Washika

by Robert A. Poirier

  Not many heard Simard-Comtois’ good wishes for the future. The cheers that came from the students’ table drowned out the superintendent’s words. The man smiled proudly and sat down. When, finally, the cheering had ceased, Dumas looked at them, more intently than he ever had in the past. He held his hands clasped in front of him as his face broke into another of his great smiles.

  “Okay, Richard,” he said, glancing towards the kitchen entrance.

  Richard Gagnier entered the dining area carrying a large metal tray with more than a dozen small glasses filled almost to the brim with white wine. Richard made several trips to the kitchen for more of these glasses until everyone in the cookhouse held a glass of iced wine in his hand. Dumas stood at the centre of the room. He held his glass up at head level.

  “To the students from the Collège de Ste-Émilie,” he said loudly.

  When everyone had emptied their glasses, Dumas nodded towards the kitchen doorway. Richard returned with three bottles of the white wine. But he was not alone. Now was to be the greatest surprise of all. Nothing like it had ever occurred in a lumberman’s camp, much less in a lumberman’s cookhouse. As the cookee returned with more wine, he was followed by a woman. The woman wore a long, floor-length dress, a light green like her eyes, and her long brown hair flowing straight down to the small of her back. She looked straight into the cook’s eyes as she entered the room.

  Dumas Hébert extended his hand towards the woman. He cleared his throat and looked back to the older men behind him, and then to the students, and the men sitting opposite them.

  “Now it is my turn to say a few words,” Dumas began. “Some of you here have known me a long time. You know that I never have trouble saying what is on my mind. Is that not right, André?”

  The superintendent smiled. Light chuckles could be heard coming from the older men. “I am not always easy,” the cook continued. “I know that. I always try to do my best but sometimes, as you know, I can be difficult. I believe, now, that it is all about how you see life and when you see life as I have seen it, you cannot be generous or love people very much. But things can change. I did not believe it, at first. Some events occur that can change how you see life. I believe that now because it has happened to me. I know that some of you are thinking that I have taken to drink. Others, perhaps, are convinced that I have finally gone mad. It is none of these, believe me. I wish, now, to introduce you to the future Madame Dumas Hébert, the woman who has saved my life. Lise Archambault, our nurse here at Washika, has accepted to become my wife, my partner in life. We will be married in Ste-Émilie on October twenty-third. And, of course, you are all invited to the wedding.”

  The applause was accompanied by loud cheering from the students and, spontaneously, all stood up from the plank benches to form a single line, to congratulate the cook and his beautiful fiancée.

  It was a most happy gathering of people that evening at Washika Bay, along the shores of the Cabonga. The older workers who had known Dumas those many years were relieved to hear that the man had not, in fact, gone mad or turned to drink. They knew well how empty his life had been since the sudden death of his beloved Bernadette. It had been a difficult birth and both his young bride and their newborn son had perished. All of that had happened more than twenty years ago, twenty years of torment for the cook. But now, that was past.

  The students were, of course, surprised to hear that their time at Washika had come to an end. They were overjoyed to hear of the upcoming marriage of Dumas Hébert and Lise Archambault. But, as they sat at the table, eating supper finally, and sipping on the rest of their wine, they looked around them, at the older men, at the scalers sitting at the table across from them, at Monsieur Simard-Comtois. There were mixed feelings. Not sadness, really. It was more like the end of something.

  Chapter 63

  For some, the end of the sweep at Washika also meant an end to long-term friendships. Some would be leaving Ste-Émilie to attend university in the Capital. Others would be staying on in town, attending trade schools, or working at the town mill. There were some who would even be leaving Québec. And so, that evening, after the surprising events at supper, the boys visited each other’s rooms, exchanging mailing addresses and sharing plans for their future lives.

