After (11 page)

Maman served the fish. She’d snipped some of her potted dill to sprinkle on top. The curtains billowed at the open kitchen window and the air was delicate, if you know what I mean. Maman, Luc, and I sat at the table eating in comfortable silence. That night, my appetite came back without my even noticing.

O
ne Sunday night we all went to see
Jurassic Park
, I like Steven Spielberg. The first time I ever went to the movies was when I was five and my parents took me to see
E.T The Extra-Terrestrial.
I didn’t want to cry in front of my parents when E.T. had to leave Eliot, but I couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t a date, exactly, because my friends were there, but I waited at the ticket counter for Jul so that I could sit beside her. She finally arrived, but she was yakking at an older kid, David, her arm looped through his. I realized that I’d never actually touched her. She gave me a tiny nod but didn’t stop talking to him.

There was an empty seat next to Melanie. She can always make me laugh and that night I laughed like a lunatic at everything she said. There’s a French expression, so jealous that you lose your teeth. Think about it.

Melanie looks a little like Aunt Sophie, which can be kind of off-putting. I don’t mean she’s ugly–she’s not. It’s just that she and Aunt Sophie are the kind of people who take up a lot of room. They both favor eye-aching colors and laugh all the time. What’s annoying is that they both laugh at every one of my jokes–not all of which are funny, I’ll be the first to admit. I hate it when I make a truly unfunny joke or when I forget the ending of a joke I’ve heard. I just
hate
that! You know, you’re talking, talking, talking, and in the middle, you forget what you wanted to say, but you don’t want people to know that you forgot what you wanted to say. You keep talking, talking, talking, and you feel like your brain is about to burst, because you are searching for words, and then you pray that some famous guy will suddenly land right beside you, and everyone will look at him instead of you. But obviously, just when you need famous people they are never there to help you, because they are incredibly selfish. There you are, sweating so hard that you are swimming inside your I ♥ NY T-shirt, that only cost you two dollars, which is so cheap that you bought ten of them to give to your friends, but they had also each bought ten because they are just as cheap as you are (or just as broke), and then you try to distract everyone by pointing to something like the nose of the girl who is seated at your left, and you seize the chance to run in the opposite direction. And you keep running until you become this tiny black spot on the horizon, and that’s
why they smash you, because they think you are a fly–and then you realize how ridiculous it is to say “He’s so kind, he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” because everyone has smashed a fly at least once in their life, including you.

See how my mind works? I’m twisted. No wonder Jul was sticking her hand into David’s bag of popcorn and leaning against his arm. She leaned into his shoulder and whispered something without turning her head. Because of the time she spent in France, she speaks French with a Parisian accent. It would probably get on my nerves in the very near future, but for now I was willing to handle it. If only I got the chance.

After the movie, everybody went off for pizza, but I’d had enough of The Jul and David Lovefest. Besides, my face ached from two hours of enforced hilarity courtesy of Melanie. Instead I went to Deli Delight. The place was empty. By way of greeting, Mr. Deli said, “Fries?” When he brought them he sat down across from me with a loud grunt.

“Your girlfriend didn’t come with you?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Sorry.” Mr. Deli passed me the ketchup bottle and mayonnaise. “Tell me, young man, what do you want to become in life?”

The I’m-Talking-to-a-Kid-and-I-Can’t-Think-of-a-Thing-to-Say Question that adults ask.

“I don’t know.” I did know. I wanted to go to university to study music and then teach people to play. I also
knew that it was never going to happen. There was no money. Mr. Deli studied my face. He seemed to have read my mind.

“You’re a strong kid. You could take a job to earn some money for your studies. I need some help here. You know, I’m becoming a little bit old. Just a little bit. My eyes are not as good as they were before. Sometimes, I mix up salt and sugar.”

“I don’t know how to make bagels.”

“You can learn. Everything has to be learned in life. Even poker. Your father understood that, you know.”

“Did you play with him?”

“Not for a long time. Before I got the deli I had quite a problem with cards. When I had enough money to buy this place, I left the boats and stopped playing. Your father stayed on. You know, your father had a sickness, but he fought it like a gladiator. He was a brave man.”

“If he was so brave, why did he abandon my mother, my brother, and me? That’s not brave.”

“Don’t say that. We can’t judge others like that.”

“Is it your religion that forbids it?” I wasn’t asking him for a theology lesson. I was being sarcastic. He didn’t notice. Mr. Deli chose his words carefully.

“It is not my religion. It is me. It’s something I really believe. You know, in life there are things that we can answer, but others we can’t. We have to let go of those things for which we just can’t find any answers. We can’t hold onto them.”

I let the fries grow cold on my plate. I wasn’t angry anymore. As I walked home the same thought beat a tattoo with my steps:
Why didn’t Papa talk to me? Why didn’t we ever talk?

