“What do you mean, a proposition? You going to cut him in?” said Joseph.
“Non, non. No need to make this a village enterprise, einh? It’s just us, me and you. Can you make it to the river?”
“Yes. But, I could sure use a trip up to Peace River. Get away from this place for a while. You want I should go all the way then?”
“No, it would be too easy to think you were guilty if you ran away. La Reine is far enough, I can call over and make sure someone takes the load up farther. It’s only a dozen or so jars. We can’t get greedy now. Plus, I feel a little uneasy with this thief about.”
“Ah yes, the thief. So who is it then? It would be easy for you to figure that out, Shoemaker Man.” Joseph smiled and picked up fallen nails with the sticky part of his fingers. “Hector Toupin is clever, coming to you for help. Oh yes, Autant is full of clever men.”
“I told him I’d have to come back here and check the boots and shoes I have in the shop, you see, to make sure. It wouldn’t be right to accuse a man of a crime without adequate proof,” said Edgar. He scooped up the last of the nails that Joseph had tipped over and swept them back into the tray.
“Sure sure, and?”
“Well now. I can’t say exactly. Just that some people,” he said pointing to the boot in front of him, “wear down the sole where the ball of their big toe rests. And, I had another visitor who was interested in those tracks.”
“Who?”
“Philip Trefflé. Came by to offer a pig for la Fête au Village last night. We got to talking about things and the missing lumber came up.”
“Bullshit! Philip Trefflé offered you a pig? That bastard wouldn’t offer you the jam between his toes unless . . . oh. Yeah, sure.”
“Thief won’t be found unless he wants to be found. Maybe it was those from the reserve. I’ll suggest to Constable Toupin that he check there. See if any new shacks are going up.”
“Jésus, you are a smart old shoemaker man, Edgar Garance!”
“I just watch and listen, Joseph Corneille. I watch and listen.”
Lucille was fretful, anxious; she hadn’t told anyone, but she hadn’t gone to the bathroom in four days. This constipation was torture. It was obvious something wasn’t working properly, the sharp lines radiating from the middle of her tongue said as much. Her jaw stayed as clenched as her hands as the band of pain netted along her temples and in her tortured gut. She was loath to ask la vieille Trefflé for help. Her worry had to do with Bella’s increasing headaches, yes that, but more, there was something more.
It had started with finding the outline of faces in stones, in sweat stains on clothing, in leaves, and how they shadowed bark. Some said that seeing these faces, angels in this disguise, was a blessing. They came to let people know that someone was watching.
Then, the sound of bees, a long, slow droning. Bees while she stood still and while she hung the wash outside. Low insistent throbs, the number eight on its side.
Finally, there were dreams of hot pressing things, fingers, hands, pulling and pushing at her. The top of her head was touched over and over again, leaving a creepy-crawling feeling. Lucille knew that soon she would see what had been hidden. What people were thinking would complete itself in her mouth. She would answer before being called, bring what was not yet desired. Someone had been praying and they were still so busy praying, that they didn’t hear or see the signs they had given. She received them instead. Bella is probably feeling the same way, she thought. I saw her eye was twitchy at breakfast.
She walked heavily to the front door and leaned against the doorframe. Smells crowded up against her back from inside the house, lye soap, this morning’s coffee and toast. Home smells, good real smells; but not strong enough to mask the odour her brother had brought with him into the house this morning. If anything, it seemed to get stronger after he left. What was this mischief going to shape into? I pray it is not for my Bella. If she starts bleeding, only Émérentienne Trefflé can stop the bleeding now. What good am I? I can’t even help my own daughter.
There was a low rumbling from the north. She looked up, scratched the inside of her wrist, and wrinkled her nose. There was that gunmetal smell, like before rain or snow. Thunder?
She scratched absently at the kitchen door. Tracing with strong, thin fingers the ship she had drawn there under the layers of blue paint. The ship she had seen in her dreams, a tall sailing ship. She heard its sails unfurl and snap as the sheets on the line at the back of the house. Chains thundered up, along planks from bow to stern, fore to aft, iron rubbing against wood and groaning as the ship ploughed through water. She loved that ship, and this door was blue to be both the water below the ship and the sky above it. It was a haven between worlds.
