Métis Beach

by Claudine Bourbonnais

  “Wait a minute, now!” Sweeney intervened, his hand extended to take his microphone back. “You can’t deny your past! You acted as an Enemy of the Nation during Vietnam! You gravitated around extreme left-wing groups. You had relationships with terrorist bombers!”

  The crowd howled, emboldened by Righteous Billy’s anger. As if, all of a sudden, Bill Sweeney wanted to even things out in the ring. The crowd, always faithful, followed his lead. “Traitor! Terrorist! Criminal!” A fleeting moment of hope, perhaps I was about to witness the public execution of Ken Lafayette. By the time I finished the thought, the wind had turned, like before a storm. Ken, not at all unnerved, swore that he never had blood on his hands, “God knows it. God is my witness. As for the rest, I’ve admitted my mistakes a thousand times. I asked for God’s forgiveness. I welcomed Him into my heart.”

  He would have gone to Vietnam to defend the nation had it not been for his disability. While I — in a tone which had become accusatory — I hadn’t hesitated a second to help unprincipled young men, deserters, to cross through to Canada.

  “That’s a lie!”

  He smiled maliciously. “A lie? Poor old Pete Dobson isn’t a figment of my imagination.”

  What could I answer to that? Ken continued, limping across the stage. The space between the crowd and him seemed to be becoming smaller. I was dizzy. “How many other deserters had I helped?” he asked.

  “Lies!” I protested, “More lies!” But he continued. He wasn’t sure, maybe a dozen, maybe more. Mostly GIs. I had a Westfalia, that was the whole point of the car. Word got around in Berkeley, it wasn’t the sort of thing he encouraged, even if he was an antiwar activist and had been in the forefront of the movement, an error he had atoned for since. A litany of lies spoken with conviction, welcomed with outraged grumbling from the audience. Then he spoke of Moïse, and I felt myself weaken. My friend Moïse. Charlie Moses. I had abetted him in his flight to Canada, “So he might flee his patriotic duty!” Charlie Moses, whom I funded during long years of exile in Quebec. Charlie Moses who, from Montreal, flooded American campuses with subversive literature inviting draft dodgers and deserters to gather in Canada. Anti-American every one of them. With that he pulled a pamphlet out of his pocket, God knows where he found it, and brandished it in front of the cameras.

  “Charlie Moses, a man you’ve been able to read in the pages of the New York Times for twenty-five years.” He paused for effect, turned to the camera. “Romain Carrier, ladies and gentlemen, has been an enemy of the state for forty years, working from within. He loves neither America nor God.”

  The crowd lost it, raging at me. Bill Sweeney looked triumphant, his face frozen in a radiant smile. He cut to a commercial break with indifference, his work was done. He made his way towards Ken and shook his hand warmly. Two accomplices who had already forgotten they had just executed a man live on air, and not at all worried that they might have to pay a price for it.

  I got up from my chair, staggering with rage. A technician ran towards me, fought with the microphone still attached to my vest. The crowd thundered. I called out to Bill Sweeney, promised we’d be seeing each other in court soon. He shrugged insolently, while Ken next to him was shooting me one of his dirty looks, like he used to back in our Berkeley days.

  I got out of the ring and sought the exit as if I was about to suffocate. Amidst the boos of my torturers, trying to orient myself in the labyrinthine corridors, closely trailed by Sweeney’s researcher. “Mr. Carrier! You forgot this!” My briefcase I had left in the make-up room, which held the document I signed agreeing not to bring my slanderers to court. The briefcase, which held my phone that was ringing, ringing, ringing. Moïse apparently.… Moïse, filled with indignation, who left me a message like a bullet to the heart. “It’s over between us. Don’t try to contact me.”

  VII

  MÉTIS BEACH

  1

  John Kinnear said that for all my misfortune, I looked relieved. In truth, I didn’t have the slightest idea how I felt, at least for the first few days, except perhaps that I felt safe. John, still taking care of the small United church in Métis Beach, wondered how a man like me, who had lived an extraordinary life, one of “luxury and excitement,” could find a way to get used to his new existence. The house Dana had given me so many years ago didn’t have up-to-date comforts. It needed major renovations; the wiring had to be redone, the insulation as well. The furniture was so old and musty I couldn’t have given it away. The bathroom was dilapidated, the bathtub and sink covered in rust. The shingles outside, the ones on the wall most exposed to the sea, were rotting on the frame. The roof was leaking in places. Not to mention the fresh coat of paint that was sorely needed.

