by B. A. Berube
for imminent deliverance.
As occurred among the nuns and the Gamaches, I needed their harbor as if I needed to
win the tender humanity of a parasitic squid. My senior year at high school would emerge as
the turning point for my eventual emancipation. It was time to plan for a post-Gamache
future. That process would prove to be a most fragile endeavor. The time had arrived for me
to think about that elusive propellant to my post-Gamache future. My intense fantasy of
ending our relationship had risen to a sky-scraping crescendo.
The Gamaches often warned me—anything requiring intelligence on my part seemed an insurmountable challenge, and I squeamishly believed them. Any insult would do. Over
the years, I had become well prepared to surreptitiously ignore them. Whether it was a
cerebral failure on my part to converse with the Gamaches in French and English as their
adolescent son Danny did, and whose intelligence quotient was undoubtedly close to the
academic equivalent of a second grader, they argued that I should have. as a minimum,
demonstrated my capacity to carry on bilingually. The dubbed Danny the family’s Leonardo
da Vinci. I hid my aptitude as a polyglot and, indeed, I was my high school’s most French
fluent student. I chose to conceal that skill from the Gamaches as a matter of spite. Indeed,
they viewed me as an academic ignoramus and as a fool who was far too clumsy to aspire for
anything greater than the Gamache’s list of dubiously impressive vocations. In addition to my
service as their chattel for tending to almost every dopey object in their habitat and to Danny’s
extraordinary needs, I dreamed of aspirations that would materialize decades later. Call me an
idealist.
All I ever wanted intellectually was to forge ahead a half-notch above the dimwitted
Jed Clampett from television’s inane sitcom, The Beverly Hillbillies. Under the Gamache’s
guidance, I did, in fact, come to believe that any vision for my future should be tempered with
cautious pessimism. Beside Babe Gamache, Mr. Crowley, a guidance counselor whom I
deeply respected, suggested that because I was bilingual, I would be better suited for manual
labor. That was honorable enough for me. I long understood the rewards that would come of
hard work. Rather than to acquiesce to the stumpy aspirations of others, I would favor a more
productive life on Pluto, given the pessimism that Mr. Crowley summoned. After three failed attempts at my seeking a blissful life as a perky criminal runaway,
one last battle would become the Gamache family’s long overdue and unholy Waterloo. One
arctic January evening, I carelessly backed Uncle Babe’s station wagon toward the barn from
the long driveway as the driver’s side car door struck its jamb. The result was minor but
visible damage to both the jamb and the car door. Frightened at the possible consequences of
admitting to this accident, I remained defiantly silent. The following day, Uncle Babe
predictably discovered the damage. He asked me if I was the culprit. I unconvincingly denied
any role in the damage. He retreated to a hostile silence. That silence lasted for three days.
Suspicious as she was, Aunt Fern attempted to extract a confession from me. No go. Finally,
Uncle Babe gingerly replayed the event in slow motion, showing me the exact match of the
twin damages to the jamb and car door. After all, only I could have possibly caused this
mishap. Uncle Babe finally exploded, termed me the liar that I was, and slapped my face. I
uttered an expletive as a rejoinder, snatched my coat, and slammed the door behind me. I
would get out of this shadow of darkness, determined never to return. Though I was
blameworthy, I remained afraid to confess. I did not know what Uncle Babe would do to me.
Where would I go? The downstairs escape to the dogs would no longer work.
Walking up the street and coming back was a dumb idea once tried and failed. Besides, it
was glacially bitter out there. There was no refuge to be found. None. Except one. I would
turn to Mr. and Mrs. Card. As soon as I entered, weeping, as might a child far younger than I,
Mrs. Card prepared milk and brownies for me, still warm from the oven. As I explained the
circumstances, Mr. Card was quick to confirm all the horrors and monstrosities that would best befit someone like Uncle Babe, though a bit less the malice of Aunt Fern. The Gamaches
were two fiends incarnate, he said. They should be banished from the good life everlasting.
