Storm after storm. The holy water dwindles. Run to the church, mon fils; run, ask the priest for another bottle. Light the candles inside; say your prayers; hold your breath; listen for the siren. The tall wooden houses shudder and moan in the wind.
The sun shines. Flowers bloom. In the damp cedar woods grow trilliums, dogtooth violets, lady’s slipper, petit prêcheurs. Open fields are swollen with tough stalks of blue chicory, and snapdragons that the children call butter-and-eggs.
Madame Lalonde tells the children, “No swimming until the first day of June.” They whimper and coax and whimper some more, but she will not budge. It is all a façade, really, because early in May each year, Amélie and Jacques sneak away from the hill, down along the road until they come to the river. Here they slide down shale and loose rock until they are at the swollen bank. The water is crystal, numbing cold. They cross their hearts and spit, swear never to tell; then, off with the shoes and stockings. Spring water laps between the toes. Amélie holds her skirt above her knees so that no dampness will show around the hem. Goosebumps erupt on her legs and skin. Her toes cramp with pain; her ankles are white with cold. She and Jacques wade back to shore. Dry their feet in the breeze, on with shoes and socks, walk with a light step, run, race the last stretch that turns to gravel in front of their home.
Even if it is ninety degrees on the thirty-first of May, Madame Lalonde says, No, they must wait. No swimming until the first of June.
The children scamper about in their underpants, giggling and tripping one another. They form a line on either side of her as they solemnly cross the field. Madame swishes along in thick skirts; she holds high a mound of worn towelling.
The neighbours look out the windows and watch the march. “June the first,” they sigh. “There goes Madame with her brood to deposit winter lice on the riverbottom.”
One by one Madame takes each little one out to the current, wading as deep as the child’s knees. Dips the body, soaks the thick brown hair. Together they watch white suds swirl around the legs, bubble and streak, out on quick waves towards the main flow. The head dips again, once, twice. The hair squeaks, smooth, no tangles. The way it would if washed in the rain barrel.
Along the riverbank, white birches toss their slender, bandaged limbs.
St. Jean Baptiste Day at last! Even the dogs will be fancy, wearing crimped paper collars. The children have woven gay patterns of pink and white crêpe through the spokes of their bikes. The younger ones hold their windmills on sticks and run through the wind. The bonfire will be set beneath the cross, in the field beside Madame Lalonde’s. All week the villagers have been gathering sticks, dead trees, an occasional pilfered log from the bank of the river.
The priest drives a big truck, stopping before each house in the village. The older boys help with the collection and chant, “Food for the poor! Food for the poor!” Everyone gives something, even the poor. A tall young man stands in the doorway rattling the priest’s money box while the woman of the house makes a choice from her pantry A can of peas will do. The priest supervises from the cab of the truck. The big boys climb back up, hanging on to the high boards, making important noises as they rumble through the streets.
Just before dark, the procession begins. It winds its way like a tattered dragon around the dirt roads and down rue Principale. There is one float, and this is covered with tissue flowers.
The children spin and whirr their bikes as they ride beside the float and then past, and turn again to rejoin the parade. The dogs become silly, and nip daringly at ankles and fleshy limbs. There are three old cars in the procession, and one big truck. The older boys are up there again, making the same important noises. The priest joins, sleek in his new black car. When the last of the stragglers reaches Madame Lalonde’s field, everyone fans out in a circle around the heap of wood and scrub.
Will the timing be precise? All is still. The cross on the hill leaps into brilliance.
The priest prepares a torch and lights dried branches and kindling. “Ahhhh!” The crowd tilts back. Soon the sky roars with fire. Flat rocks beneath the wood snap and crack in the heat—hot stone splinters across the night. The celebration becomes noisy and joyous. There is much singing. Each of the children receives a little bag of hard candy. Some of the candies are stuck together—still left over from last year’s Christmas party and from Carnaval.
Third week of June, the orange bus drives away for the last time. The English shove remnants of their school year out the bus windows; the French scatter their scribblers into ditches along both sides of the road.
