by Mel Bossa
“Yes, I know. The wiring needs some looking into.” Bernard is fluffing George’s pillow behind his head and then pulls the velvet drapes closed. He sighs. “Please stand up, so I can make you presentable.”
Honoré sulks, crossing his arms over his chest. “I am presentable.”
“Now, now.” Bernard stands by his chair with a resolute expression. “A few verses and a song won’t end your life.”
“I haven’t written anything new for so long. I can’t write, Bernard. It’s all gone.”
“Then recite an old poem. The one about the parakeet, or what about that short one you wrote about broken cemetery gates?” Bernard pulls him up. “Your uncle won’t know the difference.”
“And that’s precisely the reason I hate reciting for him and his colleagues. I could read them a passage from La Contesse de Ségur or worse, a page from that awfully boring book Les Anciens Canadiens, and tell them it’s George Sand.”
“Well, you’re a poet and a musician. They’re merchants.” Bernard begins to smooth out the wrinkles and creases in Honoré’s coat. “Poets end up ruined, interned, gravely depressed, or die of venereal diseases.”
Honoré grins. “I’d like a proper venereal disease.”
“Don’t say such things!” Bernard slaps his cheek very gently. “Soon you’ll be married and inheriting—”
“No, I won’t. And you know it.”
Bernard fixes his gaze on him. “Honoré,” he says with a sad expression. “You must…try.”
He can’t hold Bernard’s knowing stare, so he moves away and stands by the window again.
“Men such as yourself have succeeded before. There is nothing stopping you from marrying and fathering children, but your own stubbornness.”
He turns around and makes an effort to contain himself. “I’d rather die than be some countess’ pet husband.”
Bernard shakes his head. “Tsk. Tsk.” He looks down at George in his chair. “Think of your father. Of the life he would like to see his only son lead.” Tenderly, he fiddles with Honoré’s necktie.
Instead, Honoré thinks of the conversation he had yesterday with Maggie, the new housemaid. “We’re hexed. It’s true, isn’t it? That’s why Mother died and Father withers away…and now Uncle is afraid that I’m going mad. That the curse is on me now. That whatever he did, has come down to me and—”
“You’ve been spending time in the kitchen again, haven’t you?” Bernard chuckles dryly, but there’s tension in his face. He pats Honoré’s shoulder and swiftly walks away. “Is it the new girl? That little Irish rose? Did she come with new stories of the Devil and a flying canoe on New Year’s Eve?”
“She says the reason the housemaids don’t stay but a few months, is because they’re terrified of the Devil returning. Of that black dog, too.”
Now he’s said it. He watches for Bernard’s reaction.
Bernard pauses a little. “You shouldn’t be befriending the help. It isn’t proper. I should have that girl sent home. Bad enough you spend your days with Fredeline in the kitchen.”
“Don’t you dare. Maggie has no home. She’d be forced into a nunnery.” He crosses his arms over his chest again. “I have no friends! Whose company am I to keep?”
“There is the spring ball next week.”
“No.”
“Be reasonable.”
“I want you to send a telegram tomorrow.” Boldly, Honoré walks past Bernard in the door. “To McGauran O’Dowd.”
“My dear child, please, you are risking your reputation.”
“My reputation?” He scoffs. “Everyone already believes that I’m fit to be interned.”
Bernard sighs and then smiles a little. “Go downstairs and show them just how mad you are, my little pest. Why don’t you play them that terrifying Grieg piece you’ve been practicing all week?”
He cocks a brow. Yes, that could do. In the Hall of the Mountain King. He rarely gets to bang the lower keys with such pleasure.
Bernard comes closer and fixes his silk necktie again. “Remember, Honoré, you’re a special, most talented boy. But some men are like wolves. You must learn to keep up a strong front.”
“I’m not weak.” He turns and walks away.
“No, you’re not,” Bernard says behind him. “But you will make some men feel weak and that’s a dangerous thing.”
Chapter 5: An Invitation
On the church steps, McGauran’s mother grabs his elbow. “Not so fast, lad,” she says with a bright smile.
