I'le Dor, page 16
A sign for the film, Bonheur d’Occasion, hung just ahead over the entrance to the local cinema. He’d liked Gabrielle Roy’s novel although he didn’t read much fiction. When Marie found a book that excited her, she’d passed it on to him with comments about the characters or the plot or what she observed most keenly, lyrical language.
“Most thrilling when the novelist is also a poet,” she’d said. Her favourite writers were often from Quebec and had not been translated, so she awaited eagerly the English versions so she could share them.
Crossing the street, he looked in the window of the drugstore. The sign still said Pharmacie Dion, but he knew new owners could have kept the name, depending on the good will associated with it, to keep and attract customers. Looking up, he saw the flamingo still in the window of the club next door, although he thought the sign was new. Painted perhaps, with the same lettering. Many were the times he’d had a beer there and watched one of the acts brought in to entertain the locals. High quality, too: a jazz musician from America, Oscar Peterson from Canada. Others who became famous later.
Condoms, he thought as he looked in the pharmacy window. It seemed strange to think of them when he hadn’t considered he would need any for a long time. Not that he thought anything would happen with Michelle, but since encountering her in the cemetery, he’d been aware of how much he missed Marie. And of a glimmer of anticipation when he thought of Michelle.
So he pushed open the door and went into the store where he walked up and down the aisles until he found a display of different brands. Trojan. Marie had had her tubes tied so he hadn’t used these very often. On one or two occasions since their separation it had been useful to have a pack in his pocket. Once he’d met someone at a dance and found himself suggesting coffee, then accepting an invitation to go back to her apartment for a drink.
There was a display on the end of the unit and as he reached to retrieve one yellow package from the top, the whole pile came tumbling down into the aisle. Eyes behind him seemed to burn into his back and he felt his face turn a vibrant red.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, embarrassed. Even though only Michelle knew he was in town, now everyone in Ile d’Or would know what he was up to.
“I’ll take care of it,” a voice said. “C’est rien.”
Turning to see the man who had spoken, Nick shuddered. “A Dion for sure,” he said.
“And you are?” the man asked.
“Nick Petranovich.”
“I’m Lucien Dion.” He put out his hand and Nick shook it, saying again that he was sorry.
“Don’t worry.”
“I remember you,” Nick said. “Hockey.”
They’d played on opposing teams in high school, he for the English Protestant school’s team and Lucien for the French Catholic one. Lucien’s team usually won, an unusual experience for Nick the first time it happened as up until then he’d always been on the victorious squad.
“You married Susan Lambert, didn’t you?” Nick asked.
He was curious about what kind of woman Susan had become. He remembered her as spunky and recalled an incident at school when the principal had brought Susan from her Grade Five classroom to his Grade Nine one. In the early days, students of all ages and grade levels were combined in one building as they awaited construction of a high school. When Nick was growing up, there still wasn’t a regular one anywhere in the area and the children who had reached higher levels earlier had gone to board with someone in Kirkland Lake. He thought the French children had gone to Rouyn or Noranda. He’d stayed in Ile d’Or though as by then the building for the elementary school was big enough to house all the grades by combining some classes, and the high school was almost finished.
“I remember when Susan’s teacher made her stand in the hall because she was chewing gum,” he said.
There she was when he’d returned from the washroom. He’d asked her what happened. So she told him when the teacher caught her chewing gum, she grabbed Susan by the arm and marched her out into the hall. When Nick was about to go back to his classroom, Mr. Hall, the principal, came along and also asked why she was there. Sheepishly, she told him.
“Do you have any gum left?” Mr. Hall asked.
Susan took out two sticks from the almost empty Wrigley’s package.
“I want you to come with me,” he said to Susan.“You, too, Nick.”
They both followed the principal into Nick’s classroom. Nick was surprised when Mr. Hall led Susan to a spot in front of the teacher’s desk. Nick’s teacher was leaning against the blackboard, watching them.
Blushing, her head down, Susan twisted one braid in her fingers while she waited for the principal to say something.
“I want you to stand right here,” Mr. Hall said. He moved aside as she moved onto the exact spot he’d indicated. “Now teach these students how to chew gum.”
Susan took the package out of her pocket, looking baffled. She slipped a stick into her mouth and her cheeks swelled as she started to chew. Nick could imagine the peppermint flavour slowly disappearing. With a red face and beads of sweat running down her cheeks, she chewed methodically, determined despite her humiliation.
Finally the principal told her to stop. “You did a good job,” he said.
Nick would bet she never chewed gum in school again. Whenever she ran into students from his grade, she would rush by with her head down. Except him. When she saw him, she would give him a lopsided smile and then he’d wink at her. That fall when the high school opened its doors with a full range of classrooms, he went there with all the older kids and Susan and the gum-chewing incident fell off his radar.
Lucien nodded, his eyes sliding away to the left. “That was her younger sister though,” Lucien said. “Susan told me about it.”
Nick didn’t think so, but said nothing. He was thinking how unreliable memory was. And maybe Lucien was right.
