The Brother
By Quentin Baker
Copyright 2011 Quentin Baker
Smashwords Edition
Dedication
To My Wife, Dorothy Jean Baker
And to My Friends and Editors: Mary McLintock and Jean Bates
Lelia Romberg, the last name she had come to be known by, didn’t find out the details of her brother in-law’s madness until the first day in her new home. True, Eduarde earlier had told her in his halting English that “Leal not too right. Long time ago.” His voice was deep and strong, but she detected a slight quavering just then. He had tried, she thought, to be matter of fact, unsuccessfully.
Eduarde Fournier and Lelia had returned from their May honeymoon week in Spokane. When they drove slowly up the paved approach to the Fournier farmhouse in Lelia’s 1947 dark brown Hudson, Lelia saw a shadow in what she remembered now was the parlor window.
“Who’s that in the house, Eduarde?” He didn’t reply, just gave a small thin grin. Lelia parked on the gravel next to his light blue pickup and they got out. Puzzled by his not responding, she looked at him gravely. He went to the back of the car and took their two suitcases and her small bag out of the trunk. He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, with long sinewy arms and very large, gnarled hands, strong as steel from the many years on the family farm.
Lelia had been surprised at how strong Eduarde was, even at sixty-four. In Spokane, when he was able to get an erection with only a slight touch of her fingers, she was even more impressed. His bull-like thrusts gave her genuine pleasure. She had married him for companionship, not sex, and so from her point of view, their honeymoon had become doubly pleasant.
He opened the farmhouse front door with a large skeleton-type key. He sat the luggage inside, turned, touched her hand, smiled, and said, “You welcome.” He didn’t make a move to pick her up, not even playfully.
She knew she had to find out what was going on, and she anxiously surveyed each room in turn but there was no trace of the person she knew she had seen. She had been in his kitchen and parlor once during their courtship. He had always met her at her house, either in his stake truck or the blue pickup, usually in the pickup, and then they would go to church, sometimes for a drive, and usually then for dinner.
Lelia had first seen this older, tall, broad-shouldered man across the social hall, bending down talking to Father De Smet, the new, young parish priest. Just before Christmas. The tall man’s gray hair was quite thin but he was not yet bald. Sixties, she thought. She had never seen him at St. Xavier’s at either social or religious functions, so she wondered who he was.
Her husband, Pete Romberg, had died two years and three months ago, and she had decided to “shake off these widows weeds” as she told her sister on the phone just last week.
“Fine,” Bernice had replied. “Just be careful.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll have to be just right.”
“Good. Remember our cousin Flora had to get an annulment from that kook she married. Thank God she didn’t open a joint bank account with the lying bastard.”
“Flora had a lot of fun that whole first year.”
“That’s true. Is it fun your looking for, Lelia?”
“No, not really. Mostly the company. But I wouldn’t mind.”
“You started young.”
“Let’s not go into that, okay?”
“Bye. Good luck.”
Lelia slowly crossed the room. The man had just moved away as she extended her hand to introduce herself to Father De Smet. Thanks hope you’ll be happy here good parish ok I’m Lelia Romberg but I’ve been thinking of taking my maiden name Poirer from near Alberton parlez vous Français bien stand you in good stead here were you speaking Français to the tall man just there good just little sorry to say my niece is fluent learned it at the U young smart thank you again for coming here, Father. I’ll see you again soon.
Now he was standing beside the coffee and snacks table. Mrs. Davenport and Mrs. Severing were serving today, but he did not appear to be talking to them, a styrofoam cup in his hand. She noted that he liked his coffee white. “Hello,” she said, smiling.
“Bon jour,” he replied.
“Ah, French.” He appeared a little uncomfortable she thought.
“Oui.” He sipped his coffee, looking more intently at her now. She noted how large, gnarled, and strong his hand was.
“My name is Lelia Romberg. This is my parish.”
“How do,” he replied. She proffered her hand. He clumsily started to transfer the coffee to his left hand and almost spilled it, then sat the cup down on the table, almost bumping an elderly woman who was standing behind him with her back to them. Finally he took her hand.
“I Eduarde. Fournier. Frenchtown.”
“Are you a farmer?”
“Oui. Barley. French?”
“Juste en peu.” He smiled broadly. Lelia felt very confident now. She had never held back her feelings. “I’m one-half French. Mon père, full French from St. Poly Carp, Quebec. My mother was English from Ohio. Lothrop.”
“Ah, Lothrop. Quelle est leur nom?”
“Que?”
“Name?”
“Oh, sorry.” He wanted her family name. “Poirer.”
“Know Poirer.” Lelia’s emotions rose in her throat.
“My brother, Robbie Poirer. Brakeman for the Milwaukee. At Alberton.” He looked very thoughtful at that moment. Even confused. “Nice to meet you,” she said in a voice that seemed to be the end of their conversation.
“Want to see Petre De Smet. Heard good.”
“Yes, I met him earlier.” She smiled, her eyes direct now. “We’re very happy to have gained him. Jesuit. But that’s okay.” She paused. “Will you be coming here to mass? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Go mass Frenchtown.”
“Good?”
“Oui. Très bon. You come sometime?”
“Well, yes, thank you. I’d like to see your church.”
“I pick up? Blue pickup.” My God, she thought. He’s going all the way.
“Thank you. But I drive and can meet you at the church. I don’t think it will be hard to find.” They both laughed. “Que time?” Kind of neat to say a little French.
“Onze. Eleven.”
“I’ll be there.” Then they stood there together, not talking, as though a part of what they both wanted had been accomplished. The silence of friends? Lelia had had to learn that in her late teens. Before that she was always nervous if there wasn’t a steady banter of words happening. For a year or two she thought she was the only one who didn’t know what to say; it was embarrassing. He’ll invite me to his house for coffee not too eager one step at a time but I think it’ll be good yes I do need to say yes thank you Eduarde.
“Got go,” he said finally and extended his hand, taking hers lightly in his upward facing palm. Kissing my hand? How French! But he didn’t. He does like me though. I think.
“Good bye, Mr. Fournier.”
“Eduarde.”
“Oui. Lelia.”
