A Cage Without Bars

by Anne Dublin

  “I don’t believe you, Lucille,” I tell her. “How could you find something out when nobody ever talks about it?”

  “Because I heard my parents arguing when they thought I was asleep in my room last night,” Lucille tells me. “I told Maman about Yvette being so sick. And she wanted to make some ice cream for her, to help her get better. We have an ice-cream churn, and Maman made my two little brothers ice cream when they had their tonsils out. But my papa told her not to do it!”

  I know Lucille’s family has a hand-crank ice-cream machine. In the summer, she brags about it all the time. On hot days, I see her and her brothers eating ice cream on their front porch. It makes me very jealous, but I know it’s a sin to “covet thy neighbor’s goods.” Sometimes in winter Maman tries to make ice cream by setting a bowl of vanilla and cream outside in the snow. It doesn’t ever work out very well; it’s too watery but tastes good anyway.

  I place my hands on Lucille’s shoulders and stare straight into her eyes.

  “Tell me your secret right now. Tell me every single thing you heard. I’m not letting you go home until you do. Understand?”

  Lucille’s eyes open wide. She thinks I’m mad at her, when I’m really not. I’m just desperate to find out her secret.

  “Bon,” she says. “I’ll tell you, Aline, but you can’t tell anyone else. Promise?”

  “Of course. I can keep a secret. You know that, Lucille. I’m good at it.”

  “Well, I heard my maman say to my papa that he should try to make peace with your father, even if…” She draws in a huge breath, and I feel like shaking her to make her hurry up and finish, “‘Jacques never forgave his mother for taking you in when you were a baby, and he never will. Even if Emilie wants him to.’ That’s exactly what my mother said to him.”

  Jacques is my papa’s name, Emilie is my maman’s, and I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “You’re making that up!” I yell into my cousin’s face. “You’re telling a lie about our fathers, and now you have to go to confession!”

  When Lucille’s eyes fill with tears, I know that I’m wrong and that she’s telling the truth. My cousin never tells lies. She knows that lying is a sin.

  “It’s really and truly true?” I whisper, and she nods and brushes away her tears. The two of us walk the rest of the way home on separate sides of the road, as usual. But now I feel as if there’s a bigger distance between us than ever. Because if our fathers aren’t really brothers, then that means we aren’t cousins at all!

  I don’t have long to worry about it, though, because the instant I step through the back door, I know something is wrong. Maman isn’t in the kitchen like she always is, ironing or stirring something on the stove or rolling out pie dough. And when I call out her name, it’s Madame Coleman who steps lightly out of the hallway into the kitchen to greet me. She looks pretty in a gray dress the color of pigeon feathers, and a pearl necklace, but I can tell by the look on her face that she has something bad to tell me.

  “Où est Maman?” I ask her in French, and I can see that she knows what I mean.

  And then, to my complete surprise, she begins speaking French to me. It’s not the same as our sort of French, and she struggles with some of the words, but she manages. She asks me to sit down at the table, then tells me that there’s something wrong with Yvette, that they had to take my sister to the hospital because she was feverish and vomiting.

  “But who?” I demand. My heart is pounding so hard now I can hear it in my ears. “Who took her? We don’t have a car.”

  “One of the neighbors,” Madame Coleman softly explains. “Your mother knocked on their door for help. It was the fire chief a few doors down. He drove your mother and Yvette to the hospital.”

  I know that the LeBlanc family has a car. They’re the only ones on the street. Monsieur LeBlanc could afford to buy one because he has such a good job as fire chief. Maman walks to church with Madame LeBlanc, and sometimes she gives us her day-old pastries that they buy from Monsieur Nadeau. Maman has just started trading our butter ration coupons for Madame LeBlanc’s sugar ration coupons because Maman needs the sugar for her baking, and she uses lard and shortening instead of butter. Madame LeBlanc likes to have butter on her toast every day. We never get butter on ours.

  And then I can’t help it. Two tears trickle slowly down my face.

  “Is she going to die?” is the first thing I can say.

