Bellewether

  “It truly is a most peculiar language,” said de Brassart, as they watched the older man walk off towards the barn. “He talks of being ‘in’ your debt when clearly what he means to say is that he has a debt to you, and even then there is no way to know if he is speaking in the sense of obligation or of money.” He was prying, seeking details.

  Jean-Philippe did not enlighten him. He’d understood the sentiment enough, as he had understood Monsieur Wilde’s short nod, one man to another. And if Lydia—who earlier had merely said good morning in her normal way—had not been told about last night’s events, then no one else had any need to know.

  De Brassart waited for an explanation. When none came, he shrugged and turned his collar up against the wind that shook a swirling fall of leaves loose from the trees. “What’s that they’re building, there?”

  “A hog pen.”

  “But they keep no hogs.”

  “A neighbour’s bringing two this morning.” It was satisfying knowing that his growing understanding of the language and his daily conversations with Pierre not only made him less dependent on de Brassart, but at times better informed.

  “Ah. More payment, is it?”

  “Probably.” These past weeks they’d seen evidence of how important Monsieur Wilde’s skills were to this community, as several people brought their payments for the carpentry he’d done for them this year.

  De Brassart said, “It’s a provincial way of doing things.”

  “It’s practical. He lays a floor for somebody, or puts up shelves, or hangs a door, and in return they bring him winter wheat, or ewes, or hogs. A fair exchange.”

  “But if they simply gave him money, he could buy the things he needs.”

  “He needs hogs,” said Jean-Philippe, and raised one shoulder in an echo of de Brassart’s shrug. “This way is easier.”

  De Brassart showed no interest in continuing the argument. He coughed, and watched the mist of his breath briskly dance away. “I don’t know how you stand this weather.”

  Jean-Philippe, who thought the day was fine, glanced upwards at the sun that had now broken through the clouds, but didn’t offer a reply. De Brassart was determined to be out of sorts today, having been “driven” from the house—as he described it—by the women making candles in the kitchen. While the pungent scent of tallow rendering took Jean-Philippe back to his childhood, it was clear de Brassart didn’t share that same nostalgia, leaving Jean-Philippe to wonder how and where he had been raised, that he had so little connection to the things of common life.

  And if he didn’t like the smell of candle-making, he’d find even less to like about the smell of hogs.

  The cart that carried them arrived just before midday. Joseph had gone down with Ramírez to the ship already and Pierre had stayed at home so it was left to Jean-Philippe and Monsieur Wilde to load the stubborn animals into their pen, while the young, round-faced man who’d brought them leaned against the top rail of the fence and offered his advice before remembering he’d brought them something else besides.

  The conversation was too quick for Jean-Philippe to follow but he caught the words “from Henry” and he knew that Monsieur Wilde’s nephew Henry kept the post office at Millbank, so it was no surprise to see the letter and the newspaper.

  He was surprised though when Monsieur Wilde handed him the letter, still unopened. “It’s for you.”

  It was from Captain Wheelock, and enclosed a second letter in his sister’s careful handwriting. She was a careful woman. She’d have known her letter to him would be read by others, so she told him only that their mother had arrived before the battle and the two of them were safe, and that the hospital itself, although now occupied by English troops, was still allowed to tend the wounded officers and men of their own side. Their cattle and their wheat had all been seized, she wrote, so how long they’d be able to subsist she did not know, but she put everything in God’s hands and hoped he would do the same, and sent her love. Our mother will not tell you, she had written him in closing, but she lights a candle every day for Angélique, so if you find forgiveness in your heart, I pray it one day guides you home.

  He read the letter quietly a second time and folded it deliberately before he turned again to Captain Wheelock’s. While the captain spoke in flawless French, it seemed he either could not write it or preferred to dictate, for this letter had been written not in Wheelock’s hand but one more flowing and without the same precision.

  Sir, I have this day received from General Amherst letters carried from Quebec, and am enclosing one addressed to you. I also write to send you news . . .