“Lelia.” He drew back his hand and, somewhat awkwardly, began to walk toward the outer door.
* * * * * * * *
“Hi, little sister.”
“Lelia. What is it? I’m just in the middle of mixing a cake. Bread is next.”
“Shall I call you back?
“No, it’s fine.”
“I’ve met him.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“You sound like a school girl. Remember how shocked mother was when she found you and Daniel, you know?”
“Never mind that. His name is Eduarde Fournier, real French, not half and half, and he’s a farmer in Frenchtown. A widower.”
“Where? When?”
“Yesterday. At St. Xavier’s welcoming social for the new priest.”
“Wow. And you know already?”
“Yes. I think he likes me. Not terribly handsome, but big, kind of shy. Sixtyish. Probably fairly well-off with that large acreage. Strong looking. Big hands.”
“So that’s him, eh?”
“I think so. Wish me luck.”
“You always did know how to get on with men. Let me know what happens.”
“Right away. Thanks, Anything happening in Superior?
“No. Same quiet life. Good.”
“Goodbye, Bernice.”
“Bye.”
It was late February when he had picked her up at her home on Stafford Street at 9:30 one Sunday morning and they went to mass at St. Xavier’s together. Nearly a foot of snow covered the sides of the roads and streets today, and was piled up on either side of sidewalks and alleys next to peoples houses, hers as well. That morning after church they had driven around Missoula slowly for nearly an hour: first along Third Street to a deep part of Orchard Homes, an area of the town that contained homes with one to two acre lots and many large gardens, and then back along Russell Street to South Higgins and then east to the Canyon. Even though Eduarde lived in Frenchtown, the small farm town west of Missoula, he seemed to enjoy driving through the city streets and admiring some of the homes that they saw. Ordinarily, the standard thing most Missoula drivers did, especially the younger ones, was to drive north up Higgins all the way to the big, circular turn around in front of the Northern Pacific Depot and then back across the bridge and south on Brooks out of town. Today, Eduarde had driven up the two-lane road into Patty Canyon. The county plowed this road all the way up to the huge picnic area about a mile from the end of Higgins Avenue. On their left the white, mostly treeless Mount Sentinel rose from the valley floor. To the left of Mount Sentinel, across from the Hellgate Canyon and Clarks Fork, was Mount Jumbo. The two mostly bare mountains overshadowed the small city.
About halfway up the Patty Canyon climb they ran out of pavement. In the summer the dirt road would have meant kicking up a large cloud of dust for half a mile more before reaching the picnic area and the very wide turn-around. Lelia imagined that this was a spot where young lovers drove to for trysts. She wondered if Angelique had gone there, but remembered that most of the boys she went out with did not have cars. She knew that one boy Angelique had gone steady with for six months had had a friend with a car.
Eduarde slowed then, and drove carefully into a narrow side road and parked. He left the engine running because they needed the heater. They had been going out for two months. He was not a very forward man or affectionate, just steady. She had wondered when he would want to make love to her, but she was no more in a hurry than he seemed to be. Maybe now, she thought, that would be good, awkward but good, why did I put on this girdle how silly— that was long ago and it wasn’t in the cab of a pickup.
He turned off the engine. He sat quietly, looking into the trees on this side that began to grow very thick beyond the clearing. They both said nothing for a very long time.
“I like.”
“Yes. It is beautiful here. I love these mountains. The trees are so beautiful and white.”
“River good.”
“Yes. I like the little streams, too. Frozen over now.
“Go fish?”
“Now?”
“No. Sometime. Summer.”
“Yes. But I’d rather just go along and watch you.” She remembered that her sister Bernice and her husband George had loved to fish Nine Mile Creek, a few miles north on the dirt road from the junction at Nine Mile on U.S. 10.
“Okay.” That was the end of the conversation. Okay, she thought. Maybe soon. Sooner than later would be good. She decided that Eduarde Fournier and Pete Romberg were complete opposites, which made her wonder what it was that made her so accommodating. Was it just sex? She knew a man’s shape and manner aroused her from time to time. This particular man was so different. She couldn’t decide what made him interesting, he just did. His interest in her also pleased her. I’ll go on I’ll see what happens what can be wrong with that?
When he asked her out again, she accepted, and this time she had said, “Yes please.” That made him chuckle. They both decided to have an early dinner. She liked the Monte Pierre Steak House, just west of town, near the Highway 93 junction. She offered to pay for the meal, but he brushed her off, smiling. He said very little during the meal, but his smile continued to charm her. Afterwards, in the pickup on the way back to Lelia’s, he had suddenly proposed. “Marry. I want marry you. Ok?”
“Oh, Eduarde,” she had intoned sweetly. “That is so nice.” She slid across the bench seat of the pickup cab to be close. She put her face near and her hand on his knee. “My being married twice before doesn’t bother you?”
“Nope. Marry?” This time it was a direct question.
“Yes, I will marry you. I want to marry you. Very much.”
“Good. Come in tell the priest demain. Prêtre De Smet. Okay?”
“Yes, that will be great.”
When they had pulled up beside her large house on the north side of town, a block away from Intermountain Lumber, she invited him in. She was sure that he would probably like some loving, and she grew a little excited about trying more than the beginning and ending light kisses that they had exchanged throughout the past several weeks. They had yet to kiss today.
“No,” Eduarde declined. “Calves. See le veaus.”
Lelia had looked at her Longine watch. It was only 4:30, even though the sky had begun to darken and the streetlights had already come on. His drive home to Frenchtown would take about 25 minutes. She decided that he was just too embarrassed to come in, perhaps even afraid. A real gentleman, she told herself, in that harsh, rugged exterior. She shrugged. He had never even walked her to her door, but she put that down to his not having dated anyone for how long? Six years? His wife had died in 1943. She leaned towards him for the light kiss. “Good bye, dear. Thank you. Let me know right away what the priest says.”
“Okay. Au revoir.”
“I love you.” She felt that she had to make that kind of a commitment. Love hadn’t even been mentioned thus far. His very broad smile made her blush broadly, and then emotion rose within her. That feeling surprised her with its force and her loins tingled. She did want him. He took her hands in his. He pulled her close and leaned down to kiss her. The kiss was still light, but Eduarde lingered and now brought more emotion along. He kissed her again.
