by Mel Bossa
“Of course, my love. Of course. How could you ever think that I wouldn’t?”
“Because of this.” McGauran gestures to the room. “It’s too much to forsake.”
“Well, would you let me bring my piano?”
“You’re so sweet.” McGauran kisses his hair. “Yes. We could put it on the train, I guess.”
“But are you still leaving for the lumber camp then?”
“Honoré, I’ve enjoyed these weeks with you. It’s been like a dream, but I have my pride and I want to make my own way. You know that, don’t you?”
Of course he knows it. “But why logging? You could do as your mother suggested and become a plasterer or you could help build the new church near my house. I heard they need all the help they can get and—”
“I’m not building no church for no priest.”
“But you’ll be gone all winter. From October to March.” He tries not to sound like a hurt little boy, though his emotions betray him. “Won’t you miss me?”
“Miss you? I miss you when you leave for half a minute to use the water-closet.”
“So then, why leave?”
“Because…” McGauran exhales sharply. “My mother has already asked Father Hayes’ blessing for my engagement.”
“With Liza?” He hadn’t thought of that.
“Now you understand,” McGauran says, after a moment. “If I stay the winter, by New Year’s Day, I’ll be a married man.”
Honoré picks up the glass of brandy and drains it, then stares out at the moonless night. There’s nothing he can do against the furies. “Fine,” he whispers, a piece of his soul already turning cold. The winter lies before him, vast and endless. Loneliness will slowly fog his mind, he knows it, as frost does a window pane.
McGauran wraps his arms around his waist, pressing Honoré’s cheek against his chest. He sighs woefully. “Je t’aime, mon beau Honoré.”
Those wonderful words will have to be the candle in his window.
Chapter 20: Correspondence
At first light, McGauran slips out of Honoré’s bed, careful not to wake him.
Whatever terrible things he might learn in Bernard’s letter won’t change how he feels. There’s no curse, no witchery, that could lessen Honoré in his eyes.
Honoré could be the Devil himself, for all he cares.
Reluctantly, he leaves Honoré to his peaceful sleep, and walks out into the hall, but then stops by George Latendresse’s door. In the bedroom, looking pensive, Maggie is feeding the old man with a silver spoon. George seems to be getting weaker and grayer every day.
When Maggie finally sees McGauran, she turns crimson red, nearly dropping the spoon.
He leans on the door jamb. “Are you all right?”
“What do you care if I am or not?” Noisily, she scoops up more porridge.
“I care.” He waits.
Maggie blows out a breath and looks at him. “Well, you should mind your business, Mac, and I’ll mind mine.” She dabs a tissue to George’s mouth. “I don’t ask you what you and Monsieur Latendresse do at night, now do I?”
He tries not to blush. Not to feel ashamed. But his cheeks still feel hot and he turns away.
“Mac—McGauran, wait.” She follows him into the hall. “I don’t judge you for it.” She hesitates and then briefly touches his chest. “You’re a good man. I don’t know why you spend so much time in this house. Well, I know why, but I wish you didn’t. There are bad things happening in this house and Fredeline is helping me to leave it. We’re going to start a new life together, across the border.”
“Maggie, listen, you say I’m good, but you’re good, too, all right?”
“No, I’m not. I’m really not. And please don’t say so.” With tears in her eyes, she quickly turns away and hurries off.
“Maggie.”
A few seconds pass and she sticks her head out of George’s room and gives him a direct look. “What?”
He realizes she could be his sister. They have the same spirit and temperament. “You had no choice.” He hesitates to say more, but someone has to tell her. “You were brave, Maggie. Not evil. The plague would have gotten your son. He’s gonna have a good life because of your sacrifice.”
She bursts into tears and disappears into the room again. “Thank you!” she yells from inside.
For a moment, he thinks of following her, but what could he possibly say that could ease her grief? What does he know about giving up your own child? Maybe Fredeline is helping her. Maybe he fears what he doesn’t understand. Women will always be a mystery to him. Even his own mother. Their strength and resilience are bottomless.
