Métis Beach

by Claudine Bourbonnais

  “I’m sorry, Romain.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Lynn isn’t the best travel companion. She’s more of a homebody.”

  “She has every right. She’ll always be welcome.”

  He gave me a strange smile. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  6

  “Len, is that you?”

  In front of me, Len, but not exactly Len. Lean, his skin tanned from being outdoors, in an elegant grey suit, his hair cut short, almost shaved, making him look a bit like Yul Brynner. He had just got off the plane from Calgary, his travel bag in hand, fresh as a rose, not at all exhausted like the other times he’d come. The three-hour flight was usually an ordeal for him, since fitting his huge frame into a tiny seat was no easy task.

  “You look like you’ve been working out.”

  Embarrassed, he mumbled something that sounded like, “It was time for me to get in shape.… Isn’t that what you’ve told me a hundred times?” He didn’t look me in the eyes. In the Pathfinder, he chatted distractedly, without his usual enthusiasm, glancing this way and that. He answered my questions — How are Lynn and the kids? Work? — with an almost inaudible mumble, “Good … good … everyone’s good. Work is fine.…” I felt hurt at his refusal to tell me what was wrong. Len are you sick? If so, would you tell me? You’d tell your father, wouldn’t you? But his tanned features certainly contradicted my worries. His skin was glowing. So what was the problem?

  A woman, he ended up admitting. Behind this surprising transformation, there was a woman. What else could it have been?

  “I know what you’re going to say,” he mumbled. “That it’s a cowardly thing to do, cheating on your wife. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  I was touched by it, really. Flattered that he had shared his secret with me, a secret which brought him joy and pain in equal measure. Isn’t a father supposed to be there for his son in his most difficult moments?

  I said, trying to be neutral and reassuring, “What do you intend to do? Is it just a passing thing, or does it mean your relationship with Lynn is shaky?”

  “I don’t know, I really can’t say for now. The only thing I do know is that I’m happy about it. I feel like I’m alive.”

  Len had transformed into a seductive young man. He looked good in his new role. The price to pay seemed high, though — torn by guilt when he thought of Lynn and the kids. Otherwise, he spoke with pride of the hours he spent in the gym, of the fact that he barely drank anymore, of his new dietary habits. “Fried foods are out, forty-ounce steaks and fettuccine Alfredo down at the Café de la Paiks are gone as well!” he said, laughing. Fish, white meat, vegetables, and salads. A radical diet that had helped him lose forty pounds and reveal a beautiful face enhanced by prominent cheekbones and a square jaw.

  “He looks exactly like you,” Ann sad.

  During the weekend, as we were out in Beverly Hills — Len was looking for a gift for Joan, the woman behind his transformation — I was surprised by our reflection in the mirror of a clothing store; Len and I, next to each other. Ann was right, we looked exactly alike. Father and son, no one could doubt it now. Moved, I put an arm around his shoulder and said, a bit awkwardly, “I love you, son.” He bit his lip and turned his head away, to hide his tears.

  “You think Lynn suspects anything?”

  “No, I always have a good alibi.”

  “Be careful, Len. You’re playing with fire. Sooner or later, you’ll have to make a decision. You can’t cheat on her indefinitely.”

  “I know, I know. But I can’t just leave my children.”

  Len didn’t need to make a decision in the end; Lynn took care of it for him. Despite what he believed, Lynn had been suspicious for some time. She confronted him one night when he came home late. That night, like almost every other time, he said he had some event to cover for the Calgary Herald, but Lynn knew he lied by the smell of his shirt, that persistent smell she’d been noticing for weeks, a female smell she even detected in his underpants. Not able to lie anymore, Len admitted everything, and she threw him out. That night, he called me from a hotel in Calgary, crying.

  “I’m an idiot, Romain. A real idiot. What will the children think of their father?”