“You be wife. ’s wonder.” He smiled broadly, but turned back to the steering wheel, gripping it tightly now.
“Yes, oh yes. It will be good.”
“Good, bien.”
“Yes, good. Thank you.”
“Yes.”
* * * * * * * *
Their lovemaking that first night in the new room, their bedroom now, was very satisfying. Somehow, quite magically, it happened just right for both of them. They drifted languorously off to sleep. Lelia suddenly woke up. She didn’t know what time it was because even though the clock was on the top of the dark wooden dresser, her glasses were on the bedside table. It was certainly not morning. Beside her Eduarde snored rhythmically, his back to her now. She heard the footsteps above. They went away from that end of the house, but then she could hear them coming down the stairs near the kitchen door at that side of the house. She lifted up, was going to nudge her new husband awake, but then thought better of it. She would just listen.
The person, she knew it had to be Leal, was in the kitchen now. She heard him open the icebox door, clink a plate, probably fill a glass with milk or juice. Then she heard him open a drawer and take something out. She lifted her head, straining to hear every move. She thought he opened a cellophane bag, probably the one containing a loaf of bread. His was there in the kitchen all of ten minutes, and then his footsteps retreated, to the door to the upstairs, and footsteps shuffled overhead again. It was quiet again. She lay there for a long time trying to decide what to do. Worried. Really worried. A kind of resentment filled her mind. Why can’t he tell me? Why? Finally she drifted back to sleep.
“He comes down every night?” she asked Eduarde at breakfast. He loved a big breakfast: sausage, ham, or bacon, two or three eggs, hash browns if there were any, fresh fruit, coffee, three slices of toast, jam. Morning was his best and his most physically difficult part of the day.
“Got to eat.”
“In the daytime too?”
“When not here. Yah. When not here.”
“Do you ever talk to him?”
“No, not for long, long time.”
“Does he leave you notes or anything like that?”
“No. I write you and me marry. You not like, eh? Not like, eh?”
“Well, it is a bit strange. I had no idea. You said that he was ‘not right,’ but I didn’t really understand how it was. Is. I don’t like it. Why didn’t you tell me more? I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me more. You don’t even want to tell me now.” She felt anger rising within her, anger she had tried to stifle.
“You leave?” Blunt. That seemed to be the way he was.
“Leave?”
“Leave.”
“No. But I am disappointed. What are we going to do?”
“Not know. You good wife.”
“Eduarde, I do love you. I am your wife. You are my husband. I am not going to leave. But we’ve got to do something. I just don’t feel safe.”
“Okay.” He reached across the breakfast table and took her hands again. “He be fine for you. He see us come. He knows. I leave note. He be fine. Brother.” Despite her anxiety, even her tinge of anger, she was somewhat reassured. He had answered her question. Still it was unsettling. Bewildered, worried, she told herself that she had to have trust. She decided she could manage the relationships unless he came down one day and Eduarde wasn’t there. If that ever happened, she didn’t know what she would do. She decided that she had to trust herself. Eduarde was her third husband, and she had lived fully so far. I can do whatever I need to do. She knew that that sounded too simple, but what else could she think?
She began to question herself. Eduarde Fournier and Peter Romberg were complete opposites. What made her so accommodating? Was it just sex? Did she miss it that much? I do like the shape of a man and the way they are, big, kind of hairy. Except that Pete was so short and so slight. So that can’t be it. I give up. See what happens.
Lunchtime came quickly that morning. She had spent the entire time tidying up what was now her kitchen, rearranging the counters and shelves. She left much of the shelves empty, placing the contents on the counters, and decided she would go to town to get shelf liners of her color and pattern. At twelve, Eduarde returned from repairing the fences that faced along the Clarks Fork on the south portion of his acreage. He was very sweaty, even though the early June weather had remained cool this year. He wore a checkered, long-sleeved flannel shirt, dark work pants, and high-topped boots. When he came through the back door into the kitchen, he took off his hat, then his shirt. He noisily washed his face, his arms, and his upper body at the kitchen sink.
Lelia held a towel for him, “Merci.” Then he leaned forward and gave her a hearty kiss. Lelia kissed him back avidly, and he left his mouth on hers for a long moment. He was French. Then he shrugged, grinned broadly. “You trés dulce, wife.” Lelia laughed. Did he want her? Apparently not, for he was starved and quickly began to eat the large lunch plate she had fixed, Italian sausages, beans, French bread, celery, and an apple. He liked tea with cream and sugar, and she had readied that. “Another cup?”
“Oui.” He paused. “Leal, you hear him today?”
“No.”
“Good. He sleepy. He stay quiet most of the day.”
“What if he comes down?”
“No come down. No. Leal, he no come down. He no talk. He got plenty to eat.
“What does he do all day?”
“Not know.”
“Does he ever go out?”
“No. Not go out.”
“It must be terrible. Living up there all by himself every day, never seeing anyone except once in awhile when someone comes up to the house.”
“He okay.”
“Eduarde. I am worried. What happened? Do you know what happened? Can you tell me?”
“Not tell. Not now.” He pushed the empty teacup and saucer toward her. Stood up. “Finish last eight posts and wire. Come in early. We go out.” He leaned to kiss her goodbye.
“Maybe we can be together this afternoon,” she said. “Before we go out. I’d like that. I love you.” Eduarde’s broad smile came easily now and his blue eyes sparkled. “You like.”
“Very much. Finish your eight posts.” She added, “Quickly.” They both laughed. Eduarde’s broad, sun-browned face, the long nose, the thin lips, the deeply lined cheeks now showed just a little red. He laughed again at his own embarrassment. Lelia leaned against him at the door, and pushed her large breasts firmly against his arm. “Quickly.”
