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Sunday wasn't any different from any other day for Magloire Fortin. Sure, he didn't have to work. But he still had to get down to that cellar, just like he did every workday. So at five-thirty each morning - fall, winter, and spring, he'd be sitting in his favorite subterranean corner, surrounded by smells of earth and mold and coal dust and the urine of generation after generation of neighborhood cats who had no problem going in and out of the cellar of the old house as they pleased. They'd spend the night all warm and cozy. Then, they'd take off just before Magloire's arrival each morning, leaving their aromatic calling card in the process. Magloire never caught them, mainly because he was considerate enough to warn them of his arrival with the loud and deep cough that came with the Chesterfield straights he'd been smoking for over thirty years. |
"You're a man, now," his father bellowed on Magloire's fifteenth birthday. "Won't be long before you have to work like a man. Might just as well start smoking and drinking like a man." Arthur Fortin had then put a full pack of cigarettes on the table in front of his son and had poured him a glass of bathtub gin. This nectar came, not from the gods, but from old lady Guité who made it in a metal washtub in the living room of her apartment in the Plains and sold it for 25 cents a bottle. |
" À ta santé, mon gars, " said the father, downing the entire contents of the glass and indicating that his son was expected to do likewise. Magloire had been terribly, horribly, head-in-the-toilet-bowl-puking-his-guts-out-for-at-least-three-hours sick that night. Once he recovered, he kept on drinking and smoking like his father. Didn't take too much getting used to. That's what you had to do to become a man, they all said. So that's what Magloire did. But he added a personal touch to the process by switching from his father's Camels to his own Chesterfields. "Ain't too dumb to decide things for myself," he muttered as he made his momentous choice. From that day until his death, Arthur Fortin would shake his head whenever he saw his son and comment, "Can't understand how you can smoke them damn Chesterfields. Taste like pig shit if you ask me." |
Magloire made his way down to the cellar each morning to make sure the big coal furnace that heated the entire house was well fed. Once the feeding was over, Magloire would sit on an old bench near the furnace, drink a cup of coffee, and smoke his first Chesterfield of the day, all the while surveying the underground realm where he wielded near-absolute power. He was so used to this routine and so cherished the moments he spent in a domain where his authority went unquestioned that he even spent summer mornings next to the furnace |
From time to time, he'd rise from this throne to stuff a rag into one of the many holes that the cats used to get in. Sometimes, he'd spot something more serious - more dry rot in the front left beam or a few pieces of concrete on the floor, indicating that it might be time to fix the cellar walls. " Hmmm, gotta let Pamphile know about this, " he'd comment. But these discoveries didn't happen very often because Magloire was very nearly blind. The little he could see was thanks to a pair of coke-bottle-thick glasses. |
The owner of the house, Pamphile Mathieu, lived on the second floor with his family. Magloire and his wife and their five daughters rented the first floor apartment. Magloire had volunteered to keep the furnace going almost right from the day he moved in. "After all," he explained to his wife, "It's easier for me because I'm closer. Besides, I know a lot more about furnaces than Pamphile." Magloire's willingness to help out became much more valuable after Pamphile's second heart attack. "Listen, I'm happy to help," he'd say to the many who told him that Pamphile was taking advantage of him and that he was getting screwed because the furnace was the landlord's job. Besides, Pamphile Mathieu took a buck off the rent each week in recognition of Magloire's contribution. |
That buck was very important because Magloire Fortin didn't earn very many of them at work each week. He hadn't yet figured out how to tap into the great American dream. He had even missed out on the much more modest dream of his ethnic group, the Franco-Americans of New England. Their goal was to get a job at the mill as soon as possible, stay as long as possible, retire at 65, and then live some semblance of a real life for a couple of years before moving on to what they desperately hoped was a better place. |
It wasn't for Arthur's lack of trying. The old man had worked at the woolen mill for over twenty years, so he had connections. When Magloire came back from his stint in the army, Arthur had talked to his supervisor and the guy who was in charge of hiring and a whole bunch of bosses - big, small, and in-between. But these "connections" had seen the official medical report of the mill's official doctor about the official condition of poor Magloire's eyes. They had decided correctly that the poor man would get himself killed during his first week on the job. His near-blindness and the dangerous machinery of all types that filled every area of the mill would almost certainly have been a lethal combination. |
