Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
were spattered with blood. He got to his feet. “C’mon, frog!” he yelled, “what’re you afraid of, frog?” The two of them began to circle. My father put his arm in front of my mother. “Let it run its course,” he said calmly.
“Not here! Not in my house!” She was staring at the shattered lamp.
“Let them have it out, ’long as it’s just the two of them.” My father glared at Terry Finnegan who was jawing with Pièrre’s brother Mathieu.
Suddenly Steve made a rush at Pièrre, butting him in the stomach with his head and driving him into the couch. Pièrre let out a loud “OOOF!” and they fell, rolling together on the floor. Now everyone was screaming. Steve was on top, pummeling Pièrre, but Pièrre rolled him over, driving his knee into Steve’s chest. Now he had him in a headlock.
“Salaud! Take it back! Take it back!” Pièrre was smaller than Steve but he was wiry. Now he was grinding Steve’s face into the carpet, smearing blood all over it. “Filthy cochon! Apologize, damn you!”
Despite his bulk Steve was quick and the better wrestler. Suddenly he exploded out of Pièrre’s hold. “Not on your life!” he shouted. Now they rolled the other way across the floor, crashing into the fireplace screen which collapsed over them. Steve was on top with his hands around Pièrre’s neck, banging his head against the flagstones. Pièrre’s eyes bulged, his face was purple and he was making little gurgling sounds. Suddenly a figure darted forward. Céline! Holding a ’Gansett above her head, she danced around with little steps, looking for an opening, then CRASH! Down it came, right on Steve’s skull! Moaning and holding his head Steve crumpled into the fireplace. The room fell silent.
Céline rushed to Pièrre, father of her unborn child, and bent over him, cradling his head in her lap. He was rubbing his throat, gasping for breath. Now everybody was milling around. Steve’s eyes opened. Dazed, he shook his head and sat up, trying to figure out what had hit him. Why that bottle didn’t break I’ll never know. Through the other guests’ legs the warriors spotted each other. By now my father was beside Steve, lecturing him. Steve tried to get up, but fell back. After a moment he rose to his knees and slowly crawled on all fours over to Pièrre. Pièrre opened his mouth. “Apologize!” he croaked.
Steve rubbed his head and inspected his hand for blood. “Yeah, well, that was the beer talking, I guess.” He stuck out his hand. “For a frog you fight pretty good.”
Pierre hesitated, then took Steve’s hand. “You ain’t half bad, yourself.”
A great cheer went up.
In tears, my mother was on her hands and knees putting the remains of the heirloom in a paper bag. Grandmother Kelley clucked on. Each clan ministered to its hero, mopping his face with wet towels. Catherine was already scrubbing the carpet. Aunt Moira motioned Aunt Mary Elizabeth Finnegan into the kitchen. A mellow mood began to settle over the house.
The doorbell rang. “Hey, Julien!” somebody yelled. “C’mere!”
My father elbowed his way to the door. I followed, thinking it was more cards, but it was a policeman! In uniform! And at the curb right outside our house, his cruiser!
“Bernie!” my father exclaimed, “what brings you here?”
The policeman had his cap in his hand. “Sorry to disturb you, Julien, but we had a report of a large amount of noise in the vicinity. From your house, in fact.”
“We’re having a little party. It’s my son’s First Communion.” He smiled down at me, “isn’t that so, Paul?”
I nodded, looking up at the policeman’s badge. He had a black leather holster on his hip. There was a gun inside – I saw the handle! What an amazing day!
“I got to ask you to tone it down, ’else I’ll have to make a report.”
“There’ll be no more cause for complaint.” My father reached into his pocket and extracted a bill, folding it into his palm. “By the way, I’m curious, who made the call?”
The policeman nodded at the house across the street.
“That figures.”
Everybody called them Old Mr. Southworth and Old Mrs. Southworth but I knew them only as shadows moving behind screens and curtains. My mother brought supper for Old Mr. Southworth whenever Old Mrs. Southworth went into the hospital which seemed quite often. Nothing wrong with their hearing, though.
“Next time, invite the old folks,” the policeman winked at me, “then make all the noise you want.”
My father reached out and shook the policeman’s hand. The bill disappeared. “Good advice, Bernie, we’ll do that.”
The policeman put his hat on and gave us a salute. “Just keep it down so everybody gets along.”
As he went down the steps I caught a glimpse of Old Mr. Southworth ducking away from his window. The policeman opened the door to his cruiser and my father patted my head. “Let this be a lesson to you, ti-Paul. It is important to have friends in the right places. You never know when it’ll come in handy.”
STANDING ON THE STEPS, I heard something happening. We went back inside – on the arm of the couch was Uncle Albert, tuning his fiddle. My father broke into a big grin. The last time the Bernard clan visited I was dragged to a dance at the Mongenais Club next to the French Church and was bored out of my mind until Uncle Albert sat in with the band and started playing. It was really something, this bear of a man with the huge hands making magic from a little piece of wood, his heavy shoes thudding out the beat.
“Fiona! Allons! Venons!” Uncle Albert yelled across the room. “A duet! Just for you I learned some Irish tunes!”
My mother was moving around the room, picking up dishes. Her jaw set, she shook her head firmly.
“Aw, c’mon! Just a coupl’a songs!”
“You go ahead, Albert. I’m not in the mood.”
His face fell. I was disappointed, too. It was fun hearing her play the piano with other people. Usually she played alone and sang, from old books with German and French words, sheet music with blue covers and men and women in canoes under the moon, or Molly Malone and Galway Bay her mother always asked for. But this time it was not to be.
Then Uncle Albert unwound and put the fiddle to his chin, and the room quieted. He began sawing away, first a slow number then a fast one that everybody clapped to. Next the Irish Washerwoman and Aunt Moira stepped forward, kicking up her feet. Nothing ever kept her from having a good time. She collapsed into a chair out of breath. The music went on. People sat on the floor, singing. I thought maybe I should take piano lessons like my mother wanted. Catherine had since she was five and I had to admit wasn’t bad. I liked music but hated the idea of being inside on a nice day. Maybe later when I was older.
Around three, everybody began to stand and stretch. After much fussing with coats and hats, dishes people brought and so on, the house began emptying out. Outside under the hoop, Uncle Albert had his hand on my father’s shoulder. My father was nodding. A few minutes later, I saw Tante Jeanette carrying her suitcase into the living room. What was happening? My father came back in, looking gloomy. Uncle Albert was shaking his head.
“No, no, better we get back tonight. Rest up tomorrow, be ready for the week.”
Cousin Céline came up to me. “Thank you for letting us be part of your big day,” she said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. Céline was small and pretty and smelled nice. Tante Geneviève put her arms around me. “Come see us, ti-Paul, we be disappointed if you don’t.” They filed out to their cars, luggage piled into the trunks, a lot of hugging and tears. I looked around. I knew Jim had taken off, but... “Where’s mom?” I asked.
My father frowned and shook his head.
After the cars pulled away, I went looking for her. My search ended at the bedroom door. Catherine saw me standing