For the next several weeks, despite her nervousness about “the man upstairs,” Lelia occupied herself moving her belongings from the North Side house that she and Peter Romberg had lived in for nearly fifteen years. She hated to leave this large, comfortable house with its beautiful rugs and fancy wallpaper, especially the very large living room, the separate dining room, and the huge kitchen with its tile floors, electric stove, and double oven. The farmhouse in Frenchtown was so spare, so plain. But she had made her decision; that was all she could say to herself. Her photographs were especially difficult to take down or to take off the tops of the dressers upstairs. Peter; Angelique and Lucien as babies, then as children, then several adult pictures of Angelique; her parents in their severe old portraits; her surviving sisters; her niece Germaine. She sat down on the one remaining chair in their old bedroom and cried for a very long time.
The company had expected her to move out eventually, of course, but they were so generous they never inquired even once about her status. It was almost as if they had forgotten about the Rombergs, but she knew that it was out of respect for Pete that they had remained so kind. If she had had some cash reserves, they would probably have entertained an offer. Owning property for Intermountain’s manager was a policy that had begun to change. It was no longer considered good management practice. Most of Lelia’s cash had been used for Pete’s funeral and to live on in the meantime, the years before her romance with Eduarde had begun. Anyway, the previous fall she had decided that a house was just that, a house. Though she thought about it a few times, she hadn’t asked Eduarde if he would want to purchase the home and rent it out. She just concentrated on trying to make the farmhouse comfortable.
When she telephoned the new manager, a Mr. Hector, Pete Romberg’s replacement, to tell him that she was moving to Frenchtown and that she had gotten married, he thanked her for letting him know and offered to send two men to the house to help her move. She would have had to hire the moving company. That was very fair.
Her spacious yard in Missoula had been a delight. The lawn was finely manicured and the flowerbeds held nasturtiums, gladiolas, buttercups, pansies and snapdragons. She had tended these flowerbeds herself, foregoing Intermountain Lumber’s obligatory services. She only let them mow the lawn and trim the bushes. Here there were no flowerbeds, but soil was very rich there in the valley, everywhere, so that was, for Lelia, something to look forward to. Her very own flowerbeds, hers to plan, plant, and care for. She had already gone through the seed catalogs, sampling the kinds of flowers and what kind of mulch she would use to get them off to a healthy start.
“Eduarde, I have all this furniture. Three bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen, plus all the stuff Pete and I had in the garage. You know, lawn chairs, tools, fertilizer, wood for the fireplace. All that stuff. The company, Intermountain is sending two men over next week to help me move out of Stafford Street.”
“Bring here.”
“Here? I don’t think so. There’s too much. I think I should just place it with the ABC Auction and sell it all. Maybe put the furniture upstairs? Would he mind?”
“No, but Leal got plenty. Leave alone.”
“Oh. Auction it off then. That seems the best.”
“No. Store in barn. Extra barn, over there,” he gestured toward the smaller barn, which she hadn’t even noticed yet, on the left side of the huge shed containing all the major farm implements. “Cover. Dry. Be fine. Wait September. Frenchtown auction best. Lotta money.”
So that is what they decided. Lelia arranged for everything to be moved to the small barn, and then a few days later she returned to Stafford Street to oversee the loading of the moving van. Eduarde readied the cover for her store of furniture, rugs, appliances, and everything else with large cotton bedspreads that he brought up from the cellar and large tarpaulins that he had stored in one corner of the implements shed. All the pieces and the extras took up fully one quarter of the barn. That would do until haying time, and by then the September auction would have taken place. The populace of Frenchtown and the surrounding farms and businesses along Highway 10 were always enthusiastic about the big September auction. The main farm auctioneer, whom everyone loved for his voice and delivery, would be in charge.
Lelia now felt that her new life had finally begun. She would start her summer flowerbeds soon. Their lives together fitted into a pleasant routine. Eduarde left very early each morning for the fields and sheds, and then returned about eight-thirty or nine for the sumptuous breakfast she always prepared for him. But first he would bring her the Daily Missoulian from its yellow metal sleeve next to the post office box at the front gate, and then he would continue on to the barn, the pens, the sheds, or the fields. She would read the paper in the time in between, not a huge task. Her niece Germaine would often send her a clipping from time to time from real newspapers, the ones from Seattle, New York, once a Miami paper, and even Paris, the International Herald Tribune. She remembered how nice it was to read the LA Times during Pete’s and her four days in Pasadena. He was also a man who got up early, ventured out, and returned with coffee, the Times, and two croissants or breakfast cake. She loved that.
The Missoulian had only twenty pages on the best of days. She would also listen to the morning news. She thought she should learn what the animal auction information was all about so that she could tell him how, for instance, pork bellies were doing that morning. Once a week, sometimes twice, depending upon the season, the local station’s farm news brought a two to three minute piece which contained the voice of the auctioneer spieling a cattle or pig sale, that rapid fire voice of the auctioneer was a treat to her Missoula ears.
Leal occupied hardly any part of their conversations. She even began not to hear him come down during the night. Similarly, her sister lived in the depot at Superior and said that now she never heard the two night trains, No 7 West and No 8 East that came through every night. These trains stopped most nights to unload freight just on the other side of the wall from her and George’s bedroom. Nor did Lelia question her husband about Leal much. Her French was as halting as his English, even though both of them had grown up within twenty miles of each other.
Still, Leal hovered in her mind. She worried less now that he had said that “He be fine for you.”
“Eduarde, darling?”
“Oui.”
“What happened to your brother? How did it all begin?”
“Not know.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“Just stay home. Stay in. Cry.”
“When?”
“Little. Dix, onze ans. douze “
“Really, that young?”
“Oui. We go to pond. Shoot ducks. He no ever go again. I go alone.”
When she had first come to live there, he had taken her out to the large pond about three hundred yards south of the house. A small warm spring filled the pond, a rather large pond with very steep banks, probably ten feet deep on all sides. The onrushing Clarks Fork, shallow in that stretch of the river sounded far in the distance. He took her hand and they clambered up a small rise, parted the heavy bushes surrounding the pond, and she saw the pond. It was clear, blue from the reflection of the sky. Often, in all of the seasons, mallards and sometimes black ducks moved serenely back and forth across the surface, nibbling at the grasses that grew upward on the steep banks. The pool was perhaps ten to twelve feet deep. If anyone slipped down into the water, he might easily have drowned. It might have begun as a gravel pit or some kind or a cesspool perhaps at the beginning of the century, and perhaps its nearness to the river was the cause of the spring. What caused it to stay warm had remained a mystery.