  It was a longer letter than the one from Athanase. He was still finishing it when de Brassart clapped him on the shoulder, interrupting.

  “The best news!” De Brassart’s smile was broad. “Look, Monsieur Wilde just showed me here in this New York Gazette, the second page. It says that General Amherst gives his orders for those prisoners who are of your militia or your Troupes de la Marine to come immediately to New York to join those of our regiments preparing now to go to Albany to be exchanged. It’s a cartel!” He said the word in joyous tones. “And if they send our men, that means we’ll be exchanged as well, so finally—”

  “No,” said Jean-Philippe. “We won’t.” He handed Wheelock’s letter over, as the proof. “We won’t be part of the exchange.”

  De Brassart frowned down at the letter. “What’s this?”

  “Cartels must exchange officer for officer, and rank for rank. They have room,” he explained, “for four lieutenants only. And those places have been filled.”

  “No.” With a firm shake of his head, refusing to accept the truth, de Brassart said, “Impossible.” He turned away and took a step and then turned back and threw the letter to the ground, together with the newspaper, and stomped them with his foot. “It is an outrage! I will write the captain. I will protest!”

  “You’ll control your temper,” Jean-Philippe advised him coldly, “before you upset Mademoiselle Wilde.”

  He was well aware Monsieur Wilde and the neighbour stood just steps from them beside the hog pen, looking on with wariness, but right now he concerned himself with nobody but Lydia. She’d come out by the kitchen door as he’d been handing Wheelock’s letter to de Brassart, and he’d seen her start across the clearing, carrying a bucket.

  But she’d stopped dead when de Brassart had begun to yell.

  “Control yourself,” said Jean-Philippe, more low.

  De Brassart was in no mood to be reasonable. “You’re not my superior. You’re not even my equal. Don’t you ever give me orders.” In contempt, he spat and headed for the house, marching past Lydia, who held her ground as he went by.

  The newspaper and letter had been trampled into muddy soil. Before the wind could shake them loose and scatter them against the fence posts, Jean-Philippe bent silently and picked them up. He straightened, still in silence.

  Then to Monsieur Wilde he said, slowly in English, “I am sorry. He is . . .” Words escaped him, although there were many he might wish to use in his own language.

  Monsieur Wilde suggested one in English. “Angry.”

  “Angry, yes.”

  She’d reached them now, her bucket, full of kitchen peelings for the hogs, still gripped within her hands. She asked her father something and he answered her and although it was difficult for Jean-Philippe to follow what was said, he heard the word “exchanged” and realized that, not knowing French, she and her father would not know he and de Brassart were not part of this cartel.

  It would be hard for them to learn the truth, he thought.

  She looked at him, and he could see her eyes were guarded. “I am sorry,” he told her directly, “we are not exchanged.”

  Her eyebrows drew together faintly. “Not exchanged?”

  He was not sure if “yes” or “no” was proper in this instance, so he simply said it over. “Not exchanged.”

  “Oh.”

  As he watched, incred
ibly, her eyes grew slightly happier. He held that knowledge even when she’d looked away.

  And in that moment, when the wind rose up and struck him sharply, it seemed only half as cold as it had seemed before.

  Charley

  I couldn’t feel my fingers. An hour ago the sun had been warm and my coat felt so stifling I’d taken it off, but the blue sky, criss-crossed with the thin trails of jet planes, was being overtaken by a solid bank of cloud that rolled in stealthily from the northwest. It raised a chilling wind that crept up on me, softly; wrapped around me. By the time I felt the cold it had already penetrated deeply and was hard to chase away again.

  “Here.” Sam, coming up beside me, put a cup of take-out coffee in my hand, to match the one he carried.

  “Thanks. You shouldn’t spend your money, though,” I told him, even as I wrapped my hands around the warmth. “We have a coffee-maker in the kitchen.”

