“Is it very far to walk?” he said.
“What are you talking about, Henri?” Lavigne’s voice was beside him.
Henri smiled at the barmaid. He was sure she understood. He could see it in her eyes.
“Is it very far?” he repeated. He tried very hard to remain focused on her eyes.
“Where to?” the girl laughed.
“Your place.”
“You mean, where I live?”
“Yes. You have an apartment?”
“Yes. About five minutes from here.”
“Good. Could I take you home later? Maybe we could talk a little. You know.”
The barmaid laughed. Henri grinned and almost fell backwards trying to stand up straight. He passed his hand over his mouth. His forehead felt wet and cold. He did not look at himself in the mirror.
“I’d better be going,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Two-thirty,” Lavigne said. “Listen Henri, you can’t go home like that. Come with me.”
“Oh yeah? Where to?”
“Your friend, Greer, he has a room upstairs. You can sleep there for a while.”
“David?”
“Yeah. David Greer. There’s a party on after closing. Come on, I’ll take you up.”
“Sure, okay. But wait, I want to say hello to Dumas and the nurse.”
“They’re gone. Almost an hour now. Besides, you already talked to the nurse.”
Henri was suddenly almost sober. He looked straight into Lavigne’s eyes.
“You don’t remember?”
“No. Was I really bad?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh yeah. So, what happened?”
“Nothing. She kept trying to speak to you but you kept turning your back on her. Funny. There she was, trying to speak to you. She even had her arms wrapped around your shoulders. And you, with your head down all the time and saying over and over, ‘No, I’m never going fishing. I’m never, never going fishing.’”
“And then?”
“Then what?”
“What happened after that?”
“Dumas came around then. It was him squeezed cold water on your neck. He paid me a beer and asked me to take care of you. After that they left.”
Henri stood up straight, holding on to the edge of the bar. He took several deep breaths. That always helped when he felt weak or if he thought there might be an accident with the beer rising in his throat.
“And Sylvie Lanthier? Was she here too?”
“No. I told you before,” Lavigne replied.
What?”
“I haven’t seen her all night.”
“Oh.”
There was that at least. Henri felt better. He drank a little from the bottle. He waved to the barmaid who was talking to her waiter. She did not return the wave. Henri summoned all of his strength and cleared his head of all other thoughts and started to walk away from the bar.
“Hey!” Lavigne said. “Where you going?”
“You said there’s a party, didn’t you?”
Chapter 40
They were all there. As Henri and Lavigne entered the room, André Guy let out a war whoop and was soon joined by Pierre Morrow and Gaston Cyr. Only St-Jean was missing.
“Where’s Maurice?” Lavigne inquired.
“Busy,” David Greer replied, nodding towards the bedroom door. “You next?”
“You bet. How’s the beer?”
“Lots.”
Lavigne went into the bathroom. The lower portion of the bathtub was covered in crushed ice with only the tops of the beer bottles showing. Lavigne brought out two bottles, sweating from the ice and the heat of the room. He opened them using the handle of the dresser drawer and handed one of the bottles to Henri.
“Want to go after me, Henri?” he said.
“Where’s that?”
“Do you want to go after me? Or would you like to go first? It’s okay with me.”
“Go where?”
“I didn’t tell you? I thought you knew. Remember Francine Villeneuve?”
“Sure.”
“Well, she’s in the next room.”
“Francine Villeneuve. You mean Francine Villeneuve who used to live next door to your place?”
“That’s her. Look, if you want, I’ll let you go first.”
“No, that’s okay. You go ahead.”
Lavigne grinned. He tilted back his bottle and swallowed several times. When he had finished he tossed the bottle into the empty case on the floor.
“Ready for another?” he said.
