A Cage Without Bars

by Anne Dublin

  I tell him about the half an orange that Carolyn gave me and that I didn’t share. I still feel guilty about that and try to explain. But Father Louis stops me mid-sentence.

  “Adéline,” he says. “That orange was a present, wasn’t it?”

  Father knows exactly who is talking to him. He always does.

  “Yes, I guess it was, Father.”

  “Then it’s not a sin that you ate the orange yourself. Continue.”

  And that’s when tears flood my eyes and I find it hard to speak.

  “Father, I did something very bad. I stole ten cents from Maman’s purse.” I say it quickly, hoping, maybe, that if he didn’t hear right, he won’t bother asking me to repeat myself. I’m met with silence. And I’m sure now that he heard.

  “But Father,” my voice picks up speed. “It was for the church charity box. Maman never has any money to spare, and I felt ashamed because I couldn’t help, so I took some. But only to help those poor destitute families. And I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, Adéline,” he says, after clearing his throat. “Then you should tell your Maman what you did. You did it because you were trying to be charitable.”

  And now I have to tell Father the rest of my sin, the biggest part. The part I’ve been holding on to in my heart for so long. And when I do, the tears finally spill out and I’m almost choking on my words. I tell him about the box being gone from Sister’s desk and how Lucille and I spent the money on candy. And how Lucille threw up and how I felt sick afterwards too, and brought the rest home.

  “I see,” Father says. “And what will you do with the rest of that candy?”

  “I don’t know, Father. I ate a peppermint, and I gave a peppermint to Jeanine Bonenfant when her mother died, to help her feel better. And I gave a red lollipop to my sister after she got her tonsils out, to help her feel better.”

  “Bon,” Father says. “That was a nice thing for you to do, Adéline. And I’m sure you’ll find something nice to do with the rest of that candy too. Maybe you should tell your mother about what you did. I think she might understand.”

  And that’s all Father says to me. He doesn’t get mad or lecture me. He just forgives me for my sins, then tells me to say my penance: a decade of the rosary, three Our Fathers, and an Act of Contrition. When I leave the confessional, I feel lighter, happier than I have for many, many days because I’ve finally told Father the truth about what I did.

  Not only am I now free of sin, I’ve also decided what to do with the rest of that candy.

  16

  Fruit and Chocolate

  The Wednesday before Christmas is our last day of school. All the girls are squirming in their seats. Sister is having trouble keeping our attention, and she doesn’t even get mad at us. She knows that we are extra excited because Christmas is on Friday and that everyone can’t stop chattering about it.

  So after recess she gives up and tells us to just talk quietly in our seats or play cards, which we’ve been allowed to bring to school today. I sit at my desk playing Solitaire and thinking about what our Christmas will be like this year. And it doesn’t make me smile as brightly as so many of the other girls in the class. I also know, by glancing around at all the faces, that I’m not the only one struggling with my feelings. Some of the other girls won’t be having a visit from le père Noël, either. Some of the other girls will have empty stockings too. Then, just before the final bell rings, Sister glides over to my seat and lightly touches me on the shoulder.

  “Please stay behind for a moment after the last bell,” she says, and I nod.

  I wonder if this is about Jeanine again. She still hasn’t come back to school. Nobody is certain what’s become of her, though some of the girls have seen her wandering around the neighborhood and several have taken a snowball in the head just like I did. Poor Jeanine. It’s very hard to make myself feel sorry for her when she acts like that. But whenever I think about being at her house, about the sad Christmas they’ll be having, it becomes much easier.

  I approach Sister’s desk after all the other girls have left the classroom. She’s received beautiful cards and even a few presents from some of the girls, but not from me. Maman doesn’t have money to buy Christmas greeting cards or gifts for our teachers. Sister opens a drawer and takes out a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  “This is for you, Aline,” she tells me. “Open it up when you get home, okay?”

  My mouth has dropped open. “But Sister, why? I don’t have a present for you.”

