And then she climbs on the back of Gabriel’s motorcycle and presses her chest against his back. He revs up his engine and they drive off, leaving Audrey and JF standing in front of the barn by themselves.
She doesn’t even feel the cold. Gabriel’s clean blond hair blows in the wind, the way hair should. She wraps her arms even tighter around his waist, inhaling the slope of his neck. Her insides are warm.
When they reach Bruce Street, her heart sinks. She wants to keep riding. She would go anywhere with him. But he comes to a stop and Maggie reluctantly gets off.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says, trying to keep her tone light.
“Did JF try something?” he asks her.
“That’s none of your business.”
He turns to face her. “I like you, Maggie,” he says.
She doesn’t know how to respond.
“I just wanted you to know.”
“What about Audrey?”
“You’re the one I’ve always wanted.”
Her mouth goes dry. Did she hear that right?
“Your father told me to stay away from you,” he says, pulling her toward him.
“He did? When?”
“That day I came up to the attic to talk to you. Right before I left for Montreal.”
“I didn’t know.”
“So, should I?” he asks.
“What?”
“Stay away from you.”
“No . . . I mean. You don’t have to.”
He’s staring at her, unflinching. His face is so close. She leans in slightly, their noses almost touching. Her lids close, and she feels his lips on hers, lightly at first, and then with more urgency. His hand moves to the back of her neck, the other one under her chin. He is a beautiful kisser. This will be her first kiss, she decides, erasing all memory of that barbaric experience with JF.
“Maaaaaggie!”
It’s her mother. She quickly pulls away from Gabriel and looks toward her house. The kitchen window is open and she can hear her mother yelling her name into the late afternoon. “I have to go,” Maggie says.
“Meet me outside the Small Bros. building tomorrow after school,” he tells her.
Maggie nods, and he kisses her again. His tongue tastes sweet. She races to her house, not knowing what to expect and not much caring.
Chapter 7
Maggie loves watching Gabriel move through the field, tending to his corn, opening husks, pulling off tassels. If it gets too hot, he lifts his white T-shirt over his head and stuffs it into the back pocket of his jeans. She follows behind him, smiling, knowing he belongs to her now, as much as this land she loves so much.
“It’s looking good,” Gabriel says, relieved. “That cold spell didn’t kill off too many seedlings.”
He doesn’t have to explain his concerns to her. She knows corn can tolerate some frost in the early seedling stage, but they’re more vulnerable when the soil temperature plunges below freezing. This year, the cold weather dragged on well into March, causing the farmers much fretting over their crops. Gabriel kneels down on one knee and inspects the tufts of silk hanging out of the husks. A light breeze sweeps across the field, dusting it with pollen. The corn grows.
“Come,” he says.
“Where?”
He pulls her by the hand and they head deep into the field, until they’re completely swallowed by the stalks.
“Let’s get lost in here,” she says.
With school winding down and the weather finally warm, they’ve been able to spend more time together. Her father is always at work, and her mother prefers the kids to be out of the house as much as possible. Once the chores are done, Maman hardly cares where they go or what they do as long as they come running the moment her voice thunders across the field.
Maggie and Gabriel lie down side by side on their backs. Gabriel flings his arm out and she rests her head on his biceps. The leaf of a stalk tickles her thigh and she rolls closer to Gabriel. He’s twirling her hair in his fingers, and when he accidently brushes her cheek with his fingertip, she shivers.
“I love it here in the field,” she says.
“Me, too.”
She props herself up on one elbow and gazes into his face. His eyes are silvery in the sun. “Why do you have to go to Montreal all winter?” she asks him.
He looks at her strangely. “Money,” he says. “Why else?”
He’s been working at Canadair, the airplane-parts factory, in the off-season since he was fifteen. It troubles Maggie, the thought of him returning to Montreal for the winter. It’s hard for her to enjoy their time together now, to be fully present with him when the deadline looms large, casting its shadow over these precious days.
“There’s nowhere else you can work around here?”
