The Daughters' Story

by Cyr, Murielle;

  Serge was fast asleep in the back seat of the car. He jumped up when Lisette slammed the passenger door closed.

  “Sorry it took so long. The woman had a lot to say.”

  He climbed back into the driver’s seat. “No problem. I needed that nap before I start my shift. So, did you learn anything?”

  “The woman turned out to be OK. But nothing she told me will help me find my mother. It doesn’t look like the family has had any contact with her in years. I tried to get my uncle’s phone number from the receptionist, but she wouldn’t budge.”

  He started the car. “A phone number—piece of cake. Why didn’t you let me ask her?”

  She frowned. “Your charms don’t always work. This girl was a hard nut to crack.”

  He grinned. “Even with the seam of my fly ripped open?”

  “Naw. No dice with this one. She was too much in a hurry to go eat her lunch. Even a hunky flasher like you”—she smiled—“didn’t have a chance of tearing her away from her sandwich.”

  “You underestimate my male charms, missy. I’ll drop you off at home and I’m heading to work. Friday evening gets pretty busy. You’ll probably be asleep by the time I get back.”

  “Maybe, but I’ll probably be up late. I’ve got to hit the books. My term papers are due soon. I still need to come back here again. I told the woman I’d come visit on Monday. She had started telling me about something bad that happened and the manager broke us up.”

  “Did she mention any other names?”

  She pulled her notebook out. “Timothy, that’s my great grandfather. But he might’ve kicked the bucket by now. My grandparents, Claire and John. She was about to tell me about them, so I don’t know whether they’re still alive or not. And Grandma Stella’s two other sons, Peter and Denis. The receptionist said she had two phone numbers on file, both of them private—most likely belong to the ones in charge of her welfare.” She shrugged. “So that’s where the trail ends.”

  “Not so fast.” He stopped at a red light. “We have the names, don’t we? They might have private phone numbers, but they’ve got to be on some kind of list. If they worked, owned a business, or were part of some criminal activity, they’ll show up somewhere. That database will at least give me an address to start with.”

  “Thanks, Serge. That might be helpful. Maybe you can do your research—it won’t take you long—before I go back to visit the wom—” She paused before finishing her sentence. “Before I go back to visit Grandma Stella.”

  Serge laughed. “Looks like she’s gotten to you.”

  She gazed out the passenger window. “She is… my great-grandmother, you know. That’s big enough for me to go back and see her.”

  Chapter 9

  Lisette woke to the clanging of church bells a few blocks away. She reached for her glasses on the small table beside her and squinted at the round face of the alarm clock. Eight fifteen. Too early for Sunday mass—unless somebody big like a hockey player or a politician died. She stretched her arm out under the blanket. The sheet on Serge’s side of the bed was cold. His next taxi shift didn’t start till mid-afternoon. He’d most likely gone to the depanneur to pick up the Journal de Montréal.

  The sound of voices from the kitchen told her Sylvie and Pit were up. They never got out of bed before noon on a Sunday. Something must be going on. The ache in her lower back that had kept her awake most of the night had gone away. Any sharp, quick movement on her part might trigger the pain to come back. The urge to burrow under the wool blanket and snooze a couple more hours was tempting, but she wanted to proofread the term paper that was due on Tuesday before going to work at the depanneur. She planned to finish up her other two term papers within the next three weeks, leaving her a bit of time to relax before the baby was due.

  She rolled herself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Her round belly was making it more and more awkward for her to move around. Tying her shoes, slipping her boots on, or even cutting her toenails were now almost impossible tasks. But damn if she was going to rely on someone else to do things for her. Especially when having a baby hadn’t been part of Serge’s plans. Nor hers. She had figured on completing her studies and for him to find steady work before starting a family. But there you have it. These things happen. She’d find a way to deal with it without losing Serge in the process. I don’t do cling, he’d told her when they first started together. And I’m not made of Velcro, she’d answered back. It was something she had learned fast and early: until the end of time is for dreamers.

