Maggie moved her chair back, stood up and held on to the side of the table as she attempted to locate her feet. Mr. Ruivivar held out his arms and drew her to him. Sam watched as both Maggie and Mr. Ruivivar began to sob. Not cry, sob.
Sam turned away looking for something to distract him, then turned back to experience what he’d later describe as an awkward intimacy. Both voyeur and participant, unbidden tears soon began to well up in Sam’s eyes.
Maggie and Mr. Ruivivar took each other’s hands and stood looking at one another for the longest time. Sam watched Maggie’s awe and delight.
“You must be Sam.”
“Yes, I am. You must be Mr. Ruivivar.”
“Call me Jacques. I know I’m an old coot but the formality of last names is not my style. Please take a load off,” said Jacques. “Catherine ordered trout almondine. I hope that works for you.”
Maggie nodded, tears still streaming down her face. Sam said, “Perfect!”
“Maggie, I can’t tell you how glad I was to hear you wanted to meet with me. For too many years I convinced myself that my presence would bring up bad memories so I stayed away. My, you look so much like Anna. How well do you remember her?”
“I’m not sure how to sort what I remember from the photos I’ve seen and stories I’ve heard. I do remember her laughter and playfulness which later seemed such a contradiction to the work she did.”
“Anna was passionate about everything—life, you, Isabel, Raymond, her work and her play. Most of the time she was good-natured, but doubt I’ve ever met anyone so fierce.”
Sam laughed and said, “Well, let me introduce you to Maggie. She is definitely her mother’s daughter when it comes to fierceness.”
“He’s right. I wondered about that because Issie, Isabel, is so easy going that I thought I was adopted.”
“Issie must take after Raymond. When your dad’s world was crashing down around him, he’d pick the most outrageous consequence he might face and turn it into a joke. Like, saying he was planning to raise money for his defense by booking bets on whether the CIA or MI5 made the bust.”
“Oh, yes, that’s Issie! I worry her insane comments about her kids will grab the attention of the child welfare system. She is so irreverent that the word irreverent is not enough.”
“There’s so much I want to know about you, Sam and Issie. How long are you here?”
“Eight more days,” said Maggie.
“Good. Let’s get started and see what we can plan for the rest of your visit. Are you willing to indulge me in more conversation?”
“I’d love to. I want to learn all I can about my parents and what you think happened on the Saint Lawrence Seaway.”
“We’ll do it. For now, Maggie, tell me how you landed in the States, what you’re doing and, of course, how the two of you found your way to the altar.”
14
The Dance
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
—T. S. Eliot
AUGUST 1968—Sam looked both ways and listened for breakfast sounds before stepping into the hallway. Avoiding Marc and the ankle-biters had become a morning ritual. From the kitchen, the scent of lemon poppy-seed muffins provided a thin patina to the ripe odor of bleached diapers, baby powder, sweaty socks and milk souring in cereal bowls. Sam wondered why kid’s sweat and urine smelled so strong. Darwinian? A way to get noticed before we have verbal skills or the capacity to take care of ourselves?
Maggie was sitting at their favorite table in the sunroom reading the Toronto Daily. “Hey, Sam, listen to this: “ ‘Following a number of riots in Europe and Quebec, the Front de Libération du Quebec claimed victory after setting off fifty-two bombs over the past twelve months and attracting hundreds of new Felquistes in their fight against Anglo-Saxon imperialism.’ Holy crap, I had no idea they were so militant.”
“Do you think Jacques was involved with the bombings? He’s given us the grand tour of Toronto, talked a lot about your parents, but hasn’t said jack shit about himself.”
“I don’t know. Besides, part of me doesn’t want to know. I’ve always held onto the Ignorance Is Bliss theory. If I don’t know, I can’t be touched by it. Talk about immaturity.”
“Jesus, Mag, it’s not like the FLQ is normal. We might be better off if we don’t know.”
“What I want to know is whether my parents are alive. That’s the question I want to ask but freeze every chance I get. What the hell? That’s the whole reason we came to Toronto.”
