Wild Rose (14 page)

“Mme Gauthier, please, is the funeral today?” The woman, who was mixing something in a thick crockery bowl, looked at her, exasperated, as she so often was, but Sophie did not quail.

“I am only the cook! Who would tell me such a thing? Ask your
grand-mère
,” she said, knowing well that Sophie wouldn’t. She turned away from Sophie, not looking at her, banging pots and pans and saying she was too busy for foolishness, that the meals would not cook themselves, and
le bon Dieu
knew there was only herself to do all the work. She went on muttering to herself and Sophie went back into the dining room to eat her breakfast, again by herself. Guillaume will come home, she told herself, forgetting about Hector, and Guillaume who was so nice to her, nicer even than
oncle Henri
had been, would give her the answer that she craved.

Why was
oncle Henri
dead? What did it mean to be dead? Not long ago they had taken her to Madame Girard’s funeral: It meant you wouldn’t be seen again, except at your funeral, then the grown-ups would carry you away in your wooden box,
l’abbé
Deschambeault at the head of the procession in his white and gold finery, and they would bury you in the cemetery and then everything would be the same. She could taste a strange unpleasant flavour in her mouth, especially at the back of her tongue. She did not know what it was. Was it only that no one would talk to her about
oncle Henri?
Was it that noise–that only now she remembered–she had heard last night coming from behind grandfather’s closed study door? But she wouldn’t think about that, even though her palms were abruptly damp and her stomach queasy as if she were sick, at its very memory, and nothing, not deep breaths, not swallowing her spit made these symptoms disappear.

~

Hélène told her, whispering as they walked
two-by-two down the convent’s dark-panelled, windowless hall that smelled of oil and dust, past plaster saints gazing, woebegone into the distance or contemplating the dark wood floor, toward Sister Marie-Catherine’s classroom, that Sophie’s
oncle Henri
had died. Sophie resisted telling her that she knew this, and pulled away, a minuscule gesture no one else would see, but Hélène felt, not moving her head nor answering, even though she knew that Hélène had something more to say. Sister Marie-Thérèse was watching them, her eyes glinting a hard light to see them even in the dark, but Hélène had already bowed her head just the right amount, her hands clasped meekly at her stomach, managing to give off the aura of good-girl muteness and pliability. Sophie felt some strange new emotion rising up in her at the glimpse of her
friend’s pious demeanour. It was so strong, this abrupt, inexplicable desire to strike her, that her chest rebelled, rising suddenly to force air out through her nose, and in an act of such boldness, it happening before she had thought of doing it, she let her eyes meet for an instant those of Sister Marie-Thérèse.

To her amazement, the nun blinked, looking away from Sophie and grasping the child nearest her by the upper arm,
uttering some shrill admonishment, then standing back so the rows could turn beside her into Sister Marie-Catherine’s classroom. Sophie waited, breathless, as she and Hélène passed the nun, for the hard palm on the cheek or the back of the head, the rough grasping of her arm, the shove or pull of her hair, but –
they were past and – nothing. She thought, does she know my uncle has died? And for one stunning instant wondered if the nun had let her get away with the audacious act of meeting her eyes because her uncle had died and she was in mourning. Or was it something else? What else had Hélène been going to say? It would not be something kind, she knew by the strange twist of her classmate’s mouth.

Catechism class had begun, the nuns were preparing them now for their Confirmation and suddenly, that moment at her First Communion when her chest had filled with a cloud of light seeping into her consciousness, catching her by surprise. So precious a thing, her own private moment it was, as if somewhere someone knew who she was. Was it her mother? The nuns would say it was the Holy Spirit. Sister Marie-Catherine was speaking, telling them to recite after her:
The seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, fear of the Lord.
Obediently they recited together, eyes fixed on the nun’s lips.

She wondered if, landing in her chest such a long time ago the Holy Spirit had deposited there its seven gifts to help her now as the nun had said they would, but she guessed not, because she had no sense of help being given her. It occurred to her then that kindness hadn’t been on the list, and even though she was nearly grown, and understood the list’s seriousness, she could only guess that kindness was somehow not important.