  The following afternoon, he arrived in L.A. in a pitiful state. His clothes wrinkled, eyes red, a two-day beard, and smelling of alcohol. I picked him up between two scenes we were shooting at the studio. Ann kindly offered to go pick him up, but I refused, knowing what state he’d probably be arriving in — his tears, on the phone, the night before, had been enough to break your heart. So I went to the airport, dragged him into the Pathfinder trying to console him, brought him home and put him to bed in the guest room, knowing he would get up as soon as I left and pour himself a drink.

  Len hadn’t loved Lynn in years; that was no secret. The problem was he couldn’t do that to Cody and Julia, the children he loved more than anything.

  After having spent the night crying and feeling guilty, he got up the next morning with a strange light in his eyes, his face serene. He ate a light breakfast of fruit and cereal, and called Joan, in Calgary, to tell her that it was over between them.

  “I’m going to get Lynn back,” he declared, after hanging up. Incontestable truth, that’s what it sounded like, his eyes shining with an excessive confidence that alarmed me, having seen the same light in the eyes of his mother in moments of euphoria. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps my interpretation betrayed an irrational fear in me — illness can be hereditary — and Len, though troubled by his marital problems, would end up finding the right path. I just needed to help him a little.

  “But you’re no longer in love with her, Len.”

  “So what? I need to do it for my children. At least until they’re of legal age.”

  “Len, it doesn’t work like that.”

  “No? And what would you know? Do you know what’s it like to raise children?”

  Hurt, I wanted to tell him, I’ve got you, now. And I’ve got the impression, right now, that you’re not much older than your children. But, of course, I said nothing.

  Lynn didn’t want to hear about reconciliation. She swore she’d take him to court if he didn’t give her full custody of the children. His infidelity, she promised, would play against him. And Len was doing worse by the day, drinking more and more, putting weight back on. “The bitch!” he lamented. “She’s going to take away my children, my own children!”

  Traumatized, Cody and Julia refused to speak to him over the phone. His voice, the tone he took when he drank, scared them. Meanwhile, Lynn was keeping notes on his reprehensible behaviour “so the day you force me to get a judge’s order, I’ll be ready to make sure you never see your children again.” And Len couldn’t get a grip on himself, shut away in his pathetic basement apartment on 11th Avenue, which I got the address for from Lynn. She was so desperate over the phone. Desperate and filled with rage, “How could he have done this to us!”

  I arrived in Calgary the next day — Dick was becoming more and more annoyed by my repeated absences — and found him in his apartment. The place was absolutely filthy. He was slumped on the couch, two empty bottles of Jack Daniels at his feet. He was dead drunk. “Wh …What … What the fuck are you doing here?” He mumbled, his eyes glassy, his face swollen, shining with sweat. His clothes were dirty, covered in grease and ketchup stains. He hadn’t shaved in days, his hair was oily. How could he give up like this? My son? Len was losing his children and his job — Lynn told me the Calgary Herald had put him on indefinite leave — and he wasn’t fighting back for God’s sake!

  I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the grimy bathroom. I turned the shower on, helped him out of his clothes and put him in the bathtub. He tripped, swore. As soon as the cold water touched him he cried out like a wounded animal, long, supplicating shouts. He didn’t fight though. After ten minutes, I stopped the wa
ter, helped him dry off a body that had reverted to being flabby and immense. Staggering, he disappeared into the living room, reappeared with clothes that were far from clean, his face contrite. I called a taxi, and we went to the Westin.

  “You’re taking me out for a … Bloo … Bloody Caesar?” he mumbled, an idiotic smile on his face. I said nothing. “Yes … yes …,” he insisted, his head lolling. “A Bloody Caesar, just … just like … the first time!”

  “The first time, I was with a respectable man,” I cut him off. He froze, looking at me, incredulous. “Look at yourself goddamn it! If you keep going like this, you’ll end up in the street! Is that what you want, Len?”

  7

  Two weeks later, Len called me in Los Angeles to tell me he had joined Alcoholics Anonymous.

