When a whole month went by without a breakdown, May realized that she missed seeing him. For a few nights, she walked down the street toward Johnny's, but would turn around before she got too close. Her heart would pound and she wasn't sure what she could possibly say to him or what she could possibly want from him. She somehow knew, however, that she liked Alain Reneaux's company and that she wanted more.
Finally, on a warm September evening, she worked up the courage to set out to Johnny's, a basket of baked goods on her arm, chastising herself for looking like Little Red Riding Hood. Alain was inside the garage, bent as usual over an engine, and at first he didn't hear her. When he eventually looked up, she could see that this time the smile hit his eyes and suffused them with welcome.
That was the first time she took him to the tree near her Aunt Oona's cabin. It was a huge, sturdy maple, its fat arms spread to embrace children and adults alike. It was crooked to the sight but smooth to the touch. May showed Alain how to sit in the curve of the first huge branch and swing his legs above the ground. The breeze ruffled the wide, thick leaves, still summer green, and they could look out over the heads of several smaller trees and bushes into the forest beyond. Above them, a squirrel chattered noisily and a blue jay squawked at their presence.
On that occasion and on all the times after, May and Alain barely noticed the lack of welcome. The relative silence nurtured their quiet dispositions and encouraged them to talk. On the first visit, they chatted about surface, ordinary things, but later, on subsequent visits to the tree, as color arrived, then fled and the leaves started to fall, their talk became a genuine sharing of themselves.
When snow began to make sitting in the open on the edge of a dense forest uncomfortable, they began to visit museums in Ottawa, take in a movie they both wanted to see, or have dinner at the Burchill Inn. Often they sat in May's tiny apartment and ate dinner, drinking as much wine as they wanted and talking until morning. For the first time in her life, May was completely herself with another human being. She didn't have to straddle two worlds. She didn't have to be one thing or another. She simply had to be her own complex, muddled person who had many gifts and strengths, but who was also often needy and imperfect. With Alain, she laughed genuinely, wept passionately and talked without hesitation.
Alain accepted her completely and in turn, he began to smile, to laugh, to have fun. She expanded his horizons to include joy and hope and optimism. He told her everything. He held her close to him and she made him open up to the rest of the world. Suddenly people saw a different Alain Reneaux. He was more relaxed, welcoming and humorous. With May, Alain began to discover who he really was. He peeled back the layers and took down the walls that had protected him, for he was, at last, surrounded by genuine love.
At first, neither of them made any overtures beyond kissing and holding. The night that the kisses didn't stop, but ended up in May's narrow bed, was an experience they would talk about and secretly smile about until they were very old. They made love all night long, by turns gently, slowly, sweetly and then roughly and quickly. They explored every inch of each other's body, the scar here, the beauty mark there, the tickly spots, the places that triggered the passion. When morning came, they smiled into each other's eyes with the knowledge that a deep, satisfying friendship had become a passionate and equally satisfying love.
Chapter 11: Doro
Blue Shirt's anger was even more intense and puzzling than the rage from the man who'd knocked the canned goods to the floor. Before she knew it, everyone had vacated the store and the teenage cashier was recording something in a ledger. The Shirts must be regular customers with a tab.
She slowly finished her muffin and coffee, trying to decide what to do next. Perhaps the girl at the register would help, though she was obviously far too young to have been around when the Janot manse was still standing.
Doro headed toward the counter, swinging her purse over her shoulder, and asked the girl how much she owed. As she did so, she looked down at the ledger and sure enough, there was a name listed at the top of the page with dates and items of purchase. She was not sure how the idea came to her, but suddenly she was asking the girl if she could get the Native artefact down from the top shelf.
The teenager was helpful and animated as she hauled an aluminium ladder over to the shelf and lithely reached for the exquisite, intricate sculpture. She talked non-stop about how this was an art piece crafted by Paul Bruneau, a well-known Native sculptor.
In the meantime, Doro didn't move from the counter. As soon as the girl's back was turned, she quickly leafed through the pages of the ledger. As soon as she found Paul Marot, she arranged the book back on the counter the way she found it. She found only one Paul, but she hadn't had time to search thoroughly. There were no addresses. They probably knew where everyone lived in this small area. She just hoped that Paul Marot was indeed Striped Shirt.
The young shopkeeper enthusiastically showed Doro the Native sculpture, turning it over, pointing out the inspired coloring, the delicate lines, the amazingly expressive faces that gazed from such infinitesimal carvings, explaining each of the features of the artefact.
Doro, who had been using the sculpture as a means to an end, suddenly fell in love with the little artwork, turning it over in her hands, feeling the silky marble, tracing the lines of the minuscule faces that mirrored such spiritual depth. Perhaps these would prove to really be her spiritual helpers as she traced the past that held her in fear of intimacy, of true love, of motherhood.
When the shop girl named the price, Doro was a little taken aback, but she had brought a large amount of cash (she dared not use her credit card), so she bought it. Not only did she love the delicate lines of the piece, she reasoned, now thinking strictly logically once more, but perhaps her spiritual helpers would disclose even more information.
