Afterward, when his semen dripped out of her onto the sleeping bag that covered the bed, he turned away. Since marrying Susan, he had not been with another woman. He was embarrassed.

  “Lucien,” Libby said, touching him lightly with her fingers. His body heaved and she stroked his face and shoulders until the sobbing subsided. He turned and held onto her as if she were a life jacket and his existence depended on it.

  After a while, she pulled her leg out from under his and drew the sleeping bag over their bodies. He could see the dog, lying on the floor at the end of the bed, raise his nose to sniff at Libby’s feet. When Figaro growled, Lucien knew it was because these were not the feet he was looking for. Rain began to fall on the roof with a hollow sound as the drops splattered on the shingles. Finally he fell asleep.

  When he awakened in the morning, Libby was on her side with a blanket around her shoulders. She did not stir. Slipping out of the bed, trying not to make a sound, Lucien dressed in the bathroom. Figaro watched him, tail wagging.

  As Lucien pulled on his coat and boots and opened the door, the dog leapt out. Sniffing at the snow that fell overnight, he trotted toward the bush and lifted his leg to emit a yellow stream. The temperature had dropped and the rain that had fallen during the evening had changed to snow and ice. The boughs of trees were covered with white flakes. Lucien watched the sun rise over the opposite shore of the lake. The colour of the sky changed from pink to yellow to a hazy blue. He never tired of watching the sky here, especially in winter. People who never came north did not know the power of the sky at dawn, and at sunset.

  Walking slowly to the edge of the water with the dog circling him, Lucien threw a stick along the beach. Figaro leapt for it, bringing it to him with head stretched out as if to make it easier for Lucien. Snowshoes leaned against a tree at the side of the cabin where he’d left them. Soon there would be enough snow, he thought, but not yet. As he followed the trail next to the lake, basking in the silence and the pure white of snow on pine, on poplar and birch trees, he could feel tears ready to fall.

  “Mon dieu,” he whispered. “Où est ma femme? Où est Susan?”

  The head frame of the old MacNac mine was visible in the distance. One of the first stakes in the area, it was on an island that could be reached only by water at first. At some point, a causeway was built to connect it to the mainland. Susan’s father had made one of the early claims there, then sold it to some company from Toronto. Or maybe it had been New York money. He was not sure any more, except that sometimes he had blamed Susan for the entire situation of the French in Canada.

  “I’m part of Quebec and its history,” she had said. “All the time my father worked in Ile d’Or, he knew who the real oppressor was.”

  “Who?” he had taunted her.

  “Maurice Duplessis.”

  “Oh, come on, Susan,” he said. “Les financiers anglais lui graissent les pattes et il devient leur concièrge. Just like his predecessors.” The English financiers greased palms and…

  “What about the Catholic church?”

  Father Chicoine, for sure.

  It was an argument that never had any resolution. Except sometimes between them there had been some softening. On one point, there was no difference. Neither of them believed in violence. They had both objected to the tactics of the FLQ.

  Lucien turned back toward the cabin. The dog had disappeared, not finding a playful companion this morning. Some days Figaro stayed outside. Maybe he knew he would soon be locked up otherwise. Lucien wondered what he would say to Libby. Almost fifty and he still did not know what he was doing. When he climbed back up the slope, he saw his car parked where he had left it the night before. As he opened the door of the cabin, sun streamed in through a window over the sink. Libby stood at the mirror there. She stretched her arms.

  “Hi,” he said. “Bonjour. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  That made him smile. How could she have slept? But that was the point surely, that she should have and that he ought to be glad she wasn’t as tortured now as he was. Added to his longing for Susan, now also discomfort that he had slept with the woman his brother had never gotten over.

  “Do you want to go for a walk before we go into town?” He watched her put on her coat, step outside and look around. When she started toward the water, he followed her.

  “What are you thinking about?” Lucien asked

  She sighed. “The light,” she said. “How to paint it. See how it glistens on the snow. The sky. The trees, bare branches outstretched against blue. The mine shaft with the blue and white flag on it. That, too. Or against a grey, cloudy sky, wind blowing.” She paused “I could use water colours,” she mused. “Or maybe pastels. I’ll do some pencil sketches while I’m here and take some photographs. Maybe acrylic. I like that medium and how quickly you can work with it to get something dramatic.” She sighed and added, “The north is as it has always been – spectacular.”

  “You didn’t finish telling me about the horse,” he said. She seemed to have drifted off into another world, so he was surprised when she answered him straight away.

  “I wished I hadn’t followed Susan that day,” she said. “If I rode the horse and my parents ever found out, I knew I’d really be in trouble. But if I didn’t, I’d lose face. Susan rushed across the stream with the horse, jumping from rock to rock. When there were no more rocks, she waded through the water without taking off her running shoes. Cathy and I followed, climbing out on the opposite bank. We were covered in mud. Susan rode with her braids flying behind her. The horse trotted around the field. You could tell she’d been on that horse before. Once she slipped forward and put her arms around his neck. When she slid down from his back, she looked at me. I didn’t meet her eyes, but she pulled the horse toward the fence where I was sitting.

