Miracleville

by Monique Polak

  I guess Mom wishes her two angels would spend less time at McDonald’s and more time at home reading the Bible, the way she says she did when she was our age.

  Mom runs Saintly Souvenirs, the souvenir shop she inherited after her parents died. Dad does the accounting—and the grocery shopping and cooking. He’s always testing new recipes he finds online. Tonight we had braided asparagus spears with cranberry chicken over steamed rice.

  “That’s exactly where we’re going.” Colette answers for both of us. “Again.”

  Dad clears his throat. “We want the two of you home by ten thirty.”

  “Not a moment later,” Mom adds, wiping her chin with her napkin.

  “That’s right,” Dad says. The two of them exchange small smiles. Maybe it’s because they disagree so much about religion that Mom and Dad seem extra-pleased when they agree about something.

  Colette groans. “Ten thirty is so too early! Can’t we—?”

  “We’ll be back on time,” I say, catching Colette’s eye and giving her a sharp look.

  Colette mouths the words “Saint Ani” at me.

  I glare at her, but she just smiles back at me.

  It’s almost completely dark when Colette and I leave. Our house is on a winding stretch of Avenue Royale, a quarter of a mile past the basilica and the souvenir shops. Because we’re on the north side, the back of our house faces the rocky cliff that borders Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré on one side. From our bedroom window at the front of the house, we can look out at the basilica’s green roof and silver spires and the 138.

  There’s only one street in town where you can’t see the cliff behind you. That’s Côte Ste-Anne, where Iza lives, past the farmhouse with the old stone well. When I was little, I used to like the feeling of living sandwiched between the cliff and the highway. It made me feel safe. But I’m starting to feel different. Sometimes this town makes me claustrophobic. Trapped in a too-small town with too-strict parents and a super-annoying little sister.

  One day I’ll be old enough to live on my own. I like imagining myself in Quebec City or Montreal, someplace where my neighbors won’t know anything about me. Where I won’t always have to look out for Colette. That’s what I’m thinking when she taps my shoulder to offer me some of her new chocolate lip gloss.

  That’s the thing about Colette: just when you think you’ve had it with her, she does something sweet. Colette’s got a good heart. She really does. I need to try and be nicer to her.When Colette and I walk out to the street, we hear a sudden creaking, followed by the sound of someone’s raspy breathing. It’s coming from the upstairs balcony of the white clapboard house across the street, just a little down the hill from where we live. The house is small, but the balcony is as big as our living room.

  Colette steps a little closer to me. “It’s him,” she says.

  “Not so loud,” I say. “He’ll hear you.”

  “Why’s he always spying on us?” At least now she’s whispering.

  “Maybe he just wants some fresh air. Besides, we used to spy on him.”

  “Yeah, but we were little. He’s a grown man.”

  I take bigger steps to keep up with Colette. Though I would never admit it to her, I think Marco Leblanc is creepy too. In all the years we’ve lived across the street from him, he has never said more than “Good morning” or “Good afternoon” to us. Not even when we were little and Mom forced us to wish him a good day or ask him how he was whenever we passed him.

  Eventually, even Mom gave up on trying to be friends with Marco. Which is unusual since Mom can make friends with a lamppost. Mom and Marco grew up together, but she says he pushed her away—that he pushed a lot of people away—over the years, and that even if it hurts, you’ve got to respect a person’s feelings.

  Marco owns the whole house. He inherited it from his parents. He lives upstairs—probably because the balcony is good for spying on his neighbors. The downstairs is rented out. He must have one of those electric stair lifts to get downstairs, but he sure doesn’t use it much. Colette and I have never seen him leave his apartment. Not even once.

  Marco gets his food delivered from the IGA, and once a week a nurse from the clinic comes to check on him. Once in a while he has other visitors. Mostly guys. I guess he hasn’t gotten around to pushing them away yet.

  We hear more creaking as Marco’s wheelchair creeps along the edge of the balcony. I’ve heard how prisoners on death row pace in their cells. Marco “paces” back and forth in his wheelchair along the edge of his balcony. He paces all day and sometimes at night too.

