The wind was whipping up a storm over the river. We went by Mike’s workshop. It was late and there was a night light on inside. I thought of poor Nuliaq, hidden under the workbench, alone on his old pillow, the wind shaking the sheet-metal roofing and making an ominous sound that he could surely hear inside.
“The roof needs fixing,” said Mike every time a squall blew in from the open water.
He might have been hyper attentive to mechanics, taking exceptional care of anything that could be called a “machine,” but he couldn’t care less about his building. It was in a pitiful state. Last winter, when roofs were collapsing all over Quebec, my father had to convince him to shovel his roof.
I jumped down from the pickup and told Louis to wait for me a minute. The icy autumn wind hit me like a body check. Through the door, I could hear old Nuliaq in watchdog mode, beginning to bark. But as soon as she caught my scent, she quieted down, softly moaning. Through the window I could see her tail wagging. Something caught my eye : it was the old skidoo that Michel had found in Ontario, mounted on saw-horses. With its new bright green paint job you couldn’t recognize it ; the retro look was amazing. I could imagine Michel perched on the edge of his brand new, shiny leather seat waiting for the first snows of December to get into the woods and carve out kilometres of powdery trails.
The gate to the commercial dock was locked. Through the wind-swept drizzle, the red fog light blinked on and off every five seconds.
My father parked the truck on the west side of the dock, next to the boat ramp I used to get down to the water at low tide. We ate, listening to country music on community radio. In the distance, huge waves slammed into the pier sending plumes of spray high into the air, carried by the wind. It was warm in the truck ; we were cozy.
After gulping down our hotdogs we turned up our collars, put on our gloves and went out. As the sleet lashed our faces, my father let out a few choice words. Then we headed down to walk along the shore. The tracks in the sand from my last quad outing were still there.
Now the dock and its bright security lights were far behind us, and we were in complete darkness, watching the frothing sea stirred by the storm. The fog light at the end of the dock ceaselessly blinked its warning, and I told myself that no sailor, no matter how skilled, would want to be out in this wind. They tell a lot of shipwreck stories around here that date back to when sailboats plied the river. Down at the docks old timers will tell you about a wreck lying in this or that place. And boats still run aground on the sandbanks that start out near Pointe-Noire and extend two miles into the sea. Even today, the St. Lawrence can fool the biggest cargo ships, no matter how sophisticated their technology is.
Standing beside me, my father told me about a boat that, in 1987, had been forced to cast off from the dock during a storm. It drifted onto the shale reef further offshore, its big diesels unable to overcome the combination of strong current, the rising tide and the north wind that was blowing that night. The hull broke apart on the sharp rocks. The sailors had all been rescued, safe and sound but the boat stayed out there for awhile. People came from all around just to see it, like a freak of nature dropped into the middle of the sea and mountain landscape. It only took two winters for the river to tear the steel hull to pieces and carry it out into the deeps.
Hands stuck in my pockets and tuque pulled down over my ears, I listened to my father’s story, my gaze lost in the river’s dark, magnificent and infinite mass.
The wind and the sound of the waves steadily rose over his voice and it became harder and harder to hear him. Suddenly, he took off running. He often does that when we walk along the shore, as if he can’t help himself.
Usually, I run after him. But this time, I stood and watched him bounding like a wild broad-shouldered animal, his long hair flapping in the wind. He disappeared into the night, as though carried by the mist.
I bent down and touched the water’s edge to sample with my lips the cold, salty water on my fingers, never taking my eyes off the sea, seeing Jessie’s face in the wind lashed spume above the waves.
I don’t know for how long I stood like that, a prisoner of my imagination. When I came back to reality, I saw my father coming toward me. The fierce wind drove the freezing rain parallel to the horizon. By now the tide was all the way in. It was impossible to get to the boat ramp. We had to take the long way and scale the fence at the municipal garage to return to the road.
By the time we got back to the pickup, we were drenched to the bone and chilled to the marrow.