  So much work to be done. And I promised to do it all myself with help from John’s son, Tommy. Exhausting, physical work, like in the days of the Ostrowski bakery in New York.

  But I had business to take care of first.

  The shock was hard to accept.

  It was no longer called Métis Beach. It was Métis-sur-Mer now. The English and the French, both in the same village, with the same Gallicized place name. They shared the same services now, the same borders. Time had flattened differences, washed out the colours. Oh, there were a few ready to protest the change on the Métis Beach side. Small cruelties and old hatreds. Occasionally, the old guard put up a fight, like when Harry Fluke contested the use of the fire truck by what used to be the old French village. “You can’t imagine the things he said about francophones!” John said. “You would have thought we were back in the fifties!”

  I arrived in Métis by car, a fourteen-hour drive, with three suitcases in the trunk of my Audi. That’s all I was bringing with me after forty years of exile. Forty years.… As for the rest, the apartment in the St. Urban was put up for sale. The awful Ms. Brown — and everyone else who wanted my skin — had won. I imagined her triumphant, her horrible dog in her arms. We got rid of a traitor, an anti-American traitor. The sale would be completed from Métis. For now, I couldn’t imagine returning to New York.

  The day following my return, Françoise knocked on my door as if I had never left and our relationship had always been cordial. Not a word about that terrible night at her place in 1995, the last time we’d seen each other, when her brothers went after me bitterly, reproaching me for having abandoned my parents. It was as if she’d forgotten those unpleasant moments, and all the others, a slate wiped clean. Like the time she had denounced Gail and me in the Egan garage. That time crazy Robert Egan tried to crack my skull open with his golf club. I hadn’t forgotten about it.

  So she knocked on my door, arms filled with food she had prepared for me, looking happy to see me. She was curiously enthusiastic at the idea of taking care of me. At first, it had put me on my guard, though eventually, I came to accept it. It seemed to make her happy, so I indulged her.

  And so, every three days, she brought me home-cooked meals, and on Sundays, when she wasn’t working at the store, she came by to clean. She refused any form of payment, just like with the winter coat years before. She even had the same look on her face, a mixture of guilt and offence. “No, please! It’s my pleasure!” And once again, I accepted her gifts without asking questions about her motivations. I learned to ignore them, just as I ignored her sudden bouts of crying, like a sneeze, a way she had of hiccupping though sudden tears, “Oh, it’s nothing … dust, I think.… Yes, dust makes me cry, and this furniture, and this place.…” Confused, I told her she didn’t need to come, that I could clean my own house. “No! No! Your mother would never have tolerated it! ...” She was so incoherent I left her alone, telling myself that I could concentrate that much more on my project. A book I had decided to write, still in shock from my take-down at the hands of Bill Sweeney, but convinced I could re-establish the facts. And my reputation.

  I had to dissect everything, sequence by sequence, because reality and truth, on Righteous Billy’s set,
seemed to warp, like through a camera with a split lens. Hours spent on my computer in the living room, where a long time ago the Feldman sisters had enjoyed each other’s company as they worked — Dana on her Underwood, Ethel at her easel. In New York, Ethel had been scandalized by the way I’d been treated and implored me to stay, “In New York, people forget. If you leave now, you’re saying that they’re the ones with the facts, while you’re the one who’s in the right.”

  I contacted my lawyers, and they were as outraged as I was. They obtained a tape of the show and sent me a copy. Despite the slanderous rape accusation, the rest wasn’t as clear as I claimed on Bill Sweeney’s show. It was true that I took asylum in New York for fear of being arrested. It was true that I drove Pete to Canada — Ken Lafayette’s insinuations on the number of GIs I “would have helped” were only exaggerations. He had remained vague on the topic, citing rumours; legally, we couldn’t do anything about it. As for Dana’s death, wasn’t it true that I was partially responsible? Not in terms of the law, of course, but for me, was there really a difference? Bill Sweeney had skillfully arranged my lynching; he had a real talent for it. But he abused my trust by lying about the show’s topic, my email exchange with his researcher proved it, and that’s what my lawyers were particularly interested in — the dishonesty of his staff and of Bill Sweeney first and foremost, as well as some of his allegations. My lawyers studied the voluntary participation agreement I signed and believed they could challenge its validity. But, they told me, “We’ll be in a street fight with them, Roman. Are you sure you want to go after them?” Yes, I said. I’ve got time. And money. They wouldn’t get off easy.