“No, I’m okay,” Henri replied. He watched the door to the adjoining room. Who was Francine with now? Did she still look the same? Actually, he had never seen her naked. It had been dark in the car and, then, she had not really taken all her clothes off. The clothes had just been slid over and up here and there so he could touch her. He remembered how soft she was, that one hair near the nipple of her breast, and how she had begun to shudder and let out little puppy moans when he had moved his hand up in between her legs. But she had a steady boyfriend not long after that and, shortly afterwards, her family moved to the Capital and he never saw her again.
Lavigne opened a window. It was warm in the room and most of the boys sat on the bed with their shirts off, smoking and playing poker, and waiting their turn. David Greer sat in a bright orange lazy boy, drinking from a large pewter mug. He kept changing the station on the radio beside the chair and, whenever he found a good rock ‘n’ roll tune, he would turn the volume up full. Henri sat on the floor, next to the lazy boy.
“How is she?” he said. David winked and raised his mug in recognition.
“How is she?” Henri repeated.
David turned down the volume. “What’s that?” he said.
“She pretty hot?”
“You bet.”
“How long she been up here?”
“This afternoon.” David laughed. He leaned back in the chair and put the mug to his lips. The beer leaked out over his chin and down inside his shirt.
“You mean, when I met you at the bar earlier, she was up here all that time?”
“Yup”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were too busy hustling smiley then. And besides, she was out cold. We went on a bit of a bender together this afternoon. I just woke up when you saw me down at the bar.”
“How is she anyway?”
“Go in and find out. Christ, you want me to take you in by the hand?”
“It’s just that I used to know her and everything.”
“So did I, old buddy. So did I.”
The door to the adjoining room opened and Maurice St-Jean came out carrying his shirt in his hand. The fellows on the bed gave a cheer and all of them threw their cards onto the centre of the bed.
“Next,” St-Jean grinned. He went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
The boys looked at each other. Lavigne got up off the bed.
“Everyone go yet?” he said.
The fellows nodded. All had been there and back.
“Maybe Morrow,” André Guy said. “He was only three minutes. Maybe he wants to go a second round.”
The boys laughed. Morrow blushed and tilted back his beer. He drank quickly and then began coughing violently.
“What about you, Henri?” Lavigne said.
“Go ahead,” Henri said. He leaned against the wall and watched as Lavigne entered the dimly lit room and closed the door behind him. He had hoped to get a glimpse of her but he had not been able to see inside. He would ask St-Jean about her and, if she was all right by St-Jean, he would be next.
Henri lay sideways on the blue carpet. He was unable to stay sitting upright for long, even leaning against the wall. As he lay there, smelling the musty carpet, he could hear the rock ‘n’ roll music and the boys swearing, someone opening a bottle on the dresser drawer handle and cheering at the end of each hand and then the slapping sound of the cards being shuffled once
again.
Chapter 41
The first thing was the smell of roast turkey. Henri raised his head off the pillow and the pain shot from his forehead across his skull to the back of his head. He tried to concentrate: to not smell the turkey and not move his head on the pillow. But the odour of turkey fat bubbling around the browning bird lingered and haunted him. He was afraid that there would be an accident. Just the thought of vomit soaked blankets on his bed was too much. His mother would not accept that. Slowly, Henri slid his feet from beneath the blankets and angled them downwards until they touched the floor. He stood up, letting the blankets fall back upon the bed, and for a brief moment, he held on to the bureau. He tried not to think about the turkey and how the sides of his head seemed to expand with each beat of his heart. If he did not think of these things, it was not so bad. Now, all he had to do was make it to the bathroom without moving a muscle or opening his mouth.
He made it in time. Just. He turned the faucet on full so that no one could hear. After he had cleaned up the carpet around the toilet bowl, Henri sprayed the room with lilac from a purple can. He lay on his back on the carpet and closed his eyes. It was cool on the floor. He listened to the water running into the sink. A chill came over his chest. The sound of running water had changed and he felt its coldness on his legs as the water flowed over the edge of the basin onto the floor. He turned the faucet off and watched as the water spiraled and disappeared into the blackness of the drainpipe. He reached behind him and turned the cold water on full. The loud rain shower noise of water striking the walls of the metal shower was what he needed. He went over to the toilet bowl once again. Kneeling down in front of the bowl, Henri tickled the back of his throat with an index finger. The liquid was a pale yellow and had a bitter taste but, afterwards, he felt much better.