He walks away to Bernard’s room and seconds later finds it empty, neat and sparsely furnished. More modest than he’d have thought.
Cigar box. Has to find the cigar box.
It sits there in plain sight on Bernard’s secretary desk. Obviously, the man left it out for him. Inside, there’s nothing but a folded letter. Quite long and addressed to him. He checks the hall again and, satisfied that he’s alone, sits on the edge of the bed, on the green silk blanket.
Is Honoré truly in danger? Gently, he unfolds the thick paper.
Montreal
August 1886
How odd it is to make this decision. I could not have foreseen it. Yet, here I am, writing to you, McGauran O’Dowd.
In the last months, I have observed you with our dear Honoré and could not escape the obvious. I was always afraid that he would fall prey to a man unworthy of him. Thank you for sparing me that agony.
There is no other way to say this. For the last twenty years, I have lied to Gédéon and Honoré. I do not have a sister. I have a lover and he is dying.
Forgive me. I have tried to summon the courage to tell Honoré. Many times, I have stood by his room, or in a doorway, watching him, but I could not bring myself to admit what I am. I was afraid of leading him further astray by validating his nature with my own.
I cannot dictate your conscience. You will do what you believe is right by him, but I can beg you to hold your tongue. I am going to be taking a vacation, a leave of absence, to care for my Jean-Jean. For his wife has left him to die alone and in shame.
And when Gédéon finds out that I allowed you to stay in his house, his wrath will be too much for me to handle. So I choose to flee.
In many ways, your presence in this house has set forth a series of events which have brought all its inhabitants to face their own reflections.
I do not know if or when I will be back, and it pains me deeply. For the last two decades, I have managed to divide my loyalty, but now I must make a choice and I choose love. Please, do not begrudge me this difficult decision.
But let us come to the heart of the matter.
What am I am going to disclose in the next lines is a tale I have told no one and one I can only trust that you will have the intelligence to keep to yourself. It is a tale I am not sure I believe but cannot afford to ignore anymore.
Twenty years ago, Gédéon thought himself in love with Esther, George’s American fiancée. After he confessed his affection to her, Esther—who was devoted to George—turned to her future father-in-law for guidance. To avoid a family feud, and in hopes that the hard labor and harsh winter would cool his younger son’s feelings, George senior sent Gédéon to the shanties.
At the camps, a friend wrote Gédéon a short missive informing him of his brother’s eminent marriage to Esther. They were to be wed on New Year’s Day, following his father’s blessing.
You have spent enough time with Gédéon Latendresse to imagine the state this announcement threw him in. On New Year’s Eve, after an evening of drunkenness, he wandered into the woods, cursing his luck. He then set out to stop this fated event from taking place.
He swears it all began in jest. The loggers were intoxicated. Lonely. Rowdy after months of being enclosed together in the shanty. They sat around the cambuse and yelled out old songs they half remembered from childhood. They
talked of their women. In short, they missed home. They were mere boys, some of them. The cold and isolation had taken their toll.
When the man appeared, they knew who he was. He had with him a black dog. He promised a quick ride and demanded only that the men follow a few rules.
They would ride the witchin’ canoe together, eight men. They were to return by dawn, the same eight, and all would be well. They would carry no religious relics on their person and be wary of church towers during their diabolical flight. And never, ever, speak blasphemous words.
Gédéon was never one to obey an order. He kept in his pocket a golden cross. A gift from Esther. The only one she ever gave him.
He didn’t tell the other men of his trickery. He was young, convinced of himself.
They rode the canoe. Flew, he swears, right across the sky and moon. Some witnessed their landing near Dominion Square. Some even recognized him. I don’t know what to believe.
Fortunately, that evening, Gédéon could not change destiny. After a family brawl, he was given an ultimatum by his father: Be reasonable and avoid a scandal or be cast out of the family forever.
Esther and George were married the next day.