“You’ve got to ask, but Jacques doesn’t have to answer. If he thinks it would hurt you or them, he won’t say. Are you prepared for the answer no matter what? I think hearing they’re alive in some unknown, remote place might be harder than hearing they’re dead.”
“Are you fucking crazy? Why would you say that? What on earth causes you to think it’d be easier to know they’re dead?”
“Mag, I get that you want them to be alive and have a relationship with them, but think about it. If they’ve stayed away, it’s because they think you’re safer or they’re safer. If it were easy, you’d know by now. Jacques seems to be playing his cards close to his vest. He wants to learn more about you, see that you’re safe and sane. If he knows your parents are dead, he’ll tell you. If he knows they’re alive, but you or they would be in danger if you tried to find them, he might do what he’s doing now or lie. If he doesn’t know he’ll tell you. Shit. I’m talking in circles. Bottom line, Jacques either knows or he doesn’t. But, if you ask, and I hope you do, you need to be prepared not to like the answer.”
“Sometimes I get lost when you think out loud, but I needed to hear that. Je t’aime mon doux homme.”
“Mag, I didn’t mean to make you cry. What’s going on?”
“Crooked thinking—holding on to fairytale endings. Mother and Father reunited with children and grandchildren, front-page news.”
“That’s a possibility, but whatever we find out is better than being stuck in some make-believe drama.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s pack the car so we can get outta Dodge after lunch. So weird, but before we left Detroit I had this crazy image of us rifling through books and files every time Jacques turned his head. Holy crap. Can you imagine us trying to break into the Zeno building or Jacques’ gated townhouse?”
“No way. Pure insanity.”
“Hmm, or picnicking in a serene pasture?”
Sam pulled Maggie up from her chair and gave her one of his mock, back bending theatrical kisses. When he lost his footing they both slid to the floor giggling like ten-year-olds. Neither noticed Marc standing in the door.
“Good morning, lovebirds!”
“Hey, Marc, sorry for the commotion. We got carried away planning our last day in your very hip city,” said Sam.
Marc watched Sam help Maggie to her feet then held his gaze a little too long as she leaned over to straighten the skirt of her red handkerchief-print sundress. “Glad you’re alive. I was beginning to think of you as my phantom guests. When do you hit the road?”
“Packing the car this morning so we can head out after lunch. If you’ve got time, we can settle up now,” said Sam.
Maggie heard and felt the tension between these two guys. The Maple Leaf would have been so out of sight if it weren’t for Marc. Beyond his crass ignorance and racism, there was also a creep factor. More than once Maggie felt her skin prickle when she was in the shared bathroom, convinced Marc was watching her. Sam blew it off by saying, “Marc’s so narcissistic I bet he jacks off in front of a mirror.” Maggie checked for peek holes. When she didn’t find any, she pinned it on the ‘Alford Hitchcock Factor’—a childhood spent watching Hitchcock while Issie and Uncle Cyp added their own mind-bending sound effects.
At the door, Sam said, “Sure, Marc, we’ll check with you before our next trip.” Maggie slowed her step as she approached Marc and said, “Thanks again for the coffee and muffins. It was a nice way to start the day.” Stunned by the me
asure of delight she took in not saying Marc’s name out loud, she thought, yep, immature as hell!
Gritting her teeth, Maggie hauled her suitcase up on the bed and said “Ugh. I’ll be so glad to get out of here. How long do you think Marc was listening before we saw him?”
“No idea, Mag. What were we talking about?”
“Nothing much—terrorists, bombings, a possible murder, breaking into houses and businesses.”
“Well, it’ll give him something to play with. God knows he has little else going on.”
“I guess. Do you think this will be the last time we see Jacques?”
“No idea. Where are you going with this?”
“I don’t know. I’m sad. For some reason I want to keep him close—know him better, spend time with him. I’m so messed up. Aunt Jo as my surrogate mother, Jacques as my surrogate father? What’s that about?”
“I think it’s about my sweet Maggie in search of herself and her family. Neither Aunt Jo nor Jacques have their own children, so it might work.”
