Washika

by Robert A. Poirier

  The students pushed food into their mouths and, once again, molars ground against molars and all washed down with hot tea, but their hearts were not in it. Even Nicole, strutting by the kitchen entrance, failed to arouse their attention. Some of the students glanced back towards the table behind them, looking for signs, for some hint as to what they were in for. Henri looked over at Bernatchez who sat next to Armand. Bernatchez stared right back, a cold, hard stare.

  As the students were finishing up, gulping down a last cup of tea, Alphonse stood up from his place at the table and turned to face them.

  “Well, my little ducks,” he began. “I have a few things to say to you this morning.”

  The students sat quietly at their places, those closest to Alphonse turning to look at him. The cook and his daughter moved in closer, to hear what was being said.

  “Good,” Alphonse nodded towards the cook and his daughter. “I am glad that you can also hear what I have to say. I have been speaking with Armand about how things have been going since I left here two weeks ago. All of you know how Armand has worked here at the dam, almost forever. He’s seen all kinds of people come and go. This morning, he was talking to me about you guys, my little ducks, the sweep crew from Washika. Never in his life, he said, has he seen a bunch like you. Isn’t that right, Armand?”

  Alphonse turned to look at Armand. The old man sat with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped over the front of his mouth. The hands concealed the smile on his face but not the look of pride in his tired, old eyes.

  “I have known Armand a long time,” Alphonse continued. “He’s a hard man but he’s also a just man. And he can tell good men from bad almost from the first moment he sees them. Well, my little ducks, I think Armand’s hit it right once again. He told me about you this morning. He asked me to speak to you. He says that he’s not very good at such things. And so, Armand would like all of you to know that you are the best goddamn bunch of workers that he’s ever seen pushing logs into the Gens-de-Terre, and that’s what he told the boss in town this morning. And guess what, my little ducks? We’re going back to Washika just as soon as you can pack your rags.”

  The older men were surprised. They expected cheering and applause. There was not a sound. The students turned to look at Armand. As they looked into his eyes they were reminded of another old man and how he had looked at them that day when Lavigne had gone to see Alphonse and the driver of the caboose and returned with a cushion for Fred Garneau’s aching bones.

  Almost immediately, each boy stood up from his place at the table and went directly to Armand, to offer him a warm handshake and a few kind words. And then, on to Alphonse, and the cook and his daughter who had joined the lineup. From a distance it was touching to see the expression on each of the students’ faces as they went from Armand, to Alphonse, to Monsieur Laviolette and, finally, to Nicole; for each person, the students wore a different face. As they shook Armand’s hand, some looked as if they would soon break into tears while, as they faced Alphonse, they wore their usual, devilish, broad smile. Facing Monsieur Laviolette, they displayed their serious, polite smile. For the most part, the looks on all of the faces followed this pattern but, when it came to standing before Nicole, they were not the same. One might say that some of the students wore the faces of shame for all of the bad thoughts they might have had concerning the cook’s daughter. Others smiled politely and shook her hand warmly. Even François Gauthier, now recovered from his initial reaction to Nicole’s beauty and the seductive way she had looked at him that first day, smiled openly and looked into her eyes with confidence and shook her hand warmly, with his left hand covering their clasped hands. Maurice St-Jean was second from the end of the student line. He offered strong handshakes to all three men, smiling his thin smile and leaving, as usual, the impression of not having any teeth. Henri watched him closely as he stood before Nicole, the young girl he had spoken of so bitterly that first night at Cabonga. As St-Jean held out his hand, the young girl looked straight into his eyes and there were tears trickling down her cheeks. Suddenly, she lunged forward and hugged St-Jean, burying her chin between his neck and shoulder. As she did so, her hair slid slowly over her face and down her back. Henri saw that St-Jean held her close to him and caressed the hair that flowed over her back. Then, without words, Nicole and Maurice left the lineup and went into the kitchen. The cook smiled when he saw them leaving.

  “This was supposed to happen almost a year ago,” he said to Alphonse standing beside him. “Maurice was younger then.”