The next day, the moment I set foot in the cafeteria, people crowded around to congratulate me and to shake my hand. In spite of my resistance, they dragged me to the table where my teammates and friends were sitting, Félix, Samuel and Tommy. We could do no wrong. Everyone was talking and joking around.
Despite all the brouhaha, I was silent, simply nodding my head at everything anybody said, but my mind was totally elsewhere, as if I was an astronaut in my spacesuit surrounded by beings from another planet. My eyes, ever alert, were hungry for a glimpse of Jessie. Three times I pretended to have to go to the bathroom ; once to not pee, and twice to drink some water. But each time, it was really so that I could check out the student cafeteria.
I didn’t see her. There was only Sauvé’s gang and the other rappers, metal freaks, punks and miscellaneous groups, slouched down in chairs, sofas and colour cubes. Not once did I see her or even catch whiff of her. In fact, it was me who was being watched from the back of the cafeteria : her brother Stéphane had his dark eyes constantly locked on me.
All through the day, at break and at lunch, I roamed the school looking for Jessie. I never once saw her. And it seemed like wherever I went Stéphane Pinchault was staring at me.
Later in the day, after phys ed, I was sitting by myself at my locker, putting on my shoes. I sensed somebody’s presence. Lifting my head, I saw Stéphane at the end of the row of lockers. I could see his face from the side, his head turned towards me. I froze, bent over, steadying myself on one leg. I smiled at him and waved stupidly, but he stiffened without a word. From where I was, I could see every last detail of his cartoon-like red nose, and the great big hairs that passed for a moustache.
Exasperated by his behaviour, I took a step towards him. He backed up, and then took off. I ran to the end of the lockers and looked down the hallway in both directions : one that led to the gym and the other to the administration and the cafeteria. He had completely disappeared, evaporated more like. Troubled, I ran up the stairs to my right four at a time ; I was late for math.
After the last period, Tommy and I left school together. He wanted to go to the restaurant to hook up with the girls — again — and I asked him when he was going to help me get the cabin ready for winter ; there was wood to haul and a hole in the roof to repair. He shrugged his shoulders saying he didn’t know. We walked in front of the bus, through the crowd of students fighting like wild men for the best seats. There he was, staring at me again.
I lowered my eyes and pretended to be completely absorbed in the discussion I was having with Tommy, having something to do with handlebars that were overheating and burning the palms of his hands. But I couldn’t pull it off. I just had to do something. Wait for me, I told Tommy and went up to Stéphane Pinchault, who didn’t run away this time. He calmly held his ground and I waited for him to speak.
But he wasn’t going to say anything ; it would be up to me to break the ice.
“What’s happening ?” I said.
He didn’t answer. A little smile slowly crept over his thin wet lips, but something about his expression bothered me. I felt like I was about to lose patience and blow up, but I kept my cool. Because more than anything, even more than why he was acting so weirdly, there was one question I wanted the answer to.
“Is your sister around ?”
Again, he seemed not to hear me. Except that now his smile twisted into a hideous grimace. I backed up a couple of steps, ready to flee. He raised his hand to stop me
, and bent towards me. I listened as hard as I could. And he whispered, real low, as if he was afraid of being overheard :
“I figured out the secret code in the book. I accept the covenant. I’m ready.”
I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Not a guess. I shook my head from side to side in distress, raising my two hands to signify that I couldn’t do anything to help him.
Hurry it up, the driver barked and Stéphane climbed in and took a seat. I watched as the bus pulled away, standing with one hand on my head, tugging at my hair.
“How’s it going ?” said Tommy, who had come up to me.
“He’s nuts.”
“If you ask me it’s you who’s starting to lose it.”
For once I said “yes.” I went along with Tommy to hang out with his girls at the restaurant. Not that I really wanted to. It’s just that I was completely bamboozled ; Plan B for getting closer to Jessie had taken a bizarre twist. I was feeling sick to my stomach, and because of that I didn’t really want to be all alone.
