by Judy Fischer
Oh. Yes, breaking and entering, scheduled for later that night. There was an element of thrill and excitement involved in my new adventure and I was really enjoying the feeling.
The lesson of the day was to continue reading the next chapter of the famous classic by Victor Hugo. We were deeply into the book, continuing was the obvious choice for the duration of my time with her that day.
It just so happened, in the story, Jean Valjean, the protagonist in Les Misérables was on the run and because he was an undesirable person, he was refused food and lodging by the town-folk with whom he was in contact. It sounded to me like he was an old-time version of a modern homeless person, living in the era of which Hugo had written.
The story became more personal to me. As we kept reading, the story became more relevant than on the other occasions when we had examined it. We read it very slowly; I couldn’t understand the words otherwise. It was written in French after all. The slow tempo made Mme. Houle and me talk more about the plight of the ex-convict and his miserable life. The story started to come to life, in a peculiar way. Suddenly, I realized I knew someone whose life could be truly called miserable. René’s. It drove my empathy into a frenzy. I fidgeted until the moment I could make my escape.
I left Mme. Houle’s in a state of pessimism and optimism at the same time. I realized, as seen through the eyes of Victor Hugo, a person could live a dubious life, a secret one due to unavoidable circumstances and in the end, could live to prosper and become a valid member of society. Of course, the said person needed the help of those who were in position to help but, yes, it was possible. The end of the story could be a happy one and I designated myself to be the person who could make the happy ending come true for René.
I finished my session and had left Mme. Houle’s with a feeling of hope I hadn’t felt since the previous Tuesday night. I knew there was so much I could do, even at 16, that could possibly alter the life of René in a positive way.
I picked up my pace. I hurried to tell him I would be there for him, if he let me. I wasn’t planning to come on too strong either; I didn’t want him to feel a sense of false hope in my promises. I needed to explain clearly my intentions. He needed to understand I was truly interested in his welfare and I was not a mere pretentious and artificial individual. I was going to persuade him to put his trust in me and make him believe I would follow through with my offer. Hopefully he was going to.
The Flat
My school bag was weighing heavy on my back as I walked the nearly deserted streets toward the shop. St. Laurent Boulevard was a steep incline from Ontario Street. I had climbed it many times before, going back and forth from the bank located at the corner of Ontario and St. Laurent Street. My father sent me often to do some of his errands. When I was old enough, I visited him often and he was proud of me when I helped. Making him proud was always of importance to me.
There was a pet shop halfway up the street where I always stopped, first to catch my breath and second, to admire the puppies and dream of one day owning one of my own. There were no puppies in the window that night and I didn’t stop to rest.
In the dark of the evening, my thoughts were not about puppies but about one boy. He had been the focus of my attention ever since the first night when we met. As I neared the location of our scheduled rendezvous, my heart started to beat faster with the anticipation of seeing him again. I stopped a few times, not from fatigue, but from apprehension. I feared he had decided not to come back, even though he said he would. He had no reason to trust me or need me and I had no right to expect him to.
That area of the city was not a very busy part of town, especially after dark. There were only a few people who had a reason to be on the ill-lit stretch of street, for there were no commercial businesses along the way, open at night. As there were many immigrants living in the neighbourhood, only those who were going home late from work trod the pavements of the forsaken street.
As I approached the barred shop, I saw him in the distance, with his hoodie, leaning on a lamppost just metres from the steps of the flat. There was the shadow of another individual standing facing him. Engaged in a hidden conversation, they stood too intimately and for a minute I stalled, too scared to move. I couldn’t make out who the person was but, as I approached, he left quickly. With thoughts unbecoming a young girl, I looked at René. As I stood facing him, I restrained myself from asking any questions; after all, it was not my place to do so.
“René,” I softly whispered his name.
“Missy, you came,” he said as he looked at me with a welcoming smile.
“I told you I would.”
“People say many things they don’t mean.”
“I guess I am not one of them. What did you do today?”
“I am starting to look for a job but so far, no luck. I have tried different ways to look after myself but until now, I’ve had to rely on all kinds of terrible things and those I don’t want you to know about. It’s difficult, Missy.”
He started to form tears in his eyes again and I could feel the desperation, the loneliness and the futility of his predicament. He looked away from me with obvious embarrassment and as he stood under the muted street light, it highlighted his gloomy existence.
It was the first time I had a proper look at him, without the hood on his head, his blond curly hair hung to his shoulder and, as I looked at his green eyes, I saw his welcoming stare. Something about the look in his eyes melted mine.
“Maybe I can help you in some way,” I started to give him hints about my intentions.