  “Oh, it’s not really a present,” Sister Madeleine explains. “It’s to say thanks, for helping me so much and for helping Jeanine too. It’s something you need. You’ll understand when you open it. And I’d like to wish you and your family a joyous Christmas, Aline,” she adds.

  I have no words. All I can think of is to run around the desk and hug Sister, and she looks surprised for an instant before she smiles. Then I run out the door and all the way home with the package under my arm. Lucille runs along behind me calling out questions that I don’t have the patience to answer. Because nobody, besides my parents, has ever given me a present before in my life. And I can’t wait to get home and tear it open!

  But I do wait, until suppertime, when everyone is at home and gathered around the kitchen table to watch. I’m eager myself, but a part of me wants to wait a bit longer because I don’t really want the excitement to end. Even though my brothers and Yvette haven’t stopped pestering me to hurry up and open that package.

  I do it slowly. I untie the string instead of cutting it. Maman saves everything. Then I carefully fold back the brown paper because she’ll save that too. And inside, I can’t believe my eyes! There’s another layer of paper, but this time it’s Christmas paper, with green, white, and red bells. It’s the prettiest paper I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

  “Ohhh,” Yvette whispers, wide-eyed, then reaches out a finger to touch it. “You’re so lucky, Aline.”

  “Sister Madeleine must really like you,” Arthur adds. “I wonder why.” He has a teasing smile. He and Bernard start laughing and so do Maman and Papa.

  “Well, open it, silly,” Bernard says. “What are you waiting for?”

  I’m very careful not to tear the Christmas paper. I’m keeping that for myself. As soon as I saw it, I had plans for it. I gasp when I see what’s inside. A scrapbook! And tin-can labels of every sort, from pies to vegetables to soups. And there are even a couple of ladies’ magazines full of colorful pictures. I’ve never had a magazine before.

  “You are so very, very lucky,” Yvette murmurs. And when I look at her, I realize that her eyes have filled with tears. I hand her one of the magazines, and she gasps.

  “We can share them, Yvette. I have to cut out pictures of food and put them into this scrapbook for a school project. You can help me, okay?”

  Yvette grabs my arm and hugs it. I think she’s happy! I know I am. Maman and Papa are smiling too, and I think I see tears in Maman’s eyes as she serves our supper of roast pork, potatoes, and cabbage—but I’m not sure why she would cry.

  For the rest of the evening, Yvette and I cuddle up on our bed and pore over one of the magazines, studying each page carefully, absorbing all the lovely pictures of mothers in their nice kitchens, of children playing, of fathers smoking their pipes and reading the paper. And making sure that we have plenty left to look at tomorrow before we finally turn out our lamp.

  0

  Today is Christmas Eve, and this afternoon Maman is very busy in the kitchen, just like she’s been all week. She’s still baking cookies and apple pies and raisin buns and tourtières, the delicious meat pies that we always eat on Christmas after Midnight Mass. The boys have gone out somewhere, Papa isn’t home from delivering wood yet, and Yvette has fallen asleep on the bed with her magazine spread open on her lap to a page that she just can’t tear her eyes from. It’s a
n advertisement for Whitman’s chocolates, and there are boxes and boxes of them, all looking so dark and delicious and tempting, some even wrapped in shiny foil. Before she fell asleep, my sister told me that she wished she could reach right into that picture and take out a chocolate from one of those candy boxes, just one, and she’d be so very happy.

  I’m sitting by the stove in Papa’s rocker, reading, as Christmas music floats down the stairway from the Colemans’ rooms. It’s a wonderful sound, and for the first time I feel lucky that they’re living up there and we get to share their music down here. I catch Maman humming along to a Christmas carol, and I smile. But there’s still no fruit bowl on the table, and still nobody has asked about it. With everything else that’s been happening, it’s no wonder.

  Maman and I hear a sudden thumping on the front porch and a loud knock. Maman looks surprised.

  “Go and answer,” she tells me, holding up her flour-coated hands.

