©Paulette Dubé, 2018
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Thistledown Press Ltd.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Dubé, Paulette, 1963–, author
Autant / Paulette Dubé.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77187-156-3 (softcover).— ISBN 978-1-77187-173-0 (HTML).— ISBN 978-1-77187-174-7 (PDF)
I. Title.
PS8557.U2323A94 2018 C813'.54 C2018-901135-1
C2018-901136-X
Cover and book design by Jackie Forrie
Author photo by Raymond Blanchette-Dubé
Printed and bound in Canada
Thistledown Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Government of Canada for its publishing program.
Confiteor
I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do; and I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.
FAMILIES FROM AUTANT
(1952)
Garance: Edgar and Lucille (née Corneille)
children: Alice, Juliette, Maurice and Bella
Corneille: Joseph (brother of Lucille) and Léah
Trefflé: Philip and Émérentienne
children: Fernande, Germaine, Marcel, Suzanne, Alexandre, Eustache, Adrien
Toupin: Hector and Florence
children: Séraphin, Estelle
(2012)
Garance: André (youngest sibling of Alice, Juliette, Maurice, Bella)
children: Léo, Pierre, Urbain
Robichaud: Alice (née Garance): married Adrien
Trefflé — deceased, and Roland Robichaud — presumed deceased
If heaven is full of angels like me, hell must be empty.
— letters from Autant
GOD AND RUEL ARE SITTING at a dark table in a bar. It is late, later than either realises. They are nursing warm beers and heavy into their conversation, heads nearly touching, shoulders hunched. The bartender brings up a couple of tequila shots. “This is from the lady in the corner.” He winks.
Ruel and God look over and lift their glasses in her direction. She raises her martini glass and together they drink to one another’s prosperity. Ruel turns back to the table with a sigh and picks up his tankard.
God says, “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”
“You should you know. Extinguish this miserable flame.”
“Why?”
“To punish me.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You must. I have shame, such guilt.”
“Shame or guilt?”
“Either, both. I was distracted and rather than gently pushing the soul, I pulled it too quickly and it exploded like slapping mercury.”
It’s a push, not a pull. Will they never get that right? God sighs, shakes his head and says, “You did as I asked, no more, no less.”
“I followed your command, I did not fulfill it. For that . . . ”
“For that, you wish to erase yourself?”
“I am untrustworthy.”
“You know nothing. Guilt, shame, punishment . . . you have lost the essence of everything if you are using these words.”
“I am lost.”
“Ruel, look at me. Look. At. Me.”
Ruel lifts his head and looks into God’s eyes.
“There is only love. You are made of and for love. That is what this is. There is nothing else.”
Ruel opens his mouth but God raises a hand to stop him. “Find a way. Go back and find a way. Oh, and Ruel?”
“Yes, Lord?”
“Don’t be distracted. No fucking cheating.”
“Yes, Lord.”
From a stool at the bar, Coyote watches the angel walk out. He lights a cigarette, picks up his beer and crosses the floor. The lady with the martini glass looks up. He sits across from her, touches her hand. “It’s time.” He blows smoke.
“Yes,” she says.
Coyote cocks his head. “You need to remember one thing while you are down there.”
“Oh? Just one?” She smiles a little crookedly. Taking the cigarette from him, she draws on it and blows a perfect square.
He laughs. “Remember, the light is different. Your perception will be blurry at the best of times. I call it being lightheaded. Anyways, trust the bees, they know how to navigate. If all else fails, follow the bees.”
“Bees,” she repeats, putting the cigarette in the ashtray. She stands and pulls on her cloak. “Got it.”
Coyote sighs.
He goes up to God’s table. God sees him coming and juts his chin towards the empty chair. Coyote sits down.
BEE LOG EDGAR JOSEPH GARANCE 1946
AM WRITING DOWN EVERYTHING, SO the next one will do this right.
janvier — morning snow, cloudy and mild
Have hives (2) made. Need 10 frames: 3/8” space on all sides, any smaller and the bees will fill it in. Bees will arrive from Illinois, America. Hope they like it here.
Queen’s stinger can be used many times. If you are ever attacked by many bees, drop your gaze and seek cover. There is something about our eyes they don’t like. One mad bee will call another 30 guards to chase you away. Be gentil and you will be quite safe.
février — clear, cold
Rigged the tub for warming and spinning the frames. Wheel on the floor.
mars — clear, cold, clouds over and snows
Lucille’s a little anxious about the bees. I told her bees here in the North Americas came from a French man, Camille Pierre Dadant, he moved to Illinois in 1863. That made her happy. To know that bees are French was a relief, because she will be able to talk to them!
