From the November issue of Deb’s Quill
Pierre stood at the foot of the stone steps outside Église-du-Sacré‑Cœur‑de‑Jésus. He corrected himself – Church of the Sacred Heart. He didn’t live in New Liskeard anymore, where French and English lived side by side. There were pockets of Francophones in Toronto, and although he’d tried to meld in at first, it had taken more energy than he’d had. Though he missed the musical cadence of it, he rarely spoke his native tongue anymore.
The streets intersecting in front of the church lay slick with packed snow, glazed by sun and tires. Horns honked. Children screeched as they pelted each other with snowballs. A woman slammed out of her house to yell at them. He knew her—Mrs. Frobisher—from a long time ago, when he’d owned the hardware store on Armstrong Street. Co-owned it, along with Jean-Luc.
Mrs. Frobisher saw him and waved. “Is that you, Pierre Desroches? Haven’t seen you in years, We thought you’d up and died, or something.”
“Not yet, Mrs. F. Though the older I get, the more it feels like I’m going to.”
She cackled in delight. “Ain’t that the truth, Pierre. Ain’t that the truth.”
They both heard the funeral music echo out from the church. She caught his eye, sympathy pouring from hers. “You’re here for Jean-Luc? I’m so sorry, Pierre. Terrible shame, that.”
The air nipped at his nose, reddened his ears. He’d forgotten how freakishly cold winters were here. And he felt foolish standing here, afraid to climb those long steps to the church that was full of too many memories.
He’d married Melanie here, a mistake except for Jean Gerard and Luc Denis . He could never be sorry for his sons.
There were good memories, too. He and Jean-Luc, his best friend since they were toddlers, had been altar boys together, under Father Sebastian, a rigid, hard, and honest priest. He’d brooked no nonsense from the two of them, and together, they’d gotten into a lot of it. He could still feel the pinch on his ear as he was dragged to the confessional and ordered to say a hundred Hail Marys.
And Jean-Luc and Sandra were married here. He’d been the best man, and Melanie the Matron of Honour. Twenty-five years ago. Time had passed him by so fast, he needed Melanie’s photo album to remember those years—but he’d lost that too, in the divorce. Lost both the album and Jean-Luc, who’d listened to Melanie’s side without the courtesy of hearing his.
What would he have said? “I cheated on her, Jean-Luc. I own that. But our marriage was dead a lot of years before I did. That’s not an excuse. It’s just a fact. And I needed you by my side, but you weren’t there.”
Enough! It was time to go inside. Or was it time to leave? But he’d come all this way to say goodbye. He’d never forgive himself if he left now.
The first step forward was the hardest. His foot dragged like his leg weighed a ton, scraping the snow from the step because he couldn’t lift his leg higher. But he kept going, dread rising in his stomach like bile until he was there, standing in front of the great doors. He stepped inside, and they hissed shut behind him. He stood a moment, taking it all in, the hush, the warmth, the faint scent of old incense and mildew.
He dipped his fingers in the Holy Water to make the sign of the cross, but a memory stopped him, made him grin. Forty years ago, he and Jean-Luc, just ten years old, had replaced the Holy Water with water dipped out of the toilet. They’d snickered every time a parishioner entered the Nave, a wet spot glistening on their forehead.
Pierre stifled a laugh. How many other youthful pranks had the good Father endured over the years? Had any of them topped theirs?
The organ, in need of tuning, wheezed out a hymn. The music, faint in the vestibule, overpowered his ears when he stepped into the Nave. His eyes immediately found the casket at the front, and Jean-Luc’s fifty-year-old face smiling from the easel beside it. The pews were only half filled, which surprised him. Jean-Luc had been a fixture in this town his whole life. Pierre had expected the church to be packed with mourners.
But he saw Mrs. Fournier and her husband, both ancient, sitting with heads bowed. And Henri, who’d reluctantly joined Jean-Luc and him in a few pranks before washing his pious hands of the two of them.
And there was Georgette, Melanie’s best friend and confidant. She’d laced into him at Melanie’s funeral two years ago. “You don’t belong here, Pierre. Melanie is turning over in her grave right this very minute,” she’d spat. “How dare you!”
How dare he not? Melanie had been mother to his sons, so he’d braved the confrontation and attended. And stayed out of sight of a grieving Jean-Luc and Sandra, for fear he’d say something hateful he couldn’t take back.
The Priest, a young man, spoke of life, death and mercy in a monotone that said he knew little of any of it. Perhaps he’d improve with age and experience but Father Sebastian was a hard act to follow.
He saw Sandra in the front pew, her daughter Angelina beside her. The man beside Angelina must be her new husband. He should have been at Angelina’s wedding. It shamed him that he’d let his estrangement from Jean-Luc keep him away. Angie was his god-daughter. She’d have wanted him there.
As if she sensed him, Angelina turned her head. Her face lit up when she saw him, and she beckoned him to join them. He shook his head. It wouldn’t be right. Sandra noticed and turned. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she waved him forward anyway. He didn’t move. She frowned, shook her head, annoyance rising like steam, and turned back as if he weren’t there. He slid into an empty pew at the back, grateful to be alone with his thoughts.
