The Forgotten Daughter

by Joanna Goodman

  Maggie looks at her. “I’d murder her if I saw her now.”

  “I don’t mean right now, I’m not ready yet.” Elodie says. “But someday.”

  38

  Anti-English Separatist Group Claims Responsibility for Clothing Store Bombing

  By J. G. Phénix, Special to the Canadian News Association

  The radical-fringe nationalist group that bombed the Perfect Cup coffee shop several months ago has claimed responsibility for Saturday’s firebombing of Camden Threads, a UK-based clothing chain in Montreal. The French-Language Protection Brigade sent a communiqué to the Gazette on Monday, saying it was behind the attack, which caused extensive damage to the store but no injuries. In the communiqué, the group blamed the “greedy English minority and the inept and disconnected politicians” for the referendum loss, and promised more violence to come.

  “Your ex-boyfriend must be salivating,” Louis says. “We’ve given him great material for his little column.”

  “Let me see that.”

  He hands Véronique today’s La Presse, and she reads it with a sinking heart.

  “Imagine if he knew it was you who wrote that!” Louis laughs.

  She doesn’t laugh with him. James would be ashamed of her. She can picture his reaction—disappointment, revulsion. Not that he had any respect for her to begin with.

  “Why do you look so bummed?” Louis asks her. “You’re actually doing something. You’re taking a stand and making a difference. What the hell is he doing? Writing stories on the sideline, impugning us for having the goddamn balls to fight for what we believe in.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “You still love him.”

  She has no interest in explaining how she feels about James to Louis. Of course she still loves him. She also hates him. Can’t stand the thought of how superior he’d act if she were ever to get caught.

  “Did you tell your father?” Louis asks her.

  “Are you kidding me? He’d lose his shit.”

  “He’ll be proud of us.”

  “He doesn’t want me in jail. He’ll be pissed.”

  “So tell him I did it on my own.”

  Véronique has come to realize that Louis is every bit as opportunistic as James was. He wants to impress Léo as desperately as James wanted to publicly tear him down. And Véronique is always their means to an end. She glances back down at the newspaper and finishes reading.

  Montreal urban-community police have increased security patrols in the downtown core, and are treating the group’s communiqué with “extreme seriousness.”

  “We don’t want another October Crisis on our hands,” said Commander Jean-Luc Dumas at a press conference yesterday. “Most importantly, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  According to Commander Dumas, the communiqué makes clear that this second gasoline bombing in seven months is a direct response to last October’s referendum loss, and that the target was chosen specifically because of its English name.

  “This will certainly have an impact on other businesses with English-language trademark names,” Dumas said. “The priority right now is to stop this from happening again.”

  Véronique tosses the paper onto the coffee table, which is littered with rolling paper, tobacco and marijuana shake, and Louis’s silver Zippo. “I know who we can target next,” she says, looking up at Louis.

  “What about going old-school,” he says, not waiting to hear her out. “Mailboxes in Westmount.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  She pushes the paper at him with her foot. “The Canadian News Agency.”

  Louis smiles.

  “They’re based out of Toronto.”

  “And James.”

  She shrugs.

  “It’s genius,” he says.

  “And I want to do it.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I’m doing it. It has to be me.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  She laughs. “I build them with you, Louis. I smuggled cigarettes. I’m used to danger.”

  Louis smiles in a way that suggests he’s proud of her. Or turned on. Probably both.

  “Obviously I’ll do it in the middle of the night,” she says. “When no one is there. I don’t want to kill him.”

  “Just destroy the building.”

  “Something like that.”

  “We have to wait, though,” Louis says, reaching for his rolling paper and tobacco.

  “Why?”

  “It’s too soon,” he says. “You read the article. They’ve increased security everywhere.”

  “Around stores in the downtown core,” she points out. “The CNA is in Old Montreal.”

  “It’s too soon. There will be cops everywhere. We have to lay low for a few months.”

  “A few months?”

  She’s disappointed. She wants to do this now, while she’s fired up. She doesn’t want to lose her nerve or her purpose.

  “A few months at least,” he says, rolling a cigarette. “We want them to forget about us. Get rid of the extra security. Trust me. We wait.”

  Véronique nods. She will have to keep her anger sharpened and buffed until the time is right. Louis runs his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper and puts the cigarette in his mouth. She leans across the table and lights it with his Zippo.

  They wait out the months, restless and bored. Spring comes late, lazily thawing the city at the tail end of March, but then delivering an unexpected blizzard at the beginning of April. For a day or two, a blanket of pristine snow buries the streets, lawns, roofs, and tree canopies; winter boots and parkas are retrieved with great discouragement, ice scrapers and snowplows reappear, and then, just as quickly, it’s over. April drags, gray and wet, until the first scilla wildflowers spring up on Mont Royal, dotting the park with purple. The air warms up, the bicycles come out, the birds resume singing from their fire escapes and telephone wires. Véronique and Louis drift along, waiting.

  Louis is still unemployed. He spends his days getting high, getting angry. He lives off his meager unemployment checks, taking handouts from Véronique whenever possible. All she has going on are the stolen CDs. She’s earning much less than she used to, but she also cares less about money than she ever did. There are other things more important now.

