One More Step (5 page)

She's a hit. They clap and pat Jean-Paul on the back.

She comes over to me and let's me honk her nose. Well, all you see is my hand of course. She blows kisses at the lens. Crosses
her eyes. Fade to black.

Both my parents are clowns.

About nine o'clock the guys played broom-ball on the ice in the field out back of the lodge. I got two goals and a good body check from Jean-Paul. I gave him a good one right back. Everyone cheered.

When I got back in, Bernadette came over to me

“You want to play?”

That's what she said. Honest to God. I stood there like an idiot. Then she repeated the question.

“You want to play card with us?” Only she said hus. Like Jean-Paul does. It's sexy when she says it.

“You speak English?” I finally spit out.

“If you speak not too fas'.”

“What's the game?”

She turned and whispered something to Jean-Paul. She giggled with her hand over her mouth.

“Asshole,” he said.

“What?”

“That's the name of the game, Julian. In French, it's called
Trodaycue
.” That's how he said it. “You must know how to play that, Julian.”

Ouch.

“Funny. Well. I don't. Troo-de-cue?” I repeated. Bernadette nodded.

“I teach you.”

Jean-Paul handed me a beer halfway through the game. Mom tried to protest.

“He's in Quebec,” I heard him tell her. “It's a party.”

I realized all the other kids my age were sipping beer, too. This province
is
distinct. Like when would this ever happen at home?

I took the beer and drank it like this was something I did every day. I can't say I liked the taste. The game didn't end, really, but we stopped to count down the New Year.

Backwards and in French.
Dix, neuf, huit
—it was a challenge. “
Bone année
!
Bonne année
! “Everyone started to go around kissing
each other. Before I knew it, Bernadette was there in front of me. I started to just peck her on the cheek.

“No, you mus' do it the French way.” I thought I'd die.

She meant on both cheeks, not a French kiss. Darn it.

It took at least half an hour to get around that room kissing everyone on both cheeks. By that time I was warmed up. I wanted to find Bernadette and give her another one. Mom found me first. She squeezed me so hard her new earrings made a dent in my face.

“They're going to pray,” whispered Mom.

Jean-Paul pulled me down beside him. He held one hand. Bernadette had my other. It was something. Seventy-two people all on their knees, holding hands around a circle.

Jean-Paul's parents were in the middle.

His father was in a wheelchair. He was ancient and he spoke very slowly. Everyone was crying quiet tears. I saw one run down and drip right off Bernadette's chin. They all
crossed themselves when it was over. I tried to do that like it was something I did every day, too.

We ate again! A feast, this time! I was feeling a bit dizzy from the beer and so much sugar pie so I went to our room to lay down for a bit. I was supposed to sleep on the top bunk. Mom and Jean-Paul were going to be on the bottom. Real cozy, I was thinking. Then I saw them.

They were outside, on a path near the woods. The moonlight was shining right down on them. I suppose I should've looked away. But I couldn't. Instead, I got out my camcorder. He was holding her face with his hands. And planting these little quick kisses on her mouth, her nose, her chin, and her forehead. Kind kisses. Sugar kisses. Then he just looked at her. And looked at her. I mean, how long can you look at someone's face that close up without going cross-eyed? Then he wrapped his arms around her and they sort of just rocked from side to side like a rocking chair. For the longest time.

That's when it crept into my mind, sideways, when I wasn't on guard. The thought. Jean-Paul was going to be around for a while. That maybe he wouldn't be like all the others.

Later, I went out for walk with Bernadette. I didn't kiss her but she took my hand. I swear I could feel how warm it was through her gloves. We didn't talk much. We looked up at the moon. You don't need language when you're on the moon.

The next day as we were leaving, my mother turned and said—to everyone —
J'aime
“
Jean-Paul beaucoup
.” Only she
didn't get it right. Everyone started giggling and then—maybe because they'd been so polite at all her other mistakes—just roared. My mother looked hurt.

“Mom, you just told everyone you loved his nice ass.”

She'd said bow-cue instead of
beaucoup
. They laughed even harder at her embarrassment. Except for Bernadette.