  He also lifts weights. In summer, most people here line their balconies with pots of geraniums; Marco lines his with free weights—dozens of chrome dumbbells that glimmer when the sun lands on them. Often, when we’re biking to Saintly Souvenirs, Colette and I see Marco on his balcony. Then all at once, his head will disappear as he leans down to grab a weight in each hand and press it slowly to his chest.

  Marco’s lower body must be shriveled. I get grossed out if I even try to picture it. He got run over by a train when he was seventeen; Mom says it was because he had been drinking. But Marco’s upper body looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s, with muscles in places you didn’t even know had muscles. In summer, Marco wears tight white undershirts that make the disproportion even creepier.

  Marco has a rickety old wheelchair with thin worn tires—which explains the creaking. Because it’s nearly dark, it’s hard to make out the exact shape of the wheelchair, or of Marco sitting hunched in it. From where we are on the sidewalk, it’s as if Marco is a giant bird of prey waiting for the right moment to pounce on us.

  Mom says we shouldn’t be afraid of Marco. “What harm can he do? The poor man has been confined to a wheelchair for nearly twenty years. We need to keep him in our prayers.”

  Dad says Marco is living proof there’s no such thing as miracles. “If Saint Anne really was capable of miracles, wouldn’t she have healed Marco—a man who has lived in her town all his life—by now?”

  We’re heading downhill, but the creaking and the raspy breathing sounds seem to be following us.

  Colette grabs my arm.

  I don’t want to look back, but I feel this urge to make sure Marco’s not following us—even though I know he can’t be.

  When I turn around, I can see, even in the dim light, that Marco has inched his wheelchair to the very edge of the balcony. His knees press against the railing.

  When he speaks, his voice is even raspier than his breathing. The words come out like a bullfrog’s croak.

  “You two,” he says, “are growing up.”

  And for a moment, I wish we weren’t.

  Three

  Colette throws her shoulders back as we grab our milkshakes and head for our usual booth at McDonald’s. I swear it’s because she wants Maxim to notice her chest. Sometimes I can’t believe we’re related. If I was the one with grapefruit boobs, I’d never show them off like that.

  Maxim is wearing a navy polo shirt with the collar popped up. He’s sitting next to Iza and across from Josi-anne and Armand, but he looks up and smiles when he sees us coming. Maxim has powerful girl radar.

  “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Colette whispers.

  “He’s okay.”

  “Ex-cuse me. I forgot it’s against your religion to notice boys.”

  “It’s against my religion to be boy crazy. The way you are.”

  “How are my curls? Not too frizzy?”

  “They’re fine. Calm down, will you?”

  “Being calm’s no fun.”

  Josianne is practically sitting in Armand’s lap. I still can’t get used to the idea that those two are going out. Until last winter, we were all just a bunch of friends. Now Josianne and Armand are always looking for ways to get “private time.” I know sexual feelings are normal, but I’m not quite ready to deal with them. And I wish my friends weren’t either. Not to mention my little sister.

  Iza is telling Maxim about her job at Cyclorama, th
is huge white and gold multi-sided building on the other side of Rue Regina. A lot of tourists see the giant Cyclorama sign from the highway and figure it’s a humungous indoor bike track. Only when they get closer do they see the smaller letters that say of Jerusalem. Inside is a giant panoramic painting that tells the story of Jesus’ life, complete with sound effects like lambs bleating and swords scraping.

  “This guy was embarrassed to admit he made a mistake, so he bought a ticket,” Iza is saying. “But I knew he’d rather be cycl—”

  Colette doesn’t let Iza finish her sentence. “Who wouldn’t rather be cycling?” Colette says. I tug on her elbow, but she doesn’t get the hint.

  “Hey, An-ette!” (Anette is Iza’s nickname for us— a combination of our two names.) Iza moves closer to Maxim to make room for one of us. I grab the spot, though it means I’m going to have to watch Armand and Josianne groping each other all night.

  “So I heard you’re gonna be in Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré all summer,” Colette says to Maxim. “That’s so amazing.

  Wow. All summer. Like I said, that’s really great.” The girl doesn’t breathe when she talks.