Now after a night in the city with their women and families, the eight men kept their end of the bargain and boarded the canoe again. At dawn, they were back in the Gatineau woods. They promised each other never to speak of their chasse galerie. Never even to meet again, after the camps.
It was only a few months later, after Gédéon’s return to Montreal, that the demon came back for his due.
It wanted nothing of Gédéon’s soul, for Gédéon’s trickery was an insult. No, as punishment, the hellish specter swore it would have Gédéon’s sons and daughters instead.
Now you understand why Gédéon never married. Never bore any children of his own.
And why he is so protective of Honoré. Esther’s only son.
From the moment Esther gave birth to the boy, the Latendresse home was never the same. Honoré was a gift to her, to us all. A joyous and lovely child he was, as you can imagine, with those cerulean blues eyes watching the world with curiosity and tenderness. After Esther died so tragically and George fell into a stupor, Gédéon immediately suspected the work of that demon he had cheated.
The guilt eats away at him. It ravages his mind. He cannot see clearly anymore.
Presently, he is locked in his summer house with some witch, some charlatan occultist, whom he thinks will help him summon the beast so he may bargain with him again. He still seeks to offer his soul as delayed payment for the trick he played.
Myself, I love a dying man and know not where his soul will go. We have sinned together for the last twenty years. Every Sunday, in his marital bed, while his wife visits her sister.
Perhaps you remind me of my Jean-Jean. Perhaps you coming into Honoré’s life has shaken my beliefs. Perhaps I cannot be convinced of our damnation any longer.
And through all these endless fears of curses and hexes, Gédéon has lost sight of the chiefest of truths. For if the Devil does exist, he exists only under God’s eye, and thus Honoré’s fine soul is guarded by our great Father in Heaven.
This is what I believe. And somehow, I think that you will come to believe it, too.
It is Gédéon’s love for his nephew, that is the curse itself. His shame is the spell Honoré lives under.
When you return from the camp, for I know that your heart is set on going, take Honoré away from here. Gédéon will not let him inherit, I fear. I can only hope that I am wrong.
And, McGauran, remember…you are worthy of your name.
You too, can save souls.
May you be at peace.
Bernard Fréchette.
Chapter 21: Melancholia
At his father’s bedroom window, Honoré gazes out at the night, contemplating his lonely existence. Earlier, he tried to take a stroll in the carré, but the park is empty, muddy, and though he wishes he could stop them, the leaves keep falling. They remind him of his happier days. Falling, one by one…
The rain has left the morning dull and damp. Soon, the weather will take a turn for the worst and McGauran will forsake him for the camps. This house will grow colder and lonelier with every passing day. Bernard won’t even be here to stoke the fire in the hearth, and Honoré’s heart will go into hibernation.
The time has come. McGauran’s departure is weeks away. But already, Gaury is unavailable, finding excuses not to visit him anymore.
Honoré turns and goes to his father’s bedside. “McGauran has changed,” he says, pulling up a chair. “He’s become distant. And I think he’s hiding something from me.” He takes his father’s big limp hand and turns it over inside his own hand. “His mother and that priest cornered him last week.” Yes, he remembers McGauran’s face that night. The last time he saw him. It was on Sunday and McGauran was upset. Quiet and anxious. Wouldn’t say much, but Honoré quickly understood. “They’re pressuring him to marry Liza. What can he say or do? His mother is all he has. She’s sacrificed so much for them.”
And to add to Honoré’s misery, Bernard has left his job to tend to his sister who is gravely ill, but Honoré has refused every replacement Gédéon interviewed this week. No other man could ever take Bernard’s place. No, he’ll tend to his own affairs—clothes and all other tedious details a gentleman should obsess over—included. Anyway, he never goes anywhere. He could be unshaven and in his shirtsleeves for days and no one would ever know the difference. Why should he care?
