Jérôme had taken over the family business in 1977 and had recently brought it into “the modern era,” Françoise explained, pride in her voice. “With a nice Metro sign, just like in those ads on TV.”
She was a businesswoman, Françoise was. My mother’s store and a grocery store, not too bad at all.
A rum and Coke for Jean, a beer for me, a glass of white for Françoise, scotch for Jérôme. “And you, Paul, your usual hooch?”
Paul laughed nervously, revealing bad teeth. Jérôme handed him a room-temperature ginger ale in a pint glass, with three maraschino cherries on a toothpick. Paul said, as if apologizing to me, “I quit drinking years ago. No choice. It was that or die.”
“Cirrhosis,” Jean clarified.
I learned that Paul hadn’t worked in years, was living off welfare, and not doing much with his days. As for Jean, with his two children gone from the house, he lived with his wife in Mont-Joli and worked as a civil servant in a local government office, but not for very much longer.
“Retirement at fifty-three. Not bad, eh?”
“And what are you going to do?”
His face lit up, “Nothing! Isn’t that great?”
I shivered and Jean noticed it, sure enough. An awkward silence that, after a few moments, Françoise tried to talk her way out of, talking about everything and nothing, pushing oyster after oyster on us. “Come, eat more! We have to eat them all! Have you tried this sauce? You should taste it! It’s Jérôme’s favourite. There’s ketchup in it!” Without much appetite, we downed the oysters, except for Paul. “My liver, I can’t,” he repeated, holding his stomach every time.
Perked up by a second rum and Coke, Jean began talking about the village and its inhabitants, those who’d died, those who’d left for the old folks’ home, the English of Métis Beach who’d panicked at the idea of a second referendum, though not as much as in 1980. It had been traumatizing nonetheless, there was no doubt about it, especially after Parizeau’s words — money and the ethnic vote — that wouldn’t help, you could be sure about that. Harry Fluke was thinking of selling everything and moving to Ontario.
“Well, better this ending than another,” Françoise rejoiced. “This way, it’s the status quo.”
Jean and Paul’s jaws clamped shut, but both kept their disagreement to themselves, happy enough to let their sister steer the conversation. Squirming in her seat, Françoise told me how the English population was getting older and older, and their children were no longer interested in spending their summers here. “They think it’s too cold. And they’ve got houses elsewhere. In Florida, the Caribbean, the South of France.” Some had even sold their properties to French people. “Who would have believed it? There’s less inequality than before. The English aren’t as rich, and we’re a little bit more so. It isn’t what it used to be, and we’re better off for it.”
This time Jean and Paul rallied to their sister’s opinion and said in unison, almost comically, “Yeah, good for us.”
Then the eternal and predictable questions about my job in Hollywood. Françoise seemed excited by the fact that I had worked with Aaron Spelling on Fantasy Island. She said, “Oh! Tell me everything!” like a little girl about to get a surprise. “What’s the dwarf like? You know, what’s his name again?”
“Tattoo.”
“Tattoo, right! He seems nice.”
“He died.”
“Tattoo?”
“The actor. Hervé Villechaize.”
“Oh? They do say dwarves don’t live very long.”
“He killed himself, two years ago.”
My answer was ignored. She refused to be distracted and went on excitedly, “And the other one, the tall one? Ricardo … Ricardo what?”
“Ricardo Montalbán.”
“Oh, yes! I’d put my slippers under his bed any day!”
Alcohol was making her exuberant, and Jérôme didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, “I’m just kidding around, honey … you know that.”
I told them I only worked on the scripts and, consequently, I’d never actually been on a set or met the actors. Françoise made no attempt to hide her disappointment. I could have won back their attention by telling them all sorts of savoury anecdotes I’d been told by Aaron Spelling himself, like how ABC would have preferred to have the great Orson Welles play Mr. Roarke instead of Ricardo Montalbán (the erstwhile legend hadn’t found work in a while, dragging his two hundred thirty-eight pounds to Pink’s in Hollywood to order nine hot dogs at a time); but what did Françoise and her brothers know about Orson Welles?
No chance in hell they’d talk to me about In Gad. I still remembered a conversation with Josh when we spoke of distribution rights for the first time. The show would be broadcast in Canada, but only out West and in parts of Ontario. Something about cable, antennas, and territories. It wasn’t likely they had heard about it, which reassured me. I had no inclination to launch into fastidious explanations and justifications about Chastity’s abortions and the complaints we had received. I didn’t want to face Françoise’s shocked look. She seemed to have kept a sentimental attachment to the God of our childhood. I’d noticed my mother’s bleeding crucifix, looking like raw meat, hanging above the marriage bed when I’d gone to the bathroom. There were other things that had been owned by my mother in her house too — the silverware, the d’Arques crystal glasses on the dining room table — but I felt no nostalgia, only a twinge of tenderness. But Françoise quickly explained, “Your father gave them to me after your mother’s death. I said no, I couldn’t accept it, but he insisted.…”
My father. Of course he’d given my mother’s things to Françoise. Like the rest of it. Everything was clearer now, Françoise’s discomfort that afternoon, her insistence on giving me the coat and the gloves. I said, without a trace of bitterness, “If I understand correctly, he left you the store as well.”
The colour drained out of her. “If you want, we can figure something out, Romain.”
“Why? He gave it to you. And what do you want me to do with a clothing store?”
“Money. If you sold it.”
“Money? I don’t need any, Françoise.”
“It’s not fair. I tried to reason with him.…”
I burst out laughing. “Reason with the old man?”
“Romain, I don’t want you to think.…”
“Think what?”
“I … well … never mind.”
Perplexed, I watched her turn tragic in her inebriation. What would I do with a store? Jean, protective brother that he was, turned the conversation onto another track and became briefly interested in Gail and her disease, “Cancer?” “Leukemia.” “How old?” “Fifty-one.” Silence, then.
“And Louis?”
I asked the question with a far dryer tone than I’d anticipated, and Jean gave a half smile, as if we were finally getting to the conversation he’d been waiting for.
“What about Louis?”
“He’s probably in prison somewhere, after everything he did.”
“Louis is doing time in Orsainville.”
“Well, there we go!” I exclaimed. “It’s what I was saying, right? And for