House of Rougeaux(45)

Indeed, Margaret’s laugh was free as a child’s. When something struck her as funny, and it often did, she lost herself entirely. Pitching forward at the waist, clutching her side with one hand while reaching out for the nearest shoulder or piece of furniture for support, she was helpless until the moment passed. When it did she straightened without apology and got back to work. And she liked to sing. At the end of the summer the Minkinses acquired an old piano and Hetty revived her playing skills. Soon no Tuesday night was complete without a round, or two or three, of song.

Like many, Margaret had come to the Canadas as an indentured servant, fleeing the famine brought on by the potato blight that had starved out her family and everyone else she knew. When the five years of her indenture had passed, having learned the rudiments of letters and figuring from her merchant employer, she found work at the Montreal House where Shadrach was working as a waiter. She soon found he could make her laugh like no one else, but she liked him more for his ambition and ingenuity, and the wistful way he told her she was pretty. Margaret knew of a number of marriages in town between people of different races, immigrants like herself, usually, who had no family to dissuade them. For herself she didn’t care a whit about Shadrach’s color, this was the New World after all, and it was not long before she threw in her lot with his.



* * *



Each time the Rougeauxes visited the restaurant, Margaret had questions for Hetty.

“Hetty,” she might say, “what do you think of these curtains?” or “Hetty, how should I mend this broom?” and “Hetty, taste this pie. What is it lacking?”

These bits of conversation endeared the younger woman to her. Margaret listened thoughtfully, turning Hetty’s answers over and then coming out with another question on the same thread.

“Tell me about your island,” she said to Hetty, those evenings before the fireplace.

“Tell me about your aunt.”

“Tell me about Québec City.”

In fact, she reminded Hetty of herself as a child. Hetty had wanted to know everything. Where did the ocean end? Why was sugar cane sweet? Why did roosters crow? Having one’s own children turned the mind to immediate concerns. How will I take care of this fever? How will I explain this rule? How will I keep him safe? And now the most pressing question of all: what must I do about Josephine?

One evening as they were peeling a basket of garlic cloves, Margaret asked after Josie. Hetty stopped peeling for a moment. Earlier that day Guillaume had taken Josie out in the wagon, on an errand for the saddlery, and stopped at a stream to water the horse. Josie, as Guillaume told her later, seemed to envisage one of her fearful whirlpools in the current and became distraught, begging her brother to let them leave at once, before it could take them away. How could a mother protect a child from her own imagination?

“I wish I had some idea,” said Margaret.

“I too,” Hetty said.

The two were quiet some minutes, getting at the garlic heads with their paring knives.

“I never know what to do when Shad is in a bad humor,” Margaret said, “though it’s different, as he’s a grown man.” Hetty waited for her to say more.

“You’d not know it, seeing him here at the restaurant,” Margaret said, “but at home I sometimes lose him for days. Weeks even. He’s sitting way, way down at the bottom of a well. Can’t hear me for anything.”

“I suppose that’s a distance you can never reach,” Hetty said. “You’ll never know what got laid down in his heart, and you just have to bear it. Be patient with him. He’s fighting a battle inside that silence.”

Margaret nodded, a grave sadness shaping her expression. “I’m sure it’s as you say, Hetty. I’ll do my best, though I wish I could do more than that.”



* * *



That night as Hetty and Dax readied themselves for bed, Hetty said, “Josie had one of her spells today.”

“Yes,” he said, drawing back the quilts with a heavy sigh, “Guille told me.”

Hetty blew out the candle on the shelf that had once been Claudine the rag doll’s place. Claudine, together with the other dolls, now kept Josephine company.

Hetty and Dax lay in silence a while, until Dax spoke again. “My mother used to talk of afflicted people sometimes, people who acted strangely, as having drunk a bad draught.”

“Did she?” Hetty wished all over again there were someone who could advise her about Josie. Hetty had always gotten the impression that Dax’s mother would have been such a person, were she still living. “Did she ever speak of a cure?”

“No,” said Dax, “but she was forever bathing me in hot salt water. And bay leaves, when she had them. Father used to say she was making soup of me.”

“Weren’t you healthy?” Hetty had never heard of Dax being ill as a child.

“Strong as a little ox,” he said.

“Well, it can’t hurt to try it,” said Hetty, already calculating how much salt they had in the pantry and where she could buy bay leaves.

Dax wrapped an arm around her middle. “I have faith,” he said.

“In salt baths?”

“In you.”



* * *



Once Margaret asked Hetty, “Where is the most beautiful place you’ve ever been?”