  Maxim doesn’t seem to mind Colette’s exuberance. When he smiles, I notice his teeth are very white; one of the front ones is chipped. Though I’d never tell Colette, I think Maxim is kind of hot, in a boy-band sort of way.

  “Do you use tooth whitener?” Colette asks him.

  Maxim laughs, then looks down at the table, which makes me think he probably does.

  Iza nudges Maxim. “That’s Colette. She’s special.” Iza must notice my back stiffen when she says that. “What I mean is…Colette’s the kind of person who says what she thinks. It’s refreshing, really. Like the time she asked our French teacher, Monsieur Leduc, why he smelled of beer at eight fifteen in the morning.”

  Maxim slaps the table and laughs. “What’d he say?”

  “He said he used beer for shampoo. Only, I told him it smelled more like he used beer for mouthwash.” Colette laughs so hard at the memory she snorts chocolate milkshake out her nose.

  Everyone else laughs too, and my back relaxes. It’s okay if I think Colette is a pain—I’m her sister. But I don’t like other kids, even Iza, saying anything bad about her.

  “Move over, lovebirds,” Colette tells Josianne and Armand, and they make room for her on their side of the booth.

  “So you guys are working at the basilica parking lot, right?” I say to Armand and Maxim.

  “Yup. It’s a great gig,” Armand says.

  Josianne gives Armand a dreamy look, as if working in a parking lot is as exciting as being a rock star.

  “How’s it going anyway—staying with your grandmother?” Armand asks Maxim.

  Colette is bouncing in the booth. It’s a small bounce that’s coming from her hips, but it’ll get bigger. It always does. “Who’s your grandmother?”

  “Hélène Dupuis. I bet in a town this size, you know her, right?”

  Colette’s not only bouncing now, she’s reaching across the table for Maxim’s hand. What’s she thinking? Of course I know the answer. She isn’t thinking. Colette is a very impulsive person. If I liked a guy, I’d never grab at him like that. I’d be more subtle. Or I’d wait for him to take my hand.

  “Tante Hélène’s your grandmother?” Colette asks.

  I kick her under the table.

  “Why’d you kick me?” she says.

  Now I want to kill her. “It was an accident,” I say, glaring. But at least she’s stopped grabbing for Maxim’s hand. Besides, I’m sure she was about to blurt out how we all call Maxim’s grandmother Crazy Tante Hélène.

  Crazy Tante Hélène calls herself an herbalist. She has long white hair and she lives down by the 138 in a rundown house with a lawn that looks like it’s never been mowed. Everyone else in town hates dandelions— but not Crazy Tante Hélène. Her front yard looks like a dandelion farm. She prescribes dandelion tea for people with nervous conditions. I know, because Mom bought some for Colette after the adhd medication she was taking gave her insomnia and made her stop eating.

  “Staying with my gramma’s okay. Only this morning, when I told her I had a sore throat, she made me drink tea with garlic.” Maxim gags at the memory.

  Colette giggles. “I’ve heard of Earl Grey, I’ve heard of Sleepytime, but garlic tea? No way! That is so gross!”

  “Did it help?” Iza asks.

  “Now that you mention it—my throat feels fine.”

  Colette leans across the table, chest-first. “Here, lemme see if you smell like garlic. No, you smell really good.” Her cheeks are flushed. So are mine—just from watching Colette. I don’t understand how she can be so bold. Colette doesn’t have a shy bone in her body. When it comes to boys, all two hundred and six of my bones are shy. “Hey, wanna see my imitations of the pilgrims who come to our shop?” she asks Maxim.

  “Sure.” Maxim is eyeing Colette the way a bee eyes a freshly opened flower, circling before he makes a landing, and there isn’t anything I can do to stop it.

  “Colette’s really good at imitations,” Armand says.

  “Yeah, really good,” Josianne adds.

  Iza taps my leg under the table. We both hate the way Josianne agrees with whatever Armand says. She never used to be like that.

  I think about giving Colette another kick, but I know she’ll say something if I do. I just hope she won’t go too far with those imitations. What if she starts groping imaginary penises again? My ears heat up just thinking about it.

  A McDonald’s employee—a middle-aged woman wearing a hairnet—is collecting trash. “You kids done with those trays?” she asks. The pin on her blouse says Evelyne.

