I'le Dor, page 22
“How on earth do you get someone to change all of that?”
“Well, I usually don’t. But if she trusts me, she might ask. Some do.”
“Are you going to stay in Ile d’Or?” Nick asked,
“Probably,” she said.
“Is that what you really want to do?”
“Well, now that my mother is gone, I’m not really sure anymore. Sometimes I feel kind of stuck,” she said.
“Why?”
“Think about it,” Michelle said, taking a sip of wine. “It’s not so different from what you’ve been telling me. Perhaps complicated by knowing that I’m comfortable enough here. And how would I manage to start something like Chic Choc anywhere else? Where would I go? I’ve built a clientele who knows me. I make a living.”
“Toronto,” Nick said quietly, as if he’d just had an idea but hoped she wouldn’t quite hear him.
She laughed. “That’s not one that would ever cross my mind.”
“It’s a lot better place to live than it used to be.”
She shrugged.
“Well, come and visit some time,” he said, reaching across to touch her hand.“See for yourself.”
“Oh sure.” Her expression was pensive. “But what on earth would I do there?” She pulled her hand away gently.
“I don’t know,” he said. “There’s a whole garment industry, I think. Not that I know much about it. Maybe you could find new fashions. New designers.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“If you do come for a visit, I’ll show you around,” Nick said. “I’ll take you out on the town.”
“Okay,” she nodded. Michelle was smiling but she buried her head in the menu. He had made her uncomfortable. She looked up at him, her smile guarded now. “What are you going to order? Do you know?”
“You mean ribs or wings? I thought perhaps both.”
Michelle shook her head. “Men,” she said.
When the waitress approached their table, Nick told her it might take a bit longer for them to decide. But before the woman disappeared, Michelle said she’d have the wings and he smiled and ordered wings for both of them and ribs as well for him.
“What about taking a trip? Coming to Toronto for a visit,” he asked. He didn’t know why it was suddenly so important to him that she come to the city, be with him.
“It’s hard to get away,” she said, sipping her wine and avoiding his gaze.
He understood that; a small business that depended on a clientele would be similar to a medical practice, not something you could leave for long. It would be hard in a small town to find someone to take over even for a short period. He would ask her about that, but now he was wondering if she might be interested in going some place with him, even to India, and he didn’t want to let the practicalities intrude yet.
“You remember that big game hunting idea?” he asked.
She smirked. “Of course.”
“Well, how about if you come with me?”
“Now I know you’re crazy.”
“I’m being serious. I’ve wanted to go to India for a long time and…”
“Let’s enjoy this moment,” Michelle said, eyeing him thoughtfully. Reaching for his hand, she added, “It’s really rather precious.”
He supposed it was, a moment that he could not have imagined. Having dinner with someone he’d known as a teenager and feeling a certain comfort that he hadn’t felt for years. A comfort that had grown over the few days he’d been here. It hadn’t occurred to him that the reason for this trip might have been to recapture a time when there had been an extended family of northerners to which he still belonged. Once both his parents were dead, that thought had disappeared with them, and his trip here had been only a whim until it finally happened.
“Thanks, Michelle,” he said, smiling at her. “Let’s do that.”
44.
DARK CAME EARLY in November, around five o’clock. The days felt uncomfortably truncated and it would remain like that until after the middle of February when they gradually became longer. The streetlights were on as were those in the shops. Noticing a line-up of customers in the pharmacy, Libby drove to rue Champlain once again and stopped near the white house next to the bush. A light over the front porch shed a glow over the path to the street. A man walked up the steps and a child ran to greet him. Through the curtains of what had once been the Muir’s dining room, Libby could see a woman’s face watching them.
An oak Welsh dresser with blue and white crown derby china on the shelves had stood against the wall that separated the dining room from the kitchen. In the middle had been a matching oak table and chairs. The chair with arms was at her father’s end of the long table. Libby had studied the grain on those days when her father had barely been able to keep his head up. When he’d been drinking, he yelled no matter what she did.
“Mish Muir, stop that now!”
Once he spilled a glass of tomato juice and blamed it on her, shouting. Libby could not stand to look at him then. For years, all she had to do was to see oak to feel sick to her stomach, holding as it did the memories of too many family meals where she’d kept her head down so as not to witness her father’s stumbling efforts with his fork. She had refused the dining table when her mother moved into Friendship Villa.
When she drove back to the pharmacy, Lucien was standing just outside the shop. He came over to the car, opened the door and slid into the seat on the passenger side.
“There was a call for you from Toronto,” he said, looking at her curiously. “Dan Robinson.” His eyes veered off to the side.
“Did he say anything?” Libby asked.
“He said he could come up here.”
“Merde,” she sighed. “Is the store still open? Can I call from there?” At first she had wanted Dan here, to show him everything. Now his presence was the last thing she needed. It would be like a shadow looming over her, obstructing her vision. What did he think he was doing, intruding now when she had waited and waited for him to call in Toronto? When she’d finally called him, he had been involved with another woman. Daphne.