She came back to herself at the muted swish and click of the other girls arranging their books, moving into line, ready to go to their next classroom, Sister Marie-St. Antoine’s where they would study arithmetic. She moved quickly enough that even this ever-vigilant nun did not notice she was seconds behind the others as she took her place. When all of them were seated in their customary places in the next class, books open on their desks in front of them, Sister Marie-St. Antoine, hands clasped inside the long sleeves of her gown, said sharply, “Sophie Charron!” Startled, Sophie stood by her desk as you were supposed to do when a nun called your name. Sister Marie-St. Antoine lifted a hand, index finger pointing, “Gather your books.” What could have happened now? Had someone else died? She had begun to tremble, but not so much that she couldn’t reach for her books, close them quietly, pick up pencil, pen and ink bottle, and hold them to her chest while she waited for the next order.

Instead of speaking Sister Marie-St. Antoine walked very fast, her black gown pouffing heavily out around her with each footstep, down the aisle, past Sophie to an empty desk in the corner at the back of the classroom. She turned to look at the backs of her students, none daring to turn their heads to follow the nun, not even Sophie, but the nun then said,
“Vite,”
and Sophie knew she must be speaking to her as she was the only one standing. She turned, her heart quivering, to find the nun standing by the empty desk, pointing downward to it while her eyes were fixed on Sophie’s face. Sophie, not quite understanding, walked down the aisle and then along the back of the room until she had reached the desk beside which the nun stood. Still the nun pointed downward. Sophie set her books down on the desk’s lid and slid into its seat, making herself as small as she could. Without a word Sister Marie-St. Antoine then strode back to the front of the room and the class began.

At the end of the school day as her friend Hélène walked beside her down the hallway she whispered to her, “Why?” But her friend said only, “It is your uncle.” Sophie was baffled. Her uncle had died, her grandfather was in mourning. Maybe children in families where people had died were sent to the back of the room until they felt better. But when Agnès had lost her mother she hadn’t been sent to the back of the room, and even though she cried all the time no nun scolded her.

At the end of the day she and Hélène walked together out of the school, crossed the convent yard at a steady pace, not speaking again, and the minute they had gone through the wide gate knowing themselves to be hidden by the two oaks that flanked it and stood at the head of the long bank of lilacs down each side of the narrow dirt road that led into town, they grasped hands and began to run. They ran as fast as the book bags carried over their shoulders, and as the grasping of hands that made running awkward, would allow. They didn’t speak, both knowing exactly where they were going and why. They outran even the flies, their neat chignons loosening with the jarring, their skirts requiring lifting now and then, dirt scuffing up in puffs behind them. When they heard a horse and wagon approaching around the bend ahead, again without speaking, they rushed to the side of the road, wading, laughing, through the tall grass and hid in the many-scented, flowering bushes growing wild there until the wagon had passed, then came, laughing, back out onto the road and carried on as before. When next they heard the voices of children far behind them calling to each other in English, they ran into the ditch again to hide, but the handful of children turned before they reached the two girls crouching among the plants and in the wild grasses by the roadside.

In a moment they had come to the place where a narrow road crossed the trail from the convent and they made a wide left turn, book bags thumping against their shoulders. The town lay spread out before them, much of it obscured by tall, thickly-leafed oaks, beeches, alders and maples, interspersed with fir trees of various kinds. Up the first hill they went and as they descended the other side the village vanished and they were alone, cows grazing in the field beside them. They stood panting for a moment, dropping their book bags, slapping futilely at the long ends of hair that had come loose – Sophie’s black, Hélène’s a light brown – and gazing, bright-eyed into the other’s eager face. In an excess of ebullience Sophie did a little dance that made more dust rise to cover her boots and in response, she scuffled even harder so as to dirty them more, emotion rising in her up from her stomach into her chest and she stamped and flailed her arms like a windmill and even threw back her head and screamed wordlessly at the billowing white and yellow-tinted clouds sailing playfully overhead. Beside her, Hélène eagerly followed her example.