  “Ah yes,” Alphonse said. “Who knows how these young ones think sometimes?”

  Henri walked up to Armand. He held his hand out and looked into the old man’s eyes. Then he prayed. Let me be strong, and not be a fool here. Let me be brave and strong and not be a babbling idiot. Before he knew it, Armand held his hand tightly and, just as quickly, put his arms around Henri and hugged him warmly.

  “Merci, Henri,” he said, softly, “You have made an old man very happy here at the gap. I wish you a very good life, Henri.”

  The students stared at Henri and Armand Lafond. They had never seen two men hugging. They had mixed feelings, no doubt, but, somewhere, deep down inside, they were also just a bit envious.

  As Alphonse stood there, between Armand and Monsieur Laviolette, he smiled broadly and was genuinely happy for his crew. Some were hanging around the table talking. Others were trading jokes with Bernatchez and his deckhand. Only St-Jean was missing, off somewhere with the cook’s daughter. Things have turned out well, Alphonse thought to himself, now if only they knew what’s in store for them at Washika.

  Chapter 61

  As the Madeleine approached the dock at exactly five o’clock, the students could hear the engine slowing and then, suddenly, picking up speed as Alphonse shifted her into reverse to keep from ramming the wharf.

  “Okay, you guys!” Alphonse stuck his head out at the cabin door. “Get your mattresses and things back to your bunkhouse. You have time to go to the van. The fire cheques have arrived. But hurry, we don’t want to keep Dumas waiting.”

  The boys threw the mattresses onto the wharf, along with duffle bags and packsacks. And then began the long march, single file, up to the main sleep camp and the bunkhouse-and-office, carrying mattresses on their heads, and packsacks on their backs, with their untied boot laces trailing in the sand.

  It was good to be back. The students were cheerful as they tossed mattresses onto bunks and quickly set their things in order before rushing out to the van. The fire cheques had arrived, Alphonse had told them. They were anxious to see the amount written on the second line, just below their name. All of the cheques would be for the same amount. Perhaps Henri’s would be more, they teased. After all, he had spent a couple of hours longer than they had on the burn site.

  Once at the van, they stood in line facing the clerk. Each in turn was handed a thin brown envelope containing the fire cheque. Before opening the envelope, each student ordered soft drinks, chocolate bars and tobacco, and signed his name in the ledger. As Henri was signing his name, the clerk reached behind him.

  “Henri Morin,” he said. “Two letters for you.”

  Immediately, there was a long drawn out “oooooh!” from the guys behind him.

  “Merci monsieur,” Henri said to the clerk as he stuffed the letters into his back pocket and left with his supplies from the van.

  Henri walked quickly. He had noticed a return address on one of the envelopes but he had not read it. As he went by the cookhouse, Richard Gagnier, the cookee, waved to him from a screened window.

  Henri placed the soft drinks and chocolate bars on the orange crate bureau by his bed. He dropped the two letters onto the bed and, beside these, the plain brown envelope containing his fire cheque. Like everyone else, he wanted to see how much they had earned. He looked at the other two envelopes. On the one with the return address he read: 70 rue de la Rivière, Ste-Émilie, Québec. He felt, suddenly, just as he had felt when his
mother faced him with the results of his High School Leaving Examinations, looking so serious, and not smiling at first. For no reason that he could tell, that was how he felt upon reading the return address. Of course, he knew the address. That was where Sylvie lived. And she had written to him, even before he had. This worried him. Was she writing to tell him that it was all a mistake? Why was there always this negative feeling? Was he being a ‘have-not’ again? Was this what it was all about?

  Henri put Sylvie’s letter aside and opened the plain brown envelope. Inside was a form much like the one he had received from Monsieur Lafrance at the pay office. There were small squares with titles typed above them: Gross Salary, Provincial Tax, Federal Tax, Unemployment Insurance, Net Amount. The last of these squares attracted his attention, $420.36. They had worked long hours on the fire. The salary per hour was less than on the sweep, but they worked longer hours on the burn sites. At least they were there more hours per day than on the sweep. And, of course, they spent much time sitting, and smoking, and drinking tea on the shore of the river. Henri was satisfied. This amount and what he had saved since they began on the sweep would help pay some of his expenses at university. Papa would surely be good for the rest, maman would see to that. And there was the pay, still to come, for their work at Cabonga Dam.