  Her mountainous belly was a problem—and it was getting bigger by the day. Using Serge’s footstool to sit on allowed her to bypass her belly and to manage to reach her feet without asking for help. The cramped bedroom made it easier for her to grab onto something and pull herself up. Serge had moved his boxes of books from the far corner of the room to the basement locker to make room for the small wooden crib. But by the looks of things, they’d only be in their own place after the baby arrived.

  Driving a taxi part-time might cover the rent, but not much else. She’d have to work more hours at the depanneur once the baby was born. Serge’s boss had promised him more cabbie hours. The living arrangement with Pit and Sylvie wasn’t ideal, but at least they had a roof over their heads. That FLQ craze was on the verge of petering out soon, giving Serge more time to focus on their little family.

  She felt a quick movement beneath her ribs and she reached down to massage her belly. The voices in the kitchen were getting louder. She pulled herself up and headed for the door. Serge’s dirty jeans, shirts, and socks littered the narrow walking space available to her. Damn if she was going to pick up after him. She had agreed to keep the apartment clean instead of paying rent. Laundry duty was part of the deal, but not picking up after everybody. If clothes didn’t make it to the laundry basket, they didn’t get washed. She’d have to bring this up again with Serge before he left for work. Why did things always get so complicated? She reached up and jerked her housecoat off the hook behind the door.

  The bedroom opened out into the hallway that led to the kitchen. All three of them hovered around the table staring down at an open Journal de Montréal. Serge stood shoulders hunched between Pit and Sylvie. His long hair grazed the newspaper in front of him, his black leather jacket unzipped and glistening with morning rain. Sylvie held on to Serge’s arm as they read, her quilted, pink nylon housecoat unbuttoned to just above her nipples.

  Pit wore one of Sylvie’s silk camisoles, his dark chest hair poking out from the edge of the lace neckline. He puffed on his cigarette, one hand stuffed inside the front of his tight red Jockey shorts. “The idiots thought we were bluffing, eh? Screw the bastards.” He swung a clenched fist up in the air. “Vive le Québec libre!”

  “What’s up?” None of them had noticed Lisette standing in the doorway. “By the way, do any of you know where our polling station is? I know voting day is only next week, but I was just wondering where people have to go.”

  All three turned in her direction.

  “Polling station?” Pit fixed his eyes on her. “Is she for real?”

  Sylvie pushed her shoulders back and smirked. “Get serious, girl. Voting at a capitalist rigged election? No damn way. Drapeau is scaring people to get their votes. He accused the opposition of having ties to terrorists. So of course people will vote him in again. Why play the sheep game? Any idiot knows it’s a waste of time.”

  Lisette bit her lip and sucked in her breath. If she let loose she’d crack Sylvie’s face in. “Well, I prefer placing my sheep vote rather than kidnapping innocent people and placing bombs in mailboxes. It might take me longer to get what I want, but at least I’m not hurting anybody in the process.”

  Serge straightened up and brushed his hair back. “Easy girls.” He slapped his hand on the newspaper. “This is serious business. Pierre Laporte died yesterday. He was found dead in the trunk of a car. T
he paper claims they’ve got arrest warrants for all the cell members.”

  Sylvie stepped back, staring at Lisette as if she had just barged into a private meeting. Pit pulled his hand out of his shorts and leaned against the table.

  “Dead?” Lisette’s mouth fell open. “Shoved in the trunk of a car with the spare tire like he was garbage? That’s gangster crap. They’ve gone too far. If anybody supported the FLQ before, they sure won’t now. Laporte was a good family man. Where did they find him?”

  Pit blew out his cigarette smoke in her direction. “On the south shore, near the St-Hubert airport.” He lifted his chin up high. “And they’re liberators, not frigging gangsters. For someone doing a major in political science, you don’t know much. Don’t they teach you nerds about the means justifying the end?”

  Lisette tugged her housecoat closer. “The way things are happening these days, it’s more like the ends justifying the means.” She could usually manage to rise above Pit’s simple-minded comments by changing the subject or pretending she wasn’t listening. He never caught on, mistaking her silence for adherence to his views. With that angry look cemented on his face and a ready snarl for anyone who disagreed with him, challenging him was pointless.