As soon as they stopped voices could be heard from the other side of a second hill; they called, “Simone! Suzette!” and heard their own names in response. Already they were racing up the second hill, had crested it – it was higher than the first so they could see the great lake in the distance, a long glint in the bright sun, and beside it the blue mountain that sometimes seemed to smoke or was veiled in white mist, and the two stately rivers flowing through the countryside. Below them stood Simone and Suzette, as grubby as they were themselves. Shrieking, the
two girls raced down the second hill, going so fast they could hardly stop themselves and both nearly went tumbling head over heels. Indeed, held themselves back from doing so only by dint of the trouble they would be in if they couldn’t get the dirt off themselves or their dresses, or actually tore stockings or skirts.

Gasping for air they came to a stop. Already Simone and Suzette were tossing rocks at each other as if they were balls to be caught, deliberately making them fall short of their goals. Then Suzette turned and threw a stone as hard as she could toward a fir tree that stood next to the trail beside them. Hitting her goal, she shrieked in wordless delight.

“Hey, Suzette, how strong you are!” Hélène called, her voice deepened, coming from her chest, a different voice than the one she spoke from at school, and Sophie, only because she could, found a similar-size stone that fit the palm of her hand just so, and threw it as hard as she could, screaming as she threw, toward the same tree, missing it. Then all four of them were scrabbling to pick up stones, heaving them, screaming as they threw. They howled until their throats were sore, flinging stones until their arms and shoulders hurt too much to toss one more. Then they threw themselves in the grass along the roadside and lay gazing up at the sky, waiting to catch their breaths, for the beating of their wild hearts to slacken.

“I must go home,” Sophie said, finally. “Antoinette won’t tell anyone, but if grandmother sees how late I am…”

“No, no!” Suzette shrieked. “The third hill!” At once all of them were on their feet, their book bags still lying on the road where they had dropped them when they began their fusillade of stones, and began to run up the last and longest hill. When they crested it, they stopped and began to turn themselves in circles, slowly, to look around at the horizon in three directions, yet as if in ritual that they knew to be such, but for what purpose or to what end, they didn’t know, or care. Trees, trees, and more trees, every shade of green and blue and black. Beyond the trees, they had heard, lay the wider world, the great city of Montréal too, where Sophie’s brothers lived, but from even this high a point – the top of the world – they could see no trace of it. Perhaps it didn’t exist; perhaps it was a folktale, like the ones Sophie sometimes heard when her grandfather took her to visit at the farms of his customers. From this vantage point the lake lay a shining dash of silver far away at the edge of the sky.

Simone moved first, then all of them raced down the steep hillside together and no sooner reached the bottom, than they turned, made the long run back up the second hill to the top where they raced down the other side, still trying their best not to fall. Once Simone had fallen and torn a hole in the knee of her stocking. They had stopped, all of them panting loudly, staring in horror at the ragged hole, the bleeding knee beneath. Suzette had said, “My mother isn’t angry if I tear my stocking,” and she had given her good one to Simone to put on, and put on her own leg the torn stocking. Shrugging, she said, “I will tell Mama that I tripped on a stone and fell. I will limp,” and she gave a demonstration, saying, “ooh,” and “ouch,” so that they all laughed derisively at invisible mothers as if they were not afraid of them or anything else. At that moment Sophie had been able to believe that either she too had a mother, or that she did not need one, she could not have said which it was.

Scuffed, dusty, wrinkled, sweaty, and out of breath, they finally stopped and without speaking, bent to pick up their book bags and dust them, then went about tucking their hair into place, straightening the skirts and long sleeves, brushing off dust and smudges, presenting themselves to each other for inspection. Calling
à bientôt
and au
revoir
, Suzette pausing to say over her shoulder, “Sorry about your uncle,” to which Sophie did not reply, they walked soberly back to the village, at its edge separating, each making her solitary way home.