Washika (23 page)

Albert Morin lowered his cup and looked at each one of the children and, finally, his eyes found those of Bernadette, his wife.

“So, you see,” he said, sucking at his teeth with his tongue. “My poor old
maman
was right. I'd be absolutely nothing at all if there were not a Henri Morin, and a Gilbert Morin, and a Céline Morin. And none of you would be anything at all if there was not a Bernadette Morin.”

There, he had done it. He had saved them from the truth. Oh, it was true he loved Bernadette and the children. He loved them very much, more than life. But, he did not love life. How could he tell them? It would sound childish to speak of it, selfish even. When he was a young man, about Henri's age, he had one and only one love in his life, more a passion than anything, and that was the game of hockey. He had proven to be the best all-round hockey player on his high school team. In his final year a scout from one of the American teams had attended a game at the Ste-Émilie arena. After the game the man approached Albert, shaking his hand vigorously and spouting his disbelief that a young man with such great talent could be playing hockey in a small town league. There was glory to be had, and good money, if he would follow him to New York, to be signed up with a major farm team and then, eventually, with a major league team. Albert Morin was overcome. He could not believe his good fortune. Not only could he spend his life enjoying his great passion but he could earn a living doing it as well. He ran all the way home from the arena that night, clutching the scout's business card in his hand. It was with great pride that he informed his parents of his plans. He would be leaving for New York in one week. He would call them as soon as he was settled and he would write to them every week. And weren't they proud, Albert beamed, that their son was soon to become a major league hockey player? The answer was no, definitely and unequivocally no! Hockey is a game, his father said, flatly, not a job. New York is a big city, his mother said, where all manner of dangers lurk. Albert Morin was seventeen years old. His father had spoken. Albert tore up the business card and never played again. He did not listen to hockey games on the radio or attend games at the arena. Even later in his life, if someone turned on the television at La Cabane and there happened to be a hockey game being played, Albert would leave the tavern immediately. As he saw it, life had cheated him. But it had given him a family to love. He had that at least.

“What do you say,
papa
?” Henri said. “Would you pass me a few dollars for tonight?”

“We'll see, eh”

“Yes,
papa
,” Henri was satisfied. His father had not said, no. After he had taken his short nap, Henri knew what his father's answer would be.

“And Henri,” his father turned as he walked towards the living room.

“Yes
papa
?”

“Use your own razor, eh.”

“Yes
papa
.”

It was only seven o'clock but Henri moved quickly, picking out clean jeans and underwear, and a new sweater, a Christmas gift from an aunt in Vermont.

There were only two rules as such in the Morin household:
papa
had his nap after supper and was not to be disturbed between seven and seven-thirty, and
papa
took a shower at eight.
Papa
Morin was “available” at all other times. Bernadette was always there.

Henri shaved, feeling the thinness of the blade against his skin. After each stroke of the razor, he sloshed it around in the steaming water and tapped its handle on the edge of the sink to dislodge hair and soap. Once, as he slid the razor over his Adam's apple, he went too fast. After he had rinsed and toweled, small dabs of blood appeared on his neck.

Henri wiped the steam from the mirror. He looked at his face and the strip of sparse hair he had left beneath his nose. No, he was not ready yet. He dipped the brush into the hot water and stirred up fresh lather in the cup. He went slowly, and very carefully. Holding his upper lip rigid over his teeth, he shaved off the near mustache. Henri removed his T-shirt and trousers and slid the underwear over his chalk-white feet. He stood before the mirror on the door and looked at his tanned arms and chest and the brownish V extending upwards from his sternum to both sides of his chest. His legs were white, like his feet. He held himself sideways and sucked in his stomach and noticed that his arms were perhaps more muscular than before, but nothing else had changed. Everything looked the same.

Henri slid back the curtain and stepped into the shower.

W
hen Henri went into the kitchen his hair was still wet from the shower but he was fully dressed and ready to go out.

“You smell good, Henri,” his mother said. The woman sat at the table leafing through one of the many catalogues she ordered from the Capital. She rarely purchased anything from the stores there but she found several good ideas for clothes for Gilbert and Céline, which she quickly put together on her old pedal sewing machine. “You smell just like
papa
,” she laughed.

“Yes,
maman
,” Henri blushed. “You think he's awake?”

“It's past seven-thirty. Anyway, he has to shower.”

“I always hate to wake him.”

“I know. I know. When your father and I were first married, it always frightened me. Sometimes, he would be late for work.”

“He must have been really angry then.”

“Oh no. He would reach for the phone without getting out of bed and he would tell them down at the office of some great catastrophe at the house and then we would lie in bed until noon and…anyway, Henri, go on. He won't say anything. Wake him if he's sleeping. If he yells at you, tell him I sent you to wake him.”

Henri walked through the dining room and into the living room where his father was half hidden on the large leather-covered sofa. Walking across the carpet with his shoes on, Henri felt almost guilty, like at St-Exupèry's once when he had slipped on his cap as Father Landry and the altar boys disappeared around the altar and went into the sacristy. Henri liked to look at the books on the shelves that spanned one whole wall in the living room. Many of the books were old and had leather bindings and just looking at them brought back their unique smell. On the opposite wall was a single painting. It belonged to his father. They all liked to look at it and hear their father tell stories about it, but it was
papa
's painting, set just above the chair where he read in the evenings after his shower. His good friend, Doctor Henri Major, from whom Henri got his name, had painted it one summer while the rest of the group was out on the lake with their lines. Doctor Major was not a very good painter but this one, as far as Albert Morin was concerned, was a masterpiece.

