Often three or four dogs would be waiting for him in the alley, tails wagging furiously as Charles opened the gate to let them into the yard. The gate was hard to open – the first time it took him more than ten minutes. He always had bread crusts for them in his pockets. And he passed the time by teaching them things. He climbed on the back of the biggest dog and rode it like a horse. He let the others chase him under the truck. Sometimes Alvaro, the Portuguese boy who lived across the alley, came over to play with him. When that happened he had to put the dogs back in the alley because Alvaro didn’t like them very much and was mean to them; one day a mongrel collie with long, dirty hair, who was usually very friendly, bit the boy’s cheek. The wound wasn’t deep, but from then on Charles made sure the dogs were out of the yard before the boy came over.
Whenever Charles and Alvaro got together their heads bubbled with ideas. The truck became a tramp steamer, a locomotive, a space ship, a mountain that had to be climbed, or a jeep that was bouncing across dangerous territory. They could hang on to the side-mirrors, climb into the box, or, when they were certain no one was watching from one of the windows, walk carefully across the roof of the cab and down onto the hood. Unfortunately the truck’s doors were always locked. Sometimes they would lose their footing and slide down onto the asphalt, but luckily they never hurt themselves.
Alvaro was usually fun to be with and full of energy, but there were times, right in the middle of a game, when he would suddenly stop, and a strange look would come over him. His dark face would turn almost brown; he would seem annoyed at something, not want to continue with what they were doing, and return to his own yard without a word.
Sooner or later Charles would have to go in, too; the door to the second-floor balcony would open and his father, or sometimes Alice, though less often, would come out and call him in for supper. Then he would have to face his new sister, who hadn’t seemed to have found anything better to do than scream at the top of her lungs. They would eat supper without talking, a sad and mournful meal, often cooked by Wilfrid since Alice was still weak from childbirth and spent whole days in bed with the baby. They usually just had soup and sandwiches or hot dogs, or sometimes a meat pie bought from the grocer’s and served with canned vegetables.
Alice, wrapped in her inevitable bathrobe, little Madeleine pressed against her, picked at her food and sighed. Hunched over his plate with a sullen, defeated expression, Wilfrid ate noisily, with jerking movements, one hand stroking the inside of his thigh. It was a tic that Charles had always noticed in his father, and though it intrigued him mightily, he’d never dared ask his father about it. His mother also intrigued him. Why was she always so tired? Her face had changed so much since the baby was born; it was thinner and paler, her skin seemed to have hardened and turned shiny in some bizarre and unpleasant way. Small blue veins had appeared on her cheeks and throat and on the backs of her hands. Do all babies make their mothers so sick? Why have them, then? Maybe mothers don’t have any choice? Maybe they have to have babies in order to be real grown-ups? Maybe the police force people to have babies?
One night around eight o’clock, Charles had just put himself to bed with Simon, his faithful teddy bear. Alice had come to tuck him in and had even told him a bedtime story, as she used to before. For once the baby wasn’t screeching. Peace reigned in the apartment; he could hear the rumble of the refrigerator, the creaking of the floorboards, and, through the wall, the sound of the neighbour talking to her sister-in-law on the phone, as she did all day long.
Charles closed his eyes and stretched his legs under the blankets, holding Simon close. It was a delicious feeling. He began to think about the little yellow dog, but not sadly this time, more as if the dog were still alive and he would find it waiting for him at the daycare tomorrow. Then his thoughts split in two and he began thinking about being in an airplane. He was way up in the sky, flying with the yellow dog, who looked down on the tops of the houses and barked loudly.
Then suddenly he opened his eyes and realized that he wasn’t hearing a dog barking; it was a baby crying. Madeleine had woken up and was screaming again.
“Another trip to Emergency?” his father was shouting at the other end of the apartment. “I’ve had it up to here, goddamnit! This’ll be the second time this week. How’m I supposed to pay for it?”
There was a low murmur in response.
Charles, furious at having been awakened from his dream, jumped out of bed and stomped in bare feet down the hall to his parents’ bedroom without knowing what he was going to do. As soon as he passed through their door the baby stopped crying, the little hypocrite! He saw his mother lying in bed with the baby in her arms, and his father, leaning against the windowsill, staring down at them with a fearsome expression on his face. Charles looked at the baby, its own face red and contorted, its thin arms ending in fingers that looked like little pink worms; he felt a deep hatred for it rise up, and he gave into it, even though he knew it was something ugly:
“Maman,” he said, approaching the bed with a syrupy smile on his lips, and not taking his eyes off his sister, “Mommy, can I hurt her, just a little bit?”
His father straightened in surprise and smiled. Charles was speechless with amazement. It was the first time in his life he could remember his father smiling at him.
The next day little Madeleine was taken to Sainte-Justine Hospital, where she died a week later. On the day of the funeral Charles stayed at the daycare and didn’t feel particularly sad. After all, he told himself, if all she was ever going to do was scream all day and all night, she was better off dead.
That was how he’d explained it to the dogs on his way to the daycare that morning (he’d been making the trip on his own for a few months). And the dogs, although they were obviously more interested in the bread crumbs and chunks of meat he gave them, seemed to agree, which was some comfort to him.