“What happened to her sister?” Nick asked.
“She dropped out of school early and went to Chibougamau to work as a hairdresser,” Lucien said.
“Susan’s gone now, too,” he said. “She left me, not long ago.” He stepped backwards.
“I’m sorry,” Nick said, feeling as if he should offer something. “My wife left me, too,” he blurted out.
They stood in silence, as if pondering this shared reality.
It was Lucien who broke the stillness. “It’s very strange that you’re here,” he said. “Why did you come?”
“I don’t know, to tell the truth,” Nick said. “Probably something to do with the break up. I haven’t figured out why about a lot of things.”
“Libby Muir’s in town, too. Did you know? But you would know, wouldn’t you? She’s almost family for you.”
“You’d think,” Nick said. “But I’ve only seen her once since I left here. It was after Jeannie and Wally were married. They told everyone after they’d tied the knot and then had a party in Montreal afterwards so everyone could celebrate. I don’t think they came back east very often after that and Wally’s flights are mostly in the U.S. You know how it is with northerners, spread out all over the place. They live in California. Where does Libby live now?”
“Toronto. What about you?”
“That really is strange. I live in Toronto, too, but I’ve never seen her there. It’s a big city though and I suppose there could be a lot of northerners living there.”
“It would be unusual at any time of year for two ‘old-timers’ to turn up here at the same time,” Lucien said. “But in November? What are the chances of that?”
“You have a point,” Nick said, with a chuckle. “And so, why is Libby here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for the same reasons you are.”
32.
MICHELLE DROVE THE Chevy through town with Libby beside her. From the top of the rise, the water tower, inscribed with the letters Ile d’Or, gleamed like highly polished metal in the bright sunlight. The women looked toward the valley that stretched out for miles. You could see the head frame of a mine at the other end of town, one that had been closed down for a while and now was open to visitors for underground tours, something unheard of until recently. Even women could go down, the taboo finally broken when the mine was no longer in operation. You could see the early log cabins set in rows around it. Between the water tower and the cabins were two suburban areas as well as the new industrial park with Beaver Lumber and Cimente Laberge employing many from the town.
They drove along the main street of taverns, restaurants, shops, the Catholic church, and a hall where service groups met. Halfway along they passed Pharmacie Dion and The Flamingo on one side and two blocks later, Chic Choc across from the Alpha Hotel. Both Libby and Michelle had lived close to the mine at the far end of town. Jutras, the town’s only policeman then, had lived near the water tower.
“You should have a dog, Libby,” her father had said unexpectedly one day.
Libby went with him to the policeman’s house because he had heard Jutras had a pup to give away. They stood on the porch, under a clothesline, white sheets and long grey underwear pinned to it with wooden pegs, billowing upward in the breeze.
“We want a dog for Elizabeth, Monsieur Jutras,” her father said. He was pleased with himself. “Steve said you have a beagle. You know, Black Steve.”
Jutras did not open the screen door. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Je ne sais pas.” The pup wound its body around his ankles. “I think he should live with a French family.”
“Really?” Walter Muir said, his tone bemused.
Libby could tell this was beyond him. He had had dogs all his life, from the time he was a small boy in South Africa. If anyone knew how to take care of dogs, her father did. There were photographs of him with a small, white terrier in old albums and on the walls of the house on rue Champlain.
Michelle stopped the car in front of Chic Choc. “Come and see my store,” she said.
“Do you remember Jutras?” Libby asked.
“Pierre Jutras. I was going to marry him. But when I went to Montreal to study, I met Dominic. That was the end of that. Pierre left to go and work somewhere else. I never heard from him again.”
Libby remembered standing nervously on his porch, twisting one of her pigtails. She was nine years old and her father was back for the first birthday she’d had since he went off to join the army; since he had been to that overseas place. Her mother said he’d gone to fight for king and country. He was not the only one who went. On the monument on the boulevard, where the names were recorded of men who were killed in the Second World War, most of the names were French. They were not men who joined because of England, unlike her father. She had also often heard her mother say that her father went because of some man called Churchill, not because of anything the Prime Minister said. Charlotte, who came north to Timmins to teach, where she’d met Walter Muir, had not cared as much about England as Libby’s father had. Not with her Irish and French ancestors.
“It’s for Elizabeth’s birthday,” her father said. “I brought her so she could see the puppy.”
“Peut-être,” Jutras said. “I’ll have to think about it.” He opened the door slightly and beckoned for Libby to slip inside, leaving her father on the steps.
Libby hadn’t known that Jutras had been interested in Michelle, but maybe he hadn’t known about her English mother.
“He was the one my father asked for a puppy for my ninth birthday,” she said now. “After my father came back from overseas.”
The pup sniffed around her feet, then raised his black nose and dark eyes. Libby knelt down and began to pat him gently, to croon over him. The two men were talking at the door, but she did not pay any attention. She wanted this puppy. When her father said it was time to go, she left reluctantly.
“Can we have him?” Libby asked.