At Chez Lisette, we met up with his girlfriend, Karine, and her friend Chloé. We took a booth. Everyone ordered poutine or pogos, except me. I didn’t order anything. Through the neon “OPEN” sign that flashed blue and pink in the window, I saw two truckers talking. One of them, pot-bellied and hiding behind a big moustache, pointed at his forty-five footer covered with snow. He had to make it to Sept-Îles. It was snowing up there. Soon it would be our turn to taste the first storm of the year. Already.
I wondered what they were talking about, the two truckers. They were probably talking about the weather. But also the road, what they had seen en route. Such and such village on the Côte-Nord, or in Tadoussac or Natashquan. I wouldn’t mind driving a truck and seeing the country. I’d roll west all the way to Vancouver, or south to the United States. If hockey doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll be a trucker. And go far, far away from here, and stay away for a long, long time.
“Don’t you want anything ?” asked Chloé.
I lifted my heavy eyes toward Karine’s friend.
I looked at her dark-skinned, round face, her long black hair. This girl was always smiling, as if her life was nothing but eternal happiness. She would crinkle up her almond eyes and begin laughing at any old thing you said. And to tell the truth, that was bugging me, so I wasn’t very nice.
“No, I’m not hungry. Anyways, I gotta go.”
“It was nice to see you,” she replied.
She laughed and I ignored it, pretty sure that she didn’t give a damn about me. I know I wasn’t that “nice” to look at, what with the mood I was in.
“How come you don’t want to stay ?” asked tall Karine.
“Leave him alone,” said Tommy, shrugging his shoulders and taking a bite of his pogo dipped in mustard.
When I got home, Sylvie told me that my father had headed out to the bush and wouldn’t be back until next week. Apparently he had insisted that I go get the quad since a storm was in the offing. I ate in silence, and then went to my room to do my homework. Later that night I went to lay down with Sylvie in her bed. She was reading another one of those big novels that she tore through in a couple of nights, lying in her pyjamas, under the duvet. She doesn’t do anything else at night. Do you ever wonder if everybody ends up like that when they grow up : alone, rolled up in their blankets.
I woke up the next morning in Sylvie’s bed. It was warm and cozy, and it smelled nice, like her. I found her, dead to the world, asleep in my room. There were comic books all over the floor. Tiptoeing so as not to wake her, I gathered my clothes and left the house without eating. I was going to be late for practice.
It was early morning and still dark out. The days were getting shorter and shorter and the sun didn’t rise before 7 a.m. The streetlights on the 138 still shone on the slick black pavement. A lot of snow had fallen during the night ; the trees were laden with heavy wet snow, trunks bowed under the weight. Long clouds that looked like giant wisps of smoke moved across the dark blue sky over the river.
I took the trail that went down to the arena. But at the top of Fir Hill I stopped dead in my tracks when I realized that I’d forgotten my hockey gear. I don’t know what had come over me. For a moment I considered going back to get my stuff, but there was no use, I couldn’t get there on time anyway. I could just picture Larry beside himself, telling me that in the NHL I’d be suspended, fined, you name it.
Cars were pulling up at the entrance to the arena. At the head of the line, Samuel lifted his hockey bag out of the trunk of his parents’ burgundy car, and then kissed his mother goodbye. Next came Félix and then the Bégin brothers. Last up, Larry hurtled in with his big Jeep TJ, proudly laying down some fresh tracks in the parking lot. He jumped out, clad in a leather jacket that I hadn’t seen him wear before, sporting his tinted glasses even in the middle of winter with what was left of his hair flapping in the wind.
I stayed out of sight, leaning against a tree, watching them file in. I decided to take the Mill Road up to the Company Road.
My quad was flying at top speed through the snow and mud. Gas to the max, I passed the black spruce that lined the roadside like a guard of honour, but this time for a dark prince. I just about lost it on a couple of hairpins on the twisty road. I was too deep in thought to see the enormous ditch that had been cut by a backhoe at the intersection of 3rd Side Road. The Suzuki went in front first and came out the other side five feet in the air. I held my breath, ready for the curtain to fall. The landing was brutal. The suspension crunched when it hit the ground, as I did against the gas tank. The wind was completely knocked out of me. Bent in two, I tumbled to the rocky snow-covered ground. The clouds in the grey sky spun around my head like a whirlpool descending over my face.