So Magloire Fortin had to look around for something else. It was a long look. Magloire had quit school at fifteen, after having spent 3 years trying to make it through the seventh grade. He was admittedly not the most impressive of candidates. But he finally found a job at a food and tobacco wholesaler. It was the Franco-American ideal: "une job steady." Besides, he got a pretty good discount on the four cartons of cigarettes (two for himself, two for his wife) he bought each week. But the pay was far from impressive. Far from adequate, even. Especially with five daughters who always wanted new things and fashionable things and who swore they were going to just DIE if they had to wear dumpyfrumpy home made things one more time. |
A good thing his wife had been hard-working and resourceful. She had spent her time cooking and washing and ironing and sewing and cleaning … scrimping and saving all the while. For almost twenty years, she had given much, asked for little, and received even less. But those years had changed her. No one noticed until the day three or four years ago when somehow all the changes and everything else that had gone wrong built up, piled up, added up, ganged up. That's when something snapped. She had spent most of her time since then sitting at the kitchen table. She'd drink one cup of coffee after another. Smoke one cigarette after another. Often, she didn't even bother getting dressed. |
Magloire Fortin let her be. He knew many wonderful Franco women who had spend their entire lives slaving away in silence without a word of complaint. But his Gracie was different. He had met her in Oklahoma in '42 when he was in boot camp. One night, one dance, one too many beers, one almost unremembered bout of love-making, and one stroke of bad luck. She was just starting to show when they got married. About a month later, Magloire had the accident with the phosphorus grenade. The doctors were able to save his eyes, but very little of his sight. |
Gracie came back to New England with him. She played the role of devoted wife and mother in this cold and often bleak corner of the world. But she had known another life, another reality where the horizon didn't bump its nose up against Bidou Mercier's house on one side and Rossignol's store on the other and Damas Michaud's huge garage in the back that practically blotted out the sky. Out there, the horizon stretched as far as the eye could see. There, people could breathe. Here, bent-over, bundled-up forms took their breaths quickly, furtively, because it was clear from the smell that the air, like practically everything else, belonged to the mills. |
Most Franco wives and mothers hadn't known any other life. For them, in dark houses decorated with palm branches and votive candles and crucifixes, martyrdom was expected and accepted. But Gracie, who had cherished very different hopes and dreams as a girl, had played this strange and uncomfortable role as long as she possibly could. Magloire understood and was grateful. She had done and given her all. Besides, the three oldest girls could do just about everything around he house. So day-to-day rituals didn't change all that much. |
His lunch - sandwich, fruit and a thermos of coffee - was still ready for him every morning. Supper was waiting when he got home at night. His shirts and pants were washed and ironed as usual. The house might have been a little less clean and quite a bit messier, but Magloire really didn't pay much attention. |
And every Sunday, Magloire Fortin and his five daughters still put on their Sunday best and walked off to nine o'clock mass to thank God for his kindness and mercy. It had become increasingly difficult for Gracie to find the goodness and mercy she was supposed to thank. When something snapped a few years ago, she stopped going to mass. She found that she much preferred the silence of her kitchen to the sermons of the church, and the smoke of her cigarettes to smell of priestly incense. |
"When the hell are you gonna buy yourself a car?" his father would ask every time he saw Magloire walking around. "You can't get along without a car these days." Magloire would use his eyes as his excuse. "How do you expect me to drive when I can't even see past the end of my nose," he'd answer. For once, he was almost glad to be nearly blind. He didn't have to admit that he couldn't afford a car. |
Each Sunday, during the Fortin family's pilgrimage to church, they'd watch Mme. Égline Desbeluets' Cadillac glide effortlessly by to take its owner to the same nine o'clock mass. Magloire Fortin wondered why Mme. Desbeluets left so early. After all, she waited in her Cadillac in the church parking lot until the last minute before making her way inside. Obviously, Magloire had no idea what it meant to "make" an entrance. |
So he and his five daughters would enter quickly and fill up a pew in one back rows of the church. Not to make it easier to sneak out before mass was over. Magloire Fortin always stayed until the "Ite missa est" and often a little beyond. He sat there because he didn't want to deprive smarter or more prosperous or more well-connected people of the right they had so richly earned to sit closer to the main altar and to the God who called it home. |
That's where he'd be every Sunday when Mme. Égline Desbeluets, semi-offical bulwark of the parish, coordinating force behind the spaghetti suppers held regularly to benefit the Children of Mary, coordinating force as well behind the pilgrimages to LaSalette, generous source of funds for the stunning stained glass window representing the young Virgin Mary and Saint Anne, and president for life (or so it seemed) of the Ladies of Saint Anne, began her procession down the center aisle. |
