Chapter 12: The Funeral of Pierre Dubois - Asbestos

Sunday, September 8, 1991 11 a.m., Saint Alphonse Parish Church

My cousin Marie-Douce Meilleur walks toward me with con -trite cheeks. Before she can utter a word, I thank her for the flowers and cut our interaction short. She’s my age, and her sister Émilie-Lune is older. They live in Repentigny, outside Montreal, with my aunt France and my uncle Jacques.

My father had adored his two nieces. I’d always found them silly, especially Marie-Douce. But as a kid I didn’t mind playing with her the few times a year our families got together. Then one day my father cut ties with his sister and her clan, over a disagreement with that know-it-all asshole, meaning his brother-in-law, Dr. Jacques Meilleur, MD. Those two men truly loathed each other.

I’m standing in a receiving line next to Daniel, his girlfriend, my mother, and then my grandmother Gaétane, tiny in her mourning clothes next to the large brown casket kept closed at her request. I’m wearing a white Levi’s denim shirt, the dressiest item in my wardrobe, with black corduroy pants. I fumble in my right pants pocket for a piece of paper that is folded first in half and then in thirds – the best I could do – a few words for your father, as my mother put it, trying to relieve a little pressure at my having to write this eulogy and read it at the funeral. Not the kind of job that fell to Daniel, for obvious reasons. I read a lot, and write without mistakes, so that settled it. There was no appeal, and anyway my mom would just dismiss arguments based on my interpretation of a dead man’s behaviour.

For now, we’re receiving the condolences of this long line of people. Kisses from random ladies who tell me I’ve grown into such a handsome young man. Heartfelt handshakes from fellow miners who worked with the man whose mortal remains lie just over my shoulder, in my blind spot.

So, no, I wasn’t planning on chit-chat with Marie-Douce today. Too bad if she was disappointed, I was already looking ahead for my aunt, who was next in line and just then presenting her excuses to my mother for her other daughter’s absence. Émilie-Lune was starting a new job in Gatineau.

I’d always loved my aunt France’s poise and intense but no-nonsense way of speaking, full of genuine interest in the person in front of her. She has my father’s eyes, grey-green. But where my father’s charisma drew on an oblique, sinister power, France Dubois’s is direct. She’s more composed, fascinating but not frightening, and her every conversation is suffused with a kind, practical helpfulness. Her trademark humour is a gentle sarcasm. And her hair! Like Dana in Ghostbusters, who turned out to be Zuul, Gatekeeper of Gozer.

I’m fairly agitated by the time France finally reaches me. Her kiss on my cheek carries a subtle, slightly intoxicating fragrance. We chat a bit. As her fingers brush the cuff of my sleeve, I realize she’s trying to draw me away for a private conversation. I’m grateful for the reprieve. I know she knows I’m sensitive. I know she knows her brother was the way he was.

My aunt hastens to ask if I’ve thought about signing up for junior college in Montreal next year. I can live with them, in Émilie-Lune’s old room, now that she has moved to the Outaouais with her boyfriend, Dave. She’d just have to talk with my mother about money, some other time. The closest college was just over an hour on public transit. She’d pay for my pass, help me find a job.

My uncle Jacques comes over to join us and offers his condolences. He takes my hand and holds it in his for a long time. Dr. Meilleur wants to make amends with the deceased, and I am his medium.

He was a man with a great deal of … How can I put it … kept his eye on the ball … always put his family first. An honest worker.

Sure. My attention is wandering from my uncle’s face and half-baked condolences. I scan the silhouettes, people gathered in small groups. To my surprise, there are around fifty mourners. I’m starting to panic. I’m hungry, haven’t had breakfast yet.

Now he’s shifted to cancer.

Like your grandfather Dubois. Roger …

Huh?

Oh, my father’s father, yes. Lung cancer, true. Asbestosis, probably … Everything my uncle says just feels like part two of my aunt’s invitation to live with them in Repentigny. To get me out of Claire’s house.

The service is about to begin, whispers the priest, scurrying by us like a cockroach.

Panic. Not good. Name five colours.

The chancel of Saint Alphonse Parish Church is an airy space with walls, columns, and ornaments in shades of sky blue, Jesus yellow, and gold. A massive chandelier of fake white candles hangs between two sections of mahogany pews. I stare at it long enough to saturate my pupils with light and make myself a little dizzy.

The person I’ve been desperately waiting for finally enters my field of vision. She offers my mother her deepest condolences. My mom and Cindy hold each other’s hands. They cry discreetly and speak English in hushed tones, sniffling and smiling at each other. The sight of it moves me.

Next, Cindy turns to Daniel, who kisses her on the cheek. Kind, heartfelt words. Same again with Nathalie.

When she gets to me, Cindy feels no need to reiterate the condolences she has already shared with me, if only by being there for me these last few weeks, although she’s started college. We talk on the phone every two or three nights.

Your speech come together okay? Can I see it?

Since it’s mawkish crap, I make a face as I hand her the paper. Cindy stares at it for a good five seconds.

No, no. Don’t say that. Seriously, this isn’t you. Say what you have to say.

I don’t have the energy to argue with Cindy, and she’s right anyway. I wrote a speech to avoid displeasing a dead man and my mother, his widow. I’m dizzy, in a vague panic. For Cindy, the only way to truly honour a person’s passing, the loss of a human life, is to say something real about who they really were. I don’t understand much of what she’s saying, but I cling to the deep integrity she embodies.

Feed on the good fire, Steve.

I’m speechless.

Cindy has never looked at me more seriously than at this moment.

She completes her incantation.

Be real, Dubois. Feed on the good fire.

That expression again. I know that can’t be what she said. I can’t see any reason why she would have said that. No, I don’t think that’s what she said. But, as in a never-ending dream, everything and anything is blocking me from asking her to say it again. And then everyone is seated. Minutes pass. And it’s my turn to climb the two steps of the high pulpit to look out at the assembled mourners. I take a long breath and stare at the chandelier. The time has come to disobey.

When my eyes explode into white birds from the top of my blind pulpit, I transform myself into a firefighter-ecclesiastic.

People remember my father as a fair person. And for sure it’s unfair that he died so young. Dying in a tornado is

terrible. Unforgettable, horrific even. I remember seeing a Space Shuttle blow up. That was pretty horrific too. I sincerely hope he didn’t suffer. I did, suffer. He made me suffer. Another thing people say about him is that he worked hard. He took me to work and showed the mine one day. We got into his yellow truck and went down into the pit. That was the day I got this scar on my eyebrow. Sometimes you get hit. But it lets up eventually. Dad used to take me to the barber in the mall to get my hair cut. On the way back we’d stop for cheeseburgers and fries at the Mammouth snack bar. We’d eat them in the car. I was careful not to spill a drop of ketchup on the seat. Dad loved Led Zeppelin, and I like them too, I guess. He hated my music. That’s normal, I guess. I’m pretty sure his father beat him too, and his father’s father probably did the same. But there is one thing I’ll never forgive death for, and it isn’t my father. Lord have mercy on him, this disaster victim; take this miner into Your keeping and wash away his sins against me. An earth sign, carried away by the air. I’m an air sign, feeding the fire. I wish everyone here health, happiness, and long life. A refuge in the trees. Someone told me once that our friends will be there waiting for us. Be blessed, sheep.

In the white abyss of the chandelier, I went on like this for a while, while the speech I’d prepared sat unfolded on the lectern in front of me.