Charles the Bold Page 11

  With his eyes fixed on Charles, Henri was completely caught up in the adventures of Alice, which he already knew from looking at comic books. From time to time Charles showed him an illustration and then continued reading. They had arrived at the episode of the croquet game when a series of loud barks from the basement suddenly reminded the entire house that a dog’s patience, even a dog as accommodating at Boff, had its limits. Going down to get him, Fernand discovered that the dog had chewed on one of the legs of the high chair in which Lucie had learned to use a spoon when she was a baby, and which had since been used by both their children.

  “You try that again, you,” growled the hardware-store owner, seizing the dog by its ears, “and I’ll dip your tail in turpentine and set fire to it!”

  Grade Two continued to hobble along for Charles under the iron fist of Madame Cotruche, and he finished the year with mediocre results. He did, however, develop a remarkable capacity for smiling while receiving clips to the back of the head or having his ear pinched. And he knew how to instantly stop the teacher’s severest yelling fits with a single word.

  “What did Jacques Cartier discover in 1534?” she asked one rainy afternoon in June, raising a menacing index finger above the class.

  “The Jacques Cartier Bridge,” Charles answered.

  “You got the knack, Thibodeau,” Fats Dubé said to him afterwards, during recess. “I always thought she had her jaws wired shut, but you really cracked her up, she was laughing so hard.”

  “Yeah, just lucky, I guess,” Charles said modestly.

  Lady Luck seemed, without any possible doubt, to be smiling on Charles again when, in Grade Three (he was just about to turn nine), he found that Mademoiselle Laramée was no longer teaching the babies in Grade One but had been assigned to his class.

  A few weeks after returning to school, Charles gave her a huge thrill. As the bell rang announcing the end of the last class, he approached her desk with a big smile and brought a book out of his school bag. It was Through the Looking-Glass, the sequel to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He had been given it by Sylvie and Wilfrid as a birthday present.

  “I’ve already read it twice,” he said proudly. “But I like the book you gave me much better. It’s the best book I’ve ever read!”

  “Oh Charles, Charles,” she cried, overcome by a fit of maternal lyricism, “if I’d had a boy of my own I would so much have wanted him to be you, no one but you!”

  Flushed with pleasure, she combed his hair with her fingers; but then her pedagogical instincts shouldered their way to the fore:

  “You read other things, too, I hope?”

  “Uh … yes. Comic books, mostly.”

  “Not other books?”

  “Yes, some … But I really like Alice.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s good, Alice is a good book, I agree entirely, that’s why I gave it to you. But there are many other interesting books out there. Some of them even more interesting than Alice! If you want, I’ll take you to the library one day.”

  Charles nodded politely. At the moment, Alice, Henri, Boff, and television were more than enough for him.

  As it turned out, the most significant event of that year would have nothing to do with reading: it would involve the diabolical resurrection of Boff.

  9

  It happened one evening in April 1976. Wilfrid came home around six o’clock in one of those tired, irritable moods that follow a bad day. That afternoon his foreman, after swearing at him in front of his fellow workers, made him take apart a stairway he’d been sweating over for hours. For the first time in his career as a carpenter, he confided to Sylvie, whom he had chosen as a vessel for his furious outpouring, the threat of being fired was hanging over his head. His whole reputation could be ruined. And why? Because the blueprints were drawn up by some greenhorn architect who’d never held a hammer in his life and who knew as much about construction as a whale’s ass. They were so totally incomprehensible he’d had to call the architect ten times a day to figure out what the hell they meant.

  Charles was listening from his bedroom, lying on his bed beside Boff, who was asleep. He could tell it was going to be a tricky evening. He’d have to tread softly, and maybe quickly.

  “Bring me a beer,” Wilfrid called to Sylvie.

