by Anne Dublin
That’s when my tears finally come, with deep gulping sobs, as I bury my face in my arms.
“Aline,” Maman gasps. “It’s only a bowl, and nobody else in the family has even noticed that it’s missing. Why are you crying, ma belle?”
Now it’s time for my real confession. And that’s when it all spills out: what I did that day in the kitchen when I climbed up on the counter and took ten cents; and how the charity box was already gone; and how Lucille and I ate candy, and Lucille threw up on her boots; and how I hid the rest in the little dresser and gave a peppermint to Jeanine and a red lollipop to Yvette. The entire time, I’m waiting for Maman to get mad at me. But instead of yelling, she smiles wider and wider as my story pours out. And then she stands up, walks around the table, and hugs me! Which makes me howl even harder as I bury my face in her arms.
“Aline, Aline. Hush now. I didn’t even notice the ten cents missing from my purse. We needed more than just one dime, ma belle. I even sold some of my pies and buns to Monsieur Nadeau to sell to others. And it was a secret, until just now. Hush, don’t cry.”
“But why did Monsieur Nadeau do that?” I mumble into Maman’s apron, and she sighs.
“I don’t know, Aline. Maybe he needed the money too. Who can say? I really should find the time to bake my own bread so that he doesn’t have to come to our back door at all anymore. But where is the rest of that candy? Did you already eat it all?”
“Oh, no, Maman. That would be too greedy,” I tell her.
“Did you throw it away?” she asks.
“I almost did. But that would be wasting, wouldn’t it, Maman?” I say.
“Yes, Aline, it would be. Well then, what did you do with the rest of the candy?” she says, looking down at me with her eyebrows asking questions.
I offer her a slow smile as I brush my tears away. “It’s a secret,” I tell her.
“A secret?” My mother looks even more surprised now.
“That’s right, but you’ll find out what it is very soon.” I smile mysteriously at her, and she smiles back at me, then gently touches my cheek.
“So many secrets,” Maman says, shaking her head. “Do you have any more surprises for me today?”
When I nod, her eyes open wide. Then I take a deep breath before sharing this one, the biggest secret I know.
“Papa and Uncle Pierre aren’t really brothers,” I tell her and wait for her reaction.
She sits down hard on a chair and scrubs her face with her hands. Then she stares at me.
“Who told you that?”
“That’s a secret too, Maman.”
“It was Lucille, wasn’t it?” Maman says. “I see you walking with her sometimes, you know. And talking to her. I know that you’re good friends, and that’s okay.”
“I asked Papa, one day when you were at the hospital with Yvette,” I finally admit.
“You did, Aline?” Maman gasps. “What a curious girl you are!”
“And he got mad at me and said to never ask him again. Why, Maman? Why aren’t they brothers? Who is Uncle Pierre really?”
Maman sighs and shakes her head. She places both her hands on the table and looks me right in the eye.
“They are cousins, Aline, Papa and your Uncle Pierre. Their mothers were sisters. Pierre’s real mother couldn’t look after her baby because she didn’t have a husband, so she gave the baby to Papa’s mother and father to care for, to your grandparents, who died before you were even born.”
“You mean they were cousins, Papa and mon oncle, just like me and Lucille?” I ask, and Maman nods. “But I would like it if Lucille had to be my sister. I wouldn’t get mad like Papa did. Why did he get mad about that?”
“That might be hard to explain,” Maman says in a quiet voice. “I’m not even sure Papa understands himself anymore. Times were hard then. They had a lot of children to feed in that house. Papa was one of the oldest and had to leave school and go out to work at an early age. Maybe it made him angry that they took in another child when they already had fourteen children of their own. Yes, it was a long time ago, but I suppose he’s just too stubborn to fix things now.”
“Are Lucille and I still cousins, though?” I ask, and Maman nods again.
“Yes, of course. You’re still related because your fathers are related. You’re second cousins with all the children in that family. Do you understand a little better now?” Maman reaches across the table and strokes my hand.
