Clémentine sold the land about a year after Gabriel died. They grieved all over again, the wound reopened, fresh and harrowing. Gabriel was so intertwined with that cornfield, losing it was like a second death.
James eventually came to embrace his parents’ values—hard work, an honest wage, the pursuit of truth and integrity. With its canons and codes and principles, journalism was the perfect fit for his burgeoning ideals. From that very first ethics class, he knew he’d found his calling.
His father was pleased with his choice. Gabriel’s pride on the day James graduated with honors in journalism was unabashed. He cried all afternoon, pulling James into his arms after the ceremony. “My son is a college graduate,” he kept saying, incredulous. He couldn’t take his eyes off the diploma. He’d never seen one before.
They had a small celebration in their backyard, and Gabriel made a toast. “To my son the journalist!” he declared, tipsy and impassioned. He could not have been more impressed.
James gave his diploma to his father, which Gabriel framed and hung over the fireplace in the family room. He died a year later. He never got to read one of James’s published articles; never even saw James’s byline in the paper.
Maggie sets the steaming-hot duck in the center of the table, its skin crackling and golden, the juice still bubbling in the pan. The smell of rosemary fills the air as she brings platters of mashed potatoes, buttery carrots, Le Sueur baby peas. James opens a bottle of L’Orpailleur Blanc from the vineyard in Dunham and pours them each a glass.
“Cheers, my love,” she says, when they’re both sitting down.
“Looks great, M’ma.”
“So how’s Véronique?” Maggie asks. “She couldn’t come this weekend?”
“She’s in Ste. Barbe.”
“She’s still working for her uncle?”
“Yeah, but not for much longer.”
Maggie thinks Véronique does the bookkeeping for Camil’s construction business. The lie has held up well over the past year, but it will be a relief when he can actually tell his mother the truth about what his girlfriend does for a living.
“She got a job at a record store downtown,” he says, reaching for the peas. “She may go back to school, too.”
“That would be great,” Maggie says. “Having a degree will be much better for her future.”
James nods, feeling a little guilty. Véronique doesn’t really want to go back to school; he knows that. Why does that make him so uncomfortable?
“Does she know what she wants to do?” Maggie asks him.
“Politics, maybe.”
“Ah, yes. She’s her father’s daughter.”
“Hardly,” he says. “Can you please pass me the potatoes?”
Maggie hands over the glass platter of mash. “I have a confession to make,” she says.
He looks up, curious.
“I went to the library in Granby,” she says. “I looked up Léo Fortin.”
“Why?”
“He could be your father-in-law one day,” she says. “You’re almost thirty-five. I know you’re thinking about marriage.”
Indeed, she knows him too well.
“I read everything I could find about him,” she says.
“And?”
“He’s a monster, James. He never apologized or showed any remorse for the murder.”
“Véronique is not her father.”
“Is Véronique close to him? I know it’s none of my business, but you two are getting serious. I wasn’t sure you guys would last this long, if I’m being honest. I know she’s lovely . . . I just wonder how she’s lived with it her whole life? Her father is a murderer. Do you talk about it?”
“He’s her father,” James says. “She loves him. Dad could have murdered someone and I would have loved him no matter what.”
“Your father would never have been capable of taking someone’s life,” Maggie says, her tone rising.
“That’s not what I said.”
“You know what your father would have thought of them.”
“Do I?”
“Remember when you started hanging around with those druggies and your grades started dropping? Remember how he took you out on the boat and gave you a talking-to?”
“You’re comparing Véronique to those losers in high school?”
“No, of course not. But Daddy always used to say that the people closest to you are the best reflection of who you are.”
“Are you saying that Véronique is like a murderer because of her father? Or that I am because I love her?”
Maggie replenishes her wine and stares into her glass for a few seconds before responding. “I’m just saying that the company you keep says a lot about you. And from a moral and ethical standpoint, I’m struggling with how she was raised and the people who raised her.”
“She’s a good person,” James says. “She was raised by her mother. She works hard. And Léo isn’t evil. He was just a kid himself when the kidnapping happened.”
“The kidnapping didn’t happen, son. Léo organized it and carried it out. He put a machine gun to Laporte’s head and snatched him in broad daylight. And then he strangled him to make a political point. If that’s not evil, what is? And frankly, even if I could chalk that up to a young man’s political ideals leading to a moment of insanity, what I can’t accept is that to this day, the guy has not shown a shred of remorse for what he did. This is the man you want me to welcome into my family?”
“I don’t want you to welcome him to the family. Just his daughter.”
“It’s hard to separate them.”
James puts his knife and fork down. He’s lost his appetite.
“I know you don’t like hearing this,” Maggie says, more gently. “But I’m your mother and I have to say it. The Fortins trouble me.”
James doesn’t say anything. He knows his silence will make Maggie more uncomfortable than an argument. He doesn’t know what to say anyway.