“Hey, you understood.” She pretended to clap.

“Hey, yeah, I guess I did. Wait until I tell my French teacher how I've improved my vocabulary.”

“
À la prochaine
,” she said as I got in the car. I think I understood that, too.

“Surprise!” said Jean-Paul. He pulled into the parking lot of the Château Frontenac. I had thought we were heading straight for home.

“We have something we have to do,” was all he said. We were in our room. He pointed out the window at the long line of
people along the promenade, climbing the steps, taking their places and charging down on the toboggans.

Once we got outside I was sure he would change his mind. The line-up was ridiculous. It backed up way past the Château, and it was so cold people were doing jumping jacks to try to stay warm.

Jean-Paul took pictures until he discovered the camera was frozen. We waited in line an hour and a half, inching up the line every five minutes or so. I really didn't think they'd stick it out. But they did. My mother was so cold the only things chattering were her teeth. Her eyes were watering. Jean-Paul's eyebrows were frosted with ice.

When we reached the top it was dark. The city lights seemed so far below. Above us were the Plains of Abraham. I'd studied about it all. Not that I remembered much. Wolfe was the English dude. Montcalm was the leader of the French. It was pretty bloody and there have been hard feelings ever since. But it was weird thinking about it right then,
with everybody all around us smiling and laughing.

“We've got the middle lane. That's the lucky one,” said Jean-Paul. It wasn't supposed to be a race but of course, it was.

“Eat my dust,” said the guy next to us.

“See you next year,” said the kid on the other side.

A guy wearing some kind of dead animal on his head settled us in position. Then he put his hand on the lever.

“
Bonne chance
,” he said as he released the brakes to let us go.

The other two toboggans shot out ahead. We were trailing far behind. Mom was screaming. The wind was fierce. Then I swear it was like someone came from behind and gave us this push. Whatever. We sailed up to them and past. We held tight and leaned forward, leaving them far behind. It felt like we'd never stop.

“They say it's going to storm,” said Mom next
Sheree Fitch morning. We'd just finished eating breakfast at the buffet. We were packing to leave.

“Don't worry,
chérie
,” said Jean-Paul. “I'm a good driver.”

It was miserable though.

There were cars zigzagging around every turn. About an hour from home, Jean-Paul's cell phone rang. Mom answered it.

“Hello. Chris! Hi, honey! How are —what? I can't understand you—oh, oh, Jesus.”

There was this sound. Like she was sucking in air ready to blow up one of her balloons. Like someone had punched her in the gut.

“Tell… tell her we'll be there soon as we can.”

She sat there, staring straight head.

“My fath—oh, Daddy!” She sobbed.

She reached for me over the seat.

“It's Poppie. Poppie's dead.”

The hours and days that followed are a blur. There are scenes that are vivid still, but most are like one of those Polaroid snapshots coming into focus.

I remember sounds. The windshield wipers rubbing against the windshield as we continued on, the squeaks keeping time with my mother's weeping. Smells. Jean-Paul's cigarettes. He lit one after another.
Textures. Nana's velvety skin, her wet face against my shoulder when we finally made it to her place that night. Faces. Chris's. It was all blotchy from crying, big puffy bags underneath his eyes. I remember his arms reaching out to hug me soon as he saw me. Squeezing harder when I tried to wriggle away, until I stopped. Then I hung on to him for dear life.

I got sick in the car right after Mom told us how Poppie died. An aneurysm. Blood clot in the brain.

Jean-Paul stopped the car and got out with me. He stood beside me the whole time, in the blinding storm, while I woofed my cookies.

He kept patting my back and saying, “Let it go, Julian, let it go.” I kept barfing and screaming into the wind.

He wiped my mouth with the sleeve of his coat.

The church was packed for the funeral. Everyone was there. Even Dad and Erika.
Dad hugged me so hard I couldn't breathe. No thwacking or pinching. A real hug. Everyone knew how I felt about Poppie.

“You okay, Jules?” he asked into my ear.

“No,” I said. “I'm not okay at all, Dad.”

