I'le Dor, page 19
“Yeah, well,” he said. “Some of the time I’m preoccupied. You were right about that.”
“So, when are you coming back?” she asked again. “I miss our dinners together. I miss running ideas by you. All of that.”
“Thanks, Diana. I miss you, too,” he said. “You’ll be the first to know, but I haven’t decided yet.”
“Are you going to get back into your practice?”
“Of course,” he said. “But I need more time away from it. At the very least, I’m going to go to Montreal when I leave here and look around. I’m not finished with whatever I came here to do and see yet though. I have to be back to Toronto for sure in a couple of weeks because I didn’t make arrangements for any longer.”
It occurred to him that it was time to change in some significant way. It bothered him to know this and not to know what this meant. Or how to achieve it.
“Why haven’t I ever been to see the town where you grew up?” she asked.
“That’s a good question,” he said. “It’s so far from everything for one thing, and the drive gets tedious. You go through so much bush that all looks the same.”
“Are you taking photographs?”
“I will,” he said. “Listen, Diana, I want to ask you something.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking of writing a novel. What do you think of that idea?”
“Oh, Dad, you can probably do anything you want to do,” she said, her tone slightly exasperated. Then added a question he hadn’t even considered. “But is that where your passion lies?”
Nick felt thrown off track, as if an unexpected arrow had pierced his armour. He didn’t try to answer her because it seemed irrelevant.
“Thanks, Diana,” he said.
When they both hung up, he lay down again. What was his passion? It had always been people, understanding what made them who they were, helping them to achieve some kind of balance. It was natural to be attracted to writing a novel, he supposed. A writer would have that same interest in people, but maybe writing wouldn’t sustain him in the way he imagined right now. Photography had not in the way he had once hoped, but it still interested him.
He wondered if Gabrielle Roy had seen the movie adapted from her novel before she died a few months earlier. Perhaps if he went to see it, he would be inspired. He needed inspiration to come from somewhere, but tired and dejected, Nick knew this wasn’t a night when he wanted to sit at a desk and write. Nor to think of what he might still do with a camera. For now, one sentence with whatever images it conjured up would have to suffice.
38.
THE PIZZA ON the front seat beside Lucien had his favourite toppings on it — mushrooms, pepperoni, onion. He hoped Libby would like them too. When he drove up to the cabin, she was standing at the edge of the lake. After slipping the box in the oven, he walked down to join her. The centre of Lac LeBoeuf had begun to freeze and a layer of ice around the shore had started to form, although it was so thin it was barely perceptible. Libby shivered and did up the top button of her coat.
“Look at the sky,” she said. The stars had already begun to come out. “It’s so wide here and the stars are so bright. In the city, everything gets lost behind tall buildings and the shine of street lights.”
He squeezed her slightly. “Gets dark early now,” he said.
She leaned down and picked up a stick and threw it into the lake. It landed a few feet out on top of the ice. “It’s thicker than I thought,” she said.
“I brought some pizza,” he said.
“Al told me Thérèse is Blanche’s sister,” she said as they walked back up the slope and stepped gingerly over large roots and rocks in the path. “She used to work for us for a little while. Do you remember her?”
“You think you don’t know anybody here any more! Already you’ve met Jacques Paquin, Al Desjardins. What was Blanche’s sister’s last name?”
“Drouin.”
“Non, je ne me rappelle pas.” No, I don’t remember.
“She left when I was just over five. So, you would’ve been nine or ten.”
“Oh,” he said. “I know who you mean. She used to come and have coffee with Maman after mass on Sunday. Elle était si belle. She was so beautiful. I was just a little kid to her.”
As they took off their coats back at the cabin, Lucien reminded Libby his mother would like to see her. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he said. “But, I told Maman I’d be sure to invite you. She is excited that you’re here and that you can bring her news.”
Lucien reached for two plates with green borders and he placed them on the pine table in the kitchen. There was lemon yellow linoleum on the floor and the curtains in the window were bright orange. In the summer, they billowed inwards when a breeze blew off the lake. Opening the oven door, he reached for the pizza and set it down in the centre of the table.
“I’ll get a bottle of wine,” he said.
When he had filled two glasses, he handed her a slice with the mozzarella cheese still bubbling from the oven. She thought she could detect the smell of the pepperoni and waited only long enough so that she wouldn’t burn her mouth before taking a bite.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he said, his eyes studying her face with genuine interest. “What happened to your marriage?”
Libby shrugged and swallowed her first mouthful. If only there were simple answers. Barton grew up in Montreal. She had thought that was like growing up in Ile d’Or, but it was not. What he had loved about her when he met her later made him angry. Her warmth, her spontaneity. He was all big city and all English. Maybe she should have known. He’d spent his first few years in Toronto. But what she said to Lucien was, “He didn’t like it when I talked to strangers.” Nor had he wanted her to draw or paint. Although he never quite said that out loud to her, he’d made it apparent. She didn’t tell Lucien this. She didn’t know why. Except that she knew now it was time for her to sit down again and see what happened when she confronted a blank canvas. And it was something she couldn’t really talk about to anyone. What images would surface? She wanted to deal with the horse somehow, to go right to the centre of the nightmare and get beyond it. When she looked up, she saw that Lucien was studying her with a curious, almost expectant, frown.