“I never told you this,” Maggie says. “But your father was quite involved with the RIN for a very short time, when it was still very new.”
James looks up, surprised. “Léo started off in the RIN,” he says. “Before he joined the FLQ.”
“Your dad always had an interest in politics,” Maggie explains. “After he left me—when I was pregnant with you—he started going to RIN meetings. It would have been about 1960 or ’61. He was very much on board with their ideals, but not always with their methods. A lot of them were too radical for him, so he left. That’s when he moved out to the Gaspé.”
“I had no idea.”
“When we were back together and you were about three,” she continues, “He read a book by Marcel Chaput called Why I Am a Separatist. It really excited him. After that, he started reading L’Indépendance, which was an RIN magazine, and slowly getting back into the whole separatist movement.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“Well, obviously I was completely on the other side. I’ve always been a Liberal. We argued plenty, but we respected each other’s beliefs. It’s not like either of us was ever going to bend or change our minds.”
James laughs softly. It’s not lost on him that he is living out the very same dynamic with Véronique. “Why don’t I know any of this?” he asks her. “How come you never told me before?”
“There was nothing to tell. His involvement was very short-lived. As much as he loved the cause, the same radicals he couldn’t stand before were getting even more agitated. When the FLQ bombed an English radio station and some military barracks in Westmount, your dad became really disillusioned. He decided he wanted no part of politics anymore. He was embarrassed by what they were doing,” she says.
“He never stopped caring about Quebec’s independence, but he was against the violence. He thought it diminished their cause, made them look like thugs. He wanted the cause to be taken seriously. Instead, the FLQ became exactly what the English expected of a gang of poor French Quebeckers. Your fath
er walked away from all his nationalist affiliations and that was it.”
“Okay. And?”
“My point in telling you all this,” Maggie says, “is that your father had the same beliefs as Léo Fortin. He just made different choices. Violence wasn’t the only option for them, you know.”
“But Dad walked away from all of it.”
“He walked away because of his morality, which is better than the road Léo Fortin and the FLQ went down. Had your father been more interested in politics and less interested in farming, maybe he would have continued to fight in a way that lined up with his belief system. Many politicians did. Not all of them turned to violence. That’s why for Léo to say he did what he did for the province and for his people is complete bullshit. James, a man has to be capable of bombing a building. He has to be capable of putting a gun to a man’s head. He has to be capable of murder.”
“I don’t disagree with that, M’ma. I’m no fan of Léo Fortin either, but Véronique is her own person. She can’t help who her father is. I can’t leave her because I don’t like what her father did twenty-five years ago.”
Maggie sighs.
“I mean, is that what you’re suggesting I do?”
“I just want you to be sure you really know her.”
“I do.”
“I know you love her.”
“I really do.”
Maggie smiles wistfully. “It can be an affliction, though, can’t it?”
Her words resonate, more than he cares to admit.
15
FEBRUARY 1994
Callahan’s front door is unlocked, and Véronique lets herself in, as per his message on her phone. The house smells of weed, stale beer, and garbage, as usual. The front hallway is lined with empties—hundreds of them—because he can’t be bothered to return them to the beer store. They just keep piling up, more of them every time she comes.
“I’m upstairs!” he calls down to her. “Come on up.”
She leaves the hockey bags in the vestibule—two full of smokes, a third with CDs—and heads upstairs to collect her money.
“Hey, girl!” he says, coming out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a Maple Leafs cap, an open plaid shirt over a stained T-shirt, pale jeans. He smells minty.
She follows him to his room but stays by the door. “I really can’t stay today,” she tells him.
“It looks like the government is going to slash the cigarette taxes any day,” he says. “This could be our last time doing business together.”
She’s been discussing the situation with Pierre and Camil, trying to figure out what’s next. The prime minister will most likely cut the taxes on cigarettes this month in an attempt to stamp out tobacco smuggling, effectively killing Camil’s business. The price for a carton of cigarettes will be cut in half, and the demand for contraband will disappear. They’ve always known it would happen, but it’s no less devastating. “My uncle will figure something out,” she says.
Camil is already talking about switching to weed and booze. Pierre mentioned coke, but Véronique wants no part of that. She’s still got the CDs.
“Like what?” Callahan wants to know.
“Weed, I guess. Cheap alcohol.”
“I’ve got plenty of dealers already,” he says, loading a CD into his player. “But if your prices are better, it could work.” He turns to face her, lights a smoke. “You like Mudhoney?”
Véronique shrugs. She just wants to get her money and get back on the road. “I can’t stay long,” she says again. James is coming back from Cowansville, and she’s eager to see him.
“How much do I owe you?” he asks her, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a fat roll of bills.
“Twenty-four hundred,” she says. “Same as always.”
He turns around, his mouth stretching into a smile. “How about two grand?”
“Heh?”
“Come on,” he says. “You guys have made a fortune off me. How about a little more of the profit since this is probably our last deal?”
