That made her look up and smile. “Yes, when the boys were small. And your grandmother Claire was funny, a real joy to have around.” She paused a moment and looked away. “I know I was supposed to side with our John, but I always felt sorry for her. She lit up any room she walked into. The poor girl didn’t have a happy end.” She shook her head, her eyes far away. “Had she lived, she would’ve found a way to forgive John. That’s just how she was.... There’s a story she used to tell—although John always marched out of the room when she started on that. It made us women laugh the way she mimed each part of the story. It must’ve happened in the autumn, just before she met our John…. ”
Chapter 11
Rivière-au-Renard, Quebec
November 1932
Claire clutched the old canvas carryall on her lap. The batch of tea biscuits and cold ham slices Ma had wrapped for her sat snug on top of the few pieces of clothing she had packed. Her twin brother’s trousers felt tight over the bloomers and extra underwear she had on. But a northeaster had started and she had no idea when and where she’d end up.
She braced herself on the seat to avoid leaning sideways into the driver each time he took a sharp curve. The old guy drove with a lead foot but the quicker they got there the better. The black Roadster pickup smelling of stale codfish and screech rum had pulled over minutes after she jerked her thumb up. Said he was driving nonstop to Quebec City but she’d have to sit closer to him on account of the passenger door that sometimes swung open when he hit a bump.
The old guy wasn’t much of a talker. Dried and yellowed farmers’ fields of early autumn, humbled by the whims of the sun and rain, rolled by on one side of the gravel road. She tried to focus on the cedar posts leaning windward at the edge of the ditches. On the other side, the dark grey-blue waters of the St. Lawrence River flowed northeast back towards her village. Whenever the cedar posts stopped, she knew they were approaching another village along the coast, closer to her living out her dream.
A present for her sweet sixteenth birthday. Leaving her suffocating maritime village for the bright lights of Montreal. No more limits on when to boogie, chew gum, blow smoke in a guy’s face, or smear herself with tons of makeup. No more going to confession, ever again.
The cedar posts leaning over from the wind and rain reminded her of Ma, shoulders hunched in her long, faded grey housedress. She stood on the sagging steps of their tiny clapboard house, her head tilted, watching her daughter set out for the side of the highway. Claire’s twin brother waved goodbye through the broken window beside the front door—another reminder of Pa’s drunken visits from the lumber camp. There’d be hell to pay when he found out his golden girl had left without his blessing.
Ma had reached into the cracked cookie jar just as Claire picked up her bag before heading for the front door. Get yourself away before it’s too late, she’d said, handing her the grocery money for the month. Claire swallowed hard and shoved the small bills in the side pocket of her long twill coat. Her brothers would be eating only turnips and lard for the next few weeks.
No man’s going to shove me around, Ma. Not like Pa does, she’d yelled over her shoulder, marching towards the road.
More cedar posts. It’d be a while before they drove by another village. She reached into her bag to pull out her red lipstick. No need for a mirror. A quick stroke and she smacked her lips together to spread it out.
“That sounds right good. Shakes a man up that does.”
His gruff voice made her shift on the seat. She took a quick glance at him. He hadn’t said a single word since she hopped into his truck over an hour ago. “What’s that?”
“That smacking sound you just did.” He kept his eyes on the road. “Putting something in your mouth sure makes you feel right good, eh?”
Her whole body tensed up and she inched over towards the passenger door. “Nothing went in my mouth, mister. I just put some damn lipstick on.” She liked the old guy better when he stuck to his driving. He had just popped up and started babbling like a slimy old jack-in-the-box.
He glanced at her and smirked. His two front teeth were missing and the rest were tobacco-stained. “Sexy red mouth... well, little girl, that makes a man want to party all night long. A pretty blond chick like you—guys must want to touch the merchandise a lot, eh?”
