Many of the kids in Métis Beach stood up to their parents, so why not Gail? Why hadn’t she said no to this marriage?
“Some people prefer to suffer than to disappoint others,” Dana said. “Advocating for themselves is too painful — it means risking someone’s contempt.”
But Gail hated her parents; she wanted nothing to do with their acceptance. “Oh, Romain, it’s more complicated than that, especially for a woman. Believe me.”
One day, in one of her agitated moments, Gail decided we should have a picture of us. She told me, her eyes feverish with a sudden passion that I was careful not to encourage, “When I’m married and bored to death, I’ll just look at the picture that I’ll hide somewhere he’ll never find, and it’ll be like a little victory. A victory for independence. Do you understand?”
She said we should ask Françoise to take the picture, and I quickly cut in, “No, Gail. Not Françoise.…”
She looked at me with a teasing glimmer in her eye. “It’s funny that a boy like you wouldn’t have more nerve.…” She ran up the stairs as if she had good news to give and made her way to the kitchen where Françoise was preparing supper. Her parents were out for a round of golf, and wouldn’t return until late in the afternoon. A few minutes later, she returned, pulling a sullen and stubborn Françoise. Gail would later tell me, “You should have heard her when she said, ‘You know what your parents think of you and Romain,’ the disgust in her face when she said that!” But Gail insisted, and even shouted, “Just a picture, damn it! Just one!” Françoise threw her apron on the counter and followed Gail into the garden — all the while grumbling — where I was waiting for them, as taut as a bow. Her eyes! As if she were saying, This will cost you dearly, Romain Carrier! You can count on it. Gail placed a small camera in her hand, a flat Minolta. “What do you want me to do with that?” In an equally dry tone, Gail answered, “Certainly not pies.” I barked a laugh. Furious, Françoise pressed the button, probably imagining it was a trigger. “Happy now?” With a heavy pace, she returned to the house.
By then I was rather nervous, and didn’t like what I was seeing from Gail. But I let myself be pulled into the garage anyway, where we began kissing. “If Françoise knew,” Gail said, her voice triumphant, “she’d be green with envy.” She imitated Françoise, mocking her fat behind. I didn’t find it funny. “Don’t worry, Romain. Nothing can happen to us here. We’re in another world, another galaxy. We could spend our lives here, living off motor oil and paint. She laughed then, and kissed me, her hands in my pants, in the dark and humid garage, among the disorder and the diesel fumes. I was dizzy, my heart beating quickly. Suddenly, I heard gravel spitting from under the Bentley’s wheels, “My parents?” Gail wheezed. I put my hand over her mouth, “Hush!”
Through the small windowpane we saw them walk into the house before immediately coming out again, led by Françoise, one hand pointing towards the garage. “There.” The hate I felt for her at that moment.... Followed by panic. There was nowhere to go.
“Hide!” Gail said. She pushed me behind a pile of garden chairs. Walking heavily, Robert Egan came down the driveway and pulled open the door with his powerful hand.
“I know you’re there. Come out, now!” His face purple with rage, his eyes popping, he held a golf club in his hand. He grabbed his daughter’s arm and squeezed hard enough to force a small squeal out of her, before slapping her in the face. He turned towards me and raised his club in the air, threatening to smash it on my head. I backed up, terrified, making a barrier of whatever I could get my hands on, tools and cans of paint, finally banging my elbows and knees against Mrs. Egan’s Alfa Romeo.
Gail was shouting, “Don’t hurt him! He did nothing!” But Robert Egan wasn’t listening. He cornered me between a paint-splashed stepladder and the sharp propeller of a boat engine. “No, Dad! No! Please!” Around us, objects of all kind were raining to the ground.
“My girl will marry, by God! Leave her alone!” His club whipped through the air, scratching Mrs. Egan’s car, which I managed to slip around, catching my feet in some empty bottles. I stepped through the broken glass and managed to leave the garage and run off, like a rabbit chased by a fox.
By the time I got home, my father was waiting for me. He already knew. Robert Egan hadn’t lost any time. My father jumped at me like a frothing animal. And he hit. His hard fist in my stomach, leaving me panting. “What got into you? You want to bring shame on us, is that it? What do we look like now, you…!” He was about to hit me again when my mother screamed so loudly that my father pushed her against a wall.
Straightening, searching for breath, I said, “Don’t touch my mother, you dirty.…” but my voice was no more than an inaudible cry among the cacophony of tears and shouts. “You’re done for in Métis Beach! I’m going to cancel all your contracts. We don’t want to see you back there, understand? You’ll keep a low profile for the rest of the summer, and after that we’ll see what happens!” They couldn’t ask that of me, it was too cruel. What would I do?
“We’ll see wha..?” my voice tapered out. “We’ll see what?” My father straightened, as if I’d hit him.
“Shut up!” He was about to grab my collar with his calloused hands, but I pushed him off me with my shoulder and got back up, challenging him with my newfound six feet of strength.
“You want to throw me out, is that it?” My mother, hysterical, began throwing dishes to the ground.
I looked at her one last time, then turned and ran down the stairs into the street, and ran as far and as fast as I could.
11
I waited for darkness to fall, my whole body shaking like a leaf. The night was warm, with no wind. Slivers of voices and music burst forth from the Tees’ mansion and reached me on the beach. Above, an almost-full moon — a quicksilver disk trimmed away, a small nothing preventing it from perfect roundness, a cotton sphere resting in a hand.
The cream of Métis Beach, at least what was left of them in the summer of 1962, had congregated at the Tees home for the annual garden party, a prestigious event whose secondary purpose was to finance the Protestant churches. Long tables covered in white tablecloths, uniformed servants in black and white, alcohol in indecent volume, a cold buffet — though refined in taste — and a string quartet. In the humid air, notes of Vivaldi, Bach — none of the music that you’d play if you wanted your guests to dance. Margaret Tees had required a certain amount of sombreness that summer as a sign of respect for Johnny Picoté Babcock and Veronica McKay, as well as the mourning families, and all of the parents of Métis Beach, really, who couldn’t help fearing the worst each time one of their children borrowed their car or drove on their own. It was known now that the kids weren’t as responsible as previously thought: we learned that Johnny Picoté drank at least four beers at the clubhouse that evening, beer Art and Geoff Tees brought by the crate — two? three? — and it had been easy for them, the Tees being the owners of one of the largest breweries in the country. But I’d seen none of that.
My mother and Françoise spent that morning making hundreds of cucumber sandwiches that Mrs. Tees ordered every year and my mother agreed to make, even if it meant she had to close her store on a Saturday. Margaret Tees paid well, and she thanked my mother profusely. Meanwhile, my mother took some pride in the fact that a great lady of the world who counted among her friends the wife of Lester B. Pearson trusted her so much.
They began working in our kitchen at seven in the morning, the pungent, nauseating smell of cucumber floating through the house, all the way to my bed. When I left my room, Françoise looked away from me. She just couldn’t look me in the eye since the incident in the garage. My mother, defending her as usual, felt it necessary to add, “You know what your father said, you stay here!” I thought I saw a satisfied smile on Françoise’s face, or maybe not, but I didn’t