Miracleville

by Monique Polak

  Please, Dad, don’t pop out of the house and ask why I’ve taken a sudden interest in plants. How could I tell Dad I’m hoping to talk to a priest? About religion, of course.

  When Father Francoeur comes down Marco’s staircase, he’s wiping his cheek. Was he crying? After Mom’s accident, Dad got angry but he didn’t cry. Except for in movies or on tv, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man cry, so I don’t know what to do. Am I supposed to turn away to give Father Francoeur privacy—or do I say something kind? It’s hard to know and I don’t have much time to decide. But I want to do the right thing. I want to be there for Father Francoeur. The way he was there for me after Mom’s accident.

  In the end, it’s Father Francoeur who comes over and speaks to me. I’ve stretched my arm way out to water one of the hanging pots. Father Francoeur touches the back of my shoulder and I get that tingle again, the kind I get after my foot falls asleep, only better, and now the tingle is in my shoulder exactly where he touched me. For a moment, I’m afraid I’ll spill the water that’s left in the can on Father Francoeur’s shiny loafers. “How are things, Ani?” he asks. His voice is even gentler than I remember.

  “They’re okay, I guess. So you went to see Marco—like you said you would.” I want Father Francoeur to know I admire him for keeping his promises. Lots of people don’t.

  Father Francoeur nods. “It’s been a long time,” he says. “Too long. Marco and I had a lot to tell each other.”

  Father Francoeur must be able to tell I’m surprised. “Marco and I used to be pretty tight,” he says. Then Father Francoeur looks right at me, and it takes all my courage not to look away. “I was with Marco the night he got hit by the train.”

  I don’t say anything at first. I’m picturing the accident, Marco’s body trapped under the train. I’m imagining the sound of Marco’s scream. Did he see the train coming?

  “I never knew,” I say. “About who was with him, I mean. Only that Marco was drunk. Were you drunk too?” It’s a Colette-type question. But if Mom and Father Francoeur smoked behind the Scala Santa, maybe Father Francoeur also used to drink.

  “No, not really. Marco drank too much in those days. Drinking helped him forget.” Father Francoeur takes a deep breath. “But I shouldn’t have let him go home alone that night. He shouldn’t have been anywhere near the tracks.

  Not in the condition he was in.” Father Francoeur sighs.

  For a moment, I get this strange dizzy feeling, the kind of feeling I used to get when I was little and I spun myself round and round, and suddenly stopped. How odd is it that a priest is confessing to me? Because that’s what this feels like. As if Father Francoeur is confessing and he wants me to absolve him. Except that he can see my face and there isn’t a mesh window separating us the way there is in a confession booth. And I’m not a priest.

  Father Francoeur shakes his head. “I haven’t thought about that night for a long time, Ani. It changed Marco’s life. And mine too.” Father Francoeur tilts his neck back and looks up at the sky.

  I know he’s talking about his decision to become a priest. And I know, too, that Father Francoeur is sharing something important with me. Something he thinks I’ll understand. I can practically feel my heart opening in my chest. Like one of those peonies.

  Leave it to Colette to ruin the moment. She comes bouncing up Avenue Royale just then. I hope she won’t say anything about our latest fight. I don’t want Father Francoeur to think I’m mean. But Colette is smiling and though her cheek is still a little red, you can’t really tell I slapped her.

  Colette doesn’t bear grudges. Maybe it’s part of her adhd but she can’t seem to concentrate long enough to stay upset with someone. It’s kind of nice.

  “Hey, Father Francoeur,” Colette says. Her head is going up and down like one of those bobblehead dolls we used to collect. “What’s up?”

  I can’t believe Colette just said “What’s up?” to a priest. But Father Francoeur doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles at Colette like she’s a frisky puppy, like she’s another miracle. I wonder what he’d say if he knew about her and Maxim. I’ll bet he wouldn’t smile so much. “Did you come to see Mom?” Colette asks him.

  “Actually, I came to see Marco. And I’ve just had a good chat with your big sister here.” Again, Father Francoeur touches my shoulder. Even when he takes his hand away, I still feel his touch. Then Father Francoeur checks his watch. I notice the fine brown hairs on his wrist.