  “Maybe you should eat something first,” she replied, also sensing what was in store. “I kept your supper warm.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  There was the sound of a bottle being opened in the kitchen and Wilfrid guzzling a beer. But instead of bringing on a feeling of benign well-being that would lead to the gradual return of good spirits and eventually plunge him into the arms of Morpheus, the alcohol merely exacerbated his foul mood – as well as his thirst! After an hour, Sylvie tried to encourage him to go to bed, but Wilfrid, waving two twenty-dollar bills, stood up, face red as a beet, lips curled into an ugly sneer, and began looking for his coat. He was going to go down to the corner store for a fresh supply of beer. Just then, Boff appeared in the kitchen and quietly crossed over to his bowl. After lapping up a bit of water, he spied Wilfrid’s coat, which had fallen off its hook and was lying on the floor beside the dryer, and decided to curl up on it for a short nap.

  The volume of the discussion between Wilfrid and Sylvie had risen alarmingly. Sylvie noted with her usual bluntness that Wilfrid’s damaged reputation probably had more to do with his numerous mornings-after than with a few criticisms from his foreman.

  “If you drank a bit less beer and got a bit more sleep, maybe you wouldn’t make so many mistakes building staircases.”

  Wilfrid stiffened and sucked in his cheeks at the remark, giving his cheekbones a distinctly menacing prominence.

  “When I want advice about how to live my life from a goddamn nothing like you, I’ll ask for it! If I hadn’t picked you up in the restaurant, where do you think you’d be today? Eh?”

  This was met by a burst of mocking laughter.

  “Right! Where the hell is my goddamn coat?” he yelled, lumbering around the room in search of it. His eye fell on Boff. “What are you doing, you filthy beast? Get the hell off my coat!”

  And he buried the toe of his boot in the dog’s side. Boff let out a sharp yelp and scurried out of the room. In his anger, however, Wilfrid lost his balance and fell over backwards, banging his head on the corner of the table.

  Charles watched the scene in horror from the kitchen doorway. His father, lying on the floor partly stunned, was staring up at the ceiling, muttering incomprehensibly, a dark pool of blood spreading rapidly behind his right shoulder.

  “You big oaf!” Sylvie cried, helping him to his feet. “Look what you’ve done to yourself, losing your temper like that! Have you split your skull open or what? Come here, I’ll have to put a bandage on that. You might even have to go to the hospital, you stupid drunk!”

  They made their way to the bathroom without noticing Charles. The boy looked at the pool of blood in the middle of the kitchen floor, then at the trail of spots leading to the bathroom, and then went to find Boff. The dog was in the living room, hiding behind a chair; he stared up at Charles with huge, fearful eyes. When Charles tried to touch him, he began to whimper then crawled on his belly into a corner. Distraught, Charles went back to his room and sat on the side of his bed, listening to the conversation coming from the bathroom.

  “Ow! That peroxide bloody well hurts!”

  “Good. I hope it burns like hell! In fact, hell isn’t hot enough for my liking, you asshole!” Sylvie fumed. “And to think you’re the head of this household. What kind of example do you think you’re setting for your son?”

  “Forget the bloody sermon, will you? Ouch! And get a move on with that goddamn bandage. My legs are giving out on me, you’re hurting me so much.”

  “Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson! I can just see you at work tomorrow … you’re going to build a staircase upside down!”

  When they returned to the kitchen, the first thing Wilfrid did was put on
his coat.

  “What?” Sylvie cried indignantly, hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go on drinking after this!”

  He turned to her:

  “Shut your mouth! I’ve had enough of you for one night!”

  His expression did not invite a reply. She gave a deep sigh, opened the kitchen closet and took out a bucket and mop to clean up the floor.

  “Where’s my money?” Thibodeau demanded suddenly, lifting up the newspapers that were on the table. He looked all about, anxiously at first, then becoming more and more agitated.

  “It was right here a minute ago. Did it fall on the floor?”

  Sylvie, bent over beside him with the mop in her hands, remained silent, having decided to sulk.

  Wilfrid searched the kitchen high and low. He scanned the floor, pulled out the chairs, looked in the garbage pail, groped in all the nooks and crannies, even opened all the cupboards.

  No money.

