Wild Rose (13 page)

“Who came last night? What…?” But grandmother was entering her room. She never came into the room on ordinary mornings. She carried with her a black garment that she set on the bed beside Sophie, who slid down to the floor as neatly as she could manage.

“Bonjour, Grand-mère,”
Sophie said quickly, gazing into her face in hopes she had come to explain things to her.

“She will not go to school today,” grandmother said to Antoinette. “You are to tell her what has happened.” She made an abrupt gesture with one hand held at her side, as if to say,
finished. Say nothing more
.

“Oui, madame,”
Antoinette murmured. Grandmother went out of the room without having so much as looked at Sophie. Sophie turned her face up to Antoinette’s, who had let the hand that held the hairbrush fall to her side while tears emerged to trickle down each cheek and using her free hand, raised her apron to wipe them away.

“I can do my own hair,” Sophie said, too loudly, and reached for the hair brush that, surprisingly, Antoinette relinquished without resistance. “What? What is it?” she demanded. “I am not a child anymore. Tell me what?” It came to her then what she had known all along, that the box was, of course, a coffin. Her breath poofed up into her mouth, she took a step backward so that her
derrière
bumped against the bed, the garment grandmother had brought slipping off the bed where it lay, a black puddle on the yellow pine floor. “Someone…has…died?”

Antoinette said, breaking into a sob so that it took Sophie a second to understand, “Your Uncle Henri.”

She noticed then that outside the window in the branches of the maple that had stood there all her life, and that in autumn was as if on fire day and night too, a troop of birds had set up a choir:
Chirp-chirp-chirp-chirpety-chirp-chirpety-chirpety-chirp-chirp-chirp
, a din of birds, an uproar, a bedlam.

She had meant to cry out, “Antoinette!” but only a whisper emerged, and hearing it, or not hearing it, seeing only her lips move, Antoinette took two strides to the window and slammed it down in its sash. Then there was only silence in her bedroom, Antoinette’s uneven breathing, the heat in her own face, her own mouth open, trying to speak, no sound exiting.

~

She had not had breakfast
, she wanted to protest, where was her breakfast, but Antoinette, behind her, had both hands on her shoulders urging her forward into the
salon
. The heavy velvet side curtains, always open, were shut now, candles glowed at the head and down the sides of the wooden box she had seen them in the night, grunting and muttering, carry into the room. Someone was kneeling at the box’s head, someone very large and black: It was grandfather, she realized with a start. And on the other side, seated on the faded and worn yellow satin
divan
was grandmother.

“Kneel,” Antoinette whispered. She had taken her hands from Sophie’s shoulders in order to cross herself. Sophie dropped to her knees, crossed herself, bowed her head, a reflex so long impressed in her that she hardly noticed she was doing it. The coffin lid was closed, how was she to know who was in it? No, no, it was
oncle Henri
, it was grandfather’s brother. She was aware then that grandfather was making strange noises, had been making them since she had come into the room. She crossed herself again, knew she was to pray, but no prayer came to mind, no words at all, only the sharp, hot scent of the burning candles and the sound grandfather was making. Grandmother said, whispering,
“Assez!”
Then Antoinette was lifting her by her elbow, turning her as if she did not know how to turn herself, ushering her out of the room, closing the door behind them both.

“Breakfast,” Antoinette said, wiping her eyes with a damp handkerchief. Meekly, Sophie followed her down the hall and into the dining room, sat down at the table, waited for food to be put in front of her, began to eat her eggs, bite by bite. Before she had finished grandmother came and sat down without speaking at her usual place on Sophie’s right. Mme Gauthier brought her a pot of tea and grandmother filled her cup, but Sophie didn’t see her even sip it. Both of them heard grandfather leave the
salon
, go down the hall past the dining room door, and into his study where he shut the door quietly.

Just as she finished her breakfast,
l’abbé
Deschambeault came rushing, heavy-footed, down the hall into the dining room, not even waiting for Antoinette to lead him, speaking rapidly to grandmother as she rose from the table,
“Désolé, Madame,”
taking both her hands in his, “I came as quickly as I could. Madame Girodat will go to the Lord today, I think,” then, seeming flustered, said, “He is…?” and not waiting for answer, left the room to disappear into the hall and grandfather’s study.

Grandmother said, “Antoinette is cutting the white lilies. They are for the altar. You are to take them to the church.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“Go,” grandmother said. “The kitchen, they will be in the kitchen.” Forever after the scent of lilies would make Sophie ill.

When she returned,
l’abbé
and grandfather were still in
grandpère’s
study, while
grand-mère
paced in the hall outside, muttering as she fingered her rosary, repeatedly crossing herself as if she had forgotten that she just had, pausing to straighten the long wine-coloured carpet with the polished toe of her black boot, then straightening it again, fiercely, as if no matter what she did the length of carpet would not straighten. Seeing Sophie, she said, “Go and read your catechism.” Sophie went as quietly as she could up the stairs and closed her door soundlessly, sitting on her bed, although that was forbidden as it wrinkled the coverlet, and tried to think about what was happening. Antoinette came in again, her eyes, if it was possible, even redder.

“Study,” she said. “Study, little one. It is better if you study.” She took Sophie’s arm and moved her to the low chair in front of her desk, then pushed Sophie’s books forward, opening pages randomly with her rough fingers.

“No, no, Antoinette!” Sophie cried, irritated, shoving back the heaviest of the books and leaving only the catechism before her. So many years later, in another world, she would realize that Antoinette had not known how to read, and she would be ashamed, and filled with a frustrated pity for the woman who had been the closest thing to a mother she had ever had. Antoinette sniffed, blew her nose loudly into a fresh handkerchief she drew from her apron pocket, and left the room as if she hadn’t even noticed Sophie’s rudeness. Sophie thought, still angry, that she was no longer a
little one
. She was eleven years old, nearly a grown-up. But, still, she sat on, not reading. Where were the birds? She listened, but no sound came from the maple tree outside her window, not even of leaves turning, brushing against each other in the breeze.

