Chapter 6: Pit’s BBQ - Asbestos

Summer 1986

In summer, I lived my life outside the orbit of adults as much as possible. For Poulie and me, that’s just what summer was. Meaning that Charlélie still spent lots of time with his parents, and I was over at the Poulin-Fugère house a lot. So I guess I should really say that in summer, I lived my life outside the orbit of my house, beyond my father’s reach.

My dad was a miner and truck driver for the King-Beaver Mine, Sector 1, formerly the Jacob Mine. It was walking distance from home, but he’d still take our only car to work – the only one since my older brother Daniel moved out with his Nissan Pulsar – and drive home a little after the 4 p.m. blast. His shifts didn’t change much, but one week out of five he worked evenings or nights. On mornings when he came home from work as I was getting up, I’d do what I could to avoid his black mood. My brother Dan had been living with his girlfriend Nathalie’s parents for a few months now. He was working at a car wash and claimed to be taking adult education classes toward his high school diploma, though my mom was starting to have doubts. So most mornings of my summer vacation were spent hanging around the house by myself, since my mom would always have gone to bed very late. During the school year, she’d get up to make sure I brushed my teeth and give me a kissy on the cheek before I caught the school bus. Sometimes she’d be back in bed when I came home for lunch. A plate of food would be there waiting, I just had to heat it up in the microwave. But on those lazy summer mornings, I’d turn on the TV and stumble onto the last station she’d watched the night before – usually one of the English ones, channel 6 or 12, but sometimes 8, Radio-Québec. I’d of course flip straight to channel 4 to watch The Mysterious Cities of Gold, before heading off to Charlélie’s for breakfast.

On top of our many hours together in our hundred-acre wood, I was also spending more and more time with Charlélie at his house, which irked my father. Couldn’t I instead be cleaning my room (already spotless), playing the piano (only Mom knew how), or making some other friends like Bilodeau (whose father also drove a truck for King-Beaver) – anything but constantly bothering Poulie’s parents? Pit’s spending his summer doing renos on their house, he doesn’t need you kids in his hair. Camille neither.

Not true: it was fine as long as we played outside and let Camille work in the morning. She’s writing her P–H–D! I pleaded with all my heart, as if that mysterious combination of letters could silence any argument.

My father’s black look and open palm soon made me rue my words. Keep talking back and I’ll whack you one! I didn’t dare so much as swallow, but couldn’t hold back the surge of tears. I stood frozen, anxiously waiting with eyes glued to the floor, inwardly praying he wouldn’t go through with it. My father’s whacks usually came in pairs and landed somewhere near my bum, but also made my spine tingle with fear, pain, and shame for hours and sometimes days. Perhaps most distressing was the way he laid a huge hand on my trapezius to force me into a seated position, or otherwise restrained me to administer his blows, before releasing his grip and pushing me away with contempt, like a useless animal.

At suppertime, 5:30 p.m. on the dot, I’d keep my mouth shut and clean my plate while my dad filled my mom in on the latest from the mine. The news was never good. Sometimes he’d fly into a rage, and other times he’d stew in a stony silence so crushing it made me feel sorry for my mother. I’d flash her a shy smile to thank her for the tasty meal. And when the mood lightened, despite the fear he inspired in me, I’d sometimes try to give Dad a smile too. But it was like he didn’t want them. He didn’t shoot them down, just greeted every overture with indifference and ignored me by changing the subject.

I’m going to get the car washed after dinner. See Dan too.

* * *

July 1986

Boys, go get me the new propane tank in the garage. It shouldn’t be too heavy for the two of you, yelled Pit Poulin, who then turned to Camille. Good thing I hadn’t put the meat on yet.

No rush, Pit. They’re not even here yet. Which bottle should we open?

Check the dates and grab whatever’s older. The Merlot or the Pinot.

Oh no, not the Pinot! It’s basically sparkling, baby.

Pit laughed. That was my first try. Wait till you try the next batch. Tastes like the French countryside.