It’s true, he’s in a hurry to get away, but he slows down anyway, looking at her. His mother’s skin is so pale, he can see the thin blue veins pulsing at her temples. She’s been working at Ames & Holden all week, coughing at night, keeping the Leary boys awake, but right now she’s happy, so he tries to smile back. Mary O’Dowd is always happy after church. She doesn’t have anything to fear or be forgiven for. Only Heaven’s rewards to look forward to.
“That was a mighty sermon,” she says close to his ear. She chuckles. “Did you feel it? I looked over at you know who, and he was red as a beet!” Sometimes, his mother is so sweet and enthusiastic, he forgets that she’s forty-two and has had a life of hardships no one deserves.
But McGauran doesn’t know who you know who is. He was too busy contemplating his own sins, or at least, the ones he longs to commit with Honoré Latendresse, to notice other people’s faces during Father Hayes’s triumphant speech on hellfire and the weaknesses of the flesh.
In the church tower, the bells begin to toll, announcing the end of mass. Their chiming is so loud, people have to shout to be heard. That’s how it is with religion, he thinks. A man can’t hear himself think over the sound of God.
Feeling guilty for his heretical thoughts, he says a quick and silent prayer.
Lord, forgive me. I want him.
“What’s the matter with you today?” Mary scans his face with her warm brown eyes. A gust of wind nearly whips her hat off, but she holds it in place. She pinches his arm. “Sitting with you in the pew was like sitting next to a pot of boiling water,” she teases him. “What’s a matter with you? Thinking of Liza?”
“Ma, please. People will hear.” McGauran makes his way through the people gathered at the bottom of the church steps. He catches a few girls staring and tries to ignore them.
John Baldwin, the grocer, waves him over. “Heard you got the job with Latendresse.” He pulls a boy closer to him. “This is James—Jimmy—my son.”
The boy is a fair-haired kid with a thin face and a wispy blond mustache. His brown eyes are narrow and a little fearful. “Hi, Mac,” he says, offering his hand. He’s a small young man, but his grip is firm. They shake hands and discuss the camps for a few minutes. Clearly, John hopes to make a man of his youngest son and is counting on McGauran to watch over him out there in the woods.
When they part, McGauran looks around for his mother. He’s edgy, wanting to leave the crowd. He hasn’t caught Father Hayes’s eagle-like eye yet and hopes to get away without speaking to the priest.
Then, as he’s walking by his mother, Mary holds him back again, slowing his pace. “Wait for me a minute, I want to say a word to Katie over there.” She leaves for the cluster of women who’ve formed a circle no man would dare enter. Sundays are people’s only day off and there’s excitement in the air. Usually, McGauran and his mother share a large lunch with some neighbors.
But today, he has other plans.
He spots Liza, and noting the longing in her eyes, quickly looks off to the street. He hasn’t visited her brother in weeks. Has been avoiding the Brogan household altogether. She’s too proper to walk up to him in public, and so he turns away, sparing her the sight of his guilty face.
In his pocket, Honoré’s telegram feels like a hot coal against his thigh. He hears the words inside his head. The invitation is for today.
Montreal Telegram Company
Mr. McGauran O’Dowd,
You are cordially invited to the Latendresse ho
me this coming Sunday, at three o’clock in the afternoon. Your humble host would be eternally grateful for the inspiration you could provide him for future prose and verses. In exchange, he promises a piano recital.
Salutations.
H.L.H. Latendresse
“Mickey.” Father Hayes’s voice. No one calls McGauran Mickey, except for the priest. “Too distracted to stop and say hello?”
McGauran turns and swallows dryly. “No, Father. I—I saw that you were busy and didn’t want to interrupt.”
“I’m never too busy for you, Mickey, you know that.” Father Hayes’s words are kind, but his large hand presses hard on his shoulder.
They’re the same height, yet he feels like a boy in the priest’s presence.
“How are you, Father?” he asks. Father Hayes has been in his life ever since he was a child of five. He’ll always be in the man’s debt for helping his mother when no one else would or could.
“Heard you went to ask Gédéon Latendresse for another chance at the lumber camps.” Blond and broad shouldered, Father Hayes is a strong man. His voice is vigorous. His eyes, piercing blue.
