Kiki and Jacques (11 page)

“What?” Jacques raised his head.

“When I was about your age, there was this kid on our street who shoved me down and took my lunch money. Nearly every day, for months this went on! It wasn't so much the bruises, but the humiliation that hurt so terribly.”

“Was he a really big dude?” Jacques asked.

“It was a girl, not a dude.” Mr. Silverstein rubbed his temples, remembering. “And no, she wasn't actually that enormous. Her name was Margie. She was a year older than me, and I was scared stiff of her. I didn't dare tell anyone. I was afraid everyone would laugh.”

“But . . . how did you make it stop?”

“Eventually, I grew tall, and Margie didn't dare push me around like that.” Mr. Silverstein wiped his lips. “But it was really no joke at the time.”

He picked up the envelope. “I want you to do something for me. I want you to take this money and bring it over to St. Francis. I understand that Father Lazar is collecting funds for the new African families—helping them buy furniture and such.”

Jacques nodded quickly. “Okay.”

“And one more thing. . . .” Mr. Silverstein held out the bills. “You need to tell your father what you just told me.”

“But . . . I can't!” Jacques exclaimed. “He . . . he won't understand.”

“No ‘buts,' Jacques,” Mr. Silverstein replied. “You've got to talk this over with your family. . . . Agreed?”

Jacques bit deep into his lip. Dad would be furious to think his kid wasn't strong enough to fend off a loser like Duane. But Mr. Silverstein's eyes were dark and steady. “Yeah . . . I promise.”

The frown on Mr. Silverstein's face relaxed, replaced by a lopsided grin. “You like to fish, Jacques?”

“Fish?” Jacques had no idea what to say.

“I love to sit by the lake. It's very peaceful,” Mr. Silverstein continued. “Perhaps we'll all go together one day soon. Jeannette says she's handy with a fishing pole, but the way she holds onto the end like it's a fry pan, well . . . I just don't know if I entirely believe her.” He chuckled. “I've got a lot to learn about your grandmother!”

On the way home from the hospital, Jacques stopped by St. Francis. He stood straddling his bike for a few minutes, staring at the stained-glass windows and stone facade. A seagull landed on the roof and began to caw. What was a gull doing so far from the ocean? Jacques was startled when Father Lazar appeared beside him.

“It's a magnificent church, isn't it?” Father Lazar
gazed up to the top of the spires. “Our grandparents and great-grandparents came from Quebec without much education, didn't speak the language and worked in the mills for next to nothing. But they pulled together and created this beautiful place. They made a home here.”

Father Lazar checked his watch. “I'm off to visit an elderly parishioner. I'll see you at Mass this weekend.”

After Father Lazar left, Jacques walked around to the social hall entrance. Imbedded in the wall was an old marble plaque that he'd hardly noticed: “St. Francis Building Fund.” He was surprised by how many of the family names he recognized. And then, the most familiar popped out: “
Jacques and Jeannette Gagnon
.”

Jacques thought about the photo in Grandmère Jeannette's wedding album, the one of his grandmother in her fancy lace gown with her handsome young husband beside her. His grandfather had dropped out of high school and worked double shifts in the mill in order to save enough money to buy the bridal shop. He had died two years before Jacques was born.

Under the plaque, there was a wooden barrel with a slit at the top and a sign that read: “New Mainers Fund.” Jacques drew the five crumpled bills from his pocket and stuffed the money in.

He suddenly imagined Grandmère Jeannette with a fishing rod. That was something he couldn't wait to see!

Jacques got on his bike and slowly headed home. He knew he had to keep his promise to Mr. Silverstein, but when he tried to imagine telling Dad the truth, he pictured his father blazing with fury.

As he rode past the library, Jacques caught sight of Kiki on the sidewalk with Nicole. The two girls were so busy chatting that Nicole didn't even look up. She was showing off a new purple jacket that matched the fringe on her purse. Kiki waved and Jacques nodded, but kept on pedaling.

Jacques's head was throbbing as he rounded the last corner. As the house came into view, he slammed on the brakes and skidded to the curb. Dad was sitting outside on the steps.

“Hey there, I've been waiting for you.”

Jacques jumped off the bike and let it clatter to the ground. “Is something wrong? Is Grandmère all right?”