  “It makes something. But I wouldn’t call it coffee.” He’d been taking down the scaffolding. The roof and outside walls were finished, all the windows had been re-installed, and Willie had the chimney done down to the shingles, so starting on Monday the work would move indoors. He asked me, “How’s he doing?”

  He meant Santa Claus, who sat not far away from us, in an old sleigh that Frank had borrowed from one of his farmer friends. We didn’t have the reindeer to go with it, but the children who had lined up for a turn to have their picture taken didn’t seem to mind. And Santa—Gianni’s uncle Tony, who looked the part perfectly, down to his naturally bushy white beard—was giving his performance everything he had. “He’s doing great. He’s already said he’ll come back next year. Except next year, when all the restoration work is done, I think we’ll do it by the fireplace in the kitchen. Where it’s warm.”

  “I kind of like the sleigh.” He was better dressed than I was for the cold, a long-sleeved layer underneath his flannel workshirt, and his gloves tucked in his tool belt. “It’s a good fundraiser.”

  I couldn’t take the credit. “It was Harvey who suggested it.”

  “You’ve got him on your side, I think.”

  “I’m learning how to manage him. He likes to be the centre of attention. I’m just finding ways to channel that.”

  “Like having him do that TV thing.”

  “Exactly.” I was starting to feel warmer now, not only from the coffee but because his body blocked the wind. “He loves wearing that Revolutionary War costume, and he’s better connected around here than I am, so it was a win-win. We’ve already had people calling to offer donations because of that interview.”

  We’d also put up lists—in Gianni’s deli, Lara’s store, and in the library—of items we were trying to acquire, and the response had been encouraging. The Sisters of Liberty might have refused us their grant of support, but the community seemed ready to step up and do their part.

  “And,” I told Sam, “I finally heard back from that museum in New Jersey, saying I could come pick up the Spanish chair.”

  “It took him long enough.”

  “It was his assistant who called, actually. I don’t think the director himself really wanted to loan us the chair. I think he just got tired of me calling to ask. He knew I wasn’t going to give up.”

  “Nothing wrong with knowing what you want,” said Sam, “and waiting for it.”

  It was tempting to read something more into that comment, but I forced myself to take it at face value. Nothing in his voice had changed, or his expression, and he wasn’t even looking at me. He was watching Uncle Tony Claus, who at that moment by coincidence was saying nearly the same thing to the two wide-eyed children on his knees.

  “Keep wishing hard, kids, and be patient, and you’ll get good things on Christmas morning.” Sage advice he followed with some light extortion. “And if you want really good things, make sure you leave me cookies.”

  I smiled, and glanced at Sam as the photographer snapped one last picture of the kids before they were released to run around the clearing, getting messy in their Sunday best. “Long Island Santa.”

  “Hey,” he told me. “We have our priorities.” We watched the next kids have their turn. “When are you going to get the chair?”

  “Well, ideally I’d have liked to go tomorrow, get it done before the weather changes, only my car’s not big enough. I’d have to borrow Dave’s van, and he needs it tomorrow to go to an auction.”

  Sam raised his coffee cup, his eyes still on the kids, one shoulder lifting in a careless shrug. “Good thing you know a guy who’s got a truck.”

  • • •

  “Look at you!” Gianni grinned approvingly as I came through the living room. Rachel had been having trouble sleeping. She was still in her pyjamas, hair unwashed, but Gianni had her settled on the sofa for a day of watching movies on TV.

  “She’s going out with Sam,” said Rachel.

  “I am not,” I told them, “going out with Sam. He’s taking me to pick up something in his truck.”

  “He’s taking her,” said Rachel, “to New Jersey.”

  Gianni asked, “Where in New Jersey?”

  She told him, and he whistled. “That’ll take you a couple of hours.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s why we’re leaving now.” I used the microwave door as a mirror while fixing my loose earring. I didn’t think I looked particularly fancy. Sure, I’d maybe taken more care with my hair this morning, and I’d worn a nicer sweater. And I’d put on makeup.

