Washika (38 page)

The letter began, cheerfully enough, at first. David inquired if his buddy had finally gotten over his misadventure with Francine Villeneuve and, not to worry, there would be other occasions if only he could stay sober long enough. Henri smiled, sheepishly, as he recalled how badly he had behaved at the hotel room in Ste-Émilie. Or was it simply, as he had explained to Sylvie, that he was just too drunk?

Then the letter took a sudden, serious, turn. “By the time you get this letter, Morin,” he wrote, “I'll be well on my way to Alberta. I dropped in to say good-bye to mom yesterday and then packed my bags and started hitchhiking west. One of the fellows on the cruise comes from there, from Red Deer, Alberta. He says that there's lots of work out that way. I'll work there a while and save up some and maybe find a vet school somewhere in the province. So that's it, old buddy. I just can't stand the old man anymore. Got to start out on my own. I feel sorry for mom, though. All the best at university, Henri. And try to stay sober with the co-eds. I'll be in touch as soon as I get an address of sorts. He signed the letter, your old buddy, Greer.”

Henri sat there for what seemed to be a long time. He sat staring at the water below, how the setting sun's reflection moved with each passing wave. In that time, he saw his long-standing friendship with David Greer go by him: the fishing trips and long treks in his father's wood-canvas canoe, the hikes into the bush on snowshoes and those cold, cold nights camped under a large spruce tree with snow sliding into their sleeping bags, their first taste of alcohol, and the crazy plans they made up for later in their lives. As he held David's letter in his hand, waving wildly as a strong breeze struck up suddenly from the west, Henri could see no further. It was the end of something. He thought of David, standing along a highway with his pack on the ground beside him, holding his thumb out at the sound of a car, or a big semi rolling towards him and, then, feeling a gush of wind moving past him. He could see David standing there, a rejected look on his face, and spitting on the pavement.

Henri's thoughts of David were suddenly interrupted by the dull sounds of the supper bell coming from beyond the knoll. Henri hurried, stuffing the letters into his back pocket and running up the path to the bunkhouse-and-office. He did not want to keep Dumas waiting.

T
he older men at Washika had never seen anything like it. Even beyond the fact that the superintendent, Simard-Comtois, was already seated at the table when they arrived. The men entered the cookhouse in a state of shock. On the tables were red and white-checkered table cloths and, at intervals of three feet or so, stood tall lighted candles in glass candlesticks. The men walked slowly between the tables, not believing their eyes. They glanced at each other, all sharing one common thought; Dumas had finally cracked.

Next to enter the cookhouse were the students, preceded by Alphonse Ouimet. Alphonse nodded to Simard-Comtois and went on to join the older men at their table.

“See what I mean, Alphonse,” Percy Dumont commented before Alphonse even had time to sit down. “This is the limit.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Alphonse smiled at the tractor driver. “Looks pretty good to me.”

The students looked around them as they entered the cookhouse, wide smiles growing instantly on their faces. They were still feeling the effect of Dumas's words of welcome as each student handed him his meal ticket, how he welcomed each one of them with an open smile and a warm hand on their shoulder. Their hearts were still glowing as they stepped over the doorsill and into the decorated cookhouse. They did not know what to think. Actually, they did not want to think. They were happy to be back. They wished only to savour that moment for as long as it would last.

Dumas entered the cookhouse, closing the screen door behind him. He walked to the centre, to stand between the four tables as he always did. He stood there, beaming, smiling at the students, nodding politely to the opposite table where Simard-Comtois sat.

“Before we start supper,” Dumas spoke loudly, holding his hands clasped behind his back. “
Monsieur
Simard-Comtois would like to say a few words to you.”

The superintendent nodded, one would say he even smiled towards the cook, a man who had made his life difficult throughout that summer, and many summers before that.

“
Merci
Dumas,” the superintendent said as he got up from the bench and stood facing the students. “I have some very good news for you boys this evening.”

A sudden groan erupted from the students' table.

