The Witchin' Canoe Read online

  Honoré looks around at the street, at the park. Yes, people are staring at the scene with curious eyes and malicious smiles. Now he’s given them something to gossip about. Mortified, he turns away and hurries back into the house. From the open door, he gives his uncle one last pleading look. “Whatever you did, I forgive you. In my mother’s name, too.”

  Without a word, Gédéon steps into the cabin and Bernard slowly shuts the door. When the carriage rolls away, Honoré sees the black curtain in the window move, and behind the glass, his uncle’s sad face appears. Is he weeping?

  Then the curtain is pulled shut again.

  Chapter 17: Donations

  It’s Sunday morning, nearing noon, and Saint-Anne’s ward is squirming with activity. Honoré has never seen McGauran’s neighborhood quite like this before. People are dressed in their best clothes and their children almost look respectable. He’s asked Durocher to stop the carriage near the church on Basin Street and has been sitting in the cabin, hidden from view, peering out at the crowd from behind the black curtain. He likes to watch the women chatting together at the bottom of the church steps. How wonderful it must be to have friends to share your life with. One of the women reminds him of his own mother, or at least, her portrait. What would his mother think of this quarter? He likes to believe she’d have been a charitable lady without too much pretense.

  Would she condone or condemn him? Would she understand him? And could he leave his bourgeois lifestyle, his upright piano, his extensive book collection and finely tailored suits, to follow McGauran out west, with nothing but hope, love, and ambition to survive on?

  Yes. In a heartbeat! The thought alone gives him strength and hope.

  Durocher yells out a few sharp English words to someone, and curious, Honoré opens the cabin door. Little boys have swarmed the carriage, circling it and watching him with wide eyes.

  “It’s not Queen Victoria,” one of them says.

  “No it ain’t,” another, this one taller, retorts. “It’s a man. A Prince.”

  Honoré smiles and tips his Broadway silk hat. “Hello there.”

  The five or six boys turn quiet, staring at him. They all wear their caps pulled low and have an assurance he finds endearing. Little men, they already are. He thinks of McGauran as a child. Could they have been friends in spite of it all?

  “Sir, don’t encourage them,” Durocher shouts from his perched bench. “They’ll be begging for sous or candy.”

  “Mind your business, old man.” He searches the children’s faces. “Do you all have a mother?”

  They all glance at one and other and nod or mumble a few affirmative words. They seem to be waiting for him to do or say something extraordinary.

  “Well, you see,” he says, showing him his gloved hands, “I have these fine gloves and this car and these very uncomfortable fancy boots.” He sticks his foot out and some of the boys giggle. “And though you may not believe me now,” he says, his voice losing its cheer and turning subdued, “I’d give it all up to have a mother instead.”

  The tall boy shrugs. “Mister, you can have my mother.”

  Surprised at the boy’s wit, Honoré laughs. Then behind the children, he spots McGauran, dressed in his best tan coat and suit vest, coming up to the car. He can’t be sure of his expression. His heart starts to race and he sits back in the cabin, but leaves the door open, watching the boys gather around McGauran.

  “Hey, Mac, how come you ain’t making soap no more?”

  “Well, I’ve been living with the Widow Leary and she’s got little monsters like you all to feed. So, no more scraps. No more soap.”

  The boys cling to McGauran, obviously fond of him. Guilt bites the back of Honoré’s throat. If they run off together in sin, McGauran will never be a father. Will he come to regret not having a son to raise?

  Then McGauran sticks his head into the cabin and winks at him. “Hello there.”

  At the sight of McGauran’s alluring eyes and sensual smile, Honoré feels like the time he’d tried replacing a bulb in one of the new electric lamps in the study. The shock had stunned him and left him feeling excited all day. “Hello…”

  McGauran tips his cap back a little. “You’re early.”

  “Yes, I know. Durocher is beginning to know all the shortcuts.” He opens the door wider and the boys come closer to peek inside the gray velvet cabin, shoving each other to get a better view. “I—I want to give them something,” he whispers, leaning into McGauran’s ear. “Would that offend you or them?”