“Oui, Maman,” I tell her, even though I really don’t.
Some things in this world are just too hard to ever understand.
0
Later that evening, our whole family sits in the kitchen waiting until it’s time to leave and walk over to church just before midnight for Mass. We’re all wearing our most “decent” clothes for such a special occasion. The checkerboard is on the table, as well as some cards. Papa has taught us all to play euchre, which we’re doing now to pass the time. He’s already told us a Ti-Jean Christmas story, and I caught him looking at me in a strange way as he was telling it and making us laugh. I think maybe he remembers my Ti-Jeanne story.
I can hear my stomach grumbling. We didn’t have a big supper, just a light snack, because we have to fast a little. When we get home after Midnight Mass, though, then we will feast—on the tourtières and the other delicious things that Maman has made for tonight and tomorrow. Earlier, Yvette, Bernard, and I tried our best to lie down quietly for a nap, but we were too excited and teased one another, instead.
When we hear thumping footsteps on the front porch and a sharp rap on the door, everyone looks surprised.
“I’ll get it,” Maman says, telling Papa to sit down because he’s still tired from working.
I run along behind, because I’m curious too. And when Maman answers the door, there’s a man standing there in a heavy overcoat and fedora, with a big smile on his raw, red face.
“Society of Saint Vincent de Paul,” he says. “I have a package for the Sauriol family.”
Maman’s face drops, and I know why. It’s a Catholic charity for the poor. I know what’s in those boxes. Food and clothing for poor families in the Saint-François parish. Sister told us all about it when she explained the charity box on her desk. To collect money for the poor. It must mean we’re really poor if they’re delivering a charity box to our house. I don’t care, though. It’s another present for our family. And then from behind us, one word.
“Non.” We both spin around. Papa is standing there, his face a hard mask. “No charity for this family,” he murmurs and turns back toward the kitchen.
“But Papa,” I say, running after him. “If we can give something to help others, like Maman gives scraps of food to the tramps whenever they knock on the door, then why can’t someone else give something to help us?”
“Oh, Papa,” Yvette half sobs. “Can’t we have it? Please?”
Beside her, Bernard nods, his dark eyes wide and pleading. Arthur sits at the table with his legs crossed, looking solemn as usual.
“Your Papa is right, les enfants,” Maman says behind me, and when I turn around she has a strange look on her face. “Other people need that box more than we do this year. You all know that, don’t you?”
I do know that. Now. We really do have plenty for the six of us to share this Christmas. “C’est vrai, Maman,” I tell her. It’s true. “Papa, it’s okay. I’ll tell the man that we don’t need it. I’ll tell him to give the box to somebody else.”
Papa smiles and nods at me. My younger brother and sister look disappointed, and I can tell that Arthur doesn’t care. The man is still standing at the front door, smiling, but his face drops when I tell him that we won’t be taking the box after all, that he should give it to another family. Maman stands behind me with her hand on my shoulder. She squeezes gently.
“That’s very kind of you,” he says. “J
oyeux Noël to you and your family.” Then he walks off into the frozen night air.
As Maman shuts the door and steers me back to the kitchen with her hand still on my shoulder, I glance toward the top of the stairs. Madame Coleman is standing by the banister watching us. She smiles at me when she sees me looking up at her.
0
Even Yvette is coming along to church tonight, and she is so excited, wiggling on a kitchen chair shortly before we have to leave for Mass. She’s wearing her brown velvet dress that used to be mine, that probably once even belonged to somebody else before me. She’s also excited because le père Noël will come during the night while we’re sleeping. Maman hasn’t told her that he won’t be coming this year. I hate to think about how disappointed she’ll be, which is why I have my own surprise for everyone.
As well as for the Bonenfant family, which I will drop off before church. I’ll knock on the door and run away. I’ve already told Maman that part of my secret because I couldn’t hold on to it anymore, and she said she’d walk over with me, then we’d meet the rest of our family in church. I don’t care if Jeanine hates me. I’m still leaving some of the candy for her family, wrapped in the pretty paper with the red, white, and green Christmas bells from Sister Madeleine.
