For Sure (41 page)

Alcide Gaudet had his own personal take on things:

“I surmise it's like de lobsters. Dey wants dose chunks o' dogfish, dey'll do summersaults to get 'em, next ting dey know dey's in de trap.”

Terry and Carmen agreed, laughing. For a moment, neither could think where to get a handhold on the analogy in order to continue the conversation.

Fantasy has no need to justify itself, for it exists in the absolute and exposes itself without restraint. Liberated, supposing itself above and beyond, de-posing itself. So much so, that one might say fantasy is precisely this, an excess in the economy of thought. A glove-factor. A quake-breaks. A dwarf-drench. A tears-mirror.

“Most time, I go to bed at night hopin' I won't be wakin' up in de mornin'.”

Zed was acutely conscious of the incongruity of the situation: eating a delicious cake while listening to the old woman talk of her pain.

“Der's times I's afraid fer Chico. Ee's a good lad all de same . . .”

“Have you no one to help you, den?”

“I've good neighbours. Dey take me to de store an' to church.”

Madame Hébert poured more tea for Zed.

“I never used to be such a glawvawn, complainin' all de time. 'ere, you 'ave anudder piece o' cake, now. Der's plenty more where dat come from.”

Zed cut himself another slice.

The paradox being that, even to admit something to oneself, one must go through the Other.

The next morning, after generous helpings of lobster omelette, the little family went gathering stones and shells on the shore before repacking the van for their departure.

“Lucky fer us youse didn't know 'bout de campgrounds just over by de way, or we never would've met ya.”

Madame Gaudet, who had rapidly fallen for the two children, took them by the hand, and spoke to them:

“When youse come back next year, we'll go out on de boat. Eh? Would you like dat?”

Monsieur Gaudet handed Carmen the bag of provisions his wife had prepared:

“Alvina boasts she grows de best cucumbers east o' Waltham. A fellow knows enough not to contradict a woman who tinks so highly of her cucumbers.”

Carmen took the bag, and shook his hand warmly.

“Really, thanks a whole bunch. We'll not ferget you.”

Terry, for his part, kissed Granny Alvina.

“If you don't stop spoilin' us like dis, you'll have us on your hands a whole lot longer dan you hoped for.”

And Terry handed Alcide Gaudet the scrap of paper on which he'd written their address and phone number.

“If ever we can do sometin' for you in Moncton, don't be shy. An' come an' see us sometime when yer out dat way. We'll be proud to show you round de neighbourhood.”

Alvina Gaudet wiped away a tear as she watched the van go out of sight.

Backstitch, long-armed cross-stitch, Smyrna cross-stitch, reversible cross-stitch, Assisi or Holbein stitch, plaited cross-stitch, Roumanian stitch, whipstitch, straight stitch, gridded half-cross stitch, ¾ cross-stitch, star stitch, hexagonal half-stitch, point carré stitch, triangular stitch, pin stitch, stem stitch, backstitch, buttonhole stitch, isolated dove's eye stitch, fly stitch, regular row, offset row, Kloster block, eyelet, basket filling, mosaic filling, chessboard filling, drawn trellis filling, square filling, half-chevron filling, window filling, beehive filling, ribbed wheel, braided flange, picot, oblique loop, dove's eye, openwork, ladder stitch, serpentine hemstitch, knotted cluster stitch, double hemstitch, and antique hemstitch.

“De udder ting people have got all muddled about . . .”

!

“De Bible says, ‘an eye fer an eye, a toot fer a toot.' Well, you'd tink dat means de punishment ought to fit de crime, wouldn't you? Say a body kills a fellow, well dat body ought to be killed, as well, right?”

. . .

“Or, let's be a wee bit less extreme, an' say you go an' steal sometin', well, you gets yer hand cut off.”

. . .

“Only ‘eye fer an eye, toot' fer a toot,' dey said dat to stop folks punishin' too harsh. De very opposite of wot we's tinkin'! On account of dey were handin' out terrible harsh punishments. Like, somebody steals a loaf o' bread, well, dey gets a bit of a punishment sure, but you don't cut der arm off, fer heaven's sake.”

. . .

“
Lex talionis
is wot dey call it.”

. . .

“Nice shot.”

snow white worry-free

teasing a dwarf
non non non

here comes paw-paw bear

Twice the presenter had spoken of avatars.

“Did you catch wot 'e was sayin' 'bout de avatars?”

“Naw. Der's a whole lot I didn't catch, fer dat matter.”

“Same ting 'ere, but it don't bodder me. 'Twas right interestin' all de same. 'Twas a kind of challenge.”

An advertisement for New Brunswick oysters with photographs of the Caraquet, the Mallet, the Saint Simon, and the Beausoleil.

Terry was at a loss. What sort of love story was this woman looking for?

“Do you know dis one 'ere?”

Terry showed her
Belle du Seigneur
by Albert Cohen.

“Is it any good?”

“Well, I 'aven't read it, only lots of folks who 'ave tell me it's de best book dey ever read. An' it's a love story.”

The woman took the book from him.

“It's awful tick . . .”

And the millions of tiny letters inside were irritating beyond measure.

“No. I'm not so keen on readin' wot everybody an' 'is uncle's readin'.”

Terry put the book back on the shelf, and continued his search. It occurred to him that the woman might be on the edge of a kind of burnout or something of that nature.

“Well, would you be lookin' for someting more modern, den?”

“Wot do ya mean, modern?”

“Someting dat's happenin' in our time, or would ya prefer someting older?”

“Someting older, dat might do de trick.”

Terry continued to look, but nothing jumped out at him. Finally he decided to gamble.

“Don't know, only I read dis 'ere book, an' I tawt it was shockin' good! An', besides meself, I don't know anyone else dat's read it.”