  “Yes, we are, Evelyne.” Maxim looks right at her when he hands her our trays. “That’s a nice name. And hey, thanks a lot.”

  Evelyne blushes.

  It’s Colette’s idea to walk Maxim to his grandmother’s when we leave McDonald’s. There’s a rusty watering can on Tante Hélène’s front porch. Her kitchen light is on. Maybe she’s making dandelion tea. I hope her kettle’s in better shape than her watering can.

  “I hope I’ll see you again soon,” Maxim says when we leave him at the porch.

  “Who do you mean?” Colette asks. “Me? Or her?”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or feel embarrassed.

  “I mean both of you, of course.” Then Maxim turns to Colette, and I catch him peeking at her cleavage. Even in the dark, I can see that Colette’s whole face is glowing.

  “I’m guessing you don’t go to church on Sundays.”

  “Of course I do,” Colette says.

  Now I really want to laugh. Colette hasn’t gone to church since Mom forced her to at Easter.

  Four

  Dad whistles. “My, you girls look pretty!”

  The three of us are leaving for church. Mom’s wearing her best dress; it’s white with black polka dots and tight at the waist. Colette and I are wearing pleated skirts. Mine is sky blue; hers, which she’s hiked way up over her knees, is the color of red wine. I’ve got on my white blouse with the frilly collar; Colette’s wearing a low-cut pale pink tank top.

  There’s a No T-shirts sign inside the basilica, but I’ve never seen anyone get kicked out for wearing a T-shirt or tank top. I guess these days churches need all the customers they can get.

  I caught Mom eyeing Colette’s tank top and short skirt when we came downstairs, but she must’ve decided not to say anything. She’s probably just happy Colette is feeling religious. I don’t want to burst Mom’s bubble and tell her Colette’s more interested in Maxim than in Jesus.

  “You girls look so pretty,” Dad says again, “I’m tempted to come along.”

  “Do you mean it?” Mom asks, watching Dad’s face. Even after so many years together, I think Mom still hopes Dad’ll suddenly see the light.

  Dad is right though. Mom looks prettier than usual. She’s piled her hair on top of her head and is even wearing eye shadow (made from a
ll natural ingredients, of course).

  Dad strokes Mom’s cheek. “Not really,” he says. I saw him glancing at the newspaper before, and I bet he’s looking forward to plopping down on the couch with the paper and our cat, Eeyore. They are, as Dad’s always saying, the only two guys in a house full of women.

  “Have a good time, Thérèse. Enjoy the company of both your angels.” Dad gives Mom a peck on the lips, pulls on one of Colette’s curls and tweaks my nose. It’s how he always says goodbye to us.

  “We’ll tell the Lord and good Saint Anne hi from you,” I tell him.

  Dad laughs. “Those two are too busy to bother with an old sinner like me.”

  Marco Leblanc is already outside, lifting weights on his balcony. We hear him groan as he presses the weights to his chest. Mom waves when we pass him, but he doesn’t bother waving back.

  Because the sidewalk is so narrow and there isn’t much traffic this far along Avenue Royale, the three of us walk side-by-side on the street. Mom loops one arm through mine, the other through Colette’s. “I’m so glad, Colette, that you’re coming to Mass,” Mom says. “This feels like a fresh beginning.”

  Mom doesn’t notice Colette wink at me. “My girls”— now Mom is speaking more to herself than to us—“are growing up.”

  I can’t help shivering. That’s exactly what Marco said the other night.

  It takes twenty minutes to walk to the basilica. It’s quicker when we aren’t wearing high heels. On the way, we talk about the store (it’s nearly time to change the window display), the weather (not a cloud in the sky), and our plans to have a picnic supper at the canyon (if the weather stays good).

  In the distance, the traffic is building on the 138 near the exit that leads into town. Impatient drivers honk their horns. A crow flies overhead. I wonder what he thinks of all the traffic.

  All year long, Catholics from all over northeastern Quebec come to Sunday Mass in Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré. We have the most beautiful church in the province and also one of the oldest. It dates all the way back to the seventeenth century.