Lucy Cloud

by Anne Lévesque

  This was the best day of her life. Better than her wedding day, which had made her so nervous she could barely remember it. She felt so grateful, so blessed to finally have a baby. It did not trouble her that day, nor would it ever, that she had not birthed him.

  The third time she went upstairs Blaise was stirring. She looked at his tiny face framed by the white baptism cap. She had forgotten to loosen the strings of the cap. She felt a pang of guilt. She hoped they hadn’t chafed his neck. She lowered the side of the crib and bent down to untie them. As she did a little hand shot up, closed around the locket and pulled. One of the chain’s links gave way and the locket dropped onto the baby’s chest. Annabel’s own hand went to her throat, as if she couldn’t believe it was the same locket. Then she burst out laughing.

  ‘Look at you,’ she said to him. She pried the chain from the tight little fist. ‘Already breaking things. You’re going to be something all right.’ She removed the cap, lifted the infant from the crib and pressed him to her bosom. ‘I never liked that thing anyway,’ she whispered. She carried him down to the kitchen in her nylon feet, eager to tell everyone the story.

  And so it was that kiss by kiss, the little hand had grown inside her.

  Her mistake was thinking that it belonged to her.

  Now she looked at him sleeping. Her dying son. Except for his lips, which were just like Carol Ann’s, she had never been able to detect a physical resemblance with his birth mother’s family. She was happy that there was nothing in him of his grandfather. Every few years she heard Jackie was in the hospital, it didn’t look good this time, they had called the family … But Jackie always bounced back. Something in him wanted to die. But something stronger wanted to live.

  Blaise got his looks from the other side of the family, the mysterious Sudbury Jews. Over the years Annabel had sometimes wondered who else – an uncle, a half-brother maybe – walked on the balls of his feet like Blaise did, as if they were lighter than other people. Did an aunt, a half-sister, a great-grandfather, have those perfectly drawn eyebrows? That dimple? How she had loved to sink the tip of her finger in that dimple. Until the day she lost all such privileges. No more tickling and teasing and hugging. His body had become all his own. There were glimpses of skinny legs in basketball shorts (the triangle of sweat above the buttocks), of a pimpled back as he removed a t-shirt while running up the stairs (was that hair under his arms?), but the exact shape and contours of his body were unknown. It was as if a sweater she had knit from a complicated pattern had been taken away from her before she could see the end result. She wanted to examine each purl, each rib. Ah, that’s what his thighs look like now, and his belly. Why couldn’t you see your children naked when they were grown? She was not ashamed of these thoughts but she did not share them with anyone. But it was like that when you raised a child. You lost him at every turn: the helpless infant, the impossibly beautiful six-month-old, the busy toddler. And each loss was so gradual, so expected, that it was never grieved. On the contrary, they had celebrated each milestone that heralded the loss: the first smile, first tooth, first step. She could barely recall Blaise’s early selves. Could only, if she thought hard enough, remember a neat little bundle in her arms; the look of adoration in his eyes as he looked up from his bottle; some of his made-up words. Then later, that quiet teenager. Quiet so he could slip away more easily. So they would not notice his absence.

  Now that Blaise was ill, he did not object when she ruffled his hair or kissed his brow. When her hand lingered on his. But the illness had killed all the curiosity she once had about his physical self. The hollow cheeks, the hipbones under the blankets, the thin fingers. She had already seen too much.

  HERE COMES TROUBLE

  They had Super Comfort seats, which were supposed to be better than just regular Coach. Lucy was quiet at first, looking out the window as the train left Sudbury then, standing up on the seat, watching the other passengers. When she began to bounce up and down Annabel gave her some popcorn. After that Lucy played a kind of shy peek-a-boo with the couple behind them. Then she discovered the water fountain at the end of the coach. She filled and drank one paper cone after another as Annabel watched anxiously from her seat. And then she had to pee, Annabel swaying beside her in the tiny lavatory, making sure she washed her hands heaven-knows-who-had-been-in-there-before.

