Métis Beach

by Claudine Bourbonnais

  Her disappointed eyes, and the shame that filled me.

  She moved away brusquely, no doubt she was thinking of Don, with whom she’d done it, I was sure now. I wanted to die, to flee. I couldn’t hold a candle to him. What humiliation. How could I have believed that such a girl was actually interested in me? And what time was it? Late now? How much time had we spent in that room? I was seventeen, for God’s sake, and I had just done it for the first time, and that’s all there was? That disappointing?

  “Romain, please! You’re going to ruin everything!”

  I jumped out of bed in a panic. I wanted to stammer embarrassed apologies, something like, It would have been better if we hadn’t done it, it was better before. But you couldn’t say something like that. I tried to collect my clothes strewn across the floor, looking for my belt, my shoes, my shirt. I wished I could be far away from this place. I needed to think about what had happened, alone. Gail insisted in a plaintive voice that I come back to bed. I didn’t answer. She got up, furious, her hair half-covering her face. “What are you afraid of? It’s like that’s all there is in you, fear!” The remark should have upset me, but I barely heard it. I still needed to find my socks and one of my damn shoes, which Gail picked out from under the bed, and threw at me maliciously, like a bone to a dog. I must have looked ridiculous, down on all fours like an idiot, half dressed and half shod, blind to the miracle before me, Gail naked, her small round breasts, a shining spot between her legs, but it didn’t interest me anymore, my genitals had withered, a hermit crab back in its shell. We heard a noise on the ground floor.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing! Just the wind!”

  “No, there’s someone there!”

  Then a terrible cry in the night, a terrifying howl.

  Panicking, Gail wrapped herself in a sheet and ran out of the room, a cold shower wouldn’t have had sobered her quicker. My heart beating, we ran down the stairs, into the living room, and reached the veranda in which a heavy, strange silence lay. “Locki?” Gail said in a nervous voice. “Locki, is that you?” She saw the blood on the veranda, viscous, steaming. She screamed, desperate shouts that were heard all the way to the Tees mansion. In a panic, I ran until I thought my heart would explode, first to the back garden, then down the cedar staircase that led to the beach, and due east, my ankles turning on the stones. That poor dog, stretched out, its throat slit, not completely dead yet. Light burst from the Riddington place, and then the Hayes’. In front of me, far away, under the nearly full moon, someone was running towards the village, a broad-shouldered silhouette, familiar.

  I made my decision. I would denounce him to the police. Louis kept killing animals, the bastard. The next morning, there was a knock on the door. But it wasn’t Louis they were looking for. It was me.

  12

  The wind blew stronger, clearing up the sky over the sea. That cold November wind! My breath forming clouds of steam, shaking in my buckskin jacket, I forced myself to walk as slowly as possible, letting the names of the houses I passed come to me: Joe Rousseau of the caisse populaire; Roger Quimper of the general store; Jeff Loiseau the mechanic; Lionel Coutu — Françoise, Jean, and Paul’s father … Rue Principale. Its modest wooden homes, all jumbled together on small plots, some still had their asbestos shingles, some of their yards entirely asphalted over. Small houses of one or two stories, scrupulously maintained and freshly painted, just like it had been back in the days. Nothing had changed really, except for doors and windows replaced by newer materials, and the cars in the driveways, more luxurious now.

  Loiseau’s garage, the bakery, and Leblond’s shoe shop had disappeared; Quimper’s general store, swallowed by the grocery chain Metro. And Louis’ house, which had always been a shambles, was a video rental place.

  Only Mode pour toute la famille, my mother’s store, remained almost unchanged, except that the front had been painted bright yellow, in stark contrast with the dull white of the houses surrounding it and the melancholy grey of the sky and sea. The same sign with its outdated lettering, the same mannequins in the shop window. On the second floor, our apartment seemed inhabited: lace drapes dressed the windows, and a child’s drawing had been taped in one window. My old room.

  Troubling, this nostalgia that brings tears to your eyes, even if the memories aren’t that great. Places, smells, sounds — the happy jingling of the bell over the store’s front door — something you thought had been deactivated from your memory, erased, like toys with their batteries removed, and here you are, throat tight with emotion.