Charlélie and I came back, proud as two scrawny peacocks lugging our heavy load of propane, the circulation almost cut off in the valiant fingers of our four hands jammed into the collar of the tank. We hobbled along, bumping shoulders with every slap of our flip-flops.

For all its clutter, the family’s suburban-style yard was inviting. Its centrepiece was a small rectangular deck with ordinary-looking patio furniture and a faded blue umbrella, as well as Pit’s BBQ. He’d gotten a deal on a floor model at Canadian Tire – already assembled! – and was pleased as punch with it. The two Adirondack chairs had been moved next to the back door, between citronella tiki lamps. At the far end of the yard, near a hedge of bell-shaped cedars, was an above-ground pool – the standard round model, eighteen feet in diameter, its shaky ladder an inverted V rising up from the grass and descending into the water. A small filter purred spasmodically. The partial shade of the large maple on the south side meant the water never got too warm – a welcoming coolness during a heat wave or in the evening, when the water temperature matched the cooling air.

The rest of the yard was strewn with the materials of Pit’s many ongoing renovations: lengths of gutter lay on the ground along the garage wall, a table saw sat sweating under a plastic sheet, a metal ladder was hidden in the long grass beyond, along with a handful of paint cans, small power tools, and random hoses. Charlélie claimed there was a garter snake nest under the stacked gutters, but I didn’t want to take a closer look. I don’t think he did either.

We sunk down into the big patio chairs, sucking on freezies – mine white, Charlélie’s orange.

You must be happy you got your Stanley Cup, eh, Steve? A cheery Pit popped out through the kitchen screen door next to me and ran his palm along my head. I melted. Without skipping a beat, Pit went on. The Nordiques had a few good years when we were in Quebec City, but it seems like the magic’s gone. May as well start rooting for the Habs now, eh? he said with a teasing wink at his son.

For sure, I answered. We’re unbeatable! We’ll be winning Stanley Cups for at least ten more years!

We’ll see, buddy! How many points did Naslund get this year?

One hundred and ten!

Yeah, but Peter Stastny got 122! Poulie butted in, pronouncing it ‘Stashnie.’ And Goulet scored fifty-three goals!

C’mon, Charlélie, be fair. It just wasn’t the Nordiques’ year. Funny that your dad’s a Canadiens fan. That must be Claire’s influence!

How’s your mother doing, Steve? asked Camille.

She still has headaches all the time. She watches movies in the evening. In response to Camille’s knowing look, I added, I don’t think she’s coming tonight.

* * *

February 14, 1986, evening

Mom had set the card I’d made, or that our whole class had made, really, in the centre of the table between our three place-mats and Daniel’s empty spot. To Mom and Dad / Happy Valentine’s Day / sweaet wishes of love / for always. Not the most inspired of poems, but I’d circled it with a Pritt Glue Stick and sprinkled it with glitter.

I talked to your dad earlier, she began, as a knot formed in my stomach. We could do something special tonight. Maybe watch a movie on TV?

I looked over at my father, who nodded silently over his plate. He was starting a week of night shifts on Sunday and had to adjust his sleep schedule.

But the big surprise was what movie we’d be watching. At 8:30 p.m. – my usual bedtime – Radio-Québec was playing Christine. My mom explained that it was the story of a car that was possessed. I was dying to hear more.

Is it a horror movie?

Sort of. More like a fantasy thriller, she answered. An evil car comes to life and starts attacking people.

There were a lot of things my mom wouldn’t let me watch on TV. Maybe it was a holdover from her family’s English roots – she’d been raised in the West Island, and my grandparents were straitlaced to the point of repressive. Anything with sexual content was strictly off-limits, and the same went for blood and violence. Half the kids in school, including Poulie, had seen A Nightmare on Elm Street, 1 and 2, and of course the schoolyard talk was all about Freddy. But my mother wouldn’t bend. I couldn’t say what I was more embarrassed to admit: that I wasn’t allowed to watch them or that I was too scared to do it even if I could. But my mom loved a good horror movie, especially the classics. She’d watch them late at night in our living room with the volume down low, and she was sure she’d seen enough to know that Christine would be free of suggestive scenes and gory violence.