That Sunday, Magloire Fortin was a bit taken aback by the warm smile Mme. Desbeluets flashed in his direction as she paraded by. They didn't know each other very well, coming from two very different segments of the parish. What's more, Magloire knew that his family had been one of the gracious lady's few failures. She had seen the family in pretty much the same pew fifteen or so years ago. In her mind, she had instantly transformed the four little girls (the fifth hadn't been born yet) into her Children of Mary. She also singled out at least two as excellent candidates for religious life. She and Monsieur le Curé had talked about the Fortins. And with Monsieur le Curé, she had even paid a visit to the family one Sunday afternoon to enroll the girls in her noble society and remind the parents that heaven reserved a very special place for those who gave a son or daughter to Holy Mother Church as a priest or nun. |
Unfortunately, the entire conversation with its hushed tones, grave undertones, and constant mention of "worthy sacrifices," "sacred duty," and "eternal rewards" annoyed the hell out of Gracie right from the start. She left little doubt that she had a clearly secular future in mind for her daughters. She also left no doubt at all about what Mme. Desbeluets could do with her society of little virgins all dressed in white. |
Looks like she's forgiven us, thought Magloire. Either that or she's forgotten all about it. |
Actually, Mme. Égline Desbeluets hadn't even noticed Magloire Fortin. And her warm smile wasn't meant for him. Rather, it was the "noblesse oblige" type of gracious smile of the great lady, acknowledging the well-deserved praise that the masses wish to shower on her. So she flashed the same warm smile to the gathered populace on both sides of the main aisle until the moment when she reached her pew, third from the front, right side, directly in front of the pulpit. Her husband, M. Elphège Desbeluets, arrived at the same pew thirty seconds and five steps behind. |
After a short prayer to make sure she had God's full attention, Mme. Égline Desbeluets opened her impressive, leather-bound missal at the ordinary for this Sunday, the third after Easter. Please let it be Father Guillet today, she thought. Father Guillet was the parish's handsome young assistant. He was tall with striking, pale blue eyes. And he gave the best sermons. Mme. Desbeluets was sure he glanced at her often while he was preaching. And she had to admit that she had trouble suppressing wonderfully guilty shivers of delight whenever those blue eyes met hers. |
What a difference, she thought, between him and Father Courschène, the short, bald assistant with the crooked yellow teeth and enormous nose. She could barely make out his thin little voice when he gave a sermon or even talked directly to her. Besides, Father Courschène called her "Madame Desbeluets," like all the rest of the great unwashed of the parish and the town. Only Monsieur le Curé and handsome Father Guillet used her real name with its true pronunciation. And she had to suppress an equally guilty shiver each time she heard Father Guillet greet her with "Good day, Madame Deblois" in his rich baritone voice whenever the two met in town or in church. |
I've really got to talk to Monsieur le Curé again, she thought, standing as Father Guillet and two altar boys approached the main altar to begin the mass. I just don't understand why he won't name Father Guillet as the chaplain for the Ladies of Saint Anne and the Children of Mary. What has that little rat Courschène ever done for us? Nothing! Nobody even likes him. I think things would go a lot better if Father Guillet were there every week to … |
The ringing of the bells for the Confiteor and her husband's cough interrupted her daydreams. The bells stopped. The cough continued. On and on. Louder and louder, it seemed, with no end in sight. Wasn't as if the doctor hadn't told him to quit. He had even shown him the x-rays of his lungs. Then, he told Elphège point blank that he was going to die … and die pretty soon if he didn't give up his beloved cigarettes. But nothing seemed to work on Elphège. "Goddam doctors are all a bunch of quacks," he'd say whenever Mme. Égline Desbeluets brought up the topic. "A couple of uncles of mine smoked three packs a day every day from the time they were fifteen. And both of 'em lived to be ninety-three. Ain't no reason why I won't live just as long as them." |
Mme. Égline Desbeluets tried to block out the sound of the cough. She was embarrassed almost to tears whenever he had one of his coughing fits during Mass. For years, she had worked hard to set herself up as the model of proper conduct within the parish. She started believing that the cultureless classes in her town and her parish watched each of her gestures and movements like a hawk when they wanted to know the correct way to behave. Then, these poor souls would do their best to be and act just like her. That's why she sat where she did in church. And why she prayed and sang in a clear, determined, confident voice. That's how the Lord wants us to address Him, she thought. He doesn't want us hiding in the back of the church, heads down, muttering prayers so that no one can hear or understand. |
