As the winter dragged on I began to spend Friday afternoons riding my bike to the Mount Royal Cemetery instead of going to school. It’s a good twenty-minute ride, all up hill, which I’m here to tell you is long enough to freeze off your ears and your nose twice over. I didn’t want anyone to know, especially Maman. I knew she went to the cemetery too, because there were often footprints in the snow and fresh flowers on the grave, but I didn’t want her to find out what I was doing. She would have flipped about my cutting classes, for one thing. But mostly it felt like something so personal and so private that I had to keep it to myself. I would take a book to read and sit by the tombstone until I was too cold to stand it. Sometimes I had whole conversations with him:
“Hey, Papa! How’s life up there? Do you know how much I miss you? Luc talks about you all the time. He thinks you will come back. I’ve tried to explain, but he doesn’t get it. Sputnik doesn’t get much exercise these days. Are you mad that mostly we just let him out in the backyard? For Maman, it’s different. She barely talks anymore. She goes to work, comes home, peels onions, cooks dinner, washes the dishes, and sits in front of the fire. That’s about it for her. We haven’t touched your slippers or your jacket since you’ve been gone. It’s strange to say gone. If only I knew where you’ve gone, but I don’t.”
Sometimes I felt close to him. Other times I felt like he was a galaxy away.
It was the last gray day of a damp and frigid March. Aunt Sophie had picked up Luc for an excursion to the doughnut shop, and Maman was still at work. We have a candle shaped like an owl that sits on the mantelpiece in the living room. I got it down, set it in the middle of the kitchen table, and lit it. I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and placed it in the center of the room.
“Papa, if you can hear me, please, make the chair move.”
It didn’t.
My mother spent more and more time at work. She said she did overtime to pay the taxes on the house. She developed a mantra: “I pray to God for good health so that I can keep my job. That’s all I ask.” The more she said it, the more terrified I was that she’d get sick and die.
I skipped more and more school, partly because I could barely stand to be with Houston. When I couldn’t weasel away from him, he’d rattle on about being in love with a girl from the twelfth grade. Love. What an improbable idea. Though it was a refreshing change from the Song of Caroline, it made me crazy to listen to him. One spring day when everything had turned to mud, but there was that softness in the air that can transform Montreal into the most beautiful place on earth, I was unlocking my bike at the stand in front of the school. I had just enough time to ride up to the cemetery and back before it was time to get Luc from day care. I looked up to see Houston standing in front of me.
“Francis, dude, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. What do you mean?”
“Stop it. I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“I never said you were stupid.”
“You’re never home when I call, and you don’t stop by my place when you take a walk after supper like you used to. You know what?”
“What?”
“Maybe you lost your father. Okay. I’m sorry for you. But I lost my friend. I lost you.” His face was splotchy red.
“I miss you too, dude,” I said.
“It’s hard for me to say this, but I want my buddy back.
The guy with the weird hair and the skateboard under his arm. You know, that spoiled little brat? Wait a second. That’s not you! That’s Bart Simpson.”
“Easy mistake.” I straddled my bike, not knowing what else to say.
Houston continued, his voice rising. “But seriously, you’re my best friend. Remember when you came to my place every night for two whole months in grade five because I wrecked my neck break dancing? Where’s that guy, Francis? Where is he? I’m looking for him, you know, but he’s turned into some sort of grief freak. I miss him, you know, dude?”
Houston was crying. I had never seen him cry before–except when he wrecked his neck.
“I don’t know where you went, but come back.” He hugged me, right there in front of the bike rack. I started crying, too. If anyone was watching us, and I’m sure they were, I didn’t notice.
“I’m sorry, man,” I said.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“I feel like I’m in a girlie movie.”
“Me too.”
We laughed.
“Want to come to my place tonight? You have to try my new Play Station. You’ll see, it’s freaking great!”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Francis!”
I realized how much I had missed him, and I nodded.
“Great! What about seven-thirty?”
I hadn’t forgotten about the cemetery, exactly, but pushing my bike, I walked home with Houston. When we got to my place, he put a hand on my shoulder, like he used to. Neither one of us said a word, but we were friends again.
Beginning of April. The days were growing longer and the boulders of frozen, dirty snow that had choked our street were almost gone.
I had skipped school that day–and the two days before–to go to the cemetery. Crocuses and tulips were sprouting on the lawn.
When I got home Luc was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, watching Sesame Street. My mother was rooted to her usual spot in front of the kitchen sink, washing dishes as if she hadn’t moved since morning.
“How is it going, sweetheart?”
“Good. How was your day?” I rummaged in the cupboard for a cookie. I snapped it in two and gave half to Sputnik.
“Good. Yours?”
“Good, I just told you.”
“What classes did you have today?”
“Uh … math and biology.” There was something about her voice that should have warned me.
“What did you learn today?”
“Lots of things. Why?”
“Because the school secretary called to tell me that you didn’t show up.”
She dried her hands on the dishcloth and looked at me with an I-know-everything-so-don’t-try-to-lie-to-me expression that would freeze a rhino in its tracks. “Where were you, Francis?”
