Dear Diary, I'm In Love

by John A. Broussard

  Renée turned to see Monique shrinking back. Roger caught on before Renée did. “I guess hearses don't usually pick up riders in Halifax. You have to be specially prepared to ride in them.” He guffawed, slid out from behind the wheel and went off to see his brother. Without another word, Monique started off in the direction of Françoise's house. Renée wondered how far she'd get and stopped wondering when Gregoire Lozier, the mailman serving the district, made a U-turn to stop by her.

  Even from more than a hundred feet away, Renée could tell a ride in the mail van was acceptable. Gerard then did something Renée thought him incapable of. He got out, opened the passenger door for Monique and even helped her in. The truck started off slowly in the direction of Françoise's house.

  Renée didn't see Monique again until early the following morning, when she was wearing much more sensible shoes and was walking the beach toward where the men were getting ready to launch their boats for the day's fishing. Renée hurried as she saw Monique gravitate toward André. She didn't catch the first part of the conversation, but she overheard some of what Monique was saying to an all too attentive André.

  “.…in Halifax. My father owns a half-dozen trawlers. This bay,” she made an expansive gesture which seemed to include the entire coast line, “wouldn't be able to hold them. When they come back in, each boat has enough fish to fill a railroad car.

  Renée didn't stay to listen to any more. Glancing back to see if André would call to her, it soon became obvious he was much too absorbed in Monique's description of fishing in Halifax to even note Reneé's departure.

  Saturday was one of the more important days in Tauntish. This year, Pugawa, the rugby rivals, were coming and the community would be crowded with visitors. That and the dance Saturday night would bring everyone out. Pugawa was an inland farming community, and the young farmers were ordinarily more than a match for the more sedentary fishermen. This year, with several strong players—André included—the Tauntishers were expecting a more favorable outcome than usual.

  Renée, accompanied by a half-dozen of her younger siblings, was joining the crowd that had set off early for the field—the Boucher pasture cleared of its cow and her calf for the occasion. She skirted Micmac Grove where poison ivy grew lush, crossed the Robichaud field and herded her charges through the pasture gate to where the rugby teams had already gathered along with some early-rising spectators. The players' voices raised in friendly joshing carried across the field.

  Renée's ears perked up as she heard André's name. “Hey, Theriault, that lady from Halifax has a crush on you for sure.” Another voice. “Old man Grenier will probably give you one of his trawlers as a dowry.” Then Georges Robichaud's familiar hoot. “Hey Captain Theriault, will you still remember your old friends here in Tauntish?”

  Renée didn't want to hear anymore. She steered the children toward the stands set up for the occasion, joining the newcomers who were rapidly filling the seats. >From the corner of her eye she could see Monique, Jean-Claude and Françoise approaching. Saturday didn't seem as promising as it had seemed earlier in the week.

  While both teams played hard, the game was always good-natured. Though Dr. Thibodeau stood by in case of injuries, there had been only a very rare broken bone in past encounters for him to attend to. Today, other than a few bruises, the event was noted chiefly for Tauntish's victory. The crowd cheered and, buzzing with plans for the evening's dance and for hospitality to the Pugawa visitors in the meantime, began to disperse.

  Ordinarily, Renée would have cut André out of the pack and persuaded him to accompany her and the children back home, which would have called for a round of lemonade, and mounds of the cookies Mamam Phaneuf was famous for. Then maybe some time on the porch swing, with Renée doing most of the talking.

  But today was different. Monique had rushed out to the field immediately after the last play, and Renée could see her commiserating with André over the bruise under his eye and passing a soft finger over it as though there was some magic healing power in her touch. The most upsetting part was the silly grin Renée could see on André's face.

  Well then, tonight would be different. Renée had already planned to go all out, but now the plan included wearing the special dress she had been saving for the trip to Sydney, the trip she had envisioned as part of their honeymoon.

  The community hall filled quickly. As was to be expected in an Acadian village, there were many more children than adults, but the infants were soon bedded down in the back of the hall. The older children were sent out to supervise the raucous play of the younger ones under the bright harvest moon and newly installed floodlights.

  Renée was not the only one totally unprepared for Monique's entrance. There was no question but that the startling, armless, red silk dress—cut perilously low in the front—was definitely not something sewn to a pattern by her mother. Its quality indicated a professional hand and several fittings to achieve the glued-on look. But interest in the apparition quickly dissipated, as the young couples, engrossed in their own concerns, became impatient to begin the evening's entertainment. Roger Gagnon was the self-appointed supervisor of the record player and, goaded by several of the other men, put on a platter half-an-hour before the usual time. The couples rapidly took their places, while urging later arrivals to complete the squares.

