TWS on Facebook
Subscribe (RSS)Featured Writing
Three Reveries
by Colette Gagnon
from Lost Houses
I.
Maman sweeps and sweeps but the sand drifts in. Sounds of water, of lake-gulls keening overhead—bright wings like sails. Run barefoot past the thistle patch, run down towards the water. The little dock is made of wood, it floats on rubber tires.
Papa will take you out in a boat.
We’re going to the lake, he sings. The long, drowsy drive begins. Smell of the car’s insides, the dust and gasoline that swallow up the air. Pitching and rolling, only the ping-ping of the gravel underneath is keeping me awake as the car rumbles over the rutted road—
When are we there, Papa?
He opens the window just a crack. Dust-choked branches sweep across the glass. The smell of sand comes up, sounds of water. Slowly the car sinks to a stop, doors swing open—step barefoot into thistle, air that’s alive with fly-buzz, dizzy with sun. Through a glitter of leaves the lake so softly gleaming.
Papa will take you in the little boat.
Run down towards the water. He dangles me over the edge of the dock. Blup-blup-blup the waves lap up, the lake is darkly dreaming. Weeds reach up, unfurl to pull me under. Cold shock of water underfoot—
As-tu peur? He grins.
Maman sweeps and sweeps but the sand drifts in. Slap of the screen door against the wooden frame. Step out of the harsh light into rough darkness, cabin of smoke and damp. Flies and sand. Maman sweeps and sweeps. Go play outside, she says.
The door swings shut. Baby Philippe is asleep in the buggy with a bonnet on his head. The trees smell green and bitter, turn silver in the breeze. Magpies shrieking up above—the sun hurts my eyes. Paddle in a basin of water next to the porch, sand in hair and teeth. The Indian blanket of coloured stripes—ça pique! Dry thistle pokes from underneath. Heat and weeds.
Where’s Papa?
In a little rowboat far away, bobbing on the water. Will he come back before it’s dark? Will he be home for supper?
Maman sweeps and sweeps but the sand drifts in. The door swings wide—
Fleas! Maman cries, in that Winnipeg couch.
Ma-de-leine-Pe-ton-laine, Papa sings.
Slap of the frying pan onto the wood stove.
Just before dark, the door swings wide, Papa jumps up—the uncles have arrived. Vieux péteux! Shouts and laughter, hugs and roars—Allons jouer aux cartes! Riffle of cards snapping onto the folding table.
Smell of tobacco from the yellow tin. Maman rolls the paper between her fingers, licks the edge. The glass lamp hisses at the dark. Night climbs in through the windows, hides all the corners. Rustle of treetops, sigh of pines.
Ecoute! Les coyotes.
Baby Philippe is asleep in the buggy beside the bed. Maman tucks me under the prickly covers. Voices overlapping, sounds of thunder.
Where’s Papa?
In a little rowboat far away, wave across the water.
Fronds of sleep float up then pull me under.
II.
E C C E H O M O. The long wet face of Jesus. Black thorns and blood-black tears carved into the painted wood. Behold the Man. Words cut into the varnished frame but I am too young to read them. It hangs between the kitchen and the bathroom, thorn stuck through an eyebrow; gouged-out tears from which I hide as I stumble down the stairs from sleep.
It has a way of reaching through the dark, like dreaming.
Where’s Papa?
He loves to chase me, make me shriek, through the unlit hallway and up the stairs to bed where I hide under the covers, heart pounding, playing dead until the growls dissolve to giggles. Whispering as he catches breath—Go to sleep, now. Fais dodo.
He goes downstairs, I lie there listening. He flicks on the kitchen switch. Opens a drawer, takes out the knife, sits down to carve under the yellow light.
The resinous wood of pine. Sound of the knife’s edge against the hour. Sound of the night cutting into the wood’s flower.
He polishes the fresh-shaved wood, suede to the touch. Nap of the grain scraped down to scent, to blush, brown rose of the knot where a limb grew out from scaly trunk.
The blade bears down into the late hour.
The knife, the one good knife that cuts the inside out, the warm wild smell of pheasant guts, the ruffled beauty of feathers slit from violet skins of partridge, grouse and duck. A mess of trout spilled out onto the funny papers. Spliced gullets, slipped out livers and roe-filled sacs smelling of ice and iron, slashed out gills like roses cut from thorns, scales scraped down to fretted skin, clean rainbows freckled rose to twilight grey. That one good knife that knows the shame—of taking a thing apart that won’t come back again.
Au ciel Au ciel, he whistles as he works the blade.
III.
Draw the long drapes against the early evening.
Maman sweeps up the kitchen, turns out the light. Kiss baby Philippe before he goes to bed, c’est l’heure de faire coucher.
Non, Maman, let me stay.
Papa hauls the tackle box up from the basement, lays it down next to the footstool. Whistling softly under his breath, he unlocks the box, its cool steel smelling of distance. He fishes through trays of hooks and sinkers, opens up the newspaper, lays it flat.
He lifts up a finger—Fait attention. Be careful. He lays out the fishing flies, bright hooks and feathers, spinners made from bullet caps and spoons. Lifts out a wiggler turned out from the handle of a fork, the leads, flat spool of line.
Hand over the tackle warning touche pas, he stands up, walks into the kitchen, rattle of cutlery from the open drawer.
Where’s the good knife?
In the sink, in the kitchen, Maman’s muffled voice calls back.
Be careful reaching into the tray of tangled hooks for a tiger striped spinner. The smell of sand comes back, sounds of water. Dangle a three-pronged hook black as a thorn. Papa’s hand closes over mine, pulls me away.
What did Papa tell you—should he send you off to bed?
No Papa—let me stay!
He lays the good knife down next to the tackle. Flick of the lighter as he draws a cigarette from the Players tin in the ashtray. Smoke sweet, thick, blows out with a sigh.
He leans back against the plush rocker. Blows smoke rings, one inside the other, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down to make me laugh. He blows another, then another—perfect rings that circle overhead. Pokes them with the burning tip of the cigarette, makes them dance. He picks up the knife to slice right through them—like birthday cake. Eyes widening he draws the smoke up deeply, fills his cheeks, pursing his lips to blow, tongue darting.
One inside the other, the crown of rings spreads slowly. The knife cuts through them, waves the smoke away. Then the blade glides straight down under my nose, its smell of iron teasing—
Wobble on a line like a bob, like bait—As-tu peur?
He grins. Tears spill out.
Tap-tap-tap comes out of the dark, the tips of her shoes from the corner of an eye, the hand closing over me pulls me away, voice quick and sharp—Just what do you think you’re doing?
Author Bio
COLETTE GAGNON (TWS 2003) lives and works in Vancouver. She is a founding member of the poetry collective vertigowest. Her lyric memoir Lost Houses is a work in progress of a post-war prairie childhood. The following is a revised version of Three Reveries which appeared in emerge Anthology 2003.