But with distressing regularity, her husband's coughing fits destroyed the impressive scenes she tried to create. Once, his fit had lasted so long and seemed so severe that Father Courschène, insufferable little rat that he was, had stopped right in the middle of his sermon to ask if he should call an ambulance. It certainly wasn't the type of attention that Mme. Desbeluets was looking for. It gave her yet another reason to despise the little bald priest. |
Mme. Égline Desbeluets knew she should be more sympathetic to her husband. She felt very guilty for it and would bring it up in confession regularly. But during their forty years of marriage, Égline and Elphège had followed very different paths. After many years together, they were further apart than they had been on their wedding day when they had been virtual strangers. |
M. Elphège Desbeluets had worked hard and long, building houses for the residents of their small city. His houses were solid and well-built. As time went by and his reputation grew, he was able to charge … and get … more and more for them. But money and success did little to change Elphège. He still stood out in any crowd with his loud voice, perpetually dirty hands, and old-fashioned clothes covered with an amazing variety of spots and stains. |
He had finally built a beautiful home for his own family. Not on one of those scenic lots on the lovely hill far from the river and its mills, as Mme. Égline Desbeluets had hinted at for years. Instead, he plopped it right in the middlest of middle class neighborhoods of the parish. "Why the hell should we move way over there?" he asked Égline when she told him she absolutely had to have a "Jonquil Lane" address because it was so "in" and because a bank president and the treasurer of the paper mill lived there. "It's not our kind of people and it's not where we belong," he replied. So he built his house right where he wanted, on the hill, amid all of the parishes' other would-be gentlemen. |
The only real change occurred in '57 when he bought his first Cadillac to replace the old Ford pickup. After that, he bought a new Caddy every year - each one bigger and more luxurious and better equipped than its predecessor. But in all other areas of his life, money seemed to have no effect. He remained tough, crass, oafish, and socially ill at ease. |
Born and raised in poverty, Mme. Égline Desbeluets was convinced that money was a magic wand that could change her life completely. But with a husband like Elphège, the wand brought constant disappointment rather than a new life. It would probably have been bearable if there had been one major disappointment. But fate was much crueler, subjecting her to a whole series of major, minor, and, middle-of-the-road disasters over a span of years. |
When they first realized that they had more money than they needed to live on - that they were, indeed, "rich" - Mme. Desbeluets began throwing dinner parties for the members of the region's Franco-American elite. Each time, she did everything to ensure a triumphal evening. Unfortunately, each time, Elphège talked too loud or drank too much or let out a huge belch in the middle of the conversation. He'd emphasize every one of his points with "calvaire" or "viarge" or "tabarnacledechrist" or some other blasphemous Franco swear, forgetting that the diocesan Chancellor, Monsignor Patenaude, was sitting right next to him. He always found a way to insult judge Daviau's wife or some other important guest. It was always something, as Mme. Égline Desbeluets took to saying. So in the days that followed each "soirée," she was forced to spend her time trying to explain and excuse her husband's boorish conduct, instead of savoring what should have been a social triumph. |
Disasters multiplied - and became even more total - a few years later when Mme. Desbeluets decided that their money could easily secure entry into the city's Anglo society. In these multi-cultural situations, Monsieur and Madame both contributed to the debacle. |
Elphège even did a little better than his wife because he had worked with and for Anglos for over thirty years. He had been forced to learn English and now spoke it well. He was still unkempt and uncouth, but the men didn't seem to mind. "Great character. Straight talker. You can trust a man like that," they'd say. They also admired his near-uncanny success at hunting and fishing. When they wanted to prove that they were still " real men" in spite of jobs where the only thing they hunted down was a better bottom line or an impactful adjective for their business correspondence or a faster, easier way to lay off more mill workers, they'd ask Elphège to take them out in the woods or out on the lake for a few days. They'd always come back reeking of sweat and grunge and cigars and booze … with a big shit-eating grin and a deer or a bucket of perch in the back of the pick-up. |
Their wives found Elphège neither picturesque nor charming. The cream of very high society in their very small city, they detested him as a nouveau-riche. They detested him even more because he himself saw nothing wrong with his lack of manners and uncouth ways. But the gravest sin of all, according to the coven, was his ability to so easily seduce their husbands with his hunting and fishing tales. They had spent years training and taming their husbands. In one short weekend in the woods, Elphège could quickly destroy all of their hard work. That's why the wives absolutely refused to spend another minute at the Desbeluets home after attending only a few of Égline's dinner parties. |