  Henri picked up the two letters and left the bunkhouse-and-office. He did not want to be disturbed while he read the letter from Sylvie. And besides, what if it was bad news? He did not want the others to see him like that.

  Henri walked over the knoll and down to the wharf. He was certain that no one would be there and he could be alone with Sylvie in her letter and with what she had to say to him. The other letter, he would read later.

  He opened the envelope and took out the neatly folded pages. He looked at the date. She had written that same day, after their meeting at the fair, and their ride on the Ferris wheel. The letter began, “Dear Henri” and, from there on, Sylvie expressed her great joy at having met Henri at the fair, at how she had felt secure and frightened at the same time: frightened as they swayed on the big wheel but, warm and secure as she held onto him the whole time. Never in her young life had she felt so happy, and she knew that she would sleep very little that night after their meeting. Even her mother had been impressed with Henri, how polite and well raised he had seemed to her. Her father, of course, had made no comment. But even that was a good sign, Sylvie explained. She went on for several pages about when she had first seen Henri and how she had often thought of him. She even mentioned that day when she caught him staring at her breasts, and how he had blushed. Finally, she expressed a desire to be with him, often. She would be at the teacher’s college, only a ten-minute walk from the university. They could see each other every day if he wished. And then, she ended the letter with words that almost took his breath away. “Henri,” she wrote, “I love you. Sylvie.”

  Henri sat on the dock with his legs dangling over the edge. He could hear the waves slapping against the Madeleine’s hull but, above all, he was sure that he could hear the beating of his heart. He sat there thinking about life, his adolescent life mostly, and how Shannon had left him and how his life had changed. He remembered that time and all of the other boys his age and how easily joy fell upon them while he mourned his great loss. How easily they could slide from deception to joy, from disappointment to happiness without hardly a moment’s thought. How they could give themselves completely to merriment and song at absolutely any occasion while he, Henri Morin, seemed left out, different than the rest, unable to release that strangling hold he had placed upon his life. Was it really because of her? Or was there more to it than that? Despite his young age, had he been correct in assuming that he was, in fact, a ‘have-not’ and would always remain so? Henri thought about his life as he sat there on the wharf at Washika Bay. He thought about his parents and how fortunate he was to have them, and, now, Sylvie who wanted him to be part of her life. That did not sound much like a ‘have-not’ to him. He thought about this for a long time before putting Sylvie’s letter back into its envelope. He turned to the other envelope. It did not seem important now. He read the address on the envelope to be sure that it was, in fact, for him. He could not imagine who would be writing to him. Even his mother would have included a return address. And besides, it was not the beautiful, flowing letters that he had seen his mother form with her gold-tipped fountain pen. His name had been written with choppy, broken letters, most probably with a ballpoint pen. Henri tore open the envelope and withdrew the lined, single page. At a glance he realized that the letter was from his best friend, David Greer.

  The letter began, cheerfully enough, at first. David inquired if his buddy had finally gotten over his misadventure with Francine Villeneuve and, not to worry, there would be other occasions if only he could stay sober long enough. Henri smiled, sheepishly, as he recalled how badly he had behaved at the hotel room in Ste-Émilie. Or was it simply, as he had explained to Sylvie, that he was just too drunk?

  Then the letter took a sudden, serious, turn. “By the time you get this letter, Morin,” he wrote, “I’ll be well on my way to Alberta. I dropped in to say good-bye to mom yesterday and then packed my bags and started hitchhiking west. One of the fellows on the cruise comes from there, from Red Deer, Alberta. He says that there’s lots of work out that way. I’ll work there a while and save up some and maybe find a vet school somewhere in the province. So that’s it, old buddy. I just can’t stand the old man anymore. Got to start out on my own. I feel sorry for mom, though. All the best at university, Henri. And try to stay sober with the co-eds. I’ll be in touch as soon as I get an address of sorts. He signed the letter, your old buddy, Greer.”