  Madame Coleman’s pretty face looks grim, and she struggles with a smile.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she tells me in a slow voice as she chooses her words. “The doctors will take good care of her there. Your mother told me that there’s some cold pork and potatoes in the cupboard out on the back porch that you can fry for your dinner. And your maman will be home as soon as she can with some news.”

  “Why do you know how to speak French?” I dare to ask, and now she smiles widely.

  “Well, I studied it in school a long time ago, Aline,” she explains. “And sometimes I read French magazines and newspapers to practice.”

  Then we hear the front door slam and Carolyn’s voice calling “Mummy.” She’s home from school now. The Colemans always use our front door.

  “Now, if you need anything, you know where we are. Just at the top of the stairs,” Madame Coleman tells me, then pats my hand with her soft, slim one. Her hands aren’t red and raw like my mother’s because the Chinese man does her laundry—picks up and delivers! “And don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  She swishes out of the room, but not before giving me a little hug, and leaves a nice smell like flowers behind. It must be her perfume. It reminds me of the purple lilacs I push my face into when the bush is blooming in our yard. I know about perfume, and I think maybe I’ve smelled it in church a few times, but I don’t know anyone else who wears it. The smell lingers as I sit in the rocker by the stove, rocking and thinking, back and forth, back and forth. Thinking that this is all my fault because I haven’t been good lately. I’ve been lying and stealing and doing too many not-nice things, and God is probably mad at me for that.

  And even worse, I haven’t been to confession yet to ask forgiveness. I sit there rocking and praying to Our Lord to make Yvette well again because I don’t want to have to look at her all stiff and waxy in a casket in our living room. I just want her and Maman to be home safe with us again. When my brothers come home I tell them what happened, but I don’t give up my chair. I just keep on rocking and praying.

  When Papa finally walks through the door, bringing in a whoosh of cold air and a dusting of fresh snow on his heavy coat and hat, I run into his arms and start to sob. Then I tell him what happened, because he doesn’t even know yet, and he tries his best to comfort me while my brothers watch quietly from their chairs at the table. But my father is not the person who comforts in our house. It’s Maman. Papa presses a clumsy hand on my head and tells me to keep praying and that Yvette will be fine. I can tell by his dark eyes, though, that he’s worried.

  Then he starts frying pork and potatoes for our supper, which never happens in our house. Papa just sits at the table, always, and waits for Maman to put a plate down in front of him and pour his tea. He seems clumsy at this task too, and looks at us apologetically when some of the potatoes fall from the frying pan onto the floor as he stirs, and he picks them up and quickly puts them back. Then he touches a finger to his lips and whispers, “Don’t tell Maman.”

  And for the first time that evening, my two brothers and I finally manage to smile.

  I lie on the bed that I usually share with my sister and spend the rest of the evening reading a Delly book to distract myself. But it’s not that easy because on Yvette’s pillow beside me, I can see a splotch of blood. I wonder if her throat was bleeding. Is that why she had to go to the hospital? And why isn’t Maman home yet? Will she be spending the night there? And the sticky red lollipop is sti
ll in my mitten, waiting for Yvette to come home.

  Papa is usually in bed early, but I can hear him pacing in the kitchen. We don’t have a phone, and neither do the Colemans. And I know I won’t sleep until my mother gets home. It’s not the same without Maman here. The house feels empty without her soothing voice and her familiar face and her comfortable ways that always make me feel safe inside. How she makes me feel better with just a smile or a gentle hand on my shoulder. How she let me eat a whole raisin pie by myself when she knew I needed it. I can’t help but think that just like our bodies have souls, Maman is the soul of this house. Without her here, our house feels dead.