  “Can I help you?”

  It was her. Françoise. She looked older than fifty-two, her face saggy, her heavy body even more massive, and her short hair almost the colour of eggplant.

  She squinted, then her brow furrowed as if she suddenly couldn’t see. “Romain?”

  I can’t say how much time we stood there, watching each other, intimidated and disbelieving. Clearly she wasn’t very happy to see me — her tight smile was almost a grimace. I too was shocked to realize I still held a grudge. After a long hesitation, I said, “You look well,” a comment I realized she couldn’t return when I saw my reflection in one of her large lateral mirrors. She didn’t answer, watching me, her mouth dumbly slack, as if she was afraid of me, a man in a wrinkled suit, my face drawn, a three-day beard on my face; it all implied there was something wrong with me.

  I turned my head and looked quickly around the shop: impeccably sorted displays, on the left side men’s clothing, on the right, women’s and children’s. Like when my mother ran the shop. I said matter-of-factly, “So you got the store?” An embarrassed look on her face. “You own the place, right?”

  “Yes. I.…”

  “The old man gave you a good price?”

  The phone rang, and I saw relief in her eyes.

  “Just give me a moment, okay?” She went into the back to grab the phone instead of picking up the receiver right next to us, on the counter.

  I began wandering the aisles, forcing myself to look relaxed. Memories were coming back to me, not as unpleasant as I had feared. As if my mother were still alive, and I imagined her working between two displays — a good, nervous woman, with constant aches in her legs that made her suffer. She ran her store with a firm hand, without sentimentality; she was alone at the helm and happy about it, always ready to give us orders, boxes to move or shelves to stock. My father dragooned into building shelves, or repairing a broken floorboard. Her store. Her pride. Her woman’s pride, since there weren’t many women at the time who managed a store unless they were widows. My mother brought home more money than my father, maybe twice as much despite his work as a carpenter and the repairs he did around Métis Beach. But they never spoke about it; it was my father’s shame to bear.

  I made my way into the men’s section, where I looked through the coats. A rather spare selection, outmoded fur-lined jackets and trench coats. Nothing that caught my eye until I moved into the “outdoorsman” section and I noticed a good-looking waxed jacket. I was about to try it on when Françoise reappeared, still with that embarrassed air, “No, that’s not what you need. Come, I’ve got something better.”

  “I forgot how cold it was here.”

  She forced a smile, almost mocking, “Yes, it’s been a while.” A long, uncomfortable silence followed.

  She led me to the front of the store, near the windows, and presented a selection of down jackets I’d missed. I tried my hand at continuing the conversation, offering a smile I hoped was friendly, “You must be pretty happy to have the store. You used to say it’s what you wanted most in the world.”

  “I’m fulfilled,” she replied dryly, “As you can see.” She grabbed a coat and took it off its hanger. “Try it. One hundred percent down. About your size. Black is okay?”

  The jacket fit me well, and it was both light and warm. For some reason, I expected a compliment out of her, like Sti
ll so slim? Or Not a trace of grey in your hair yet? But Françoise said nothing. She checked the length of the sleeves. Her practised eye looked me over coldly, without desire, thank God. If she’d given me that old flirtatious attitude like back in the day, I wouldn’t have had any idea what to do. Those old meaningful, complicit looks she shared with my mother, enough to get me embarrassed or angry — women with their mad ideas about marriage. My mother even kept some worthless objects she won at bingo as marriage gifts for us.

  “You haven’t asked me why I’m back, Françoise.”

  No surprise to her, apparently, “You came for the referendum. To vote.” I burst out laughing at the thought of that idiot Harry Fluke who scared me that morning. She stiffened.

  I said, more seriously, “No, to tell you the truth, I didn’t even know about the vote. Pretty embarrassing, right?”

  She looked me over suspiciously, then turned her back and walked away. I heard her say, “Gail? Gail Egan?”

  Who else?

