The Canadian Civil War: Volume 3 - West to the Wall

by William Wresch

Chapter 4

  I make plans

  Sunday we slept as late as possible, and then I got all kinds of points by getting out of bed first and making breakfast. It was New England oatmeal with maple syrup, but I gave Elise some cheese to go with it and she seemed generally satisfied. We took forever over breakfast, basically talking about nothing – the color paint in our bedroom, when I would put the doors back on the closet, even the weather. I have never made a bowl of oatmeal last an hour or enjoyed it so much.

  We spent so long lounging around the house that we were late for the fancy service at the National Cathedral and so went to the mass for regular people. I bumped into a couple men who worked at my father’s company and they gave me a quick update on things – business was still through the roof, while Elise talked to some of the middle managers in her department. In short, we rubbed shoulders with folks we would have missed at the other mass. As for the service itself, I tried to tell if the communion wine was lower quality, but I couldn’t tell the difference.

  For Sunday dinner we walked across the backyard to a huge meal served by Elise’s mother. Elise’s father and I talked lacrosse, while Elise’s sisters talked about a wedding they had attended. That created a bit of tension since we were pretty sure the May 28 date was going to have to be postponed, but we had not yet set a new date and apparently the sun and moon and various stars will adjust their alignment, but only after a date has been set. In this case the problem was not me with cold feet, especially since as a professor I had the most predictable schedule of any professional. The problem was Elise. The girls would talk dates, but Elise would think contingencies. What will be happening in Louisiana that month? What about up here? Her world was filled with interlocking events, most of which could go bad in a heartbeat. Setting a date would have to wait. In the meantime, they could talk about dresses, guest lists, flower arrangements, stuff that entertained her younger sisters for hours.

  Eventually we left, this time by the front door. We walked out to the sidewalk and followed it around the block to our house. It was a longer walk, but it was a pretty time of year. The street was an endless series of ash and maple trees arched over the street, and all were at peak color. In a month the scene would be pretty bleak, but for now it looked almost as good as Philadelphia. We held hands, walked, and didn’t say much. I finally broke the silence.

  “I have been thinking about a way to temporize.”

  “You have to think about it? You are a professor. I would expect you to come up with twenty non-answers. Imagine you are standing in class and a student asks a question you can’t answer.”

  “Ouch. And this from the woman I love.” She squeezed my hand, reminding me of the walks we had taken around campus when she was preparing for her dissertation defense. That seemed such a distant dream.

  “Okay, mister sensitive. How will you temporize?”

  “I want to go to the Wall. You can say I am going there for some research, and I will get to Louisiana when my research is complete.”

  “No. People die there.” That stopped me in my tracks. No? Was she serious?

  “People ski there. They drink hot wine and sit in tubs of hot water all evening.”

  “But that’s not where you will go. I know you Shawn Murphy. That’s not where you will go.”

  I didn’t like being told “no,” but I didn’t want to start yet another argument. Was it good that we could argue – a sign we trusted each other enough to be direct and honest? Or did we have a problem? I was dealing with a very tired, very stressed person – a person I loved. But the word “no” reverberated, like a chord vibrating at the back of my mind. Boy I hate that word. But I made no reply. I stood on the sidewalk under a bright yellow maple tree and just looked at her. She looked back, clearly choosing her next words carefully.

  “It will be awful up there in January. Most skiers avoid the region until March, and they stay on the lower hills. They don’t really go up into the mountains. No one does, Shawn. No one does.” She was tired, she was obviously afraid. Now was not the time to push her.

  “Let me do some checking about travel conditions, see what’s up there, see when it is safe to travel.”

  “Talk to Uncle Claude. He can tell you stories. You’ll see why people don’t go there.”

  “OK, I’ll talk to Uncle Claude.” And we left it there. Maybe I was tired too. I was certainly tired of arguments, surprised that they were so frequent. This was not how to spend an early Sunday evening. We finished our walk around the block in silence and reentered the house. It was too early for bed, so we sat on the couch and stared at the fireplace. Eventually we started talking again, but it was about the simple and mundane – a faux conversation. The best I can say about that hour or so is we held hands, and eventually we kissed before we went upstairs to bed.

  Class went well the next day. I lectured on the American side of the Seven Year’s War, and that was very popular with the kids since the French beat Washington every time. I could say what I wanted about the American side of the story – the kids knew the bottom line – they won.

  After class I went back to my office and called President Jolliet’s home – “Uncle Claude”. I knew the President was busy, probably the least “retired” politician in Canada, but I thought I might get on his calendar in a few weeks. A couple transfers got me to his appointment secretary. We talked for a bit. I still felt grateful to him for allowing me the initial interviews with Jolliet. He continued to be a friendly voice and promised he would see what was available and get back to me.

  I hung up the phone and started working on my next lecture, but I had barely started when the phone rang – it was Jolliet himself.

  “Shawn. I understand you would like to talk. When are you free?”

  “Thank you Mr. President. The life of a professor is far less constraining than the life of a president. Do you think you would have time to see me before Christmas?”

  “How about this afternoon? Do you have class?”

  “Not today.”

  “Then why not come by for lunch. We have much to talk about.” And that was it. My first visit with him had taken over a year to arrange. Now I could get access the same day. Pretty amazing. Maybe I had done a few things to earn that access, but it also showed the kind of man he was. I had come to genuinely admire him.