“How did you learn to shoot?”
“Old Fournier, mon papa. He teach. Both.”
“Big guns?”
“Oui. 410; 22; 40.06; pistol; 20 shotgun; him the worst.”
“Hurt?
“Oui, très mauvais.” He looked away. He had been thirteen then, Leal eleven. He still remembered his embarrassing tears. But he squeezed the tears back and held the gun as steady as he could, aimed again as his father, talked to him in a low, understanding, comforting voice, directed, and pulled the trigger again. The second time was almost as bad, but he felt better. His shoulder and upper chest would hurt all week, but he had fired the 20 gauge. He could be proud, his father said.
“Your papa and mama just let him stay home.”
“Non. Worse. Septembre time for school. I t’ink five grade. Leal, he start to cry in breakfast. Papa listen then tell him, arrête, Leal, arrête!’ He no stop. Papa make him go to low tree, break, how you say, lime?”
“Limb.”
“Limb, bring back to kitchen; papa whip him with limb. He screamin.” Mama cry, go parlor, shut door.”
“Every day? Your father beat him every day?”
“No. Two, t’ree days. Give up. Send Leal upstairs. Tell mama, no food. Get bolt. Mama go Frenchtown Merc, get lock. Papa puts on evenin’. I get home. Leal bang on door, cry. Mama, papa talk bad. Say mad t’ings. Mama cry.”
“How horrible, horrible. What did you do?”
“Not’ing. I not cry. Hold back cry. Papa open door. Leal eat’n us dinner. Papa say, ‘Leal. Go school demain.’ He cry more. Papa grab over table, drag to upstairs door. Push lui in. Bolt. Say, ‘Eduarde, sleep sofa.’
“Oui, Papa.”
“Go school demain.”
“Oui, Papa.”
“‘Good boy. Bien homme.’ Mama cry quiet, maybe cry all night.”
Lelia didn’t ask, but difficulties remained. Did Eduarde hate his father at that moment? Did his brother hate their father? Did his mother hate her husband? Did Leal hate Eduarde for being the normal one? What happened when Old Fournier and his wife died? She couldn’t imagine how he had been able to grow up and lead a normal life. Her own sister had drowned when she was a young child. That had been horrible. But here, now, these two men had lived lives of exclusion for all these years.
One day at lunchtime, Eduarde came through the side door, washed noisily at the kitchen sink, dried himself on the large towel that Lelia provided, and as he sat down with her to eat, announced, “Go to coast.”
“Coast.”
“Yah, go Tacoma, Seetle, see ocean. Take a week. Take you car.”
“Well, this is a surprise,” she replied. “I think it is just grand that you want to do that. What about the farm?”
“Get Frank. Ingles. Good worker. Deschamps, Levalier, LeVasseur, he work them. Good worker.”
“Great. When will we leave?”
“Friday mebbe. OK?”
“Friday is fine. I’ll have time to pack, get out the maps, and plan where to stop and stay over. All that. It will be just great. I went to the Rose Bowl with Pete in 1946. We had the best time. It was just after that that Lucien came down sick. Just after we got back. I wouldn’t have gone if I had known what was happening, but we had a wonderful time.
Lelia brimmed joyously with his idea that they go off to Washington. The rest of the week she made several lists and began filling each of them. She worried over Leal, her new brother-in-law, the strange man who lived alone upstairs. As far as she could tell, Eduarde had only left the farm twice, once when his grandmother died, up in Alberta, Canada, and on his and her honeymoon in Spokane.
“Leal, Eduarde, what about Leal?”
“He be fine. Get in plenty food. Warm now. He good.”
“Will he live down here while we are gone?”
He shrugged. “Not know. Just get food. Talk Frank Smith. He okay.”
“I hope you’re right. But it worries me.”
“Not worry.” He caught her up in a strong embrace, held her tightly, kissed the side of her head, and then her forehead. “Leal be okay. Big homme.”
“But so strange, Eduarde. So strange. Isn’t there more we could be doing?”
Eduarde shrugged again. That seemed to be his only real answer to what had become a deeper question between them. Leal was his brother. What could she do? Still, she knew that sometime, somehow, they would have act, would have to do something.
Frank Smith, his accent preceding him, was an Englishman, a recent immigrant. Why he chose the Frenchtown valley no one quite knew. It was said that he was very good with animals and with his hands and could fix almost anything or could come up with an idea to improve the way a machine worked or the way crops were planted. Unmarried, at least here in the valley, he became quite popular with the thirty or so, mainly French, farm families. As Eduarde had said to Lelia, “good worker.” The LeVasseurs and Levaliers spoke highly of him, and that was enough for Eduarde. Old Deschamps told Eduarde that he had talked to Smith about his taking care of their place from January to April next year.
Eduarde Fournier introduced Frank Smith to Lelia Thursday morning of the week they were to leave. He showed up a little after eight. Eduarde was washing noisily at the kitchen sink, soaking his arms, his face, his head. Lelia handed the big mauve towel to her husband and opened the door to Smith.
“Mrs. Fournier, good morning.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, extending her hand. “We’ve been expecting you. Please eat breakfast with us; I’ve cooked extra everything. I hope you like a lot of food. My husband’s breakfast is his big meal of the day.”
“Well, I…”
“No excuses,” she said firmly. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Wife bien good cook, Smith.” Eduarde had finished drying himself and handed the towel back to Lelia.
That was that. Smith and Eduarde shook hands and then they moved to the corner of the kitchen and sat down to large bowls of oatmeal, with brown sugar and raisins. Eduarde always brought in a large pitcher of unseparated milk for breakfast cereal. Lelia busied herself with the ham, bacon, eggs, and a loaf of white Wonder bread.
Eduarde explained all the tasks for next week, mostly in French, and Frank Smith nodded knowledgeably, mixing in a “oui” here and there.
“Milk the two cows once a day? Early? Calves weaned?”
“Oui. Uhh, Frank Smith, uhh come early weekend, feed animals, milk Aramel and Filomel?”
The man laughed. “That’s what you call them? That’s great.”
