Algoma (10 page)

Gaetan said nothing.

Drunk, the man pressed on. “No, it was you right? The guys and I were wondering. Jos doesn’t think it’s you.”

One of his friends yelled out from the other side of the bar. “Is it him?”

“So, is it?” the man asked.

Hoping it would end the conversation surrounding his macabre celebrity, Gaetan said, “yes.”

“Sorry, man. You are one unlucky sonofabitch.”

“I think we’re good. Go sit down,” Gaetan said, and handed him the full pitcher.

The man made it halfway to his table before doubling back. “It’s just, I don’t get it. Didn’t you teach him about the river ice? If it’d been my kid—”

“Enough,” Gaetan said.

At least once a month, a scene like this played itself out in the bar. Like an amateur reporter, a patron would bumble his or her way through the questions they wanted to ask about Leo’s death. In some ways, Gaetan missed those first few months after the accident when everyone was too afraid to ask anything of him, let alone questions surrounding how Leo had drowned, how it could have happened. Now that some time had passed, people in town felt they owned part of the story, part of him. It had become a fable to warn their kids about.

The man seemed to finally sense Gaetan’s impatience and shuffled back to his table.

Gaetan looked across the bar at the men. They were likely fathers themselves trying to grapple with fears about their own children. He was about to look away when he accidentally caught the eye of one of the men. At first, he thought the man looked guilty, but then realized it was a look of pity on his face. In that instant he knew they saw him as less of a father, less of a man.

He couldn’t stay and endure their looks. Gaetan picked up the phone and called Daniel, another one of the bartenders and close friend.

“I’m not feeling well,” Gaetan said into the receiver. “Thought I was fine, but I’m not. I want to go home. Can you cover me tonight?”

Daniel and his wife had recently separated; Gaetan knew he could use the money.

Twenty minutes later, Daniel walked into the bar. “Ready for duty, sir.”

“Thanks,” Gaetan said. He stood there looking at his friend for a moment too long. Daniel had two children. Did Daniel pity him, too?

“You okay?” Daniel asked. His cheeks were still bright red from the cold. “You want some water? A beer before you go?”

“I’m fine. I mean, I will be fine. Thanks for coming in,” he stammered.

He walked out of the bar before Daniel could ask anymore questions. He knew his strengths; he was good at being silent, not at lying. As the door closed behind him, Gaetan heard the first bars of a song he’d heard played a thousand times before. It’s Only Make Believe, an old Conway Twitty tune. Daniel must be having a bad day, too, he thought.

The man with the scar-split beard was smoking a joint in the parking lot. On seeing Gaetan, he tossed his roach onto the ground and stepped on it. His eyes were red and glazed. “You should have told him about the ice. If you’d have told him about the ice, you’d still have him,” he said, and started to walk back into the bar.

Wordlessly, Gaetan walked over and buried his fist in the man’s face. Surprised at what he’d done, he stumbled back, slipped, and fell onto the ground.

The man stood there, his bottom lip badly split, drops of blood falling onto the snow. He sucked his bottom lip and winced. “Because that’ll bring him back, right?”

Home was a fifteen-minute walk away if Gaetan took his time. Tonight, he walked in the opposite direction toward the middle of town. He wasn’t ready to go home. The last person he’d hit was his brother. And it used to be that the bar was his refuge. More and more, he was finding there was no safe place to be. No quiet.

Darkness came fast this time of year. The street lights flickered on over head, one after the other casting yellow circles of light on the snow-covered sidewalk. The roads were mostly empty. Although the weather was warmer than it had been in past weeks, the air was damp and cold. A cold that ate at Gaetan’s bones, awakened old injuries. A shattered ankle from a slap shot in his teens. A dislocated elbow. A testy knee that threatened to give out entirely one day. He limped down the sidewalk, the snow squeaking under the soles of his boots. Hungry, Gaetan stepped into the closest convenience store and walked through the brightly lit aisles. He assessed the rows of shiny bags of chips and chose one. He tossed the bag onto the front counter and used the last of his change to pay for it. The cashier, a teenage girl with a tiny daisy tattooed on her left earlobe, scraped his change off the counter and tossed it into the till without counting it.