Terry showed the customer
Zorba the Greek
. Alright, so he'd lied a little.

“Is it awful sad?”

The woman eyed the book warily, reached out and delicately took the volume from Terry's hand. The fact that Terry had read it meant that she had to treat it with some consideration.

“It's like a love story 'bout Greece.”

The woman rifled the pages of the paperback, read the excerpt on the back cover, and decided to get rid of Terry:

“Looks alright. I'll tink about it, an' take anudder look 'round.”

“No problem. If you have udder questions, don't be shy.”

At times, an expression can contain everything at once: techniques, tactics, fervour and fantasy. The French expression “
bouillon d'onze heures,
” for example, which means literally “eleven o'clock broth,” and refers to a poisoned beverage.

“Mum, when are we gonna 'ave our godfawder an' godmudder party?”

From the beginning, Terry and Carmen had explained to the children that they would organize a big party to celebrate the event.

“Afore too long.”

“Only, afore too long when? I can't wait much longer.”

. . .

“All dis waitin's tirin' me out someting terrible.”

Robin peck and peck

apple won't fall from the tree

sound branch to sup on

“Wot would be de opposite of inventin' yerself?”

“I don't know, do I. Inventin' de udder feller, I suppose.”

“Hey, dat's not bad! I never tawt of dat. Most folks would've said destroyin' yerself, or some such ting, but not to go an' invent anudder fellow.”

?!

. . .

“Wot is it den dat intrigues ya so 'bout opposites, anyhow?”

“Don't know. Only I'm drawn to it is all. Someting neutral to tink about, I suppose.”

Although the French language may be widely thought of as the language of love, the French have not been inclined to write love stories, especially not those with happy endings. It seems that love, in the French novel, serves mostly as the driving force for tales of obstacles and constraints. Perhaps the French have always known somehow that love is really a chemical affair rather than an affair of the heart, as Jean-Didier Vincent argues in his
Biologie des passions (Biology of Passions)
, which
La Biliothèque idéale
ranks among the 49 best works in the “Sciences.”

“Get married?! Holy Jesus, Joseph an', Mary! Are you serious, girl? You really want to marry me?”

Carmen couldn't understand why Terry should be so surprised.

“Geez! Does it surprise you all dat much?”

“Yes, yes . . . for sure I do. Only I didn't tink . . . I tawt maybe dat . . .”

Terry had never tried to put into words the vaguely confused fear lodged deep in his heart.

“Thought what . . .?”

“Don't know . . . dat, most likely, once you got to know me fer real, you'd not be likin' me so much.”

Carmen frowned. Terry added:

“Well, someting like dat could happen, couldn't it?”

For a fleeting instant, Carmen saw again the Terry of their early days together, when he still lacked self-­confidence. She moved closer to him:

“I suppose I don't say it to you often enough, only I can't imagine anudder life dan dis one we've got together, you and me an' de kids.”

Terry received this simple declaration like a huge injection of love. He closed his eyes, embraced Carmen, who hugged him back.

“Would ya mind awfully repeatin' dat sentence you just said?”

Carmen could only laugh, Terry could be so innocent.

“An' to answer yer question, girl, der's not a hair on me body dat doesn't want to marry you.”

WOBUBBLEY:
adj. — 2005/2013; woman drunk on champagne. “She was wobubbly, the poor darling; her husband, on the other hand, was dead drunk.” (Daigle/Majzels)

“Dey say der's six million haiku poets over in Japan.”

. . .

“Dat's one Japanese out of twenty, give or take.”

. . .

“One out o' twenty! Dat's a terrible lot o' poets, wouldn't ya say?”

. . .

“Imagine dat back over 'ere. Would be a whole lot of poets at de Champlain Mall.”

. . .

“An' on de golf courses.”

. . .

“Fore!”

In her novel
1953: Chronicle of a Birth Foretold
, the Acadian author France Daigle makes no mention of the publication that year of the bestseller
How to Play Your Best Golf All the Time
by famed champion Tommy Armour.

Terry knew very well he was repeating himself, but the situation seemed to demand it.

“Are you serious fer real, den . . .”

Zed nodded slowly.

“'Ave you 'ad a word wid Shawn 'bout it?”

Same nod of the head from Zed, who added:

“I told 'im ee'd always be 'is dad, all de same, an' like it or not. It's a weird ting, the boy an' me. Someting just clicked betwixt us.”

Terry looked at his friend with admiration. But something else occured to him:

“An' wot about Élizabeth, den? Does dis 'ere change tings wid 'er?”

“Tell ya de troot, she's de one helped me see just how I's feelin'. In de end, she said wotever I decides, it'll be de right ting.”

Terry also admired Élizabeth's cool.

“An wot did Chico say, den?”

Terry could see his friend was tearing up. Zed took a moment before answering:

“Was a wee bit weird . . . seemed like 'twas me askin' 'im to be adoptin' me as his dad.”

This reversal made them both laugh.

“Anyhow, I finally managed to explain how I understood it. An' when I's all done, ee looks at me an' ee says ‘OK', an' dat's it.”

The two friends fell silent. Zed blew his nose. Terry walked up to him and lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Dat's real good news, Zed. I can't tink of anyting better. For 'im, an' for you. An' for me as well, now dat I tinks on it. For all of us togedder, even. 'Tis like we's all gonna have anudder child.”

And with that, Terry took Zed into his arms and hugged him with all his might.

Love then would be more a biological necessity than a fervour.

Terry picked up a sweet potato, showed it to Étienne.

“Dis 'ere's a sort of potato, as well. Dey's orange inside, doh. I don't like 'em all dat much. Dey're like pastry an' sweet.”

Now he picked up a Jerusalem artichoke, showed it to his son.