As the girl wrapped Doro's prize, she asked questions carefully and, she hoped, casually. "Who was that man who knocked over the cans? He looks so familiar."
"Do you live around here?" The girl did not seem suspicious, merely curious.
"I used to, probably before you were born," she answered, giving a wide smile. "That's why I wondered if I'd seen him somewhere or if I used to know him." No need to mention that she remembered so little of her life here or that she left when she was a small child.
"Izzy has lived here his whole life," the teenager said, as she continued to wind the bubble wrap around the carving. "His father and his father before that too, I think. He's part Ojibwa and French and English—a real mix. I probably shouldn't say this, but he's pretty strange. I don't understand how he knocked into that shelf. He's in here practically every day."
"Maybe I did know him when I lived here. What's his last name?"
She looked up, completely guileless, and examined Doro carefully. "I doubt if you knew him though. He's a bit older than you are. He's way past forty, probably closer to my dad's age." She had no idea that her remark could have been insulting as well as humorous.
Doro, however, took very little notice, so intent was she on the information the girl might give.
"Their last name is Rondeau. It's a pretty famous name around here, I think. Izzy's father is a minister of some church in Williamsburg."
The package was ready now. The girl processed the cash and handed Doro her change.
"Are you looking around the town for people you know?" Again, her question was curious, no infusion of suspicion, as though looking around for people one knows was a perfectly normal activity.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Doro answered. "I'm trying to look into my past. You know, kind of searching-for-the-ancestors thing."
The girl nodded. "My mom got into that a few years ago. Then we had this big family reunion. Everybody was thrilled."
The teenager didn't sound thrilled. She sounded as though this was an unexplained behaviour that older people indulged in.
"I met a bunch of cousins that I didn't know existed and now I probably won't see the
m again." She shrugged. "But my mom loved it. In fact, you should go and see my mom. She's got a lot of the history of the village, because it was part of her research into our family, I think. I doubt if you'd get as much information from anybody else in town. They don't seem to care about it the way she does."
She gave a jovial laugh. "Including me! It just looks like a bunch of junk in her office to me. She's tried to get me interested, but…"
She pulled a scrap of paper toward her and wrote, 'Cynthia Denis.' "We say Denis the English way," she said, adding a street address. "My name's Kimberley, by the way."
She stuck out her hand to shake Doro's. "Two names and both could be male," she chuckled. "I guess that's why everyone calls me Kimmy."
"Well, my name's Doro, Kimmy, and this is wonderful. Thank you so much for your help. Do you think I should call your mom first?"
The spirits of her 'Paul Bruneau' were working already, she thought.
"Oh no, she'll be home and she absolutely loves visitors. Particularly if the visitor wants to wade through all of her research. Be prepared, though, you might have to stay longer than you want!"
They both turned as two people came through the door. One was obviously a passer-through, but the other gave Kimmy a smile and a nod that spoke of acquaintanceship. Kimmy waved toward the door and the right side of the building.
"You just go to the right, Doro, and you'll find Hill Street. It's a very steep hill, so you might want to take your car, especially if you happen to stay until after dark. And then Mill Street is on your left and we're number four. Tell her Kimmy sent you!"
And then she spun around to enthusiastically serve the passer-through as he made a purchase of chips, pop and a chocolate bar. Just the thing to help you through a long drive.
Clutching her carving, Doro headed for her car. She noticed to her amazement that she had been in the store for almost two hours. She thought she should give him a call. As she considered how she had lied to her husband, she felt her heart begin to pound with anxiety. Instinctively, she put her hand on her abdomen.
"Just ignore your mother, little one," she said out loud to the foetus. "I get stressed, but no reason you should. I am going to take care of you, I promise. And wait until you meet your dad. He's the best."
He was the best and he didn't deserve lies. But she was not sure how he would react to her quest. He believed in the here and now, in taking the day as it came, in facts and figures, not in superstitions or the past or in ghosts haunting your present. She was certain that he would tell her to "let sleeping dogs lie," one of his quaint old expressions that he often used to criticize others who'd made forays into their heritage or in particular, blamed the present on the past.
She hadn't confided much about her memories to him. She hadn't told him anything about her life before she went to live with her aunt. She hadn't quite told the Shirts the whole truth either. In fact, she had always known that she was adopted and she had always been haunted by the bits that she remembered from her early childhood. For some reason, she didn't want anyone to guess how much she remembered. She supposed that was because she didn't want to admit to the hold those memories have had on her. She never let anyone see her rituals for good luck and demon protection, her obsessive superstitions that she was very careful to hide, even from her lover.
In fact, she didn't really know if Candace was her blood relative or not. After 'Ma' died, Doro had discovered some documents that were unsettling and troubling to say the least. Those documents and the picture were what led her to this lonely, ruined little village.
She was determined to find the truth and for now, she must leave her husband out of it. She placed a call to him, forcing herself to sound cheerful and full of information, though false, about her trip. Then she turned the car up Hill Street, feeling as though she had just been unfaithful.
