Washika (37 page)

I
t was their fourteenth day at Cabonga Dam. As the students filed into the cookhouse for breakfast, they were surprised to see Alphonse sitting there. He sat at the table, opposite Armand. He smiled at each of the boys as they entered. After the last one arrived and sat down at the students' table, Alphonse turned to Armand, and Bernatchez and the deckhand.

“And so, Armand,” Alphonse spoke more loudly than was usual for him. “
Mes petits canards
were well behaved?”

“Well, I'll tell you, Alphonse,” Armand began. “I was a little worried when I saw them jumping down from the
Madeleine
. And then when I saw them climbing the hill with mattresses on their heads, I wanted to hide. I couldn't believe the Company would do this to me. Not after all these years.”

“So, it was pretty bad then?” Alphonse interrupted. He sat with his back to the students and facing Armand. He winked at the old man. “I guess they are a pretty wild gang at that.”

Armand laughed. He looked past Alphonse to the students who were pretending not to be listening.

“You know, Alphonse,” Armand cleared his throat. “I've been here a long time and I've worked with all kinds of people. This morning I was on the radio with the head office. I was talking with the superintendent, Mister McDougal, and I was telling him about your crew here. He couldn't believe it. I'm telling you, he's never heard of such things.”

Alphonse looked behind him to see how his boys were taking it all in. They sat with their backs bent and their heads close to the table, forcing food into their mouths and waiting to hear the bad news.

“Well, I suppose,” Alphonse smiled. “It's a new generation, you know. These are children born after a war and who knows what that can bring.”

“You're right there, Alphonse. I don't know how I'm going to tell them. You're good at that, Alphonse. Will you tell them for me?”

“Sure Armand, they're used to hearing news from me. Right after we finish eating, I'll tell them.”

The students pushed food into their mouths and, once again, molars ground against molars and all washed down with hot tea, but their hearts were not in it. Even Nicole, strutting by the kitchen entrance, failed to arouse their attention. Some of the students glanced back towards the table behind them, looking for signs, for some hint as to what they were in for. Henri looked over at Bernatchez who sat next to Armand. Bernatchez stared right back, a cold, hard stare.

As the students were finishing up, gulping down a last cup of tea, Alphonse stood up from his place at the table and turned to face them.

“Well, my little ducks,” he began. “I have a few things to say to you this morning.”

The students sat quietly at their places, those closest to Alphonse turning to look at him. The cook and his daughter moved in closer, to hear what was being said.

“Good,” Alphonse nodded towards the cook and his daughter. “I am glad that you can also hear what I have to say. I have been speaking with Armand about how things have been going since I left here two weeks ago. All of you know how Armand has worked here at the dam, almost forever. He's seen all kinds of people come and go. This morning, he was talking to me about you guys, my little ducks, the sweep crew from Washika. Never in his life, he said, has he seen a bunch like you. Isn't that right, Armand?”

Alphonse turned to look at Armand. The old man sat with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped over the front of his mouth. The hands concealed the smile on his face but not the look of pride in his tired, old eyes.

“I have known Armand a long time,” Alphonse continued. “He's a hard man but he's also a just man. And he can tell good men from bad almost from the first moment he sees them. Well, my little ducks, I think Armand's hit it right once again. He told me about you this morning. He asked me to speak to you. He says that he's not very good at such things. And so, Armand would like all of you to know that you are the best goddamn bunch of workers that he's ever seen pushing logs into the Gens-de-Terre, and that's what he told the boss in town this morning. And guess what, my little ducks? We're going back to Washika just as soon as you can pack your rags.”

The older men were surprised. They expected cheering and applause. There was not a sound. The students turned to look at Armand. As they looked into his eyes they were reminded of another old man and how he had looked at them that day when Lavigne had gone to see Alphonse and the driver of the caboose and returned with a cushion for Fred Garneau's aching bones.