“Maybe. I could do worse than a mama Jo and a papa Jacques. Maybe write a folk song about them,” laughed Maggie, singing, “my mama was a rolling Jo and papa was throwing Jacques.”
“I think someone else has done that, but it’d be a good song to dance to. Make it or break it?”
Maggie raised her eyebrows and looked at Sam sideways, as if he was the only one being corny. “Let’s boogie shoo, Dick Clark.”
Maggie and Sam were ten minutes early when they pulled up to the twelve-foot wrought-iron fence surrounding Jacques’ townhouse. The guard at the entrance recognized their Corvair and opened the gate.
Pepe was one of those stout, swarthy, muscular types. Dressed in a black short-sleeved tee shirt and black pants, he wore a white sailor cap and smoked a corncob pipe. Each time she saw him, Maggie fought an irresistible urge to call him Popeye.
“Hey, Pepe, how goes it?”
“Ah, Ms. Maggie. I thought you and Sam would be bored with this city by now. Not like Detroit with all its fancy car makers and big-time crime.”
“Pepe, Pepe. You’re too impatient. Detroit’s a lot like Toronto. Just wait. The mafia will put Toronto on the map before you know it!” chided Sam.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll get paid more money for protecting Jacques from serial eaters. How many times you been here this week for food?” growled Pepe.
Both Sam and Maggie thought Pepe must be related to Angelo. If not, they decided there must be a school of ‘curmudgeonry’ for Italian men with certain predispositions.
“Hey, Pepe, we can take you away from all this. Come to Detroit,” said Maggie.
“Ah, Ms. Maggie, I’ve had some good offers in my life but none as good as yours. Maybe next time! Stop by on your way out. I have a little something for you.”
With its stone walls, brick floors, dark wood casks, cupboards and furniture, Jacques’ kitchen looked like a wine cellar from a 17th century castle except for ceiling-to-floor French doors facing a bon vivant’s herb and vegetable garden. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling. Polished black soapstone counters boasted a stainless steel sink and held two unusual pieces of art. Next to the sink was a bright green and yellow-spotted metal tree python curled for attack; and on the counter under the cupboards, a triangular-shaped stainless-steel tray held a large, varnished greenish-white egg from a black swan. Jacques explained the snake and the swan’s egg both portend beauty and danger—one more subtle, yet both symbols of nature’s determination to be free.
“Bonjour, Charles! Are you ready to see us head back?” asked Sam.
“On the contrary, Mr. Ruivivar has never been this happy. Could you stay a few more weeks?”
“We would if we could. How long have you worked for Jacques?” asked Maggie.
“Twenty some years. I was, what do you call it . . . a stowaway on one of Mr. Ruivivar’s boats out of Cuba. Imagine my surprise when we didn’t dock in Florida. For Cubans, Florida and North America are one and the same. Mr. Ruivivar caught me looking for food in the middle of the night and made me dinner. We had a pact. If I taught him how to cook Cuban dishes, he’d hire me on as his ‘chief cook and bottle washer.’ I had no idea what that meant, but I’m here to tell you it changed my life and my name. I was born Carlos.”
“Ah, Carlos! Does he cook Cuban food?” asked Maggie.
“No. Not so big on beans and rice. He hired a French chef to teach me how to cook ‘real food.’ Now, I manage the kitchens here and at Zeno. Today, shrimp salad, tomato bisque soup and the best croissants in town. And, for desert, mousse noisette.”
“Whoa! I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Will we see you before we leave?” asked Sam.
“Probably not. We should say our goodbyes now. I’ve got to get back to Zeno for a big gala we’re hosting for the Amadeus School tonight.”
Maggie slapped her hand on the table and said, “Oh my god, that was my school!”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right.”
“You knew?”
“Not sure why I said that. I might have overheard you and Mr. Ruivivar talking about it.”
Maggie shook her head back and forth. “Hmm, I don’t remember talking about it, but maybe.”
Charles put his hands in his pockets and started to jiggle some change. “Well, got to run. It was nice meeting you both and hope you have a safe trip home.”
