almost two hundred years ago that inspired Longfellow’s romantic poem
Evangeline
. Mass expulsion of an entire nation from Canada’s east coast, a human tide that flowed south, pooled in Louisiana to fertilize a Cajun culture, then trickled back up to thrive in pockets across the Canadian Maritimes, with roots that reach back to the seventeenth century. Mimi says, “That’s why I’m so good at moving.”
She laughs with the people behind the counter, and neglects to add that it was the
maudits Anglais
who kicked her people out in the first place. Americans tend to be more responsive than English Canadians to that part of the story, having seen fit to kick the damned English out themselves.
Jack enjoys teasing her when they’re alone. “You’re my prisoner,” he’ll say. “My rightful booty.” If he really wants to get a rise out of her, he describes the French as a defeated people and says, “It’s lucky for you the British were so superior or you and I would never have met.” He knows he has won if he can get her to whack him. “That was always the trouble with the French. Too emotional.” That’s Mimi. Spitfire.
Jack and Mimi both come from New Brunswick’s Atlantic coast. But they didn’t meet there—she was French, he was English, why would they meet? He was working in a cardboard factory alongside three older men. At seventeen, he was the only one who still had all his fingers. When he realized he was also the only one who could read and write, he left. Lied about his age, joined the air force, crashed and remustered. When he and Mimi met in ’44 at the dance in Yorkshire, where he was a supply officer and she was a nurse’s aide at Number 6 Bomber Group, it seemed like a very small world indeed. Small world, big war. Lucky for them.
“This sure is a beautiful part of the country,” says Jack to the man behind the counter.
“Oh, this is God’s country,” replies the man, topping up Jack’s coffee.
It’s simple, really: if you like people they will probably like you back. It helps that Jack and Mimi’s children are polite and answer in full sentences. It helps that their daughter is pretty and their son is handsome.
“What are you going to be when you grow up, young fella?” asks a man in the booth behind them, a farmer in rubber boots and John Deere cap.
Mike answers, “I’m going to fly Sabres, sir.”
“Well now,” says the man, nodding.
“That’s the stuff,” says Jack.
It helps that Jack and his wife are attractive. Not just because Mimi is slim and stylish with her pumps and pencil skirt. Not because he is blue-eyed and relaxed—effortless gentleman, a natural polish that goes well with his mill-town respect for work and working people. They are attractive because they are in love.
It has worked. The dream. Post-war boom, the kids, the car, all the stuff that is supposed to make people happy. The stuff that hasbegun to weigh on some people—alcoholics in grey flannel suits, mad housewives—it has all made Jack and Mimi very happy. They couldn’t care less about “stuff” and perhaps that is their secret. They are rich, they are fabulously wealthy. And they know it. They hold hands under the counter and chat with the locals.
Madeleine says, “I’m probably going to be in the secret service,” and everyone laughs. She smiles politely. It feels good to make people laugh, even if you are not sure what’s so funny.
Dessert is on the house. Welcome back to Canada.
They pull into their driveway as the sun begins to undo itself across the sky. Madeleine’s interior movie music swells at the sight of its slow swoon over the PMQs; light spears the windshield, piercing her heart. Tonight they will sleep in their own beds in their own house for the first time since Germany.
In the basement, her father roots around in one of the boxes and Madeleine watches as he comes out with something more miraculous than a live rabbit. “The baseball gloves!” He tosses her
Evangeline
. Mass expulsion of an entire nation from Canada’s east coast, a human tide that flowed south, pooled in Louisiana to fertilize a Cajun culture, then trickled back up to thrive in pockets across the Canadian Maritimes, with roots that reach back to the seventeenth century. Mimi says, “That’s why I’m so good at moving.”
She laughs with the people behind the counter, and neglects to add that it was the
maudits Anglais
who kicked her people out in the first place. Americans tend to be more responsive than English Canadians to that part of the story, having seen fit to kick the damned English out themselves.
Jack enjoys teasing her when they’re alone. “You’re my prisoner,” he’ll say. “My rightful booty.” If he really wants to get a rise out of her, he describes the French as a defeated people and says, “It’s lucky for you the British were so superior or you and I would never have met.” He knows he has won if he can get her to whack him. “That was always the trouble with the French. Too emotional.” That’s Mimi. Spitfire.
Jack and Mimi both come from New Brunswick’s Atlantic coast. But they didn’t meet there—she was French, he was English, why would they meet? He was working in a cardboard factory alongside three older men. At seventeen, he was the only one who still had all his fingers. When he realized he was also the only one who could read and write, he left. Lied about his age, joined the air force, crashed and remustered. When he and Mimi met in ’44 at the dance in Yorkshire, where he was a supply officer and she was a nurse’s aide at Number 6 Bomber Group, it seemed like a very small world indeed. Small world, big war. Lucky for them.
“This sure is a beautiful part of the country,” says Jack to the man behind the counter.
“Oh, this is God’s country,” replies the man, topping up Jack’s coffee.
It’s simple, really: if you like people they will probably like you back. It helps that Jack and Mimi’s children are polite and answer in full sentences. It helps that their daughter is pretty and their son is handsome.
“What are you going to be when you grow up, young fella?” asks a man in the booth behind them, a farmer in rubber boots and John Deere cap.
Mike answers, “I’m going to fly Sabres, sir.”
“Well now,” says the man, nodding.
“That’s the stuff,” says Jack.
It helps that Jack and his wife are attractive. Not just because Mimi is slim and stylish with her pumps and pencil skirt. Not because he is blue-eyed and relaxed—effortless gentleman, a natural polish that goes well with his mill-town respect for work and working people. They are attractive because they are in love.
It has worked. The dream. Post-war boom, the kids, the car, all the stuff that is supposed to make people happy. The stuff that hasbegun to weigh on some people—alcoholics in grey flannel suits, mad housewives—it has all made Jack and Mimi very happy. They couldn’t care less about “stuff” and perhaps that is their secret. They are rich, they are fabulously wealthy. And they know it. They hold hands under the counter and chat with the locals.
Madeleine says, “I’m probably going to be in the secret service,” and everyone laughs. She smiles politely. It feels good to make people laugh, even if you are not sure what’s so funny.
Dessert is on the house. Welcome back to Canada.
They pull into their driveway as the sun begins to undo itself across the sky. Madeleine’s interior movie music swells at the sight of its slow swoon over the PMQs; light spears the windshield, piercing her heart. Tonight they will sleep in their own beds in their own house for the first time since Germany.
In the basement, her father roots around in one of the boxes and Madeleine watches as he comes out with something more miraculous than a live rabbit. “The baseball gloves!” He tosses her
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