“I don’t mind Canadair,” he says. “As factory work goes, it’s not the worst.”
“What will happen to us in the fall?” she asks him.
“It’s only June, Maggie,” he says. “A lot can happen from now till then.” He slides a strand of hair away from her eyes. “You’re so pretty,” he tells her.
“I am?”
He laughs. “You have no idea. That’s why I love you.”
She doesn’t move. Just lets his words settle over her.
“I love you, too,” she whispers.
Without another word, he rolls on top of her and they kiss for a long time. She can feel him growing hard against her thigh. Her shirt is coming undone, her bra being unfastened. She’s the one doing the unbuttoning.
They’ve never gone this far before. Her heart is racing. He pushes her skirt up and then hesitates, so she’s the one who leads his hand to her thigh. “You sure?” he breathes.
“Yes.”
In that moment, she is absolutely fearless, her worries absent. It hurts fiercely, but beneath the pain, or entangled with it, one inseparable from the other, is such excruciating pleasure, she has to cry out with every thrust. When he finishes, he collapses on top of her. His jeans and underwear are down around his ankles. His backside is wet, his hair drenched. Her arms are wrapped around his torso. Suddenly he seems so vulnerable.
They lie there like that for a long time and he stays inside her. For no reason, she starts to cry. He lifts his head, alarmed. “Why are you crying?” he asks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
“No,” she says. “I wanted to.”
“Then why are you crying?” he asks her.
“Happiness.”
“I really do think I love you,” he says.
She knows boys lie, especially for sex. But she believes him. His eyes don’t lie. His pounding heart is not lying. He drops his head back down, resting it on her shoulder. She closes her eyes and the afternoon slowly slips away.
And then as usual her mother’s voice shatters the stillness, echoing throughout the field. “Maaaaaagggggggie!”
Gabriel jumps to his feet and pulls up his pants. “You better go,” he says, sounding afraid. “She’ll kill us both with that goddamn wooden spoon of hers.”
Maggie laughs and fastens the clasp of her bra, buttons her shirt, pulls up her panties, and straightens her skirt over her bloodstained thighs.
He takes her by the hand and helps her to her feet, and they walk solemnly out into the world. The weight of it presses down on her. She’s done the very thing she’s been warned against since the onset of puberty—not just sex, but sex with a French boy. She’s given herself to him and there’s no turning back now.
She can see her mother waving the pig spoon, making wild gestures in the doorway, looking ridiculous.
“What are you doing with him?” Maman cries out, even though Maggie is still only midway up the hill. “Vas t’en!” she tells Gabriel.
“Meet me in the field tomorrow at three,” he whispers, and her heart flutters. His motorcycle is parked in a clearing by the road. He gets on, revs it up, and speeds away. They don’t even have time to kiss good-bye.
“I was reading in the field,
” Maggie says, approaching her mother. “Gabriel happened to be there. He’s a farmer, remember?”
She manages to slip past into the kitchen. There’s soup bubbling on the stove. The radio is on low, and she recognizes Tino Rossi’s voice, which her mother adores. The butter, flour, and sugar are all laid out on the counter in preparation for Maman’s Saturday baking. A pot of coffee sits on the pine table.
“Violet says she saw you on his motorcycle the other day,” Maman says.
“So?”
Thwack—the pig spoon on Maggie’s behind. “Stop it!” Maggie cries, knowing she’s too old for these beatings.
“You’re forbidden to ride on motorcycles, remember?” she says, her arm in the air, poised for another smack.
“I’m almost sixteen,” Maggie reminds her. “He’s my boyfriend, whether you like it or not.”
Her mother steps back with a strange expression on her face. “You’re just like him,” she says, shaking her head.
“Who?”
“Your father. You’re both English snobs who like to screw French Canadians.”
Maggie is stung by the remark, but it bolsters her. “I love him,” she says defiantly.
“Love him?” Maman repeats. “Who do you think you are? One of those dimwits from your romance magazines?”
