Rosaire Roy had always been a corpulent man, what his wife liked to call a force of nature as she gazed at him with adoring eyes. He loved to eat, a lot, for a long time, greasy things drowned in thick sauces and rich desserts that gave him delicious sugar thrills. The doctors at the job sites told him to control himself if he didn’t want his heart to burst in his chest, but he laughed, patted them on the shoulders and left, telling them that he’d bury them all because he loved life so much.
Until that cursèd day in 1908 when he’d learned, just as he was about to retire, that he had cancer of the prostate. When the doctor had told him that at his age the disease would progress slowly, that he could look forward to more fine years, he refused any surgery. Then he told Bebette, sparing her as much as possible. She had burst into protests, oaths – for once in her life she had cursed, using an extensive and impressive vocabulary, a combination of blasphemy from Quebec and oaths of a sexual nature imported from the United States – she had cursed heaven and life that was playing such a lousy trick on them just as they were getting ready to make their dream come true, now, after so many years of separation imposed by his insane job. For the first and only time in her life, her saperlipopette hadn’t been able to express all the horror she was feeling and she’d been forced to draw on the vulgar vocabulary that she’d always condemned.
When she had calmed down a little, Rosaire had told her that after carefully thinking it over, he had something important to ask her.
This happened in the kitchen, over a cup of what Bebette’s family called Indian tea, a strong, dark herbal tea that kept you awake even more than coffee.
They were sitting face to face on either side of the table, where an apple pie that Bebette had just taken out of the oven was cooling. It was a beautiful day in spring, they should have left Winnipeg for Vancouver a few days later. Their bags were packed, the letters announcing their visit had no doubt already reached their destination. The relatives on the other side of the Rockies must be delighted about the visit from their Manitoba cousins they hadn’t seen for so long, Bebette and her famous saperlipopette, Rosaire with his vast repertoire of dirty jokes picked up along the Canadian Pacific Railway track.
Rosaire had reached out and gently squeezed his wife’s hand.
“It’s another sacrifice I have to ask of you, Bebette.”
She had held out the other hand and he kissed it over the embroidered cloth.
“I don’t have to tell you that I don’t feel like going on a trip …”
“I understand, Rosaire, it’s all right, it’s not a sacrifice …”
“That’s not the sacrifice … You see, I say sacrifice but I don’t know if it’s the right word. It’s more like I want to ask you for a favour. But favour may not be the right word either … I don’t know what to call it … Maybe you won’t want it, maybe it’ll even shock you …”
Anxious, she pulled away her hands, which she’d brought to her heart.
“You can’t want us to separate because you’re sick! You can’t want to go to the hospital! I can live it with you, take care of you, saperlipopette, I’m not heartless!”
“No, it’s not that. It’s not that at all! I don’t know how to … Look … You know how much I love to eat … how much I love your cooking … I’ve had to do without it for a good long part of my life and now … Don’t think badly of me, Bebette, but I’d like to die while I’m eating. Eating your cooking. I’d like to eat everything I like, without thinking about my heart, without thinking about my prostate, eat your roast pork, your pork cretons, your tourtière, your eggs goldenrod, your roast veal, your desserts that are the best in the world. I’d like to pass away with a full belly, Bebette, in a year, in five years, it doesn’t matter, but I’d like to die when I’m full, drunk on fatty sauces and your homemade fudge! Don’t say no, Bebette, don’t tell me it’s suicide, that our religion forbids it, that we’ll be punished, especially me, I know all that. No, help me! Help me to die happy and fattened up instead of wasting away and getting thin.”
This time it was she who took his hand.
“It’s true that it’s suicide, Rosaire, and the Catholic religion forbids it, and we’ll both be punished, me as much as you, but saperlipopette, if the good Lord is mean enough to pull that trick on us, we’ll pay for our sins when the time comes. I’m not taking any time to think it over, Rosaire, because if I did I’d end up afraid of the fires of hell and tell you no, so I’m telling you yes right now. You’re going to eat so well, Rosaire, the whole city of Saint-Boniface will be jealous of you! Everybody’s going to want to die like you, fed by Bebette Roy, the greatest cook in all the Canadian West!”