After finally understanding the emptiness of Uncle Babe’s recurrent tirades against his
neighbors once more, I built up the courage to ask if the Cards would agree to take me in as a
ward of the state for the last half of my senior year in high school. I promised to work at
anything they would ask me to do—no pay, and they would collect money each month from
the state in the process. “But you are Catholic, and we are not. The state would not permit
such a mix,” Mrs. Card said to me discouragingly. I could offer no riposte. I just consumed
another brownie, and asked if I could at least stay the night. They acquiesced.
Within minutes, a call beckoned from the Gamaches, as Mr. Card answered the phone.
I knew I could count on Mr. Card to serve as my verbal bodyguard. Yet, the overture was
short-lived. Uncle Babe and Aunt Fern presented a seemingly reasonable plan to them. With
Mrs. Card as my mediator, I was offered two options: (A) I could return across the street; else,
a cop would take me away in cuffs. I would be charged as a runaway. The Cards would be an
accessory to my offense. I was about to have Mr. Card tell him that there was no way I would
return there—ever. I was finished. (B) Mrs. Card asked that I consider their second option.
According to Uncle Babe, all I needed was a little sense knocked into me. He was no longer
angry about the damage I caused to his station wagon. He asked me to consider meeting with
someone else whom I might respect, as he sought to have me return and let bygones be sort of
gone. Who best to turn me around than Mr. John Weldon, my eighth grade public school
geography teacher who doubled as its principal? Yes, I had respected and liked Mr. Weldon. Good strategy. Off I went back to the Gamaches with Mr. Weldon in tow as a fair-minded
mediator. I had one sole intent: to hear Mr. Weldon’s counsel and plan, then to return to the
Cards and to refer the Gamaches to the Maine Department of Human Services who might
stumble upon a better home for me over the next six months, after which I would turn
eighteen. Mr. Weldon convinced me to apologize to both Aunt Fern and Uncle Babe for the
grief I had caused them. I was to shake Uncle Babe’s hand and to kiss Aunt Fern. I went
halfway, ending with the one handshake. No pecking the cheek for that tawdry toad. No way.
Understanding my obstinacy about leaving the Gamaches, Mr. Weldon offered to have me
stay with his family for a two-week cooling off period. His was a rational pact, however
tentative. I gathered enough belongings to fit a small cardboard box. I assured Mr. Weldon
that my physical comforts would be minimal. I promised my Creator and myself that I would
never return to live with the Gamaches—ever.
The Weldons were a “normal” family. They permitted to call them plainly John and
Barbara. They were middle class folk living in a small ranch style home on n modest piece
of property. They had two you
ng children who appeared eager to share their home with one
of their Dad’s former students. Barbara was a charming lady who worked as a bank teller.
During my fortnight at the Weldon’s, I had virtually no chores, though I helped with the
dishes. They had a dog, but my role with the dog was to just enjoy her. There was laughter in
the home, loving relationships, and engaging conversations over meals. This was my final
break—the most humane support I had experienced since prior to my fifth birthday.
My two magnificent weeks passed unnoticed. My awkward anxiety began to peak. John posed the daunting question to me, “What do you wish for us to do?” My calculated
response: “Not to return to the Gamaches.” With no debate, John called a re-energized Babe
Gamache, who promised me far better treatment. With John speaking as my broker, I stood
by my wish never to return. With what must have been a bitter exchange with the two former
friends, John indicated that he would return to the Gamaches alone to retrieve the remainder
of my belongings, that I would stay with him for however long the Maine Department of
Human Services would permit. Deliverance!
The year 1965 would be the best of my life. Resilience was improbable though
promising after my seven years at St. Louis Home, one year on the streets of Lewiston, and
five years living with an abusive family. I now frankly believed that, as the nuns had so often
assured us, we each had a guardian angel to protect us. But did I have to wait this long to
discover that angel? Needing to confirm an aspiration come true, I wrote to my good friend
of the previous five years, Bob Lavertu, nephew to Fern Gamache. A few days later, he
expressed his sentiments about my departure from his estranged aunt and uncle. This is what
he said: I can’t tell you that I was shocked by reading your letter because I knew that sooner or later you would wake up and get out of that nightmare. I don’t hold anything against you for doing what you have done. As for Babe, all I can say is that he is lucky that I wasn’t in your shoes because I think I would have killed him.
