Falling From Grace by Ann Eriksson Page B

scurried around with armloads of equipment, talking and yelling to one another. A trio of young adults kicked around a multicoloured crocheted Hackey Sack on the gravel bank. I longed for peace and quiet, Paul and I alone with our routines. The tall Frenchman, Marcel, spotted me and waved, then wove his way between the sea of tents, stepping across lines and tent pegs, leaping over logs, more nimble than I would have guessed for his size.
    â€œI’m Marcel,” he said and offered his hand, as large as four of my own, the palm yellow and calloused. “The little girl she say to call you Dr. Faye.”
    â€œFaye’s fine.”
    â€œFaye it is,” he said and sat beside me. Up close, I could see a stubble of coarse black hair on his chin, his teeth stained with nicotine. He offered me a chocolate chip cookie. “I’m addicted.” He pulled his pocket open to reveal a half dozen more. “Better than smoking.”
    â€œTrying to quit?”
    He nodded. “I smoke my first cigarette when I was nine. Ma mère she tell me the smoking would stunt my growth, eh.” The log shifted beneath us with the force of his laugh and I steadied my mug to avoid a spill.
    â€œHow tall are you?” The top of my head reached no higher than his belt.
    â€œSix foot five,” he said. “Ma mère, she is four foot ten.”
    Technically a dwarf.
    â€œSeven kids, three of us over six feet. Can you believe I was preemie?”
    â€œNo, I can’t.” I bit into the cookie. Crumbs dry as dust cascaded down the front of my jacket.
    â€œYou and me. We’re the ones responsible for average.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I brushed the crumbs onto the ground for the night cleaning crew of deer mice.
    â€œHuman statistics. Without tall ones like me, the average for people would measure the height of ma mère. And without small ones like you, average would be six foot or more. I tell people who give me a hard time about my height, without me, the human race would be nothing.” He roared with laughter again. “Seriously”—he hung his arms in mock despair between his legs—“you don’t know how hard it is to get a girl when you are big as me.”
    â€œThey don’t know what they’re missing,” I teased.
    He held out his hands, one large enough to span my entire back, fingers like sausages. “I give excellent massage.”
    â€œWhere are you from?”
    â€œQuebec. A village in the Gaspé. I live in Montreal for years while I take a master’s degree in philosophy at Université de Montréal. For the last fifteen year, I live in Newfoundland.”
    â€œTeaching philosophy?”
    â€œNo, I study the philosophy of resource extraction. I worked fishing.”
    â€œFine use of a degree,” I said.
    â€œShameful, oui.” He stretched, arms extended like maple limbs. “No more. The fish, they are all gone. The cod, the halibut, the shad,” he said. “A tragedy.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œI try to prevent the same thing from happening to these magnificent trees.” He gestured around the grove. “They speak to me, these trees. For once I feel small. I was too late for the fish. I must help these trees.”
    â€œI guess you’ll get your chance tomorrow.”
    He slapped his knee. “Oui. And that means Marcel must sleep.” He heaved himself off the log, towering above me. Without warning he bent, lifted me off the ground, and squeezed me to his chest.
    â€œMarcel, put me down,” I sputtered, nose full of beard. “Don’t,” I ordered once my feet touched solid ground, “ever pick me up again.” I felt like I was chastising the Friendly Giant.
    â€œOkay,’ he said. “Je m’excuse, eh? You remind me of ma mère. Your blue eyes, they are like hers.”
    I walked to the riverbank in search of solitude. The rains had