No more pencils
No more books
No more teachers’ dirty looks
The children, French, English, Catholic, Protestant, bury their differences for the summer. Together they explore the swamp in sunlight, picking marsh marigolds brighter than buttercups. They sneak up on frogs that have eyes like peeled grapes, peering over cloven lily pads; they lie in wait for hours, scooping unsuspecting tadpoles into jam jars for backyard aquariums. When they are bored, the boys chase the girls, threatening with garter snakes that twirl from their wrists. The girls turn their backs, bend, expose the insult of white cotton bloomers.
Halfway through summer, construction crews arrive to work on the dirt road, and begin to carve out a highway. Rock is blasted into the air, settles in mounds, cracked and splintered.
“There goes the Canadian Shield,” says Monsieur Lalonde. “Sky high! Fhooomph!”
At the end of summer, the logs will travel the real highway, the river. Brimful of bobbing timber, edge to edge, every log stamped with company initials. Not that this keeps the villagers from pulling in the strays, sawing them into equal lengths, chopping them up for firewood.
At nine, the siren wails. Hervé climbs on his bike. The sun sets. A remote hand pulls a switch. On top of the hill, the cross blazes once more.
Madame Lalonde sighs. “That cross!”
Truth or Lies
You women have it all ways, my Creative Writing prof says. All ways. He stares past me, out the window, at a line of rooftops ascending the hill. I’ve always wanted to be a woman, he says. Have children, stay home. Write sixteen hours a day.
Evie caught her finger under the bedroom door this morning. Inching across the rug on her tummy. Try to keep one step ahead of her, Hugo tells me. She could tumble down the stairs. He kisses Evie, Jason, me; goes to work.
Take children for a walk along St. Catherine Street. Two tramps run out of fruit store, bananas stuffed into their jackets. Jason and I the only ones to see. Why aren’t their bananas in a paper bag, Jason wants to know.
Must finish short story before class Wednesday night. Stop to pick up Hugo’s shirts at cleaners in Alexis Nihon Plaza. One man ahead of me. While waiting, I review physical characteristics of glaciers. (Also attend classes on Geomorphology Tuesday and Thursday nights.) Jason fusses in his stroller. Evie sleeps peacefully in backpack. Man ahead is not a satisfied customer. Didn’t get the three-shirt special.
What’s this? he asks. Expressionless woman behind counter. I only work here, she says. You have to put your complaint in writing, send it to Head Office.
I had my shirts in before 6 p.m. Friday, he shouts. I’m eligible for the three-shirt special and I’m not paying.
Woman yanks shirts back across counter. Just in time. Quick, for her, I think. I lose interest in glaciers. Want to see how this comes out. Man tries to get one leg across counter. Too fast for her. Yanks at corner of package. Shirts fly: one between man and woman, two on floor. Pulling each way. Back across counter, forth across counter. Sleeve rips off in man’s hand. Man and woman red in face and puffing. Jason claps hands in stroller, stops fussing. Evie wakes in backpack, drools down my neck. Why am I shaking? I leave. I’ll pick up Hugo’s shirts tomorrow on way to get groceries. Take Jason to washroom for pee. Behind housewares, main store, sign taped to wall over sink: SVP Ramassez vos cheveux. Beneath, scribbled in English across tiles: PLEASE! Pick up your hairs.
Creative Writing prof reads my story aloud to class. All laugh at part about dream. Clearly, he says, this is the dream of a madwoman. All agree, even me. Don’t tell that I dreamed it two nights before story due, no time to think up fiction this week. Only reality knocks at my door.
Madwoman? I think, as I fall asleep late, after class. My dreams are like that all that time. Hugo turns towards me, rubs my back, puts hand between my thighs. I cross legs tightly, feign sleep. Last thought of the day: forgot to look up definition of talus slope, and didn’t fold clothes. They’ll be wrinkled in the dryer.
Jason has mumps, I’m certain. Regular sitter won’t come. Hugo at late meeting tonight; have to call agency. All reliable, all with references, say Yellow Pages.
Grandma arrives. White hair, cane. Don’t worry, she says. I can cope. But do you have a copy of the Gazette? This isn’t the paper I usually read.
Remember Yellow Pages, I tell myself as I drive off. Let finger do the walking. Evie did coo at Grandma. I settle at wheel. Remember I haven’t eaten. Stop at Mister Do-Nut for cardboard container of coffee and two cocoanut specials.