I was twelve years old when I saw my father cry for the first and only time. He was in the garage, sitting on a bench with his toolbox beside him. Maman was baking an apple pie, and we could smell the warm cinnamon.

“Why are you crying, Papa?” I was shocked and afraid.

He didn’t answer, he just wept silently. Finally, he raised his head. “I lost my job.”

“You’ll find another one.”

“No.” He sounded defeated.

T
hough we were well into spring, the weather had turned cold again and rain was beating on the window. I hadn’t heard from Jul all week. I knew I wasn’t much of a prize, compared to David. For starters, I was downright skinny. Though I ate nonstop, gobbling industrial quantities of Fudgee-Os, I was a beanpole.

Luc had finally fallen asleep after four readings of
Simon and the Snowflakes.
I was sitting by his bed listening to his even breathing when I was blindsided by a wave of longing for Papa. I wanted desperately to ask him what you’re supposed to do when you’re in love with a girl who is so clearly, cruelly, not in love with you.

I closed Luc’s door softly and went down to the living room. Maman had a paper pattern spread out on the rug in front of her and was squinting at it and the knitting in her hands.

“You won’t be walking around in bare feet for much longer, my boy. I’m knitting wool slippers for you.”

“I don’t need them, Maman. I’m fine in bare feet.”

“So fine that you cough all the time! I don’t want you to catch a cold that could become pneumonia. I lost your father. That’s enough for me. When I finish these slippers, you will wear them.
Point final
” She was in her element, knitting up the troubles of the world. I watched her struggle with the wool, Papa’s vest buttoned over her sweater.

“It’s cold in here. Francis. Get another log for the fire. It feels like February. What a crazy year.”

I brought another log in from the diminished pile on the front porch, and she patted the couch beside her.

“Tell me, sweetheart, what’s happening with Jul? You never talk about her anymore.”

“There’s nothing for me to say.” Oh, Lord, was she going to talk about sex with me?

She lined the knitting needles up carefully on the coffee table. “I can see that there’s something wrong. I know you as if I had knitted you. I could tell you each of your stitches, my boy.”

She put her arm around my shoulder. The fire was crackling in the fireplace. The clean sharp smell of burning pine filled the room.

“Mr. Deli offered me a job.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I said I would think about it. What do you think, Maman?”

“Well, I think it could be a good idea. It would give you some money of your own. You know that with my salary there’s not much left over after I’ve paid for the groceries and such. We’ll have to fix the roof soon.”

“Did you know that Mr. Deli used to be a sailor? He even worked with Papa.”

“Sure. Papa liked him. I used to tell him that Mr. Deli is proof that there’s life after the sea, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

I don’t know where the longing came from but all of a sudden I was desperate to hold a hand of cards with their ordered suits, and sit in the companionable silence of a good game with a good partner. “Maman, let’s play cards. Poker.”

“My poor boy, I have been knitting all afternoon, and a good part of the evening because I want your feet to be cosy. My eyes hurt. Another time, okay darling?”

I sat on my bed and groped for my guitar. As I did, I knocked my baby album from the shelf above it. I hadn’t opened it for years. I wasn’t about to unlock a genie all by myself, so I carried it down to the living room, where my mother was watching the fire. I held the album out to her.

“Do you want to look at it?” Her voice was tentative. “I think this calls for a cup of coffee.”

I went to put the kettle on. When I came back, I saw a tissue box close to her. The album was blue satin with
Our Baby Francis
neatly embroidered on the cover. That used to mortify me. We sat side by side as she turned the pages.

“Oh, Lord! I was so big when I was pregnant. I gained forty pounds, can you believe it? I thought I was so ugly, but look how gorgeous you were! You weighed ten pounds. Look at this photo. It was your baptism. Grandma wanted to carry you, but you were so heavy. I was afraid she would drop you. And that one: you, and your father on Uncle Ted’s Ski-Doo. The sound didn’t bother you at all. You could sleep anywhere. That year, there was so much snow that we had to crawl out of the house from the second-floor balcony.”

I leaned over her shoulder. There was Papa roaring with laughter, tossing me into the air. Baby me peeking out of Papa’s backpack as he rested on his ski poles. With Maman in a bathing suit asleep on a dock somewhere in the Laurentians. There was a picture of me, younger than Luc, with my face buried in Papa’s ski-jacketed shoulder because a street corner Santa’s ho-ho-ing scared me, and another of me at about twelve. With a finger I reached out and touched Papa’s face. He was squinting into the winter sun in front of the house on that Christmas day, with a wiggling puppy Sputnik in his arms. I realized I was smiling.

“Maman?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I think it’s over between Jul and me.” It was a huge relief to say it.

“Talk to me.” She took a sip of her coffee.

I got the idea from Aunt Sophie. She had bustled into the kitchen one Sunday after mass, dressed up in a fringed Mexican poncho, high heels, and a beret, her outfit of choice for taking Luc for the afternoon.