“That’s where my feet come in. A girl’s got to learn to hit where it counts the most.” Her heart raced. She made an effort to swallow down breaths so he didn’t detect her panic. The old guy’s tongue kept on darting in and out of his mouth and he swallowed hard a few times. She wanted to yell at him to stop the damn truck but she didn’t want him thinking he had any power over her. Rabid dogs can smell your fear. That’s when they attack.
“A scrapper, eh? Makes the prize even sweeter.” He clutched the steering wheel with one hand and placed the other palm-down beside her on the seat. His fingernails, ringed with dirt, were as tobacco-stained as his teeth.
She edged a little closer to the door. His arm movement had unleashed the acrid odour of his unwashed body and soiled clothes. Spasms of nausea surged up her throat. She grabbed the door handle and scanned the side of the highway. The deep ditches brimmed with tall reeds and cattails, but it was better than landing head first on the hard gravel at the speed he was going. Diving straight into the ditch was her best bet. But he was crazy enough to reverse and come back for her. Nowhere to run. Fields and bushes on one side of the road and steep cliffs going down to the river on the other. Hardly any traffic on the road and no house in sight—better hold on till—
“Hang in there, chickadee.” He swerved the truck onto a narrow dirt road, reached out to grip her upper thigh and dragged her back beside him. “Thinking of jumping, eh? Right sexy chick you are, but you’re sure three bricks shy of a load.”
She struggled to pull away but her left arm was pinned under his. The smell of his rotten teeth and cigarette breath made her want to gag. He clutched her crotch so hard she thought his fingers would tear right through her trousers.
“Going to be some good... yes sir… right fresh catch this is.” He gasped, drool trickling down the crevices at the corners of his mouth.
“Let go, you greasy bastard.” She raised her right fist and swung for his private parts. He jerked his arm up to stop her, lost control of the steering wheel and crashed into a thick stand of hawthorn shrubs alongside the road. Her body slammed against the passenger door, swinging it wide open.
She came to with her head and shoulders dangling out of the cab. How long had she been hanging there? Her head throbbed. Her first reflex was to make a run for it. She pushed against the rocker panel to pull her legs out. Nothing budged. The old guy must’ve collapsed on top of her. She froze. Gasping sounds from inside the truck. She reached for the side of the cab and managed to yank herself high enough to see inside. Her heart pounded through her chest.
The old guy straddled her, his pants lowered to his knees, staring down in disbelief at a milky stain on the front of her bloomers. Her trousers, buttons ripped off, were pulled halfway off her hips. She strained to pull her legs out from under him. “Get off me. Old greasy perv. I could be dead and there you are trying to stick your dirty dink inside me.”
He jerked his head up, spittle in the corner of his mouth, and backed up, fumbling to pull his pants up. “No good little cock teaser. Causing a man to waste his shot with them tight trousers of yours. Out of my truck before I kick your sorry ass into the river.”
She dove out before he was able to button his pants, kicking her bag out from the floor of the cab at the same time. The Roadster did a quick U-Turn and spun off in a cloud of dust. She wiped down her bloomers with a handful of dried grass and pulled up the trousers. She had just reached in her bag for a safety pin to replace the missing button when she noticed the black leather wallet on the ground. Must’ve dropped out of his pocket when he tugged his drawers down and then flown out
of the cab when she kicked her bag out.
She counted the wad of paper dollars and grinned, thanking her brother for the discarded trousers that had protected her from the old pervert. Looked like a whole year’s pay there from the fish-processing plant down east. Enough to keep her going for a while and to treat herself to a trendy pair of women’s trousers. She brushed the dried grass and twigs from her coat and marched back to the main road.
* * *
Stella paused after she finished her story and tucked her blanket around her lap. She gazed out the window and seemed to have forgotten she had a visitor.
Lisette waited a moment before speaking. “So… Claire made her way to the bright lights, I guess?”