Anytime Albert Morin looked at the painting, he could smell the odour of hardwood smoke coming out of the tin stovepipe and he could hear the breeze whistling through the screen on the porch of the cabin and through the long, green needles high up in the white pine overlooking the lake. Along the ground and on the tarpapered roof were the orange pine needles from the previous year. He could feel them under his bare feet as he looked at the painting. Then, he was no longer in his chair or in the country of the book he had been reading. He was sitting in the sun on the dock, looking out over the water and watching the bamboo pole dip each time a trout took a bite off his worm. Behind him he could hear a garter snake sliding across the dry, sun-baked leaves on the rocky ledge. It was looking for the fish it could smell but which hung, safely out of reach, from the stub of a branch stuck into its gills and out through its mouth.

“
Papa
,” Henri said softly, almost a whisper.

“Yes, yes,” the man replied. “What is it?”

“I thought maybe you were sleeping.”

“No. I'm awake. And now, to the shower. I have to smell nice or
maman
will kick me out of bed, eh?”

“Yes
papa. Papa
, about the money?”

The man sat upright on the sofa. He rubbed his face with both hands, massaging his eyebrows and the sockets of his eyes.

“Money?” he said. “Oh yes, the money you have but won't spend. Is that it?”

“Well yes, I suppose. I've got to save for school in the fall.”

“Yes, yes. Your
maman
's right. It's wise to plan ahead. Think of your future, Henri but not too much. Knock around a little. You'll be locked in your harness soon enough, my boy.”

“You think so,
papa
?”

“I know it.”

The man bent over his thick waist and put on his slippers.

“So,'' he said. “What's on for tonight?”

“I don't know. Probably, I'll go down to La Taniére. Supposed to be a good band.”

“And the girls. Don't forget the girls. Anyway, after five weeks in the bush, I shouldn't have to tell you that, eh?”

“No,
Papa
. That's for sure.”

“Taking anyone?”

“No. I'll just go down and see who's there.”

“Ah yes. And you'll hang around the bar checking out the stock pretending not to be all that interested. And before you know it, the evening has passed and you have had too many beers and you end up staring at yourself in the mirror behind the bar, and sometimes you twist your head, or lift your glass, just to make sure that it's you.”

“Was it like that,
papa
? When you were my age, did it happen like that?”

“Yes, something like that. That was before
maman
, of course. After I met
maman
, things were very different.”

“Will you tell me someday? About you and
maman
?”

“Yes Henri. Some Saturday morning we'll go down to the tavern for a few. Just you and me. We'll play a little shuffleboard. It's always quiet in the morning and hardly anyone's waiting for the board. And then, maybe we'll talk about your
maman
and me, eh? But for now, Henri, be serious but not too serious. Have fun and live life while you can and be sad when it's time but don't let it eat you inside after the sad part has passed.”

Henri had never heard his father speak this way. It was the longest conversation he could remember ever having with his father. What was it? He had been away. But, he had been away before. Or was it because he would be leaving home in the fall?

Albert Morin reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a flattened bundle of paper money. He slipped off two of the bills and handed them to Henri.

“Here,” he said. “Just remember, Henri, that your reputation is the most important thing in all of your social life. Apart from that, be crazy and have a good time and enjoy your life.”

“Yes
papa
,” Henri held up the two bills. “Thank you
papa
.”

“Tomorrow!” his father waved without turning to look at him as he shuffled towards the stairs. “If you're very late, take off your shoes so as not to wake
maman
.”

“Don't worry.”

The man turned to look at Henri. “If you're up to all hours, bring her home for breakfast. That should give
maman
a shock, eh?”

Both Henri and his father laughed about that. Then, Henri stood alone on the thick carpet in the centre of the living room and he could hear his father going up the stairs to the bathroom. He felt the warmness of the bills that had been in the pocket of his father's trousers, and he looked at the books and the painting on the wall and the crease on the leather of the sofa where his father had lain and, for the first time in his life, he realized, truly, that someday his father would die.

N
orbert Lanthier: that was Sylvie's father's name. Henri had looked the phone number up before leaving the house. He had written it down on a piece of paper and placed it inside the folds of his wallet.

Outside, the air was fresh and smelled the way it always did after a storm. Henri walked quickly along the sidewalk, avoiding the puddles in the depressions of the concrete, and the reflections of the streetlights on the wet pavement. Walking like that, in the clean night air, always reminded him of a fresh start, of starting something new without attachments or ties. He thought of the Lanthier's house on Rue Deslauriers, and the slip of paper stored in his wallet. This was it then, a new beginning. And there were no ties. Sylvie and Shannon had never known each other. He was sure of that. And this would be different. Different? How would it be different? Henri stepped off the sidewalk and walked across the wet grass to the riverbank. He felt the damp coolness of the water and he could hear the swirling little eddies as they came and went going down river with the current. Different? That's how it would be different. One day at a time, like an eddy, and not looking ahead to the next one. Whatever it was that they would have would be like the river, alive and flowing, always flowing, but every day a little different with new eddies growing and disappearing, and always the river flowing.

Henri was very happy. He left the riverbank, happy, his shoes wet from the grass. He stepped onto the sidewalk and walked quickly along Chemin de Notre-Dame. Now that it was settled in his mind he was looking forward to the evening. He wanted to be with people while he was feeling this way, to drink and laugh and not be too serious. He wanted to be with Sylvie and talk to her. They would say things to each other that had only one meaning and maybe then they could love each other.

Henri ran up the climb to Rue Leblanc. The lights were numerous there, on both sides of the street, and all of the shop windows were lit up. He watched the light display on the roof of the Hotel Chamberlain. The man and the woman dancing on the roof seemed old and tired now that several of the bulbs had burned out.