Down, down, down the Saint-Maurice River to the pulp-and-paper mills at Trois-Rivières, past that to the village we already know from forty years later, the little church in which Milo and Normand will be punished for drawing dirty pictures. . Moving slowly across the threshold of the church, we peek inside and see that it is packed, for Marie-Jeanne’s father, Pierre-Joseph Chabot, is a landowner known and respected by all. Turning, we see Marie-Jeanne herself — lovely, a white veil floating over her dark hair, cheeks pink and eyes bright with excitement. Arm in arm, she and her father hover in the entrance, Neil just behind them, waiting for the priest’s cue. At the last possible minute before the ceremony begins, Neil notices Marie-Jeanne has again buttoned her dress awry. And so, whereas the organ and congregation have already launched into the hymn that will bring them forward to the altar to pronounce their vows, he swiftly undoes the seventeen buttons in the back of his bride-to-be’s white dress and even more swiftly does them up again. Her father’s eyebrows rise but Marie-Jeanne smiles and blushes, bubbling over with love for her Irishman. She has obstinately preserved her virginity, and the prospect of its imminent loss is making her head spin. The three of them march down the aisle.
Dressed to the hilt, Marie-Jeanne’s brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins entirely fill the first two rows of pews. Neil has been adopted by this family, and before long he will be engulfed by it.
Never, ever, will they release their grip on him.
• • • • •
Awinita, August 1951
WE COULD START off with a close-up of Declan’s face. Before a word is uttered, his expression will say all. It’s the expression of an irresponsible young man whose girlfriend has just told him she is pregnant.
The camera retreats and we discover we’re again on Saint Helen’s Island. Declan and Awinita are sitting at a remove from each other, staring out over the water in different directions.
“You’re puttin’ me on.”
“. .”
“You just had a baby. Even my mom had a few months’ breathin’ space between kids. You can’t get pregnant again right off the bat.”
“I didn’ give suck.”
“Wha?”
“Can’t get knocked up again if you nurse de baby.”
“So anyhow. So okay. So why you tellin’ me?”
“It’s your kid.”
“Ha. Fat chance.”
“Listen, Mister Cleaning-Fluid. You and me had plans, remember? Even dough I learned ages ago you should never believe a guy wid a hard-on, I let you talk to me ‘bout love and livin’ in the woods and stuff. You ask me what’s de difference tween you and a john? Answer: no john ever got into my body widout a safe on.”
Declan runs his hands through his red hair a couple of times. Glances up at the seagulls, perhaps envying them their freedom. Takes a swig from his whisky flask. Finally mutters:
“My kid. .”
“Simple as dat.”
“We gonna have a kid together, Nita?”
“I gonna have one, dat for damn sure.”
“Well, let’s get married, then. . eh? Listen. Come up to the farm and meet my family.”
Close-up on Declan as he briefly imagines bringing a pregnant Indian woman home with him. We see the scene in distorted color in his mind: Neil raising his eyebrows, turning to him and whispering, Does she even know how to read?; Marie-Thérèse frowning and pursing her lips; the little boys, Jean-Joseph and François-Joseph, snickering and pointing at his fiancée’s parti-colored hair.
“Naw, forget about that,” he says. “Jus’ les get married.”
He’s beginning to slur his words.
“Sure, Deck. I’ll marry you. . minute you get a job.”
“I’m lookin’, I’m lookin’. . It’s not easy to find work, specially now I got a police record.”
“You know. .” says Awinita, “once dere was an Attikamak chief who said he’d give his daughter only to de best hunter of de clan. De girl, she was in love wit a strong young brave named Yanuchich. He had a good reputation as a hunter, but her fader want to make sure. He tell Yanuchich he can marry his daughter only if he bring back a hundred hides. So de brave, he go off into de forest. .”
Long silence. A cargo ship glides down the river in front of them, and a moment later wavelets lap at their feet.
“Yeah?” says Declan, bored, taking another swallow of his cheap bourbon. “Then what happened?”
“Nuttin’.”
“What do you mean, nothin’? Somethin’ always happens in stories.”
“Not dis time. The girl wait. She wait and she wait, and she wait and she wait, and Yanuchich never come back.”
“That’s it?”
“Dat’s it. She wait so long she get old, and turn to stone, and she still waitin’ today. Dey say you can see her stone head out near Shawinigan. Dat how the town of Grand-Mère got it name.”
“Aw, who gives a shit. That’s a boring story, Nita.”
“Yeah. I don’t like dat story, either, Mister Cleaning-Fluid. Just to let you know, I’m not gonna wait till I get old.”
“Okay, I got the message. Listen, I’m lookin’ for a job, okay? I’ll find one, don’t you worry. There’s so many strikes these days. . Maybe I could check out Imperial Tobacco.”
“Strikebreaker not reg’lar work, Deck. An’ meanwhile. .”
“Okay, don’t rub it in. Meanwhile I’m still living offa you. But somethin’ll turn up, I promise you. . Now that I’m gonna be a dad, I’ll clean up my act and start earning good money.”
With Doris Day’s “Shanghai” on the sound track, CUT to the visiting room at Bordeaux Jail a week later: Awinita and Declan talking to each other under a glass partition.
Same music (a big hit this summer; the radio plays it constantly). Awinita shooting up in the tiny bathroom next to the cruddy bedroom above the bar. When she emerges, swaying slightly, a client is sitting on the bed waiting for her. In his mid-seventies, with scant white hair, a heavy paunch, and trembly flesh on his jowls and arms, he’s already naked except for his glasses, watch and socks. Awinita glances at the Formica table — the money is there.
Hands shaking, the man takes off his watch and glasses and sets them on the bedside table. Keeps his socks on. Lies down and holds his arms out to us. We move toward him, melting, partly because his myopic blue gaze seems kind, but mostly because of the drug rush in our blood.
“What’s your name, honey?”
“Nita.”
“Hey. I’m Cal. How old are you, Nita?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Really? You look about fourteen! Must be because I’m so very old. . Let me tell you a secret, Nita. Are you listening? Nobody can believe they’re really old the way their grandparents used to be old when they were young. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Deep down, you feel young your whole life long.”
“What can I do for you, Cal, baby?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Don’t know when I last managed to get it up. Just come here, that’s it. . just let me look at you. . Just let me touch you, honey. . oh, you’re so lovely. . So beautiful. So beautiful. So beautiful. So beautiful. So beautiful. Oh. . that is amazing. . Oh my God. . Oh. . Oh. . Oh …”
In shades of gray and black, swirls of paint coalesce into patterns, slide out of them again, and finally crystallize into the black remains of a fire: charred, smoking ruins with the harsh taste of death. But then. . unexpectedly. . time passes backward over the scene. The burned beams and boards become whole again, climb onto each other, fit together and slowly form the little shack in which Awinita grew up. Moving around the shack, we come upon. . Awinita herself, age eleven, sitting on the front steps and watching the sun rise.