His solitude didn’t last long. The service ended, and the pallbearers, Angie’s husband among them, started down the aisle, Jean-Luc’s casket bearing down on their shoulders as they headed to the crematorium. Angie and Sandra followed. As they passed him, Sandra caught his eye and shook her head, still annoyed. Angie whispered to her mother, who nodded, and then slipped into the pew beside him.
“You’re being silly, mon oncle Pierre,” Angie looped her arm through his. “I don’t care that you and Papa were fighting. You’re family.”
He touched his head to hers. “I’m sorry I missed your wedding. I bet you were the most beautiful bride ever.”
She laughed softly. “Hardly.” She smacked his arm. “I’m mad at you for not coming. If you had, maybe you and Papa would have made up.”
He sighed, his shoulders sinking under the weight of should have. “Maybe.” He let his head rest more heavily against the top of hers. “But it’s too late now.”
She stood up, kissed the top of his head, and tugged on his arm. “You’re coming to le salon, n’est-ce pas?”
“I wasn’t planning on it. I don’t want to upset your mother.”
“Mon dieu, parrain, vous êtes têtu comme une mule,” she said. “Maman isn’t mad at you. She never was. It was you and Papa who were fighting. She and I couldn’t figure out why the two of you didn’t just talk it out.”
“Me too. I should have made the effort. I know that— now.”
“Then come.” Her eyes narrowed in the way they did when she was ready to stamp her foot. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding from the minute he’d stepped inside, and stood. Looping his arm through hers, they walked outside. He escorted her to the lead car, waited until she got inside and promised he would follow, still not sure that going to the reception was a good idea.
Besides, he missed her so badly, his heart ached with it. He loved his boys, but Angie was the daughter he’d never had.
He detoured back to his hotel room and picked up the wedding gift he’d always meant to give her but never found the courage to send. Too late, he realized that his fear of her rejection had cost them both. So he’d give it to her now.
The card on top was bare, except for his name. He’d practiced all sorts of words to write on it, but they’d felt wrong. They’d been hollow platitudes and Angie deserved the truth that he felt brave enough to write it now.
I’m sorry that I’ve stayed away. You’re like a daughter to me, and I’ve thrown away the last five years when I could have been a part of your life. I hope you’ll forgive this stupid old man. Avec amour, toujours. Your godfather, Pierre.
He tucked the card inside its envelope and taped it to the package. Then sucked up his courage and drove to the home that Jean-Luc and Sandra shared for twenty-five years.
Snowmelt pooled by the front door of Sandra’s home in a wet mosaic of boot prints. He opened the door without knocking and stepped inside. The house was warm and full of murmuring voices and the scent of cheese casseroles, wine and coffee. Beneath it was something more subtle — lemon polish, and the faintest trace of Jean-Luc’s aftershave.
He hadn’t expected that. It hit him harder than the funeral and grief roiled through his gut, threatening to spill out. His chest heaved with the effort of holding back tears but, finally, he found a kernel of calm.
Stepping into the living room, he paused, soaking in the memories. Jean-Luc’s leather recliner in the corner still bore the shape of his butt. And his own spot, at the end of the couch, close enough to clink beers. How many times had they sat there and watched Habs’ games, heckling the ref or the other team?
Then he saw the fireplace and his eyes teared up. Angelina’s baby boots, bronzed for eternity, still held center court. His eyes drifted to the window, where he’d held her for the first time. Melanie had teased him for being so stiff, afraid to break her. He hadn’t been afraid—not exactly. He’d held his own boys, and they were unbreakable. But Angie? She looked so delicate, so fragile, that protective instincts he hadn’t known he possessed kicked in. Jean-Luc had watched him, the proud daddy, grinning like a fool, and Sandra had whispered, “She likes you.”
And she had. Angie had reached up, grabbed his nose, and he’d melted.
A voice brought him back. “Mon oncle!”
Angelina crossed the room toward him, arms open. He hadn’t noticed the baby bump at the church, but he did now. Her face radiated love—for the baby, sure, but maybe a little left over for him.
He hugged her, carefully, overwhelmed again. “Congratulations, ma petite biche.”
“I want you to meet Samuel,” she said, beaming. “My husband.”
Pierre turned and saw the man approaching, tall and serious, dark curls falling onto his forehead, a day’s growth of stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“Sir,” Samuel said, extending a hand.
Pierre shook it. “Just Pierre. I’m not even Sir at work.”
After a pause, Pierre cleared his throat and reached into his coat. “I, uh—this is for you.” He handed it to Angie. “A wedding gift. I meant to send it, but… I never found the courage.”
“Give it to me,” she said softly, and took it from his hand. She peeled off the card, opened it, and began to read. The room, full of noise and motion just a moment ago, seemed to go quiet.
Her eyes glistened, and for a long moment, she just looked at him as if he’d given her something that mattered. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
“There’s nothing to forgive, mon oncle,” she whispered. “Nothing at all. As long as you stay in my life this time.” She pulled back and placed his hand gently on her stomach. “You have to be here for this little one. You have to be grandpapa. Because Papa can’t.”