He showered, combed his hair and brushed his teeth a second time. He looked in the mirror at the red veins on the whites of his eyes. By the time he had dressed and picked up his clothes from the night before, which he had found in a pile on the floor by his bed, Henri was not feeling too badly. If he did not have to enter the kitchen and face his parents and smell the turkey fat bubbling in the oven, he would not do badly at all.
“Hurry Henri,” his mother called. “We’ll be late. Papa is waiting in the car.”
“Yes maman. Is there any coke left in the fridge?”
“Henri! Your teeth. There’s some nice cold orange juice. But Hurry!”
“Yes, Yes. I’m coming.”
Henri opened the refrigerator door and felt its coolness on his face, but seeing a half-eaten dish of rice pudding with raisins made him feel hot all over. He closed his eyes and held his head down as he brought out the pitcher of orange juice. He drank one glass and filled a second. There was an acrid taste in his mouth and, after the second glass, the tangy freshness of the toothpaste vanished. The sour taste of bile seemed to override any efforts he made to mask his early morning vomit.
Outside, they were waiting for him in the car. Céline and Gilbert were in the back and his mother sat close to her husband, leaving a place for Henri. The motor was running and the passenger door had been left open. Henri got in and closed the door. He lowered the window and tried not to breathe, or look at his mother, or the pavement moving past him as his father drove them away from their home.
“You were very late, Henri,” his mother said.
“Yes, I suppose.”
“And what does that mean?” she turned to look at him.
“Maman, leave him alone, won’t you,” Henri’s father interrupted her. “Can’t you see he’s feeling badly?”
“Yes, well I still think that it wasn’t an hour to be coming home. And the noise those boys made. And, Henri, tell me, who is Francine?”
“Oh, just a girl we met.” So, that was it. The fellows had driven him home. And Francine. What happened with her? Had he gone into the room after Lavigne? Or was it before Lavigne? And how did they bring him home? None of them had a car.
“Maman!” Céline cried. “Make Henri close the window.”
“What’s the matter, my pet? Oh, look at your hair. Henri, close the window.”
“It’s warm, maman.” Henri spoke without opening his mouth. He looked out at the pavement. He stared at the pavement up ahead but never just below the side of the car.
“Just a little, Henri.” His mother leaned over the seat, combed the little girl’s hair back and replaced the pink barrettes.
Henri rolled the glass halfway up and leaned his head against it. The pavement on Chemin de Notre-Dame was old like cobblestone and the vibrating window glass made his head ache even more. He wondered, as they drove on the hot, black pavement, why they bothered to drive to a church at the other end of town when their house was almost directly in front of the Église de St-Germain. But it was his mother’s church, where she had attended mass as a young girl and where she was married and where, no doubt, her funeral mass would be said. Henri’s father had no special church of his own. He drove them all to St-Exupéry’s every Sunday. He led them up towards the front of the church, sat on the outside next to the aisle, furnished all of them with collection money, and hardly ever fell asleep during the service. There had been an understanding between Albert Morin and his wife, a pact made earlier in their married life. He would never complain or comment on his wife’s devotion to the church if she would refrain from criticizing his Saturday morning visits to La Cabane where he shared a few quarts with his friends and played shuffleboard and told lies about his fishing trips. It was a wonderful arrangement and meant the end of all family troubles caused by Monsieur Morin’s love of ale.
When they reached St-Exupéry’s Henri saw his friends standing around the parked cars in front of the church. They were leaning against the hood of a grey Chevrolet and smoking. Both Lavigne and David Greer were wearing sunglasses.
