One night he got up silently, as he often did, and brought his sheets with him, as he often did. He tore them up and made a long rope with them, swinging them over the pipes in the bathroom. We found his body in the morning, his neck broken, his eyes popping out of his skull, his skin blue, tongue sticking out and shit in his pyjamas. The stench of it made our eyes water. Jokes were made, but not many, a shitter and a pisser to the end, but they were nervous, really, it was panic; we all had nightmares about it, some of us falling ill — I’d developed the symptoms of mononucleosis right after. His parents were told that their son was psychologically fragile, not made to be happy in a seminary — as if we were — and his parents, devastated, thought they were entirely responsible.
But we’d been the hangmen. With our cruel jokes. I felt so guilty I couldn’t return to the seminary, even once I’d gotten better.
I got out of the Jeep, my collar raised against the cold, and knocked on the door of John Kinnear’s church, with its white and forest-green sign — THE UNITED CHURCH OF CANADA, SUNDAY SERVICE: 11:00. No answer. Not much of a surprise. The last time we spoke, John had told me about a conference in Scotland at the end of October. He told me he’d be going with his wife and Tommy, and travel Europe a bit while they were at it. Still a shame, though. It would have been nice to talk to him. If he knew that I was here while he was away! So many years of him trying to convince me to change my mind, “Why don’t you come and visit us? It’s ancient history now. I don’t understand, Romain, feels like some sort of mental block to me.…”
Back in the Jeep, I put the heater at its highest setting. In my rear-view mirror, I saw Fluke coming towards me in his old Lincoln. He passed me without slowing down, though he did take the time to shoot me a contemptuous look. I thought back to the time I thought he might denounce me. It still made me laugh today, thinking back to those boxes of Tampax I’d found in my mother’s store, one night when my parents weren’t there. I’d been shocked at first, as if I’d found porno mags in my parents’ bedroom, but that was quickly replaced with pride — my mother wasn’t one of those Catholics Robert Egan mocked. She sold them, but to whom? Certainly not Dana who, one day, had gone to the store with her sister Ethel. Words had passed between my mother and them, sounds like axe or pax, and then my mother straightened, “Who told you?”
Dana mentioned Margaret Tees.
My mother sold them to Mrs. Tees, but not Mrs. Egan?
“Don’t worry,” Dana said, “thank you.”
And both women had left, perhaps a bit surprised by my mother’s reaction. But they had remained polite.
Their faces when I’d knocked on their door, a bag hidden under my jacket. Their irrepressible laughter, embarrassing me, “You’d think he was a pervert!”
“No, no, he’s far too sweet for that.”
No, impossible to forget that.
I put my foot on the gas, heading towards the clubhouse.
10
Thursday nights at the Métis Beach clubhouse!
They showed On the Waterfront, Buffalo Bill, Johnny Guitar, Moby Dick, and everything with Gary Cooper. Free entry. I was off to the movies with Jean and Paul, Françoise’s brothers. We were all terribly excited, with the sort of enthusiasm some hoped we’d have when it came time for confession. She’d be joining us later, once she was done in the kitchen at the Egan house, scrubbing pots and pans. Her hands were already calloused, and at her age!
We always sat in the last row, near the door, as if we weren’t entirely welcome among the youth of Métis Beach, though we knew we were supposed to be. After all, their parents — whom we worked for — kept telling us to participate in community activities. A way to contribute to our education, a social duty even, if not a type of charity. And so we’d go to the movies, filled with an equal measure of enthusiasm and apprehension. It wasn’t always easy to understand the plot of the movies, all shown in English. We’d have one eye on the screen and the other scanning the room, watching their reactions, trying not to embarrass ourselves — laughter, surprise, and fear we feigned with as much expertise as women feigned their pleasure, as I would realize with amazement years later when I watched When Harry Met Sally.
Thursday nights at the clubhouse! Cokes and chips bought at the small canteen with its aggressive neon lighting, enjoyed in the electrifying darkness of the room.
Gail would sit in the first row, flanked by Johnny Picoté Babcock, with his idiotic doe eyes, always ready to put his arm around her shoulders.
When she laughed, I roared; when she seemed affected by the plot, I put on a sad face; when she appeared to be scared, I prepared a reassuring smile for her.
She never turned her head in my direction.
I hadn’t seen Gail since that terrible night at her parents’ house when she’d taken me by the hand and dragged me into the garden, tears of rage in her eyes. She spoke of her father with anger and disgust, “It would have been better if you hadn’t been walking by that morning. He could have drowned, and I.…” I listened to her in silence, almost afraid. She had burning embers for eyes, promising a roaring fire to come, impossible to control. “I’m sorry, Romain. It was my idea, a stupid idea.” So Gail had been the one who insisted on having me over. That’s why her mother called, “He saved your life, Robert!” And her father had relented, “Well, fine. But if we need to suffer through a boring evening with a shy boy, let’s at least invite that old Barnewall.…” Gail spoke rapidly on that cool, moonless night. She was steaming — and not particularly coherent — as if she expected to be interrupted at any moment, “I’ll never depend on a man like my father. He’s so arrogant! And I’ll never live my mother’s ridiculous life! I’ll be a lawyer. With an office and important clients! I’ll be independent! You understand? Do you understand?” All the while, I had an expression of such helpless envy sketched on my face. There was no need for a fancy education at a private Protestant college in Westmount for me to know that a woman who wanted to be a lawyer would never fall for a boy like me.
We hadn’t spoken since that fateful dinner. As if nothing at all had happened that evening.
I was so timid, for God’s sake! I envied the boys of Métis Beach who approached her with assurance, like Art Tees, always monkeying around to impress her. He whistled and jeered during love scenes on the silver screen, or when two people kissed. The scenes never failed to embarrass us boys from the French Village — but just one of Art’s jokes, and we all breathed easier.
Every time, Françoise would join us some three quarters of the way through the movie, knocking down chairs in the dark with her fat behind as she tried to find a seat. Her brother Paul would give up his every time. And every time she smelled like grease and onions. And every time, as soon as the movie was over, she placed a rough hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Tell me what happened from the beginning.”
How I hated it! I couldn’t care less about her! I only had eyes for Gail. I tried to attract her attention but couldn’t do it. I was just too shy. I watched her joke around with the others at the canteen, a Coke in hand, and Johnny Picoté on her like a leech. If I was lucky, she might wave at me from afar, but generally she didn’t even look at me before leaving, probably thinking that Françoise and me.… Jesus!
Then came that evening in July 1962, the summer I turned seventeen. Rebel Without a Cause with James Dean and Natalie Wood was showing at the clubhouse. An event, a real one, and we all dressed accordingly. Leather jackets over white t-shirts, with greased hair for the boys, high-waisted pleated skirts, white socks, and cardigans