Almost immediately, each boy stood up from his place at the table and went directly to Armand, to offer him a warm handshake and a few kind words. And then, on to Alphonse, and the cook and his daughter who had joined the lineup. From a distance it was touching to see the expression on each of the students' faces as they went from Armand, to Alphonse, to
Monsieur
Laviolette and, finally, to Nicole; for each person, the students wore a different face. As they shook Armand's hand, some looked as if they would soon break into tears while, as they faced Alphonse, they wore their usual, devilish, broad smile. Facing
Monsieur
Laviolette, they displayed their serious, polite smile. For the most part, the looks on all of the faces followed this pattern but, when it came to standing before Nicole, they were not the same. One might say that some of the students wore the faces of shame for all of the bad thoughts they might have had concerning the cook's daughter. Others smiled politely and shook her hand warmly. Even François Gauthier, now recovered from his initial reaction to Nicole's beauty and the seductive way she had looked at him that first day, smiled openly and looked into her eyes with confidence and shook her hand warmly, with his left hand covering their clasped hands. Maurice St-Jean was second from the end of the student line. He offered strong handshakes to all three men, smiling his thin smile and leaving, as usual, the impression of not having any teeth. Henri watched him closely as he stood before Nicole, the young girl he had spoken of so bitterly that first night at Cabonga. As St-Jean held out his hand, the young girl looked straight into his eyes and there were tears trickling down her cheeks. Suddenly, she lunged forward and hugged St-Jean, burying her chin between his neck and shoulder. As she did so, her hair slid slowly over her face and down her back. Henri saw that St-Jean held her close to him and caressed the hair that flowed over her back. Then, without words, Nicole and Maurice left the lineup and went into the kitchen. The cook smiled when he saw them leaving.

“This was supposed to happen almost a year ago,” he said to Alphonse standing beside him. “Maurice was younger then.”

“Ah yes,” Alphonse said. “Who knows how these young ones think sometimes?”

Henri walked up to Armand. He held his hand out and looked into the old man's eyes. Then he prayed. Let me be strong, and not be a fool here. Let me be brave and strong and not be a babbling idiot. Before he knew it, Armand held his hand tightly and, just as quickly, put his arms around Henri and hugged him warmly.

“
Merci
, Henri,” he said, softly, “You have made an old man very happy here at the gap. I wish you a very good life, Henri.”

The students stared at Henri and Armand Lafond. They had never seen two men hugging. They had mixed feelings, no doubt, but, somewhere, deep down inside, they were also just a bit envious.

As Alphonse stood there, between Armand and
Monsieur
Laviolette, he smiled broadly and was genuinely happy for his crew. Some were hanging around the table talking. Others were trading jokes with Bernatchez and his deckhand. Only St-Jean was missing, off somewhere with the cook's daughter. Things have turned out well, Alphonse thought to himself, now if only they knew what's in store for them at Washika.

A
s the
Madeleine
approached the dock at exactly five o'clock, the students could hear the engine slowing and then, suddenly, picking up speed as Alphonse shifted her into reverse to keep from ramming the wharf.

“Okay, you guys!” Alphonse stuck his head out at the cabin door. “Get your mattresses and things back to your bunkhouse. You have time to go to the van. The fire cheques have arrived. But hurry, we don't want to keep Dumas waiting.”

The boys threw the mattresses onto the wharf, along with duffle bags and packsacks. And then began the long march, single file, up to the main sleep camp and the bunkhouse-and-office, carrying mattresses on their heads, and packsacks on their backs, with their untied boot laces trailing in the sand.

It was good to be back. The students were cheerful as they tossed mattresses onto bunks and quickly set their things in order before rushing out to the van. The fire cheques had arrived, Alphonse had told them. They were anxious to see the amount written on the second line, just below their name. All of the cheques would be for the same amount. Perhaps Henri's would be more, they teased. After all, he had spent a couple of hours longer than they had on the burn site.

Once at the van, they stood in line facing the clerk. Each in turn was handed a thin brown envelope containing the fire cheque. Before opening the envelope, each student ordered soft drinks, chocolate bars and tobacco, and signed his name in the ledger. As Henri was signing his name, the clerk reached behind him.

“Henri Morin,” he said. “Two letters for you.”

Immediately, there was a long drawn out “oooooh!” from the guys behind him.

“
Merci monsieur
,” Henri said to the clerk as he stuffed the letters into his back pocket and left with his supplies from the van.

Henri walked quickly. He had noticed a return address on one of the envelopes but he had not read it. As he went by the cookhouse, Richard Gagnier, the cookee, waved to him from a screened window.