Once Frank Smith said “que?” over the litter of new pigs that was expected in a week or two, but that was immediately sorted out. If there turned out be a piglet that was a runt, Frank Smith was to hand-feed the runt for a few days. Eduarde would put a baby bottle full of milk in the icebox, and Frank Smith would take it with him when he made his daily check of Big Beauty. He gave Frank Smith a key to the front door.
“Want me to work with you today, Eduarde?” Smith said in English. Eduarde shrugged. Lelia intervened, touching his arm and nodding yes.
“Okay. Work aujourdui.”
“Meet the two wonderful cows.”
“Sure.” The two of them would be able to finish early, Eduarde could take a good rest, and then he and Lelia could begin the last bit of packing, sorting, and getting the Hudson ready.
“So, one week.”
“Mebbe ten day.”
“Leal,” said Lelia, butting in.
“He good, Frank Smith. He upstairs,” indicating with his head. “Plenty food. Not worry.”
“Okay.”
“So, work?”
“Oui.”
Eduarde pushed back from the table, stood up, moved away toward the water closet behind their bedroom.
“One more cup,” Lelia offered.
“No, no thank you. Your breakfast was brilliant. Thank you very much.”
“Our big meal of the day,” she said.
“Guess his brother’ll have the run of the house while you’re gone,” he ventured, inquisitive.
“I don’t really know. I don’t know what happens when we’re out.”
“How long has it been?”
“What?”
“Him. If you don’t mind.”
“Quite a few years, I’m afraid. Eduarde never wants to talk much about the situation. Too hard for him.”
“I can understand that, yes.”
“Eduarde and I have only been married three months.”
“Well, thanks.” He rose quickly. Eduarde had returned, his felt work hat in his hand. She gave him her customary peck on the lips and began to clean up breakfast.
She went into the bedroom to pack the folded clothes they had chosen. First she set out ten days of each of their items and sat them in neat piles on the bed. When he came in from work, he could check what she had done and make any changes. She took out his best-looking trousers and shirts, wanting him to look good wherever they went. Ten days of underwear and socks. As she did this chore, her mind wandered back to her life with Pete, their trips, their joy, and their trials.
* * * * * * * *
Eduarde returned from Frenchtown Central Market about 10:00 Friday morning, the bed of the blue pickup laden with eight sacks of groceries. Frank Smith had reported for work early that day, had had Lelia’s full breakfast, and was now down in the southern fields, today working on the eroded portion near the corner fence at the far end of the property, near the river.
Eduarde handed the bags through the kitchen doorway, and Lelia carried them one by one to the large kitchen table. “You bought a load.”
“Yep. Week mebbe ten. Milk in icebox. Fruit. Légumes. Rest okay.
“How do you know what to buy, what he likes?”
“He like most. Leave some. No cook.”
“Will he cook while we’re gone?”
“Not know. Never go. Never know.”
“Is it safe for him to cook?”
“Not know. Guess okay. Has little stove.” Of course. She had seen the stovepipe at the other end of their larger one, a Franklin, which warmed the house from the parlor.
“Does he burn wood?” she asked, puzzled. “Are you ever worried that he might start a fire?”
“No. No fire yet. Worry you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess not really. If you’re not worried, I don’t know why I should be. You’ve lived with him for a very long time.”
“Oui.”
They finished sorting out the groceries. Eduarde left most of them in the bags on the table. It was his way of giving his brother something different to do, a small discovery, a communication. Lelia had yet to note any kind of exchange between the two other than their seeming agreement to keep out of each other’s way. The daytime brother: the brother of the night. She rather marveled at this and could not imagine how their arrangement had worked all these years.
“Ready, wife?”
“Ready.” He had put all their cases and bags of supplies into her Hudson.
“I like,” he said, smiling, patting the top of the auto as he stepped down into the sunken floorboard of this new model.
“Yes, me too. It’s a very good car.”
“Last long time?”
“Oh yes, it’ll last for years. Pete and I had only three cars all the years we were married, and I got the Hudson last year with some of the insurance money. The Chrysler was old and too big for me as well. Do you want me to drive first?”
“Oui. Yes. I like see ever ting.”
“I thought our first stop would be in Superior. I’d like to see Bernice.”
“Not come to wedding?”
“No, she didn’t. Something about not being able to get away. Julienne came. Remember. My brother’s wife. Of all the people that I wished to see at our wedding, it was Julienne who showed up.”
“I not talk much.” Their wedding had been mostly informal even though conducted in the small Catholic Church in the town. The Frenchtown priest had been fine with Petre De Smet officiating. Word of mouth had been the means of welcoming would be guests. Julienne and Robbie had heard about it somehow and had turned up. Julienne had even brought them a gift, a very large, light blue glass flower bowl. Quite elegant.
“She’s like that,” Lelia had explained to her new husband. “She’ll worm her way into your confidence and then, if she can get something on you, she’ll try to sell you something, steal something from you, or file a claim against you. One day I’ll tell you what she did to the Jeffers when they lived in Helena.”
Although Eduarde actually did not take in much of this explanation of Julienne’s supposed machinations, he had previously heard of her. Even Frenchtown had a grapevine. It spoke of this dark-haired, full-figured woman in Alberton who was known to entertain men when her husband was on the western run to Avery, Idaho, or the eastern run to Deer Lodge. The grapevine also attested as to how vivacious she was, and how skilled. But Eduarde, who had not met her except at the short wedding reception, thought it best not to mention these rumors to Lelia. He didn’t know how much she knew about this aspect of her sister-in-law’s social life.
“I’m not going to stop in Alberton, that’s for sure. Robbie is probably on a run anyway. I don’t care to talk to her. I’ll stop at the depot in Superior. You don’t mind, do you?
“No. Your sister.”
“Bernice. Lucille, the one who drowned, was the oldest.” Yes, Eduarde had heard of the tragedy. Who hadn’t? “Bernice and George, the agent.
“Rhonda is the oldest, I’m second, Bernice is third, and Robbie is the youngest,” his wife continued. “You’re sure stopping to see Bernice is okay?”
“Is fine. You drivin’.”