Stella turned to her, a puzzled look on her face, and nodded. “Yes… if I remember right, she said she got a lift from a couple driving to Saint Joseph’s Oratory in Montreal. Our John met her at a Christmas dance that same year and”—she paused a moment—“they married two months later.”
“Sounds like it wasn’t a happy event.”
“Such a beautiful couple. They only had eyes for each other.” She fidgeted with the folds of her blanket. “Timothy was dead set against it from the start.” She pulled her sweater closer.
Lisette hesitated before closing her notebook. The conversation seemed to be draining the woman. Besides learning the names of her grandparents, she hadn’t progressed too far in her research. But at least the mystery of her origins was starting to fall apart. She knew for sure that she belonged to some kind of family chain. She was about to get up when Stella glanced at her. “You’re not leaving already, dear? You just got here.”
Lisette leaned back in her chair. “I thought you were too tired to continue.”
Stella smiled. “Not seeing my loved ones is what makes me tired. Besides Janette coming once a week, I don’t get many visitors. Both my sons are always too busy. Having you here makes me forget how long the day will be.” Her face softened, a faraway look in her eyes. “I think of Claire often. I was always happy to see her. But my family won’t mention her name anymore. They’ve always blamed her for what happened. Our little Nadine suffered because of it. Timothy and the boys had nothing good to say about the poor child.”
“So what happened with John and Claire?” Lisette kept an eye out for anybody walking down the hallway, expecting the receptionist to barge in any minute now and tell her to leave. Maybe what Stella had to say wasn’t going to take too long. If they wanted to bar her from coming back, she intended to find out as much as possible while she had a chance.
Stella clasped her hands together. “Claire was like an open book. She’d share intimate details about her and John... things I preferred she keep to herself. If only I had listened more…. ”
Chapter 12
Montreal
September 1939
Claire and John sat at opposite ends of the hospital waiting room. He in a vinyl armchair, smoking and staring out the tall picture windows at the traffic below. She on a hard metal chair facing the corridor leading to the observation room, her stomach a tangle of knots. Claire had hoped they’d keep the child overnight, giving her a good excuse to stay by her bedside. John needed time alone to gather his thoughts. No use trying to reason with him when he was in such a tizzy.
She stared at him across the room. “You told the landlord about that metal railing, right? Five years we’ve been living there and the damn thing’s still broken.”
He stubbed out in the floor-standing ashtray beside him and blew the smoke in her direction. “Yeah, it’s my fault, right? The kid rolled down two sets of stairs and sliced her leg to the bone.” He pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “Good thing the neighbour looked out her window and saw the kid in a pool of blood. Her own mother was too busy dancing to notice her own kid was bleeding to death.”
Claire lowered her head, twisting her wedding band back and forth. “You know I like my music loud, John. I didn’t hear a blasted thing. I was listening to Strange Fruit, that new Billie Holiday record I got last week. Last time I checked, Nadine was on the front landing colouring in her book.”
He shook his head at her. “You and your damn negro music.” He lit another cigarette and continued staring at the traffic. “Nothing matters to you when that’s playing.”
She dug her nails into her palms. He had it all wrong. Music made everything matter to her. It opened her heart, her eyes, her soul. But it was no use telling him that. He just didn’t understand. To him, music went hand in hand with booze and office parties. And of course, it made people forget how foolish they look when they dance.
That’s what he wants people to think.
That he’s the doting father, and I’m the negligent one.
They hadn’t been to a nightclub on a Saturday night since he found out she was pregnant. No more dances and fancy restaurants with friends after that. All these guys looking her way pissed him off. In his mind, being a mother made her sacred. His alone to touch and admire. The rounder her belly grew, the more obsessed he was with her body, measuring her belly and the swell of her breasts every evening. He oiled and massaged every inch of her body after each bath. Speaking to the baby through her navel. Asking the baby permission to make love to her. When Nadine was born, the first thing he noticed was the colour of her eyes, and… that she wasn’t a boy.
