Acadian Star

by Helene Boudreau

MEG GLANCED OVER AT THE BAND and caught Uncle Vince’s eye. He winked at her and raised the bow to his fiddle. The music kicked in to save her. Meg opened her mouth and went into autopilot.

  “Oh, oh…I’m between a rock and a hard place…”

  This was so different from practising with Nève in her room, using hairbrushes as microphones. Meg fumbled to get the mike to the right height while she sang. It screeched with feedback in protest. Uncle Vince smiled in encouragement as he played, urging Meg to regain her focus.

  Meg carried on. The judges nodded to the beat.

  “And there isn’t anywhere I’d rather be…”

  A little wobbly on that part. Maybe the judges wouldn’t notice.

  “But I’m thinking by the look I see on your face…that it isn’t quite the same for you and me…”

  Meg worked through the song verse by verse. The spirit of the music propelled her forward. More words, flashing stage lights. She breathed in deeply for the big finish.

  Almost there…

  “Oh-oh-oh…between a rock and a hard place...”

  And then…it was over.

  The applause surprised Meg. She dropped her shoulders in relief and ran her hands against the sides of her skirt to dry the dampness. The memory of the song pulsed through her body as she took deep breaths to steady her racing heart. The coloured lights faded back. A white spotlight beamed a circle of harsh light at her feet.

  She waited.

  The judges looked down and made notes. Monsieur Giroir tipped his head towards Soeur Agnes for a brief moment. He whispered something that made her smile.

  The local judges spoke first.

  “Merci, Meg,” Monsieur Giroir began. “I know it’s always difficult to be the first to sing. All things considered, I enjoyed that very much. You have a lovely tone to your voice. Good job.”

  Sœur Agnes was next. “Meg, you were always such a little songbird. I usually like something a little more traditional, but overall I think your tempo was good and you worked through your nerves. Très bien, Meg.”

  Meg smiled and nodded her head in a show of thanks. She held her breath while the visiting judge, Madame Deveau, finished her notes.

  Madame Deveau looked up from her writing and studied Meg over the half lenses of her glasses. Her shoulders stooped with age, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent. Their icy stare played on Meg’s nerves.

  “Madamoiselle Gallant,” Madame Deveau began. “I must say, you have an amazing spirit in your voice.”

  Meg allowed herself to exhale slightly, but Madame Deveau wasn’t finished.

  “But there is one question you need to ask yourself if you make it through the final round to Halifax.” She tapped her pen on the paper in front of her and took a moment before she leaned into her microphone to continue. “Are you sure you are up to the task?”

  Madame Deveau picked up her papers and tapped them on the table as if to straighten them. A hush blanketed the audience for what seemed like an eternity. Meg stood, not sure if she should answer the question or turn and run to get the moment over with. Someone offstage clapped to break the silence, prompting a small eruption of polite applause.

  Meg squeaked out a thank you into the microphone. Her cheeks burned as she rushed off the stage.

  Are you sure you are up to the task?

  What kind of question was that? Meg fumed.

  She caught a glimpse of Nève waiting for her turn in the wings. The sight of her friend brought the weight of the day square down upon her as she exited to the other side. The strange behaviour of Tante Perle, the fact that Nève was moving, and now this; there was no way Madame Deveau would vote for her to go to Halifax after that comment.

  Meg flew down the stairs and grabbed her backpack. Faces blurred as she raced into the washroom and headed for the middle stall. The washroom’s fluorescent light buzzed and flickered for a moment, adding to Meg’s angst. A handwritten sign hung from the stall door.

  Out of order.

  Perfect. No one would look for her in there. And with Madame Deveau’s words still fresh in her mind, Meg was in no mood to face anyone.

  The muffled music sounded through the ceiling of the washroom from the main hall overhead. Nève had begun her song already. Meg brought the toilet lid down and sat on it, her face in her hands. The heat of humiliation sent trickles of sweat down her back.

  Maybe it was just a crazy dream to think that she would make it to the finals in Halifax with Nève. But she and Nève had dreamt about it, talked about it, and even decided what they would wear. It hardly mattered anymore. Nève would be six provinces away by the time the finals came along, anyway.