He sighs and gently places his father’s hand back on the bed. “Ever since Uncle returned from Cacouna, he’s been in a foul mood. He harasses me, Father. Complains about my lack of interest in our businesses. Oh, and he insists I dedicate all my waking hours to studying accounts and ledgers. I haven’t played my piano in so long, I think my fingers have lost their nimbleness.” He shows his father what he means, wiggling his fingers. “See? They feel stiff.” He exhales loudly. “I feel stiff. My mind feels stiff. If I can’t play my piano, I’ll slowly lose my wits.”
For a moment, he leans in and searches his father’s blue stare for a sign of intelligence. Or awareness.
“Yes, you’re right,” he says, reading something in his father’s eyes. “McGauran is a good and decent man. He’s only trying to survive in a brutal world. He must want to please his mother. To do the right and noble thing.”
And soon, McGauran will be sharing a cabin with rugged men whose lives revolve around women, whiskey, and hard work. At night, McGauran will lie on his cot, in that smoke-filled shanty, and the short summer romance they shared will seem ephemeral, strange, perhaps even vain to him. What can tie two men together?
There will be no children. No descendants. No marriage under God or Law.
What does he have to bind his lover to him, but this aching love?
“He’s a better man than I’ll ever be. And if he has the strength to return to the straight and narrow path of family and duty, then I won’t stop him. I won’t.” The realization stings his eyes with hot tears. “I love him enough to withstand the pain. You and mother named me Honoré. And that’s what I’ll be. I’ll be honorable.”
He must accept his fate. McGauran isn’t meant for a barren life of secrecy. He must let McGauran go.
“I’ll stay with you.” He squeezes his father’s hand on the bed. “I’ll obey Uncle. I’ll try to be more interested in our affairs. I’ve disappointed you. Dishonored you.”
“No…”
Sitting up, Honoré clutches the bedpost. Was that a sound, a word? “Father, did you say no? Did you just speak?”
George’s mouth jars open and his eyes narrow, his cheeks filling with blood.
“Daddy? Please…”
George won’t respond. His eyes are glassy again, his mouth, slack and silent.
Defeated, Honoré looks up at his mother’s serene face and tries not to weep. Why can’t she comfort him, only once?
Chapter 22: Empty Thro
ne
“This one’s on me,” Linus says, sliding a pint of Molson his way. “Well, on the house, that is.”
“No, don’t get in trouble on my account.” McGauran digs into his pocket for some coins. The last of his money for the week. But he’s given Widow Leary her rent and taken care of the store bill. This money is his to waste. His heart is aching. He misses Honoré to the point of physical pain. He tries to smile at Linus. “Don’t want old man Waits to fire you on your first week, do you?”
Behind the bar, Linus sets down two short glasses on the unpolished wooden top. He pours cheap whiskey into both glasses. “Don’t worry about it, Mac, okay? Now tell me, what happened to you last month? Your ma said you won some money at the races, but I never knew you to be a gambling man. So I need you to be real honest with me here.” He drains his glass and wipes his mouth, his face drawn with tension. “Do you plan on marrying my sister or do you have another girl in the city you’re courting? ‘Cause Liza is too good of a woman to be made a fool of, I’ll tell you that much right now.”
If he could give his friend the truth, he’d gladly do it. But he’d rather be struck in the mouth by a horseshoe than to admit what he did this summer. “I took a holiday. Followed the river all the way to the sea. Saw that giant rock with the hole in it.”
A few men are getting loud at the end of the bar and more people are coming in. It’s that time of the day where men seek to escape the drudgery of their small, cluttered homes and find solace in each other’s shared misery.
He hates this place. What it holds. What it says about him. But yet, he drinks again, hoping the alcohol will numb him and help him get through another night without Honoré. Will his sweet lover understand? He has to keep his distance. It is the only way he knows to lessen the sting before he leaves for the lumber camp.
He stares down into his amber drink. It’s the color of Honoré’s upright piano.
“And my sister?”
McGauran glances up, reconnecting with the conversation. “I’m—I’m going up to the camps next week.” He finishes his whiskey and starts on the beer. Already, his heart is sinking back into the cold chamber of his chest.