After (12 page)

“Coffee?” Maman was sitting cross-legged on the floor, cutting mats out of Sputnik’s fur with her manicure scissors. She nodded toward the kettle.

“Of course!” Aunt Sophie settled into a chair with her mug while I gathered together the juice boxes, the pieces of Lego, the miniature cars, the extra sweater, and all the other gear that Luc needed. And no, they weren’t out to scale Everest. They were taking the métro to the Biodôme to look at a display on the rain forest.

Aunt Sophie rummaged in her bag and held out a pink teddy bear wearing a knit sweater covered in hearts for Maman to admire. “Isn’t he adorable?” she said, giving its black plastic nose a loud kiss.

“Is that yours? Why do you have a bear? Bears are for babies.” Luc was suspicious.

“Ah, yes,
mon cher.
It was a gift. Let me tell you, you can keep your diamonds. There’s nothing more romantic than a stuffed animal.” She gave Maman a knowing look and let loose a volley of laughter.

That’s how I came to buy Jul a stuffed monkey, Curious George. I gave it to her on the last night of Group. She seemed pleased about it at the time, almost as pleased as I was for being so utterly smooth.

It didn’t actually make a difference. At lunch she handed me a pink envelope with scalloped edges. Inside was a card with a kitten playing with a piece of string. In purple ink, she had written:

I felt sick.

“Poor Francis! I’m so sorry.”

Maman hugged me. I could feel her delicate bones and I realized how skinny she’d become.

“I told her all kinds of things that really mattered and now she thinks of me as a brother.”

“Maybe you could tell her how you feel.”

Sure, and maybe I can also take her for a ride in my Ferrari.
What’s worse, I had already tried, but it hadn’t worked out very well.

Maman said, “Poor baby.” I hated it when she called me a poor baby. “You know, Francis, you can’t force somebody to be in love with you any more than you can be forced to love somebody.”

“I love her, Maman. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt anything like this. I really thought she was the one for me.”

“You’re so young. You’ll find somebody else.”

That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. No, wait–it’s exactly what I wanted to hear if I needed a good excuse for murder.

“Why are you so set on her?”

“Because she knows what it’s like to have somebody die. Her mother died.”

“You don’t need to be a chicken to recognize an egg.” I could hear the Gospel According to Aunt Sophie. “You’ll find somebody who understands you and loves you, even if they haven’t gone through the same experiences as you.”

I plucked at the wormy green tufts of the rug.

“I seem to lose everyone I love. What’s wrong with me?”

She gave a little laugh. “I don’t understand a thing about love. All I know is that it’s so wonderful that it can make you happy or miserable or even furious. And there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just sad.”

“I’m sick of being sad.” As I said the words, I realized they were true. I stayed on the floor with Maman’s arms wrapped around me, not wanting to move. Then I went up to bed.

I had grown to dread the long, dark hours when I would lie awake and my thoughts would roar inside my head. Mr. Bergeron had told me that we’re programmed to be
afraid in the night, so that we stay put in our caves and saber-toothed tigers can’t get at us. There were lots of nights when I would rather have faced any beast than the thought of Papa hanging from a rope. That night I dreamed about him, something I hadn’t done since he died. In my dream I was walking home when I saw him sitting on the porch waiting for me.

“Papa? Is it you?” I called. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “I’m waiting for you so that we can have a game of poker, son. The cards are on the table and I got here in time to clean up the kitchen so that your mother can play with us. It’s been a while.”

He seemed so solid that I thought I could reach out and touch him.

“Papa?”

“Yes, son.”

“I’ve been waiting for you, too. Did you hear me crying for you?”

He ignored my question. “Hurry up, before the wind blows the cards away. It will be too late then.”

As I reached the house, a gust of wind caught the cards and sent them flying up in the air. I grabbed at them, but the wind was too strong. Then, it lifted everything–the cards, the swing that hangs from the maple tree, the house, my father.

I yelled, “Papa, come back! I beg you. You have to stay!”

His voice came to me faintly. “I have to go. I have someone to see. Don’t worry, son. I love you.”