The highway followed the river for the most part, but high up, along the sides of the mountains, dropping down from time to time to run along the river and through the flats that also occasionally occurred along the bases of the heavily forested slopes. The highway crosses the deep parts of the river twice between Alberton and Superior on very high, steel bridges beautifully engineered if one took the time to stop and study them.
“Here’s where the black Buick went through the guard rail and fell down the embankment. It dropped right into one of those huge holes near the bridge pier.”
“Plenty deep,” Eduarde reflected as the Hudson sped along.
“You could put a whole house in some of those holes.”
“Plenty fish?”
“Don’t know. Ask George Jeffers. I don’t know if he fished along here or not. Probably not. It is a real tough climb down and probably not very good for moving along the side of the river either. So steep. I know for sure that Pete Romberg and Angelique never fished here. Too dangerous.”
Approaching Superior, one came around the side of the mountain. The Clarks Fork, a quarter mile down, ran smoothly and straight through the middle of Superior. Just before one dipped down into the town area of about four blocks, one saw the two-lane bridge that connected both sides of the small town. The Hudson climbed up the western rise of the highway, and just past the Standard station with its large glass sign, pulled off the highway onto a dirt road towards the railroad tracks with the steep riverbank below. Lelia pulled up next to what was the freight house part of the one story depot, with its four-room residence in the middle, the office next to the kitchen, and the small waiting room on the other side. Counter to ceiling bars divided that part of the depot, with a glass business window opening into the waiting room. The building was painted red; across the river on the other side of Superior, the Northern Pacific depot, a somewhat larger structure with more out buildings around it, was painted black.
“Did I miss little Georgie again?” Lelia asked her sister when the residence door of the depot opened.
“Well, well, what a pleasant surprise,” smiled Bernice broadly. The black and white Springer spaniel Jack had moseyed over from his cool spot outside below the living room window to see who had come. Eduarde put his hand down for the dog to tentatively sniff and get a first angle on the strangers.
“You haven’t met Eduarde. Eduarde, this is Bernice, my little sister, the one you’ve heard so much about.”
“Bon jour, very pleased,” said Eduarde, tipping his hat and then removing it. They stood inside now.
“Daddy!” Bernice called out loudly toward the kitchen and office. “It’s Lelia and her new husband, Eduarde.” All of them were smiles, still standing in the living room. “Please, sit down. I’ll bet you could eat a nice morning snack. I don’t have much, but can make us a plate of cheese and crackers and thuringer. Do you like thuringer, Eduarde?” He nodded, but Lelia replied, “Oh, no, no thanks. We always eat a huge breakfast. You know how farmers are and I’m afraid I’ve gotten to like those kind of breakfasts—maybe too much.” She laughed at herself, looking down at her paunch. Eduarde wouldn’t have minded a snack; he thought they wouldn’t have lunch until they reached Coeur d’Alene, but he said nothing.
George Jeffers, the agent, came through the doorway from the kitchen. Lelia moved to meet him, folded her arms around him and kissed him solidly on his cheek. “Well, well, well, this is a very pleasant surprise. You’re French aren’t you, Lelia? How about the other cheek?”
“Oh, George. This is my husband, Eduarde. Eduarde Fournier” The two men shook hands. Eduarde towered above Agent Jeffers, who had left his telegraphers’ visor on. His baldhead showed above the bill.
“How do you do.”
“Bon jour, Monsieur Jeffers.”
“No, no, none of that. George. George, please.” Bernice took Eduarde’s hat and hung it on a peg with other coats and hats beside the front door. “Coffee,” said Bernice. “Surely you’ll have a cup of coffee. You still drink coffee, don’t you sister?”
“Oh yes, that would be good, eh Eduarde?”
“Oui, merci.”
“So you speak mostly French, eh Eduarde?” George asked. Bernice sidled away into the tiny kitchen. “That’s good, but I bet you have to use English a lot in the business part of your farming.”
“Oh yes,” replied Eduarde. “Pretty much. Bank. Seed store. Catalog. Shop.
“Your wife and I could both be speaking French and English,” put in Lelia. “You know our father was full-blood French Canadian.”
“Yes, Bernice has told me many times. Mrs. Brown. Ohio. Felicity, what a nice name. They had great names in those days. She knew no French and preferred English. I guess she and Old Durer didn’t let a little thing like lingo get in their way.” His eyes sparkled.
“You’re right there, George. Kinda like lightning. When we were growing up our father was so busy clearing the land, building fences, fighting the river, he left all us kids to her. Even at dinner we spoke English. Once in a while he would say something, but usually he ate quickly, head down, and then got up and went off to the parlor.”
“He had a few French books and he would read them. Probably over and over. At least that’s what I remember,” said Bernice, coming back into the small living room with the tall chrome coffee pot on its silver tray, four China cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and the requisite spoons.
“And go to bed early,” remembered Lelia. “That man went to bed shortly after the chickens and got up shortly before.” The four of them chuckled. Her sister provided sugar cubes in a small container. Lelia helped herself to the cream and one sugar cube. Eduarde took two cubes, no cream. George clucked, “Never could see why anyone would spoil good, strong coffee with cream and sugar. When Georgie and I go pheasant hunting up by Ronan in the fall, he always wants to have a coffee when we get up to go. Even that little boy drinks his one cup of coffee a year black.”
“I remember that papa, we called him papa, often spoke of St. Poly Carp, Quebec province. I’d like to go there one day. Wonder how many Durers still live there? His brother, Sebastian Durer, came out west too, but he missed the turn.”
Jeffers said, “Missed the turn?”
His wife laughed, delighted at that detail of the family saga. “Yes, took a wrong turn, drifted north, and wound up in Alberta. Settled on the edge of a beautiful lake, I think. Wheat. But cold. Really cold.”
George Jeffers put in, “Can’t be much colder than here. Last winter it got down to forty below for a whole week. By the way, Eduarde, where did your family come from? Straight from France?”
“Non. Vermont. Way north.”
“Is that so. So you are an American citizen?”
“Oui.”
“Well that’s good to know. Bernice, was your dad a citizen?”
“I really don’t know. It never came up. That’s something to look into sometime, huh?”