“Have a nice day,” she said, her voice monotone.

“Night,” he said. “Have a good night.”

The girl rolled her eyes and turned back to the small television she’d been watching.

Outside, Gaetan walked along the unshoveled sidewalk and ate his chips with his bare hands until it became too cold for him to do so. He tossed the half-finished bag into an empty garbage can that had been left at the curb and pulled on his cold leather gloves. As he walked he clenched and released his fists until the leather was warm and soft again.

Before he knew he was even heading there, Gaetan found himself standing in front of Bay’s house. The lights were out except for the porch light. She wasn’t home, which made him both relieved and dismayed, although he didn’t know what he would have done had she been home. Bay’s house was like many in town: a stacked duplex. Someone lived upstairs, and someone below. Gaetan had always wondered who lived on the top floor of her house, the person willing to navigate the narrow iron staircase in winter. He had a hard enough time staying upright on solid ground.

Gaetan and Algoma lived in one of the few detached houses in town, even if it was only a one-storey with a basement. When they had signed the papers, friends and family told them they were being ridiculous and extravagant for a newly married couple; however, the extra sacrifice had been worth it to not have someone living above them. For a few extra dollars on the mortgage every month, Gaetan didn’t have to hear another family’s footsteps in his head all day long, tramping on his thoughts, his sleep. If he was going to be kept awake by children, they would be his.

He focused on Bay’s house again, which he thought could be nice if a few repairs were made: a fresh coat of paint, new windows, the porch replaced. The mailbox was hanging sideways from a single screw, Bay’s mail stacked in front of the door. Gaetan walked toward the house and climbed the three steps to the porch. He turned and faced the street like it was his house, to see what Bay saw every day; it was a mirror image of her side of the street. He half expected to see a carbon copy of himself standing on the porch opposite, but there was no one.

Gaetan turned to the mailbox. He held up the unscrewed end to where it should be secured, and let it drop again. It swung back and forth like a pendulum clock. He stepped back and looked down for the missing screw and found it wedged in the crack between the house and porch. Using the Leatherman he kept in his coat pocket—a gift from Algoma for their first anniversary—he screwed the mailbox back in place and tightened the other screw. Satisfied with his repair job, he looked around the porch. What else could he fix? He absently kicked one of the banisters, but stopped when he heard steps coming up the sidewalk.

“Gaetan? What are you doing here?”

Bay stood at the bottom of the stairs. Her glossy dark brown hair was pulled up into a loose twist. She never wore hats, even if it was dark and there was no one to see her.

Gaetan stuttered something about being in the area.

Bay looked around. “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.”

“Ah,” Bay smiled. “This is the third time in a month I’ve found you ‘walking.’”

“I fixed your mailbox,” Gaetan said. “It was broken.”

“It was and now it’s not. Look at that. Thank you.” Bay put her key in the lock. “Do you want to come in for a drink? You know, to say thanks?”

Gaetan shook his head. “No, that’s alright. I should get to work. I’m feeling better.”

“You weren’t feeling well?” Bay asked, still holding the door open.

From where he stood, Gaetan could see Bay’s couch at the end of the hallway, a pair of grey slippers tucked under the end table. He was beginning to sweat despite the cold. “Yes. No, everything’s fine.” He ran down the stairs, waved without turning around, and hurried down the street like he was running away from something.

Bay let the door close and walked down the porch stairs. From her walkway, she watched Gaetan appear and disappear as he passed under the streetlights, like a flickering night light on the verge of burning out.

Algoma pulled into the driveway, car full of groceries, and wrinkled her nose. There was a six-pack of beer sitting in the snow on the porch. She parked, got out of the car, and walked toward the bottles. A white envelope was taped to the cardboard handle, Gaetan written on it in a loose feminine handwriting she immediately recognized. She ripped the envelope open and read the card: G. Now the mailman doesn’t hate me anymore. Thank you. Feel free to paint the place next time you’re around. There’s dinner in it for you. B.

After a lifetime of knowing her sister, Algoma knew she could neither compete with nor deter Bay. It would only make things worse. All she could do was run interference and hope that her sister, as she almost always did, would grow bored and move on to the next thing.