This side of the town appeared to be thriving in comparison to the dying, derelict downtown area. The homes were older, but well maintained and painted welcoming and attractive colors. Most of them had huge porches with chairs everywhere. It looked like a restful, neighbourly kind of place. Doro wondered if most of the people were retired, the kind who wanted to get away from the city, yet stay within close driving distance. As though to prove her point, she saw a large number of people out and about in their yards in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Raking, pulling, straightening, cleaning up after the damage of winter.
The house at number four Mill Street was a pleasant, homey two storey. There were wind chimes everywhere, a flowered Welcome Friends! sign on the door and lacy curtains at every window. As she climbed the steps of the porch, she noticed a little hedgehog boot cleaner and a mat that stated Home in brilliant green letters. There was a brass doorknocker in the shape of a gavel, but Doro chose to ring the bell. Naturally, it pealed out a singsong summons.
No wonder Kimmy is so cheerful, she thought. She must get it from her mom.
A large, smiling woman came to the door. She was so completely unlike her slim dark-haired daughter that Doro might think she has the wrong house, except that Cynthia Denis had the same wide, hospitable smile and a voice that was openly jovial, just like Kimmy's. She was wearing an enormous yellow shirt, half covered by a green apron stained with something dark, little circles of chocolate smudges perhaps.
"Hi there, stranger," she said. "Are you from the store?" And she stepped back, holding the screen door wide open, so Doro could enter.
"Kimmy sent me," she said, wondering if Cynthia thought she was a sales or delivery person.
"You've found the place then. I happened to call Kimmy at the store. She told me you are trying to look up your family history. Come right in."
Doro followed Cynthia through the hallway into a cozy, though small, living room, which was furnished with two big flowery stuffed love seats and a wingback chair.
As she sat down, she realized that she was tired. The emotions of the day had caught up to her and she also realized that she could very easily curl up in this embracing, comfortable love seat.
"I am," she answered. "I have to confess to you that I don't have much to go on, though. My name is Doro."
She was getting adept at lying, she thought, ashamed that she was being untruthful to this friendly, open woman who had welcomed her into her home.
"Mine's Cynthia. Happy to meet you. Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Oh, I would love one," she answered, admitting to herself that she was hungry and thirsty, despite having stuffed down the muffin and coffee a little earlier.
Cynthia disappeared. Doro leaned back on the couch, which seemed to reach out and massage her neck and head. She closed her eyes for a second and lulled by the warm sunlight shining through the window, she fell asleep.
Chapter 12: Emily
Every morning, just after announcements—barring any emergency of course—I walked around the school. It was a good time to be seen, to see, to hear, to drink in the energy and activity.
As I neared retirement, I enjoyed this walkabout even more than I used to. I was more relaxed, less pressured. I gave up caring about the paperwork piled on my desk. This increased relaxation could also be attributed to the fact that I now had a part-time vice principal.
Lynda McLeay, who'd taught every grade from kindergarten to grade eight, had been tapped to replace me. This year, because of the increase of population in Burchill, the school qualified for a part-time assistant principal, a situation that turned out to be an amazing apprenticeship for Lynda and a supportive, challenging experience for me. She held the part-time special education position in addition to her vice principal duties, so she was busy, but she clearly loved every minute.
Thus on my morning walks, I was free to pop in on little ones sitting in a circle around their teacher's feet, reciting the amazing combinations of letters that allow them into the world of words. To watch a group of larger but no less inspired heads gathered around a science experiment. It was a privilege to be able to spy on and be welcom
ed into this realm, a magical world of motivation, stimulation and learning.
On most mornings, a clutch of parents gathered in our volunteers' room. Once upon a time, that room had been storage and the parent volunteers spent their hours in the staff lounge. Soon after I'd arrived at Burchill Public School, I changed that situation. The staff lounge was the oasis where teachers relaxed, complained or told stupid jokes to let off steam. They hadn't felt comfortable with the parent volunteers around.
So now we had this lovely little spot for the parents—with a coffee station, a few chairs, a comfortable couch and a table. Here they collated, stapled booklets, laminated artistic endeavours, or counted fund-raising pennies. And they talked, mostly about their children, but sometimes they discussed politics and educational issues.
In our school, all of the volunteers were mothers of the children, with the exception of one grandmother. Few men were retired in this area and I'd been unable to convince any of them to volunteer. It was still the bastion of the stay-at-home moms in Burchill.
After Mrs. Sanderson began her volunteer stint, I unashamedly became an expert eavesdropper. It helped that the parents were used to my wanderings. I could pass by the door, give a wave and a smile, or drop in to chat for a time and then move on down the hallway with no suspicion as to my motives. But I was trying very hard to understand the young Sandersons and I hoped fervently that I could glean some information from their mother.
However, I was consistently disappointed. Fairly short and plump, she looked nothing like her children. Her hair was dark and her eyes a light-brownish color. The only resemblance to any of her offspring was a long, square-jawed face and small, thin lips. But similar to her children, she never uttered a word to the others, aside from an article of agreement or disagreement. Thus whenever I hovered long enough to hear her voice, it would be "Yes," "No," or "Well, well" or even the relatively longer response of "Is that right?" She didn't seem to invite any questions. In fact the usually inquisitive mothers appeared to avoid any personal queries at all.
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