“Hang on, you guys,” Dumas interrupted. “Listen first. Believe me.”

They could not believe their ears: Dumas, defending Simard-Comtois. The students turned to look at Alphonse, for a sign of sorts. Alphonse stared right back at them, with the largest smile they had ever seen on his face.

“I can understand,” Simard-Comtois continued. “I know that it hasn't been easy. I have just two things to say to you. First, as you know, you boys have been the first group of student workers that we've ever had here. We were a little worried, I can tell you. We had no idea what it would be like having a large group of young students working here for the summer. Well, all I can say, and it gives me great pleasure to do so, is that we've all been pleasantly surprised. You're a fine group of young men, good workers too according to Alphonse, and we'll certainly miss you when you leave Washika. And that brings me to my second point. This'll be our last supper together. You'll be leaving for Ste-Émilie in the morning as the sweep officially ended today. I wish all of you good luck in your future occupations.”

Not many heard Simard-Comtois' good wishes for the future. The cheers that came from the students' table drowned out the superintendent's words. The man smiled proudly and sat down. When, finally, the cheering had ceased, Dumas looked at them, more intently than he ever had in the past. He held his hands clasped in front of him as his face broke into another of his great smiles.

“Okay, Richard,” he said, glancing towards the kitchen entrance.

Richard Gagnier entered the dining area carrying a large metal tray with more than a dozen small glasses filled almost to the brim with white wine. Richard made several trips to the kitchen for more of these glasses until everyone in the cookhouse held a glass of iced wine in his hand. Dumas stood at the centre of the room. He held his glass up at head level.

“To the students from the Collège de Ste-Émilie,” he said loudly.

When everyone had emptied their glasses, Dumas nodded towards the kitchen doorway. Richard returned with three bottles of the white wine. But he was not alone. Now was to be the greatest surprise of all. Nothing like it had ever occurred in a lumberman's camp, much less in a lumberman's cookhouse. As the cookee returned with more wine, he was followed by a woman. The woman wore a long, floor-length dress, a light green like her eyes, and her long brown hair flowing straight down to the small of her back. She looked straight into the cook's eyes as she entered the room.

Dumas Hébert extended his hand towards the woman. He cleared his throat and looked back to the older men behind him, and then to the students, and the men sitting opposite them.

“Now it is my turn to say a few words,” Dumas began. “Some of you here have known me a long time. You know that I never have trouble saying what is on my mind. Is that not right, André?”

The superintendent smiled. Light chuckles could be heard coming from the older men. “I am not always easy,” the cook continued. “I know that. I always try to do my best but sometimes, as you know, I can be difficult. I believe, now, that it is all about how you see life and when you see life as I have seen it, you cannot be generous or love people very much. But things can change. I did not believe it, at first. Some events occur that can change how you see life. I believe that now because it has happened to me. I know that some of you are thinking that I have taken to drink. Others, perhaps, are convinced that I have finally gone mad. It is none of these, believe me. I wish, now, to introduce you to the future
Madame
Dumas Hébert, the woman who has saved my life. Lise Archambault, our nurse here at Washika, has accepted to become my wife, my partner in life. We will be married in Ste-Émilie on October twenty-third. And, of course, you are all invited to the wedding.”

The applause was accompanied by loud cheering from the students and, spontaneously, all stood up from the plank benches to form a single line, to congratulate the cook and his beautiful fiancée.

It was a most happy gathering of people that evening at Washika Bay, along the shores of the Cabonga. The older workers who had known Dumas those many years were relieved to hear that the man had not, in fact, gone mad or turned to drink. They knew well how empty his life had been since the sudden death of his beloved Bernadette. It had been a difficult birth and both his young bride and their newborn son had perished. All of that had happened more than twenty years ago, twenty years of torment for the cook. But now, that was past.

