After

by Francis Chalifour

  “I used to, but it’s over now. She was verboten”

  Verboten. I had no idea what the word meant, but I liked the way it sounded so I used it whenever I wanted to make an impression.

  “Oh…I’m sorry.” She sounded puzzled. “You know, I had my first boyfriend when I was sixteen. I ended up marrying him, and we were married for seventeen years. Then he died.” She smiled at the memory, as if she were skipping over the died part.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, my dear. He’s been gone a great many years, now. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Just my little brother.”

  “I only had the one child, my daughter. She was nine when her father died. It was a long time ago.”

  I held the foil-wrapped turkey sandwich out to her.

  “How kind of you. Don’t mind if I do.” She took half.

  “My father died too,” I said.

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to him?”

  “Sorry, I have to go to the washroom.”

  My hands were wet. I went to the washroom once again, but eventually I had to leave the fetid little cubicle because someone was pounding on the door. Besides, the old lady was a perfect stranger. I would probably never see her again.

  I sat back down beside her and said, “My father committed suicide.”

  “My poor boy.”

  No surprise there. Everyone always said that when they heard the news. Poor boy, poor Francis, poor whatever.

  “Do you want to know how he died?” I said. I wanted to head her off at the pass.

  “Only if you want to talk about it.”

  “He hanged himself in the attic.”

  She didn’t say anything, just looked out the window at the cars speeding in the opposite direction. I wasn’t sure that she had heard me.

  “That’s not all. Do you want to know something else?”

  “Well,” she hesitated, but there was no stopping me.

  “His neck was so swollen that they could only keep the coffin open for a few minutes. Is there anything else I should tell you?” I realized I was almost shouting, my hands gripping the arms of the seat.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I didn’t want to cry, so I concentrated on the bus ceiling, forcing myself to keep my eyes as wide open as possible. That’s what I usually do when I know I’m going to cry, but I don’t want to. It sometimes works.

  “You must be very sad.” She put her hand on mine. “Let me tell you something. My husband did the same thing. He committed suicide too. Funny, isn’t it, how one person being gone can make the whole world seem so empty.”

  The bus arrived right on time at seven-thirty in the evening. I carried her bag to the platform where her bus was due to leave for Barrie. We kissed goodbye, and she fished a small box of raisins out of her handbag.

  “Raisins are good for you. They give you lots of energy. Take them with you,” she said, “and take care.” I waited until she was on her bus and waved until it disappeared.

  I unfolded my map of Toronto and looked for Chester Street. It was south, close to Lake Ontario. I reckoned it must be near the docks. I hoisted my backpack and walked over to Yonge Street. I asked a kid with a Mohawk and a lip stud if he could point me south. The only thing I knew about Yonge Street is that it’s supposed to be the longest street in the world. I believe it. The early evening was so hot and airless that every step I took felt like a mile. From the map it seemed that Toronto was pretty easy to figure out: streets were north-south, east-west–easier than Montréal. I could always orient myself by looking for the CN Tower.

  I had folded Papa’s note and put it in my wallet.

  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.

  I had less than two hours to find The Sailor. You’ve probably already figured this out, and I hate to admit it, but I may be the most gullible person in the Western world. I was probably the oldest kid on the planet to believe in Santa Claus, and I was shaky on the issue of the Tooth Fairy until Houston set me straight in third grade. Maybe my gullibility–call it my desire to believe–accounts for the fact that I had convinced myself that I would see my father again. There’s no other rational explanation.

  It was almost eight o’clock, and the sun was fading. According to the map, 142 Chester Street was within walking distance. I bought a hot dog from a vendor, opened a Pepsi, and headed south. I walked and I walked and I walked. I didn’t notice the Eaton Centre, the clusters of street people, the traffic. That gives you an idea of how single-minded I was. I had convinced myself that my father was going to be at The Sailor playing poker, and if I could just get there, I’d see him again.