I don’t know if I was ashamed or afraid or angry or embarrassed. I just knew I didn’t want to tell her.
“Where were you? Don’t make me ask you again!”
“I was at the cemetery. Happy now?”
“What were you doing there?”
I stared at the gray swirls in the linoleum tiles on the floor. “I was visiting Papa.”
She didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. She just looked at me with a fed up expression as if I were six years old eating ice cream and getting more on the floor than into my mouth. Sorry I’m a mess, Maman.
“Next Monday, instead of going to the cemetery, you’re going to the psychologist at school. I made an appointment for you.”
“I don’t need a psychologist. I’m not a freak.”
“You’ll go anyway! Point final.”
I stormed up to my room and banged the door behind me. I grabbed my guitar and sat on my bed hammering at the strings, but I couldn’t block out the sound of Luc crying in the living room. He was probably scared that what was left of his family was cracking some more.
5 | PLAYING GAMES
The next morning, I slept in. When I came down to breakfast the house was empty. Sputnik’s leash was missing from its hook so I knew that Maman and Luc had taken him for a walk. There was a small wooden chest on the table. I read the note folded on top of it:
Francis, this was Papa’s. Take care of it.
I held it for a moment before I opened its metal clasp. Inside was a battered pipe I’d never seen Papa smoke, a couple of old snapshots of him as a young man standing on the pier, and a deck of playing cards that was at least as old as the pictures. When I shook the cards out of their box, a folded piece of paper fell to the floor. I smoothed it out:
August 14, 1953
. We, the Loyal Order of the Companions of Poker, pledge to meet on August 14, 1993 at 9 p.m. for a rematch at The Sailor, 142 Chester Street, Toronto. Password: Blackjack.
In 1953, my father would have been just twenty years old, but his handwriting hadn’t changed. I’d never heard him talk about the Loyal Order of the Companions of Poker or any reunion. In fact, the only time I remember him talking about Toronto was when he was on a rant about the Maple Leafs. I refolded the paper and put it back between the cards. I carried the box upstairs and stowed it with the Rangers jersey in my bottom drawer. Despite these little glitches: the note in the box was obviously written in fun, it was almost forty years old, and it referred to something that everybody involved had probably forgotten–if they were still alive, I felt like I had won the lottery. I know it sounds crazy, but I thought that if I could just get to the reunion, I’d meet up with my father. I can’t explain it. It’s not like I was delusional. I knew what was real and what wasn’t. I just didn’t want to accept it, that’s all.
6 | INVENTION
When I came home from school one rainy spring afternoon, the back door was unlocked, so I knew Maman was home from work. She was sitting on the living room floor with photographs scattered around her.
“I miss him so much.” She hugged herself and rocked as she sobbed. “I had an urge to look at our wedding pictures. We were so happy in them.” Finally she wiped her eyes with the shreds of Kleenex in her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how late it is. It’s time to make dinner.”
I longed to talk about Papa with her, but it was as if all my feelings were locked in a safe and the key had gotten lost. I went upstairs to my bedroom without saying anything.
When spring comes to our street and the snow recedes, the crop of mittens and hats that have been frozen in drifts all winter begin to surface like exotic flowers. I started to notice that there were whole hours when the grief ebbed and left patches of normal life behind it. It was like finding a lost mitten when you’ve almost forgotten about it. That’s when I would think about what we’d be having for supper or what was playing at the movies or whether I should do my Spanish homework before my science assignment. Slowly, slowly I began to prefer being with my friends to being alone. Their jokes were still pretty lame, but I knew they were trying their best for me, and that counted for a lot.
The nights remained gruesome long after the days became easier. Hard as it was to accept that my father was dead, it was a piece of cake compared to accepting that he’d committed suicide. Night after long night I would lie in my bed thinking of him hanging from a crossbeam in the attic, surrounded by boxes of our baby clothes and an old sewing machine and gold Christmas balls. It would be easier to believe that he was killed by a stranger than to admit he’d killed himself, because then there would be somebody for me to hate. I couldn’t hate my father.
A man from the insurance company came to talk to Maman.
“Finish giving Luc his lunch,” she called from the front door. I cut Luc’s toast into soldiers, poured tomato soup into his Kermit bowl, and put on coffee for Maman and the insurance guy.
When I carried two mugs into the dining room for them, they were sitting across from each other with papers spread all over the table. The agent’s briefcase lay open between them. I could see pens and a calculator and a calendar neatly arranged in it. Neither of them looked at me.
Without warning Maman stood up, stuffed the papers into the briefcase and threw the whole thing at the man with impressive force. He ducked, and the case crashed to the floor.
Maman stomped out of the room and up the stairs. I could hear her ranting as she paced up and down the hall above us.
The agent straightened his jacket and picked up the briefcase.
“You won’t be able to collect on your father’s life insurance,” he explained, red-faced. “I’m afraid it was not a natural death.”