In any case, they won’t bother her; they have their hive to attend to. The queen bee is quite shy after all, much bigger than the worker bees and always has attendants to feed and care for her. The males or drones have only one job to do, and mate only once in the lifetime of the queen. If the queen decides to lay an egg for another queen to split the colony, she makes certain there are males available for mating; otherwise she destroys all the attendants, vièrges they call them — by singing a certain song. If they answer her, if they sing back, she barges into the cell and kills them off.
avril — snow, cold wind
Pollen from the pussy willows, elm and other trees will be good for hatching bees. Lucille set up a little altar to Saint Bernard de Clairvaux — patron saint of beekeepers and candle making. I told her I wasn’t too sure if the bees will be Catholic. She said, If they are French, they are Catholic. It’s good to know that Bernard de Clairvaux will intercede on our behalf to Marie. The bees should arrive in mai, the month of Marie.
mai — cold, cloudy, windy, some rain
Queen arrived with 3 lbs. of bees. Every second one is dead, including the second “just in case” queen. The first queen looks good.
Placed the hive: bees need water and food, away from people. They will forage 3-5 miles from the hive. Entrance facing South-South-East.
Hung frames, h
ope for the best. They will work to make their own wax. Supplement with sugar sirop. When there is an excess of honey or sirop, the bees will digest the honey and produce wax.
Recipe for mead: came with the bees
Have at the ready: 4-gallon fermenter, 15 pounds of honey, 5 gallons of clean water.
Here are some things that are nice to have: seasonal fruit, glass carboy with airlock.
Put 2 gallons of water into your fermenter. Mix in all of the honey vigorously with a slotted spoon or a whisk.
Pour in the remaining water and stir vigorously for a few minutes to aerate the solution. Now you have a “must”. This is the solution of honey and water before fermentation has occurred.
For a fruity mead, add 5 pounds of fruit and stir vigorously, making sure the chopped pieces of fruit are completely covered in the must.
Once the fruit has been mixed in, firmly secure the lid of your fermenter and add the airlock.
Place the fermenter in a cool dark place. Twice a day, you should remove the lid and vigorously stir the must. After about five days of stirring, your must should be fermenting. You will be able to tell by the foamy head of carbon dioxide bubbles on the top of your must and the bubbling in your airlock.
When your must reaches this stage, remove any fruit you have floating around in your fermenter.
After another week of fermentation in your sealed fermenter, you will have fresh sweet mead. Pour this right into your cup. It will be fruity, sweet, and effervescent. You can also bottle it and refrigerate for consumption over the next couple of weeks.
If you are planning to let your mead sit for more than a couple of weeks, then it would be better to use a secondary fermenter. As with brewing beer, the best secondary fermenters are glass carboys. Once you plug your carboy with a bung and airlock, the mead is free to ferment and mature. You can leave it there for months.
Once in the bottles, store them in a cool dark place and drink at your leisure.
juin — cloudy, strong wind
Avoid opening the hive on cold, windy days, because all the field-working bees are at home and unhappy not to be working.
juillet — low pressure moving in, sinus pain, joint in the arch of my foot
Bees, unless you squeeze them, will seldom sting you. I don’t wear gloves, too clumsy, but it is still wise to wear a veil to protect your eyes — eyes they don’t trust. If they should get annoyed with you because you are too rough on them, before they attack you will notice la senteur humaine, warning you. A few puffs of smoke from a smoker or a pipe will usually settle them (and the beekeeper) down.
août — clear, warm, windy and dry
If conditions are right, food supplies and all, the queen can lay a thousand eggs in one day. Get a chicken like that and I could be rich!
15 lbs. of honey this month! Couple of jars to the neighbours and combs for the kids for a treat.
I have a new daughter, Bella Marie. Born Monday, August 26. Madame Trefflé and Léah are helping out.
septembre — light snow in last part of month, then dry, cold
Actual main honey flow was only for a couple of weeks. This colony can bring in 50 lbs. of nectar a day. Kids and dogs like it, makes it easier to clean up the shack.
Saw a bunch of drones outside the hive, wandering aimlessly. They are evicted it would seem . . . wonder what they did to piss off Her Majesty?
Have to keep the bees fed in winter, they have some food stored in there, but made up a batch of sirop for them to drink. Recipe for the sirop: 2 lbs. of sugar, 1-pint water and brewer’s yeast for protein.
octobre — cloudy, warm, clearing and colder
Kept some honey in the hive for winter bee food.
novembre — very cold, hazy mornings, dry near end of month
Hand tarps over hives. Supplement with sugar sirop.
Lucille’s happy with the candles that she and the girls made. They smell pretty, different from tallow candles. She gave some to the priest for the church and left us a few for our St. Clairvaux statue and Sainte Marie.
AUTANT, 2012
ALICE’S SECOND HUSBAND DIED ALMOST five years ago. She relies on her brothers, Maurice and André, to fix the things that need fixing over at her place. It is only a matter of course that they should be called to look at the roof, but she doesn’t want to bother them right away. She waits until the rainstorm has wept itself dry, sweeping through Autant, moving away, down south towards Edmonton.