  In Métis Beach, my days were made up of long walks on the beach and stints working at the computer. The promise of May began to break through the cold April weather and the impetuous wind. Everywhere, patches of snow were melting, the smell of hard earth thawing. Métis Beach seemed dead; it would only come back to life in late June, its houses with their boarded up windows seemed like animals hibernating. The absence of life didn’t bother me; to the contrary, it made me feel stronger, as did the wild nature around me, the strong light, the changing waters of the sea, the air that tasted like salt, humid with mist, the rocky beach at the bottom of the cliffs, the sky filled with purple clouds.

  One foggy morning, Françoise arrived with her supplies and the mail, which she always picked up for me at my post office box on Main Street. Ads, bills, and, on this rainy day a providential ray of sun — a letter from Len.

  We hadn’t spoken in five years. He’d sent the letter to It’s All Comedy! in Los Angeles, which forwarded it to me. A handwritten letter, I recognized his tight, angular writing. He wasn’t saying much. “We weren’t fair to you.” Was he talking of my detractors? Of himself? Of both? I didn’t know. He had left Melody and lost custody of the daughter he had with her. His tone was detached, impersonal. There was no news of Cody and Julia, and no return address. The letter shook me, a surprisingly neutral tone that caused me alarm. I called It’s All Comedy!, hoping they knew more, but no dice. There was only this letter, my name on it, and a post office in Toronto from which it had been sent. I looked on the Internet — Len wasn’t working for the Calgary Herald anymore, or at least his name didn’t appear on the site. Perhaps for a Toronto media outfit? I couldn’t find his name there either. It was as if he’d disappeared. In a notebook, I’d kept Lynn’s phone number in Calgary, but the number was disconnected. She had rebuilt her life, probably, and I felt guilty at never finding out her last name, of never really showing any interest in her life. A ray of hope nonetheless — in his short letter, Len also said, “I understand you might have left for Métis Beach, if I can believe what’s written about you. Maybe one day I’ll come and visit. If you’re okay with it, of course. After all, it’s where I’m from, too.” I read and re-read his letter, a relief, a moment of peace. I trusted him, trusted that he would come around one day. I asked John Kinnear’s thoughts, and he came to the same conclusion. With his soft, kind eyes, he told me, “He wants to spare you, Romain. Not push you too far, too fast. Don’t forget he’s the one who broke off the relationship. He’s also someone who’s come out of a difficult place and is trying to find a way back to life. Patience.”

  I put the letter in a place I knew Françoise wouldn’t look. She knew nothing of Len’s existence, and it was better that way.

  Once Françoise had left, I sat down in front of the computer with a plate of cold ham and potato salad she had made. Light-hearted — my son was thinking of me! — I went through my email with childlike impatience — if Len reached out to me now, why not Moïse? A few clicks of my mouse, still no sign of him. Only messages from slanderers who, I had no idea how, got hold of my email address and didn’t hesitate to write. Hateful messages I needed to sort and delete every day. And death threats. I was discovering that the internet, a sort of reverse Big Brother to whom we chose to give all our information, was a perfect tool for slander.

  Moïse, please forgive me. I let myself be trapped like an imbecile.

  After my appearance on Bill Sweeney’s show, an aggressive campaign asking for Moïse’s resignation from the New York Times began. His past as a draft dodger was revealed, and the pressure on him and his bosses grew. Moïse had been honest with them from the get-go, and the higher-ups knew all about it. But in an era of generalized suspicion, Charlie Moses’ shameful past was becoming intolerable for everyone involved.

  And so I didn’t hear a peep from my friend for a whole month. Our long and deep friendship began suffering after September 11, when he became radicalized and an irrational rage began burning in him. Even physically, he changed. He lost almost all his hair and put on weight. His eyes were filled with a hard light he shone on me as well as Louise, his wife whom he loved so dearly. You can’t understand. You’re not Americans. The world has changed, and you can’t accept it. While I, I know!