Lucille fingered the necklace at her throat, one side blue glass beads, the other every other colour she had. At its centre was a black, heart-shaped stone pierced through by a smaller stone. She had found the stone when she was a girl. The stone called to her and she picked it up. Careful to rinse it in her mouth so it would always know her and would never stray. In return, the stone gave her dreams of a tall ship, a beautiful woman with blue eyes, long red hair and, then, a small boat on dark water.
Edgar thought she was beautiful, although her father had said that the best part of her was when she was walking away because he said he didn’t have to see her ugly face. Who would believe that Monsieur Edgar Garance would love her? Deformed and a Corneille to boot.
A bee lit on the door. Lucille put her finger near the little jewelled sac of pollen on the back leg. The bee turned around and climbed onto her finger. She brought it to her face and closed her eyes, allowing the bee to travel her skin, absorbing the heat and the story she had come to collect.
Lucille felt clawed feet running messages along her lips, knew the bee was hard at work tracing paths and memorizing mouth lines, coding where the honey had been this morning. Now the bee walked to her eyes and circled over the fine hairs, gauging salt, moisture’ and heat. Lucille’s skin stretched and memory moved through antennae.
This one was born with the hole in her mouth, on the roof. They say a candle in a church is a thing of beauty. A candle in the wilderness though, now that is a miracle. This one is that kind of candle; delivered into a world where she could not be expected to survive. But she did.
Her mother had knelt with the baby in her arms on the steps of the church, not invited in of course. By the borrowed light of the sacristy candle above the altar, she had prayed to The Mother. She heard a voice, soft and low, instructing her to pull out the bottom jaw, to keep the throat clear. She dreamed to feed her baby slowly, only a trickle at a time. Feed her through a small, wet rawhide tube poked right down the throat.
Tricky business that, being fed as a bird for almost a whole year. The hole finally webbed over and the only damage was that the baby’s chin stayed a little small.
The bee climbed down the bridge of her nose, carefully tucking the story into the sacs on her back legs. She flew off. A magpie landed on the roof of the house without making a sound. It had no shadow.
Lucille came to herself with a start. She brushed at her face as though a spider web clung there. She glanced up across the yard. Sunlight glaring, shadows thin as the edge of a knife, it was noon. She had to get lunch out to the men.
She gathered what she needed for a quick meal. Jellied beef tongue sandwiches, a couple pickled beets for colour, radishes from the garden, and two jars of tea, brewed in the sun. She rummaged the pantry for the biscuits she had made for last night’s supper. The plate was decidedly lighter. Maurice and Bella must have stuffed their pockets before leaving for the creek. Good, they will have something to eat along the way. She ran her hand along the shelf for the honey. When her fingers felt a sticky spot, she remembered it was in the kitchen. She pulled down a jar of beets and a small black stone clattered to the floor. Bella and her stash of presents. The girl left stones for her inside shoes, beside the bed, under the pillow. It was her way o
f saying I love you, goodbye, and I took four biscuits this morning.
Lucille brought the little stone to her lips and kissed it before slipping it into her front pocket. I will have to give this shelf a good scrubbing before putting anything else in here.
She put the food in a wooden box and covered it with a piece of oilcloth.
PHILIP TREFFLÉ WAS VERY HAPPY. By tomorrow morning, the new room would be up, no one the wiser. He would finally have his wife off his back. He would have the lumber gone and at least one of the sickly pigs too. Gone to Edgar’s and off his mind. Edgar Garance will be in my debt for the village-party pig. It is a debt I can collect in honey-whiskey by fall. God is showing His good side to me because I am a careful planner, a wise man.