When he got home that night, the baby’s crib, the changing table, the little mobile of multicoloured stars that Charles had liked, everything that would have reminded him of his little sister, had disappeared. Her room was completely empty.
He ate supper alone with his father. Alice wasn’t hungry and wanted to lie down. Wilfrid had ordered a pizza all-dressed (Charles’s favourite) and was attentive and even at times affectionate toward his son, which made Charles a bit nervous. He didn’t scold Charles for stuffing his face when he asked for a third slice, nor did he seem to notice when Charles accidentally let out a huge burp after guzzling a whole can of Pepsi.
The house was calm and quiet. It seemed too big all of a sudden, and somehow cold. Charles wondered if he might have ended up liking his little sister after all, despite all her screaming.
“Are you sad?” Wilfrid asked him, slowly wiping his fingers on the tablecloth.
“Yes, I am,” Charles replied.
Then, in a brave rush of honesty, he added: “But not as sad as Mommy, that’s for sure!”
Within a week, Charles’s friends at the daycare, his daily walks back and forth with the dogs, and playing in the paved backyard with Alvaro (he played a lot with Alvaro now) had more or less resumed their former place in the boy’s consciousness, and his good spirits had returned. The only thing that reminded him that he’d had a little sister who got sick was his mother’s health. Alice didn’t go back to work at the garment factory on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. Instead she spent all day in the apartment, always in her dressing gown, as though she were still looking after the baby. When she did leave the house, it was only to go to the doctor’s, which she did at least once a week.
One evening, listening to his parents talk during supper, Charles discovered that his mother was suffering from the same illness that had killed Madeleine. But he didn’t worry too much about it, because Alice had just received her plastic card. A few days earlier, she’d announced that the government was going to give everyone a marvellous card that would let them go see a doctor whenever they wanted to, and it wouldn’t cost them a penny!
Charles’s father didn’t see things that way. He became more and more sullen and irritable, and yelled if Charles made the slightest sound in the house, which meant he either had to stay put in front of the television set or else go outside even when he didn’t want to. If not he’d get a clip on the back of the head, which was happening more and more often! He was learning by now to hide his tears, and even to quickly think about something else whenever he got one. That way it didn’t seem to hurt so much.
Now his father drank beer not only before supper but also after, sometimes three or four bottles, sometimes more. He often fell asleep in front of the television early in the evening. Then Charles could pretty much do what he liked, since his mother, exhausted from her day, always went to bed as soon as the dishes were done; still, he tried to behave himself as much as possible so as not to upset her.
Then one night, without telling anyone, Wilfrid didn’t come home for supper. He came home late at night, making a lot of noise and waking Charles up. Alice cried. After ten minutes the apartment was quiet again, and the next morning no one mentioned the incident. Charles knew better than to ask questions. He sensed that something had changed in his life, but he couldn’t imagine what it was all about.
A few days later Wilfrid skipped supper again. This time he came home even later, sober, apparently, but in a vile temper, spoiling for a fight. His parents’ bedroom door banged open. Charles, hugging Simon and holding his legs so stiff his feet felt like ice, listened to his father’s shouting; he felt as though his heart had swollen up to twice its size and was crushing his lungs. The shouts came through the wall: “… always sick! … This is no way to live! … I’m fed up to here with it! … Leave me alone! … I don’t have to explain myself to you or anyone else! …”
That night Charles had a nightmare. A little boy he didn’t know had had his hand cut off beside the truck in the backyard. An axe lay at his feet, covered in blood, the still-quivering hand on the ground beside it. Who could have done such a horrible thing? The boy was shaking his stump and yelling, and blood was flying everywhere. Charles woke up crying. It was early in the morning. Alice came into his room and sat on his bed, rubbing his back. A thin, grey light filtered in through the drawn blind, diluting the darkness in the room.
He thought about his nightmare all morning. He had no idea what it meant. When he came home at the end of the day, he refused to go out into the backyard to play by the truck, despite repeated calls from Alvaro. From time to time during the evening, he cast a suspicious glance at his bed. Could nightmares be hiding in the mattress, or under the blankets?
By now Wilfrid was missing supper two or three times a week and not coming home until the morning, when he showed up to shower and change his clothes. But at least there was no more fighting. Alice buttoned her lip, averted her eyes, and kept to herself. She continued to waste away to nothing. Her movements became more and more shaky and uncertain. Coming into the living room one evening, Charles looked at her watching television. She was sitting on the sofa, the bluish-white light from the TV screen illuminating her face. It looked hard and angry, like one of those masks you get at Hallowe’en that are supposed to scare you and make you laugh at the same time. Suddenly everything became clear to him. He went up to her and took her hands in his, something he never did:
“You should go see a different doctor, Mama,” he said, “because the one you’re seeing now doesn’t seem to be very good.”
She rubbed the back of his neck; he didn’t like the way her fingers felt so cold.
“My poor little Charlie,” she said, “the doctors are doing everything they can, don’t worry. No one could do anything more.”
“Then you’re going to get better, right, Mama? It’s just that it’s taking longer than you thought.”