  Meg couldn’t bear another minute of the clammy polyester of her costume and peeled it off. She pulled the light blouse, apron, and woollen skirt of her Évangeline costume from her backpack and slipped them on, then shoved her feet back into the leather of her dance shoes.

  The comfort of the fresh clothing steeled Meg’s nerves. She pulled at the laces of her shoe as she steadied it on the toilet lid. How appropriate. Months of practice—down the crapper.

  Maybe Madame Deveau was right. Maybe she didn’t have what it takes to cut it in Halifax.

  One way or another, though, there was still the finale to prepare for.

  The finale. Tante Perle. Meg had almost forgotten.

  She could still hear Nève’s song sound through the floor from the hall above. Should she wait for her like her mom had suggested? It would give them a chance to talk.

  No, Meg reasoned. She’d be back in no time if she ran. The way back was another thing, with Tante Perle with her, but either way, she should have plenty of time to talk to Nève before the finale.

  Meg turned to stash her backpack in the busted stall. She slipped on the wet floor and nearly fell but caught herself against the door.

  “Just great,” Meg muttered. She straightened her skirt and snuck out of the washroom to the hall’s basement door.

  Might as well go get Tante Perle and get it over with.

  Chapter 6

  THE WIND FROM THE OPEN BAY plastered Meg’s skirt against her legs as she ran. Tante Perle’s shack drew a long shadow at the far end of the beach as the sun began its descent over Picasse Bay. Ribbons of waves ran across the teal green water of the channel, flecked with foamy whitecaps.

  Something else caught Meg’s eye as she ran. She stopped and shielded her eyes against the setting sun for a better look.

  Could it be the dolphins Tante Perle talked about? Meg had never seen dolphins before and certainly not as far inland as Picasse Bay. Surely that was just another one of her great-aunt’s stories. Meg’s eyes adjusted to the bobbing objects.

  Buoys. Not dolphins.

  Meg dropped her hands. Buoys from the fishers’ lobster traps bobbed between the waves. Lobster season would be over in just a few weeks. A few weeks, then Nève would be moving to Alberta.

  Meg picked up the biggest rock she could find and flung it into the ocean with all her might.

  “Argh!” Meg’s arm slackened to her side as the rock splashed into the waves.

  Why wasn’t there enough work to keep Nève’s family in Picasse Bay? Meg wondered bitterly. The unfairness of it all choked her breath.

  A sudden gust of wind blew ocean spray into her face. Her eyes stung with a mixture of salt water and sadness. She wiped them with the sleeve of her blouse and continued up the shore to where the beach grass met the sand.

  A whistling sound carried up the beach towards her. Weird, thought Meg. She’d never heard the wind sound like that before. Maybe they were due for a storm. Meg stopped and turned to the water. The sky went from pink to orange as the fiery sun made its evening descent over the horizon.

  Then, a few hundred feet offshore…could it really be?

  There were two of them at first. Then four, then ten, then an even dozen. Silver beaks broke the surface of the water two and three at a time. Slick grey bodies followed closely behind.

  The
dolphins.

  A fine mist whistled from their blowholes. When one group disappeared under water, others surfaced behind them like a rhythmic aquatic ballet.

  Meg stood rapt, unable to take her eyes off the beautiful spectacle. Her breath rose and fell with the motion of the ocean creatures.

  In that pure moment, all Meg’s thoughts washed away. She breathed in the salty air until her ribs stretched the cotton of her shirt. The dolphins’ movements made her temples tingle.

  It was true! There were dolphins in Picasse Bay! Tante Perle wasn’t imagining things after all.

  Meg shook her head and parted her lips in a smile. Maybe if she just stayed there in the magic of the moment, all her troubles would wash away. Watching the dolphins dive and surface in perfect rhythm, it certainly seemed possible. She only wished that Nève could be there to see it too. But all too quickly, the dolphin’s dance disappeared beyond the point.

  Meg blew a huge kiss out to sea, with the remnants of her smile still lingering in the upturned corners of her mouth. She turned and raced to Tante Perle’s shack, drawn by the setting sun blazing upon its lone window. Her reflection swirled within the fiery orange panes as she flew by the window to the door.