“I’ll unlock the door to the store,” Lucien said. “Pas de problème.”
The first time Libby dialled, the line was busy. She was aware of Lucien pacing back and forth in front of the magazine rack as she dialled again. No one answered. Even Dan’s answering machine did not come on. For all she knew, he might just turn up here. What on earth was he thinking? She began to work herself into a frenzy as she remembered again the time they had made love only to discover afterwards that he thought he was in love with Daphne. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Lucien had turned to watch her and she nodded at him. About to replace the receiver, she heard a gruff voice at the other end.
“Dan?”
“Libby.” He’d been in the shower, he told her. “Did it ring many times?
“Probably a dozen.”
“Well, I’m here now,” he said. “I’ve been thinking. I have some time. I could come up and join you. See where you come from.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Who’s the man?” Dan asked. “And this Pharmacie Dion place?”
“His brother and I were pals when I was a kid,” she said, but it wasn’t any of his business and she resented the proprietary tone in his voice, as if it were his right to know. She could imagine his irritated reaction if she had asked questions about Daphne.
“When are you coming back?”
“I’m not sure. In a couple of weeks probably.”
“You can call and reverse the charges,” he said, his voice softer now. “Any time.”
She knew that she would not, but she thanked him.
“You didn’t tell me anything about the man who took the message.”
“There’s nothing to tell other than what I already said.”
As she hung up, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Alors, Libby, allons manger quelque chose en ville.” Let’s go and eat something.
“I think it’s my turn to treat you.”
“Oh,” he said. “I have plenty of money. Et les artistes sont souvent pauvres, n’est-ce pas?”
“I have enough.”
They left the car in front of the pharmacy and walked toward the centre of town. Libby looked in a store window with greeting cards in it. Bonne Fête, Bonne Anniversaire, Joyeux Noël. Beyond that was a shoe store with women’s heels on one side and flat walking shoes and boots on the other. Then the hardware store with the ski-doo in the window where her brother, Wally, had worked one summer during high school. After that he quit school and went with the air force to wire power stations on the Distant Early Warning line. She remembered looking at a map to see where Thule was, thinking it looked as if it were at the end of the world. Wally scarcely wrote any letters and he told her later that when he did their mother sent the letters back with the grammar corrected.
“Alors,” Lucien said. “How about going to see my mother?”
“We should eat something first.”
“Maman always has enough for at least a dozen extra people,” he said. “Anyway, I told her I’d bring you one night. Tonight is as good as any other. She doesn’t go out much any more and she always enjoys company.”
“Okay,” Libby said. “Nothing I’d like to do more than see Madame Dion.” With the memory of the warm smell of dough rising in the Dion kitchen, she could almost taste the first slice of bread lathered with butter. And hot chocolate, too, her own never as good as Madame Dion’s with the marshmallow melted in it.
When they headed back toward the car, Lucien slid in behind the wheel. Reaching over, he put his hand on her arm. “Did you have a good day?” he asked.
“I spent most of it thinking,” she said.
He looked bemused. “Is that the life of an artist?” he asked.
“Sometimes. Often I draw or paint something, too,” she said. “But I didn’t get to that yet.” She always forgot that thinking counted. And making notes and small drawings. Sometimes she developed the beginnings of a piece in her sketchbook, jotting down some descriptions that she would use later. At the time, it seemed like a way of communing with herself, of working things out, not like something special that went with painting.
“And you?” she asked. “Your day?”
“It went quickly,” he said. He did not elaborate.
Libby focused on the houses as they drove up a street from a boulevard that joined what had once been Bourlamaque with Ile d’Or. She recognized a duplex with brown insulbrick covering its rectangular shape as one where she had played with a girl who had lived in town for only a year or two. She could remember the girl had brown eyes and light, tawny hair with waves in it. Good at math, she was the only one up until then to get a higher mark than Libby. It was a surprise to find that she, Libby, was not always the smartest. From then on, from time to time, someone new in her class would outdo her again. Once, a boy in Grade seven, whose family came from Russia.
There were two cars parked beside the house where the girl had lived and next to it was the turn to rue Champlain. Within a couple of minutes they would be in front of the small white bungalow where she had played with Guy, listening to the sounds of the Dion family. Loud, joyful sounds punctuated with the vibrant lilt of voices speaking a language she barely understood then. Aside from Lucien, the others had always welcomed her. Lucien had always seemed scornful then. She might ask him about that later.
“Maman,” Lucien called from the front door and his mother’s voice answered from somewhere inside.
A photograph on a white lace doily on a table next to the television set captured Libby’s attention. Guy stood at a window, sunlight around his head like an aura. One hand rested on the sill and a lock of thick brown hair fell over his forehead. Beyond him were pine trees on the side of a hill. There was another of his profile with his head thrown back and mouth open in which he looked like a porpoise breaking out of the water. He’d been vain, Libby thought to herself, an attribute she’d forgotten.