  I hadn’t been to his house for months so I wasn’t sure what kind of security I would find. After the assassination attempt last winter, I was pretty sure there would be more. I thought maybe blast doors in front of the house. What I found was far more subtle. The security started much farther out. Basically, you could not get onto his road without clearance. There was no guard shed, but there was a bull dozer that blocked the road while “repairs” took place. When you stopped for the construction, a worker who looked like he could bench press a piano came over to talk. Construction was going to take a while, but they could move the equipment if it was important. Who were you going to visit? You get the idea. The hard hat could not hide the ear piece he was wearing, and you had to assume there were plenty of cameras around. I explained who I was and who I was visiting and there was a pause. He covered it well talking about the need for the repairs, rough winter, that sort of thing, meanwhile I assumed a check was being run, my plates verified, and lots of things were being said into his earpiece. Pretty sophisticated.

  Eventually I was cleared, the equipment moved, and the “construction worker” raised his hand almost to a salute but then caught himself and waived me on. As masquerades go, it wasn’t too bad. And it made a difference at the house. Where before there were concrete barriers and large cars blocking the drive, now the front of the house was unencumbered. If anything, it looked more casual than when I had visited before the current crisis. Not bad. I took advantage of the change to park right in from of the house and walk in as if I were an old friend. The front hallway had changed, with a n
arrow spot just inside the door which I assumed was a metal detector, but otherwise the look of the house was unchanged.

  Francios was waiting for me. After all, he had all the time I was talking with “bulldozer man” to get ready.

  “How are you, old friend.” I got a hug from a man who looked like hugs were not genetically natural to him.

  “I am fine. When will we see you in our box at Lambeau Field. I miss talking lacrosse with you.”

  “Our schedules are challenging as you might guess. But I will find a time. The season is already half gone, and I enjoy your box – and your wine.” I tried not to laugh. My father’s company had bought a large box at Lambeau to treat clients and generate business. Initially he had tried to go with an American theme and had filled the buffet with sausages and mash and Guinness beer, thinking Canadians might like a change. Nope. After two Sundays of throwing out uneaten food (a couple US employees drank all the beer and missed work the next day), dad gave up and went to a local caterer. Crepes and local wine went much better.

  At this point ex-president Jolliet walked down the hallway to join us.

  “My young friend Shawn. I am pleased you have time to visit with us. Please come join me. Do you mind sitting outside this afternoon?” He led me outside to a vine covered area where we had first met two years before. It was a beautiful location overlooking his acres of vines rolling down to Lake Winnebago. I wondered about how his security team felt about him sitting outside. My guess is at least a few of the “workers” walking among the vines had substantial weapons under their coveralls.

  A servant brought wine and biscuits as we sat down.

  “May I ask about the construction project?” I would never have asked about security in the past, but now I felt I had the right.

  “I wish I could take credit for that very clever ruse. The front of the house was beginning to look like a concrete bunker and that set the wrong tone for visitors, and frankly set the wrong tone for the nation. The current conflict is bad enough without fear making things even worse. Maybe if we pretend things are normal, things will become normal.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if to say this was a bit of a dream, but one he was willing to try. “So now we can show news images of people arriving and leaving from the front door of this house as if life continued as before. Similar efforts have been made in other locations. We all want to think a house is a home and people can just walk up to the door and knock, no matter the occupant or the times.”

  “I like the strategy. And I have to say it did feel good to be able to approach your home as I had in the past.”

  “Good. But tell me. How do you feel? Are you fully mended?”

  “Yes.” I held up my right hand and moved all the fingers so he could see. “Things looked worse than they were. And I learned that Huguenots have very hard heads.”

  “My people tell me it was a bit more than that, but I am pleased you are home and safe and mended. But tell me, are you here to talk about my niece? Have you settled on a date for your marriage??”

  “I will be very pleased should you find time to attend our wedding, but we have not confirmed a date yet. Your niece is a very busy lady.”

  “Yes. Many people are busy these days. Some are busy making trouble, and some are busy making peace. The people making trouble are a bit quieter for the moment, but I do not think we have heard the last of them.” I had no response to that. So we paused for a moment sipped a bit of wine and looked west over the vines and the lake.

  “I had hoped to talk with you about a more happy topic – the history of your family. As you know, my former studies focused on George Washington and his efforts to cross the mountains to Ohio. That was the American dream. Lately I have been thinking more about the French dream. Thanks to your family, the nation expanded down the Mississippi and took the middle of the continent. Yet you did not take the West. You did not pass what locals call The Wall. And I understand that at least one member of your family was part of the effort.”

  At this point I expected him to smile, settle back, and begin a story. What I got was silence – and a peculiar mannerism. He stared out at the lake, his arms crossed over his chest, one hand clenching and unclenching his arm, something I had never seen him do before. He was looking west. What was he seeing? I would never know.

  “Shawn.” He started, but then paused again. Finally he turned directly to me. “Shawn, you are a scholar and I respect that. But…” Another pause. “Sometimes… may I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “There are many stories of the Wall. Few of them are attractive. Desperate men do desperate things. Desperate times lead to actions we now find repugnant. Much was done and much needs to be forgiven. Two centuries have passed, but not all is forgiven yet.” He paused yet again and stared out at the lake. I waited, confused and somewhat saddened. Where was this going, and why was he so concerned?

  “Do your research, but there are reasons why I should not be involved with this part of your studies. The family connection would only make things worse. And when you find what you find, I ask for your discretion. We do not need trouble with the Sioux. Not now. Certainly not now.”

  “I will make every effort to honor your wishes.” I could think of nothing else to say. It felt as if a cloud had descended upon our little picnic, and since I had brought it, I thought it was my job to take it away. “I should probably go. I am sure your schedule is full.”

  “If that is your wish.” We both stood and shook hands. “Give my love to Elise.”

  “I will” and I left him there, standing among his vines high above Lake Winnebago and the first route west.