  By the time July rolls around, the weather turns and the heat becomes oppressive. They don’t have air-conditioning, so the apartment is stuffy and humid. Véronique grows irritable. She spends long afternoons in bed, lying in her bra and panties in the dark, with a fan blowing stale air at her. When the heat becomes unbearable, she has a cold shower and then returns to bed. She doesn’t feel like doing anything; she’s just going through the motions, biding time.

  One afternoon, Louis brings her a Dairy Queen Oreo Blizzard. It’s the first thing she’s felt like eating since the heat wave kicked in. He asks for a kiss in exchange, and she obliges.

  “You still want to go after the CNA?” he says, sitting down on the mattress.

  She looks up from her Blizzard and nods. “Of course.”

  “I biked around down there today.”

  “You were in Old Montreal?”

  “St. Antoine Street was pretty deserted. It’s far enough away from the tourists to be pretty isolated, especially if we do it on a weekend night during the construction holidays.”

  Véronique slides her legs off the bed. “That’s next week.”

  He nods. Véronique experiences a surge of adrenaline. “I’m ready,” she says.

  “I’ll make a list of everything we need.”

  After the decision is made, they move quickly. They build two Molotov cocktails—one for backup—exactly like the one they made for Camden Threads. Véronique is becoming quite proficient at it, a new skill to add to her criminal repertoire. The Canadian News Agency occupies the main floor of an old stone bu
ilding one block east of the Gazette building. It has a large storefront window, which will make it easy for her to hit from street level. Louis got hold of a map and has circled where he’s going to be parked on Rue Montfort. She’s to detonate the bomb and then take off down Rue Ste. Cécile toward their car. They’re doing it on Sunday night, halfway through the two-week construction holiday, when the city will most likely be deserted.

  On the day of the planned bombing, Véronique wakes early and goes out for a walk. The heat has broken, and the air is slightly cooler, more pleasant. It’s the twentieth of July. Her spirits are high, though she’s not without some anxiety. She decides to head down to her old neighborhood, a good long walk to keep her body moving, her mind engaged. She puts on her Discman and walks at a good clip, all the way to Café Santropol, where she orders an espresso milkshake to go.

  She starts walking toward Mont Royal, her tank top clinging to her back. The park is practically empty, with the exception of a few joggers and dog-walkers. She sits down on the grass, legs extended, and squints up at the sun. She wipes her forehead, which is beaded with sweat, and presses her ice-cold drink to it to cool down. She feels the tickle of the grass blades against her thighs, an ant skittering along her shin. She’s been cooped up in that damn apartment for so long, she’s forgotten how soothing nature can be, how tender and welcoming. She used to appreciate it more in the country, when she would hang out by the lake in Ste. Barbe. It seems like such a long time ago, those days with Pierre and Marc.

  She makes an effort now to pay attention to the sun on her back, the hermit thrush singing in the woods around the park, the wet-dog smell of trillium in the air. She has a strong sense of this moment being the calm before the storm.

  I’m going to bomb James’s office tonight. A dull ache settles in her chest. Her heartbeat suddenly feels irregular, like an out-of-tune instrument. How will he react when he gets the call? Will he be excited? He always loves a good story, especially something like a political bombing. Or will he be afraid? Pissed off? Will this one be too close to home?

  She doesn’t think he’ll suspect her. Why would he? She’s not worried about getting caught. Their plan is well thought out, almost foolproof if she executes it properly. What she needs to do is stay focused on her anger: the way she felt the night of the referendum, when the final votes were in and they had lost. The way she felt when the cops handcuffed her, threw her into the police van, and slammed the door in her face. The way she felt when her father was fired, when Elodie’s lawsuits were quashed in court, when she read the article James wrote about her father and realized the love of her life had betrayed her for a story.

  If she can hang on to the anger, she has no doubt her bomb will detonate according to plan. Her mood begins to darken. The birdsongs and dewy summer smells are suddenly edged out of her consciousness, sidelined by a resurgence of old grudges. He deserves it, she thinks. They all do.

  He’s probably engaged by now—Elodie hasn’t mentioned it, but maybe she wouldn’t say—and that thought, the thought of James marrying another woman, is the most enraging of all.

  She sleeps for the rest of the day, blinds drawn, fan rattling beside her. It’s not quite so hot anymore, but she’s gotten into the habit of falling asleep to the whir of the blades. She wakes up briefly to smoke a joint and heat up a leftover empanada for dinner, and then returns to bed. It’s the only thing she can think to do to make the day pass. Finally, at one in the morning, the alarm goes off.

  She rolls onto her side and faces Louis. He’s already awake, smoking in the dark.

  “You ready?” he asks her.

  “Yes.”

  “You sure you want to do this? Because I can do it.”

  “It was my idea.”

  “It’ll still get done.”

  “I want to.”

  He exhales a stream of smoke, which rises and disperses into a white haze above her head. “I need you to be careful,” he says, running his hand through her hair.