  Was our friendship in danger? Or had it ended completely?

  I was devastated.

  Louise gave me updates on him; she left their apartment in Brooklyn and had found refuge at her friend Barbara’s place on Staten Island. She spoke to him regularly. But he was far too angry to ask her to return. Louise had had enough of New York, of the United States, of George W. Bush, and of Moïse’s fits. She wanted to return home to Quebec, but simply couldn’t abandon her husband. “You know him Romain. He’s always right and everybody else is wrong. Please, call him. Try to convince him.… Please.…”

  I replied, almost a whisper, my throat tight with sorrow, “I can’t, Louise. Not after the message he left me. I destroyed his life. He’ll never forgive me.”

  “Don’t say that! You’re the one who saved him in 1966! You can’t give up on each other! You can’t give up on me !”

  And she cried.

  Every day, I went through the websites of major American news outlets trying to find out whether Moïse and the Times had succumbed to the pressure. “Can a journalist accomplish honest work in these times of war if he himself illegally fled another war?” the Washington Post asked. Everywhere, the general opinion seemed to be, “Scandal! Madness!” The fact that Moïse, like all of the other draft dodgers, received a presidential pardon changed nothing at all. Charlie Moses betrayed his country. Charlie Moses needed to be punished. Then, in early June 2003, the New York Times announced his resignation. Buried in an inside page. A short item, as succinct as an erratum you’re forced to publish but not to publicize. The Times had enough on its plate. Another scandal, this one far more serious — a story of plagiarism and false reporting implicating one of its young journalists. Already in upheaval, Times management decided to limit the pain, feeling it no longer had a choice but to send Moïse away.

  The past always ends up catching up with us.

  The following Tuesday, Françoise came over with shepherd’s pie, beef stew, tourtière, and meatloaf. So much food, and all of it fatty. I wasn’t used to eatin
g so much, “Françoise, it’s too much.” But she didn’t listen to me and simply pushed me out of the way and began filling my refrigerator. “Françoise.…” I followed her, trying to reason with her — her food was delicious, but it was indecent that half of it ended up in the garbage; a single man couldn’t eat that much. “Look in the refrigerator, I could feed the whole village!” She opened the door, having to make room on the shelves for what she was bringing over. “No, Françoise. I don’t want it. Françoise, listen to me.…” I could tell she was about to burst into tears.

  “Françoise.…”

  “The do.…” she sobbed.

  On the counter, wrapped in wax paper, a turkey sandwich she made that I wouldn’t eat. Through the window, the sky and sea, melancholy grey. Françoise was weeping now, her elbows on the counter, her face in her hands

  “Françoise, you should see someone. Crying all the time isn’t normal.”

  She fell into a chair and took my hands in hers.

  “Forgive me, please … forgive me.…”

  “Françoise, I’m calling Jérôme. He’ll come and get you.”

  “It was me.…”

  “You … what?”

  She lifted her face towards me, and I could see acute distress in her imploring eyes, smeared with mascara, “Locki … the dog.… It was me.…”

  2

  Through her terrible action, Françoise had determined the course of Gail’s life and mine. On the night of August 18, 1962, she went on a mission, trying to find peace. It gave her a feeling of invincibility, that exhilarating feeling you feel when you act, when you seek and obtain justice for yourself. She drank at Mrs. Tees’ place — the remainder of a few glasses she and my mother picked up in the garden and brought back in the kitchen. Champagne, whisky, sherry, vodka, swallowed in the disorder of the kitchen, unbeknownst to my mother. She even hid in the bathroom to toast us, Gail and me, laughing nervously. She wasn’t drunk, no, but perhaps a little tipsy. From the Tees’ kitchen windows, she watched the guests moving about the garden and looked for the Egans, whom she saw near the tall pine trees. They were as drunk as the others, she thought, not about to leave soon. Robert Egan was doing his best swing dance, Mrs. Egan was laughing next to a much younger man, with an impudent hand on his shoulder. Alcohol reduces inhibitions. It transforms people, makes them unrecognizable. She cooked for Mr. and Mrs. Egan. They were rigid employers, rarely complimenting the dishes she painstakingly prepared. And now they looked like dislocated puppets, their manners gone. Watching them, she told herself she had enough time. More than enough.