House of Rougeaux(77)

“How can I thank you?” Eleanor asked. “You and Papa Okun.” She still did not know what to make of these events, of the blessing, but she sensed it was terribly important. She felt as though she had been passed from hand to hand, ever since disembarking and fainting into Abel’s arms.

Sidonie smiled. “It is a great gift for Papa to offer a blessing to one of Mémé Abeje’s bloodline,” she said. “The Island Mother has brought you here, and this is an honor for us all.”

“The Island Mother?” asked Eleanor, baffled once more.

Sidonie shook her head and smiled again.

“Have you not felt her?”



* * *



Eleanor had one last evening on the beach near Marbeille’s café. In the morning she would take a steamboat back to Trinidad, to rejoin her company. Abel did not come with his guitar, he was needed elsewhere. But the children came again to splash and play.

As she watched she felt Mémé’s gentleness, and Mama’s boldness, very close by. Something inside herself had been ripped away. The feeling was raw, but open. She felt new.

Behind it all there was a great stillness. And out of the stillness arose a new clarity, fully formed, that after Trinidad she would return home, not to New York but to Montreal. She would face her family, and she would see Gerard.

On the heels of that, she thought of Hig. Suddenly she missed him dearly. Of all the people close to her, she knew no finer than he. If it was possible for her to make a life with another, it would be with him. But she would have to make one more journey before she could know for sure.



* * *



In the summer of 1901 Eleanor Rougeaux traveled by train to her native city, where she had not set foot in more than ten years. The Hudson River Valley was green and brilliant, Lake Champlain wide and sparkling. Eleanor had now been to so many places on the globe, but never was she more full of anticipation than she was now, about to see her home again.

At last she stepped off the train at Central Station. Two old folks, a man and a woman, thin and with white hair approached her.

Papa.

Auntie.

Accompanied by a tall young man, her baby brother Dax.

Dax carried her trunk, laden with gifts, to the old buggy drawn by a new horse. The old house was smaller than she remembered, even though it was emptier. Only Papa, Auntie and Dax lived there now, three people where eight had once filled the rooms. The wooden furniture was all the same, but the curtains were new and the sofa had been reupholstered. Auntie’s many potted plants took up more space than they used to.

Dax brought Eleanor’s bags up to the bedroom she and Melody had once shared.

“I better get back downstairs,” Dax said. “Auntie will give me a hiding if I don’t help her with supper.”

“You cook?” Eleanor was still getting over the shock of seeing him so grown.

“Don’t laugh,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “Auntie doesn’t understand about women’s work.”

“Lots of cooks are men, you know,” she said. “Outside the home.”

“Yeah, outside,” he said, ducking out the doorway. “See you in a little.”

Eleanor sat down on the bed. It didn’t seem real yet, being there, and she couldn’t see even one step ahead. Eleanor would be reunited with her sister and other brothers, and all their children, and then with her other aunts and the cousins. Mrs. Allison, her old choir director, was gone now, as were a number of Eleanor’s relatives, but she would see firsthand how life was going forward without them.



* * *



How changed everyone was, and how much the same. Children had grown into adults, adults had aged, new children had been born. Melody was married, expecting her fourth child already. The family held a picnic in a park by the Canal Lachine her first Sunday afternoon. Eleanor knelt on a blanket with Melody, shoulder to shoulder as they always used to work, uncovering dishes and slicing pie when she heard someone say, “Ross and Tilly are here!” She stood up, her heart pounding.

Her brother and his wife approached. He carried a small child, their youngest, and Sarai, their oldest, now a big girl of twelve, held the hand of a younger girl. Ross approached Eleanor and embraced her. “My, oh my,” he said.

“Tilly,” Eleanor said, holding out both her hands. Mathilde clasped them in hers and looked into her face.

“You haven’t changed,” Mathilde said. “But you look so fine I would not have known you.” She introduced her children.

Ross looked around. “Gerard!” he called, waving.

One of a cluster of boys at the canal’s edge separated himself from the group and ran toward them. “Mama!” he said, skidding to a halt and looking up at Tilly, “ Paul has a fishing rod and they think he caught something. Can I go home and get mine?”

“Not now, son,” she said, smiling, brushing off his white shirt and short black pants. “Meet your Aunt Eleanor.”

The child turned toward her. He had his father’s mouth, and his light coloring. And her eyes.

“How do you do?” he said.

“Very well, thank you,” Eleanor managed, “it’s so very nice to meet you.”

Eleanor watched him all that afternoon, sneaking glances so as not to stare.