  “Here he is,” said Rachel, as we heard the truck’s door slam. I had my shoes on by the time he reached the side door.

  He’d brought Bandit, who wagged once at me and made a beeline for the sofa, where he curled between Gianni and Rachel, right at home.

  I checked my pockets. Rachel held her hand up with my cell phone in it. Cleared her throat.

  “Oh. Right. Thanks. Bye.”

  “Have fun, guys.” Gianni winked. Ignoring him, I stepped onto the porch and locked the door and turned to Sam.

  He said, “Nice sweater.”

  “Thanks.” I hadn’t blushed since high school.

  “Got a coat?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How’s Rachel doing?”

  “She’s been better. It’s good she’ll have Bandit today.”

  He walked around with me to open the passenger door of the truck. “Her boyfriend seems to look after her okay.”

  “He’s not her boyfriend. At least, that’s what she keeps telling me.”

  “He acts like her boyfriend. You in? Watch the coffee, there. Yours is the one with the sticker.” He closed my door and came around to get behind the wheel. “The traffic looks good so I’m thinking we just take the Belt to Verrazano and across that way. Okay with you?”

  “Okay with me.”

  It was a good day for a drive. I liked this season of the year, when fall changed into winter.

  The trees had grown more bare now and the colours of their leaves were lost, the smudge of branches on the hillside faded to a quiet mix of brown and grey and burnt sienna, marked in places by the skeletal white outline of a sycamore. I watched the trees, Sam watched the road, I drank my coffee.

  Given my awareness of the man beside me, I’d have thought the silence in this closed space would feel awkward, but it didn’t. It felt comfortable. There was just something peaceful about him that put me at ease.

  There was just something. Malaika had used those same words when she’d talked about falling for Darryl. Sometimes the right man, she’d said, just sneaks up on you.

  I was still pondering this when the traffic on the Belt Parkway slowed, then crawled and stopped and crawled again to show we’d hit construction or an accident. Sam steered us off at the next exit and began to navigate a grid of unfamiliar streets without a map or GPS. I was impressed.

  He said, “Don’t worry, I grew up here. I know where I’m going.”

  “Oh. So this is Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah.” His sideways glance
was curious.

  I said, “Malaika mentioned it.”

  “Just randomly?”

  “She also said your father was an ironworker.”

  “Yeah, he was. My dad was a connector. That’s one of the guys who climbs up on the beams, you know—bolts them together. He died when I was ten.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind talking. Keeps him close.”

  It turned out both Sam’s grandfathers were ironworkers also, but from two different communities—one up by Montreal, the other just west of Niagara Falls. Historically, as Sam explained, the Mohawk territories in Quebec had been more closely allied to the French than British, while the opposite was true for Mohawks in the province we now called Ontario. “I got a bit of everything,” he told me. “Mohawk, English, French, Oneida, Scottish, Catholic, Protestant—you name it. Keeps life interesting.”

  His mother’s parents were both residential school survivors. “My mom’s dad had this big scar, here, from being beaten. Wouldn’t ever talk about it.”

  I’d known nothing about residential schools until a royal commission in Canada held public hearings that brought many hard stories into the light, how for over a hundred years many Indigenous children had been taken from their own families and put into boarding schools where the objective was, as the founder of one such school in Pennsylvania put it, to “kill the Indian” in the child. Their clothes were taken from them, and their hair was cut; they were forbidden to speak their own language, often even separated from their siblings at the same schools; forced to labour for their “teachers,” and subjected to abuse both physical and sexual that left them, if not dead, forever traumatized. From watching the survivors talk I knew their scars were carried on the inside too and passed down through the generations.

  “So when he came back from the Korean War, he traded in his helmet for a hardhat and took Grandma down to Buffalo, off reservation, so their kids wouldn’t ever have to go to residential school. That’s where my mom and dad met—Buffalo. He brought her back here. His mom ran a boardinghouse for ironworkers. Used to be a lot of Mohawks living here in Brooklyn.”