“Thanks, Charles. It was good meeting you, and enjoying food from both kitchens,” said Sam.
Maggie opened her arms and gave Charles a hug and said, “I hope we get to see you again.”
As Charles was leaving, Jacques walked in and Charles asked for a minute of his time. Outside the windows, with their backs to the kitchen, they leaned in to one another as if sharing a secret. Maggie saw Jacques look down and shake his head back and forth.
After a small toast with iced-tea glasses, the conversation began with the future—talk about Sam’s new job, Maggie’s teaching position, house hunting, family planning. During a pause, Maggie cleared her throat and said, “Jacques, I’ve been wanting to ask you some questions since we arrived. We’ve talked around it, but I haven’t come right out and asked. I need to do this.”
“Sure, Maggie. Whatever it is, please feel free. I’ll answer any question I can.”
“Were you involved in Anna and Raymond’s work to secede from Britain and Canada?
“I helped finance their work and provided space, equipment and manpower. So, yes, I was involved.”
“The Tribune said they were involved in ‘acts of international espionage and contraband.’ Was this true?”
“I think that depends on who’s reporting and how they interpret law. At some level, I suppose they—we—were breaking some laws, but it wasn’t for personal gain. It was because we believed Britain and Canada were imposing their will on indigenous people and French Canadians. I’d say it was a mission for them, more civil disobedience than criminal. But I’m not a lawyer.”
“And you?”
“It was also my mission.”
“When they left did you know they wouldn’t return?”
“I knew it was a strong possibility.”
“Why was it a strong possibility?”
Jacques looked up, then directly at Maggie. “Because, dear Maggie, there were a number of threats made against your parents that summer. I didn’t know if they’d make it. If they did, I was sure they’d go into hiding.”
“Who made these threats?”
“Anna and Raymond pissed off a number of powerful people, including the mafia in Britain, Canada, the States—you name it. They had many enemies because they had dug deep and discovered corruption they weren’t looking for.”
“Like what?”
“That’s all I can tell you.”
Jacques’ look conveyed a steeliness Maggie hadn’t seen before. She decided to resist familiar urges to plead, pout or argue. Instead, she chose to make the best use of the time they had left. She smiled as a thought sli
d by—Loretta with hands raised, fists pumping telling her to pick up the salt.
“Where were they heading? How would you know if they made it or not?”
“They planned to sail along the St. Lawrence Seaway. Beyond that, I don’t know. We all thought it best if I didn’t. For their sake, for everyone’s sake, I’m glad we made this pact.”
Maggie felt a heavy silence settle across her shoulders. The weight reminded her of the unasked question.
“Are they alive?”
“There’s nothing to suggest they died, but I don’t know if they escaped in another boat or were captured. Maggie, if they were captured, it’s unlikely they’re alive.”
Tears backed up in Maggie’s throat and she began coughing. Jacques brought her a glass of water and told her to sip it slowly.
Sam wiped his eyes and said, “Jacques, did Anna and Raymond make plans for Issie and Maggie?”
“Yes, of course. When they realized they might have to disappear, Anna left me a copy of their will and funds to help raise Issie and Maggie. After the court appointed Minnie and Cyp as guardians, the funds were transferred to their bank.”
“Did the funds cover our time at Amadeus?” asked Maggie.
“No. Amadeus was Anna’s brainchild. She wanted a school for girls that provided education, experience and diversity. We all invested heavily in making this happen. I was given an irrevocable lifetime privilege of selecting two girls for every new class. Anna pushed the Board to approve this twist in the bylaws to make sure you and Issie were taken care of.”
“So this escape, this boat trip down the Seaway, was planned way ahead?”
“No, Maggie. It was not planned, but it was always an anticipated exit if their lives or your lives were at risk. Your parents didn’t leave you to protect themselves; they left to protect you. This is important. Your parents loved you and Issie more than they loved anyone.”
“You didn’t say ‘or anything.’ ”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What can I do now? What if they’re alive and need our help?”
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 12