  Furious, he stalked up and down the hall, although he hadn’t been there with the money in his hand. Then, turning his head, he saw Boff chewing on something in the living room.

  “What have you got there, you!” he cried, suddenly struck by a horrifying thought.

  He had barely entered the room when the dog leapt up, squirmed between his legs, and was gone. Unfortunately, he left behind a fragment of chewed-up paper, irrefutable evidence of his revenge. On the scrap of paper Wilfrid made out a bit of Queen Elizabeth’s hair and her left eye, which looked a little sad at having been ripped from the royal face.

  The carpenter let out a yelp. He held the piece of banknote up to his eye and then at arm’s length, as though unable to believe that the object he was holding was anything but a cruel hallucination.

  “He … he … he ate my twenties!” he finally yelled, so choked with rage that the words came out sounding high and screechy. “Sylvie! Come here and look at this! Come here! That goddamned dog ate my money!”

  Sylvie appeared in the doorway and looked at the wad of paper that he shoved in her face.

  “My, my,” she said, barely managing to keep from laughing. “He’s pretty quick, too, I’d say. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as they say.”

  The carpenter stared at her, his face turning purple, his cheeks radish red, and his lower jaw quivering.

  “Is that all you can say?” he finally spurted. “Forty bucks down the toilet? Easy to see it wasn’t you who earned it! I’ll give him an eye and a tooth, goddamnit. Charles!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Bring that dog out here!”

  Charles, still sitting on the edge of his bed, had heard everything. His clammy body had become prickly and his insides gurgled. Holding his breath, he stared in mute anguish at Boff, who sat in front of him as though humbly asking for his protection. But there was no protection from his father’s fury.

  “Charles!” Wilfrid yelled again, his voice sounding demented. “I told you to bring that dog out here!”

  Heavy steps came down the hall towards his room, and Wilfrid loomed in the doorway:

  “Are you deaf or what?” he shouted, propping himself against the door frame.

  “He … he doesn’t want to come,” the child quavered.

  “He doesn’t want to come?”

  “No.”

  Father and son looked at each other for a moment. Wilfrid blinked and breathed loudly through his nostrils.

  “What are you going to do to him?” Charles asked in a whisper.

  “I’m going to get rid of him, goddamnit! He just ate my forty bucks! I don’t want him here any more. I’m going to take him to the vet’s and have him put down. Right now, this minute! I’m going to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget!”

  At this Charles burst into tears and threw himself on the spaniel, covering him with his body, hugging the dog tightly.

  “No! No, Papa! Please don’t kill him! I’ll pay you back!”

  “Pay me back!” jeered the carpenter. “What’ll you pay me back with, eh, a kid like you?”

  “Don’t you think it’s time to come to bed?” Sylvie said quietly to Wilfrid, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  “Let me handle this,” he retorted, pushing her hand away. “No dog is going to eat forty bucks of mine and get away with it.”

  He advanced into the room. Boff bared his fangs and began growling. The carpenter tried to grab him by the collar, and the dog sank its teeth into his hand. Wilfrid let out a cry of pain and backed quickly away, then tried to strike back with a swing of his boot, but the dog had scampered under the bed.

  Wilfrid looked at his bloody hand where Boff’s fangs had made a large gash. For a few seconds the only sound in the room was the steady drip, drip, drip of blood on the floor.

  “My, my!” Sylvie said mockingly. “This sure is a night for bandages. Come on, Mr. Dogcatcher, time for another trip to the bathroom.”

  “Don’t let that mutt out of this room,” Wilfrid told his son with terrifying calm.

  And he left, closing the door behind him. Charles, his face glistening with tears, remained collapsed on the floor. Suddenly he jumped up and looked under the bed.

  “Boff,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  But the dog wouldn’t budge. Reaching under the bed, Charles pulled with all his strength on Boff’s collar. Then, holding the dog beside him, he quietly opened the door, listened, and crept out into the hall. The next instant he was running down the stairs, crossing the street, and heading in the direction of the Fafards’, shivering in the humid air redolent with the spicy smell of Macdonald’s tobacco. He let himself cry, as though knowing it would give greater power to the plea he was preparing in his head.