  Pit lowered himself on a chair. “Same damn thing. Switching the words around doesn’t make you any smarter.”

  “Right. This isn’t getting us anywhere. We don’t have all the details. Maybe Laporte tried to escape and there was an accident. They weren’t about to call the cops, so they put the body in the car.” Sylvie shot Lisette a look of disapproval and then smiled at Pit before heading for the stove. “I’ll make you a coffee, babe. It’s too early for silly word games.”

  Lisette focused on the black eyeliner smudges under Pit’s eyes and the oily strands of hair hanging down his back. A sure sign he hadn’t showered after last night’s gig at the club. “That’s possible, Sylvie. But that doesn’t make everything right.” She looked straight at Pit. “And we’re not talking about the same thing. There’s a big difference. You’re saying that FLQ activities are backed by moral reasoning that has ethical consequences.”

  Pit shoved his chair back, his fists by his side. “Frigging right they’re playing by the rules. The workers’ rules. Not what the damn oppressors decide.”

  Serge glowered at Lisette from across the room. She avoided his eyes, staring at Pit instead with no intention of backing down. The sight of Pit standing around in his girlfriend’s underwear gloating about the death of an innocent man made her want to scream.

  “In my books.” She stiffened and folded her arms across her chest. “Real books, Pit, not like those Superman comic books you leave hanging around.” A wave of heat crept up her neck and face. “Liberators—as you like to call them—don’t kidnap someone who’s playing football with his family on his front lawn. If you tell me what’s happening out there is a good example of the end justifying the means, that’s another story. I agree that the FLQ will stop at nothing to get what they want.”

  Sylvie placed the kettle on the stove and glanced at Pit, an anxious look on her face. Lisette dug her fingers into her crossed arms and braced herself for his counterattack. She had been walking on eggshells around Pit and Sylvie since she moved in with them. It was time she spoke her mind. Pit Nadeau, streetwise, from a hard-drinking family in the tough district of St-Henri, didn’t take well to an affront.

  Pit took a step towards Lisette, and Serge slid in between them. “Everyone take a time-out. No need to fight about this.”

  “I don’t like her attitude—pregnant or not.” Pit gave Lisette a black look and leaned back to stamp out his cigarette in the already full ashtray on the table.

  “Cool it, Pit.” Sylvie reached in the cupboard for a mug. “A sad thing happened yesterday. But if anyone is to blame, it’s Trudeau for sending his army here. Instead of solving anything, it’s made things worse.”

  Lisette leaned sideways against the door frame, willing herself far away from this scene. After almost a year of listening to all the ranting against Ottawa, it all seemed like grandstanding to her. That the English had always had a tight hold on political and financial matters in Quebec was a known fact. And yes, it was about time Quebecers asserted their autonomy. But Sylvie and Pit talked about it ad nauseam.

  Sylvie was like a political parrot, repeating everything she read in newspapers or picked up at political rallies. Her father, a successful federal criminal lawyer, had severed all ties with her when she moved in with Pit. Her attacks on his position within the federal system were her way of getting back at him. Pit’s brand of song was all about the Quebec working class and the need to revolt against the English elite. The spectators always roared for more when Pit did his angry anti-English-establishment numbers. But nobody paid much attention when he switched to the non-political songs. Serge seemed to be the only one of the three who wasn’t self-serving.

  Happy to be close to Serge, Lisette hadn’t let Sylvie and Pit’s antics bother her at first. She had believed in an independent Quebec since her early teens. But when the movement became more violent, she distanced herself. Her lack of proper sleep lately had eroded her tolerance level to way below the zero mark. She turned to Sylvie. “You’re forgetting something. The army was brought in after the FLQ threatened to kill Laporte. I agree it didn’t help matters, but his death wasn’t a direct consequence of army tanks rolling down Beaver Hall.”