  “It looks like I’ll need to come back another time to visit your mom. I’m due at the Blessings Office. Last week, a woman wanted me to bless her new toaster. And someone else wanted me to bless their canary.” That makes Colette and me both laugh. “But tell your mom I’m praying for her. For all of you. Every day.”

  I watch Father Francoeur as he walks down the wheelchair ramp. Before he gets into his car, Father Francoeur looks up at Marco Leblanc’s balcony. But Marco’s not there; he must have wheeled himself inside while I was talking to Father Francoeur.

  “You know you could be a little less obvious about it,” Colette says.

  “About what?” I’m still watching the back of Father Francoeur’s head as he drives off.

  “About your crush on him.”

  “What crush?”

  “Your crush on Father Francoeur.”

  “I don’t have a crush on him!” I say quickly. “We’ve just got a…a”—I’m looking for the right word—“a connection.”

  “A crush is a crush,” Colette says. “But you hafta admit, Ani, it is pretty gross.” She wrinkles up her nose. “I mean, the guy’s old enough to be your father.”

  Eighteen

  I hear a car door slam. Who’s out at this hour? Another insomniac, I guess.

  Tante Hélène says chamomile tea helps when you can’t sleep. Only we don’t have any in the house. Colette is sound asleep. Sometimes I think I do all her worrying for her.

  Colette had a fit when I told her I’d talked to Tante Hélène. Her eyes narrowed, just like Eeyore’s do when he’s mad. “I’m never going to speak to you again. Ever.”

  The silent treatment didn’t last long. I knew it wouldn’t. Not coming from someone who likes talking as much as Colette does.

  She wouldn’t look at me for fifteen minutes, which made me feel awful. But then she punched my arm and told me, “I know you meant well. But sometimes you can be a bit of an idiot.”

  “Look who’s talking!” I said, and that was pretty much the end of that argument.

  Tante Hélène got Colette an appointment at the clinic. She also talked to her and Maxim about safe sex. “She’s pretty cool—for an old lady,” Colette told me, “so you can stop worrying now.”

  But worrying isn’t some switch I can just turn off.

  And it’s worse at night when the only light comes from the green glow of the numbers on our clock radio.

  Even though it’s 2:00 am (I know because I just checked), Mom and Dad are talking in the living room, where their bed is set up. All I can hear are whispers, then silence, then more whispers. Dad is doing more talking than Mom, and the rhythm of their conversation—what sounds like a question, then a long pause, then another more urgent question—makes me think they’re talking about something important.

  When Colette and I were little, and Mom and Dad had Iza’s parents over, Colette and I used to sit at the bottom of the back stairs and listen in to the adults’ conversation. It was Colette’s idea. If Iza’s dad made a joke, I’d give Colette a stern look so she’d know not to laugh and give us away. Colette would cover her mouth to hold the laugh in. I don’t think Mom and Dad ever knew about our hiding spot.

  Because I’m wondering what’s so important that Mom and Dad have to talk about it now, I slip out of our room and down the hallway to the back stairway. I stop on the fifth stair from the bottom—our old listening place. When I sit down, the wood feels worn under my nightgown. The stairway is so narrow it’s hard to imagine Colette and me ever fitting together on one step. />
  “I never asked you before,” I can hear Dad saying. His voice sounds sad and tense and worn out all at the same time.

  “I’ve always appreciated that,” Mom tells him. “You always said it didn’t matter. Why should it matter now— after so long?”

  “I’m not sure, Thérèse. It just does.”

  Neither of them says anything now, and I stay in my spot, trying not to move a muscle. I have no idea what “it” is. I figured they’d be talking about Mom’s condition, but “it” seems to be something else altogether. Something that happened long ago and that’s got nothing to do with Mom’s accident.

  “This is hard for me too, Thérèse,” I hear Dad say.

  Mom makes a snorting sound. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you now? Because you’re married to a cripple.” Mom sounds more angry than sad.