Oncle Henri is dead
, she told herself. He was dead, whatever dead was, and yet he was in the room below her, in that box, her
oncle Henri
, who laughed and gave her
bon bons
to put in her pocket. A new thought occurred to her: Guillaume, she had no doubt, and also Hector would be on their way home for the funeral from faraway Montréal where they were both in college. Things would be better then. She thought that perhaps she should cry like Antoinette and get red eyes too. Would
grand-mère
scold her for her red eyes, or not care? It was impossible to tell. In any case, even though she tried, she couldn’t seem to squeeze out a single tear.

From the moment she had wakened the day had been extraordinary, nothing happening as expected or as usual, being made to stay home from school, then being sent to read her catechism. What would happen next? She had no sooner thought this than her door opened and Antoinette, not stepping inside, said to her, “Come now, Your
grand-mère
needs you to go to the church.”

“But why?” Sophie asked, not rising, but half-turning her body toward Antoinette.

“Vite!”
Antoinette hissed, glancing over her shoulder as if grandmother would come at once and be angry. Reluctantly, Sophie rose, secretly relieved not to have to read anymore catechism, not that she had so far read a single line, and accepting the coat Antoinette held out, did as she was told, going back to the church to help the nuns polish the altar’s oak railing, and sweep under the pews to make sure that no speck of dust remained anywhere in the entire church, she supposed in preparation for Uncle Henri’s funeral. The nun who looked after the church during the week was old, enfeebled, and very slow. She was also deaf, Sister Marie-dumpling, Sophie called her privately, her real name being too long to say or even remember, and not necessary anyway, as long as Sophie did as she was told and said nothing more than “Yes, Sister,” or “No, Sister.” Finished, she went back to the house and to her room where Mme. Gauthier had left a tray with a glass of milk, an apple, a slice of fresh bread, a chunk of white cheese for her. No lunch in the dining room then. She was beginning to wish she’d been allowed to go to school, although she hated school, and the nuns, and even some of the stupid girls.

As the day wore on a few people came to the house – the man who owned the apple orchard on the edge of the village, the lawyer Chouinard,
l’apothécaire
– arrived one by one, went silently, stiffly into grandfather’s study, stayed only a moment before going away again. She monitored all this from her bedroom door, opened a crack, or by tiptoeing to the stair railing and listening attentively as the visitors spoke in brief whispers to grandmother. A tradesman came to the back door; when he came into the hall Sophie knew him to be the man who worked at
le cimetière
with his burly son digging graves. She had seen them there more than once on the way to Mass. He and his son went into her grandfather’s study and emerged only moments later, the father sliding something into his pocket, touching his cap, bowing just a little. She wondered why no women came, no ladies, or families, why no one stayed.
Oncle Henri
had no wife, he had no children.

Then, at last, it was dinner time.
Grand-père
ate nothing, nor did he speak. Sophie sat silently down the side of the table from him where she always sat, but he did not look at her, even once, not even to wink at her, and
grand-mère
and
l’abbé
Deschambeault who ate with them, after he said a long grace and added to it some words about the difficulty of this day and God’s trials to test the faith that Sophie recognized as being about her great-uncle’s death, spoke only a little, and when
grand-mère
had seen Sophie glance at her, had sent her from the table yet again, even though Sophie hadn’t finished her meal and she was supposed to – usually – eat every bite on her plate. And neither of the men rescuing her or even seeming to notice the small drama she and her grandmother enacted most mealtimes.

Again, she went meekly enough, but something hard was beginning to live in her chest, a knot, a nugget; she suspected it might have been there for awhile but only now was she noticing it, and sometimes, when her grandmother was particularly unfair to her, she would feel its hard edges that nothing would soften, not tears, not a sweet from her uncle, or even a wink from her grandfather, not even being allowed to run in the garden. If she never again looked at
grand-mère
could she make that black-gowned shadow disappear?

It was early evening, outside the window the songbirds twittered noisily to one another, then as dusk came, turning slowly to darkness, grew silent. When again no one came to help her with the nightly ritual, she undressed by herself, put on her nightgown, said her prayers, at once pleased with herself, but pushing down her confusion and something that might have been fear at the unaccountable and sudden difference in her life, again put herself to bed.
When you are eleven years old you can put yourself to bed
, she told herself, but she wished she had Lilie to hold, or even that Antoinette would come and kiss her forehead as she often did. She supposed that Uncle Henri’s funeral would be the next day, or perhaps the day after as that would give more time for her brothers and other relatives to come. And there would be prayers at the church for him, perhaps tomorrow night. But why not tonight, she wondered? The church was ready, she had helped ready it herself.

~

Then it was morning again
, Antoinette at her window, raising it, then closing it, as if her mind were on other things so that she didn’t notice what she was doing, telling her to hurry or she would be late for school, and the nuns would berate her and slap her hands even if she was eleven and hardly a child anymore. “Is the funeral today, Antoinette?” she had asked, rubbing her eyes. Although how could it be if she was to go to school?

“Don’t ask me that,” Antoinette answered as if she were angry, and rushed out of the room, saying over her shoulder only, “Breakfast will be ready.” Puzzled, Sophie suddenly thought that she could ask Mme Gauthier if the funeral would be today, and so she hurried even faster than Antoinette expected her to, went softly down the stairs seeing no sign of either grandmother or grandfather, hurried through the empty dining room, and into the kitchen.