I snapped the leash on Sputnik and dug Luc’s jacket out of the closet. “Come on, kiddo. We’re going to the park.”
“Why?”
“I think Maman might want to be alone.” I could hear a variety of furious slammings and stompings above us.
It was a bright April day. Luc climbed up on the swing, and I pushed him. I didn’t know how much he’d taken in of the scene Maman had created, but just in case, I wanted him to forget about it. I wanted him to soar high in the sky. In French we say as high as a grown-up’s hat. He shrieked with laughter.
We walked Sputnik to the off-leash part of the park and found an empty bench. Sputnik did a play bow to a passing collie that looked like it was carrying a tree in its mouth. The two of them took off, playing tug-the-branch.
“You know what, Francis?” Luc sounded as if he had worked out a puzzle. “Papa is dead.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And that’s why Maman cries a lot.”
“Yes, I know.”
He trained his blue, trusting eyes on me. I hated when he looked at me like that. “Francis, teach me how to play the guitar.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to be alone.” I didn’t have to wonder whether or not Luc had figured out the insurance stuff. Nothing much got by him.
My little brother. My little Luc. It hit me how much life is like poker. Some people draw all the good cards, and others only dream that they’ll get a decent hand some day. Luc’s cards were pretty dire for a kid so young.
If I were God, if He exists, I would make a rule that people get to send the person they’ve lost three messages. They could ask for advice or tell them that they were loved and are missed. One of the questions I would ask Papa is, how do I take care of Luc? I don’t know what the other questions would be.
When we got home from the park and I had put a plate of cookies in front of Luc and wiped the mud off Sputnik’s paws and hairy belly, I found Maman in her usual place, curled up at the end of the brown corduroy couch, Papa’s vest clutched tight against her body. Despite the sheer nuttiness of her having built a fire on this warm day, she seemed much calmer. A TV evangelist was pacing back and forth on the screen. She was watching him punch the air with the sound off.
“Maman?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Do you believe in God?” It had never occurred to me to wonder what she believed, but now it seemed urgent for me to know.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me feel better.”
“That’s it?”
She turned her attention to me. “I want to think that your father is in some kind of paradise and that he’s looking out for us,” she said firmly.
“You really believe that?”
“Yes. I like to think that he is our guardian angel. You want to know something, honey? Sometimes, especially when I’m here, in front of the fireplace, I feel some kind of a presence around me. I don’t know. Maybe it’s him.”
I wanted to believe her, but I wasn’t sure what to think. I never felt any presence, ever. She reached out to ruffle my hair and smiled, really smiled at me for the first time since last June.
7 | HOUSTON
That old Grief Monster had its own schedule. Just when I thought my head was clear of the water, it would rise up like a sea serpent and drag me down again. I could be pointing to the pizza in the cafeteria line, or trying to work out an equation in math when it would grab me by the legs and pull me under, so that I felt like water was pouring into my lungs. I thought I had cried all the tears that a human being could possibly cry, but evidently there is no limit. I was turning into some sort of grief freak. I discovered every single spot in the school where you can cry without being seen. You’d be amazed at how many there are.
Everybody liked Houston. I’m not saying that just because he was my best friend. It was impossible not to like the goofiest guy in the entire universe. He made people think that the world was one good laugh. When Aunt Sophie first met him, she shook her head fondly. “That boy is a tonic.
That’s what he is, a tonic.”
It just goes to show what shape I was in when I tell you that Houston, my friend since forever, and the sweetest guy you can imagine, was driving me crazy. Since the day at the bike rack I’d been spending more time with him, but it wasn’t easy. I never realized until Papa died that he talked nonstop about his father. Life at their house sounded like a neverending season of Father Knows Best, There was the “Houston Get’s His Dad’s Old Electric Razor” episode, and the “Houston and His Dad Go to the Mall and Can’t Find Their Car,” episode. He treated me to “Houston’s Dad Teaches Him to Drive.” He had hit sixteen.
“My father wants me to learn on his car because he says it has all these safety features. It’s a real drag because he has an old man’s car. Plus it’s white.”
“You’re pretty lucky,” I said.
“Are you serious? I’m going to be driving a car that’s white. White!”
“At least you’ve got someone to teach you.”
“How about one of your uncles?”
“Not a chance. They all have their own kids. They don’t need anybody else’s.”
Houston had hit yet another sore spot. I was full of them at the time. I know it sounds horrible now, but I sincerely wished that Houston’s father would drop dead.
There was this amazing girl in my French class. She was from Barrie, somewhere in Ontario–you know, the center of Canada. Her name was Julia and she always smelled like lily of the valley. She’d been there since September, but I only actually noticed her in the spring.
Houston saw me doodling her name on my three-ring binder. He passed me a note.
“Forget it. She only likes guys who shave.”
On the way home from school I stopped at the drugstore and bought a package of plastic razors. I locked myself in the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub to read the instructions on how not to slit my throat in French and then in English. I looked at myself in the mirror, and thought: Papa, I could sure use some advice right about now.
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