  “‘Your turn,’ she said. It was so quiet all I could hear were the bees buzzing around the raspberry bushes. I turned to see where Cathy was, thinking that maybe she’d ride. But she sat on the ground, watching me. She looked almost desperate. Oh, Jesus. I didn’t care what Susan thought any more. I didn’t care if she thought I was chicken. When I shook my head, she muttered, ‘Sissy,’ and veered toward the stream. I just sat there and let her go. Cathy stood up then and followed after Susan. After a while, I heard them yelling. Yelling and screaming.”

  Lucien watched her face, animated by her story. He did not want to hear more now, but he did not know how to say so without offending her. A mine whistle blew in the distance and he looked at his watch.

  “Libby, will you stay longer?” he asked.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “You can stay here at the lake. I’m at the store all day.”

  “If there were a cabin I could rent out on MacNac Island, I might.”

  “I guess we’d better get going,” he said and she started toward the car.

  “There’s Guy’s cabin,” he said when he slid into the driver’s seat next to her. “No one’s using it.”

  “I didn’t know he had a cabin.”

  “It was Papa’s.”

  “Bien sur. Your father used it for fishing.”

  “It’s still pretty much of a shack, but there’s a propane heater now. You wouldn’t have to use the wood stove if you don’t want to. It’s not far from my place. You could have my car whenever you wanted. If you drove me into town, you could pick me up later. I almost never use it during the day.” He hoped she didn’t think he was pleading, but it felt to him as if she couldn’t help but hear his cry for help. If you stay a while, maybe I won’t drown.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  28.

  LIBBY WATCHED THE side of the gravel road as Lucien drove toward the highway. The earth was covered with a carpet of tiny, glistening crystals.

  “The horse was struggling in mud on the opposite bank of the stream,” she said quietly. “Susan pleaded with him, tears running down her face. It must have been some kind of quicksand because the more the horse tossed his head and heaved forward, the more he sank in the mud. I dream about it. Over and over. The horse keeps sinking. The farmer screams at him and then begins to beat him. I want him to stop. He swears ‘Tabernacle. Sacre bleu,’ in a terrible, high-pitched voice. Then he takes out a gun.” As she spoke, Libby thought about her nightmare. When she awakened from it, she never connected it with these memories even though it clearly was connected. What the nightmare meant and why she dreamed about the horse repeatedly was still a mystery.

  “A gun?” Lucien said. “Are you sure?” As if she hadn’t been there.

  Sometimes she had thought she had dreamed the story about the horse, dreamed that the farmer shot him. Like the story about Arthur White that Sheila had told her. Although maybe something had happened between him and their mother on that long ago evening when Libby had awakened to find her mother missing. But there was a gun, the farmer had had a gun, she was certain of that.

  “I didn’t think…”

  “I was there,” she said. “He shot his horse.” Who else would believe her? She didn’t know anyone else here but Lucien any more. When he was quiet, seemingly doubtful at her version of the story, she said so.

  “You know my mother. You knew my brother,” Lucien said. “They’d both believe the story. And as for not knowing people here now, you’ve met Al Desjardins who must know everybody.”

  “That’s true.” C’est vrai. But somehow she didn’t see herself telling Madame Dion about the horse.

  “Maman hopes to see you.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’d like that.”

  They drove then without speaking until they reached the store. Libby followed Lucien inside and sat at the counter where he brought her a mug of coffee with the pharmacy’s name on it.

  “I was born in a mining camp that’s no longer there,” Lucien said, leaning against the counter. “What about you?”

  “Out of town.”

  “One of those,” he said. “A first-born.”

  “Sheila was born out of town, too.” There had not been enough hospital beds for anything but mine emergencies until Wally came along. The doctor had come to the house where her brother had been born in the bed with the maple frame in her parents’ bedroom.

  “So your mother flew back in with you in a bush plane?”

  “I think she left Toronto on the train.” She told him about the last part of the journey on the plane that landed on an isolated lake en route. It was there a policeman brought two handcuffed men aboard. They’d been arrested for smuggling bits of gold from underground in cigarette lighters and lunch pails.

  “Or so my mother told me.”

  Lucien nodded as she told him. “High-graders,” he said.

  “After Wally was born, Thérèse came running to the yard across the street to tell us.” She waved her arms over her head. “Libby,” she called. “Sheila. Your mother had a little boy.”

  Libby had wondered if her mother’s belly was flat again, if she would be allowed to crawl in bed with her now that there was another baby.

  “Do you remember Thérèse?” Libby asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I thought you would. She worked at our house when I was a kid, helping Mum with the new baby. I think I resented Wally when he was born. When Sheila came along after me, I wasn’t very old and I don’t remember how I felt. Was it hard for you when Guy was born?”

  “I suppose so,” Lucien said.

  A woman who had been browsing through the cosmetics drew closer. She could have walked in from downtown Montreal in her trim black dress and jacket, magenta silk scarf at the neck. Her hair, brushed back behind her ears, had a few streaks of grey in it. Libby could feel her scrutiny and sensed something familiar about her. She was uncomfortable with the hostility that seemed to emanate from the woman.