  Henri sat there for what seemed to be a long time. He sat staring at the water below, how the setting sun’s reflection moved with each passing wave. In that time, he saw his long-standing friendship with David Greer go by him: the fishing trips and long treks in his father’s wood-canvas canoe, the hikes into the bush on snowshoes and those cold, cold nights camped under a large spruce tree with snow sliding into their sleeping bags, their first taste of alcohol, and the crazy plans they made up for later in their lives. As he held David’s letter in his hand, waving wildly as a strong breeze struck up suddenly from the west, Henri could see no further. It was the end of something. He thought of David, standing along a highway with his pack on the ground beside him, holding his thumb out at the sound of a car, or a big semi rolling towards him and, then, feeling a gush of wind moving past him. He could see David standing there, a rejected look on his face, and spitting on the pavement.

  Henri’s thoughts of David were suddenly interrupted by the dull sounds of the supper bell coming from beyond the knoll. Henri hurried, stuffing the letters into his back pocket and running up the path to the bunkhouse-and-office. He did not want to keep Dumas waiting.

  Chapter 62

  The older men at Washika had never seen anything like it. Even beyond the fact that the superintendent, Simard-Comtois, was already seated at the table when they arrived. The men entered the cookhouse in a state of shock. On the tables were red and white-checkered table cloths and, at intervals of three feet or so, stood tall lighted candles in glass candlesticks. The men walked slowly between the tables, not believing their eyes. They glanced at each other, all sharing one common thought; Dumas had finally cracked.

  Next to enter the cookhouse were the students, preceded by Alphonse Ouimet. Alphonse nodded to Simard-Comtois and went on to join the older men at their table.

  “See what I mean, Alphonse,” Percy Dumont commented before Alphonse even had time to sit down. “This is the limit.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Alphonse smiled at the tractor driver. “Looks pretty good to me.”

  The students looked around them as they entered the cookhouse, wide smiles growing instantly on their faces. They were still feeling the effect of Dumas’s words of welcome as each student handed him his meal ticket, how he welcomed each one of the
m with an open smile and a warm hand on their shoulder. Their hearts were still glowing as they stepped over the doorsill and into the decorated cookhouse. They did not know what to think. Actually, they did not want to think. They were happy to be back. They wished only to savour that moment for as long as it would last.

  Dumas entered the cookhouse, closing the screen door behind him. He walked to the centre, to stand between the four tables as he always did. He stood there, beaming, smiling at the students, nodding politely to the opposite table where Simard-Comtois sat.

  “Before we start supper,” Dumas spoke loudly, holding his hands clasped behind his back. “Monsieur Simard-Comtois would like to say a few words to you.”

  The superintendent nodded, one would say he even smiled towards the cook, a man who had made his life difficult throughout that summer, and many summers before that.

  “Merci Dumas,” the superintendent said as he got up from the bench and stood facing the students. “I have some very good news for you boys this evening.”

  A sudden groan erupted from the students’ table.

  “Hang on, you guys,” Dumas interrupted. “Listen first. Believe me.”

  They could not believe their ears: Dumas, defending Simard-Comtois. The students turned to look at Alphonse, for a sign of sorts. Alphonse stared right back at them, with the largest smile they had ever seen on his face.

  “I can understand,” Simard-Comtois continued. “I know that it hasn’t been easy. I have just two things to say to you. First, as you know, you boys have been the first group of student workers that we’ve ever had here. We were a little worried, I can tell you. We had no idea what it would be like having a large group of young students working here for the summer. Well, all I can say, and it gives me great pleasure to do so, is that we’ve all been pleasantly surprised. You’re a fine group of young men, good workers too according to Alphonse, and we’ll certainly miss you when you leave Washika. And that brings me to my second point. This’ll be our last supper together. You’ll be leaving for Ste-Émilie in the morning as the sweep officially ended today. I wish all of you good luck in your future occupations.”