He watched his wife move through the kitchen, setting water to boil, bending over the wood box for small sticks and scraps of bark to start a fire in the stove. Émérentienne had been a fine looking girl at sixteen, when he married her. Now, after having squeezed out three runt daughters and four sons she was a hag. She was still a hard worker though and those little bastards worked as hard as he made them work, with the toe end of his boot or by the ball of his fist. They would grow up knowing that this land would give only what was forced from it. Everything here was a test of will, of brute strength.
He yanked on his boots, stamped down hard on the heel, making the floorboards ring. Now, it is time to work. Adrien needs to work here today, and I’ll get Corneille. Get that lumber sorted out and the walls done at least. Then see about a pig. Feels like blood today!
Émérentienne shivered. She heard him bang around behind the wall that marked their room from the rest of the house. Feeding kindling to the glowing coals in the stomach of the stove, she took a minute to pray. She prayed that the clothes wouldn’t get blown from the line, that her children would be safe and that Philip would take one day from the drink. What kind of ramencheur am I if I can’t even help my own husband?
She didn’t open her eyes when she sensed him walking behind her. It was twenty steps, twenty to the door. Let him make it to the door. Let him not stop for the bottle. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He stopped. He was beside the cupboard. He snapped his suspenders. Eighteen, nineteen. He stopped.
“Call over to Garance. Get the boy back. We need him here today,” he said.
She heard the creak of the door, twenty. Out the door. She rose stiffly. Merci. She touched the stove front to make a cross there, then crossed herself quickly. A miracle. Today, anything is possible. Carefully, she lifted the receiver on the phone and politely asked the operator to call Edgar Garance.
Outside, Philip fumbled his penis from beneath woollen pants and grunted in satisfaction as urine splashed his wife’s flowerbed, there beside the door. He laughed. An ugly sound that caused the scrawny dog to back away even farther under the lilac bush. Philip grunted again, tucking himself in. He whistled for the dog to come. There was purpose to his day.
The dog rose to his feet. Neck and legs tensed, a low growl rumbled from his chest. He shot through the lilac hedge, barking. Philip could hear shouts and screams from beyond there, and he smiled. That’ll teach the little buggers to go sneaking around. That’ll teach them manners.
“WHERE’S BELLA?” ASKED ALICE. SHE was back from the house. A lady does not pee outside.
Juliette thought it was a big waste of time, a way of getting out of doing the weeding. “At the creek,” she said. “Mom told Maurice to get more reeds and Bella went with him.”
“Mom thinks she needs her hat. Have they been gone long?”
“No, not long.” Juliette stood, stretching her arms over her head.
“Let’s go find them. Mom said she was getting a headache and she knows she’s supposed to wear her hat.” “She hates that fucking thing,” said Juliette. “It makes her feel retarded.”
“You told her she looked retarded. Anyway, we can finish and rake the rest of the weeds later and, I bet you could use a walk in the creek right now.” Alice smeared the sweat on Juliette’s arm.
Juliette braced herself for a pinch or a slap in that almost tender gesture. When none came, she looked at her sister, warily. The sun has fried her brain.
Alice reached for her hand. To hold hands like when they were kids. To stay together and watch out for each other, like Mom asked them, to be together without fighting.
“Just a second,” said Juliette. She pulled her hand back. “I think I have a splinter from the damned hoe.”
“Do you always have to swear like a lumberjack?”
“No, Miss Priss. Sometimes I swear like a trucker.”
“Ugh, you’re disgusting.”
“I can swear like mon oncle Joseph and use all the church words at one go.”
“You’re quite disgusting. You know that?”
“I know you are, but what am I?”
From the direction of the creek came a wail, like a coyote, but it was too early in the day for coyotes, wasn’t it?
“What the . . . ?” Alice turned. “Is that Maurice?”
Another wail, then silence.
“Come on!” Alice jerked around and flew through the garden.
“Shit-hell, fuck-damn!” said Juliette. She dropped the hoe and ran towards the creek.
Bella was fanning the reeds to dry in the sun. The sun was too bright. She clenched her jaw to keep from throwing up. Her mom’s biscuit had done nothing to soothe her nausea. A dry piece of bread or a pickle sometimes helped when she felt a headache, but the biscuit was too rich, too fresh. She closed her eyes. There was no shade, no resting place here, just noise and light. She had to turn the light off somehow. The thunder rumbled through her stomach. She was thirsty, so she took the small piece of leather from her pocket and sucked on it to make saliva in her mouth.