  Renée knew Monique would try to corral André, and she had made up her mind to feign indifference. She needed all her effort to do so, since Monique went above and beyond the usual in her pursuit of André. Once the square dances had begun, the progression brought quick changes of partners. Renée was not the only one appalled to see Monique throw the lines into confusion in her attempts to maintain a place facing André whenever a progressive dance came on calling for quick changes of partners.

  Renée stayed out of the second dance, retreating to where some of the older women were watching. The conversation included a few uncomplimentary remarks about the “lady” from Halifax, softened solely because of Françoise Lemieux's presence. It then shifted to everyday matters—the latest lying-in, the prospects of a new fish cannery up the coast, the planned decorations for tomorrow's Sunday mass.

  The last item brought a moan from Françoise. “My rheumatism is about to kill me. I know it's my turn to decorate the altar tomorrow, but I just won't be able to do it.”

  Since it was always considered a privilege to do the altar decorations, a privilege wielded exclusively by the older women of the parish, it wasn't surprising to have Anne Boucher immediately break in. “No matter Françoise, I can do it. There's a new patch of lovely green leaves I've been intending to harvest when it came my turn. I'll just do it sooner. Don't you worry.”

  It was surprising to hear a young voice say, “No, no, Mrs. Boucher. I'll do it for Aunt Françoise.” Several pairs of eyes looked up at the source of the voice. Monique was still flushed and breathless from the last dance, but she continued on, insisting it was only right for a relative to take up the burden Françoise could no longer carry. Though Monique might not have noticed it, the others were well aware that Anne Boucher—someone few in Tauntish would ever cross—was having difficulty containing her anger at this casual usurpation of her role.

  While the mutual protests continued among the women, a loud murmur was coming from the group of older men at the other end of the hall. Jean-Claude had done the unpardonable, bringing a flask with him to the dance and passing it around to the young men. Drinking was accepted in the community, but it was part of the meal—a little wine, and an occasional beer. Hard liquor, other than brandy for medicinal purposes, was considered a vice, and a city vice at that. It was most unwelcome at the Saturday night dance where it could provoke quarrels when an atmosphere of fun and entertainment was supposed to prevail.

  While Renée was trying to think of some way to leave gracefully, Monique removed a phonograph record from a large canvas purse she had brought, and announced a new dance: “The Swing.”

  The sight of Monique in
André's arms, as the first dancers out on the floor, provided Renée with the final push that sent her rushing out of the hall in tears, out through the moonlit night and back to her home. It was only after a half-hour of misery that her head cleared, her decision firmed, and she resolved to fight back. There just had to be some way to keep the intruder from capturing the prize Renée had been working toward since childhood.

  Renée did have some advantages. Not a rich father, not the temptation of giant fishing trawlers, not a college education, just a clear understanding of what was expected of a woman in Tauntish. Up early the next morning, dressing for mass, Renée was absolutely convinced Monique would overdo it. Probably another silk dress, inappropriate for a dance, downright sacrilegious for a mass. Cranky old Father Duclos would probably denounce her from the pulpit. He had been known to do no less when he thought an erring parishioner was not giving Christ due deference.

  Renée got up at dawn, planning to be there to see what she knew would be another early comer with bare arms and dressed to the nines. Since Monique was going to decorate the altar, she might very well be there when Renée arrived. She wasn't.

  Renée was the first one, soon to be joined by others outside the church—all women. No sign of Monique. As the hour approached, one of the women pushed open the door. Her sudden “Oh, my God!” brought the others rushing to see Tauntish's second apparition in two days.

  The decorations were absolutely beautiful. Branches of glossy green leaves, with small white berries, festooned the simple altar. The Tauntish church had never had such lush ornamentation. And everyone knew, even from the distance of the church's entrance, that no green plant could be so lovely except for one—poison ivy.

  Mass was delayed while several of the men, including André, hurried home for heavy jackets and gloves to dispose of the offerings. Dr. Thibodeau arrived in the meantime to announce he had used up his entire supply of calamine lotion, and that Monique had left with Jean-Claude for Sydney and the hospital. “She looked like a swollen-faced, pink ghost, after I finished painting her with the lotion. She'll survive, but she'll be itching for a week. The darn fool must have harvested half the plants in Micmac Grove.”

  If Monique's condition was slow to heal that next week, there were other wounds in the village which rapidly closed—leaving no scars. Renée was talking to Anne Boucher and Maman Thibodeau, happily announcing the coming publishing of the banns on the following Sunday. Maman was still wondering how the lady from Halifax could have made such an incredible mistake.

  Very quietly, Anne said, “She asked me after the dance where there were nice green branches she could cut for decorations.”

  ____________________

  END