  “She died in the night between Monday and Tuesday. Cancer.” I waited a beat, “You’re not going to say anything?”

  She took refuge behind the counter, seemingly absorbed by a carefully organized pile of papers. “What do you want me to say? That it’s sad? Of course it is. I’m not some cold hag, you know.”

  “Did you hear anything about her? Did she still visit in the summer?”

  “No, not Gail. Her father did, though. He’s so old. If you could see him. A nurse comes with him. Mrs. Egan died a long time ago. Cancer as well.” She came out from behind the counter, went to the display of men’s gloves, and picked up what looked like the warmest pair. “Need some of these as well?” The self-confidence of the sales clerk had returned, and I said yes and thanked her. “Did you still see each other? Gail and you, I mean?” she asked me, polite, though clearly not wanting an answer.

  “No, it’s been years. You know, I have my life in the States now, and.…”

  She cut me off brusquely, “Yes, everyone knows.”

  I looked at her, stunned. Why so much anger? Wasn’t I being nice to her?

  “If you want, Françoise, I’d like us to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About what happened in the summer of 1962. I feel like there are fragments I lost. Can you help me find them?”

  I would have thought she’d at least be curious, maybe even teasing, yes, of course, everyone knew about the baby except you, but that wasn’t the case, she seemed absolutely ashen instead.

  “It was too long ago. I can’t remember.”

  “You forgot that summer? With everything that happened?”

  “I don’t know, Romain … I don’t have the time … I’m busy.”

  “Busy?”

  Her cheeks reddened. We were alone in the store and not even the shadow of a customer in the deserted streets of the village.

  “Invite me over, tonight.”

  “I don’t know … I’ll need to look at what’s in the fridge. I.…”

  “You’ll find something. You were an excellent cook, as I remember. I’m sure you still are.”

  The compliment pleased her, though she didn’t smile.

  I said, “Six-thirty, okay?”

  She mumbled something that could have been agreement, then protested when she saw my credit card, “No! Don’t. It’s on the house.”

  Calculating quickly, I realized it came to three hundred dollars.

  “No way, Françoise, I can’t accept.”

  “No, I’m telling you, no! It’s a gift!”

  A gift? With that tone? I didn’t insist, thanked her, and left.

  13

  “After all these years, we should celebrate a little, no?”

  She had so much lipstick on, her mouth was like a caricature. Françoise opened the door to her small house on Rue Principale, decorated somewhat garishly — golden picture frames, heavy wall-coverings, and massive furniture — proud to show me the table she had set for us, a large block of foie gras in the middle of the table; she’d been keeping it for just such an occasion. “It isn’t every day you get a visitor from so far away.” Her tone was exuberant, playful, a troubling contrast with her behaviour a few hours earlier at the store. The wine glass she held in her hand could have contributed to her strangely euphoric attitude. At the sight of five place settings on the table, I froze.

  “You expecting others?” I had been hoping we might speak just the two of us.

  She gave me a small shrill laugh and shook her head as if it wasn’t what we’d agreed on. I was irritated — it wouldn’t be possible to have a conversation now that her brothers were coming — who else but Jean and Paul could have been invited? And, of course, the doorbell rang.

  Jean and Paul. Barely fifty, but they looked like old men. Paul more than Jean, with his sallow cheeks and waxy skin. Jean was a bit plumper, with the hard belly of a pregnant woman. His hair, however, was greyer, almost white. He held out a firm hand, without warmth, giving me a bitter look, while Paul skimmed the wall and foundered into the living room, avoiding my handshake. Years ago I disappointed their sister’s inordinate expectations, and the brothers still held a grudge.

  “Come!” Françoise pulled me into the living room. A tray of oysters lay on the coffee table. Her husband Jérôme had picked them up at the grocery store and managed to shuck them in record time. “Without even hurting yourself, right honey?” Jérôme, a delicate man with an embarrassed smile, acquiesced with the same timid nod he’d given me when I arrived and Françoise had said boisterously, scanning me from head to toe, “Look, it’s the coat I was talking about, it suits him well, doesn’t it?