I walked to stand closer to him. I stood very close to give him a sense of security and to show him my sincerity.
“Right now, I need to find a place to keep me safe from the cold. Sleeping on park benches and in doorways or in alley ways is against the law and I don’t want to get into any more trouble than I am in already.”
“You are in trouble?” I sounded alarmed and he answered quickly.
“Just a few acts of vagrancy, nothing serious. They caught me sleeping on a park bench in Westmount Park. It’s against the law. But where am I supposed to sleep?”
“I have a plan. You have to trust me. René, I want to be your friend. I want to help you.”
“Now, why would you say that? You don’t even know me, Missy. What’s your real name, by the way?”
“My name is Melissa. But, I like ‘Missy’, please continue calling me that.”
“Okay, did you know that ‘Missy’ was my sister’s name? She was a beautiful girl, just like you. She was young and idealistic on the verge of recklessness. You remind me so much of her.”
He lifted his right hand and touched my hair but pulled it away quickly as if he had crossed some sort of forbidden line.
I let him though, I did not pull away. Instead, I took his hand and put it to my face. He seemed harmless and the touch of his hand gave me an indication of his genuine gentleness, his craving for the life ripped away from him too abruptly. The spell he unintentionally cast over me made me yearn to embrace him, to pull him closer to my bosom and to cradle him in my arms, only until fate could give him back what it had taken away.
I didn’t understand then and I don’t understand now what our relationship was meant to become, I only knew that fate had thrown us together for a reason. I believe, though, my need for him in my life was far greater than his need for me.
I turned him around with my hands, turning him toward the entrance of the flat, pushing his back lightly, gently guiding him toward the three steps leading to the locked door of the flat. Because he was hesitating, I took his hand and nudged him toward the door. Then, I stepped in front of him, still holding his hand firmly, taking the key out of my bag. With key in my free hand, I unlocked and opened the door.
The stairwell leading upstairs was in horrible condition, the wooden steps were broken, there were cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. In the dark, we failed to notice the graffiti on the cracked walls and the dust balls lining every st
ep. The top door was unlocked because it did not have a key. We went inside, only to find a semi-dark room with a dirty mattress in the middle of it and beside the mattress, a free-standing porcelain bathtub with a broken leg and many rusty holes stood waiting. Somewhere, there was also a toilet we couldn’t see right away. There was garbage piled on top of the counter separating the room from a so-called kitchen. Empty pizza boxes, old newspapers and an array of plastic cups and bottles covered the entire surface of it. A light fixture, with no bulb was hanging from the extremely high ceiling of the main room.
We stood there looking around and as the only light source was coming from the street lights streaming in through the tiny cracks of the bars on the windows, it made it very difficult to see anything. We looked at each other and started to laugh. We laughed because of the overwhelmingly absurd image in front of us. The laughter broke the futility as well as the strained bond we were starting to feel.
I was embarrassed to have imagined the flat could be salvaged and transformed into a decent place to live. We both stood there and then sighed.
“So, René, what do you think?”
“Missy, I’ve lived in worse places than this. If there is any way I can stay here, I could try to clean it up a bit.”
“I would help you. You can stay here tonight, just don’t touch anything. I wouldn’t want you to catch some terrible disease. I must get home. My parents are probably worried. I don’t usually stay out so late on a school night. Here is the key, don’t lose it. The only thing I must insist is, you leave by 6:45 in the morning. My parents come to work for seven. I don’t want you, or me, for that matter, to get into trouble. This is not our place but as you can see and lucky for us, no one really wants to live here.”
“I am so grateful. I’ll do as you say. Thank you. When will I see you again?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be here again tomorrow night. When my father closes shop, I will join you here. I will bring cleaning materials tomorrowrags, a broom and some blankets. Have a good, sleep. I would say ‘open the windows’, but don’t. Besides, I don’t think you can. Watch out for the rats and cockroaches, I hear they are merciless.”
I heard him laughing as I walked with caution down the stairs in the dark.
Friends
For the following two weeks, I went to the flat almost every night, even though my parents started to become somewhat suspicious of my whereabouts. Each day, I left for school before they awoke. I didn’t tell them why, I made up a reasonable excuse, one they actually believed. I did go to school early but not before my new routine. The trip to the garage was first. I had to deposit the leftover dinner food and other items into the trunk of my father’s sleeping car. When school was out at 4pm, I went straight home to do all my homework. Then, just before seven o’clock, I retrieved the hidden bag or bags and left toward the flat, avoiding the route my parents habitually took to and from home. Out of courtesy, I left notes every time explaining my absences. My excuse was either going to the library or over to a friend’s house and on Tuesdays and Thursdays to my tutor. I came up with plausible reasons for being out of the house.