“Ever been in a telegrapher’s office, Eduarde?” George asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Come on then, I’ll show you the ropes.” He lead his new brother-in-law through the kitchen and on into the “depot” part of the building.
“Well?” asked Lelia.
“What?”
“What do you think?”
“Oh,” she said, finally catching on. “I approve.”
“Thanks. But what do you really think?”
“Very nice. Big. Strong. That grip! I think you’ve done the right thing. Like with Pete. I always loved Pete.”
“Thanks. Only one flaw, his brother. He has a crazy brother. Lives upstairs.”
“Really? That is weird.”
“Leal. That’s his name. Two years younger. Been a recluse since he was a boy. Made to live upstairs by the old Fourniers. We hear him in the night when he comes down to eat.”
“Oh my, that is so strange. Are you worried.”?
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” She stifled a cry. Bernice enfolded her in her arms and hugged her. “We’ve talked about it.” Now she did give a sob. “Eduarde says it will be fine, and now we are off to Settle as he calls it, for ten days. That should be fun.” She was back to her old self now.
Bernice released her. “I’d like to do that myself. Maybe you’ll sort it all out on your trip. I hope so. I wish I could go to ‘Settle.’ I’d like to do that.” Bernice stood apart from Lelia then, but took her hands. “I’m sorry that we couldn’t make it to the wedding. George just can’t leave his telegraph for that long a time. We understood. It was a nice wedding. Informal. Not too many came, but enough to make it enjoyable.
“And Robbie told me that you went to Spokane for your honeymoon. Nice.”
“He was here?”
“428 stopped. They had a problem and were late and the Hiawatha was coming, so they had to pull off on the siding here. He walked up to the depot and chatted with me for a time. It was nice. None of us see much of him, do we?”
“Not a great loss, would you say?”
“Now Lelia. He is our brother.”
“Sometimes I wonder. Though they did come to the wedding. Bought us a lovely vase.”
“Rhonda didn’t come?”
George Jeffers and Eduarde came back through the kitchen and into the small living room. “No, you know how she is,” continued Lelia. “So set in her ways. I don’t think she ever approved of my divorcing Rodney Strong; I know she didn’t like Pete Romberg. Said one day that he was way too old for me, that I’d wear him out in a short time. That was an awful thing to say.”
“What are you talking about?” asked George Jeffers.
“This and that,” Bernice smiled. “Family. I guess we’re lucky, because she always invites Georgie to go and stay with them during the spring and summer.”
“Really?”
“Rhonda and William?” asked her husband.
“Yes. We worked out a system, haven’t we George. Talked to the Mayos, and the Eddy Bread truck comes on Friday. The driver is happy to have Georgie ride with him and drops him off at the gate of Rhonda’s farm just before Nine Mile. I just drop Rhonda a card or call her and they watch for him in the late afternoon. He has been twice already. He loves it. We drive up and pick him up Sunday afternoon. Sometimes stay for dinner. Billie and Dad and Vern sometimes go up to Nine-Mile House. When they do, I have to drive home.”
“Gives us a whole weekend alone,” said George Jeffers, smiling broadly.
“That’s really good,” said Lelia. “I mean about them inviting Georgie. I should invite him up to our place too. If we knew about what time the truck would come, I could be waiting at the Frenchtown turnoff.”
“Let’s talk about it. Give me a ring or write a letter. Okay?” Just then George’s ear picked up the urgent tap-tap-tap of a message. “Oh, I’ve go to go take that. Dispatcher. Sorry. Excuse me. Been good to talk to you Eduarde, and you too Lelia. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“We must be going,” said Lelia. Eduarde stood up and walked toward the door to retrieve his hat.
“Seattle, eh?”
“Yes.”
“That is really good.” Her voice dropped down. “You are a lucky woman, sister.”
“Thanks. Yes, I think I’ve really done it this time.” Both women laughed, and then Bernice took Eduarde’s hand. “George and I haven’t got your present yet,” she smiled. “But we’ve been shopping. Catalogue. Anyway, we have a year to give you something, right?”
“Right.”
“Adieu, Madame Jeffers,” Eduarde intoned. “Good meetin’ you. Come see, okay?”
“Okay.” The two sisters clutched each other tightly and kissed each other on the cheek. “I’m so glad you stopped by. Please, call or write me, we must get together more often.”
“Yes. Bye.” Bernice held the door for them, stepped out on the stone path, watched them get into Hudson, and waved heartily too them as they backed, turned, and pointed the car back toward the highway. Lelia honked the horn twice in farewell.
* * * * * * * * *
The drive from Superior to St. Regis is particularly interesting. The highway is quite flat and mostly straight. Dark, heavily forested mountains grace the north side, with occasional dark rockslides having gashed through the trees. “Watch for Falling Rock” signs pop up along the way where these rocks piles threaten the highway. Whether these small breaks in the forest is a result of the building of Highway 10 or the natural tearing down of Montana hills is unclear.
The river runs calmly along, just to the south and the highway follows it unless the river bends sharply and heads through several of narrow mountain passages, passages where it changes in moments from placid coursing to turbulent rapids. The river is brown.
“In Papa’s time,” Lelia said, “We used to bring water up from the river. That was before he had the well drilled. Well drilling cost $100 dollars in those days, so we had to wait on a well for quite a few years. Just dip the milk buckets in the river where it ran close below a grassy bank, fill them up, and then pour them in the milk can. Bernice and I would carry the can up to the house for mother.”
“Me too,” her passenger replied. They both smiled broadly to think that on a given day, the two brothers and the two sisters had trekked up the gentle slopes from the river, carrying the heavy cans and stopping several times along the way to rest and catch their breaths. “Leal want make cart. Joe pull cart n’ water.”
“Joe?”
“Dog. Grand chien.” He held his hand out to show the size of the animal.
“What a good idea.”
“Not do.”
“No?”
“Not do.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Toujours. Not do.”
“What a shame. That would have been fun.” Then returning to the subject, she said, “You can’t drink that river water now.”
“No.”
“Not even way down here. Pete and Angelique would drink out of the St. Regis when they fished, but not the Clarks Fork. Too many sewers all along, and then the mines in Butte and the smelter in Anaconda. I can’t even think about all the poison they put in the feeder creeks.”