He vanished and took everything with him, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. A few of the cards drifted down from the sky. There was no other trace of his passage.

I woke up feeling comforted, as if I’d eaten hot chicken soup on a blustery day. I took my father’s chest out of the bottom drawer and reread the scrap of paper.

You have to remember that everything that year had the surreal quality of a dream. It’s the only way I can explain what happened next. I was not what you’d call a world traveler: the only time I’d been away from Montréal by myself was the school trip to New York, and going with classmates and teachers is hardly what you’d call alone. That’ll give you an idea of how farfetched this sounds. I decided I was going to go to the poker reunion. All the while, the tiny part of my brain that was thinking clearly was asking questions:
How was I going to get to Toronto? What would I use for money? Where would I stay?
I ignored these. All the while I was making plans, I knew it was crazy, but deep down, I hoped that Papa would be there.

“W
hat’s up with your house?” Houston had his headphones on as we walked home from school so his voice boomed. I looked up the street and could see that the front door and all the windows were flung wide open.

I left Houston behind and ran, my heart throbbing in my chest, and pounded up the steps.

“Take off your shoes this instant! I just washed the floor.” Maman was dressed in a torn Grateful Dead T-shirt and shorts, her hair tucked under a baseball cap. She was on her hands and knees polishing the floor with wood soap.

“And stay away from the walls, they’ve just been scrubbed.”

“Why? They looked fine to me.”

“The house was due for a cleaning. After I’m through here, you and I are going to attack the attic.”

The attic. No way. “I’m not setting foot in it.”

“Did you hear me, Francis? You have to help me.” She leaned back on her heels and wiped her hands on her shorts.

“Why? You’re the one who wants to go up there, not me.”

“Don’t start.”

I looked around the living room. Cardboard boxes from the liquor store were piled on the dining room table and in the hall. They had been packed and labeled.

“Papa’s clothes?” I asked.

“Yes. Uncle Ted’s coming around to pick them up,” she said firmly.

“You’re giving everything away?”

“I have enough souvenirs of your father in my head. I need to clean up.”

“But maybe I’ll fit into them someday.”

“I put away his favorite T-shirts and his good sweaters for you and Luc. The rest of the stuff will never fit you. You’re a skinny one.”

Skinny. Hey, I hadn’t noticed. I was so skinny that if you shone a flashlight at me you could see the light through my body.

“Don’t be a baby. You’re sixteen now. You’re old enough to understand.”

Sweet Sixteen. I had turned sixteen on April 13, and it was, to say the least, nonfestive. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t want a party with my friends. The ol’ Grief Monster wasn’t tamed enough for me to be sure it wouldn’t show up, an unwelcome guest, so in the afternoon we visited Grandpa at the nursing home and spent forty-five long minutes listening to him call me Ben while we fed him a carrot muffin. Sputnik sat expectantly at his feet in anticipation of the inevitable crumbs. Mom had invited Uncle Ted and Aunt Sophie for supper. Uncle Ted didn’t show up, but Aunt Sophie did. Maman made lasagna, my favorite food. Aunt Sophie gave me the new U2 CD. I kissed her and her explosion of laughter actually made me smile. Luc gave me a drawing of Sputnik. Papa’s birthday was April 14
^th
, and Maman had always baked a cake for us with both our names on it. That year, his name was not there. Mine took up all the space.

It was one of those yo-yo days when I went from feeling okay to zoning out to feeling happy. Aunt Sophie left around seven.
Look Who’s Talking
was on TV she wanted to watch it. So ended my big day.

“Francis, did you hear me? Yoo-hoo! Where are you? Francis? I’m talking to you.”

“About what?” With a snap I came back to the living room smelling of lemony soap. “Throwing out my father’s things?”

I slammed out of the house and coasted on my bike down the steep street to Deli Delight.

Mr. D. was pouring coffee at a table where four old men were shoveling in eggs and fried onions and having a full-volume enthusiastic argument that had to do with a racehorse. When Mr. Deli saw me he put down the pot and came over.