“Bonjour, Libby,” Madame Dion said from the door into the hall. “Quel plaisir.” Her smile was genuine. She carried a tray with green and blue cups and a coffeepot to the table near the fireplace. Did Libby want cream? she asked. And sucre? How many lumps? “What a happy occasion to see little Elizabeth,” she said. “You and Guy.” Tears sprang to her eyes as her voice caught on her words. “Mon pauvre Guy,” she said quietly.
“I’m really sorry about Guy,” Libby said. “It was a shock to arrive and find out.” Almost like losing part of herself, almost like the limbs that went missing after Barton left her. Still, she was unprepared for the visible shudder that went through the older woman’s body and she moved to hug her.
“Je ne comprends pas,” Madame Dion said. She would never understand. Guy destroyed his life with all the booze. Wrecked his marriage, neglected his children. Left his mother with a part of her dead that she would never recover.
“Mais laissez-moi chercher quelque chose à manger,” Madame Dion said, brushing away the tears as she retreated to the kitchen.
Libby glanced over at Lucien. “Some things you have to say,” she said.
“You knew him,” he said. “You loved him, too.”
Libby bit her lip as she felt the tears well in her own eyes. She might not have come north, might have gone on living with the myth of this warm, loving family that was so much better than her own. The myth that Monsieur Dion’s peccadilloes were the stuff of humour, that they did not hurt anyone. She would have remembered Guy asking her to marry him, his eyes pleading, and not ever have known what had become of him. She would have remembered him as the carefree teenager who had been her buddy, the one who shared the outdoors with her, who gradually awakened sexual yearnings. Had she married him, would the same thing have happened? Divorce. Alcoholism. Would it have been worse than the aftermath with Barton? Or would knowing each other from childhood have shielded her and Guy somehow? There were no answers to these questions. She wished Guy was still here to talk about it.
Madame Dion came back into the room, carrying a tray with sliced meats, bread, cheese, and butter. A bowl of pickles. Gesturing to Lucien to come to the table, she set the food down. Over the older woman’s head, Libby spied photographs of Guy’s two sons whom she recognized from similar photographs in the cabin. Another of Guy with his sons when they were teenagers. He looked happy. Proud.
“How is your mother?” Mme. Dion asked. “My old friend, Charlotte.”
“Her arthritis bothers her,” Libby said. “But, she’s still active.”
“We curled on the same team,” Madame Dion said. “Charlotte was skip. A good one, too. We won the bonspiel, you know. More than once. Did Charlotte ever tell you that we spoke French together?” Madame Dion asked. “You know her grandmother, a Gravelle, je pense, Henriette, didn’t speak English very well.”
“I’d forgotten,” Libby said. Her memory always appropriated everything French in the town and left the rest of her family in some English enclave. She also had a fleeting memory of a letter her father had written from overseas about helping translate for a soldier from Quebec who was struggling to learn English. “I never met my grandmother,” Libby said. “She died before I was born. And we didn’t have any aunts or uncles or cousins to tell us the stories our parents didn’t. We had such a small family. Mostly we heard about dead people, buried in England, all Dad’s ancestors.”
“But you’re a northerner,” Madame Dion said. “That’s a family.” Her hand, crisscrossed with wispy blue veins and a sprinkling of brown spots, just like Charlotte Muir’s hands, trembled slightly as she stroked Libby’s arm. “It’s Susan’s family, too,” she said. “I don’t understand how she could leave here.”
“Maman,” Lucien said. “Ne commence pas.” Standing up, he dangled his car keys in one hand and played with the change in his pocket with the other.
“Eh bien,” Madame Dion sighed. She began to talk about the early days, the days before the railroad, before the highway, the days of the first settlers. “Lucien was born at another mine that closed just before we came here,” she said. “Guy, out-of-town. In Noranda.” She had an album of black and white photographs stuck to the pages with black triangular corners. Under each photograph were names and dates. Lucien went out to the kitchen and they heard the back door close as he stepped out onto the back porch.
“A cigarette,” Madame Dion said.
Libby nodded.
“I thought of leaving Ile d’Or when Papa took up with the secretary,” Madame Dion said.
Libby jerked in her chair and as her body bent forward, she put her cup on the table.
“Don’t be embarrassed, mon enfant,” said Madame Dion. “Of course, I knew.” For a moment, she was quiet.
Libby was suddenly pensive. “Do you know what happened to Arthur White?” she asked. “Was there something between him and my…”
“Je ne sais rien.” The way she moved her head so that she was looking off into the distance, her cheeks slightly flushed, suggested that Mme. Dion knew more than she was saying.
45.
“SO SHEILA DID marry Brian Sloane?” Madame Dion asked. “I remember that when they were small children they were inseparable. Then when his family moved to Africa, I remember hearing that they wrote letters to each other. I thought they’d gone off in different directions after that.”
“They did, but they crossed paths again later.”
“And Wally and Jeannie?”
Lucien stepped inside, a sudden rush of cool air following him. His mother looked up as if she were checking to see if there was a storm brewing. He must have heard their conversation, Libby thought, and when he spoke it was apparent