She followed her father along the sidewalk, past St. Luc’s, to the small green Austin parked in front of the nightclub on the other side of the street. She did not pay attention to the flamingo in the window or the cars on the street or anything else. Her mind was focused on one thing, that puppy. “Please, Dad.”
“I remember that dog,” Michelle said. “He ran away, didn’t he?”
“He was a wanderer, for sure,” Libby said. “Dad would get phone calls that he was sitting on the steps of St. Luc’s again.” She thought he probably got quite fed up at all the phone calls and all the taxis. But on the way home that day after seeing the dog for the first time, her father had seemed as pleased as she was.
“Miss Muir, this is going to be one grand birthday,” he said. “A fine pup for a fine daughter.”
On the day of her birthday party, Libby waited anxiously for her father to arrive. She was worried that Monsieur Jutras might change his mind about leaving the puppy with her if her father showed up plastered.
“I’ll drop by to see your shop when I get settled,” Libby said. “I’m moving out to Guy’s cabin.”
Monsieur Dion was a regular patron in the sump also. Guy once went with her when she had to bring her father home and they found the two men sitting together.
“Eh, Dion,” her father said. “I wasn’t at Dieppe, but I got as far as England.”
“Oui, Monsieur Muir,” Monsieur Dion said. “La guerre. Le désastre de Dieppe.” He had not gone. He’d stayed home to look after his family and run the pharmacy, but the younger brothers of some of his friends were among the dead. “Service obligatoire outre-mer.”
The two men reeked of alcohol and their voices were slurred.
“Papa,” Guy said.
The men looked up with glazed eyes and gestured with arms flailing at Guy and Libby to get out of the tavern.
“Oui, mais Maman veut que tu viens chez nous,” Guy said. Libby echoed him in English. “Mum wants you to come home.”
The two men almost fell over getting to their feet, swearing, and followed Guy and Libby out onto the main street where they staggered up Fifth Avenue behind their children toward the war memorial and rue Champlain.
“Guy’s cabin?” Michelle looked baffled.
“Lucien offered it to me. I think I’m going to stay around for a couple of weeks. Longer than I intended.”
Michelle reached for her purse. “I remember Lucien watching you when you were a kid. At the beach,” she said. “Do you remember that yellow bathing suit you used to wear? He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”
“Susan had the yellow bathing suit,” Libby said. She remembered Lucien’s eyes following Susan at the beach. “What did the honey man do underground?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly.
“The men used empty dynamite powder boxes for toilets. When the boxes were full, someone had to nail their tops down and take them up in the cage to surface. That was the honey man’s job.”
“My father told me it was almost the worst job in the mine. Now I know why.”
“It was my father’s job.”
“I never knew that,” Libby said, embarrassed. “I never would have asked about it. I…”
“Ça fait rien,” Michelle interrupted. “It’s all right. At least that job wasn’t dangerous. Not like everything else he had to do underground.”
When Libby reached the hotel, she dialled her Toronto number to tell Paul she was going to stay on longer. The first time she got her answering machine. Half an hour later, when she tried again, her son answered.
“Dan Robinson called this morning before I went to school,” he said. “I told him you’d be back on Thursday.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” she said. “I won’t be back on Thursday if that’s all right with you. I’d like to stay a while longer.”
“Okay,” Paul said, sounding almost pleased.
“There’s lots of food in the freezer.” She knew he would go through it quickly, especially the hamburgers, ice cream, and apple juice. “When you need more, if you have to spend any of your own money, I’ll pay you back later.”
“Gee, that’s great,” Paul said.
“So you really miss me,” Libby said, chuckling.
“Well, I do,” he said. “But this is neat.”
“I sort of figured. But don’t throw any wild parties.”
He snorted.
“Let me give you a number,” Libby said. She looked up the one for Lucien’s store. “If you leave a message with Lucien Dion, he’ll let me know.”
“Who’s he?”
“He owns the drug store. He lived down the street when I was a kid. I’m going to stay at his brother’s cabin. There’s no phone there.”
When she hung up, her mouth was dry. What would she say to Dan? At the thought, she felt nauseous. Was she supposed to have ignored his comment about Daphne? She fluffed up the pillows and lay down, too tired to take her shoes off, even to untie the laces. Her suitcase was on the floor under the window, brought in by taxi from the airport when it had arrived on the next flight, the green pompon intact. After tossing restlessly for a few minutes, she put it on the bed to pack the slacks and sweaters she had hung in the closet. She took her blue flannel nightgown from the hook on the back of the door in the bathroom and her toothbrush and paste from the ledge over the sink. When she was finished, she went down to the receptionist’s desk.
“Are you leaving?” the woman asked.
“I’m going to stay out at Lac Leboeuf for a while.” She paid the bill with her credit card, not mentioning that her wedding rehearsal dinner had been held in this hotel. Nor that her father used to drink in the bar in the basement. She told the woman she had spent summers at Lac Leboeuf as a child. “My family had a place there.”
“That’s how you know Lucien,” the woman said, sounding pleased with her shrewd observation.