“Why?” he asked.
“You’d have to ask him. I never understood it.”
Fumbling with a knife, he turned to look out the window. When he turned back, he had regained an unhurried expression.
“Do you like music?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I love music.”
“We’ll go dancing soon, n’est-ce pas?”
“I like that idea.”
“Bon.” He took a bite of the pizza and spoke around the food in his mouth, rolling it about so it was not overly apparent. “Once I made Susan throw out all the kids’ clothes with English on them,” he said. “We spoke only French at home.”
“Did she mind?”
“I don’t think so. Pour la plupart. She always loved the French language and people. But I didn’t ever ask.”
Libby took a large bite of pizza. “Do your kids speak English?” She sipped on her wine.
“Not very well. When they were really small they just talked, they didn’t know the difference.” He divided the last two slices and gave her one. “Why didn’t you marry Guy?” he asked.
“I was seventeen!” Her voice rose. From the time she was a toddler, Guy was her buddy. And yes, he was her boyfriend, her first boyfriend. But did that mean she should have married him?
“All the same,” Lucien said. “C’est dommage.” It’s too bad.
He started to run hot water and squeezed some liquid soap from a yellow plastic bottle into the sink. Libby put on her coat and stood fingering the buttons. When he looked at her, his face was slightly red.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “It’s just been so long. And…” Taking a package of cigarettes from his pocket, he opened the crisp silver paper.
“It’s all right,” she said.
“I dreamed about Susan,” he said, pointing at the sofa. “If you want to sleep here tonight, you could have the bed. Moi, je peux dormir là. I’ll take the sofa.”
“How far is Guy’s cabin?”
“Five minutes.”
“I’d kind of like to get settled.”
“Je comprends. I was just thinking you might like to go when the sun is up.”
The leaves and branches on the path were stiff with a light frost when they walked down the trail beside the lake, the trees black against the glow of the moon and stars. As they arrived, Libby noticed there was a huge gash in the screen around the veranda. Under that porch, she and Guy drank beer they had taken from the cooler while the adults were at some party. Only twelve that summer, they’d sung Alouette loudly, directing their voices at the moon.
Lucien pointed to a large red oval container underneath one side of the cabin. “The propane for the heater.”
After he opened the door, he handed her the key. Inside he turned on a lamp with a glass chimney, one that had been converted to electricity. Then the heater. From a chest, he lifted out a heavy blanket with black stripes on one end as well as two lighter grey ones, sheets and a large pillow he threw toward a bed at the far end of the room. Last a sleeping bag with a plaid lining.
Libby felt queasy at the thought that Guy would have slept here. Guy Dion. Skin and bones in a coffin, pieces that did not fit together, pieces no one could have put back to resemble anyone she had ever known. A picture of him hanging on the cabin wall with two small children caught her eye.
“Where are they now?” she asked,
“Chicoutimi and Montreal.”
Beside it was another photograph, an old one of Guy with a fish he had caught, which Libby thought she remembered. How proud he was of that trout from the spring-fed lake down the road where they’d fished together as teenagers.
“Funny,” she mused. “We had a cabin down the trail from you and your house was just down the street in town, but I don’t think my parents really knew what good friends Guy and I were.”
“They knew,” Lucien said.
“Well, maybe they did.”
“There’s no telephone,” Lucien said. “You can use the one at my place if you need to.”
The arrangements made before he left were for her to drive him into the drugstore in the morning so she could have the car. He leaned over to hug her.
“You miss Susan, don’t you?” she said.
“Bien sur,” he said. “But last night, it was merveilleux, Libby.”
As he continued to hold her gently, she massaged the back of his neck below the hairline, then up toward the bony part of his skull.
“Feels good,” he murmured, then broke away to stand at the door. “What about Dan?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Lucien.”
39.
AS LIBBY WATCHED Lucien disappear into the trees, the ice on the lake glowed in the silver light of the moon. It made her think of photographs she’d seen taken from outer space. Her thoughts drifted to Dan. He had touched her in ways that awakened her senses again and made her feel glad to be a woman. It surprised her that he’d kept on calling. Adept at not showing when she was angry or saying anything about love or her hopes or expectations, he probably had no idea what she felt about him. Had she become too adept? Able to remove herself from the most intense encounters, she could watch as if two other people were making love. Only later did the full awareness of their passion flood over her. She continued to stare out at the landscape long after Lucien had disappeared into the night and the trees. What would it be like not to be afraid of love? she wondered.
