1982
To live outside the law you must be honest.
—BOB DYLAN
Véronique and Pierre are sitting outside on the fire escape. They’re twelve. It’s a cool, sunless day in April, and they’re missing school because her father is getting out of prison today.
Pierre is smoking, which is new for him. The cigarette looks absurd in his little boy’s hand. Even the way he puts it to his lips and inhales—squinting his eyes, holding the smoke in his lungs like his dad does—is contrived.
“You look like an idiot,” she says.
He shrugs.
“You’re going to get addicted.”
“I already am,” he says, thinking he’s cool. “My dad started smoking at nine.”
“That doesn’t make it smart.”
Pierre doesn’t say anything. Her thoughts return to her father, his impending return. Inside, the apartment is decorated with balloons and streamers. Véronique painted a sign that says, WELCOME HOME!
Her mother made a venison stew and chocolate cake, his favorites. Camil brought the venison, fresh from a recent hunting expedition with Pierre. The fridge is stocked with beer and Pepsi. His sisters—Véronique’s aunts—are bustling around, getting everything ready. Pierre’s little brother, Marc, is napping in her room so he can stay up late tonight. It’s going to be a big party—that’s what the grown-ups keep saying. The excitement is a current in the air, vibrating.
Véronique is quietly apprehensive. She’s lived alone with her mother for as long as she can remember. They have a routine, a familiar, well-established system with its own rules and rituals. Her father’s arrival will surely disrupt—if not completely upheave—their world. What if he’s strict? Lisette is not. What if he’s a slob? Lisette keeps a spotless house. What if he steals Lisette from her, monopolizes her mother’s time and energy? What if her mother loves him more than she loves Véronique? What if her father doesn’t like her? What if she doesn’t like him?
All this is running through her head as she gazes out past the trees into the back alley, where two tabbies are hissing at each other.
“You happy he’s coming home?” Pierre asks her, sensing she’s not as thrilled as the rest of them.
Véronique shrugs. “I guess so.”
“It’s going to be weird.”
“Yeah.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“September,” she says. “His birthday.”
That’s been the sum total of their relationship since she was one, sporadic visits to the Cowansville Penitentiary—Christmas, Easter, his birthday. Lisette didn’t want Véronique anywhere near that environment on a regular basis, so she limited their visits to special occasions. Véronique was happy with that arrangement. She hated going there, started dreading it weeks in advance. It was a terrible, demoralizing place. The prison guards intimidated her, the inmates terrified her, the building was bleak. She much preferred talking to him on the phone once a week.
But that’s all in the past now. She’ll never, ever have to go back to that place.
“I guess you don’t really know him,” Pierre says, not looking at her.
“I sort of do.”
“I mean you don’t know what it’s like to live with him,” he says. “It’s not like me and my dad.”
“Obviously,” she mutters, annoyed.
“I’m just saying I can understand why you’re not jumping for joy.”
Right on cue, Pierre’s father sticks his head out the back door. “They’re here!” Uncle Camil says. “Put that goddamn cigarette out, Pierre.”
The door flies open to a burst of cheering and clapping, and her parents enter the apartment. Lisette is flushed, beaming ear to ear. She keeps leaning her head on Léo’s arm, holding his hand, touching him like she can’t believe he’s real. Véronique has never seen her mother like this before, and her initial reaction is jealousy. Already he’s infringing.
And there is Léo, her father, tall and skinny but sturdy. His hair is buzzed, he’s clean-shaven, his brown eyes are glistening with tears. He rushes over to Véronique and pulls her into his arms, pressing her tight against him. She awkwardly wraps her arms around his waist. She can feel his ribs through his jacket.
“My little girl,” he says, the words muffled in her hair. He folds her into himself and holds her there, his body convulsing while he sobs. Everyone is crying; she is aware of a cacophony of sniffles behind her. She locks eyes with her mother across the room, and Lisette smiles at her through her tears.
Finally he releases her and stands back to look at her. “I can’t believe I’m home,” he says, choking up. “I’m home with my wife and my daughter!”
More clapping. Someone puts on the music—one of his old Jimi Hendrix albums, which no one has touched since he went to jail. Lisette joins them, and they all embrace, Véronique smothered between them.
“Someone get me a beer!” Léo cries out. They disperse and Véronique slips away.
She finds Pierre in the kitchen, drinking a 50 straight from the can. Marc is lying on his tummy on the linoleum, pushing a toy police car around. Véronique sits down beside him. He’s four, eight years younger than Pierre, with a different mother who left right after she had Marc, making Uncle Camil a single father of two boys. They’ve all grown up more like siblings than cousins. She thinks of Pierre and Marc as her brothers—especially Pierre, who’s the same age as her. Lisette and Camil have each filled a void in the other’s life. Together, they make up a complete family.
“You’re lucky,” Pierre says.
“I am?”
“At least you’re getting your dad back.”
Véronique is quiet. She doesn’t consider herself lucky.
“I’ll never get my mom back,” he says, surprising her. He never talks about his mom.
Marc looks up at his big brother. “You have me,” he says. “And I have you.”
Véronique scoops Marc into her lap and smothers his fat cheek with kisses. “You sweet boy,” she says. “You sweet, smart boy.”
Pierre holds out his can of beer, offering her some.
“Don’t be stupid,” she says.
As a joke, he offers his little brother the beer. Marc reaches for the can with his pudgy hand, eager to please, but Véronique stops him.
“Let him have a sip,” Pierre says.
Véronique ignores him. “Your brother is a bad influence,” she tells Marc, smoothing his fine brown hair, which is as soft as feathers. She runs his toy police car up and down his little sausage leg, and he giggles, burrowing his head against her. She knows she will always have to protect him from his older brother.
Much later, when the party is winding down and most of the people have gone home, her father pulls her down onto his lap. She can tell he’s very drunk. His lids are heavy, and he’s slurring his words. “You’re so beautiful,” he weeps, tears sliding down his cheeks. “You look just like your mother.”
“People say I look like you.”