  I was almost there. Chester was a street of small tired shops–a dollar store with plastic purses and rubber sandals in the window, a convenience store with a window full of lottery signs, a travel agency offering money orders, and a clothing store with a rack of gaudy T-shirts out in front–and apartments above. There was a rottweiler tied to a parking meter in front of the convenience store, but other than that the street was empty. Beside a bank at 100 Chester Street I found a small patch of yellowing grass with two wrought iron benches. A small sign declared it a parkette. One of the benches was occupied by a figure asleep under a newspaper. I was a bit early so I sat on the other bench. Every part of me was in motion. I tapped my fingers and wiggled my feet and shook my legs. That was nothing compared to the contortions my stomach was doing.

  I had rehearsed the questions I wanted to ask him:

  How did you know you had fallen in love with Maman?

  How old were you when you had your first girlfriend?

  Were you popular at school?

  Were you proud of me?

  Why did you leave us?

  What’s it like to be dead?

  Are you happy now?

  Can you see me?

  Can you hear me?

  When I got to the point where I thought I might shake myself apart, what with all my jiggling, tapping, and twitching, I stood up and I walked down the street, squinting to see the numbers above the stores. The sky had grown darker with heavy clouds and the wind was up from the lake.

  142 Chester Street. There were beer signs in the windows and a sign that said Saloon over one of the doors and Ladies over the other. The building had been a bar, all right, but it was clearly abandoned, and had been for a long time. It wasn’t a bar anymore. It was nothing.

  I saw myself vividly: a short skinny boy who looked younger than sixteen, with a school knapsack on his back, standing on a forgotten street hundreds of miles from home. What an idiot I was! What a stupid idiot! What a freaking stupid idiot!

  The nutty sense of purpose that had propelled me through the day had evaporated and I didn’t know what to do. It was beginning to rain. I peered in through the filthy window in the door and I tested it. It gave. I slipped inside. The only light came from a streetlamp outside the window and a neon sign next door that flashed Shawarma. It smelled of dust, wood. Cedar. I heard a sound. A rat? Then a cough. I wheeled around, peering into the darkness. Had I imagined it? There was nothing there.

  Another cough. I turned again, trying to find its source. My teeth were chattering. There was a flash of lightning and a huge crash of thunder. The room was briefly illuminated. White. I saw the figure of a man. “Papa!”

  It wasn’t Papa. It was Mr. Deli. He was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the empty room. I could hardly make him out in the fading light.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “Your mother called me this morning to ask me if you were at work. When you didn’t turn up, I figured out where you were and I drove down to get you. That’s some drive, I can tell you. People are maniacs. So, what’s the password?”

  A fresh breeze was blowing through the open window.

  The clouds we
re lifting.

  “Blackjack.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got something for you.” I hadn’t noticed the book lying at his feet until he picked it up and handed it to me. It was bound in black leather and felt heavy in my hands.

  “This was your father’s. You know, there’s not much to do on a boat at night, and he liked to write down his thoughts. There’s all kinds of stuff in there about how happy he was when you were born, and lyrics to songs he liked, and even some recipes. Oh yeah, and jokes.” I stared at it. “Take it. It’s yours now.”

  I took the journal. In the gloom all I could tell was that it was Papa’s writing, all right, with the same cramped letters he’d used on the note in my wallet.

  “How did you end up with it?”

  “He left it behind at the deli one day and when I tried to return it, he told me to keep it. I should have given it to you long ago.”

  Chester Street was not far from Lake Ontario. Maybe a five-minute walk, even at Mr. D.’s slow pace. I took my remaining bottle of Pepsi and poured it out. I folded up Papa’s little note and poked it into the bottle. Then I screwed the lid on and threw it in the lake.

  I was done. “Let’s go home,” I said.

