Miracleville (15 page)

Except for when Mom used to hang out the laundry, we hardly ever use the back door at the bottom of this stairway. Because I'm wearing my fuzzy pink slippers, I reach the landing without making any noise. When I unlatch the door, I hang on to the brass chain so it won't rattle. The night air feels warm and soft, and the crickets are singing to each other. When I look up at the sky and see the full moon hovering over the cliff, I feel a little less lonely.

The wrought-iron table and chairs are out here, but because I don't feel like sitting, I walk round the house to the front. Eeyore is in the kitchen window. Is it my imagination or does he wink at me?

I feel Marco Leblanc before I see him. He's on his balcony. I look over at his shadowy figure, hunched in his wheelchair…and then I realize he's not alone. There is someone else on the balcony with him. The person is sitting on a plastic lawn chair across from Marco. And I'm pretty sure the person is stroking Marco's face.

I know disabled people have lives, but somehow, the possibility of Marco having relationships with anyone besides the nurse from the clinic and the delivery guy from the IGA never occurred to me. I thought the guys who came to visit were his friends. I never pictured him being somebody's boyfriend. I wonder what the two of them talk about. I mean, until recently, I didn't know he could talk.

They haven't noticed me. I like the feeling of being able to watch Marco—it's a way of getting even for all the times he watched us without our knowing it.

Now I notice something else—leaning against the side of the balcony where Marco keeps his weights. At first I think it's another person, but then I realize it's a guitar case. Maybe Marco's girlfriend is a musician.

It's only when the girlfriend leans over to take the guitar out of the case that I realize the girlfriend isn't a girl. Girls don't have such broad shoulders and wide backs.

It's a boyfriend. Marco's gay.

Why didn't I figure it out before? It explains the different men Colette and I have spotted over the years going up to Marco's apartment. It even explains his bulked-up chest and dyed hair. I wonder if Colette already knows. And though I'd rather not think about it, I wonder about the kinds of sex stuff Marco and his boyfriend do to each other.

I need to get out of here, go for a long walk, clear my head, only now I'm really trapped. More trapped even than when I was lying in my bed, sleepless, or sitting on the stairs, eavesdropping on Mom and Dad. If I move now, Marco will know I've been spying on him. On them.

The boyfriend is strumming the guitar. Each chord seems to hover in the air as if the sounds know how to float. “
When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me…
” I have to admit the boyfriend has a good voice—gravelly and gentle both. He's singing an old Beatles song—I know because it's one of Mom's favorites. “
Let it be, let it be
…”

Even the crickets have stopped chirping so they can listen.

I wonder how many nights Marco's boyfriend has come to sing to him. I guess I've been wrong about Marco. He has a life.

The song is calming me down. It's chamomile tea set to music.

Marco applauds when the song is over, and the boyfriend gets up and takes a low bow.

“I'd better get going,” I hear him tell Marco. “I've got to be on the road early tomorrow. But I'll see you next week when I'm back. On Wednesday.”

“You drive safe,” I hear Marco say. “Call me from the road. If you can.”

“Don't I always call from the road?”

Marco laughs.

I try not to stare when the two of them kiss. On the lips and for a really long time. It's not as if I've never heard about gay people, but I've never seen them—you know— in action. What would Father Francoeur say? And do Mom and Dad know Marco's gay? Have they known all along?

The boyfriend packs up his guitar, slings the case over his shoulder and heads down the exterior staircase and into a car parked outside. Marco has wheeled himself over to the edge of his balcony. He watches the car's red taillights as they disappear into the night.

“Can't sleep?”

Marco's question catches me by surprise. How long has he known I was out here—watching him?

“Yeah. I share a room with Colette. She's sound asleep.”

I don't know why I'm telling him all this. Probably because I'm nervous.

“Nighttime's good for thinking.”

It's as if I can still hear the song lyrics drifting in the night air.
Let it be. Let it be
. How nice it must be to be able to do that—let things be. But I'm not much good at doing that.

“I worry more at night,” I tell Marco.

“Most people do. You worrying about your mom?”

“Yeah, my mom. And about us too. Sometimes I think our family's falling apart.”

Marco nods but doesn't say anything. I'm glad he's not offering advice the way most adults do if you say you're upset.

“My parents aren't getting along so well,” I tell him. It's an understatement.

Marco looks across the street at our house as if he can see inside. “Your parents have worked a lot of things out. They'll work this one out too.”

“You sure?” I don't know why his opinion suddenly matters so much.

Marco nods again. “I'm sure.”

“So I guess that guy was your boyfriend, right?” He must know I saw them kissing.

“Right.” Marco doesn't sound embarrassed. That makes me feel less embarrassed too.

“Have you two been together a long time?”

“I didn't know you were so curious. I thought your sister was the curious one.”

Maybe Marco doesn't want to talk about his boyfriend. For a bit, neither of us says anything. But the silence between us isn't an uncomfortable one.

“Wanna come up and have a seat?”

“I guess.”

I've never been up on Marco's balcony. I climb the stairs and, even in the dark, I can tell everything has a spot. The weights are piled in their corner; there's a tray for food and a pile of neatly stacked newspapers.

I sit in the chair where Marco's boyfriend sat. The seat is still warm. For a second, I smell the boyfriend's lemony aftershave, and then the smell is gone.

When I adjust my feet, I knock something over under the chair. It's an empty beer can, and now I can feel there's another one under the chair too. “I thought you didn't drink.”