The students were, of course, surprised to hear that their time at Washika had come to an end. They were overjoyed to hear of the upcoming marriage of Dumas Hébert and Lise Archambault. But, as they sat at the table, eating supper finally, and sipping on the rest of their wine, they looked around them, at the older men, at the scalers sitting at the table across from them, at
Monsieur
Simard-Comtois. There were mixed feelings. Not sadness, really. It was more like the end of something.

F
or some, the end of the sweep at Washika also meant an end to long-term friendships. Some would be leaving Ste-Émilie to attend university in the Capital. Others would be staying on in town, attending trade schools, or working at the town mill. There were some who would even be leaving Québec. And so, that evening, after the surprising events at supper, the boys visited each other's rooms, exchanging mailing addresses and sharing plans for their future lives.

In the bunkhouse-and-office, all was quiet. André Guy had left to visit with his new friend, François Gauthier. Seated at a small table next to the oil space heater, Maurice St-Jean struggled with pencil and paper, striving desperately to find the right words. The letter had to be finished by early morning of the next day, as that was when Jean-Luc Desrosiers, the inspector of sweeps, was heading down to Cabonga Dam. Maurice had a great deal to say in so little time. Much had happened in the past year and he wanted Nicole to know about that, and how he felt about her, truly.

Pierre Morrow, Gaston Cyr, and Lavigne had also left the bunkhouse-and-office to spend time with other students in the main sleep camp. That left St-Jean at the table, writing, and Henri Morin stretched out on his bunk.

Henri was thinking of Sylvie. Perhaps, he too should be busy writing. But he would be in town by tomorrow afternoon. There would be no mistake this time. He would call her as soon as he arrived. And he would speak to his parents about her. Maybe on Saturday morning, his father would take him down to the tavern. There they would talk about him and
maman
and how it was back when they first met. Henri was no longer feeling like a ‘have-not.' He would speak to his father about that as well.

“Hey Maurice,” Henri called from his bed. “You decided to write a book?”

“Don't mention it.” St-Jean dropped the pencil. He reached for his tobacco and began to roll a cigarette. “You can't know what it's like. I know what I feel, I think. But I don't want to make mistakes. I don't want to say the wrong things.”

“That's for Nicole?” Henri nodded towards the pages on the table.

“Yes. I've been writing the same page since after supper.”

“I didn't know that you knew her before. A long time?”

“I suppose. But it did not go well. Her good looks, and me jealous all the time.”

“And now?” Henri had never known jealousy. He knew about love lost. He wondered if the two were the same.

“It's okay now. I'm sure of that,” St-Jean replied. “It took almost a year for me to learn. Even then, I wasn't sure. Seeing her at Cabonga like that, all the guys wanting her. Something happened then. I can't explain it. Maybe it was Armand and how he treated us, or Alphonse, or even our whole summer here at Washika. All of a sudden I could see how crazy it all was. I was such a fool, you know. All Nicole wanted was to be with me, no one else. I couldn't see it then.”

“Maurice,” Henri walked over to the table. “You think that you can remember what you just told me, long enough to write it down on your paper there? There's your letter, Maurice. She won't need to hear anything else.”

“You think so?” St-Jean reached for his pencil.

“Sure. I …” Henri was interrupted by a knock at the door. Henri and St-Jean looked at each other. No one ever knocked at the sleep camp door, especially not at the bunkhouse-and-office.

“Yes? Come in,” Henri called from the table.

It was the cookee, Richard Gagnier. The whole time they had been at Washika, Richard had never visited the bunkhouse-and-office. It was the hours. Working as a cookee for Dumas Hébert did not allow him the same leisure hours as the rest of the students. A cook's day started at four in the morning.

“
Salut
Richard,” Henri greeted him. “Now the sweep's finished you can visit, eh?”

“Well, not really,” the cookee began. “
Salut
Henri,
salut
Maurice. I'm still working for Dumas. You see, I'm not going down with you guys tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?” Henri was surprised. He had not known Richard at high school and since they had not worked together during all of their stay at Washika, he really did not know him at all. “But you'll be leaving Ste-Émilie to attend school soon?”