After a good two hours of reading, in my favourite pyjamas – orange, emblazoned with Hot Wheels cars – I left my room, brushed my teeth, and set myself down between my parents on the couch. All the living room lights were off; the only illumination was the glow of the TV and the occasional flame from a lighter in a dense cloud of smoke. I was trying to contain my excitement at this rare cinematic event, and above all the fright I was already anticipating.

It’s going to be scary, I can just tell, I’d said weakly to my mom as the opening credits rolled to the sound of a powerful engine revving. A gruff warning came immediately from the other side of the sofa, No talking, Steve, or it’s straight to bed.

It’s okay, Pierre, he’ll be fine, my mom said softly, patting my thigh.

My mom was right. From the very first death – an employee on the car assembly line – I could tell that the movie was nothing I couldn’t handle, even if it made me jump a few times. I actually enjoyed it a lot, especially the dramatic development of the main character, Arnie, who goes from a bespectacled nerd to an obsessive, rebellious, and then angry teen. I found myself hoping Christine would mow down the obnoxious Buddy and his crew. Then, when Arnie and Leigh started making out as the rain hammered down on the car in the drive-in, my mom told me in a low but firm voice to go get myself a glass of milk, right away, prompting an exasperated sigh from my father. I did as I was told, taking care not to cut across his line of vision as I scurried out. I emptied my bladder to kill a little more time, scared I wouldn’t get to watch the rest of the movie, and then came back with my milk in a white plastic cup.

The dramatic tension never flagged, as Arnie grew increasingly unhinged. Buddy’s death scene delivered on its spectacular promise when Christine, ablaze with flames, drives after the villain and then mercilessly runs him over. But my eyelids were heavy, and I was less and less focused on the images, which were making my eyes sting. I was on the verge of dozing off, on the threshold of deep sleep.

I woke in a state of alarm, keyed up and confused. My dad was barking something about the couch. I was already crying when I realized I’d spilled my glass of milk in my sleep. My mother tried to calm things down, but I’d ruined the moment, there was no going back: my dad chased me off the couch with a whack to my bottom, That’s it, off to bed with you! The way you’d shoo a misbehaving dog. I made it to my room, sobbing, and hoped my mom would come tuck me in after cleaning up my mess. She did. My father snapped that she was going to miss the end.

* * *

July 1986

Pierre Dubois appeared in the Poulin-Fougère backyard with a red-and-gold case of twelve O’Keefe ‘stubbies.’ In the asbestos-grained distance, from my safe haven with my constant companion and under his parents’ watchful eyes, my father suddenly looked handsome. I took in his broad shoulders, his wavy ash-blond-and-grey hair with some length in the back, his ruddy complexion that matched the brown T-shirt hugging his biceps and stomach, and the frank way he shook Pit’s hand and gave Claire an amiable kiss on the cheek while placing a hand on her shoulder. There was his straight but relaxed posture – the clinking bottles told me the case was a few beers shy of full – and his calm, almost cheerful lilt. Together, it painted a picture I couldn’t help but admire. Sure, he was a little rough around the edges next to the red-haired Pit Poulin, who was shorter, with an irreverent twinkle in his eye and a slight paunch, but from this angle and in this light my dad moved with a natural ease that complemented our host’s good nature. His greeting – Hey, son; hello, Charlélie – felt like the most infinitely tender caress I had ever known from him. Your dad’s cool, my friend whispered, and I had nothing to say. Over the course of one of our endless tree-fort conversations, I had told Charlélie about the beatings. He had listened solemnly, and his recent appraisal in no way undermined his solidarity at the violence I suffered.

