dinner the following Saturday. After all, I’d seen him relieving himself in his bathing suit out of fear. A proud man like him! Constantly comparing himself to others, always challenging those around him. He had the reputation of being a sore loser. A nasty guy, not particularly tall, though muscled, with his downy brown hair beginning to thin on the top of his head, a thick moustache like Burt Reynolds, brown eyes circled in white that watched others with constant animosity. The infamous Robert W. Egan in front of me, shocked, humiliated in his soiled red bathing suit, but still aware enough to go back in the water and wash himself off before pushing me with the flat of his hand down onto the rocky beach, while from the top of the cliff Mrs. Egan, who hadn’t seen the whole incident, began to shout, with Gail at her side, “Robert! Robert! Are you all right? What happened?”
Louis had fled. He was far away by then.
It was only when dessert was served that Robert Egan began pretending to be interested in me. Which made me more uncomfortable than the cold shoulder he’d offered so far. He had had quite a few whiskies. At the other end of the table, Mrs. Egan seemed on edge, stiffening every time he poured himself another glass.
Reverend Barnewall was in rapture before the dish Françoise had placed in the middle of the table, a spectacular mountain of profiteroles dipped in chocolate. Robert Egan, meanwhile, smiled stupidly, a bitter twist to his mouth.
He questioned me about my studies, my projects, and my future. I had no idea what to say.
For me, the seminary was in the past tense now, and without the seminary, no chance of going to university.
Robert Egan looked at me, feigning curiosity, “Why?”
I felt myself redden. I wasn’t going to mention what I’d come down with the previous winter, and the suspicious looks I’d gotten for it — mononucleosis, the kissing disease, transmitted by saliva and poorly washed glasses, contaminated glasses, perhaps from the seminary canteen. I’d been sent back home. Fever, aches and pains, fatigue, loss of appetite, my ganglions as big as golf balls on my neck, under my armpits, around my groin. Three months’ rest required as my liver had been affected with jaundice. Furious, my father, who didn’t trust clerics, wondered what had been done to his son, and my mother, in a protective mood — even she felt ambivalent towards them — did not insist that I return. No, I shouldn’t go back, not after what I’d seen there but had hidden from my parents. Little Gaby Dumont’s face, his fingers the colour of ink, his eyes bulging, found hanging in the dormitory bathroom. I’d gotten sick right after.
“So you’re done with your studies? What are you going to do, then?”
I’d been hired that fall at McArdle’s sawmill. My father had found the job for me. I took no joy from it. It was a hard job — ten, twelve hours a day in the sawmill, the noise of the machines deafening, enough to make you go mad, not to mention the risk of accidents, but it would be money I could set aside, deposit at the caisse populaire at Joe Rousseau’s house. And after? Maybe someone in Métis Beach would offer me a job, a position in Montreal, in their company. Hopefully I’d eventually go to Montreal and knock on every door, and find a job in the big city where there were museums, and movie theatres, and places to listen to music, the sort of music the Tees bothers listened to — Ray Charles, Roy Orbison, Johnny and the Hurricanes. Or maybe leave for New York, the incredible city Dana told me about with such enthusiasm. Yes, one day I’d go there, walk in its streets, maybe even live there if I had the money for it, find a new job, why not? Like in The Buccanneers of the Red Sea, that Dana had given me, the story of a young pirate seeking justice who, during a terrible storm, tells a young sailor who can’t swim and is afraid of falling overboard, Your courage will come from the choices you can’t make. The impression that the book was talking directly to me, to the fearful boy I was and yet, for God’s sake, I was dying here, I would have to push myself one day, and build my own story. No time to waste on girls like Françoise who expected that boys would give them their future; they could take care of their own. And anyway she was too tall — a good head taller than me — and too fat — at her age she already had her mother’s chubby ass — and her hair was done up in a bun that smelled like the sour odour of cold oil, like all the women who wore complicated hair and kept it fixed on the top of their heads for days.
But I couldn’t say all that, or any of that. And anyway, how could I explain what I meant in English?
My answers disappointed him.
Next to me, I could feel Gail tense up, her fists tightly glued to her thighs.
“There’s my mother’s store,” I ventured. What else could I say? “And I could continue cutting the grass and … take care of your houses when my father gets old.…”
“I see!” Robert Egan exclaimed with poorly hidden sarcasm. “Great projects there, my boy. Let’s drink to that!”
“Robert!” Mrs. Egan cried.
He opened another bottle of wine, poured a glass for Reverend Barnewall, who pretended to say no before accepting, his eyes gleaming. Vain protests from Mrs. Egan, a beautiful woman with disappointed eyes, who knew well there was no point anyway, while Gail sat in silence, frozen, only her eyes speaking to the apprehension of what she suspected would come. Robert Egan ignored them, he was among “men.” He got up, staggering, caught a wine glass in the oak cabinet behind him, filled it halfway and placed it before me, proud as if he were doing me favour, a favour among men.
“Robert, damn it! He’s a boy!”
Perplexed, I looked at the glass in front of me. We didn’t drink at home. Alcohol wasn’t even allowed in the house. My mother said it turned men into beasts, and my father did that at Jeff Loiseau’s place or with friends at the Jolly Roger.
“No, sir, no, thank you.”
“Oh, how reasonable! And how old are you, young man?”
“Fifteen.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“We don’t drink alcohol at home.”
“Catholics,” murmured the reverend, his eyes raised skywards.
Robert Egan burst out in a tinkling laugh. “My boy, this isn’t alcohol. It’s a Bordeaux. A great, a very great Bordeaux.”
“I don’t know what a bordo is. We don’t have any, at home.”
At that point, chaos erupted. Mrs. Egan got up from the table and stormed out of the dining room, pushing the swinging door violently. Next came the happy barking of Locki, the young Labrador that appeared in the room and ran around the table, his claws clacking on the wooden floor, looking for scraps. “Come now!” Robert Egan grumbled, “What’s with all the noise?” Françoise had disappeared into the kitchen. Ashen, the reverend stared at the dog as if afraid of being bitten. Gail caught him by the collar and dragged him into the living room. Teetering, the reverend got up, but Robert Egan caught him by the wrist. “You wouldn’t refuse a good cognac, now, Reverend?”
Half-heartedly, Ralph Barnewall sat back down. Robert Egan was laughing out loud now, as if he was thinking back to one of his favourite jokes. “Catholics! Those damned Catholics!”
Gail, furious with shame at seeing her father so drunk and so impolite, intervened, “Dad!” But Robert Egan continued to chortle with Reverend Barnewall, who’d become rather pale.
“You know what, Reverend? These Catholics … the ones from around here … the women … Well.…”