  In the evening the conductor came around and said that there were still some empty berths and they were discounted, so Annabel went to the bathroom and took out the fifty-dollar bill she had pinned inside her bra for emergencies and paid for a lower berth in the sleeping car. ‘It’s going to be just like camping!’ she said to Lucy. But the girl did not need convincing: she rolled around on the mattress excitedly and hopped up and down on her knees. She peeped out between the heavy curtains at the dim navy hallway, ducking back into their secret chamber when she saw anyone coming.

  ‘Close the buttons on the curtain,’ Annabel said after she had settled in. ‘And turn around for a minute, Nana’s going to get dressed for bed.’ But all she did was unhook her bra and slip it up around her arms and out the neck hole of the top of her green velour jogging suit. It was a birthday gift from Blaise and Wendy that she had worn for the first time in Sudbury. Wendy had convinced her to wear it on the train. ‘You’ll be so much more comfortable.’ Which had turned out to be true. Lucy did not have to change into pyjamas as she was also wearing a jogging suit. Hers was pink with ‘Here Comes Trouble’ in raised navy letters across the front. The bunk was narrow but at least Annabel would be able to stretch out and maybe even sleep now that she didn’t have to worry that someone would kidnap Lucy during the night. She stashed her glasses and her rosary in the handy little mesh bag on the wall.

  ‘Let’s put Coco in the middle,’ she said, and Lucy had seemed to like the idea of having the teddy bear between them. (Neither had expected this intimacy.)

  ‘How about a story?’ she said. ‘Then we’ll go to sleep. Isn’t this fun?’ Lucy nodded solemnly.

  ‘Once upon a time there was a boy named Rory and he lived in a place called Mount Young. Every winter Rory’s father went into the woods behind his house to cut firewood for the next winter. When he came home from school Rory had something to eat; usually it was a slice of bread with homemade butter on it; mmm, that was some good, or maybe he’d have some molasses on it – wait till you try that, Nana will make bread when she gets home – then he’d follow his father’s tracks in the snow to the place in the woods where he was cutting trees. He’d help his father saw the trees into logs with a bucksaw (there weren’t any chainsaws in those days) and then they’d split the wood into small pieces that would fit in the stove. Rory had his own axe, his own stump for splitting, and even his own woodpile. Of course his woodpile wasn’t as big as his father’s because Rory was only eleven years old.

  ‘Then one day when he got home his mother told him his father wasn’t feeling good and that they wouldn’t be working on the firewood that day. Rory was a good boy. He knew his father needed help. That wood had to be cut while there was still a lot of snow on the ground because the only way they could get it to the house was with a horse and sleigh. (It was too rough to go in there with a wagon.) So Rory had himself an extra slice of bread and butter and he went out to the woods all by himself. He wasn’t afraid of wolves or bears, he liked animals. Remember how good he was with that little bull calf? He split wood until it began to get dark. And he did the same thing the next day. The third day his father was feeling better so they went together to the woodlot. It had snowed during the day. Rory walked behind his father, putting his feet in the tracks that his father’s big boots made until they got to the woodpile. That’s when Rory’s father got a big surprise. Rory’s pile of split wood was almost as big as his father’s!

  ‘‘Did you split that wood all by yourself?’ he said to Rory.

  ‘‘Yes,’ Rory answered, feeling some proud. ‘But I used your axe.’


  ‘You see, all the time they worked together, Rory was using one of his father’s old axes. It wasn’t much good anymore, and his father didn’t sharpen it very often because he was thinking Rory was only a boy and it didn’t matter if he had a good axe or not. But after that day, he made sure that Rory’s axe was always as good and sharp as his own.’

  Just before she turned off the night light Annabel raised up on her forearm and looked at her granddaughter. How beautiful children were in their sleep! Angels in heaven. The hours she had spent watching Blaise sleeping. Her heart full to breaking, sometimes, because a person could stand just so much beauty.