They never talked about it again. Starting on the day after their conversation, Rosaire had sat down in front of an endless meal that would go on until he died. Five years later he had gained a hundred pounds, he had trouble moving around, he sometimes suffered brief diabetic comas, but he didn’t lose his nerve: three times a day, sometimes more, he settles in over the delicious food that his Bebette has prepared for him, he grunts, he breathes heavily, he belches, most of the time alone with his wife because he doesn’t want to impose all that on anyone else, especially not his children and grandchildren and, if someone asked him, he would most likely declare that he was happy.
His heart doesn’t burst in his chest, he has no digestive problems, life has given him an iron constitution despite the cancer that is gnawing away at him but without torturing him, and that is all he wants.
It’s all delicious but the presence of the fat man who does not respect any of the table manners that her grandparents had instilled in her – no elbows on the table, no noisy chewing, never talking with your mouth full – takes away her appetite a little and Rhéauna eats less than she should. She’d been very hungry when she went to the table. And it smelled so good! But why does her great-aunt Bebette let her husband behave like that? Rhéauna suspects there is some mysterious reason, a secret only they know and she struggles all through the meal not to look too much in her great-uncle’s direction so as not to embarrass him.
Meanwhile, her great-aunt tries to keep the conversation going with anecdotes, each one less interesting than the others, about her family, illness, children’s words, her sons’ success, her daughters’ good marriages. She also talks about the struggle of Saint-Boniface to remain francophone in the English sea of western Canada. Like Maria in Saskatchewan but bigger and more influential, with the hope of a genuine right to speak in Parliament and in French! They’ll win. Oh, yes! One fine day they’ll win. But she quickly realizes that her great-niece isn’t listening and finally she stops. She eats in silence, something not seen often, whereas Rhéauna is content to nibble at Bebette’s chicken with celery, one of her famous specialties, for which she usually gets only compliments but that this night, for the first time, is met with indifference. It’s not normal for this child to eat so little. Could she be tired from her trip? She looks at her husband. Or disgust. She wanted to warn Rosaire to mind his manners a little around the little girl but she forgot. After all, it should be up to him to think of it, right? She’s angry with him all at once and angry with herself for being angry with him. Poor man. The latest news about his health isn’t good, she has to go easy on him …
At dessert she remembers all at once that Rhéauna was born somewhere around the end of summer. Good, finally a subject that will interest the little girl.
“It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?”
Rhéauna looks up from her plate where she has just stuck her fork into the still-warm raspberry pie, even if she has no intention of tasting it. Her grandmother has always told her not to play with her food, that it’s rude. And this is the first time she hasn’t wanted to throw herself at her dessert …
“That’s right, I forgot. It’s on September 2.”
“September 2! That’s next week!”
“Yes, it’s always when we go back to school.
Bebette gets out of her chair
, arms akimbo as if she were angry and Rhéauna wonders why.
“Will you be all by yourself with your mother in Morial?”
“I guess so …”
She hadn’t thought about that either. It’s true, she will be all alone with her mother on her birthday. No presents from her two sisters, wrapped up behind her back and flourished like trophies, no upside-down cake with canned pineapple and maraschino cherries from a jar, no fancy sandwiches cut into triangles without crusts. She’s going to cry, she can feel that she is going to cry, but she mustn’t because she doesn’t want her great-aunt to know how much she doesn’t want to go to Montreal. Not tomorrow, not ever.
“But that’s terrible! How old are you going to be?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven years old and all alone with your mother who probably doesn’t even know how to make a cake because she’s spent her whole life in a cotton mill! That’s terrible … Did you hear that, Rosaire? The child turns eleven next Tuesday and she’ll be in Morial all alone with Maria Desrosiers who probably can’t even boil water!”