I was out for a while, then came to slowly. My coat was soaked from the snow that had started to melt under my body. I could barely stand up. I just made it to the pumping station ; parked right beside it was a yellow school bus.
The engine was idling, exhaust coming out the tailpipe. In front, the driver was reading a newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee, killing a few minutes before he started his morning route picking up kids and taking them to school.
Soon enough he slipped the bus into gear and started forward. I got back on the quad and followed him at a distance. When he stopped in front of the Pinchaults’ dilapidated house, at first I stayed on the road, then drove down into the ditch so I wouldn’t be seen. Standing on the seat surrounded by dried cattails, my snow-covered head shrunk down inside my big brown shirt, I saw Stéphane with a dark blue tuque on his head, running awkwardly to the bus. Not a sign of Jessie.
When I tried to get up out of the ditch, the quad had completely stuck in the mud. With one knee on the seat, I tried to free it. The tires spun in the muck and mud flew in every direction. A couple of times I fell into the creek, one time head first. It took me a good fifteen minutes to get out and not without considerable effort.
Finally free, I looked over at the Pinchaults’ house. Obviously, gunning the engine like that had raised a racket and attracted some attention. I saw old man Pinchault and Jessie in their bathrobes on the old house’s crooked porch. When she recognized me, she slammed the door and went inside while Robert Pinchault, a cup of coffee in his hand, watched me motor past his house down 3rd Side Road towards the school.
Not super cool.
The principal didn’t like my reason for being late. I told him the truth : that I had been run over by a crazy trucker. How grungy I was should have been convincing. But he seemed to have his doubts since he said he’d be phoning my parents. I told him that wasn’t necessary, but he insisted. So I gave him my special treatment for making people uncomfortable.
“My mom’s not alive.”
He sighed and apologized. He said he’d be speaking to my father and my aunt.
Since my clothes were filthy and wet, I spent the day in my gym clothes, keeping close to Tommy and following him around like a puppy. I hoped I w
asn’t starting to get on his nerves. He seemed constantly annoyed at me. I didn’t know if it was because I had skipped practice, been rude to his friends or was dressed like an idiot. I would have rather kept to myself and not spoken to anyone, but I just couldn’t. I always had this feeling that someone was looking at me, even when there were people all around me. No matter what I did to get away from him, he always found me. Stéphane Pinchault was beginning to scare me—seriously.
“How come you weren’t at practice ?” asked Félix at lunch, while wondering how he could get in with Karine’s girlfriends.
“I went in the ditch. Larry must have been out of his mind.”
“No. He didn’t make a peep.”
Instead, it was Sylvie who lost it. Apparently, the principal had told her that a truck had come close to finishing me off on the 138. I must be a crazy airhead, she said. My father was going to go nuts.
Acting like someone who has stared death in the eye without blinking, I happily gave her the details of what had never quite happened. The truck had gone off the pavement and come so close to me that I had to accelerate to escape. Unable to regain control in time, I went in the ditch. There was one little problem with my story : if anybody went up to where I said the accident had happened, they wouldn’t find so much as a skid. Actually, the image of the truck made a big impression on Sylvie who began dissing the reckless drivers and trucking companies that worked the Côte-Nord. And then, like a perfect example of the nonsense that had been going on every day for a while, she said :
“Laurent called. He wanted to know why you weren’t at practice. I told him what happened.”
By now my own lies were closing in on me ; I decided to park the quad for the winter. I fired a couple of pucks at the garage while I ran the engine outside, circulating fuel cleaner to clear the injectors. It started snowing again. After cleaning, greasing and lubricating the Suzuki, it was 7 o’clock when I finally covered it with a big green tarp and wished it a happy hibernation. My quad was like a bear that goes to sleep with the first snow. Come springtime, it would be famished and I promised it we would both feast on a ton of trails, that we’d go all the way up to the reservoir as soon as the snow melted to catch us some twenty-pound pikes.
Break Away Page 7