  I run down the hall. When I throw open the front door, a blast of icy air and snowflakes comes swirling inside. And the only thing standing there is a bushy Christmas tree. The branches rustle mysteriously, then Mr. Coleman pokes his head around the side with a toothy grin. There’s snow sprinkled like sugar on his hat and on his shoulders.

  “Hello, Aline,” he says. “Would you please call my daughter down here to help me carry this tree upstairs?”

  A Christmas tree in our house! We’ve never had one before today. I can smell the woodsy fragrance of pine and can’t stop myself from touching one of the prickly green branches. “I can ’elp you, Monsieur Coleman,” I tell him.

  “Oh, would you, love?” Monsieur Coleman says. “Let me just stamp the snow off my galoshes, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Maman is standing in the hallway watching, her floury hands still in the air.

  “Don’t stay up there too long,” she warns me. “And don’t be a bother, okay, Aline?”

  “I won’t, Maman, I promise,” I tell my mother as Carolyn’s father steps inside. He tips the tree over and lifts up the trunk, and I take hold of the top bough, the part that the angel or the star will sit on. At least, that’s what I’ve seen in pictures and in other people’s houses, but it has never ever happened in ours. Monsieur Coleman walks up the steps carrying his end, and I walk behind him carrying mine. We drop the tree in the hallway, and Monsieur Coleman begins nailing two slats to the trunk.

  I stand quietly and peer into one of their rooms, the room where they will put their Christmas tree and where there is a sofa and some chairs and a table for eating on—the one that matches the buffet that’s downstairs in the old dining room where Maman and Papa sleep now. The room that once was mine and Yvette’s! Carolyn is sitting in a maroon armchair, holding one of her dolls. She waves at me, and I wave back. She’s wearing a beautiful red velvet dress, and so is her doll. The exact same one. I can’t believe it!

  “Joyeux Noël, Aline,” Madame Coleman says to me with a smile as she steps out of the bedroom that has become their kitchen. She has on a green wool dress and pearls. “How is your sister doing? I hope she’s feeling much better now,” she tells me in her slow French.

  Carolyn, still sitting in the armchair, begins to giggle.

  “Yes, much better,” I tell her, feeling shy, standing there in a room in my own house that feels completely strange to me now.

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” she says again in French.

  “You’re talking funny, Mummy,” Carolyn tells her.

  “I’m speaking French, darling,” she tells her daughter. “And you will someday too, you’ll see. Why don’t you come in and sit down for a few minutes,” she tells me, this time in English, but I know what she means.

  And I do, right on the edge of their sofa that used to be in our living room, which is now our bedroom. I can’t help but gaze in wonder at all the pretty things decorating this room now. There’s a white lace cloth on the table that has been set for three at one end, with beautiful flowered plates and shining, silvery knives and forks. At the other end are some bottles with amber liquid in them and bright glasses with long stems that look like crystal tulips. In the center, there’s a bowl with a mountain of bananas and oranges, pears and grapes. I’ve never seen so much fruit in one place.

  My eyes land on a stack of presents in the corner, all wrapped up with beautiful paper, like what Sister wrapped my scrapbook with.

  “Those are for under the Christmas tree,” Carolyn tells me. I understand immediately. “From my aunties and grandmother in England.”

  “Would you like to help us decorate the tree?” Madame Coleman asks, smiling.

  I can’t believe what I’ve just heard, but I shake my head. I know it wouldn’t be fair to Yvette or my brothers, to do something as splendid as that without sharing it with them. Monsieur Coleman has set the tree in the corner, where an open cardboard box awaits. I can see shining balls in silver, gold, red, green, and blue, each nestled in a little square space, all waiting to be hung from the tree. And a sparkling silver star too.

  I can’t stop myself from looking everywhere in this room. I hope I’m not being a bother, like Maman warned me. On some wall shelves, there are statues of ladies in fancy dresses, and of horses and dogs. A dessert plate on the coffee table is piled high with dark, cherry-mottled fruitcake and the whitest shortbread I’ve ever seen in my life. In another glass bowl, there’s a heap of shiny chocolates in all different shapes, some wrapped in gold, like in the picture in the magazine. As I stare at them, I realize my mouth is watering.