Mme. Égline Desbeluets hadn't helped. While she was overly polite, always attentive to her guests' needs, and served up magnificent meals, she was nonetheless never accepted by the Anglos because of her thick Franco accent. Like many of her generation, Mme. Égline Desbeluets left school after the eighth grade. And because she never had a job and talked almost exclusively with other Francos, she never had the chance to really practice her English. Naturally, she did not speak it well. Her pronunciation was terrible, full of "dis, dat, dese" and "dose." She'd put in an aspirated " h" where it didn't belong ("hairplane, hairport, henglish"), and take it out where it did ("'E put 'is 'at on 'is 'ead"). She was also the mistress of malaprops. "Sea gull" became "sea gulf." Her feet became "very swallow" from too much walking. So her guests spent much of the evening laughing at her behind her back. |
A couple of days after one of her few Anglo dinner parties, she saw three of her newly-made "friends" at the super market. They had been laughing hysterically until one of them spotted Mme. Égline Desbeluets. When they were finally able to stop giggling, they gave her a quick hello and went off as quickly as possible to avoid speaking to her. Mme. Églien Desbeluets had easily guessed the topic of their conversation and subject of their laughter. And she had vowed never to let herself be mocked again. |
That incident marked the end of the Desbeluets' Anglo evenings … and of all attempts to infiltrate the upper classes of society. Since then, Elphège had concentrated on his work. He spent most of his time with a few Franco friends who shared his passion for hunting and fishing and off-color jokes and a nice loud fart after a big meal. Mme. Égline Desbeluets had used the time to launch her two great personal crusades. The first was for the greater glory of her Church and her parish. The second was aimed at improving the lot of poor Franco women through prayer and by teaching them a few social graces. She saw the Children of Mary and the Ladies of Saint Anne as perfect tools to help her achieve her goals. She quickly became president/patron of both groups and used them well in her crusading endeavors. |
Mme. Égline Desbeluets played her role very well. She would probably have played it for the rest of her life if things hadn't started to change. She started noticing the changes at the very start of the '60s. Fewer and fewer women came to the meetings of the Ladies of Saint Anne. Membership in the Children of Mary had dropped alarmingly. Truth was that the gracious and confident smile that Magloire Fortin admired that Sunday morning masked a growing anxiety. Her once powerful realm was shrinking. Her beautiful castles in Vatican City rather than in Spain were disappearing. |
There's no doubt, thought Mme. Égline Desbeluets, that much of this was Father Courschène's (the little rat) fault. He had no way with women at all. He even scared off many of her girls. It's true that many more women had jobs now and that more and more girls preferred public schools with their blue jeans and their more liberal attitude to the uniform and uniformity of Sainte Marie's parochial school. All the more reason to rededicate ourselves to the task, she thought. |
That afternoon, the re-dedication would take the form of visits to four new families in the parish. Four fertile fields, she hoped, to recruit new members for her societies. In the past, there would have been little doubt of her success. But things had changed so dramatically. The new families all had English names. The parish now had English masses. Her own grand children and all the children she heard at church, in the school yard, and wherever else she went spoke only English. The televisions that had infiltrated every living room with their cowboys and gangsters all day long only spoke English. I can't imaging what will happen if things keep up this way, she thought. It was a thought that had begun to obsess and oppress her. |
Magloire Fortin was also having to deal with disturbing changes. He had so enjoyed being surrounded by his gaggle of girls. He had even thought (or hoped) that everything would stay the same. In his dream world of the future, he and Gracie sat in their rocking chairs, waited on by caring daughters and an army of grandchildren. But changes were happening fast. Year after year, Gracie had filled her daughters' heads with tales of her youth in Oklahoma with its endless horizons. Her daughters had fallen in love with the exotic land she described. Magloire Fortin soon realized that not one of his little ones would stay in their bleak little corner of the world. As if to emphasize the point, the oldest one was getting married in three weeks. After the wedding, she was high-tailing it to California. The others would follow her lead. |
That incident marked the end of the Desbeluets' Anglo evenings … and of all attempts to infiltrate the upper classes of society. Since then, Elphège had concentrated on his work. He spent most of his time with a few Franco friends who shared his passion for hunting and fishing and off-color jokes and a nice loud fart after a big meal. Mme. Égline Desbeluets had used the time to launch her two great personal crusades. The first was for the greater glory of her Church and her parish. The second was aimed at improving the lot of poor Franco women through prayer and by teaching them a few social graces. She saw the Children of Mary and the Ladies of Saint Anne as perfect tools to help her achieve her goals. She quickly became president/patron of both groups and used them well in her crusading endeavors. |