  In the living room, on the burgundy velvet couch, Jean and Paul waited in silence as Jérôme worked the minibar, making them a drink. I had hazy memories of Jérôme, the timid eldest son of Roger Quimper, the owner of the general store. Back then, he had the smooth, fearful face of a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old youth, so quiet you sometimes forgot he existed. “Jérôme? He was with us that night? Are you sure?” That was Jean speaking from behind the wheel of his father’s Rambler, one night in Little Miami, as if suddenly waking from a dream, “Hey! Jérôme!” And Jean turned to ask him before noticing he wasn’t in the back seat stuck between Françoise and the door, his usual spot. Even Françoise hadn’t noticed. How we’d laughed that night! Jérôme? Left behind in the bathroom!

  Well, so be it. Françoise had decided on this poor, thin boy, his back bent, head retreating into his shoulders, always glancing at you sideways even when you stood right in front of him, as if he suspected you of something. He looked like his father, who inspected us from behind the store’s counter when he’d see us jostling one another in his store, without a dime in our pockets and a strong temptation to grab something.

  Jérôme had taken over the family business in 1977 and had recently brought it into “the modern era,” Françoise explained, pride in her voice. “With a nice Metro sign, just like in those ads on TV.”

  She was a businesswoman, Françoise was. My mother’s store and a grocery store, not too bad at all.

  A rum and Coke for Jean, a beer for me, a glass of white for Françoise, scotch for Jérôme. “And you, Paul, your usual hooch?”

  Paul laughed nervously, revealing bad teeth. Jérôme handed him a room-temperature ginger ale in a pint glass, with three maraschino cherries on a toothpick. Paul said, as if apologizing to me, “I quit drinking years ago. No choice. It was that or die.”

  “Cirrhosis,” Jean clarified.

  I learned that Paul hadn’t worked in years, was living off welfare, and not doing much with his days. As for Jean, with his two children gone from the house, he lived with his wife in Mont-Joli and worked as a civil servant in a local government office, but not for very much longer.

  “Retirement at fifty-three. Not bad, eh?”

 
“And what are you going to do?”

  His face lit up, “Nothing! Isn’t that great?”

  I shivered and Jean noticed it, sure enough. An awkward silence that, after a few moments, Françoise tried to talk her way out of, talking about everything and nothing, pushing oyster after oyster on us. “Come, eat more! We have to eat them all! Have you tried this sauce? You should taste it! It’s Jérôme’s favourite. There’s ketchup in it!” Without much appetite, we downed the oysters, except for Paul. “My liver, I can’t,” he repeated, holding his stomach every time.

  Perked up by a second rum and Coke, Jean began talking about the village and its inhabitants, those who’d died, those who’d left for the old folks’ home, the English of Métis Beach who’d panicked at the idea of a second referendum, though not as much as in 1980. It had been traumatizing nonetheless, there was no doubt about it, especially after Parizeau’s words — money and the ethnic vote — that wouldn’t help, you could be sure about that. Harry Fluke was thinking of selling everything and moving to Ontario.

  “Well, better this ending than another,” Françoise rejoiced. “This way, it’s the status quo.”

  Jean and Paul’s jaws clamped shut, but both kept their disagreement to themselves, happy enough to let their sister steer the conversation. Squirming in her seat, Françoise told me how the English population was getting older and older, and their children were no longer interested in spending their summers here. “They think it’s too cold. And they’ve got houses elsewhere. In Florida, the Caribbean, the South of France.” Some had even sold their properties to French people. “Who would have believed it? There’s less inequality than before. The English aren’t as rich, and we’re a little bit more so. It isn’t what it used to be, and we’re better off for it.”

  This time Jean and Paul rallied to their sister’s opinion and said in unison, almost comically, “Yeah, good for us.”

  Then the eternal and predictable questions about my job in Hollywood. Françoise seemed excited by the fact that I had worked with Aaron Spelling on Fantasy Island. She said, “Oh! Tell me everything!” like a little girl about to get a surprise. “What’s the dwarf like? You know, what’s his name again?”