Henri placed the soft drinks and chocolate bars on the orange crate bureau by his bed. He dropped the two letters onto the bed and, beside these, the plain brown envelope containing his fire cheque. Like everyone else, he wanted to see how much they had earned. He looked at the other two envelopes. On the one with the return address he read: 70 rue de la Rivière, Ste-Émilie, Québec. He felt, suddenly, just as he had felt when his mother faced him with the results of his High School Leaving Examinations, looking so serious, and not smiling at first. For no reason that he could tell, that was how he felt upon reading the return address. Of course, he knew the address. That was where Sylvie lived. And she had written to him, even before he had. This worried him. Was she writing to tell him that it was all a mistake? Why was there always this negative feeling? Was he being a ‘have-not' again? Was this what it was all about?

Henri put Sylvie's letter aside and opened the plain brown envelope. Inside was a form much like the one he had received from
Monsieur
Lafrance at the pay office. There were small squares with titles typed above them: Gross Salary, Provincial Tax, Federal Tax, Unemployment Insurance
,
Net Amount. The last of these squares attracted his attention, $420.36. They had worked long hours on the fire. The salary per hour was less than on the sweep, but they worked longer hours on the burn sites. At least they were there more hours per day than on the sweep. And, of course, they spent much time sitting, and smoking, and drinking tea on the shore of the river. Henri was satisfied. This amount and what he had saved since they began on the sweep would help pay some of his expenses at university.
Papa
would surely be good for the rest,
maman
would see to that. And there was the pay, still to come, for their work at Cabonga Dam.

Henri picked up the two letters and left the bunkhouse-and-office. He did not want to be disturbed while he read the letter from Sylvie. And besides, what if it was bad news? He did not want the others to see him like that.

Henri walked over the knoll and down to the wharf. He was certain that no one would be there and he could be alone with Sylvie in her letter and with what she had to say to him. The other letter, he would read later.

He opened the envelope and took out the neatly folded pages. He looked at the date. She had written that same day, after their meeting at the fair, and their ride on the Ferris wheel. The letter began, “Dear Henri” and, from there on, Sylvie expressed her great joy at having met Henri at the fair, at how she had felt secure and frightened at the same time: frightened as they swayed on the big wheel but, warm and secure as she held onto him the whole time. Never in her young life had she felt so happy, and she knew that she would sleep very little that night after their meeting. Even her mother had been impressed with Henri, how polite and well raised he had seemed to her. Her father, of course, had made no comment. But even that was a good sign, Sylvie explained. She went on for several pages about when she had first seen Henri and how she had often thought of him. She even mentioned that day when she caught him staring at her breasts, and how he had blushed. Finally, she expressed a desire to be with him, often. She would be at the teacher's college, only a ten-minute walk from the university. They could see each other every day if he wished. And then, she ended the letter with words that almost took his breath away. “Henri,” she wrote, “I love you. Sylvie.”

Henri sat on the dock with his legs dangling over the edge. He could hear the waves slapping against the
Madeleine
's hull but, above all, he was sure that he could hear the beating of his heart. He sat there thinking about life, his adolescent life mostly, and how Shannon had left him and how his life had changed. He remembered that time and all of the other boys his age and how easily joy fell upon them while he mourned his great loss. How easily they could slide from deception to joy, from disappointment to happiness without hardly a moment's thought. How they could give themselves completely to merriment and song at absolutely any occasion while he, Henri Morin, seemed left out, different than the rest, unable to release that strangling hold he had placed upon his life. Was it really because of her? Or was there more to it than that? Despite his young age, had he been correct in assuming that he was, in fact, a ‘have-not' and would always remain so? Henri thought about his life as he sat there on the wharf at Washika Bay. He thought about his parents and how fortunate he was to have them, and, now, Sylvie who wanted him to be part of her life. That did not sound much like a ‘have-not' to him. He thought about this for a long time before putting Sylvie's letter back into its envelope. He turned to the other envelope. It did not seem important now. He read the address on the envelope to be sure that it was, in fact, for him. He could not imagine who would be writing to him. Even his mother would have included a return address. And besides, it was not the beautiful, flowing letters that he had seen his mother form with her gold-tipped fountain pen. His name had been written with choppy, broken letters, most probably with a ballpoint pen. Henri tore open the envelope and withdrew the lined, single page. At a glance he realized that the letter was from his best friend, David Greer.