He couldn’t speak; a sob caught in his throat. He just nodded and pulled her back in.
A moment later, Sandra approached. “Pierre?” Her voice was kind, quiet. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
He wiped his face with the heel of his hand and followed her down the hall. She opened the door to the guest bedroom.
“I think it’s best that you read it in private,” she said, as they both entered. “He wrote a letter for you.” She handed him the note and shut the door, sealing in their privacy. “He wrote it two weeks ago.”
Pierre unfolded it and smoothed out the crease. The script was neat and feminine. He looked at her, eyebrow raised.
“Yes, I wrote the words,” she said. “He was too weak. But they came from his mouth.”
Pierre nodded and sat on the bed. The signature was shaky, but it was Jean-Luc’s. He’d recognize it anywhere.
Pierre. I hope you are reading this before I died. Melanie lied to me about you. I guess it was on her conscience at the end. I was so angry with her. With myself mostly, And ashamed that I didn’t trust you. I thought a dozen times about how I’d reach out to you, apologize, and beg your forgiveness, but each time, the words got stuck in my throat. And then the lung cancer struck. Maybe it’s God punishing me for being such a jackass. I don’t know. But now it’s almost too late. I hope you make it here before I die, so I can beg your forgiveness in person. But if I die first— well, I’m still asking.
He brushed away the tears streaming down his cheeks and looked up.
“I sent it to the last address we had for you.” She touched his shoulder, sympathy in her eyes. “It came back. You’d moved.”
He nodded. “Last year. I moved closer to my work.” He choked back a laugh. “I didn’t think anyone would come looking.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He wandered the room, unsettled. “Did you know that Jean-Luc dated Melanie before I did?”
“I didn’t know that. Neither of them ever mentioned it.”
He smiled, remembering. “The two were like oil and water, fighting all the time. But man, you should have seen them on the dance floor, jiving. He could spin her through the air like she weighed nothing.”
He wandered to the bed and sat, his hands fidgeting in his lap like they weren’t his and he didn’t know what to do with them. “They didn’t last, of course. And a few months later, she and I started dating. Jean-Luc didn’t approve. He felt responsible for her, I guess. I think that’s why he took her word for how I treated her in the divorce.”
She sank beside him, not touching. “Funny about the dancing. He and I couldn’t.” She touched her head to his shoulder for a moment and chuckled. “Maybe because I have two left feet.”
He patted her folded hands. “He loved you, Sandra. Don’t ever doubt that. He might have felt responsible for Melanie, but he loved you.”
“I know. And I’m not jealous. Envious of the dancing, maybe. But he loved Melanie like a sister. He loved me like a wife.”
They sat in the silence of their thoughts.
Finally, Pierre heaved out a sigh. “The problem with cremation is that there’s no place where I can talk to him one last time.”
Sandra slid her arm around his shoulders and hugged him to her side. “Of course there is.” She took his face in both hands and turned him to face her. “He’s in here.” She tapped his chest where his heart sometimes lived. “And he’s up there,” she said, glancing at the ceiling. “We can talk to him any time we want.”
He stayed silent, staring at his knees, one hand laced with hers.
“I have company downstairs. I’m going to leave you here.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Talk to him, Pierre. You both need it.” Then she disappeared out the door.
He sat for a while, silent, unmoving. Finally, he glanced up. “Hey, old friend.”
His laugh was watery, rueful as he glanced down. “Not sure where you are, if I’m honest. Bedevilling God right or pranking Lucifer? Wherever you are, I’m sure I’ll join you one day.”
He got up and wandered to the window. Frost had painted an otherworldly scene across the pane, and the late afternoon sun fractured against it. The street below was quiet. A few mourners appeared on the sidewalk, heading to their cars. The chatter from downstairs started to dim.
“I’m sorry, too. I love you, dammit. How did we let this happen? Create this chasm neither of us was brave enough to cross.”
He swiped a sleeve across his eyes, pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose, wishing he could blow the past five years away. “God, I was an idiot. I should have marched back here and gotten in your face until you told me why you were ghosting me.”
Laughter and love bubbled up from deep inside. “You’re really ghosting me now, aren’t you, Jean-Luc?”
“Melanie knew what she was doing when she lied to you about us. Taking you from me—it was her petty revenge. And we were stupid enough to fall for it.”
“But that’s on us, isn’t it? You, too angry and judgmental to yell at me, accuse me or—whatever. Me, too hurt and stubborn to make you.”
“I’m sorry about it. I should have leapt across that divide and forced the truth out of you. With wine or fists, or—I don’t know what. Something.” His heart was lighter now. Just a bit. Grief still pressed against his soul, but he could breathe again.
“That’s all I want to say. I’m sorry. I love you. And I’ll keep on missing you. Until I join you, you stubborn, mule-headed hard-ass.”
Pierre gathered his coat and cap. At the door, he paused and looked up. His hand touched his ear. He could still feel the pinch. “If you run into Father Sebastian,” he chuckled, “tell him about the Holy Toilet Water, will you? And then run like hell.”
His footsteps felt lighter as he headed downstairs to say goodbye—for now.
The End
© Deborah Sarty. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced without permission.
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