  “I’m not going to get caught.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “You’re worried I’m going to blow myself up?”

  “It’s happened before,” he says. “The shoe factory bombing in ’66.”

  “Yes, yes. I know. That’s not going to happen to me. He was just a kid.”

  When Louis doesn’t say anything, she reaches for his hand. “I can do this.”

  “I know,” he says. “I’m still going to worry about you until you’re safe in the car.”

  They dress in the dark. She puts on black jeans, a hoodie, her Docs. She retrieves the backpack from the closet. By the time they leave the apartment, it’s almost two. Outside, the air is cool, even for the end of July. The streets are empty, which is a good omen.

  They drive to Old Montreal in silence. Louis doesn’t even turn on the radio. The only sound in the car is the sporadic tick-tick of the turn signal. Véronique stares outside, visualizing herself throwing the bomb into the window, the way an athlete might visualize her performance before a big sporting event.

  When Louis finally turns off St. Jacques Street and pulls the car into the parking lot on Montfort, Véronique has that same feeling she had the first time she smuggled cigarettes—the lurch of adrenaline, racing heart, and mix of terror and excitement in her stomach. This is no different, she tells herself. You’ve done far more dangerous things before, with far less at stake.

  Louis parks in the far corner of the lot, secluded beneath a canopy of trees. “I’ll be right here,” he tells her, interrupting her silent pep talk.

  She nods.

  “I could still do it,” he says. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

  “I’m not doing this to prove anything,” she responds. “I’m doing this because I want to. I have to.”

  “I get it,” he says, leaning over and kissing her on the mouth.

  She pulls away and reaches around for the backpack. The bottles clang around in there, reminding her of when she was a teenager and used to sneak beer out of the house in her schoolbag. One time, her father caught her. He stopped her at the door and pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Go to the dépanneur and buy your own beer,” he said. “You don’t steal from your parents.”

  She opens the car door and slings the backpack over her shoulder.

  “Be careful,” Louis says. “Do it exactly how I showed you. Once it’s lit, you’ve got to throw it fast and hard. As hard as you can, or it won’t detonate.”

  “I know, Louis. We’ve been over it a hundred times.”

  “You’ve got your cell phone?”

  She nods and slams the car door. Her heart is pounding in her throat. It’s just like smuggling, she tells herself, taking slow, deep breaths.

  She walks up St. Jacques, not passing a single person along the way. The bottles rattle against her back. It’s a perfect part of town for a bombing—no nightlife, very few businesses. As she gets closer to St. Antoine Street, she realizes she could also bomb the Gazette building. She’s got the two bombs in her bag and the buildings are side by side. Certainly, the double bombing of two major English news agencies would make even more of a statement for their fledgling group.

  She feels a rush of energy as she contemplates it. Imagine the coverage, the attention it would garner. The Gazette and the CNA in one night. People would wake up to the news, and a sweep of shock would paralyze the city. Just like the FLQ days.

  As she’s about to turn the corner, she peers into the doorways and alleys on both sides of the street. Always look for homeless people, Louis cautioned. They hide in plain sight, they see things.

  There’s no one. She looks behind her. No one. She swallows and turns onto St. Antoine, where the CNA building sits on the corner. She scans up and down the street, inside the doorways, looking for a flash of movement, a sign of life.

  She stands in front of the CNA’s window, which is dark behind the closed industrial blinds, and remembers all the times
she met James here, in this very spot, picking him up from work. They would walk the few blocks over to St. Paul, the hub of the most bustling part of Old Montreal, grab dinner and drinks, or play pool and catch each other up on the day. She’d been happy with him, which fuels her even more now. He gave her something she’d never had before—a sense of groundedness and stability—and then he blindsided her, taking it all away just as she was beginning to get used to it, to like it even. She will never forgive him for that.

  She glances around one more time, and then, confident she’s alone, slips the backpack off one shoulder so it’s hanging off the other. Her fingers are trembling as she unzips it. Her body is turned away from the window as she digs down into the bag.

  She stops a moment to catch her breath. She’s afraid. More afraid than she thought she’d be; more afraid than when she used to drive the boat in the pitch black of night, surrounded by potential armed bandits lurking on the lake. You can do this.

  Moving more quickly now, her fingers enclose the neck of the bottle. It’s cold in her hand. Bomb, she has to tell herself. This is a bomb. She feels strangely detached.

  What am I doing?

  She quickly dismisses the question, which seems to have pushed its way up from some unfamiliar, unwelcome place inside her. She takes a second to recall the night of the referendum—the police, the beating, the paddy wagon, the jail cell, the despair, the hopelessness—and renews her determination.

  Throw the goddamn bomb and get out of here.

  A noise from behind startles her and she freezes. Keys jangling. A lock turning and clicking into place. She lets go of the Molotov cocktail, and it slips safely back to the bottom of her backpack. She moves stealthily to zip up the backpack and secure it on her back, both straps around her shoulders, and then turns around.

  Even in the dark, with his back to her, she knows it’s him. Two o’clock in the morning and here he is, like a mirage. She could run, pray he doesn’t recognize her taking off down the street.