Maggie’s face blazes. She looks around the room for something to throw. Maman is watching her, knowing exactly what could happen next. Maybe they’re alike in that way—the short fuse, the temper. Maggie’s eyes light on the pot of coffee.
Her mother smiles. I dare you, her dark eyes challenge. But Maggie has enough restraint not to do the thing her mother would do. Instead, she runs upstairs to her room and slams the door, worried about how her mother will retaliate.
Chapter 8
They drive past miles and miles of yellow cattail grass growing wild on the side of the road, while the Yamaska River flows alongside them in perfect sync with the speed of Gabriel’s motorcycle. It’s the beginning of summer and Maggie appreciates all of it with fresh eyes today, this scenery she can sometimes take for granted—the barns with their rusted corrugated tin roofs, the silos and the cows, the endless cornfields glinting gold in the sunshine. Everything with Gabriel seems shinier, more worthy of her attention. Every smell is more fragrant, every color more intense. She loves this boy, whose solid torso she holds on to for safety; she loves this endless road and the wind whipping her hair into her face. In front of her lie miles and miles of possibility.
Gabriel is so much more than her father’s narrow-minded caricature of French Canadians. He’ll never understand the depth and complexity of Gabriel’s heart, his loyalty. He fiercely loves Maggie, his sisters, his little niece. He would do anything for them. The other day, he beat up a guy who told Angèle she looked like an ape. And his eyes fill with tears whenever he talks about how Clémentine raised him, about their poverty and the mistreatment of the Québécois in their own province.
It hasn’t been easy for them to be a couple. Gabriel’s friends dislike Maggie. With her tartan kilts and penny loafers and her English Protestant father, she’s the symbol of all the injustices and indignities they’ve ever suffered. In their world, there are two distinct sides and no one can ever fall in between or cross over to the other side. French and English. Catholics and Protestants. Maggie, with her mixed blood and incompatible religions, will never be one of them.
Gabriel points to the sign for Sainte-Angèle-de-Monnoir and turns off. When he brings the bike to a stop along the side of the river, he turns to Maggie and says, “My mother was born here.”
“You must miss them.”
“I guess so,” he responds, tensing. He rarely talks about his parents. Every once in a while he mentions how young his father was when he died, usually in reference to his own mortality, but never more than that. Everything Maggie knows about Gabriel’s father is from town gossip.
He gets off the bike and helps Maggie off. She hands him his knapsack and he pulls out a blanket and a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag. They sit cross-legged on the blanket. He pours them each a paper cup of wine.
“What do you want to do when you grow up?” she asks him, realizing they’ve never talked about it before. “What do you want to be?”
He looks at her blankly. “Be? I don’t know. I’d run our farm if Clémentine wasn’t such a pain in the ass. I’ll probably wind up a foreman at Canadair.”
Maggie smiles, covering her disappointment.
“I know I don’t want to die with nothing,” he adds. “My father died with nothing. And he left us with nothing.”
“You could be anything,” she encourages. “You’re smart enough.”
Gabriel shrugs. “I love working the field,” he admits. “But Clémentine is in charge and she’s too bossy. She treats me like a kid.”
“Maybe you could have your own farm,” Maggie suggests.
He doesn’t answer.
“Whatever you decide, you’ll be successful,” she tells him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
They make love. Afterwards, they lie lazily under the sun for a long time, ignoring the ants crawling all over their legs.
“I pulled out,” he mentions. “So you don’t have to worry.”
She looks at him and smiles, relieved. “I’m so happy here with you,” she says.
“Mm. Me too.”
When the sun finally begins to drop and the sky fades to pink, they head back to Dunham, silent and content. Gabriel pulls over at the gas station outside of town. “There’s a rattling noise,” he explains. “I’m going to leave the bike here to get it checked out.”
As they approach the corner of Principale and Bruce Streets, walking hand-in-hand, Maggie notices a gang of kids from Cowansville High milling around in front of the Small Bros. building. Now that school is out, they mostly hang out in the street, waiting for something to happen.