Seeing my father like this changed how I felt about him, let me see him as a person, not a parent, and glimpse the man behind the authority figure. I loved listening to him laugh with Pit and crack jokes whose meaning was completely lost on me – How’d you like your meat, Pierre? Rare like my wife! Then he told Camille the story of my grandfather Dubois’s death, how all his miner buddies came together to pay tribute in his final days. And even hearing him admit, looking worried but not angry through the cloud of cigarette smoke, that the rumours of layoffs at King-Beaver were picking up.

They’ve even hired a lawyer from Toronto to close the mine. His family just moved to town.

I savoured this little drama from the sidelines so as not to break the flow of conversation. Even Poulie had stopped fidgeting and horsing around. While I was seeing my dad in a new light, Charlélie was getting his first taste of the man.

Can I see your truck keys? asked Charlélie out of the blue.

My mine truck? My dad was amused.

I was dumbfounded.

Yeah!

There aren’t any! The trucks don’t have keys. All I have to do is press a button, he answered, demonstrating the motion by pushing his index finger into Poulie’s belly.

Pit asked about the vehicle’s mechanics, and I listened to my father holding court – an important man, in his element – with a calm ease he never showed at home.

The new Euclids are semi-automatic, they basically drive themselves. But the Sicards we had before had clutches. It was hell! Now I’m driving a forty-five-tonne.

I wished my mom were here to share this moment. What to make of the headaches she seemed to have every day? Shouldn’t she just go to the hospital, to see what was wrong? A little later, after Charlélie and I left the table, I realized the adults were talking about my mom, but I couldn’t make out their muffled comments or read their facial expressions. When the breeze blew gently in my direction, all I caught was that my father’s mom had offered to take over the grocery shopping, because my mom couldn’t or maybe didn’t want to leave the house anymore.

We put on our trunks for a dip in the pool. As the July evening fell, at that hour when the bloated bodies of the first crickets filled the air and the leaves exuded a final puff of freshness, in those last minutes before the queer evening dew wet the lawn, the ambient air temperature came into equilibrium with the water temperature. An ineffable, amphibious hour. Insects swarmed the powerful yellow spotlight that shone down on the pool from the maple tree where Pit had mounted it – his first project when they moved in the year before.

Camille came over with towels, which we hadn’t thought to bring from the house, and agreed to judge our contest by timing who could keep their head under water longest. Charlélie won, hands down. Still, she complimented me – as she always did – on my water skills, my crawl, my excellence at treading water. She asked about my swimming lessons. I told her I’d gotten my Maroon badge that winter and would be taking Blue that fall.

Blue already? Charlélie, I’ll have to sign you up for swimming again this year. Camille asked me to tell my mom, to tell that pretty Claire, to expect a call to find out how she could get Charlélie into my swim class.

Swim class, whatever… What I want is, Poulie started to say as he shot up the ladder and then turned around to face the pool, is to be in the same fifth grade class as you! He whooped out before splashing me with a cannonball to start the war.

No yelling, Steve! yelled my dad from patio table. Pit poured him another glass of red wine. It’s fine, Pierre, the neighbours are off camping. Can I bum a smoke?

Minutes later, with the moon high in the dark dome of the sky, we got out of the pool, our skinny limbs and chins shivering in our matching towels, wet hair plastered to our heads, ears plugged with water, and headed straight for the house. Because it was so late, and also maybe because of how much Pierre and Pit had drunk, it was agreed that I would sleep at the Poulin-Fugère house, which of course filled me with joy.

We were putting on summer pyjamas in Charlélie’s room when I spotted my dad looming in the doorway and jumped. He looked over at us, not sternly but slowly, and then at the walls of the room, half covered with blue-and-grey-patterned wallpaper and half with eggshell paint, with a few pretty framed pictures, two or three drawings that Charlélie was proud of, and a glorious poster of Grendizer towering against a cosmic cobalt backdrop. Marvellous robot / of light and steel / this knight of a new age / fighting for humanity. Charlélie beamed with pride. I was tense of course.