Missed three questions in oral quiz on landforms. During break, professor sits beside me in coffee room. What’s wrong? Your work is usually prepared.
Mumps, I say, revealing all. My son, three years old. Puffy, swollen, fever, unhappy.
Professor and all students within earshot edge away. Professor mumbles, aren’t there supposed to be inoculations against things like that?
Hugo still not home when I return. Grandma reading paper. Jason upstairs, puffy neck, sleeping peacefully. Evie tied to chesterfield leg, rope around one ankle. I begin to shout until I see how practical this is. Grandma has smarts. Pay double time and taxi home as it’s after ten. Agency rule. Hugo walks in, yells. Why the hell is my daughter tied to the chesterfield? No sense of humour, I tell him. No use mentioning Grandma. Hugo will say, Oh, did you have class tonight? Forgot.
Last thought of the day as I turn out light: field trip to glacial lake Saturday, remember to wear old clothes; this week’s short story, try not to use dream. Might be a madwoman without knowing. Is this possible?
Hugo shifts to my side of the bed. No, Hugo, no, I shout. I bump him away with one hip. It’s the kids, Hugo mutters.
I feign sleep.
Mother phones. You were smart to have two, she says. Not fair to have an only child. Lonesome. Spoiled. Never learn about the opposite sex until too late. With my six, she says—I drop phone on floor; receiver cracks. I’ll call back, I shout from above. Unplug phone.
While stirring tapioca I hear Gzowski interviewing philosopher. Discuss existentialism in literature. Make mental note to tell Creative Writing prof. Might make up for not having story ready this week. Perhaps I’ll have to use dream after all. Try to choose something not too bizarre. What about the one where I set up an intravenous on Hugo? His blood runs out, wrong way down the plastic tube. Exsanguination.
Good story, everyone nods. You have such imagination, they say. I bite hard on lower lip; try not to fly out of control before coffee break. Instead, change subject to existentialism in literature. Male grad student says, Pity the rest of us don’t have the luxury of sitting home all day listening to CBC.
Car in garage for repairs. Go home on subway. Large man dressed as woman sits beside me. Flimsy mauve scarf tied under chin. Holds paper shopping bag between legs. Glimpse of wigs—red, brown, curls. Large knuckles. Dirty hands. I stare in opposite direction. When I get off at my stop, have to push through large crowd on platform. Singing and bearing banners:
Montreal Praise Festival
Featuring
Jesus Christ, King of Glory!
Jason over the mumps. Regular sitter back. Wants a raise. Fell in love with baker who tells her she should be more aggressive, ask for better salary so they can get married.
Hugo has to take business trip west. Wants me to meet him in Vancouver. Lust in eyes when he asks me to join him. Never gives up.
What about children? Bottles of milk, cold water in diaper pail, dust balls on stairs, Evie climbing on shelves?
Your mother, he says. Call your mother. She raised six, didn’t she?
I tell my writing prof I’m going west.
You women who stay home, he says. Life one big holiday.
Trip? Haven’t taken a trip since I was twenty-two. Flew to Bermuda. Plane caught fire, return flight. Crew mouthing silent messages—FIRE! Emergency landing. Everyone okay.
Hugo leaves three days early, kisses Evie, Jason, me. See you in Vancouver, he says. Dinner every night, good hotel, expense account. Great sex, he whispers in my ear.
Babysitter vacuums living-room table with bristle attachment today. Scratches top. Heirloom from Hugo’s great-great grandfather. Mother phones. Two’s nothing, she says. I raised six.
I take children to park. Push stroller through mud grooves. Wheels lock. Push harder. Smile at child in swing. Her mother grabs her out of swing chair. Glares at me. Some people, she says, as she leaves with daughter under one arm. Some people are just sick. Go around smiling at innocent people, no reason at all.
Class Thursday night. Mid-term exam on climatology. Clouds and winds. Highs and lows. Field trip two weeks ago over and under barbed wire. Tore jeans. Collected rock samples. Two young students in next seat held hands on bus. If I fly west Friday morning and return Monday, won’t have to miss class on ocean waves. Might even get idea for next week’s story. Creative Writing prof becoming suspicious. Last night one student suggested kindly, Maybe you should choose something that really happens to people. Add a little credibility.