“Nothing's the matter. I just wanted to talk.”

The grass, the house, the sky—everything was whirling. Had Mr. Silverstein already phoned? Did Dad know exactly what he'd done?

Dad opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Jacques sprang to the steps and touched Dad's knee.

“There's something I have to say.” In one long breath, he explained how Duane had bullied him and tried to make him help rob the Army Navy Store.

Dad's cheeks began to puff in and out. His neck popped in tight chords, and his right fist jutted forward, punching air. “Are you telling me Duane asked you to steal from Louis Silverstein?”

Jacques winced like he'd been socked in the stomach. He was sorrier than he'd ever been in his whole life.

“I know it was wrong.” Jacques slumped against the steps waiting for Dad to yell how weak and stupid he'd been—and how lucky it was that Mr. Silverstein was alive and that Jacques hadn't ended up in jail.

But instead, Dad glanced down and rubbed the corner of his eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” Jacques was stunned to see that Dad's eyelids were damp. “It wasn't like that. Duane just wanted money.”

“I always knew that kid was trouble!” Dad slammed the back of his heel against the stair so hard that it sounded as if he'd cracked the wood. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“I guess I thought I could handle it . . . that I could make Duane stop,” Jacques slowly answered.

“This should have never happened. I should've been
there to help. I got drunk and let everyone down.” Dad's mouth was wavering, and his voice turned to gravel. “Sometimes, I miss your mother so much I don't know what to do. You were just a little guy when she . . . when the accident happened. Do you remember her? I mean, the small things?”

And then, there she was, so close in Jacques's head, smiling and holding something furry. “Mom liked kittens.”

“Yeah.” Dad snorted. “She loved all critters. Always bringing them home! Cats, dogs, strays. Remember the half-beagle, half-shepherd she found wandering in the yard? That hound was one ugly mutt, but she didn't care; she loved it. Maybe that's kinda like the same thing she saw in me.” Dad looked straight at Jacques. “Most of all, she loved you. Anything you needed, anything you wanted, she'd just make it happen.”

Jacques suddenly remembered the night before Halloween when he was six or seven. He had his heart set on a Spider-Man costume, but it cost too much. Mom came home and found him crying. She dried his tears and went straight to the sewing machine. When Jacques woke up in the morning, there was a shiny red and blue outfit on the end of his bed.

Mom could always make things right. If only she was still alive. . . . If only.

“You're the one thing in my life that matters.” Dad's hand rested heavy on Jacques's shoulder. “After your mother died, you were the reason I got up every morning.”

Jacques tried to say something, but his throat was too tight.

“I'm getting help. I started one of them programs to stop drinking. I got a sponsor—somebody to make sure I don't start hittin' the bottle and screw up again.”

Jacques swallowed hard. “That sounds good.”

Dad wiped his face with a sleeve, then reached behind his back and pulled out a square brown box. “Whoa, I almost forgot. This is for you.”

“What is it?”

“Late birthday present, I guess. Go ahead. Open it.”

Jacques pulled off the lid. A shiver, the good kind, went down his spine. It was a regulation Arsenal jersey. And it looked brand-new.

“Isn't this too expensive?” Jacques smoothed the shirt against his chest.

“I got a break from my pal at the sports shop.” Dad cocked his head, nodding. “And anyways, it turns out we've got something to celebrate for a change.”

Jacques sat up straight. “Really?”

“Louis Silverstein's asked me to manage the Army Navy Store.”

“Honest? For always?”

“Just 'til he's on his feet. . . . But after Christmas, my old boss says he'll take me back so long as I'm sober.” Dad paused. “And I swear to you, I swear on my life that I will be. We're gonna be okay. We'll make it.”

Dad reached out his hands, and Jacques took them. Big hands, football hands, squeezed tight.

“It looks like I'll be seeing your Somali friend—he'll be helping out at the Army Navy on weekends.”

“Mohamed got a job there too?” Jacques exclaimed.

“Yup. Your grandmere's beau seems like a real solid guy.”

“Apparently, Mr. Silverstein wants to take her fishing.” Jacques grinned.

“Fishing?” Dad looked sideways. “But . . .”

“Grandmère hates fish, I know!”

They both began to laugh. Then Jacques laughed so hard that he snorted twice and his stomach hurt, and he couldn't stop to catch his breath.