  “Give them what you want. Except the rum.” With a bright face, McGauran pushes one of the boys’ cap down over his ears. “That’s for me.” He glances back at the church steps. “My mother’s staring. I think maybe she’d like to meet you.”

  “Oh, I’d love to make her acquaintance.”

  McGauran seems to mull that idea over for a while. “No,” he finally says, something changing his mind. “I can’t. Not today. But maybe some other time.”

  The boys are getting impatient, obviously waiting for something.

  Honoré digs into his coat pocket and slips out a few notes. “This is all I have.” The boys are staring at the notes, almost solemnly. “Well, do I simply—I mean, do I hand them the—”

  “Yes, like this,” McGauran says, laughing and taking the money from Honoré’s hand. Quickly, he distributes the money all around. “Now go and spend it on whatever you want,” he calls out to the boys who’ve already scattered down the street and into the crowd. He looks back at Honoré with a smirk. “See, that’s what I call a gift. Free of sermons and well-meaning control.” With a loving gaze, he leans into the cabin again. “And as always, thank you, Monsieur Latendresse, for your generosity.”

  “I wish I could have given them more.” He picks up the envelope on the seat. “But most of what I could withdraw from the Banque Jacques Cartier is in here. For you. And your mother, of course.”

  McGauran looks around with a tense expression. He seems unsure.

  “Please don’t change your mind. I really want to spend time with you and if you’re working twelve hours a day, worrying about rent and food, I won’t get a chance to see you as much.”

  McGauran sighs and gives him a deep look. “You know I wouldn’t change my mind…I’ve been up all night, thinking of today. Of getting in this carriage with you and out of here for a few weeks.” He leans in a little more. “I can’t believe Bernard agreed to let me stay.”

  “Well, he knows I’d be sneaking you in, anyway. I suppose he thinks it will be easier to keep an eye on me this way. But I think he simply likes you. He knows how happy you make me.” He hands McGauran the envelop. “Here. There’s forty dollars in there. That should cover the store credit and back rent and your mother will have a bit left to buy something new for herself.”

  “Oh, Honoré, how can I ever thank you enough? This changes so much for my mother. For me. I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Wouldn’t you do the same for me if you could?”

  “Yes, I would. And I will one day. I’ll pay you back, maybe not with bank notes, but I’ll find a way to repay this debt.”

  “It’s not a loan, McGauran. It’s an investment. A solid one, too. My uncle would be proud of me.”

  McGauran steps back a little. “I’m going to bring this home and I’ll meet you soon.”

  “Do you have the letter, too?”

  “It’s right here.” He slips a paper out of his pants. “Please just go around to Wellington Street and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Wait—can I see it?”

  “I probably made a lot of mistakes.”

  “Please. I’d love to see your words. How you write.”

  “All right…but hurry before my mother gets the courage to come up and talk to you.”

  “Or that young woman there does.” He’s noticed a handsome girl watching McGauran from time to time. “Is that her? Liza?”

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  He can’t
help staring a little. She’s standing with a crowd of women, across the street, obviously pretending to be immersed in conversation, but he can see her eyes returning to the carriage—to him—over and over again. “She’s pretty,” he says nonchalantly as he unfolds the letter. “Maybe a little plain.”

  McGauran scoffs. “Everyone is plain compared to you, Lord Honoré Latendresse.”

  He glances up and smirks. “I think I’ll take that as a compliment.” He looks down at the letter in his hand. McGauran’s pen stroke is quite elegant and his lines are narrow and straight. He reads the simple words.

  Mum, I won this at the race tracks. It’s yours. I kept some for myself and I’m taking a holiday with my friend. I’ll be back soon. Our luck is changing. If Father Hayes asks…I’ll confess when I get back.

  Your loving son,

  McGauran

  “Is that true?” He hands the letter back to McGauran. “Is your luck changing?”

  “What do you think?” McGauran cocks an eyebrow, giving him a seductive look. “I’ll see you in five minutes.” He shuts the cabin door and takes off, walking fast and through the crowd, not stopping to talk to anyone, not even his mother.

  From behind the curtain, Honoré looks on, and when his eyes meet Liza’s again, he tries to give her his kindest smile, waving gently. Could they be friends perhaps?