  “You’re not a cripple. You’re you. You’ve always been you. The you I fell in love with.”

  Now I hear their bed creak—then nothing for a long time. Dad’s voice breaks the silence. “Would you like another pillow for under your legs, Thérèse?”

  “I’m fine like this.”

  Dad sighs. It’s pretty obvious Mom’s not going to tell him whatever it is he wants to know.

  It feels like I’ll never fall asleep again. Like I’ll spend the rest of my nights sitting on this staircase. Being inside isn’t helping. Maybe it’s the narrow staircase, but the walls feel like they’re pressing in on me.

  Except for when Mom used to hang out the laundry, we hardly ever use the back door at the bottom of this stairway. Because I’m wearing my fuzzy pink slippers, I reach the landing without making any noise. When I unlatch the door, I hang on to the brass chain so it won’t rattle. The night air feels warm and soft, and the crickets are singing to each other. When I look up at the sky and see the full moon hovering over the cliff, I feel a little less lonely.

  The wrought-iron table and chairs are out here, but because I don’t feel like sitting, I walk round the house to the front. Eeyore is in the kitchen window. Is it my imagination or does he wink at me?

  I feel Marco Leblanc before I see him. He’s on his balcony. I look over at his shadowy figure, hunched in his wheelchair…and then I realize he’s not alone. There is someone else on the balcony with him. The person is sitting on a plastic lawn chair across from Marco. And I’m pretty sure the person is stroking Marco’s face.

  I know disabled people have lives, but somehow, the possibility of Marco having relationships with anyone besides the nurse from the clinic and the delivery guy from the IGA never occurred to me. I thought the guys who came to visit were his friends. I never pictured him being somebody’s boyfriend. I wonder what the two of them talk about. I mean, until recently, I didn’t know he could talk.

  They haven’t noticed me. I like the feeling of being able to watch Marco—it’s a way of getting even for all the times he watched us without our knowing it.

  Now I notice something else—leaning against the side of the balcony where Marco keeps his weights. At first I think it’s another person, but then I realize it’s a guitar case. Maybe Marco’s girlfriend is a musician.

  It’s only when the girlfriend leans over to take the guitar out of the case that I realize the girlfriend isn’t a girl. Girls don’t have such broad shoulders and wide backs.

  It’s a boyfriend. Marco’s gay.

  Why didn’t I figure it out before? It explains the different men Colette and I have spotted over the years going up to Marco’s apartment. It even explains his bulked-up chest and dyed hair. I wonder if Colette already knows. And though I’d rather not think about it, I wonder about the kinds of sex stuff Marco and his boyfriend do to each other.

  I need to get out of here, go for a long walk, clear my head, only now I’m really trapped. More trapped even than when I was lying in my bed, sleepless, or sitting on the stairs, eavesdropping on Mom and Dad. If I move now, Marco will know I’ve been spying on him. On them.

  The boyfriend is strumming the guitar. Each chord seems to hover in the air as if the sounds know how to float. “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me…” I have to admit the boyfriend has a good voice—gravelly and gentle both. He’s singing an old Beatles song—I know because it’s one of Mom’s favorites. “Let it be, let it be…”

  Even the crickets have stopped chirping so they can listen.

  I wonder how many nights Marco’s boyfriend has come to sing to him. I guess I’ve been wrong about Marco. He has a life.

  The song is calming me down. It’s chamomile tea set to music.

  Marco applauds when the song is over, and the boyfriend gets up and takes a low bow.

  “I’d better get going,” I hear him tell Marco. “I’ve got to be on the road early tomorrow. But I’ll see you next week when I’m back. On Wednesday.”

  “You drive safe,” I hear Marco say. “Call me from the road. If you can.”

  “Don’t I always call from the road?”

  Marco laughs.

  I try not to stare when the two of them kiss. On the lips and for a really long time. It’s not as if I’ve never heard about gay people, but I’ve never seen them—you know— in action. What would Father Francoeur say? And do Mom and Dad know Marco’s gay? Have they known all along?