“Listen, so long as we're talking like this—any girl caught your eye yet? I noticed Betty Labelle's niece circling around you at church. She's plenty cute.”

Lucy and her yellow umbrella flashed through Jacques' mind. “I better go do my homework.” He stretched and started up the stairs with the soccer jersey tucked under one arm.

“Okay, but believe you me, someday soon, a girl is gonna get your attention.”

Jacques paused, thinking about the “J” on Lucy's binder.

“And when she's got a real pretty smile like your mom, it's the best thing that can ever happen.” Dad flashed thumbs-up with a faraway look in his eyes.

TWO WEEKS LATER

Grandmère Jeannette paraded through the apartment with a long feather duster, vigorously brushing each piece of furniture. She even dusted the top of Pelé's cage. It seemed awfully early on a Saturday morning to be so busy.

“Sweet as pie to take a day off . . .” she muttered to herself as she dusted all the windows. Grandmère Jeannette had arranged for Betty Labelle to watch the shop so they could have a family day at the lake with Mr. Silverstein, now that he was out of the hospital and on the mend.

Dad and Jacques sat on the couch with steaming mugs and the sports section of the
Lakemont News
. When Grandmère Jeannette stepped in front of them, Dad nearly spilled his coffee.

“Wicked nice hat you're wearing!” Dad exclaimed.
“But where in blazes are you going dressed like that?”

Grandmère Jeannette shoved two gray locks under an orange cap with metal studs and casting flies stuck to the back. She was wearing a green and yellow plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled high. The shirt and hat didn't exactly match.

“As a matter of fact, the hat was a present from Louis. He says it's the best thing for . . .”

“Fishing?” Dad slapped his knee as he began to chuckle.

“What's so hilarious?” Grandmère Jeannette frowned. “Louis says it looks good. Just right.”

“Well, he would say so!” Dad wiped drips of coffee from his jeans.

Jacques covered his mouth with one hand, but he knew his grandmother could see him laughing.

Grandmère Jeannette dusted the top of Dad's head and marched toward her bedroom. “You boys need to be at the lake by three o'clock. And don't be late. Louis is the punctual sort.”

Dad winked at Jacques. “Looks like she means business. You and me better stay on best behavior.”

After soccer practice, Jacques helped Dad pack the Honda with coolers and the barbeque grill. Grandmère Jeannette said that she'd meet them at the lakefront park with Mr. Silverstein.

They drove past the old mill and the apartment building where Kiki and Mohamed's family lived. A
couple of doors down, in front of a large building with chipped stucco and peeling trim, Jacques spotted Yasin in the yard. He rolled down the window and yelled, “Hey!” as they went by.

“You know somebody who lives there?” Dad asked. “Is that one of the Somali boys?”

“Yeah,” Jacques said. “We play basketball together sometimes.”

“Do you recognize the place?”

“No. Should I?”

“That's where your mother and I lived when you were born. We had a tiny apartment on the fifth floor; your room was practically a closet. It was hardly much, but we were happy.” Dad shook his head. “I won't ever forget the day we brought you home—all those stairs with us carrying one of them baby car seats. And you squawking the whole time!”

Jacques turned and took another look as they passed by. He wondered if Yasin might be sleeping in the very same room.

Orange and copper leaves covered the pebble beach at the lake. It was getting late in the season; the park wasn't crowded. A couple of older men and a few young Somali boys were fishing from a wooden dock.

The back of the pond was ringed with evergreens, and the water sparkled along the rocks in the autumn light. Mr. Silverstein was right, Jacques thought. It was pretty and peaceful. Usually he just didn't notice.

Jacques helped Dad set up the barbeque and
unpack the coolers. Suddenly, Dad elbowed him and pointed. He could see a couple at the far edge of the beach, near the woods. Mr. Silverstein was casting a line in the water while Grandmère Jeannette watched. His arm swung above his head and whipped forward with surprising grace. Mr. Silverstein was wearing red suspenders over a black checkered shirt, and Grandmère Jeannette had on her orange cap. From a distance, Jacques thought, they both looked a lot younger. Suddenly, Mr. Silverstein slipped one arm around Grandmère Jeannette's waist and guided her hands along the fishing rod. Wait . . . was Grandmère Jeannette
giggling
?