  Sitting in his recliner, slippers on his feet, a doughnut in his hand, Fernand was watching a hockey game on TV and, from time to time, stifling a yawn. He had closed the living-room door so as not to disturb Henri, who was doing his homework on the dining table.

  Henri opened the door and came up to him looking frightened.

  “Dad, Charles wants to see you. He’s got his dog with him again and he’s crying.”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Fernand, jumping to his feet. “What’s the matter?”

  Charles, standing in the vestibule, the dog at his feet, his voice choked with sobs, described what had happened in the apartment as best he could, careful to make it clear that Boff was only getting even for being kicked and that he had never shown the slightest interest in money before, nor had he ever bitten anyone.

  Fernand listened, torn between feeling sorry for the boy and wanting to burst out laughing. His son, however, pressed against the wall, listened to Charles’s tale with wide eyes.

  “And now, Monsieur Fafard,” Charles continued, shaking with sobs, “my father … wants to take … Boff to the vet … erinarian to … have him killed! You’ve got … to help me … Monsieur Faf … ard I don’t … want Boff … to die!”

  Fernand looked through the window of his front door and saw Wilfrid across the street, coming down the stairs leaning heavily on the handrail. “Hmm,” he said to himself, “he looks like he’s had a snootful all right. He won’t be easy to reason with. And what can I say to him anyway?”

  “Your father’s on his way, Charles. I don’t think he’s going to be in a very good mood. Henri, take Boff down to the basement, and then go back into the dining room and finish your homework.”

  Charles had gone silent, watching his father crossing the street. He backed up instinctively and took Fernand’s hand. The latter, surprised and troubled by this, gave Charles a quick glance, then rubbed his own throat, feeling more and more embarrassed.

  Heavy footsteps were heard on the porch, and Wilfrid was standing before them in shirtsleeves, unsteady on his feet, a strangely contented expression on his face. Fernand opened the door. Without looking at him the carpenter entered and stood in front of his son.

  “I thought I’d find you here! Now you come with me and bring that dog, and be quick about i
t!”

  “Hello, Wilf!” cried Fernand cordially. “Good God in heaven, man, what’s happened to you? You look as though you’ve been in a war.”

  “You could say I have been,” Wilfrid replied dryly.

  “Your son has told me a bit of what went on. I –”

  “I have nothing to say to you. This is between me and him.” He grabbed Charles by the arm. “Call your dog and come back to the house with me.”

  “Hey, now, Wilf, hold on a minute!” said Fernand, putting his large hand on the carpenter’s shoulder. “Let’s try to discuss this calmly, just the two of us …”

  Fernand’s massive body and deep voice made the carpenter seem much smaller and thinner than he was – made him, in fact, look puny and miserable. But Wilfrid’s black, piercing eyes and tightly drawn lips showed that he was not intimidated. The image he brought to mind was that of a venomous insect.

  “I already told you, you and me have nothing to discuss.”

  “Okay, Wilf, you’re right, of course, this is your business, not mine, and I’m the last person to want to interfere, but all the same … I’ve never heard of a dog eating money before!”

  “Well, now you have! He ate forty bucks! Now let’s go, Charles. Go fetch the dog. We’ve been here long enough.”

  “Okay, let’s say he ate your money,” said Fernand, his voice soothing but a bit desperate. “Look here, if I give you two twenty-dollar bills that should settle it, right?”

  He put his hand in his pocket and took out his wallet.

  “I don’t need your money,” replied Wilfrid disdainfully, pushing the man’s hand away. “I’ve got a job and I can manage just fine on my own.”

  Charles was looking from one to the other with a look of exquisite anguish on his face. Henri’s little head appeared behind them, looking equally worried.

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” replied Fernand, more and more embarrassed, “I wasn’t implying anything, I mean it never occurred to me to … offer you a handout, good heavens, no. Look,” he interrupted himself, “what say we sit down and discuss this over a beer?”