  That was five years ago. A lot of water has flowed under Montréal’s bridges since then, but the good stuff, the Olympic Stadium, the smoked meat, and Mont-Royal are still there. I’m studying Political Science at McGill University. I still work for Mr. Deli on weekends, and at the Casino de Montréal on Thursday and Friday nights–I’m one of the croupiers at the poker table. That’s how I pay my tuition. I still like the same music: U2, Nirvana, and Brel. Some things don’t change, and won’t ever change. Like Luc. Although he’s growing up and will probably be taller than me, he’ll always by my little brother. He’s almost eleven years old now. Time goes by so fast.

  It hasn’t been easy. There are very black days, but life is more powerful in the end than death. Papa made a tragic decision. He should not have given up on life.

  When I miss Papa, I walk up to Mont-Royal, or I go up to the Saint-Joseph’s Oratory. I imagine him right beside me, listening to what I have to tell him. To passersby I probably look like a nut who’s talking to himself, but I don’t care. It makes me feel good, like rolling down my car windows on a hot summer’s night and singing along with the radio at the top of my lungs.

  As for Maman, she left her office job to become a landscapes so she can smell all the greenery she loves, especially the cedars and the pines. Sputnik’s getting old now and he doesn’t chase Frisbees, but he rides in the truck with Maman every day.

  Houston works for his father’s construction company. He likes to party a lot. I don’t see him as often as I used to. Caroline took a year off, and went to work at Club Med somewhere in the Caribbean. They are the only ones who I still hear from. Jul went back to Ontario after that year, but I remember her, especially when I smell lily of the valley in the spring.

  Aunt Sophie married George. Her wedding dress was green, like his hat and the pistachio cake. They spent weeks training Spaetzle to be the ring bearer. Luc and I were ushers. They’ve adopted two little red-haired boys.

  When Luc turned eight, I taught him how to play poker. We made quite a ceremony of it. Maman cleared off the kitchen table, and we cracked open a new deck of cards.

  “Fish is for kids. Now it’s time to show you how the grown-ups play.” I fanned the cards out expertly.

  He watched, wordless, his cheeks full of popcorn. I could see myself in him, sitting at the table with Papa.

  “Always hold your cards close to you, close to your heart. If you don’t, the others can see them. If you get a good hand, tell yourself that you’re lucky, but don’t brag about it. It’s what you do with your cards that counts.”

  I wanted to show Luc how to play his cards well, to tell him that cheating is never worth it, that life is beautiful, and royal straight flushes are rare, but exist for real. That life’s a game, and enjoying it is okay. Laughing is just as important as being serious. Card games never last very long anyway. Nothing lasts forever, either.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Tundra Books for their confidence: especially Kathy Lowinger, for her generosity and judicious advice.

  Thanks to Michael Levine, who believes in me, and in my ideas. Thanks to Patrick Watson, for taking the time to read my manuscript, and also for his wise words that helped me to find a new perspective. Thanks to John Fraser for providing me a quiet place at Massey College for my writing. Thanks to Maxine Quigley for her patience and her smile.

  Thanks to Ginette Chalifour, my mother, who’s a model of courage, love, and integrity. Thanks to Mario Rondeau, my stepfather, for his patience and wisdom. Thanks to Yvonne Cantara, my aunt, for her kindness and her open-mindedness. Thanks to Mark Prior, and Luc Bernard for welcoming me into their family and for their generosity. Thanks to Julie Héroux, my friend since grade one, in whom I have the deepest confidence. Thanks to Françoise Pelletier for the help she provided me in my first years of teaching and Michelle Marcelin for the intelligence of her words and her wise advice.

  I love you.

  Text copyright © 2005 by Francis Chalifour

  Published in Canada by Tundra Books, 75 Sherbourne Street, Toronto, Ontario M5A 2P9

  Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York, P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2004117246

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Chalifour, Francis

  After / Francis Chalifour.

  eISBN: 978-1-77049-054-3

  I. Title.

  PS8555.H2758A75 2005 jc813’.6 C2004-904141-X

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada. Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

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