“Your granddad was one of the good guys,” he said.

Erika was blowing her nose. “Honey, I am so sorry,” was all she said before we had to go into the church.

Nana, me, Chris, Mom and Jean-Paul sat up front.

I don't remember the words. Just the songs. There were three. Two were taped and piped into the church. The other sung by a Barbershop quartet made up of some old railroad pals.

The first song was Louis Armstrong's “What a Wonderful World.” Poppie's favorite of all time. He used to do a wicked imitation. Chris lost it then.

The second was called “People Get Ready.” It's about a train that's going to heaven, I guess. Mom cried into Jean-Paul's shoulder.

But let me tell you, when those old guys dressed in their uniforms got up there and sang, “I've Been Working on The Railroad,” there wasn't a dry eye anywhere. Except for me.

At the end of the song they played a two-minute tape recording of train whistles. I hadn't expected that. “Poppie,” I whispered and that lump in my throat burst like it was some sort of dam holding back my tears. Nana squeezed my hand. I let her hold me while I bawled like some big baby. Those damn whistles.

Poppie heard.

I'm sure of it.

Chris was right as usual. I only used this diary for a bit, then forgot about it. I dug it out today because I figured I needed to add a page or two. Things change in a year and half. Things can change in a moment, for that matter.

Anyway. They did it. Tied the noose. I mean the knot. Yep. Jean-Paul and Mom got married today. In Nana and Poppie's
Fitch backyard, with the garden in full bloom. It was a picture-perfect day. I kept thinking it was going to rain. I figure Poppie made sure it didn't.

Chris and I walked Mom up the garden path to where Jean-Paul was waiting. Mom looked scared but beautiful. Her dress was this floaty, lacy thing and she had flowers tucked in her hair. Like wow! Not bad for an old bride! There were big bouquets of pink and purple balloons on either side of the patio where they said their vows. In English and French, of course. The balloons were a big hit. There were almost more kids than adults in the crowd. Almost every kid who ever went through Thumbalina's Day Care Center showed up.

Anyhow, Chris and I took part in the ceremony too. Well, all we had to say was, “I do,” after some prayer about committing to this new family. I did. Say, “I do,” I mean. And it was the only moment I was a smart-ass all day. I scratched my head first and said, “I dunno,” then, “Oh, yeah, I do!” It got a laugh.
Well, we needed a break at that point. Comic relief. They gave me and Chris rings, too. Mine's too big. I'll grow into it.

Maybe when I do, I'll have grown used to Jean-Paul, too. Most of the time, we get on. My French is better and so is his English. He wants me to go scuba diving with him sometime. We'll see. I don't trust him that much yet! We had one big scene after we all moved in together last year.

One Friday night, I stayed out past my curfew. Okay, so the sun was coming up by the time I made it home. Jean-Paul was waiting. Mom was in bed. I have a feeling she heard it all.

“You're supposed to call if you're going to be late,” he said. In almost perfect English.

“Sorry,” I said. I just wanted to get to bed. I tiptoed past him, stumbled and knocked over a chair.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“A few beers.”

“Looks like a lot of beers to me.”

“Goodnight,' I said.

“See you tomorrow,” he said

I hurried to my room and prayed for the ceiling to stop spinning. Then I grinned. Well, I thought, that was easy. He never even yelled. The wuss.

At seven o'clock the next morning he pounded on my door. “Get up, Julian.”

“Why? It's Saturday.” I moaned.

“I need your help.” He was still outside my bedroom door.

“What for?”

“I need your muscles. Have to bring the tub in the house.” He was re-doing the bathroom.

“Later,” I mumbled and turned over.

“I have to do it now.”

“Sorry,” I said.

He opened the door quietly. In a voice just as quiet he said, “It will only take ten minutes. ”

“Get out!” I yelled.

“Want the cold water treatment?” He was holding a pitcher of water over my head.

“You wouldn't dare.”

He started to tip it. So, I huffed and threw off the covers. “Get out,” I said, “I'll be right there.”

“I'll be in the driveway,” he smiled.