And still, nobody has asked about the missing china fruit bowl that’s sitting in the middle of the Colemans’ table upstairs right now instead of on ours down here.
Then Maman hands me one of her tourtières.
“Take this upstairs to the Colemans,” she tells me, then sets some raisin buns on top. “They won’t go to church until morning. When you come back down, you and I will walk over to Mechanicsville, then meet Papa and the others in church.”
“Why?” Papa says, watching the two of us closely as if he’s trying to read our thoughts. “Where are you going?”
“Aline has a special delivery to make.” When she smiles secretively, Papa just shrugs.
Along with the wonderful smell of roasting meat, music is floating down the stairs, and tonight it’s extra special because it’s all Christmas music—some carols I’m familiar with and some that are new to me. We’ve become so used to it now, this music playing from the radio upstairs all the time, that it doesn’t even feel like a treat anymore. It’s not so bad after all, having Protestants living in our house. Except for that fruit bowl. I won’t even glance at it, I decide. I’ll just hand them the baked goods quickly and leave.
I try my best not to think about the bowl as I carry the pie and buns up the steps. The doors are open to all their rooms, and they’re all sitting there, in their “living room”; Carolyn’s parents on the sofa and Carolyn with her beautiful doll on her lap in the maroon chair. In a corner, the decorated tree is lit up now and looks like something from a dream, shimmering with bright tinsel that reflects all the colors from the lights and ornaments and silver star. Candles are lit on the table in holders that sparkle like ice. I look away quickly so I won’t have to see what else is on the table. Monsieur Coleman is smoking a cigarette. Madame is sitting primly with her hands folded on her lap. Nobody is speaking. Christmas music fills the room.
“Joyeux Noël,” I say, and they all look over at once. And smile. All of them.
“Oh, Aline, won’t you stay a while?” Carolyn asks, running over to me.
“I can’t. We’re going to Mass in a little while,” I tell her. “Maman made a pie for you. And some buns.”
Madame Coleman swishes over, reaches for the pie and buns, and places them on the table. Then she reaches for me and gives me a quick hug. She smells like perfume again, and I soak up the lovely scent. Monsieur Coleman comes over and solemnly shakes my hand.
“Thanks so much, my love,” Madame Coleman says, this time in English. “Maybe tomorrow afternoon we can all get together, our family and yours, for a Christmas tea up here, or some such thing. All of our family is back home in England, you know.”
“I’ll tell Maman,” I say, before hurrying back downstairs to my family.
18
Bright Shining Moments
The Colemans want us to go up and have tea with them tomorrow, Maman,” I tell her, breathlessly. “Can we? Can we, please? I want the others to see their beautiful tree too!”
“Bien sûr,” Maman says. “That could be nice. They have no family here in Ottawa. And I have plenty of cookies and pies left to share. Oui, Aline, we should go upstairs tomorrow and have a cup of tea with them.”
Yvette starts jumping up and down and clapping. I know she’s desperate to play with Carolyn’s lovely dolls. Papa is standing there with another tourtière in his hand, but I’m not sure why. And he seems to be having trouble speaking, but he’s still almost smiling. Then he steps forward, looking uncomfortable, and hands me the meat pie. I inhale its spicy aroma.
“Aline,” he says. “Put on your coat and boots and take this across the road to your cousins’ house, please. And tell them Joyeux Noël. From all of us.”
I can’t believe what he’s just asked me to do. And I can’t get my coat and boots on fast enough to do it. First I put my arm in the wrong sleeve. Then I stumble and fall on my bottom as I struggle with one of the boots, and everyone laughs.
“Good thing you weren’t holding the tourtière just now,” Arthur says with a grin. “And don’t eat it on the way over there, either. We can all hear your stomach grumbling, you know! I’m sure that the Colemans can too, even from upstairs!”
Everyone laughs again, and so do I. That silly brother of mine!