  “Go ahead and eat some,” Madame Coleman tells me in French. “We have plenty.”

  Do I dare? Yes, I do. I’ve been invited after all, and I can’t resist. I take a plump one shaped like a tiny tuque. It bursts when I bite into it. Sweet pink cream drips out, and I catch it with my tongue. And there’s a cherry inside. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.

  “Can I take one for my sister?” I ask. “One of these?” I point to one of the foil-wrapped chocolates, and Carolyn’s mother smiles.

  “Bien sûr,” she tells me. “Take a few. We have too many, anyway. And would you like to take some fruit, as well? Carolyn told me that you love oranges. Help yourself. Take whatever you’d like, Aline.”

  “Oh, no, I shouldn’t,” I tell her. “Maman will get mad.”

  “No, she won’t,” Madame Coleman says. “It’s Christmas, after all. It’s a gift. And we’re living in your lovely house. We’re happy living here, you know. Do take some.”

  I smile. Bananas! I’ve never even tasted one. Maybe just one banana and one orange. They’re so perfect they don’t even look real.

  “Merci,” I tell them. I stand up and reach across the table for the fruit.

  And then I gasp. Their fruit bowl is bone china, with red and green holly and berries, and a thin gold line painted around the rim.

  17

  So Many Secrets

  I can’t speak. I stand there staring at the bowl and find myself blinking tears from my eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” Carolyn’s mother asks, looking concerned. “Is something wrong, Aline?”

  “It’s nothing,” I whisper, then touch the rim of the bowl. We used to have a bowl just like this one, I’m thinking. But Maman broke it in too many pieces to fix.

  “Isn’t that a pretty bowl?” Carolyn says brightly. “Mummy bought it from Mister Nadeau, the bread man, just last week. He thought we’d like it because it’s made in England.”

  I almost understand the words that are coming out of Carolyn’s mouth. But I’m not sure I understand exactly what they mean. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

  “I have to go now,” I tell them, then turn and run from the room into the hallway and down the stairs, into the warm kitchen where Maman is finishing up her baking.

  The kitchen smells wonderful. The steaming golden pies coolin
g on the counter look perfect, just like Maman’s pies always do. So do the shiny brown buns speckled with raisins.

  “That was fast,” Maman says, smiling. “I think I’ll give one of my tourtières to the Colemans. Maybe you can take it upstairs when it cools off a little. And some raisin buns too.”

  I sit down at the table and stare at my mother.

  “Quoi?” she says, frowning, then wipes her hands on her apron and sits across from me.

  “Carolyn’s mother has a fruit bowl just like ours. Is it ours, Maman?”

  When Maman bows her head, I have my answer.

  “Why did you lie to me? And why did you give the bowl to Monsieur Nadeau?” I ask her, too angry to cry. “He sold it to them, you know, to the Colemans. Why, Maman?”

  Maman raises her head slowly. Her face is stiff, her eyes narrow.

  “Because he said he liked it. And I needed the extra money, Aline,” she tells me in a quiet voice. “To help out with our Christmas, and with the doctor visits before Yvette’s operation. I never thought he’d be selling it back to our tenants, though.”

  I swallow hard. The truth is worse than I thought. And it’s all because of me, and the ten cents I stole, and that candy, which I’ve secretly wrapped up in the pretty paper from Sister. In five small packages. My plan is to put one into each of our stockings tonight—my brothers’, my sister’s, and my own—when everyone has gone to sleep. And the fifth, I will deliver to Jeanine’s house before Midnight Mass tonight.

  But it’s my fault that the china fruit bowl is on the Colemans’ table now instead of ours. I was thoughtless and stole money from Maman’s purse, so now we don’t have enough money for our own family for Christmastime.