  At around the age of three he began to come into their room at night. Sometimes she heard him, sometimes she didn’t. He’d climb onto her side of the bed and fit his little body into hers. Once asleep he would wiggle and squirm, kick and elbow, dig his toenails into her shins. Wanting comfort but giving none. But no, that wasn’t true: oh, to have him next to her again: the smell of his scalp, the softness of his flannelette pyjamas, the warmth of his battling limbs.

  Curly didn’t approve. ‘Four years old and still sleeping with Mama!’ he said.

  ‘He’s an only child, he’s lonesome,’ Annabel said. ‘You didn’t sleep alone at that age. You’re still not sleeping alone!’ But when the boy was about to start school she relented.

  Curly came up with the plan.

  Blaise pushing their bedroom door. His footsteps on the floor, making his way to her side of the bed. Lifting the blankets to find his father’s hairy arm.

  He had never returned.

  * * *

  Annabel woke. Under her the train was squealing and shuddering to a stop. She reached over Lucy to raise the blind. They were in front of a small station. It was night. And it was winter here. The train hissed and puffed yellow steam and the shadows loomed crisp and navy blue. It looked cold, a lonely dead-of-winter-dead-of-night kind of cold. Two people stood under a lamppost. A woman in a long coat with a Persian lamb collar like the one Annabel still had in the upstairs closet – it was not stylish enough to wear but too good to give away – and a bearded man with a fat queer hat. They were wearing backpacks. The stationmaster came out in a parka and fur hat. Even through the glass Annabel could hear the squeaky crunch of his boots on the snow, his cheerful voice. He helped the conductor load some boxes and waved goodbye to the two travellers. Annabel looked at her watch. It was one-thirty. What a terrible time to get on a train, she thought. As they rolled out of the station Annabelle saw the name on the side of the building. Trois Pistoles.

  A small town glided by, houses with balconies right up to the snowbanks on the narrow street, French signs above the shops. There were lights on in some of the houses. Why would anyone be up so late? It could only be bad.

  She hoped Blaise was fast asleep. That’s all she wanted for him now. When you sleep you are like everyone else in the world. You do not feel hunger or pain or sadness. You do not know you are dying.

  She pulled out her rosary and made the sign of the cross. I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ His only son, Our Lord. She had recited these words so long that the meaning had all but rubbed off them. But tonight they stopped her. His only son, she thought. God had lost His only son. As she would lose hers. He would understand. The thought comforted her. Would God feel sadness, though? Wasn’t He beyond happiness and sorrow? Here she was comparing herself to God! And she should be praying for Blaise, not herself. She crossed herself and began again. I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only son.

  As Orangedale Station came into view the next day Annabel scanned the parking lot for signs of Curly or his truck. But there were none. He was late! Looking at a horse somewhere or making a deal that could surely have waited another day. She could have cried she was so disappointed. And she had a headache. The truth was she was just plain worn out from the trip. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and have a bath in a clean bathtub and drink a cup of King Cole tea in her rocking chair, a furnishing that was absent in Blaise’s apartment, along with a clock and a calendar. How people could live without these essentials she could not understand. Then she saw Eric Petcoff. Waving at her.

  He had run into Curly the day before and mentioned that he was going to Orangedale to pick up some friends at the train station ‘And seeing as I was coming anyway and there’s lots of room in the car, it didn’t make sense for both of us to make the trip.’ Annabel bit her lip so she wouldn’t start crying. This was the longest time she and Curly had ever been separated and he didn’t even have the decency to come pick her up. Hadn’t he missed her just a little? Didn’t he want to see his little granddaughter and hear all about her trip? And the news of Blaise. How she had looked forward to sitting beside him in the truck again, to driving along familiar roads. She was tired of being with strangers, tired of being watchful and responsible: did she have her ticket, did she have her wallet, where was Lucy, did she need to eat or pee? She wanted Curly at her side again. At the wheel.

  The friends Eric was picking up turned out to be the couple Annabel had seen boarding the train in the middle of the night. He introduced the young man – he was still wearing the queer hat – as Jay and the woman as Carol. They were from Toronto. No one explained why they had boarded the train in Québec. The men stashed the boxes in the back of Eric’s big station wagon but before they all got in, Jay in front beside Eric, Eric had taken her aside to ask about Blaise. She appreciated his thoughtfulness; she wouldn’t have wanted to talk about Blaise in front of strangers.