“I need the money,” McGauran says, looking over the priest’s wide shoulder, hoping to get away before this conversation takes a turn for the worst.
“You know, if it’s money you need, there’s always some work to do around the church. But you never come by anymore.” Father Hayes leans in closer to his ear. “Do you think going back to the shanties is a good idea?”
He shouldn’t have told Father Hayes about what he did that winter, but he’d been so confused after his return to the city. So guilt-ridden, too, and Father Hayes had insisted he cleanse his soul. McGauran resists the urge to wipe his hands down his thighs. He feels dirty. Ashamed.
“I’m worried about you, Mickey. That young nephew…he’s not the type of boy you want to associate with, hm? Wouldn’t you say so?”
McGauran knows he can’t come to Honoré’s defense or he’ll reveal himself, so he shrugs. “I’m only going up to the camp.”
“But you were inside their home, last week. I’m sure he was there. Folks say he never leaves that house. Doctors come and go. But science can’t cure a soul in distress.”
Why does Father Hayes know everything? Maybe God does work through him, after all.
“You must have met the lad,” Hayes goes on. “Honoré is the boy’s name. Another one of those poète maudit, I’ve heard.”
Cursed Poet.
If he lies, he’ll admit some form of guilt. “I met him,” he says. He sees his mother breaking away from the circle of women. “Here comes my mother.”
Father Hayes won’t budge. He stands there like a tree, but before the priest can add anything else, a few parishioners gather around him, providing McGauran with an opportunity to slip away.
“We’ve been invited at the O’Donnells’,” his mother says, meeting him.
“No, I can’t. I’m sorry.” He kisses her cheek. “I need an afternoon to myself.”
“Oh…I see.”
He steps off into the dirt street. “I’ll—I’ll be back before sundown. Don’t worry. I’m not going out to drink.”
Until this moment, he’d convinced himself that he wouldn’t go. That being in Honoré’s presence again would only torture him. He’d kept the telegram in his pants, hoping that with time, and Father Hayes’ sermon, Honoré’s words would lose their grip on him and he’d tear the message up or throw it in the canal.
But now he understands that he was always going to go. Everything else in his life has been leading up to this invitation. Walking away, he says Honoré’s name over and over in his mind, and the very sound of it inside his head elevates him.
Chapter 6: Maggie’s Fit
In the kitchen, Honoré sits at the long wooden table covered with today’s dinner preparations. He smells a beef bourgignon gently roasting in the cast-iron stove, and the scent whets his appetite. He grabs a baguette from the large bread basket and tears off a piece.
“Good, you’re finally eating,” Fredeline says, giving him a caring look. She’s chopping chanterelle mushrooms, rocking the knife against the board. Her black hair is braided and rolled into a tight bun. Her apron is spotless, as always.
Honoré dips his bread into the pot of cool cream. He’s been up since dawn, tormenting himself over the telegram he sent McGauran. Will McGauran knock on his door today? And if he does accept his invitation, what will they do?
Loneliness has made him bold. Or…brash.
His uncle and Bernard have taken the coach. Bernard is visiting his sister across the river, as he does every Sunday, and Gédéon has business at the billiard room this afternoon. But Honoré declined his uncle’s invitation to tag along, blaming a terrible headache. He’ll have the house to himself, save for Fredeline and Maggie. The dailies don’t come in on Sundays, neither does Sister Augustine, his father’s nurse.
Until now, he’d been too anxious to eat anything, but his stomach is growling. He’s come to the kitchen to soothe his nerves. This room and Fredeline always make him feel safe. He swallows his bite and leans in closer to the table. “Tell me about Haiti again,” he eggs Fredeline on. He loves to hear the stories. What a wondrous island it must be. If he ever traveled, he wouldn’t go to Paris or London at all. He’d sail for Africa or the Caribbean. Ever since he read Nerval’s Voyage to the Orient, he’s been dying for a little exoticism in his boring, sheltered life.
“Oh, I’ve told you everything I know. And I’ve never even lived there.”