Maurice comes first, tiptoeing up and over buckets, pails and roasting pans strategically placed from one end of the house to the other. He looks up at spider cracks running the length of the house. He taps his nail against the doorframe in time to the syncopated plinks and plops of rain dripping into the galvanized bucket just inside Alice’s bedroom.
“Alice,” he says, “the roof is leaking.”
“Maybe because of the storm,” Alice says.
“Probably,” Maurice says. “Storms tend to be full of water.”
“Yes, especially when it rains hard and long,” Alice says. “Or in the spring when the snow melts, there’s water. Did you check the eavestroughs?”
“Yes, yes I did. They’re choked with leaves and junk. I could see them kind of sagging from the driveway when I drove up. You get those cleaned out since we did them a few years back?”
“Roland was going to get to it, but . . . ”
“I know, I know, he died.” Maurice touches his sister’s hand. “We’ll get up there first thing. Don’t worry. I’ll call André and the lumber company and . . . ”
“But that will cost money! I mean, you could just clean out the eavestroughs and re-patch the ceiling couldn’t you? You two are so good at that sort of work. There is no need to buy lumber and all.”
Maurice listens to the rain plink plonking down the hall. He cocks his head and watches the plaster heave and give a little more above the toilet.
“No patching this time. No, not this time, Alice. This time, we rip it off and begin again.”
André, their youngest brother, climbs the ladder two days later, garden hose tucked into the extra loop of his tool belt. He expects leaves and bird shit gone to sludge. He expects the odd bone, nest or dead bird. As he sprays and scoops, prods and swears at the mess, he is stopped by a whiff of rotting fish gut.
“What in the Sam Hill?” he says, his eyes watering at the nasal assault.
He leans an elbow on the eavestrough and gags. In reflex, his hand shoots out and grips the eavestrough. It gives way, opening like a zipper, pulling away with sickening ease from the rotted two-by-fours. Panicking, André brings his other hand up to support the pitted tin. He only succeeds in knocking more of it loose.
“Maurice! Chrissake do something! The whole thing . . . ”
Before he can finish, before Maurice can even start laughing properly, André falls from the ladder and the whole northeast side of the eavestrough comes squealing down. One solid piece, welded together by the intrepid Roland, connects with Maurice’s forehead and sends him sprawling into the caragana shrub.
Alice sets the platter of sandwiches down with a thump. “I don’t know what happened. That should have never fallen away like that. Rolly welded . . . ”
“Alice, I know. It’s all right.” Maurice bites into his first fried egg sandwich.
André eases his way onto a chair.
“How is your bum?” Alice asks, pouring tea into his cup.
“Oh jim-dandy.” He lifts one cheek then the other, trying to find the spot that hurts the least.
“That damned ladder,” says Alice. “That ladder was rickety the day we bought it. I told Roland that. I said, ‘Roland, that ladder feels rickety to me. Unstable. I am afraid someone will fall.’ And look! Someone fell and got bonked on the head.”
She turns away from the table and glares at the old wooden ladder through the kitchen window. Maurice rolls his eyes and picks up another sandwich. André sighs, putting down his mug of tea.
“You know,”
he says, reaching for a sandwich, “there is something in the roof.”
“Yes,” says Maurice, “bats.”
“Nope, not bats, something else. Something smells bad in there.”
“What? Oh, musty, einh? Mould maybe?”
“No, hell no. Way worse than that, I tell you. Smells dead and rotting.”
André pulls apart the sandwich and sniffs each side of bread, a childhood wont. Alice returns to the table laden with fruit cocktail and Dream Whip, her grudge against the ladder forgotten.
“Anyone for dessert before you get back to work? Oh, did I tell you? Doris called from town. Remember those moths we had a few days back? Before the storm? Well, apparently, she said that the hospital shovelled 1000 pounds of those moths from the entrance. And she said the school bagged 1,500 pounds because Madame Nault left the light on in the foyer after she left. Moths trying to get to the light. That’s nearly 3000 pounds of moth! I wonder where they came from? I know where they got to. Thank God the rain washed most of them away. ‘That is amazing!’ I told Doris. ‘That is . . . ’”
“That is what’s in the roof,” André says.
They decide to go at it from the inside since they don’t know how stable the roof is. First, they haul Alice’s furniture out of the living room onto the front lawn.
“Having all my things out there in plain view of the whole world!” she says. “It’s not decent.”
“Who is going to see it way out here, Alice? You expecting a parade maybe down the driveway?” asks Maurice.
“You can cover it up. You have blankets and sheets and stuff don’t you?” asks André.
“Of course I have sheets, but I am not going to put them out for the world to see!” she says. “That’s why clotheslines are in the back of the house, Monsieur André. Not everyone needs to see . . . ”
“ . . . that she hasn’t bought new sheets since before old Rolly died,” says Maurice under his breath.
Alice has already started back towards the house, calling back about getting old clothes to protect their good clothes while they work.
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