  “Libby Muir?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.” Libby wanted to recognize her in turn, but couldn’t. Then it dawned on her. She was talking to the daughter of the man who had built The Flamingo. This woman had once been a friend. Until her father forbade it.

  “Michelle Dufresne?”

  The woman nodded before turning to Lucien and breaking into French.

  “Bien sur.” He moved to the counter at the far end of the store to find her prescription.

  Michelle turned back to Libby, still regarding her with suspicion. Libby felt as if there were an invisible electric current in the air. After all these years, she was shocked to think her presence warranted this treatment.

  “How are your parents?” she asked finally.

  “They’re both dead,” Michelle said. “My father died years ago and my mother in the spring.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They both seemed at a loss for words then.

  “So you stayed?” Libby said.

  “Let’s just say I came back,” Michelle said. “I took over the dress shop.”

  Libby wondered what would have become of her had she stayed in Ile d’Or. Very few of her generation who were English had. Other than Susan, Lucien’s wife, she knew of no one. Did Susan now speak with the trace of a French accent?

  “I didn’t expect to find anyone who would speak English to me any more,” Libby said.

  “Oh, the French are starting to speak to the Anglos in English again,” Michelle said. “René’s on the way out. Anyway, I’m not a separatist. Neither was my father. Everyone went to The Flamingo when he owned it. Except Monsieur McNab.” She paused. “And your father.” Her lips were tightly pursed, and then she added, “When McNab left, the next manager, he came to the club. On any given night you’d see the guys from underground, the kids from school, the couples out for a night on the town, the business girls who followed the miners around and knew when it was pay day.”

  “The prostitutes?”

  “Yes,” Michelle said. “Everyone came.”

  To Libby’s ear there was still a note of hostility in the words. “I get the feeling that you still resent my father,” she said. “He was wrong to try to influence my friendship with you, but he was doing what he believed in. And I was too young to know any better.”

  “Well, it’s over, isn’t it? My parents are both dead,” Michelle shrugged “And the Flamingo is still here and everyone still goes to it.”

  “Why did you come back?” Libby asked, aware that nothing she said was going to change what had happened long ago, that maybe they would get beyond it and maybe they wouldn’t. There was no point in trying to defend her father’s view that high-grade gold stolen from the mine in even the smallest specks was not the ethical basis on which to build anything. It was a crime, her father had said, wanting Libby to understand that. But he’d been wrong to punish Michelle for something he’d only suspected of her father back then, something that had never been proved.

  “I moved to Montreal and got married there,” Michelle said. “I came back when I left my husband.”

  Lucien handed Michelle a small, white paper bag with a bill stapled to it. As she unzipped her purse and stuffed it inside, Libby saw him look at Michelle as if he were seeing her for the first time. Libby recalled the button Paul had bought for his father a few months after they had separated. Just Passing Through. She knew suddenly how Barton might have felt when he saw it.

  “I’m sorry about your marriage,” Libby said.

  “Don’t be. It was a good thing to leave it,” Michelle said. “He was a bully and a con man.” She looked at Libby’s hands. “What about you?”

  “Divorced.” When she refused Guy, he’d found a new girlfriend within weeks. By the time she came home from university, he’d found someone else again. He wouldn’t speak to Libby at all. Avoided her when she passed him on the street. If she had not refused him, she might have spent her life in Ile d’Or. Instead she had married Barton and had two children. “I have two kids,” Libby said. “One of each.” She visualized Paul sprawled on the floor with a bowl of chocolate ice cream, his books strewn across the worn grey rug. His frayed denim jacket and the jeans with threads dangling from the holes on the knees. The reddish hair that fell into his eyes as he played with the ginger tabby cat that slept on his bed or on the clothes he left scattered on the floor. Her daughter, Rosemary, was an outgoing child, quick to smile, from the time she was a toddler. Until recently, Paul had been quieter, although always more determined. She would have to call her son when she got to her hotel room to tell him she would not be home for a while longer. She suddenly realized she was in no hurry to leave and that surprised her.

  “I have two daughters,” Michelle said.

  Libby smiled. What would life have been like had she never married Barton and had her children? Would she have gone to Vancouver and found a job there? And then on to Australia, as she’d dreamed of doing? She might have if she’d had any idea how artists could make a living.

  “What do you do?” Michelle asked.

  “I paint.” Only now had it all come together for her — the teaching, selling a few paintings here and there, the occasional grant or prize. Open to possibility, one way and another, she managed. The settlement when she was divorced had been helpful, too, although she was never again able to spend money without counting as she had for a while when she was married. After Barton finished his residency and started his surgical practice, even with all the debts they carried at the beginning, for a time she had not worried.

  “My sister’s buried out there.” Michelle pointed toward the end of town. “You remember Francine?”

  “Of course. That was a terrible tragedy.” A vision of the silver lamé dress flashed across her mind. And she’d heard about Father Chicoine’s words at the funeral home, when he took his class there. She hadn’t gone to the funeral service itself. No one in her family had.

 

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