It’s obvious that Rosaire isn’t listening and he barely looks up from his plate.
“We’re going to have a party for you, Nana! Would you like that, a nice birthday party?”
Rhéauna would like to protest, she definitely doesn’t want to see people tonight, she wants to go to bed, forget the fat uncle and the mountain of food he’s just gobbled, not think about her long train ride the next day and sleep. If she can …
Bebette has already picked up the wall phone.
“Do you know your mother’s phone number in Morial? I’m going to call her, we’re going to postpone your trip, we’re going to have a party for you tomorrow night, it doesn’t make sense …”
She has to do something to keep Bebette from calling her mother, from delaying her departure, from having a party! She doesn’t want a party. There’s nothing to celebrate! Never again will there be anything to celebrate!
Bebette rummages in a notebook hanging on the wall under the telephone.
“I thought I’d written it in my book … Ah, here it is!”
Rhéauna gets up from the table, goes to her great-aunt who is already maniacally cranking the phone that will put her in touch with the local telephone operator.
“Don’t bother, ma tante, please don’t bother! I have to leave tomorrow … Maybe my mother will take me to a restaurant for my birthday … I heard there’s lots of restaurants in Montreal …”
Bebette gestures to her to be quiet.
“Hello, Madame Gendron? This is Bebette Roy. How are you? Me, too, thanks. Listen, if I want to call long distance to Morial would it take long? Is that so? My goodness, the telephone is modern! Look, I want you to call Amherst 2361 in Morial for me … That’s a big phone number, isn’t it, not like here! Do you know how it works? Do you have to write out the whole word Amherst? Ah, just the first two letters … Go ahead then, do it, I’ll wait for your call …”
She hangs up, all excited.
“Just think, apparently it only takes a couple of minutes … And I read somewhere it won’t be long till we can put in those numbers ourselves! It’s unbelievable to think that you can talk to somebody at the other end of the world whenever you want!”
Rhéauna has gone back to her seat at the table. She can’t stop Bebette from talking to her mother, but she has to find some way to stop her from carrying out her crazy plan.
“I’d really rather leave for Ottawa tomorrow, ma tante … Otherwise the trip will be too long, I’ll be too tired when I get there …”
Bebette laughs as she pinches her cheeks. It hurts.
“You’re talking like a grown-up, Nana. Stop being so reasonable and let’s celebrate! You’ll have fun. Don’t you like parties? Most children adore them! When I was little, there was nothing I liked better than a birthday party!”
The phone rings. Bebette jumps, spins in a pirouette that’s amazing for a person of her age and corpulence and throws herself at the phone.
“Hello, Madame Gendron? Ah, it’s you, Maria!”
Her mother is there at the end of the line! A wave of emotion breaks in Rhéauna’s chest, shaking her, she feels tears come to her eyes, has trouble breathing.
“It’s your aunt Bebette! How are you, little girl? I hope I’m not disturbing your supper. What? What do you mean, you finished long ago? Eh? How come you’re an hour later there? What do you mean, a time difference? It’s already dark where you are? That’s impossible!”
Her mother is there at the end of the line! She can even hear her voice but can’t make out what she’s saying. She could talk to her! She could take the receiver, press it against her ear, bring her mouth up to the microphone and talk to her mother!
“Yes, sure, she’s here! You’ve got a lovely little girl, lucky you! I don’t know how you could get along without her for so long! Sure, you’ll talk to her afterward …”
Her mother wants to talk to her! All her fatigue flies away, the disgust that had overwhelmed her when they were eating disappears, her mother whom she hasn’t seen for so long wants to talk to her! Bebette gestures to her to come up while she goes on chattering.