When a tree branch cracked overhead, she jumped slightly. An old angst arose, a memory of a day when a sudden onslaught of rain and wind had appeared from nowhere. Everyone had run from the beach on Lac Leboeuf to the small green Austin with the yellow turn flickers embedded in its sides. She, nine years old, lagged behind the others. Without warning, there was a loud crash as lightening struck the tree just behind her, the sound of thunder and the crash of the tree occurring simultaneously. Yelling, she ran to catch up with the others as they all piled hurriedly into the car, none of them aware of how close she had come to being hit.
When she returned to Toronto, the house would feel like a storm had struck there. Paul, typical teenager that he was, would not even notice. Holes in his socks. Dirty dishes. Clothes strewn everywhere.
After a while, when the only sound was from a slight breeze blowing through the trees outside, she put on a pair of long johns and a heavy sweater. She lit a candle on the table where she arranged her sketchpad, pencils, and books. As she did, a blue notebook with a spiral binding lying on a shelf beside her caught her attention. She hadn’t noticed it before and now opened it at random to see the familiar slant and curve of the letters. Guy’s handwriting. Looking more closely, she read descriptions of the lake, of dark thunderclouds coming in from the west, of a bear eating blueberries on the path to the outhouse.
Il n’y a pas assez des bleuets pour les ours cette année, she read. Not enough blueberries for the bears this year.
No one else of her acquaintance knew the outdoors as Guy had. She’d watched him shoot partridge on a dirt road beyond the mine, track animals, cut enough wood for a fire, name trees and plants and birds. She wanted to read more, but began to feel as if she were spying. Anyway, right now she was too tired and, putting it back on the shelf, she blew out the candle and let the sound of the wind rustling through the trees soothe her. Once Barton had come to Ile d’Or with her early in their relationship, intrigued by the idea of bush and a small town. She’d wondered before that what it would be like to have him visit her home town. She’d found out quickly it wasn’t a place he could fit into easily. When they went out into the bush, he spent his time looking over his shoulder for bears and smacking at mosquitoes. He couldn’t relax either out at the lake or in town, wasn’t used to having so many people know who he was before he was introduced or to the way the English, French, and immigrants seemed to mix with each other. So engrossed was he in protecting his urban Anglo identity that the subtle interplay of class and language and the prevalence of gossip was of little concern for him. He quickly lost interest in living in a smaller place. Like his sense of who she was that led to their marriage, his interest seemed to have been built on illusions.
A scurrying sound underneath the cabin made Libby’s heart beat harder and she pulled the blankets tightly around her. It was probably just a small animal seeking shelter, but she was sure she would never fall asleep. Wrapping herself in one of the grey blankets, she climbed out of the bed and made her way to the window. She could see nothing in the dark outside. Sometimes she found it difficult to be alone in the city when both children were with Barton, but this was worse. Without even a telephone, if something happened she would be stranded. The animal she’d heard earlier began to move through the bushes beside the cabin. She imagined that she would lie awake all night, listening for and keeping track of all the sounds. Surprised to see the yellow beam of a flashlight shining on the path that came out of the bush, she heard Lucien’s voice.
“Libby,” he called. “Libby.”
When she opened the door, Lucien was standing there with a nervous frown on his face. “I was worried about you,” he said.
Standing aside to let him in, she realized how relieved she felt and began to shudder. As he pulled her to him, Libby felt warmth start to flow back and forth between them and she let her body curl into his arms.
“Un moment,” he said, hanging his jacket over a chair.
She backed away toward the sofa. “Want a coffee?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
She sighed. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Shall I stay?”
She nodded.
Crawling into the large bed where she’d thrown the sleeping bag and blankets, he slipped off his shirt and trousers. Then he held her head in both hands, gradually running his fingers over her nose and lips, down to her breasts. She drew back slightly and with her fingers traced a long scar on his belly.
“What’s that?”
“Appendix.”
“What about this one?” She touched a line down the outside of his right arm, below his elbow.
“Hockey,” he said.
Dan told her he’d played football, a sport that was not popular in Ile d’Or when she was growing up. His high school teachers assumed he would go to some university in the States on a sports scholarship. No one asked what he wanted.
“What are you thinking?” Lucien asked.
“Nothing.”
He traced the lines on her cheeks, his finger running over them, then her breasts, moaning as he held her tightly. She did not want to know if he was thinking about Susan.
40.
LIGHT FROM A full moon shone through the window onto the foot of the futon, illuminating the geometric pattern on the duvet under which Dawn tossed and turned. Michelle could see the dark shape from where she sat in the living room with the radio playing in the background. She enjoyed listening to music in the evening, but she wasn’t really paying attention now. She was thinking about her daughter. Dawn had said she remembered her mother lost in jazz or a symphony and not responding even if they were in the same room. It didn’t seem to bother Dawn now, but the feeling of not being noticed then must have been hard to tolerate. So many little things Michelle could blame herself for, but she didn’t any more. It was futile. And besides, Dawn was finally with her again, if only for a brief visit.