  When Eric turned off the Orangedale Road onto the highway, Jay pulled off the big hat and an octopus of hairy cords spilled over the back of the seat. Annabel started. She tried not to stare. When Carol gave one of them a playful tug she longed to do the same. Was it hair? Was it wool? And why on earth would a person want it on their head? There was another surprise when Carol unbuttoned her coat: she was pregnant. And no ring on her finger that Annabel could see. But they were nice enough people, she thought as she listened to them talking with Eric. They had visited him that summer and loved Cape Breton so much they decided to come live here. Eric had found them a house for the winter (just like he and Jenny had done that first year) while they looked around for some land.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Carol said to Lucy. The girl gave a delicate, apologetic shrug. As if to say she was sorry but she didn’t have a clue. Annabel laughed.

  ‘Tell the lady your name,’ she said. Lucy sank her chin into her chest and mumbled.

  ‘Lucy Cloud?’ Carol said. ‘What a beautiful name.’

  ‘It’s MacLeod,’ Annabel said. Lucy continued to slide down the seat. ‘She’s a little shy.’

  ‘Oh, I love shy people. It’s a sign of sensitivity. That means you’re a good person, Lucy, you think of others, not just yourself.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that could be true …,’ Annabel said. She thought of her brother Blaise, so bashful as a child that he hid whenever visitors came to the house. But it was his goodness people remembered.

  Lucy kept sliding down her seat until her feet touched the floor. She raised back up a little and started to poke the back of the front seat with the toe of her boot. It made dabs of wet on the faded green vinyl. ‘That’s enough now,’ Annabel said. ‘And sit up straight.’ She tried to lift her up but Lucy resisted.

  ‘My father is really shy,’ Carol was saying. ‘He probably should have never been a teacher.’ Lucy was still kicking the back of the seat. Annabel worried she’d mark the vinyl. And get on Eric’s nerves, distract him from his driving. She put a firm hand on Lucy’s knee.

  ‘I had him for math in grade ten and he was always blushing it was a riot.’

  ‘Stop that, Lucy.’

  Lucy kicked the seat.

  ‘Stop it!’ Annabel said. Her voice had come out louder than she h
ad intended. The men went silent.

  Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘I want Mommy!’ she said. ‘I want Mommy! I want Mommy!’ Annabel reached over to unbuckle the girl’s seatbelt.

  ‘We’re going to see Grampie soon,’ she said. ‘Won’t that be fun? And the horsies. Remember Grampie’s horsies?’ She tried to lift Lucy up onto her lap.

  ‘No!’ Lucy yelled. She began to thrash about. One of her flailing arms slapped up against Carol’s belly.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Annabel said to Carol.

  ‘Oh, that’s okay, she must be so tired, poor thing,’ Carol said. She sighed. ‘I’m tired and I haven’t been on the train half – ’

  ‘Look at the cows!’ Annabel said to Lucy, pointing to the window. ‘Did you see the cows?’

  ‘I want Mommy!’ she screamed. Her face was contorted and red, wet with tears and mucus. Annabel opened her purse and began to fish inside for a tissue. Maybe she still had a stick of gum left in there, or a peppermint, anything to distract her, when all of a sudden Lucy snatched it from her hands, turned it upside down and shook it.

  A jar of cold cream hit Annabel’s kneecap. A brown leather change purse fell to the floor with a thud. A tube of lipstick flew, along with a small notebook with a Filene Credit Union ballpoint pen inserted into the spirals. Its red-and-white-striped cover flipped open, revealing, on the first page, Annabel’s careful penned script: Left Orangedale 9:30 sunny. Three pennies fell. Two restaurant-size packets of Lantic sugar. A wad of chewing gum wrapped in foil. A pair of panties balled up with some dirty socks. And over it all, a snow of stiff used tissues.