  In the bunkhouse-and-office, all was quiet. André Guy had left to visit with his new friend, François Gauthier. Seated at a small table next to the oil space heater, Maurice St-Jean struggled with pencil and paper, striving desperately to find the right words. The letter had to be finished by early morning of the next day, as that was when Jean-Luc Desrosiers, the inspector of sweeps, was heading down to Cabonga Dam. Maurice had a great deal to say in so little time. Much had happened in the past year and he wanted Nicole to know about that, and how he felt about her, truly.

  Pierre Morrow, Gaston Cyr, and Lavigne had also left the bunkhouse-and-office to spend time with other students in the main sleep camp. That left St-Jean at the table, writing, and Henri Morin stretched out on his bunk.

  Henri was thinking of Sylvie. Perhaps, he too should be busy writing. But he would be in town by tomorrow afternoon. There would be no mistake this time. He would call her as soon as he arrived. And he would speak to his parents about her. Maybe on Saturday morning, his father would take him down to the tavern. There they would talk about him and maman and how it was back when they first met. Henri was no longer feeling like a ‘have-not.’ He would speak to his father about that as well.

  “Hey Maurice,” Henri called from his bed. “You decided to write a book?”

  “Don’t mention it.” St-Jean dropped the pencil. He reached for his tobacco and began to roll a cigarette. “You can’t know what it’s like. I know what I feel, I think. But I don’t want to make mistakes. I don’t want to say the wrong things.”

  “That’s for Nicole?” Henri nodded towards the pages on the table.

  “Yes. I’ve been writing the same page since after supper.”

  “I didn’t know that you knew her before. A long time?”

  “I suppose. But it did not go well. Her good looks, and me jealous all the time.”

  “And now?” Henri had never known jealousy. He knew about love lost. He wondered if the two were the same.

  “It’s okay now. I’m sure of that,” St-Jean replied. “It took almost a year for me to learn. Even then, I wasn’t sure. Seeing her at Cabonga like that, all the guys wanting her. Something happened then. I can’t explain it. Maybe it was Armand and how he treated us, or Alphonse, or even our whole summer here at Washika. All of a sudden I could see how crazy it all was. I was such a fool, you know. All Nicole wanted was to be with me, no one else. I couldn’t see it then.”

  “Maurice,” Henri walked over to the table. “You think that you can remember what you just told me, long enough to write it down on your paper there? There’s your letter, Maurice. She won’t need to hear anything else.”

  “You think so?” St-Jean reached for his pencil.

  “Sure. I …” Henri was interrupted by a knock at the door. Henri and St-Jean looked at each other. No one ever knocked at the sleep camp door, especially not at the bunkhouse-and-office.

  “Yes? Come in,” Henri called from the table.

  It was the cookee, Richard Gagnier. The whole time they had been at Washika, Richard had never visited the bunkhouse-and-office. It was the hours. Working as a cookee for Dumas Hébert did not allow him the same leisure hours as the rest of the students. A cook’s day started at four in the morning.

  “Salut Richard,” Henri greeted him. “Now the sweep’s finished you can visit, eh?”

  “Well, not really,” the cookee began. “Salut Henri, salut Maurice. I’m still working for Dumas. You see, I’m not going down with you guys tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah?” Henri was surprised. He had not known Richard at high school and since they had not worked together during all of their stay at Washika, he really did not know him at all. “But you’ll be leaving Ste-Émilie to attend scho
ol soon?”

  “No. That’s finished for me,” the cookee stood by the table, his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t pass the exams and, besides, I don’t really like school. With Dumas this summer I learned so much. And I really like cooking. Dumas refers to me as “la relève,” that I might be the person to take his place someday. He says that if I work hard and pay attention to what he teaches me, I could become a very good cook. And now that Dumas is getting married, he’ll probably be gone more often. They’ll need someone to cook while he’s away.”

  “Well Richard,” Henri began. “I’m very happy for you. That’s really something. You know what you want and, already, you have someone who’ll teach you. And you have a job at the same time. Boy, you’re really lucky, Richard.”

