed the rocks at the base of the cliff. He had just taught himself to swim!

Perhaps that sustained him for what was to come. There, towering above of him was the cliff, its sheer rock face encased in ice. If he waited for help, he knew he would freeze to death, and beside how could he compete with the roar of the wind and the sea. Quickly he scrambled about filling his pockets with sharp stones. As he did, his fingers touched the shotgun shells. They would help too.

He had no experience in rock climbing but that didn't stop him from chiseling holes for his hands and his feet. Slowly, painfully he inched his way up; instinctively moving in an S curve to avoid sliding back through the grooves that he had carved.  His finger nails were his only grips. He sacrificed them willingly and without thought. They ripped and bled as he clawed the ice.

How like him to view the gathering darkness as a positive. After all, now he couldn't see how many of his fingernails were completely missing or just hanging loosely. I know how much he hated the sight of blood.

It was dark by the time he neared the top. His coat had frozen around him, trapping a meager warmth close to his struggling body.  He was almost there. He whacked at the overhang of ice and snow until he formed an opening. Then reaching up, he grasped the edge and swung himself up.

Now he was about 200 yards from where he first went down. He crawled towards the footpath. There was an awful moment as he started to slip; but those few remaining blood soaked nails saved him yet again.

Four hours had past since he first started to climb. Now he was back on the foot path. He stumbled into the first house at the edge of the village, his aunt's. His relatives rushed to help. Friends and family crowded around to hear the story and sigh as they doctored his torn nails, while his feet came to life by the fire.

The next morning, a contingent of men converged on the spot, shaking their heads in disbelief. By now he was a village celebrity but even then it didn't matter. It was time to leave.

"Where will you go?  What will you do?" they asked. But he just smiled in that enigmatic way of his. His fingernails were growing in.  They were all he needed.