“Come on, Callahan.”
“Twenty-two K?”
“It’s not my decision,” she says. “This is my uncle’s price. You want to fuck with my uncle?”
Callahan considers this for a moment and then hands over the entire ball of cash. She takes off the elastic and starts counting.
“You don’t trust me?” he says. “After all this time?”
“I always count the money.”
Callahan takes off his Toronto Maple Leafs cap and sets it down on his desk. He runs a hand through his orange hair, which is flat and straight, and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. “Want to do ’shrooms?”
“I can’t,” she says impatiently, still counting. “I told you I have to head back.”
“Come on.” He holds out the palm of his hand, revealing an ample pile that looks like dirt.
She ignores him, continues counting.
“Let’s do the ’shrooms and then go for a long walk on the canal.”
“It’s freezing outside.”
Unfazed, he shoves all of them in his mouth. “I had this whole afternoon planned for us,” he says, stepping closer to her. “You sure I can’t convince you to stay?”
His face is uncomfortably close. She can count the freckles on his cheeks. She notices his eyelashes and brows are pale orange. She’s never noticed before.
“We don’t have to go out,” he says, still chewing the mushrooms. “We can hang here, listen to music. My roommates are both away for the weekend.”
“I have to go,” she says, stuffing the money in her pocket. “I’ll be in touch about next steps if the taxes do get cut—”
Before she can finish her sentence, he grabs both her wrists and holds her arms down by her side.
“Let go of me.”
“What the hell’s been going on the past few months?”
“What do you mean?”
“Skating on the canal. Hanging out in the quad. Listening to music in my room.”
Shit.
“Don’t tell me you weren’t aware of the messages you’ve been sending me,” he says. “No one is that stupid, especially you.”
“I didn’t realize . . .”
“The hell you didn’t.” He’s still holding her wrists, hurting her. “Does your uncle make you do this?”
“Do what?”
“Flirt with the customers. Lead them on so they’ll keep buying from you. Is that why he sends you—like you’re some kind of prostitute?”
“He sends me because I speak English,” she says angrily. “I don’t need to sell you cigarettes. Someone else will buy them if you don’t.”
Even as she says it, she isn’t certain it’s true. He is a great client, one of her best until now. Maybe—inadvertently—she has been leading him on, but never intentionally.
“You’ve been playing with me, Veronica,” he says, and she can see bits of mushroom on his tongue.
She’s trying to break free of his grip, but he’s deceptively strong. His bulk is not just baby fat. “Get off me!” she cries.
He slams her back against the wall and pins her arms above her head, holding them there with one hand. With his other hand, he rips the fly of her jeans open and attempts to pull them down.
“Stop!” she screams. “Get the fuck off!”
He tugs at her panties, but she’s squirming so violently, he has a hard time getting his hand underneath them. His knees are slightly bent, digging into her legs—pinning them against the wall so she can’t kick him. His free hand is on her breasts now, over her sweater and then sliding under.
When she tries to scream for help, he puts his mouth on hers and bites her lip. She can feel blood on her chin, and she rolls her head wildly from side to side. “My uncle is going to kill you!”
“Murder runs in your family,” Callahan says calmly, struggling to hold her still. “If you say anything, I’ll go to the cops and tell them about your little family business.”
&nbs
p; “Callahan, please,” she says, her voice pleading. “Why are you doing this? I know you. We’re friends. Don’t do this.”
“You want this,” he pants into her ear. “We both know you do. I don’t know why you’re being such a bitch all of a sudden.”
“Callahan—”
With his free hand, he unzips his own jeans and shimmies them down to his knees, followed by his boxer shorts. She can feel his naked hard-on between her thighs, and she gags, then squeezes her legs together as tight as she can, closing her body off to him, fighting him with all her strength. He’s still wrestling with her underwear, trying to get them off and get his dick inside her while keeping her arms pinned to the wall. “Calm down, you slut,” he says. “Stop pretending you don’t want this.”
She stops fighting him and lets her body go limp. Encouraged, Callahan applies himself and succeeds in getting her panties down to her mid-thighs. “Attagirl,” he whispers. “Just enjoy it.”
But the moment he loosens the pressure on her legs, she raises her right knee and thrusts it hard into his groin. He lets out a loud cry and doubles over, collapsing to his knees and releasing her. It gives her enough time to step away from the wall, grab the purple lava lamp on his nightstand, and bash it against the side of his head before fleeing his room.
She pulls up her jeans as she’s running down the stairs, stopping briefly at the bottom to make sure the money is still in her pocket. She grabs her jacket and, at the last minute, randomly throws his DVD player across the room.
She gets in her car and swerves away from the house, her hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. As she races toward the highway, she vows never to tell anyone about what just happened. Why did she go upstairs to his room? How could she have been so stupid? She sees now that the power she thought she had was only ever an illusion.
The Forgotten Daughter Page 14