  Meg’s knuckles rapped on the uneven wood of the door.

  “Rentre,” was the response.

  Meg worked the latch and stepped into the tiny shack.

  “Ma tante?” The low light from the evening dusk bathed the shack in a muted pink glow. The heat from the wood stove enveloped Meg. A faint flame shone from the oil lamp on the wooden table.

  “Bonsoir, Marguerite.”

  Meg flinched at the sound of her name. Tante Perle brought up the wick of the hurricane lamp. The flickering flame danced shadows over her great-aunt’s creased face.

  “I saw them. I saw the dolphins.” Meg was breathless.

  “The ships can’t be far behind.” Tante Perle’s voice was low and even.

  “Really, ma tante. You need to stop saying things like that,” Meg said.

  Tante Perle’s face hardened for a moment. Then, like the flick of a switch, her mouth softened in a smile.

  “Well, I suppose it’s hard for one so young to understand,” she said.

  Meg changed the subject.

  “You’re all dressed up too,” Meg said. Tante Perle wore an outfit similar to hers. Her cream chemise topped a long woollen skirt. A knitted shawl covered her head and shoulders and came to a knot under her chin.

  “This is a special soirée! It’s not every day my grandniece makes her big debut.” Tante Perle’s voice was energetic, almost theatrical.

  “I’m glad you decided to come.” Meg gave a slight smile.

  “Oh! Just one minute. I almost forgot.” Tante Perle held up a finger and hobbled over to the windowsill, taking something carefully into her hand. She braced herself along the backs of the chairs and rounded the table back towards Meg.

  “Here! A present for you.” Tante Perle pulled Meg’s hand towards her and placed the object in it. “You like shells, eh? I’m sorry if I seemed unkind the last time you looked at it. I just wanted to wait for the perfect time to give it to you.”

  The oyster’s half shell fit neatly in the palm of Meg’s hand. The inside was swirled with blue and pink streaks against a pearl white background. Just like the morning sky, Meg thought. She looked up at her great-aunt and searched her face for the meaning of such a gift.

  Tante Perle fixed her gaze on the shell. Her face twitched as she began to speak. “A dear friend gave me this shell a long time ago.” Her shoulder shrugged in a mild spasm. “She told me if we ever found the other half, we’d be friends forever.”

  “I’m sorry it cracked a little. It looks really fragile,” Meg said. The tiny fissure from where it had fallen had worked its way up the shell.

  “Shells, like friendships, often are.” Tante Perle patted Meg’s hand.

  “I’ll take good care of it,” Meg promised. For the second time that day, Meg’s heart softened. She wrapped her arms around Tante Perle’s frail shoulders. Her cheek grazed against her great-aunt’s shawl.

  “It’s for good luck,” Tante Perle whispered into Meg’s hair.

  “What ever happened to your friend?” Meg asked as she broke from their embrace.

  “She…well, she moved away, and then I’m not too sure. But I think of her every day.” She lowered her eyes, her voice barely a whisper.

  Meg adjusted the shawl around Tante Perle’s shoulders. A friend moving away? That was something she could understand.

  “Are you sure you want me to have this?” Meg asked. She held the shell out to her.

  Tante Perle grasped Meg’s outstretched hand and folded her grandniece’s fingers around the shell. “You keep it. Maybe you’ll have more luck finding its match.” She patted Meg’s hand.

  “Thank you,” Meg said, looking down at their hands. She caught a glimpse of her watch. “Oh! We’d better get going.”

  “Help me get the sheets off the clothesline before we go, will you, ma belle?” Tante Perle asked.

  Meg began to let out a sigh of impatience but stopped herself.

  “Sure, ma tante.” She tucked the shell into the pocket of her apron and grabbed the wicker basket at the door.

  After such a touching gift, how could she say no?

  Chapter 7

  THE SUN HAD COMPLETED ITS DESCENT over the horizon and the backyard lay tranquil with evening twilight. Only a slight breeze remained, urging a slow groan from the swinging door of the outhouse. Tante Perle carried the lantern to light the way.