Maggie spots Audrey in the middle of the pack and her heart sinks. They haven’t been close since Maggie started dating Gabriel. Audrey has a whole new clique of friends now and a new boyfriend from Cowansville High, though she’s held on to her old attitude of entitlement. As Maggie and Gabriel pass, Audrey’s boyfriend, a stocky redhead, says loud enough for Gabriel to hear, “Well, if it isn’t Maggie Hughes slumming with her Pepsi beau.”
“Oh, Barney, be quiet,” Audrey scolds, mock angry. “Ignore him, Mags.”
Maggie looks nervously at Gabriel.
“What did you call me?” Gabriel says, taking a step toward Barney.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Pepsi,” Barney says, puffing up his chest. His friends join in, egging him on. Peasoup, Pepsi.
Gabriel’s eyes get that dangerous steely look and his hands ball into fists. Maggie steps back. Before Barney even has a thought of self-defense, Gabriel’s right fist cracks into his jaw. Barney stumbles back, shocked. The Cowansville High boys encircle Gabriel and start throwing punches at him. Audrey and Maggie scream helplessly. Gabriel, dangerously outnumbered, is getting pummeled. He crouches down to deflect the barrage of blows, and then someone yells, “The peasoup’s got a knife!”
The English boys suddenly retreat and disperse, leaving Gabriel standing alone on the street, holding up his dead father’s pocket knife.
“What’s going on here?”
Maggie turns to see her father getting out of his car. He marches angrily toward them. “What is going on here?”
“This degenerate pulled a knife!” Barney cries.
Maggie’s father looks from Barney to Maggie in confusion.
“They ganged up on him—” she explains.
“He punched me in the jaw,” Barney moans, rubbing his chin. “All my friends did was help me out. Then he pulled that knife.”
Maggie’s father turns to Gabriel, who hasn’t uttered a single word in his own defense, nor seems inclined to. He makes no attempt to conceal the knife either.
“Get in the car, Maggie,” says her father.
She
looks over at Gabriel. He doesn’t meet her gaze.
“Go,” her father orders. Then, turning to Barney, he says calmly, “Son, I’m on your side, but you should know better than to taunt someone like him.”
With that, he drags Maggie to the Packard and gives her a push into the front seat. She’s so ashamed—of her father’s bigotry, of Gabriel for pulling the knife, of herself for doing nothing—she can’t even bring herself to look at Gabriel.
As she drives off with her father, though, she watches him standing there in the street, stone-faced, with the knife still clenched in his hand. His nose is bleeding, his lip swollen, his white T-shirt torn to shreds. He stays there for as long as she can see him in the rearview mirror.
Later that night, after everyone has gone to bed, Maggie hovers outside her father’s sanctuary. She watches the cigar smoke curl up from under the door and knocks tentatively.
“Come in,” he says.
She’s always loved this room. It’s such a man’s world, the very essence of her father. There are radio parts on the table and homemade radios—some finished, others mid-dissection—all over the floor. There’s a stack of empty House of Lords cigar boxes on the shelf he built, alongside all his books—Handbook for Gardeners, Operating a Garden Center, Native Trees of Canada, Dale Carnegie’s How to Stop Worrying and Start Living.
“What do you think of Petunia Colour Parade for the cover of next season’s catalogue?” he asks her.
“I like it.”
“Remember last year’s?” he says, handing her the ’48 catalogue.
She opens it and leafs through the pages.
COSMOS MANDARIN First new all double cosmos. The large bright orange flowers have as many as 40 to 50 petals, making them really double, but even more impressive is the foliage.
Sixty-four pages of single-spaced typeface. She holds it with the kind of reverence one might reserve for a precious work of art, admiring Peter’s hand-drawn diagrams of wooden pot labels, bamboo cane stakes, plant ties, and hose nozzles. “Next year I’m looking into using real photographs,” her father says. “Wouldn’t that be sophisticated?”
The Home for Unwanted Girls Page 5