Nadine came into the world five weeks short of nine months after the wedding. That’s when John’s pouting and dark moods began. The baby was too much for her, he claimed. She had no time left to even put lipstick on. His snide remarks were the worst, said with that irritating boyish smile of his: Funny how the kid has brown eyes and both of us are blue-eyed—or—she don’t look at all like anybody in the family. But he’d never even set eyes on anybody in her own family. Always too far to travel, or never the right time.
She had tried to include him in some of the parental duties, but he refused to change diapers, burp the baby, or pick her up when she cried. He insisted she breastfeed in bed to give him a chance to suckle on one breast while the baby fed from the other. She happened to catch a reflection of her breasts, mottled with bruises and teeth marks, in the mirror one morning. Right at that moment, she decided to wean the baby. John started working more overtime after that and sent the child to Stella most weekends. He claimed to need more alone time with his wife. The only perk of having a baby around, he’d told her, was that sweet breast milk spraying my lips and throat.
Claire had, in a real sense, become a single parent, while John bragged to his fellow workers how easy fatherhood was for him. The only time his father self-image became a problem was when he was obliged to take part. Nadine’s accident had pulled him away from his desk and forced him to rush to the hospital. The girl had lost too much blood and needed a transfusion. Claire wasn’t compatible, so the doctor assumed the father would be.
She shifted position in her seat, crossing her arms with her clenched fists tucked under her armpits. Her insides boiled.
How dare he blame me for this.
Music and dancing had always been her passion. That’s what had brought them together when she first moved to Montreal. She had felt sorry for the short guy sitting by himself at a table in the back of the dance hall. A few of the girls refused his request to dance. Not because he wasn’t good-looking—he was handsome in a boyish kind of way—but because girls like to look up at the guy when they’re dancing. So she sauntered up to him and tilted her head towards the other dancers. They hit it off, big-time. You bowled me over, he’d told her. He’d never met such a spirited blond bombshell. She’d never come across a guy who loved to help her put on her makeup and sometimes slept with her frilly undies tucked under his pillow.
She shot him a dirty look and bit down on her lip. He sat forward, legs spread wide with his arms resting on his thighs. His mouth closed tight with that fixed hardness in his features. The next few hours promise
d to be tough being around him. She hated it when he was in a tizzy like this. Instead of mellowing with age, his temper tantrums were getting worse. She had left her small village back east to get away from Pa’s violent fits, swearing no man was going to push her around like he did Ma. She remembered that hard black glint in Pa’s eyes just before he swung at her—the same cold look John had when he got pissed. But John always backed down when she left the room. He never hunted her out.
A hot mass, like embers of black coal, stuck in her throat, blocking her from speaking. If she voiced her anger, the air flowing in would cause the embers to burst into flames.
He has no right to—
Her fist trembled with the urge to up and smack him.
He has no right to—
“Mr. and Mrs. John Pritchard?” The doctor stood in front of them, a clipboard in hand.
Both John and Claire jumped up from their seats. She let out her breath. “Is Nadine OK?”
The doctor smiled. “Your little girl will be fine, Mrs. Pritchard. She’s lost a lot of blood, but she’ll be OK to go home an hour after the transfusion.” He turned to John. “Our tests show that your blood, as well as Mrs. Pritchart’s, is incompatible. We’ll need your consent to use our own blood supply.”
“There must be some mistake, doctor.” John had his eyes riveted on him. “We can’t both be incompatible.”
The doctor adjusted his glasses. “It turns out both you and your wife have the same blood type. Your child, unfortunately”—he lowered his gaze—“does not.” He showed John the clipboard. “Please sign this form and we’ll have Nadine home in no time.”
John didn’t say a word after he signed the consent form. He looked daggers at her and marched back to his seat by the window. A layer of unease settled around her shoulders. Nadine’s blood had spoken. A whirlwind affair with a sailor on a week’s furlough in Montreal.
The Daughters' Story Page 11