My best friend Beatrice, on the other hand, started to become leery about my sudden unusual behaviour. She questioned me incessantly demanding a logical basis for ignoring her. She told me she missed our usual variety of activities. Finally, I made up some lame excuse and although she looked as if she believed me, I knew she still had serious and huge doubts. Considering she lived on the other side of town, there was never a time when she insisted on going with me anywhere after school and I was grateful.
Every weeknight after 7pm, I met René at the flat and together we spent hours cleaning and preparing it for his winter nest. I brought clean sheets for the mattress, two thick Hudson’s Bay blankets my mother had stored away, a pillow with its case, a two-burner stove I found in the dumpster at my building’s garbage dump, candles, soap, towels, light bulbs and lots of canned foods.
My time with him was limited to a couple of hours at a time. I made it a point of being home by 9 every night. I took great care. I couldn’t let my behaviour be considered different from the time before I met René. I cherished my new found friendship with him, so much, I shuddered at the thought of losing it.
While we cleaned, we talked. We had to whisper, though, because we valued our time together and we were always weary someone would discover our secret hideaway. We shared our feelings, our hopes and our dreams. Mine seemed more realistic than his, but only because of our different circumstances and opportunities. I listened carefully to what he had to say. His words were filled with futility and hopelessness. I wanted to find ways to help him without showing too much control. I needed to help him and to make his life more meaningful and with more hope attached.
His days consisted of leaving the flat early in the morning and then, pretty much, walking around looking for a job. Unfortunately, there was no one who wanted to hire a young man who had no address, no social security number and no references. He came back every night after a fruitless day, miserable and as close to despair as one could get. It broke my heart.
When I arrived in the evening, following one of those futile days, I found him sitting in the dark by the window, staring at the shutters, those he could never open. That was the way he saw his own life, he told me, like those shudders. Beyond them, there was light. On his side, however, there was only darkness. And to make matters worse, the path to the light was blocked and inaccessible.
My heart broke every time I saw him in that mood and I tried to cheer him up with some silly jokes I had heard during the day. Sometimes, when I could steal some fresh cookies from Mme. Houle, I brought them to him. I showered him with food but, most of all, with kindness.
I encouraged his efforts to find a job but as time went by, the prospects looked less and less likely. I started giving him chores to do, to keep him occupied and out of trouble during those grey, cold days of winter. I sent him to the library to do research for me. I had many assignments for school and it was good to have someone helping me. He had always been a good student; giving him those missions helped him to reclaim his life at least as a student. It was a miniscule attempt at normalcy in comparison, but it worked.
I had someone make a fake library card for me, with René’s name on it. No one at the library ever questioned the validity of the counterfeit card. He continued to go there regularly.
On the nights when we met, René had papers full of research material to hand over to me. Those were the times when we wanted to celebrate. And we did. We laughed, we sang, we ate, and we were happy.
We spent time together in the flat with only candles to light our view. Those candlelit evenings were filled with conversations between two individuals who, with time, became the best of friends.
I started to know every detail about his past life and he started to share some of the awful experiences he endured during the first two years of living on the street. With every dreadful incident he had to tolerate to get his hands on money, his self-worth suffered immensely. Although I never said anything and listened with an open mind, my heart bled for him.
One night before the Christmas break, I went over to check up on him and I found him curled up in a ball, in the corner of the room. I knew the coming of a special family holiday such as Christmas was going to upset the balance in his life again. A special holiday was certain to remind him of a time when he had a family and people who loved him.
I boiled some water on the two-burner stove and slowly filled the bathtub. I let the water flow into the tub to make it deep. The holes, however, prevented it from being full. I was careful not to let the water drip onto the floor. If it did, the leak would have caused a flood in my dad’s shop downstairs.
Without a word, I took René into my arms and undressed him. He didn’t resist my forwardness. I guided him into the tub to soak away his pain. He stared at me, unsure of my intentions, but I assured him I meant him no harm. Physical contact proba
bly meant only one thing to him, he had been abused by selfish people for their own pleasures.
I held his frail, limp and naked body next to mine, attempting to show my love and wanting nothing in return. After I helped him into the warm water, I washed his rigid body. He sat, at first, covering himself with his arms and hands, his head hanging down. He was unable to look at me. I sensed the embarrassment he had toward his broken body. I noticed too the many scars and bruises. I kissed each and every one of them tenderly. Slowly, he started to relax and eventually he lay down and I could see the pain and suffering wash away. I placed a dry towel beside the tub, I left a candle burning softly beside it and then I walked away.