Let’s face it. He’s the biggest crud that ever walked on two feet. If he ever talks to me about anything relating to your staying at his house, I’ll tell him right in his face what I think of him. I just can’t figure out how you managed to stay so long with him. He thinks he’s a real wheel going around with his whores and flashing the money around. Yet he thinks that there is nobody as holy as he is.
I guess that when Judgment Day comes, he’ll find out what a crud he actually is. After the way I’ve seen him behave in the past years and the things he’s said, I can no longer consider him my uncle and godfather. I just hope the good Lord has pity on him.
Bob had cause to be my very best friend—ever.
Living happily among the Weldons and having their support for my studies made
school fun again. I would pursue coursework more seriously. I would be allowed to
accompany my senior class to its weeklong trip to Pennsylvania, New York, Virginia, and
Washington, DC. John succeeded in retrieving some of the money the Gamaches had
withheld from my job at the print shop, though there was at least eighty more of my earned
dollars from odd jobs at the Cards’ home that I would never see again. John arranged for me
to have a part-time job with a local construction company the following summer. The money
was good, and the Weldon’s insisted the money stay with me as I saw fit.
John and Barbara suggested I select an after-school extracurricular activity as a healthy
extension of my Lisbon High School experience. I returned to visit with my guidance
counselor, Mr. Crowley. Though I feared it was far too late in the year to select a club or to
take part in, he offered me some choices, particularly among the clubs that could
accommodate another member. One of them was the Future Teachers of America club. I
asked to see a list of who was already in this club. There were twenty-six fellow students—
all female. Unsure if boys could join, I asked the obvious, and was quickly signed up for the
FTA club. If there were a career I would some day pursue, indeed, it would be teaching. That
was my pipe dream. John asked me about college, which I had earlier laughed off as an opportunity for
which I was not worthy. After all, I had learned from my high school guidance counselor
that, as a bilingual person, I would be better suited to enter the blue-collar labor force upon
graduation. I feared that attending college would only serve to accentuate my cerebral
shortcomings. As far as I was concerned, he was probably right. Besides, it was a bit late in
the year to be thinking about college selection; most seniors aspiring to college had already
been accepted. Despite these misgivings, and using whatever influence he had, John
arranged for an interview with me at a small campus of the University of Maine that
specialized in teacher education. Within a month, I was accepted. My Lisbon High School
graduation was spectacular. No, I did not invite the Gamaches. This was a time of pomp and
circumstance.
Babe and Fern later divorced over their irreconcilable differences—mainly his
infidelity. Failing to negotiate a return to his wife Fern, and falling into an unfathomable
depression, Babe took his own life with a pistol as his father had done decades earlier. A
couple of years after Babe’s passing, their son Danny died as a result of increased
complications relating to his continually enlarging brain tumors. He was 32. My family’s
apartment on Maple Street was the last of all five of our residences to be demolished—to be
replaced by a modern housing project. I did visit Fern for many years until her death at a
nursing home. I yield to Mark Antony’s sententious utterance on burying Julius Caesar:
“The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones” (William
Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 2). So, too, of the evil and good of women. To both Babe and Fern Gamache: R.I.P.—Requiescat in Pace.
My admission to college in 1965 to pursue a career I truly never felt possible was the
send-off to my ultimate deliverance. The Weldons had rescued me. John Weldon was a
dedicated, loving teacher and a good administrator. Because of him and his sweet wife
Barbara to whom he displayed devotion and affection, my personal epiphany had come full
circle. As in the “happily ever after” life of “Cinderella,” never again would I utter the
spurious titles: Soeur Boulé, Uncle Babe or Aunt Fern. I would return to my beloved family
at will. I was forsaken no longer. My impious thirteen-year curse of “Get Out”/Va t’en had
been lifted. So, too, ended the fiery but true tale of this Cinderfella.