“Maman,” Henri said. “I’ll be there in a minute. I want to talk to the guys. Okay?”
“You won’t be sitting with us?”
“Maman!”
“Oh, all right. But don’t be talking during mass. Remember how Father Landry stopped the mass on account of that young Lavigne boy.”
“Yes maman. Don’t worry.”
Henri lit a cigarette as he walked over towards his friends. The cigarette tasted different. It smelled like La Tanière, and beer. He could still smell the odour of vomit on his fingers. Perhaps it was just lingering in his nose.
“Hey Morin!” Lavigne smiled. “How you feeling this morning?”
“Not bad. You?”
“Very best. You’re looking better. Eh Maurice? What do you think?”
“At least he’s walking,” St-Jean grinned.
“Francine’s really pissed about you, Henri,” Lavigne said.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t remember?”
“A bit vague,” Henri lied.
“After I’d finished,” Lavigne began. “You were sleeping on the floor. I woke you up and you went in with Francine. Not long after, we hear her yelling for you to get off and screaming for David.”
“Ah yeah?” Henri said. It was all he dared to say. Already he had said too much. He knew Lavigne and how well he could handle his beer and still remember all the details the next day. He also knew how he loved to add new ones of his own.
“You remember going into the room, don’t you?” Lavigne looked at the others.
“Sure. I remember that.”
“And after?”
“Well, not too much. In fact, nothing at all.”
“Okay Gaston, he’s suffered enough,” St-Jean said. He moved in between Henri and Lavigne. He put his hand on Henri’s shoulder.
“You’re not such a bad guy, Henri,” he said. “So we’ll tell you how it all happened.”
“Don’t forget about the pants,” Lavigne interrupted.
“It’s true,” St-Jean continued. “You went in after Gaston. Not long after, two or three minutes maybe, we hear Francine screami
ng. David went in first and we could hear him laughing and Francine yelling at him and, finally, we all went in. And there you were, with your pants down to your knees and your shoes still on, and lying across Francine’s naked body and snoring like you do at Washika.”
“Did you at least have time to get it in, Henri?” Morrow laughed.
“I wouldn’t talk if I was you,” Lavigne said. “Just wait until the doctor gets at you.”
“I’ll be all right in a couple of days,” Morrow said. “It’s a little better already.”
“What’s the matter with him?” Henri asked.
“He got a good one off of Francine,” Lavigne began. “Should see it, Henri. Blood coming off the end and everything.”
The church doors were open and the boys, alone among the parked cars, could hear the organ music.
“We’d better get in,” Gaston Cyr warned. “Come on, Pierre, let’s go.”
Gaston Cyr and Pierre Morrow left the group, followed by André Guy who had said nothing all morning.
“It’s true then?” Henri said. “About Pierre, I mean.”
“Sure, we all saw it,” Lavigne said. “He showed everybody the bleeding, he was so scared.”
“It was his first,” St-Jean added. “And he was in such a hurry. Poor Francine, must have hurt her too. Probably he ripped something.”
“Needn’t worry about Francine,” David Greer spoke up. “She may be a whore but she’s clean at least.”
Henri felt sorry for Francine. It made him feel bad to hear David call her a whore. She had shared an evening with them. So what if she was naked, and caressed and made love to them? Was that so wrong? What harm had she done to them?
“She’s not a whore,” Henri said.
“She’s a hundred and fifty dollars richer this morning, lying in my bed, in my hotel room, eating breakfast on my bill and taking the bus back to the Capital tonight at my expense,” David replied. “That doesn’t make her Joan of Arc, does it?”
Henri had forgotten about the money. He had paid his share like the rest of them. He had paid only to drop his trousers and fall asleep across her naked body. He could not even remember seeing her naked. Henri felt cheated somehow. Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt sorry for her. He didn’t know why but he knew deep down that he had been raised that way. That there was some good in every person and, if only the bad showed, then there must be a damned good reason for that.
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