was probably for me—for my sins. I should never have given in to Robert. He wouldn’t have left me.” She pronounced his name Ro-by-er.
Everyone laughed.
“That was so long ago I’m surprised you remember,” said Tante Florence.
“Well, you shouldn’t walk around upstairs in your brassiere with only a towel over your shoulders when there’s a man in the house,” the oldest aunt said. “It was probably a warning for you to stay out of trouble.”
“Bee-Bee? I’m not worried,” said Tante Florence.
Mimi’s mother made a face.
Bee-Bee came into the room as if he’d been summoned, and they all clammed up.
A scent of cedar lingered over the upstairs landing of Mimi’s big house. Along the railing, hope chests belonging to the aunts were lined up in a row. Pierrette’s was there, too, full to the lid and threatening to overflow. One by one the unmarried aunts had been slipping fingers into pressed and folded layers, transferring items from their own hoards over to Pierrette’s. No one else had the initial P so they did not give up monogrammed pillowcases and sheets, but they parted with satin half-slips and linen tea towels and brightly pastel mules for Pierrette’s feet.
There was an alcove on the landing, too. A narrow curtain had been hung from a sawed-off broomstick and behind the curtain were a mirror, a sink with an open drain and a bucket underneath. There was a sink downstairs, too, in the kitchen, a bucket under that. Water was carted continuously into the house, up and down stairs; and slop-water—as Bee-Bee called it—carried back out.
Mimi’s mother and the aunts were getting ready to go to a movie at the Laurier Theatre, in Hull, and Mimi and I were sitting on the lid of Pierrette’s hope chest as they took turnsdarting in and out of the alcove in multiple states of undress. Sometimes Mimi and I went to a movie in Ottawa with Lyd on Saturday afternoons but we’d never been to one in Hull, because of the fire. Seventy-eight children dead: the Laurier Palace, Montreal, January 9, 1927. We knew the date as well as we knew our own birthdays. It was the date after which no child below the age of sixteen was permitted to attend a movie in the Province of Quebec. We talked about the fire as if it had happened three weeks, and not almost three decades, ago.
“Some of the children were little,” said Mimi. “I hope they were baptized.”
“They were crushed,” I said. “Most of them.” I imagined miniature bones trampled by feet.
“Their dresses burned,” said Mimi. “Their arms and wrists. Sister showed us a picture in a book. The roof collapsed, and I saw a shoe.”
“Their lungs would have filled with smoke first,” I said. I was thinking of the drills Father had put us through: Shout “FIRE! FIRE!” Drop to the floor. Crawl to the nearest window. Meet across the road by the river and stay put. NEVER GO BACK INSIDE.
“The fire would have been a good time for a miracle,” Mimi said. “But it didn’t happen. Someone could have appeared and told the children to stay calm. Someone could have led them to the exit. Or two people, maybe.”
“Even if they’d just walked through the flames,” I said. “If they hadn’t run, they’d still be alive. They’d be old now.”
“No one knows when a miracle will happen and save someone,” said Mimi. “It has to happen by surprise.”
I thought of the five thousand. Could they have known that they were about to be fed with five loaves and two fishes? DidDaniel know that God would send an angel to shut the mouths of the lions? You always had to be ready, because something might take place right under your nose and you might miss it.
“What about Monsieur CÔté, next door?” I said. “He might wake up suddenly and find out he’s had a close brush with communism. That could be a miracle.” I’d heard Father say that even your next-door neighbour could be a Communist. He said that what a man hoped for was a house to
Everyone laughed.
“That was so long ago I’m surprised you remember,” said Tante Florence.
“Well, you shouldn’t walk around upstairs in your brassiere with only a towel over your shoulders when there’s a man in the house,” the oldest aunt said. “It was probably a warning for you to stay out of trouble.”
“Bee-Bee? I’m not worried,” said Tante Florence.
Mimi’s mother made a face.
Bee-Bee came into the room as if he’d been summoned, and they all clammed up.
A scent of cedar lingered over the upstairs landing of Mimi’s big house. Along the railing, hope chests belonging to the aunts were lined up in a row. Pierrette’s was there, too, full to the lid and threatening to overflow. One by one the unmarried aunts had been slipping fingers into pressed and folded layers, transferring items from their own hoards over to Pierrette’s. No one else had the initial P so they did not give up monogrammed pillowcases and sheets, but they parted with satin half-slips and linen tea towels and brightly pastel mules for Pierrette’s feet.
There was an alcove on the landing, too. A narrow curtain had been hung from a sawed-off broomstick and behind the curtain were a mirror, a sink with an open drain and a bucket underneath. There was a sink downstairs, too, in the kitchen, a bucket under that. Water was carted continuously into the house, up and down stairs; and slop-water—as Bee-Bee called it—carried back out.
Mimi’s mother and the aunts were getting ready to go to a movie at the Laurier Theatre, in Hull, and Mimi and I were sitting on the lid of Pierrette’s hope chest as they took turnsdarting in and out of the alcove in multiple states of undress. Sometimes Mimi and I went to a movie in Ottawa with Lyd on Saturday afternoons but we’d never been to one in Hull, because of the fire. Seventy-eight children dead: the Laurier Palace, Montreal, January 9, 1927. We knew the date as well as we knew our own birthdays. It was the date after which no child below the age of sixteen was permitted to attend a movie in the Province of Quebec. We talked about the fire as if it had happened three weeks, and not almost three decades, ago.
“Some of the children were little,” said Mimi. “I hope they were baptized.”
“They were crushed,” I said. “Most of them.” I imagined miniature bones trampled by feet.
“Their dresses burned,” said Mimi. “Their arms and wrists. Sister showed us a picture in a book. The roof collapsed, and I saw a shoe.”
“Their lungs would have filled with smoke first,” I said. I was thinking of the drills Father had put us through: Shout “FIRE! FIRE!” Drop to the floor. Crawl to the nearest window. Meet across the road by the river and stay put. NEVER GO BACK INSIDE.
“The fire would have been a good time for a miracle,” Mimi said. “But it didn’t happen. Someone could have appeared and told the children to stay calm. Someone could have led them to the exit. Or two people, maybe.”
“Even if they’d just walked through the flames,” I said. “If they hadn’t run, they’d still be alive. They’d be old now.”
“No one knows when a miracle will happen and save someone,” said Mimi. “It has to happen by surprise.”
I thought of the five thousand. Could they have known that they were about to be fed with five loaves and two fishes? DidDaniel know that God would send an angel to shut the mouths of the lions? You always had to be ready, because something might take place right under your nose and you might miss it.
“What about Monsieur CÔté, next door?” I said. “He might wake up suddenly and find out he’s had a close brush with communism. That could be a miracle.” I’d heard Father say that even your next-door neighbour could be a Communist. He said that what a man hoped for was a house to
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