“Listen, I’m not going to stay on the phone, this is long distance and it costs a fortune, but I wanted to let you know that Nana’s going to spend another day with us, if it’s okay with you. I just realized, her birthday is next week and she’d be all alone with you in Morial, so I decided to put on a big birthday party for her here tomorrow night. There’ll be a bunch of us to celebrate, saperlipopette! I’m going to invite the whole family. I’ll change her train ticket, too, the one to Ottawa and the one to Morial … Don’t worry, we’ll take care of her! And I hope everything’s all right in Morial … Bye!”
She holds out the receiver to Rhéauna who is standing paralyzed in the middle of the dining room.
“Here, but make it quick, it’s long distance …”
Rhéauna can’t move. Her feet are glued to the floor, her heart is pounding, she feels as if she’s about to faint.
“Saperlipopette, Nana, make up your mind! If you don’t want to talk to her I’ll hang up, time’s flying!”
She finds the courage to take a few steps, to hold out her hand.
“Tell her there’s likely a train to Ottawa that comes in every day at the same time …”
Rhéauna holds the receiver to her ear. Her mother is there, at the end of the line, in person, as if she were standing beside her.
“Hello, Mama?”
“How are you, sweetheart?”
It’s her voice. It hasn’t changed. It’s just the way Rhéauna remembers it, warm and with a joyful note that makes it quaver. It’s the voice she’s heard so often in her dreams. That she’s missed so much.
“I’m fine …”
She can’t think of anything else to say. She looks at the phone numbers that her great-aunt Bebette has jotted on the wall below the telephone and can’t think of anything else to say.
Bebette heaves an exasperated sigh.
“Hurry up, talk, say something, saperlipopette, anything at all, at least ask her how she is … It’s been years since you’ve seen her, you must have something to say!”
Rhéauna manages to open her mouth.
“How about you?”
That’s all. She hears breathing at the other end. Her mother is waiting for her to add something – but what? There’s too much to say in not enough time … She rests her head against the wall.
“I can’t wait to see you …”
That wasn’t true five minutes ago but now, all of a sudden, it is. She wishes she were in Montreal already, to snuggle up to her mother, smell her fragrance, cry against her neck, blow her nose on her dress, tell her she loves her and say how much she has missed her. Reproach her, too, for abandoning her sisters and her, to hit her even, claw her. Claw her and kiss her!
“Me, too, darling, I can’t wait to see you. But it looks like we’ll have to wait anot
her day … Your aunt Bebette didn’t even ask for my opinion … But I think it’s a good idea to have your birthday there, in Saint-Boniface, because I work nights and it would’ve been hard … Listen, there’s a beautiful room waiting for you, just for you, you’re going to love it here … But hang up now, or it will cost Bebette too much. Bye, sweetheart … I can’t wait to see you.”
A click. Rhéauna removes the receiver from her ear, looks at it. She feels a hand on her shoulder, then on the back of her neck.
“She couldn’t talk to you any longer …”
Bebette takes the receiver, puts it back in place.
“Maybe you’re too young to understand but you have to pay for long distance by the minute and …”
Rhéauna cuts her off, raising her head.
“If I give you the rest of the money for my trip to Montreal will you call her back? I didn’t have time to tell her that I love her …”
Her pillow is soaking wet, her handkerchief unusable for a while now and she’s exhausted from crying so much. She is at the same time at the halfway point of her journey and torn between two poles: she already misses Saskatchewan so badly but, for several hours now, she’s been wanting to be in Montreal with her mother. She can’t have both, she knows that; in fact, she’s sure that Saskatchewan has disappeared from her life forever and she hates the tugging that is making her for the first time want two conflicting things at once. She has tried to console herself with the thought that probably she will soon see her sisters; the prospect of the definitive loss of her grandparents, though, has made her sob as if she had just learned that they’d died. She knew, of course, that this separation was definitive but she feels as if only now has she understood that it’s no longer an idea but an irrevocable fait accompli. She is mourning her grandparents even though they are still alive.
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