  “I guess!” Maurice said, nodding his approval. “I tell you, I wish I knew what I wanted to do.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” Richard turned to leave. “I may not get to speak to you in the morning so, good luck in your studies. Maybe we can meet in Ste-Émilie someday.”

  Both St-Jean and Henri extended their hands to the cookee and wished him well. As he reached for the door, Richard stopped abruptly and turned to face Henri.

  “I almost forgot, Henri,” he said. “Lise Archambault, the nurse, asked me to deliver a message. She asked if you could go to the infirmary. She’d like to speak to you.”

  As Richard Gagnier closed the door behind him, Maurice St-Jean looked up at Henri, a teasing smile on his face.

  “Careful, Morin,” he said. “I hear that Dumas keeps a shotgun under his bed.”

  “Don’t worry,” he laughed. He was laughing, but he was also a little worried. Why would she want to see him at the infirmary? And what would Dumas think if he saw him going there? After all, they were almost husband and wife. “She probably just wants to take a look at my burn. She’s a very good nurse, you know.”

  Chapter 64

  Henri walked on the fine sand, between the bunkhouse-and-office and the cookhouse. The cookhouse was in darkness. Perhaps Dumas was at the infirmary with Lise. He tried not to think about that. Still, he wondered why Lise had sent for him. To say good-bye? Hardly. There were enough good wishes expressed during supper. Perhaps it was his silence that she wanted. But he had promised, and he planned on keeping that promise. If ever he discussed it with anyone, he would never mention her name or where it had taken place.

  As he reached the truck scales, Emmett Cronier waved to him from his little hut.

  “Quite a surprise, eh?” he looked at Henri through the open doorway. “Who would have thought that Dumas had it in him? Christ almighty, wine and everything.”

  “Yes, that’s for sure.”

  Henri did not want to linger. He was worried, that was certain, but he was also curious. He had not spoken to the nurse since that morning they had made love together. Not counting, of course, what drunken words he had spoken to her at La Tanière in Ste-Émilie.

  Henri kicked at the stones on the road as he went. Finally, he left the gravel road and walked down the short path to the infirmary. The screen door banged against the jamb as he knocked.

  “Yes?” the familiar voice sang out. The tone was more cheerful than he remembered.

  “Oh Henri,” she said, opening the door. “I am so glad to see you. Come in. Come in and sit down.”

  She had changed since supper. She wore a plain white T-shirt and jeans, and her feet were bare. Henri noticed how tanned her feet were, like her arms and face. She walked ahead of Henri as she led him into the back room. Henri tried to think only of Sylvie, of their ride on the Ferris wheel and her hands squeezing his arm, the touch of her hand in his, her kiss. Lise walked ahead of him and, silhouetted against the bright lights of the room was the roundness of those hips that had swayed above him like waves upon the sand, and those firm bulges that had given him pleasure the likes of which he had never imagined. It was not going to be easy. But, he would be strong. He was a ‘have’ now, and he would be leaving in the morning.

  “You would like a coffee, Henri?”

  “Non, merci.” Henri felt awkward, for no reason that he could tell.

  “Please sit down, Henri,” the young woman pulled out a chair and sat down by the table.

  Henri sat facing the nurse. He tried not looking into her eyes, but he could not avoid it.

  “Lise,” he began.

  “Wait, Henri,” she said. “Before you say anything, I would like to speak. Please. There are things that I must say to you.”

  She had changed. Especially her eyes were not the same. She looked into his eyes, like she had when he had come to see her with his sunburned chest. But the look was different now.

  “Henri,” she began. “I think that you are old enough for us to have this conversation. After all that has happened, I think that it is necessary to speak of it. We made love, you and I, and Henri, I want to tell you that it was wonderful. It was wonderful, and warm, and loving. But, most of all, Henri, it lighted a kind of fire in my heart. A long time ago, when I graduated from the nursing school…I was about your age then. I was young, like you, and very much in love. But that love was suddenly taken away from me. There was an accident, a terrible, horrible accident. My love, the man I hoped to marry, was dead, drowned in a lake.”