Algoma stuffed the envelope and card into her coat pocket and picked up the six-pack. The beer bottles were an imported brand she didn’t recognize. Green bottles that clanked as she carried them into the backyard where she hid them behind the cord of wood behind the shed. By the time Gaetan found the beer, the bottles would be frozen and broken, shards of glass buried in the snow.

______________

6:01 p.m. -22°C. No wind.
Furnace rattling like fluid-filled lungs.

“We’re going camping. Pack up.”

“Um, Mom. It’s minus a million outside.”

“Pack up.”

It was late Friday afternoon and Ferd thought his mother had finally lost it.

“Dad!” he yelled. “Mom says we’re going camping. You know how to build an igloo?” He thought it was joke, but would find out soon that it was not.

Outside, snow was piled up high in huge drifts on either side of the street, every corner capped with a cold white pyramid. The details of the neighbourhood had been gradually erased as snow had risen like water over curbs, planters, and porches. Toys that had been left out on the lawn before the first major snowfall would sit beneath the weight of a season until spring released them into the hands of children who had outgrown them.

The week before, instead of going to gym, Ferd’s class had been made to watch several snow safety videos. Even the most innocent act had been made lethal. Snowballs harboured slivers of ice and broken glass that could take your eye out. Go sledding and find yourself impaled by a tree branch. Build a snow fort and it could collapse and suffocate you. Play outside too long and a doctor would have to amputate your cold-blackened toes. Ferd had had nightmares for days after watching a dramatization of a snowplow clipping the legs off a dummy dressed in dark green snow pants like his own. He could not get the blue flashing light or the sound of the metal scraping along asphalt and ice out of his head.

“You go camping. I’ll just stay here and guard the house,” Ferd said.

Gaetan walked out of the bedroom. It was his day off. “What’s this about camping?” he asked. He rubbed his sleep-crusted eyes with the palms of his hands.

“We’re going camping. Pack up what you need. Bring a book, some extra socks.”

“Algoma. Hon. There’s at least three feet of snow out there.” He looked outside. It was snowing again, large fat flakes. She’d finally snapped, he thought with a degree of relief. It was like an elastic band that had been aimed at his face for months had finally been released.

“We’re not going ‘out there,’” she said. A small smile played across her lips. “We’re camping here. In the basement. Just like before.”

Gaetan leaned against the side of the fridge. He watched his wife as she packed an odd assortment of food into an open cooler. Jars of pickles and beets, oatmeal, Cheez Whiz, sugar, tinned crab, and canned sausages. She reached blindly into the cupboards and packed whatever she pulled out.

She sing-songed everything she said. “Pack up, pack up, pack up.”

Gaetan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Why am I going to ‘camp’ in the basement, when I can sleep in my own bed, eat at my own table?”

“You just are,” she said. Her eyes were flat now, her lips tightly pursed together.

Gaetan backed away from her slowly, as he would from a badger, allowing her a wide berth.

Worried that her family was slowly and irreversibly falling apart, Algoma knew she needed a plan to pull them back together, to learn to be a family of three now, not four anymore. The dynamic now shifted and reduced.

They had always camped together. Every summer, the Beaudoins camped at provincial parks or on crown land. They spent weekends and extended vacations with dirt under their fingernails, their hands calloused from canoeing and kayaking, mouths hungry for more fire-split hotdogs. She would draw on those rituals to bring her family back together and the best part was that they wouldn’t even have to leave the house this time.

Once Algoma had packed all the essentials, she consulted her checklist. Tent. Water purifier. Hatchet. Cast iron pan. Sleeping bags. A deck of cards. Candle lantern. Flashlight. Batteries. Flint. Every item checked off with erasable marker on her laminated list. The ghost checks of past trips had stained the plastic. Nothing was ever entirely gone.

The gear was packed into three large canvas backpacks, the kind meant for mountaineering, not weekend car-camping excursions. The smallest of the three packs was meant for Ferd, although it was still large enough to topple him. Every kind of weather had been accounted for, even though they were going to remain indoors. The bags were stuffed with raincoats, sweaters, and shorts. Long johns, bathing suits, and fishing hats. This time, she was prepared.