  His voice didn’t waver. He almost sounded cheerful, “You’ll see, Romain, it’ll soon be ancient history. Cody and Julia will get their real father back.”

  And I could only be happy for the excellent news, relieved to finally see my son take control of his life.

  One thing was certain, Len was doing better. At work, his boss decided to give him a second chance, chalking this unfortunate episode up to the shock of separation. Lynn calmed down and accepted shared custody without going to court. However, she was demanding exorbitant alimony, which Len conceded without protest.

  Len settled down in the apartment we found together during one of my trips to Calgary, a five-room apartment on the eighth floor of a newly built building, a deal at only seven hundred dollars a month, just off a busy street, not too far from the Bow River. We spent a weekend shopping for furniture, kitchen equipment, sheets, bedding, and a stereo, before decorating the smallest room, the one in which Cody and Julia would sleep when Len got better. In the children’s furniture section at Sears, he broke down in tears, “Do you think they’ll want to see their bastard of a father again?” I consoled him by repeating what Ann had told me in L.A., when I’d been a little worried about Cody and Julia’s reaction towards their father. “Children are far less resentful than adults, and their memories are more selective. It’s what saves them.”

  One day at a time. That was the daily prayer that helped Len rebuild his life. He stopped drinking completely, lost all the weight he’d gained, began working again, even accepted new editorial responsibilities at the Herald. I was incredibly happy for him. And then he met Melody.

  Melody was a self-assured young woman. That much we could tell from the picture Len sent us. Brown hair, eyes almost black, a confident, satisfied smile. On the back, Len’s words, scratched down quickly like a forced confession, which should have made me happy but instead left me perturbed. “I found my soulmate.” Len had met her in a Baptist church. Over the phone, my son’s voice had regained its composure.

  I said, surprised, “At church? I thought you weren’t religious.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said, sounding hurt. “I knew my father was as allergic to God as an asthmatic to dust, what with In Gad We Trust.”

  It was the first time he’d spoken of In Gad with such disdain.

  “No, Len … I’m only … surprised. Whatever makes you happy, son.… You know I’m just happy to see you happy.”

  My tone wasn’t very convincing. Annoyed, he said, “I needed to get back to my roots, Romain. I need spirituality to clean up my life, to get to know myself better. A member of my AA group invited me to join him one Sunday. I was right to go. That’s where I met Melody. She introduced me to wonderful people who are helping me find myself. Good people, who only want to help others. Do you understand? People who don’t chase after money or fame, because they’ve got God, and that’s enough.”

  Of course, that last remark was aimed at me. But had he known it? Had he tried to hurt me? Money and fame, two worthless things that will only rot your soul. Is that what Len believed?

  I hung up, astounded.

  “Let him find his way again,” Ann said. “It’s a phase, he needs to rebuild himself.”

  Len brought Melody with him to Los Angeles a few weeks before Christmas in 1997. The show was on hiatus, we had shot all of season 4, which would be broadcast starting in January. Ann and I were free to spend all of our time with them. It should have helped take some of the pressure off, but instead their visit was making me nervous.

  I far preferred Lynn to this young woman — so full of herself, always ready to judge others with her small malicious eyes. We ate at home on the first evening. Ann had prepared a wonderful dish, a lemon chicken, which Melody had sniffed at impolitely.

  “Is there alcohol in there?

  “Oh no!” Ann exclaimed, unsure whether to be embarrassed or insulted. “Romain and I know Len is sober.”

  Uncomfortable, Len lowered his eyes. Under the table, Ann’s foot was calling me to the rescue. As surprised as she, I tried to restrain myself, “We know Len. No need to remind us.”

  Melody emitted a small nervous laugh and Len blushed. To try to lighten the mood, Ann wished us all “bon appétit” with forced enthusiasm and an exaggerated smile that didn’t do much to hide her disappointment. I placed my hand on hers, which caused Melody to give another small impertinent laugh I chose to ignore. To show my gratitude for this meal she slaved over to welcome Len’s new flame, his “soulmate,” I attacked my plate with enthusiasm. My fork was halfway to my mouth when that little piece of work glared at me and insolently said, “I’d like to thank God before seeing you swallow a mouthful.…” She then turned to Len, looking for reinforcement. He hadn’t said anything yet. “Right, Len?”