  What about poor Jeanine Bonenfant and her family? Their maman is dead. Her soul has gone to heaven to be with Our Lord, and they have to go on living without her. I realize that I’m blinking back tears just thinking about it. Maybe Sister Madeleine is right. No wonder Jeanine is so angry all the time and doesn’t care about anything. I’m not sure I would, either, if I had her very sad life. Maybe Jeanine really does need a friend. She told Sister that I’m her friend. Maybe that’s her someday dream, like mine for an “English” nose. Which feels like a very silly dream right now. Maybe Georgette was right and my own nose isn’t so bad after all. Poor Georgette Blondin. I miss her and wonder how she’s doing in Montreal with her grandmother, mother, and brother. And without Monsieur Blondin, the drunken chicken-eater!

  Maybe Maman is right. Maybe we really are a little bit rich. And right now, my biggest dream of all is to hear Maman walk through our back door. Home safe and sound. And a few moments later, when I hear that sound, my heart leaps up with joy. I hear her quick footsteps on the floor and murmured words to Papa. Then, with the kitchen light behind her, I can see her in the hallway peering into the room where my brothers and I are supposed to be asleep.

  “Maman,” I whisper, and in an instant she is sitting on the bed with her cool hand on my forehead. “Is Yvette going to die?”

  “Oh, non, ma belle,” she says. “Don’t worry, Yvette will be fine soon. I just wanted the doctor to check her. She will come home tomorrow or the day after. She has an infection and needed some special medicine.”

  I only realize that my face is wet with tears when my mother starts wiping them away with her sweater sleeve. Then she brushes the hair off my face and gently strokes my forehead, which is the last thing I remember before my eyes flutter shut.

  14

  Cheese Sandwich

  The next morning, Maman tells me that I have to stay at school for lunch because she has to go back to the hospital to visit with Yvette and find out when she can some home. My stomach twists because I’m still so worried about my sister. But this morning I awoke with an idea too, for trying to find a way to be nice to Jeanine Bonenfant since she thinks I’m her friend. First I check with Maman, though, to make sure that it’s all right with her. But not until I tell her about what Sister Madeleine said to me at recess yesterday.

  “Poor Jeanine.” Maman clucks her tongue as she scoops porridge into my bowl. She pours some cream onto it from the top of the milk bottle.

  I’m the lucky one who gets it because I’m the first one up and at the table, except for Papa who is already outside in the barn with the horses. The boys are being lazy this morning, probably because the house is still so cold. But I need to talk to Maman.

  “That poor family,” Maman continues. “And I’m sure Sister is right. That girl needs a friend right now. And she appreciates that you went to her house to pray for her mother. Maybe she really would like you to be her friend, Aline.”

  I take a deep breath. I’m going to ask her right now before I lose my nerve. “Do you think, Maman, I can invite Jeanine to come to our house sometime?”

  This is a difficult question for Maman to answer. We don’t often have visitors in our house. I have never brought friends home, except to play in our yard, never inside. And now that our beds are in the living room and dining room and we have tenants, perhaps Maman won’t want anybody to come here. Her head is down, her eyebrows knitted into a frown. I can tell she must be thinking hard about this question. And when her face lights up and she nods, I know my idea was a good one.

  “Of course you can invite her to come over sometime,” Maman tells me. “But not until next week, when Yvette is feeling much better, okay?”

  That makes me feel a little happier. Next week is the week before Christmas holidays begin. There is so much to look forward to, with Maman’s special baking and the Christmas oranges, which are a juicy treat. And the beautiful music at church. And when she comes to my house, I can show Jeanine the manger scene in the corner that Bernard has finally finished setting up. And the red accordion bells strung across the room. Maman said that le père Noël won’t be able to stop at our house this year, though, and that makes me feel a little sad.

  That’s when I remember the broken china fruit bowl. The one that nobody else has even noticed is missing from the table this Christmas. I’ve scarcely thought about it myself with all the terrible things that have been going on lately. I truly do miss looking at it, and I’m so sorry that it’s broken. But maybe it’s not so important after all.

  And maybe Maman was right when she told me that.

  All the way to school in the sled, I wonder how I’ll be able to ask Jeanine my question. If she’s even back at school today. Will she speak to me now that she’s told Sister that I’m her friend? Or will she throw snowballs at me and call me names the way she always does?