“I don't. But Jean-Pierre likes a beer or two when he comes by. He's got a job driving one of those eighteen-wheelers, so he's out on the road all day. I used to drink too much.” For a second, it feels like Marco is talking to the night, not to me. “That's how I got into the accident.

The one that left me this way.” He waves one hand over his legs.

“I know. Father Francoeur told me. He said he was with you the night it happened.”

Marco winces. I wonder what he remembers from the accident. Did he see the train coming down the tracks? “What else did Father Francoeur tell you?”

“That you guys used to hang out. And that my mom taught him how to smoke.”

“Yeah, Emil and your mom were pretty tight in those days.”

“Why'd you drink so much back then?”

“Let me guess,” Marco says. “You've never been drunk.” When he smiles, his face looks a little lopsided.

“Of course not. I'm under eighteen.” As soon as I say it, I realize how dumb I must sound. Lots of kids drink before it's legal. Marco did. “You still didn't say why you used to drink so much.”

The crickets are singing again. Were they singing the night of his accident too?

“Maybe I was trying to run away.” Marco waves at his legs again. I know what he's telling me: now he can never run away. In all the years Marco has been our neighbor, this is the first time I've ever imagined what it must feel like to be him. He's more trapped than me.

“What were you running away from?” I'm expecting Marco to say the cliff and the highway and the basilica, but that isn't what he tells me.

“I was running away from me.” Marco pauses. I know he's remembering again. “From knowing I was gay. From thinking it was a sin. But you can't run away from who you are. Even if your legs work right.”

Nineteen

I
wake up too tired to stretch, too tired even to turn onto my other side. Is this what being paraplegic feels like? I bend one knee, just because I can.

I feel as if I've been awake all night. I had the weirdest dreams. I can't recall details, only the terrible feeling that I've been very, very bad.

Slowly, as I lie curled on my side, pieces of my dreams start coming back. At first, it's just images: a checkerboard; a dish of ripe mango slices; my hand sweeping statues off a shelf at Saintly Souvenirs; a mouth, wide-open and hungry-looking. There's a soundtrack too. The statues clattering to the ground; a crash of thunder; someone moaning. I try to push the memories away, but the images and sounds won't go.

What were the matchy-match sisters doing in my dreams? They were outside Saintly Souvenirs, peering at the window display. Only the display was all wrong. The huge Jesus on the cross was laughing, and instead of the tiny Jesuses inside the snow globes, there were miniature me's. And the miniature me's were wearing hot pink short shorts and a bikini top.

“I need a few more vials of miracle oil,” one matchy-match sister said to the other.

In my dream, I tapped on her shoulder. So hard she stumbled. “You're wasting your money. There's no such thing as miracles,” I said.

She looked as if I'd slapped her. Remembering this makes me feel terrible. But in my dream, it was different. I was different. I didn't care about that silly woman's feelings. Imagine two old ladies dressed in matching clothes!

There was more. Now I see my dream self marching into Saintly Souvenirs. Colette was at the counter, setting up our old cardboard checkerboard. “You go first,” she said, smiling up at me. But instead of taking a turn, I hit the board with the side of my hand and sent the red and black discs flying.

Now I remember a smell. The sweet, heavy smell of ripe mangoes. Colette was laying the bright orange slices on a tray. “No, no,” she said, pushing me away when I reached for one, “they're not for you, Ani. You're allergic, remember?”

But I grabbed a fistful of mango slices and shoved them into my mouth. Their sticky juice dribbled down my chin, then down my neck. In my dream, I didn't bother wiping it away.

“Oh no!” Colette said, covering her mouth.

But in the dream, I didn't go into anaphylactic shock the way I would if I ate mango in real life. In the dream, there was hot black lava churning inside me; I was a volcano about to explode. “What do you know?” I shouted at Colette. “You're a stupid slut!”

Colette's eyes were all pupil.

I can't believe I called her a slut, even if it was a dream.

Me—Saint Ani! But in the dream, I felt good. Free. Strong. As if I'd climbed to the top of Mount Everest and shouted at the top of my lungs. As if nothing could hold me back. Not having to be kind or responsible. Not having to be anything like my saintly namesake.

And now I see another piece of my dream. A shorter one. I was leaving the shop. As I left, I ran the side of my hand along the shelf of miniature porcelain statues of Jesus and Saint Anne.

The statues tumbled to the ground. I knew from the clattering sounds some were broken. There would be shards of porcelain on the floor. But I didn't care. Let Colette vacuum up the mess.

I was tired of cleaning up after her.

I cover my eyes with my hands. What does it mean if the me in my dreams is so cold and cruel and angry? Can all those feelings be inside me too?

Oh no, there's more. Maxim was in my dreams too! He was walking into Sweet Heaven.

I marched right up to him. I wasn't going to skulk around the way I did in the sporting goods store. Skulking wasn't my style. Not in last night's dreams, anyhow! Maxim shoved his hands into his pockets. “What's up?” he said, all Mr. Cool. “You look really good, today, Ani— like you're on fire.”

I was on fire!

“You're full of shit,” I told him.

His mouth fell open. Then he laughed. A big laugh that made his face twist up. “I can't believe you said that. Colette says you never swear.”

This time I laughed. “I do now!” Then I stepped a little closer to him and I was glad when he stepped back. “Maybe Colette and other people fall for your bullshit, but I don't. I know exactly what kind of ”—I stopped to choose my words—“selfish, phony asshole you are.”

I can't believe I said those things. I don't think I ever even thought them before.

Do other people say and do terrible things in their dreams? Or is it just me?