Trips, my mother says. We never had it so good, our day. Holds Evie on one hip, helps Jason blow kiss at window as taxi pulls away.
Meet Hamish, one of Hugo’s colleagues, in air terminal. Hi, he says. What are you up to these days?
Raising kids, studying, I say. I go to school. Nights. Geomorphology and Creative Writing.
Aren’t you the brainy one, he says. But I thought to do any kind of writing you needed some sort of experience in life.
Sometimes am capable of violent acts. Thankfully, Hamish flying east. I wish Bagotville or Plaster Rock on him.
Lean back in armchair. Think of Ogilvy’s. Instead of Muzak, recorded canaries sing to customers. Piper marches through store aisle every night at closing. Remember then, that I haven’t bought flight insurance. Go to counter. Woman jabs at packaged policy, pencil sharpened both ends. I sign above her upside-down X. She points to mail slot in wall. For beneficiary, I’ve written Hugo Cornell. Other permutations cross my mind.
Feel as if I might laugh aloud. No banged knees, soiled underpants, tears, the children’s, my own. I will the mind to nothingness. This is not easy. Lists go through head: vitamin drops, emergency numbers, Mother at window, shirts still at cleaners, flight numbers, did I throw in a nightie? What can I invent for next week’s story—lately have been too tired to dream.
Voices intrude from row of chairs at my back. Male voices.
But I’m telling you, Agnes isn’t going to like it, says one. Screw Agnes, says the other.
Screw the world, I think, and wonder if I’ve shouted aloud. Look around. No one staring.
Attendant leads us down carpeted ramp and into flying machine where steward fiddles with dials. Plane distends with voices and luggage. I sit alone, centre aisle seat. Don’t want to look down. Rear door is closed, locked, bolted.
Muzak, full force. My holiday. I begin to enjoy, try not to think of Hugo waiting in Vancouver. Exsanguination.
New stewardess appears at my left. Face and body perfect. Smooth legs, blue eyeshadow. Perfections counterbalance my flaws. She wears white plastic earrings, has platinum ponytail pinned at back of neck. Her mouth exaggerates—in two official languages—emergency procedures. She mimes demonstration. I am a lip reader; I am the public deaf. I buckl
e in, wait, anticipate pressure changes. Plane approaches runway, stops, reverses direction, stops again.
Rear door rumbles open. I turn to look. A couple tumbles aboard. He in early seventies, she slightly younger. Both weighted with overcoats, shopping bags, hand luggage. He approaches from my aisle; she (highly roughed, blue hairdresser curls, plump) from aisle at right. Plastic stewardess motions them to vacant seats beside me.
He is at my left elbow, out of breath. Shoves a grey overcoat into my arms and lap. Hold this. My God. Thank you. We were booked on another plane, missed by a hair. Lucky to get this one, I tell you. Points to wife. She’s out of breath, he says.
It’s true that he can’t get in. Floppy, uncoordinated, too heavy to move easily in smart grey suit, vest, Hong Kong silk tie. I hold his coat, step into aisle to let him pass, stow coat above. He shoves through to vacant seat, looks at Mrs. You all right, Mommy?
Mommy fine. Secures herself out of reach across wide armrest.
Charlie, he says, offers hand.
Evelyn, I say. Reach for book while plane thunders into position. Would like to eliminate madness from my life. Look at Charlie out of corner of my eye. Think about his life. He’d look comfortable in Bermuda shorts drooping below sun-ripe patch of red. Drinks lime rickeys, goes to bed early, lives the good life. Once wrote jingles for cereal ads, worked his way up. Gives Mommy plenty of spending money, summer cottage, one trip every winter.
I close my eyes. Plane no longer on tilt. Open book. Beckett’s plays. Try to concentrate on Krapp’s Last Tape. Below me: Mother, Evie, Jason, Hamish, two million citizens.
Plastic Stew wheels bar down aisle. Charlie orders whisky. Mommy and I do not want drinks. Mommy, wearing earphones, ignores Charlie except when spoken to or prodded. Eyes closed, but manages owl-eyed quick blink as Charlie buys three miniature bottles of whisky.
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