Maurice crowed like a rooster every time he grabbed and cut a cattail. “Now this is the way to cut reeds,” he said importantly. “First, you grab them here, and, ungh! you cut like, ugnh! this and this and this, ugnh!”
The cattail sprang free and Maurice landed backwards, up to his neck in murky creek water. He struggled to his feet, coughing. He turned to shore, but the mud sucked at his calves. He threw the cattail in Bella’s direction. “Here, la vieille, catch!” he said.
Bella stretched over the edge of the creek bank. Put one hand in the bush nearest her and leaned towards the floating cattail. She pushed the edge of the leather piece into her mouth so it wouldn’t get wet or lost. Maurice was bellowing a song now, hacking with a vengeance. Three more cattails floated towards her. She wanted to help. The headache made her dizzy. She crammed the leather into her cheek and hunched down to reach the reed.
The bank wasn’t more than rotting vegetation and clay. She slipped into the water with a muffled yelp. The red willow bush she was holding snapped back. She slapped at the water. Maurice had his back to her.
“Come on, ma vieille, that’s the way! We’ll have this forest cleared before sunset and we’ll build the barn tonight!” he sang.
Bella raised her face above the surface, struggled to breathe and struggled for a foothold. The leather slid to the back of her mouth. She opened her mouth and water rushed in. She couldn’t stand in this confusion of reeds, rocks and muck; she couldn’t see. Her eyes bulged. Her head went down again.
“What are you doing?” yelled Maurice, finally looking back over his shoulder. “You’ll scare away the f-i-s-s-s-sh! Bella? Non! Hang on! Hang on, I’m coming, I’m com . . . ” He whirled around and lurched one step at a time towards his sister. Towards the red shirt, there now, there now, almost, one more step. He threw himself the last distance separating them. He grabbed at her waist, his hands flailing muck and water high into the air. He heaved and they both fell farther into the creek. He struggled for breath and a firmer hold. “Don’t be dead, Bella,” he moaned through his own snot. “Don’t be dead! Come on! Come on, help me! Help me!” He struggled with the sudden pig-heavy weight of his little sister. “I can’t li
ft you. Help!”
“Maurice!” screamed Alice. She ploughed toward them, slipping and jerking to a sudden stop as the muck pulled at her. She heaved Bella upwards by the braid, her face skimming the surface, up and out of Maurice’s grip.
Juliette plunged into the water beside Alice. She wrapped her arms around Bella’s waist, slammed her on her own slight hip and turned back to the bank. It was as though Bella weighed nothing. There was no room for mistakes in this place. She had her dad’s set look, like when he was opening up a hive.
Alice clutched at Maurice. She shook him. “What happened? What happened? What did you do?”
His hands came up to protect his face. “Bella she, she fell and I tried to help, she was so heavy. I tried.”
Alice slumped and her hands fell from his shoulders. She lifted her arm. Maurice waited for the slap, he covered his face, sobbing. She pushed the hair from his forehead and pulled him to her. They half-walked, half-dragged each other to the bank.
Juliette pressed on Bella’s stomach. She rolled her over on her side and a stream of water trickled out. She prised open her mouth and snaked thin fingers into the back of Bella’s throat. A little way down, felt a slimy piece of something. Slowly curling her fingers, she pulled, afraid that whatever was in there would break in half. She hardly glanced at the material once it was free before snapping it to the side and angling herself behind Bella. Propping her up would keep her from swallowing her own vomit.
Bella’s head bobbed as Juliette jiggled her. Suddenly she strained upwards. She threw up what water was in her and took a shuddering breath.
“Maurice?” Alice said to his huddled figure.
Maurice hunched lower, head turned in his arms. He didn’t speak. Everything he said would be wrong. When people really listened to him, waited for his answer, it was always wrong.
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