  Serge raised his palms up in the air. “Why are we having this conversation? Laporte is dead, so now the cops don’t have to tiptoe around us anymore. They can storm in and arrest whoever the hell they want. That’s crap about them having a warrant out for the cell members. We’re under martial law, so they don’t need damn warrants to arrest anybody.” He gestured towards Lisette. “They’ll even pick her up if they figured she knew something. They’ve got ways to make anybody talk. They’ve been on my trail for a while now, so we all have to stop bickering and watch our backs.”

  Sylvie pulled the bottle of instant coffee out of the cupboard. “Daddy will just freak if I get arrested. I suppose he’d send his secretary to bail me out.” She looked back over her shoulder at Lisette. “Being pregnant must make it easier for you to break down under pressure.”

  Lisette glared at Sylvie. “The only thing that can make me break under pressure is listening to more of your bullshit. Let’s go, Serge. I’m getting dressed and we’re out of here.” She spun on her heel and marched to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Pit scowled before sitting back down. “She’s nothing but trouble, man.” He shifted his gaze to Sylvie. “Don’t forget, babe. Three sugars and only a drop of milk.”

  “Don’t worry about Lise. She’ll come round.” Serge zipped up his jacket. “There’s bigger things to think about, Pit. I can’t be the only one they’re after. They must be onto you too. Try taming your gigs down a bit. Get off their radar for a while.”

  “It’s not like we’re responsible for the damn kidnappings.” Sylvie poured hot water into two mugs and reached for the sugar bowl. “So what if we support our Patriotes by sending cash? Those guys are risking their lives for our freedom. The least we can do is back them.”

  Serge cocked his head at her. “Aiding and abetting, Sylvie. We share responsibility for whatever they do with that money. And that’s all OK—we accept that. We’re all doing our part. All I’m saying is that we have to lay low for now.”

  Pit leaned back in his chair and yawned. “Chill, man. My songs are part of my brand. I sing for the working class, not the frigging oppressors. If I were you”—he pointed his chin in Lisette’s direction—“I’d worry more about why they’re following you.”

  Serge’s shoulders dropped and he stared at Pit, incredulous. A long moment passed before he spoke. “I told you, man. You two can’t stand each other, but that doesn’t mean she’d blow the whistle. You’re not making any sense. You’ve got to s
tay alert. You know what I mean, man. Cut back on the booze and the drugs. You’ve got to keep your mind clear.” Hands clenched, he headed for the bedroom.

  Lisette followed Serge down the winding metal stairs to the sidewalk. Her stomach churned. Their discussion in the kitchen had left him stone-faced and silent. Pit and Sylvie hadn’t painted a glowing picture of her: a blabbermouth who’d break under pressure. And Pit’s last comment to Serge, which she’d overheard as she was dressing—what was that all about? Serge had stood up for her, but did he also suspect her? Rumours that informers had infiltrated the FLQ had been going around for a while now. One of their demands on a manifesto broadcast by a local radio station was that police release the name of any informers to the public.

  The diner was a short couple of blocks away. Serge remained tight-lipped and stone-faced. She’d been a little brutal with Pit and Sylvie but it wasn’t the first time she’d had words with them. They dished it out as much as she did. Serge never got involved with their arguments. Her stand against violence shouldn’t be a big surprise to him.

  They had agreed not to let their differences come between them. He drew a line between his love life and his cause. He saw himself as a defender of the Quebec working class, enabler of an independent Quebec. That Lisette didn’t approve of his way of operating didn’t deter him. He had promised her to come up with other ways besides robbing banks to help finance FLQ activities. Yet she wasn’t convinced where his loyalties lay. He was loving and attentive when they were together but could turn on a dime to his militant mode.

  She admired his independent nature and his dogged ability not to let anyone sway him. Her previous love relationships had never gone past the physical. He had surprised her by blossoming into the grand symphony conductor of the reason why she got up in the morning. She was ready to do anything not to lose him. With his hand pressed to her belly, he had sworn, tears in his eyes, to always be there for her and the baby. Our child, he’d promised her, will never experience the pain your mother made you go through.