  With a horrified expression, Liza turns her face away from him as though she’s seen the Devil himself.

  Chapter 18: The Ninth Hour

  It must be three in the afternoon, but McGauran isn’t sure what day it is. Maybe Saturday. Yes, Saturday.

  In Honoré’s bed, he turns to his side and rests his face on his hand to watch Honoré sleep. Finally, he allows himself to release the emotions he’s been holding back for days, even weeks. He won’t swallow back the tears of joy anymore. They run hot over his cheeks, tasting salty. Maybe like the sea? The truth, the one he’d been trying to deny, lessen, or postpone in the last years, overpowers him now. With a trembling finger, he touches Honoré’s face, and the contact of his skin, so soft and warm, causes him to collapse and hide his eyes in the pillow for a moment. He weeps quietly, letting the tension escape his body. He’s a man washed up on a welcoming shore after years of drifting aimlessly and alone. When the tears subside, he turns his face on the pillow and watches Honoré sleep again.

  Thank you, Lord. Thank you for him.

  They’ve spent the week together, always together, hardly ever parting, save for necessity. The house is theirs to roam. The carriage is at their disposal to go wherever they please. Bernard and the others have stayed out of their way, and he can’t fully understand why.

  Why is Bernard so accommodating?

  Last night, in Honoré’s bedroom, fresh from a hot bath and scented oils, McGauran sat on Honoré’s bed, gazing out at the moon floating over the Saint-Louis Square. Around midnight, she was a round figure slicing through the smoky clouds, her gentle beams reaching Honoré’s eyes. Candles burned in the many bronze and silver candle-holders scattered around the room, and as the dawn rose, painting the sky pink and gold, Honoré surrendered completely to him, breaking the last wall between them, but though McGauran was the one to enter Honoré, this morning, he feels vulnerable and humbled by the experience. He never knew men could join in such a tender way.

  Beside him, Honoré lies on his back, with the sheet tangled around his thigh, Naked and basked in sunlight, he’s an offering, a sacrifice, a vision. His eyes flutter behind their lids. Is he dreaming?

  “Honoré…” McGauran wraps himself around his smooth chest, putting his ear to Honoré’s heart. He’s bound to that living pulse. One day, the blood will turn cold in those veins, and then so will his. He gazes over Honoré’s naked body, following the curve of his stomach, the line of fine brown down running under his navel, and then his attention lingers over the part of Honoré that is so much like his, and yet so different, tantalizing and mysterious.

  After a while, he covers their bodies with the sheet, sinking into Honoré’s arms. As he drifts into a light slumber, somewhere near, a church bell rings. Then another. And another. All around the neighborhood, bells toll, chiming louder and louder, as they call out to one and other in their wordless language.

  Father Hayes taught him the canonical hours. He knows the bells ring for the ninth hour. The Nones. Christ’s death. Or some say, his descent into hell. The hour when men begin to weaken and be tempted. The time when the Devil starts to roam the earth searching for souls to claim.

  But he’s beyond being tempted. So at peace with himself and the tolling of the bells, McGauran kisses Honoré’s bare shoulder and surrenders to sleep.

  * * * *

  Later, McGauran wakes alone in bed, and alarmed, immediately sits up.

  Then he hears the piano downstairs and smiles. Honoré is practicing that new piece, the one that sounds like wild horses galloping. Orpheus in the Underworld is the name of it. At least Honoré isn’t banging out that Overture 1812 song again. He’s been playing that loud Tchaikovsky anthem all week and it was starting to grind McGauran’s nerves, though he’d never tell him.

  He’s beginning to understand what the piano is to Honoré. More than an instrument, it’s his voice, his soul, the means by which he expresses his true self. Bernard was right: he can hear Honoré’s moods in the music he plays. This week, Honoré must be feeling triumphant and powerful.

  McGauran smiles again. He hopes he has a little to do with that.