It’s true, he remembers, like him, Fredeline has never been anywhere. Her parents were freed slaves and her mother died working her health away for a French Canadian lawyer who was forced into exile after the troubles of thirty-seven.
Fredeline carries the board to the stove and tosses the chopped mushrooms into a pan of simmering butter. The scent is wonderful, earthy and moist. “You shouldn’t be in here,” she says, shaking her head. “It isn’t your place.”
“Oh, I don’t care.” Honoré dusts the crumbs off is blue satin-lined jacket. The kitchen has been his refuge since he was a child. Bernard and Gédéon can admonish him all they want, he won’t stop visiting Fredeline. “Unless you don’t want me here?” He teases her, knowing she enjoys his company.
From the corner of her eye, she watches him affectionately and holds back a smile. She’s never entertained a suitor or had a family of her own. She keeps to her quarters which are at the side of the house and have their own courtyard where she breeds chickens they never eat. She’s the most mysterious person he’s ever known and she fascinates him. “Be careful, Honoré,” she whispers, her eyes pausing on his face. There’s a hint of sadness in her gaze. “You have such an open heart and mind. You’re the reason I stayed in this house all these years. I wanted to watch over you. But you’re coming of age now and into your own nature. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be of service here. I have an old aunt working for Quakers in Ohio and she’s been wanting me to come down there for years now. You’ll have to be strong…do you understand?”
He sits up. “You’d leave? When?” Above the table, the bulb dims and brightens.
Fredeline glances up and says something under her breath he can’t catch. Her eyes meet his again. “You’re a man now. And you’ll leave, too. With a wife…yes?” She reaches over the table to touch his cheek.
With a shrug and a pout, he dips more bread into the cream. “That life isn’t for me.”
“You’re so much like your mother. A free spirit.”
“You cared about her…why? What was she like?” He’s asked her this a million times before, but she’s the only one in the house who ever answers him truthfully.
“Gracious and kind. A real lady, Honoré. And she played the piano beautifully.”
His mother, Esther Coffin, was the daughter of two abolitionists, instrumental in setting up the Underground Railroad. George, his father, met Esther during one of his trips south and the two
lovebirds married a year later, settling in Montreal.
What stories his mother could have told him. All that history and beauty, gone now, forever. If she were here, she’d understand him. They’d have traveled together. To Europe, and to her homeland, the United States. By train and steamboat, they’d have circled all across this beautiful planet. Two freethinkers, drinking in the world in great gulps.
Fredeline turns to him. “I believe you have what it takes to win this battle.”
“What battle?”
“Monsieur Latendresse!” Maggie is screaming somewhere in the house.
At the sound of her cries, Honoré rushes out of the kitchen, with Fredeline in tow. The lights are off in the hallway and he finds Maggie sobbing by the front door. “What is it? What happened?” He rubs her slender shoulder and looks at Fredeline. “Please, some water.”
After Fredeline leaves, Maggie throws herself at him. “That black dog. That beast. It brought me a dead kitten,” she cries into his jacket. “Dropped it right on the side porch.” She shakes her head, crying harder against his four-button coat. “It knows what I did to my child! My poor boy! They made me do it!”
He quickly looks around, fear gripping his throat. He doesn’t want to see it. Know it. Why can’t it simply go away? What does that beast want?
Maggie won’t let go, clutching his jacket tight. “I didn’t kill my child. I saved it from the plague!”
“Oh, Maggie, please don’t cry. Or you’ll make me cry.” Gently, Honoré manages to free himself of her grip. She’s a small girl, but strong. He fixes her bonnet and sees Fredeline coming up to them. “Ah, here is the water.” He takes the glass from Fredeline and pushes it into Maggie’s little hand. “Drink. Please. For me.” But his hand is trembling, too. That black dog. Has he summoned it? He’s been having sinful, lusting thoughts lately.
Thoughts about other men.
Maggie takes a few sips and begins to calm down. Stealing looks over her shoulder, Fredeline leaves them, returning to her work in the kitchen, but he hears her saying something in Creole, the language her mother taught her as a child. He checks the longcase clock. It’s nearly three in the afternoon! His heart accelerates as he takes the glass from Maggie’s hand. “What happened?”