  Uneasy, Ann clumsily knocked over a glass of water. (We had banned alcohol from our meals with Len. I couldn’t even imagine what absurd thing Melody would have said if there’d been wine at the table that evening.) She immediately apologized, wiped the table off with her napkin, and disappeared into the kitchen. I would have followed her to take her in my arms and help her calm down if I hadn’t lost my own temper already.

  Trying not to yield to anger, I told Melody that it wasn’t our custom to say grace, and if it was important to her, she could do so on her own. Then, defying her with my eyes, I swallowed a first mouthful, which was welcomed with another one of her small nervous laughs. Len, who still looked as annoyed as when he came in, judged that it was the right time to get involved, but not in his father’s defence. “Romain, it’s just a moment to take a break in our day, to be mindful of how lucky we are to live …” his arms wide, he took in the dining room with its view of the Hollywood Hills, “so comfortably.”

  Of course, money — it rots the soul.

  “Romain, please.” Ann had returned, her hand on my shoulder. She was right. No one wanted to spend an uncomfortable evening. I put my fork down and Melody, who now had an aggrieved look, threw the blessings in our faces like a handful of pebbles.

  The next morning, she barely said good morning to us; the only thing that interested her was the location of the nearest Baptist church. I was about to tell her I didn’t spend my days tracking churches, but Ann, trying to avoid a confrontation, pointed one out on the map of Los Angeles we had lent them. Selma Avenue, a few streets away from Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. I had never noticed it.

  Melody grabbed her vest and Len and left. From the living room window, I watched them climb into Ann’s Passat, Len at the wheel, Melody next to him, speaking animatedly, making large, forceful gestures, her brow furrowed. Len buckled his belt impassively, not at all bothered by Melody’s shouting, or at least what seemed to be shouting. Then I saw him smile, and laugh, and that hurt me. Not too long ago, we were the ones having fun together, he and I.

  He started up the Passat, and headed down Appian Way. Len was letting himself be dragged to church, like any other man would let himself be dragged through the stores on Rodeo Drive by his wife. It bothered him, but he accepted it. There was something shocking in his mute approbation, his shrugs of capitulation. Sure she leads
me wherever, but I don’t care. I couldn’t understand it.

  Ann appeared, relieved at having a moment or two to breathe. I said, “What the hell is he doing with her?”

  “It’s just a phase.”

  I hoped she was right, but I didn’t believe it. Len had changed too much, as if Melody had cast a spell on him.

  Early the next morning, with everyone still asleep, I surprised Melody in my office. She was sitting at the chair in front of my computer, holding the tickets I had purchased for an event being put on by amfAR, the American Foundation for AIDS Research, a few months away.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded, furious.

  “Nothing, just visiting.” She turned her head. “The view is really nice from up here.”

  It was a clear morning, the sky electric blue, still streaked with yellow and pink over the hills, an effect of air pollution.

  “You’re in my office without my permission.”

  “Oh! I didn’t know this was a private area.”

  “It is. The door was closed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  With a haughty air, she got up and stopped to look at pictures of In Gad on set. A few frames up on the wall, a present from the production team. Finally. We were going to get into it. An opportunity to address the elephant in the room, which we’d all avoided so far. She stared at the pictures stiffly. The production team on break, laughing, making faces for the camera. She was holding onto the amfAR tickets so tightly I thought she just might shred them. Without turning her head to face me, she said, “Don’t you hear all the anger around your show? All these people you offend in their deep convictions, their religious beliefs … does it make you laugh? What is everyone smiling about in these pictures? Who are they mocking?” She turned, glaring at me. “I can’t understand why Len has any admiration for you.”