  He checks the clock. It’s a magnificent thing. A gift from Gédéon to Honoré for his eighteenth birthday. It’s nearing six in the evening and the scent of chicken roasting trails through the house. Chicken or duck. He can’t be sure. Whatever it is that Fredeline is cooking, smells delicious. He’s been sleeping and eating too much in the last days, but Honoré insists he replenish himself. It’s true, he’d nearly exhausted his reserves in the last months. He can feel the fatigue leaving his body, day by day.

  Thanks to Honoré’s generosity, he’s strong again. And those dreams of leaving for the west are slowly returning. But this time, he secretly hopes he won’t be leaving alone. Would Honoré forsake all these riches for him? The truth is, he won’t leave without him. He could never stand to be away from him.

  That realization hits him hard. His life is tied up with Honoré’s now. He can never really be free. But he doesn’t want freedom anymore.

  Lord. Forgive me…Please. See into my heart, please. Look in there. All that’s good, all that you gave me that’s worthy of Heaven, is made better because of him.

  Shirtless, wearing only his trousers, McGauran climbs out of bed and looks down at the tangled sheets. Honoré’s cotton undergarments lie on a red upholstered chair. There are melted candles stuck in empty champagne bottles scattered around the luxurious room. What will Maggie think? And Bernard? He tries to tidy up the bed clothes and then hides Honoré’s fine things under one of the divan’s pillows. He has an urge to smell them but controls himself.

  “There is no use in doing that,” Bernard says, entering the bedroom and going straight to the divan. He gathers the clothes. “Dinner is going to be served in thirty minutes.” He gives him a long and appraising look. “Would you like me to draw you a bath?”

  “Uh, no, I—I took one last night.” Bare chested, McGauran looks around for his shirt. He quickly begins to slip it on. He’s been here for a week and they haven’t said but a few cordial words to each other, but Bernard always smiles at him when they pass each other in the hall. And sometimes, he even stares at him with something like affection or tenderness in his eyes.

  Why?

  “No, no, no.” Bernard drops the bundle of clothes and sheets on the floor, before walking up to him. “You can’t wear that shirt or those pants. It’s Saturday. A gentleman always looks his best on Saturdays. Come with me.” Without another word or glance back, he leaves the room.

  After a few seconds of hesitation, McGauran follows. Walking past George Latend
resse’s room, he slows down and peers in. Honoré’s father is asleep in his big baldaquin bed. He looks like a portrait of one of those English Kings he once saw in a book. Powerful, yet maybe a little gentle, too. What would he think of him—of what he’s doing to his lovely son? When he looks up at the portrait above the bed, McGauran pauses, his breath catching. Esther’s eyes almost seem to be smiling at him. “Thank you for giving him life,” he whispers to her portrait.

  “O’Dowd, don’t keep me waiting. I have other things to do.”

  Feeling strange, he hurries down the hall, away from the sleeping king and watchful queen, and into Gédéon’s bedroom, where Bernard is fussing with a shirt on a cloth mannequin. “There’s warm water in that basin there. Please wash your face and under arms.”

  After he’s obeyed Bernard and rinsed himself, he takes the soft towel from him and dries his face. “Thank you, sir,” he says, looking everywhere at the room, but at Bernard.

  “Here, put this on.” Bernard helps him into the tailored white shirt. It smells good. Vaguely of musk or wood. “Now, raise your head. Let me fix the collar.” As Bernard adjusts the shirt and knots the black silk necktie, he avoids McGauran’s eyes. There’s a slight blush in his cheek. “Now for the coat.” He draws open the doors of a huge massive chest.

  McGauran tries not to stare with his mouth open. There must be thirty or forty coats, jackets, and waistcoats in there. All more alluring than the other. And the shirts. Chambray. Cotton. Linen. Too many to choose from.

  “Lucky you and Gédéon have the same shoulders.” Bernard picks a black jacket out. “This?”

  He’s seen the one he wants to wear but is too shy to ask.

  “No?” Bernard narrows his eyes and looks back at the many coats hanging in the chest. He pauses and nods. “Ah, this is the one you’re staring at. Dark gray. Yes, it will do fine with your red hair.” He takes the elegant four-button tight waist jacket off the hangar and offers it to him. “Let’s see.”

  McGauran slips it on and immediately feels handsome and refined.