  The boyfriend packs up his guitar, slings the case over his shoulder and heads down the exterior staircase and into a car parked outside. Marco has wheeled himself over to the edge of his balcony. He watches the car’s red taillights as they disappear into the night.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  Marco’s question catches me by surprise. How long has he known I was out here—watching him?

  “Yeah. I share a room with Colette. She’s sound asleep.”

  I don’t know why I’m telling him all this. Probably because I’m nervous.

  “Nighttime’s good for thinking.”

  It’s as if I can still hear the song lyrics drifting in the night air. Let it be. Let it be. How nice it must be to be able to do that—let things be. But I’m not much good at doing that.

  “I worry more at night,” I tell Marco.

  “Most people do. You worrying about your mom?”

  “Yeah, my mom. And about us too. Sometimes I think our family’s falling apart.”

  Marco nods but doesn’t say anything. I’m glad he’s not offering advice the way most adults do if you say you’re upset.

  “My parents aren’t getting along so well,” I tell him. It’s an understatement.

  Marco looks across the street at our house as if he can see inside. “Your parents have worked a lot of things out. They’ll work this one out too.”

  “You sure?” I don’t know why his opinion suddenly matters so much.

  Marco nods again. “I’m sure.”

  “So I guess that guy was your boyfriend, right?” He must know I saw them kissing.

  “Right.” Marco doesn’t sound embarrassed. That makes me feel less embarrassed too.

  “Have you two been together a long time?”

  “I didn’t know you were so curious. I thought your sister was the curious one.”

  Maybe Marco doesn’t want to talk about his boyfriend. For a bit, neither of us says anything. But the silence between us isn’t an uncomfortable one.

  “Wanna come up and have a seat?”

  “I guess.”

  I’ve never been up on Marco’s balcony. I climb the stairs and, even in the dark, I can tell everything has a spot. The weights are piled in their corner; there’s a tray for food and a pile of neatly stacked newspapers.

  I sit in the chair where Marco’s boyfriend sat. The seat is still warm. For a second, I smell the boyfriend’s lemony aftershave, and then the smell is gone.

  When I adjust my feet, I knock something over under the chair. It’s an empty beer can, and now I can feel there’s another one under the chair too. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “I don’t. But Jean-Pierre likes a beer or
two when he comes by. He’s got a job driving one of those eighteen-wheelers, so he’s out on the road all day. I used to drink too much.” For a second, it feels like Marco is talking to the night, not to me. “That’s how I got into the accident.

  The one that left me this way.” He waves one hand over his legs.

  “I know. Father Francoeur told me. He said he was with you the night it happened.”

  Marco winces. I wonder what he remembers from the accident. Did he see the train coming down the tracks? “What else did Father Francoeur tell you?”

  “That you guys used to hang out. And that my mom taught him how to smoke.”

  “Yeah, Emil and your mom were pretty tight in those days.”

  “Why’d you drink so much back then?”

  “Let me guess,” Marco says. “You’ve never been drunk.” When he smiles, his face looks a little lopsided.

  “Of course not. I’m under eighteen.” As soon as I say it, I realize how dumb I must sound. Lots of kids drink before it’s legal. Marco did. “You still didn’t say why you used to drink so much.”

  The crickets are singing again. Were they singing the night of his accident too?

  “Maybe I was trying to run away.” Marco waves at his legs again. I know what he’s telling me: now he can never run away. In all the years Marco has been our neighbor, this is the first time I’ve ever imagined what it must feel like to be him. He’s more trapped than me.

  “What were you running away from?” I’m expecting Marco to say the cliff and the highway and the basilica, but that isn’t what he tells me.

  “I was running away from me.” Marco pauses. I know he’s remembering again. “From knowing I was gay. From thinking it was a sin. But you can’t run away from who you are. Even if your legs work right.”

  Nineteen

  I wake up too tired to stretch, too tired even to turn onto my other side. Is this what being paraplegic feels like? I bend one knee, just because I can.

  I feel as if I’ve been awake all night. I had the weirdest dreams. I can’t recall details, only the terrible feeling that I’ve been very, very bad.