  “Jeanine is Jeanine,” Sister told me. And maybe she’ll always stay the same.

  I watch the back of Papa’s big hat with the earflaps as he steers the sled and calls out commands to the horses. And I can’t help but wonder if what my cousin Lucille told me is true. Why would his mother “take in” another baby? Whose baby was it? And why did it make him so angry? I would love to ask him those questions, but I’m afraid.

  And oh, those candies still hidden in the little dresser drawer in my room! And the ten cents I stole from Maman’s purse! Whenever I almost let myself forget about what I did, my guardian angel reminds me that I haven’t even confessed it to Father Louis yet, and that I must, before Christmas, so I can have a pure heart and soul in time for celebrating the birth of Jesus. Today, I left the red lollipop under my pillow and made the bed myself so it’s nice and tidy in case Yvette finally comes home.

  We’re almost at the school when I realize that I haven’t even hidden under the hay this morning. My mind has been too busy worrying about so many other things. And the entire time, I’ve been sitting upright in the sled as Papa and I glide along through the snowy streets, fat snowflakes tumbling from the sky and plastering our coats and hats.

  And today, for the first time since I can remember, I realize I don’t even feel ashamed.

  0

  Jeanine doesn’t come to school all day again. During afternoon recess, rumors fly in the schoolyard among the girls.

  “Maybe Jeanine Bonenfant’s family got thrown out for not paying their rent, like Georgette Blondin’s family did,” one girl suggests.

  “Georgette’s father lost his job because he’s a drunk,” another girl blurts out.

  Poor Georgette. If she only knew what people are saying about her family. The Blondins with all their wonderful things. The family that I thought was so rich.

  Someone else says, “Maybe Jeanine is sick and she’s going to die like her Maman.”

  Then someone else laughs and says, “What does it matter? She’s a big, dumb lazy girl anyway who lives in a dirty house with a drunk for a father.” And that someone is my friend Thérèse, trying to show off in front of the other girls by saying stupid things.

  I grab her by the lapel of her coat and pull her face too close to mine, and the other girls standing around us in the schoolyard gasp.

  “That’s a mean thing to say,” I tell her loudly. “You don’t deserve
the same name as Sainte Thérèse! And you should go to confession for saying such terrible things about Jeanine.”

  “But it’s true,” Thérèse hisses back in my face as she struggles to break free from my grip. “You were at her house with me, Aline. You know what it was like there, with everything dirty and torn and broken. And so stinky. And you’re the one who told me that she stole…”

  “Tais-toi, Beaudoin,” I yell at her. “Shut up!”

  Thérèse’s face hardens and her jaw stiffens. “And you’re no better, Sauriol, with your stinking horses and chickens in the yard…”

  Before Thérèse can spit out another mean word, I trip her in the snow, and she lands hard on her back and starts to cry. I kick snow in her face, then dash toward the school doorway as tears soak my cheeks. But before I can get there, someone grabs my arm. When I spin around, Sister Madeleine is looking down at me. And I know I must be in trouble.

  “What’s wrong, Aline?” she asks, and when I try, between sobs, to explain to her what just happened, what mean things some of the girls were saying, she shakes her head knowingly.

  “Go inside and wash your face now,” she says. Then her mouth hardens into a tight line and she walks across the schoolyard toward the group of girls I just left behind.

  After recess, Sister makes us sit as still as statues while she gives a lecture about kindness and about how we must remember the sort of person Jesus was and live our lives according to His example. Especially at this time of year when we’re about to celebrate His birth. Which means leading a life of love, not hate. And of spreading our love among others. Then the whole class has to write out a chapter from our catechism book for the rest of the afternoon.

  I can feel everyone’s eyes boring into my head as they scribble away, shaking out their hands now and then to get rid of the cramps. Sister has made her point. She expects us to do better. To act differently. This, I know for certain, is a very difficult thing to do. I’ve said some bad things about Jeanine, but plan on trying as best I can now, and hope the other girls in my class have listened to Sister as well.