That night it took him longer to fall asleep than usual. He sat Simon on his chest and wiggled his toes as he thought about things. What sickness could his mother have? When he asked her, she just shook her head and gave him a sad smile, the way adults do with children when they don’t want to answer their questions. Then she said, “I’m just tired, my darling. Just very, very tired.”
She was lying, of course. He remembered the conversation at dinner, when he’d learned that she had the same sickness that Madeleine had had. How could a baby die from being tired? Babies were brand new! Maybe if his father was nicer to her, spent more of his time in the apartment like he used to, then she’d get better faster?
He clutched his teddy bear and whispered to it:
“Simon, Simon … please tell me how to make her get better. Please!”
At daycare, Charles almost never thought about his mother. To see the way he laughed, ran about, shouted, invented games only to change the rules to suit himself, asked for a second helping at snack time at the top of his lungs, mercilessly teased the other children, then wrapped himself around Mélanie begging her forgiveness, no one would ever have suspected that his mother was about to die. Like most people with strong natures, Charles was able to compartmentalize the various aspects of his life in order to focus his energies and survive. He never once referred to the drama that was taking place at home; a single step down that path would have plunged him into despair. It was no doubt his instinct for survival that led him to adopt such an attitude, and far from distancing him from his mother, it somehow brought him closer to her, allowing him to behave just as Alice would have wanted. When Mélanie expressed her surprise one day that his mother was no longer bringing him to the daycare, he simply looked away and said, “She’s busy these days.” The sadness in his voice gave him away, however, and Mélanie understood that all was not well in the Thibodeau household. She didn’t dare ask him too many questions. Several days later Catherine asked a neighbouring parent to walk home with Charles in the evenings, since his father never came to pick him up.
Returning home from daycare one evening, Charles heard a strange voice coming from the kitchen, but his surprise lasted only a few seconds; he soon recognized the voice of one of their neighbours:
“Ah, here’s our brave little boy!” cried Lucie Fafard, the wife of the hardware-store owner. “How’re you doing, dear? My goodness, look at the rosy red cheeks on him! I’ll bet you’ll make pretty short work of my chicken pot pie, won’t you?”
But her cheerfulness sounded false and displeasing to Charles. Without saying a word he went over to his mother, who was sitting at the table in her usual housecoat, and pressed himself against her.
“What’s the matter? Well, you don’t know me that well, I guess,” the woman went on, picking up a paring knife and beginning to peel some potatoes. “We’ve only talked two or three times, haven’t we? But we see each other in the street all the time, don’t we, Charles?”
“He’s a bit shy,” Alice said, smiling weakly. “He’ll get over it, you’ll see. He likes having people around.”
“He’s like me, then, poor little tyke. Pretty soon we’ll be getting on like a house on fire, won’t we? Would you do me a favour? Take this bag of potatoes and put it in the cupboard for me.”
After listening to the two women talking for a while, Charles found out that Madame Fafard had run into his mother in the street that afternoon and suggested she come up every night and prepare their dinner, just until Alice got back on her feet. But from the way she was acting, a bit too jolly, a bit too forced, the boy guessed that his mother was not going to get her health back, that one day she would be taken to the hospital like his little sister, who had died there.
The air suddenly whooshed out of his lungs, and he clung to his mother’s arm so tightly she gave a small cry:
“What’s got into you, my pet? You’re hurting me!”
At which point Charles dashed off into his room and shut the door. Simon was lying on the pillow. He winked whe
n he saw Charles to let him know it would be good to spend some time together.
“Simon!” Charles cried joyfully.
He threw himself on the bed and his fears soon vanished. Taking his bear in his arms, he pushed a chair over to the window and climbed up on it; M. Victoire, their landlord, had his head stuck under the hood of his taxi, trying to fix it again. M. Victoire’s skin was very dark, and every time he saw Charles he said, “Hey there, Charlie boy!” and began to laugh. Of all the men that Charles had met, M. Victoire had the nicest voice.
All Charles could see of him was his legs and the small of his back and they weren’t moving, as though M. Victoire were asleep, or maybe dead. But then a loud, sharp, metallic noise came from under the hood and, to Charles’s great relief, M. Victoire shouted: “Holy Jumpin’ Jeepers!”
Charles laughed and jumped down from the chair. Placing Simon on the floor beside him, he began building a tall tower with his blocks. He had just finished it when there was a quiet tapping on his door.
“Dinner’s on the table, Charles.” It was Madame Fafard.
Charles made a face, then turned his head away when the door opened.
“You must be starving, you poor thing. It’s almost six-thirty.”
“No, I’m not,” Charles said, giving her an unfriendly look.
But he got up and followed her into the kitchen. The whole apartment was filled with the delicious smell of chicken pot pie. As though sensing that her presence made Charles uncomfortable, Madame Fafard went home as soon as she’d placed the meal on the table. Charles ate hungrily, although Alice barely touched her food. She asked him how his day at the daycare had been. Then she gave him a second helping of pie and went to bed; he finished it in front of the black-and-white TV that was on the counter beside the sink, the one his father never allowed them to watch during mealtimes because he said it annoyed him too much.
Charles the Bold Page 3