Magloire Fortin had eaten very well after church. He had rested for much of the afternoon. Around four, he put his Sunday suit back on. He had a five-o'clock meeting with Adelard Cyr, one of Sainte Marie's richest parishioners who would lend him (he hoped) enough money to pay for his oldest daughter's wedding. Before leaving, Magloire made his way down to the cellar to check on the furnace. Then, he smoked one of his Chesterfields and started walking up the hill towards Adelard Cyr's house in the parish's middle class neighborhood. Should be a nice sunset tonight, he thought, as he noticed the red color of the sky. |
Mme. Égline Desbeluets also noticed the approaching sunset, primarily because the bright sun kept her from seeing the road as she drove back to her home in the middle class neighborhood on the hill. She didn't like the new Cadillac that her husband had bought her. It was much too big and too high and too wide and too fast. Especially for someone as short as Mme. Égline Desbeluets. She had to sit on cushions just to be able to see over the hood. And Elphège had to tape blocks of wood on the gas and brake pedals so she could reach them. |
The Cadillac had been meant as a surprise. "Now that's a real car," Elphège had said, handing over the keys. "Not like that puny Chevrolet of yours." But puny had been fine for Mme. Desbeluets. I liked that car, she said to herself, squinting just to see the road. It was just right for me. Everything changes, all right, and it's always for the worst, she murmured. |
Her visits had not gone well. She felt like those pretty young Anglo women were making fun of her with her frumpy frame and her little fur stole and the tons of make-up she always wore to go out. They reminded her of that other woman she had met years ago with her four daughters and the husband who was almost blind. (What were their names?) Like her, these young women also told her almost curtly that they had no time right now to join Mme. Égline Desbeluets noble societies. Perhaps next year. Or the year after that. Or the year after … |
Even if the bank says I don't make enough, doesn't mean I won't repay them every cent I borrow, thought Magloire Fortin striding to Adelard Cyr's with his head down. He was thinking about what the man in the suit had said last week when he turned down the loan Magloire needed to pay for his daughter's wedding. He was also thinking about what he would say to Adelard Cyr and how much interest he'd have to pay and how much time he would have before paying everything back. He didn't notice that he had strayed from the shoulder and was now practically in the middle of the road. |
I've got to convince Monsieur le Curé, Mme. Égline Desbeluets thought once more. She could see practically nothing of the road because the sun was now right on the horizon in front of her. It would be so much easier to attract new members if Father Guillet …. She tried shifting over a little more to her right to get out of the way of the blinding light. But as she shifted over, her foot came down heavy on the gas pedal. |
She never saw Magloire Fortin. And Magloire, lost in thought, walking to his appointment with his head down, saw nothing. |
Mme. Égline Desbeluets' Cadillac was doing about 45 when it hit him. Not all that fast, but enough to kill poor Magloire on the spot. The Cadillac then continued on and smashed up against the big oak tree in Adelard Cyr's front yard. They took Mme. Égline Desbeluets to the hospital where she remained unconscious for five days. When she learned what had happened to poor Magloire Fortin, she was appalled. She immediately tried calling his widow to console her. But Magloire had never had a telephone put in because it cost too much. Besides, Pamphile Mathieu had said he could always use the one upstairs in an emergency. |
The moment she got out of the hospital, Mme. Égline Desbeluets went to see Father Guillet and paid 52 masses for the repose of Magloire Fortin's eternal soul, one for every week of the following year. She waited for Mme. Magloire Fortin to call her to express her gratitude. Unfortunately, Gracie didn't even know about Mme. Égline Desbeluets' masses. She had long ago stopped going to church. After Magloire Fortin's death, the daughters decided to follow their mother's example. Months later, when no phone call came, Mme. Égline Desbeluets reluctantly concluded that Gracie and her family were nothing but a bunch of ingrates and that the best thing to do was try to put the whole unfortunate incident behind her. |
Just as Magloire had foreseen, all of his daughters got married as soon as they graduated from high school and went away - often as far away as they could - as fast as they could. Gracie got a cash settlement from Mme. Égline Desbeluets' insurance and a little more money from the government because of Magloire's few months in the Army. She thought of using it to move back to Oklahoma. But all of her relatives and friends had either died or moved away, people said. And all of the places she had known had changed so much. So she decided against it. Instead, she took the money and rented a new apartment with central heating and bought one of those new color televisions, which she spent most of her time watching - drinking coffee and smoking one cigarette after another - until the end of her days. |
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