  The wicker basket bobbed against Meg’s hip as they reached the garden. She pulled the flannel sheets from the line and gathered the clothespins in the cloth of her apron.

  “Is the bucket of clothespins still around here?” Meg asked.

  “Oh, dear. I must have put it back. Could you help an old woman and get it from the cellar steps?” Tante Perle handed the lantern to Meg. She brought a hand to her hip. “These old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

  Meg made her way to the cellar door and placed the lantern on the stone transom. Clutching the clothespins in the makeshift pouch of her apron, she pulled open the door and secured it by its hook, then picked up the lantern to peer down the stairs.

  “I don’t see a bucket down there,” Meg called out. The stone steps flickered in the light as she swung the lantern back and forth.

  “It’s on the bottom step.”

  Meg jumped. A clothespin fell from her apron. Tante Perle stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.

  “Oh! You surprised me,” Meg said. She bent to pick up the fallen clothespin.

  “Hurry now, ma belle. We wouldn’t want to be late for the big finale.” Tante Perle’s eyes sparkled in the light of the lantern. Meg gathered the cloth of her apron.

  “Be right back.” Meg handed the lamp to her great-aunt and headed down the steep steps.

  “It’s up to you now, Marguerite,” Tante Perle replied.

  Before Meg could make sense of her great-aunt’s words, the door slammed behind her, plunging the cellar into darkness. The metal latch snapped shut on the outside of the entrance.

  “Ma tante!” Meg turned back and pushed at the door. It didn’t budge. She pounded at it with the side of her fist.

  “Tante Perle, open up!” No one answered. Slivers of light from the lantern shone through the slats of the cellar door.

  “Ma tante, you need to open this door; we’ll be late for the finale.”

  Meg waited for a long moment in anguished silence. Finally Tante Perle spoke.

  “Now do I have your attention, Marguerite?”

  An icy chill rippled through Meg. She dropped the cloth of her apron, sending clothespins scattering down the steps into the black hollow depths of the cellar.

  “Ma tante, this isn’t funny!” Meg reasoned.

  “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but it’s the only way you’ll listen. The dolphins are here as a si
gn. A sign for you to finally make things right.”

  Meg pounded her fist against the door.

  “This is crazy! They’re dolphins. Nothing else. You need to stop living in a dream world and let—me—out—of—here!” Meg punctuated her words, pounding her fists against the door.

  “Oh?” Tante Perle called through the door. “You don’t believe me? Well, I’m sure a night in the cellar will convince you.” The thin strips of light between the cracks danced for a moment then darkened as her great-aunt moved away from the door with the lantern.

  “Wait!” Meg yelled.

  “Bonsoir, Marguerite,” Tante Perle called out in the distance.

  “Open—this—door!” Meg demanded, pounding and kicking at the entry.

  A cold fear gripped Meg and sent a shudder through her body. Was Tante Perle really going to just leave her there?

  Meg sat hard upon the stone steps and buried her face in her hands.

  Chapter 8

  THE BLACKNESS OF THE CELLAR WAS IMPENETRABLE. Slits of light once visible through the slats of the cellar door were long gone. Tante Perle hadn’t returned. Meg was trapped.

  The oyster shell, the fake tears; it had all been a trick! Meg pulled the shell out of her apron pocket and felt the ridges between her fingers in the darkness.

  She told me if we ever found the other half, we’d be friends forever.

  Yeah, right! Meg bet Tante Perle had just grabbed the oyster shell off the beach along with the rest of the junk in that shack of hers upstairs.

  Meg strained to listen for something, anything that could tell her she was not alone. The only sound was the drone of the ocean in the distance. If Tante Perle was back in her shack, she was being quiet about it. Why had her great-aunt abandoned her like this? What could she be thinking?

  I’m sure a night in the cellar will convince you.

  Convince Meg of what? That Tante Perle was a raving lunatic? There was no doubt in Meg’s mind about that now. And if Nève was there, she would understand why Meg had joined in with Mireille earlier. Tante Perle really was in her own imaginary world.