  Henri looked at her. Those lovely green eyes had tears in them now. Still, she did not look away, or try to hide her tears.

  “I do not know if you will understand this, Henri, but I will try to explain. After that night, when François died, I was not the same. I could never be the same again. I believed that. After a while, my friends stopped calling to invite me out, to join them in their outings. I could not see life any more. It was difficult for me, even to smile. For me life was over. It was just a matter of time before I would also die. That is why I came to Washika: to work and be alone and wait for my time to come, for my time to leave. My position here as camp nurse was exactly what I needed for my solitude. But then, Dumas Hébert came along. I am not blind, Henri. I know that I am attractive to men. And Dumas certainly tried very hard to convince me that he was the man I needed in my life. But I was not convinced. I was certain that my life could never be; that I could never feel desire or a need for it. My body in that sense was already dead. There remained only for my being alive to end. Do you understand, Henri?”

  Henri was beginning to understand much more than Lise was trying so desperately to explain. He recalled how he had tortured himself with the idea that he was a ‘have-not,’ that life had stolen love from him and left him dead, without hope of ever living again. And that had poisoned his life. Somewhere Shannon was still young and alive. But to me, Henri remembered vividly, she was dead. Shannon was dead and so was I. Now, as I listen to Lise, it’s all becoming so clear. Neither Lise nor I were ‘have-nots.’ Both of us had love taken from us, that’s true, and for Lise, much more tragically so. But still, in our hearts, we both felt that our lives had been shut down, that everything left had been contaminated and had little interest for us.

  “Yes, Lise,” he said. “I understand. I understand more than you might think. Please, go on.”

  The woman placed her hand softly upon Henri’s. She left it there as she spoke and Henri could feel the warmness, the intimacy of her touch.

  “That day,” she continued, ”when you came to see me here, you were just another patient, another injury that I had to care for. But, when you returned the next morning, there was something about you, something intense for such a young man, the way you spoke to me, how you looked into my eyes. When you asked to join me in my room, it seemed so natural that I could not refuse. There was a kind of innocence in your being there, in the way you made love to me, how softly you touched me. After, when I helped you, when I made love to you, believe me, Henri, I had never done that before, ever. Not even with François. Something was happening to me. I was becoming alive. I did not think about it then. But later, when you had gone, I realized that I was alive again. Life suddenly ha
d meaning for me, for the first time in several years.”

  Henri felt her hand tighten around his. He wanted suddenly to take her into his arms, to hold her tightly against him. But there was another feeling. As he listened to Lise pouring her heart out to him, he realized, suddenly, that he could be doing exactly the same with a certain young lady serving tables at the Café D’Or. Henri’s thoughts turned to Sylvie. Sylvie’s given me life, in a sense, he mused. She’s managed to convince me, in her way, that I’m alive and that I’m not a ‘have-not.’ I’m a ‘have’! Now, have Lise and I been caught in the same trap? Did misfortune in our respective lives convince us that it was over, that there was nothing left? Were we just lying there with one foot in the trap, waiting for the end to come?

  A chill came over Henri as he remembered the barred owl he had seen once. The bird’s leg had been caught between the jaws of a leg hold trap, a No. 4 steel trap often used for the capture of wolves. The bird had pecked and chewed away at its leg, trying to escape a certain death, trying to stay alive. Without help, without antibiotics, the owl would surely die of infection or starvation even if it did escape from the trap. But the proud bird did not think of that. There was only one thing on its mind and that was to rid itself of this ugly piece of metal wrapped around its leg, to be free, and to stay alive.

  “Henri,” she said, as tears swelled in her eyes once again. “Henri, you have saved my life. After our time together, I began to understand more, to know what Dumas was trying to say to me, years ago, when I first arrived here. But I was not able to hear then. I could not feel. I love Dumas very much, Henri. This is why I have asked you to come here. I wish to thank you, with all my heart, for making it possible for me to love again, to be able to love Dumas, and to love life again.”