I stomp across the snowy street, smiling up at the night sky that’s bright with stars and a wide-faced moon that seems to be smiling back at me. Papa feels good about doing this. I could tell when he patted my shoulder as I was leaving just now and gently smoothed my hair. I feel good about doing it too, inside my heart, which feels as big and bright as the moon right now. When I knock on the front door a minute later, Lucille swings it open. And shrieks!
“Aline!” she says, grinning and hugging me hard as she pulls me inside.
“Watch out for the tourtière,” I warn her, laughing as I hold it safely in the air.
Her brothers are standing behind her, trying to take a peek at me. And then her parents appear in the hallway behind them all, looking surprised.
“Mon Dieu!” I hear ma tante murmur as she puts her hand against her throat.
“Joyeux Noël from our family,” I tell them and hold out our present. And smile at them.
“Mon Dieu,” mon oncle says this time, to ma tante.
Lucille takes the meat pie from me. I stand there awkwardly for a moment, looking down at my boots, wondering what to do, and afraid of what Uncle Pierre and Aunt Claudine might say next. I’m not sure if they’re happy or mad, and I don’t want to stay there long enough to find out. So I offer them a quick wave and dash back home, where Maman is already waiting for me at the back door with her tweed coat and good hat on, and her purse hooked over her arm.
0
I’m not sure if anyone is home in the Bonenfant house. Nothing has changed since I was here when Jeanine’s mother died, either. The front porch is still cluttered with junk. The house looks like an empty box, as sad on the outside as it is on the inside. There is only one dim lamp turned on in the front room, the room where the casket was.
Maman waits for me at the road. I turn to look at her, and she lifts her hand. Then I walk up the steps and knock, three hard raps, hoping someone will hear. There isn’t a sound coming from inside, no footsteps or voices. But when I glance toward the front window, I’m sure that I see the curtains move. I leave the package of candy on the doorstep and hurry back to Maman. We link arms and start to walk toward the church, snow squeaking under our boots as Christmas bells ring out across the cold, clear night.
Behind us, I hear a door open, then close again. When I turn around, I can see a face in the window—Jeanine’s—and her han
d against the glass is almost waving.
0
The organ thunders out “Angels We Have Heard on High,” and everyone at Midnight Mass sings along. Then the parishioners stream through the heavy wooden doors of Église Saint-François d’Assise, out onto the steps and streets, where everyone calls out cheerful Christmas greetings to their neighbors and friends.
My family and I are among them. All through Mass, I did my best to pay attention, but Lucille’s family was sitting across the aisle. I kept leaning over to peek at her and wave, and she waved back. Maman had to nudge me three times with her elbow, but she smiled every time. I remembered to say some prayers too, especially for Jeanine Bonenfant and her family, and for Georgette Blondin and hers. Two girls I know well and who I’m sure aren’t having as happy a Christmas as I am.
Lucille and her family have left the church ahead of us, but my cousin keeps turning around to wave at me. Then, at the bottom of the steps, they all stop and wait. And when our family catches up with theirs, a miracle happens! Uncle Pierre walks over to shake Papa’s hand! And then Aunt Claudine reaches out and offers Maman a little hug. And they all say a few quick words to one another; I’m not sure what, but they’re all smiling afterward.
And then our family sets off for Hinchey Avenue, for home.
The six of us link arms on the street, Maman and Papa on either end. Maman begins to sing in a soft voice “Il est né le divin enfant”, her favorite Christmas carol. And then I hear it—a deep rumbling from Papa’s chest. He’s humming along with Maman in that out-of-tune way of his that means he’s in a good mood. Overhead is that bright silver moon and a sprinkle of shining stars. I can’t help but think that this is a bright shining moment for our family, walking home together after Midnight Mass. And I can’t help but hope that many more of them will follow us home tonight. It might even be my someday Christmas dream.
When we reach home, I gaze up at Carolyn’s windows. The lights are out. They’re all asleep. And our own night is just beginning.