Free After by Francis Chalifour

others we can’t. We have to let go of those things for which we just can’t find any answers. We can’t hold onto them.”
    I let the fries grow cold on my plate. I wasn’t angry anymore. As I walked home the same thought beat a tattoo with my steps:
Why didn’t Papa talk to me? Why didn’t we ever talk?

    I was twelve years old when I saw my father cry for the first and only time. He was in the garage, sitting on a bench with his toolbox beside him. Maman was baking an apple pie, and we could smell the warm cinnamon.
    “Why are you crying, Papa?” I was shocked and afraid.
    He didn’t answer, he just wept silently. Finally, he raised his head. “I lost my job.”
    “You’ll find another one.”
    “No.” He sounded defeated.

11 | T HE M EMORY B OOK
    T hough we were well into spring, the weather had turned cold again and rain was beating on the window. I hadn’t heard from Jul all week. I knew I wasn’t much of a prize, compared to David. For starters, I was downright skinny. Though I ate nonstop, gobbling industrial quantities of Fudgee-Os, I was a beanpole.
    Luc had finally fallen asleep after four readings of
Simon and the Snowflakes.
I was sitting by his bed listening to his even breathing when I was blindsided by a wave of longing for Papa. I wanted desperately to ask him what you’re supposed to do when you’re in love with a girl who is so clearly, cruelly, not in love with you.
    I closed Luc’s door softly and went down to the living room. Maman had a paper pattern spread out on the rug in front of her and was squinting at it and the knitting in her hands.
    “You won’t be walking around in bare feet for much longer, my boy. I’m knitting wool slippers for you.”
    “I don’t need them, Maman. I’m fine in bare feet.”
    “So fine that you cough all the time! I don’t want you to catch a cold that could become pneumonia. I lost your father. That’s enough for me. When I finish these slippers, you will wear them.
Point final
” She was in her element, knitting up the troubles of the world. I watched her struggle with the wool, Papa’s vest buttoned over her sweater.
    “It’s cold in here. Francis. Get another log for the fire. It feels like February. What a crazy year.”
    I brought another log in from the diminished pile on the front porch, and she patted the couch beside her.
    “Tell me, sweetheart, what’s happening with Jul? You never talk about her anymore.”
    “There’s nothing for me to say.” Oh, Lord, was she going to talk about sex with me?
    She lined the knitting needles up carefully on the coffee table. “I can see that there’s something wrong. I know you as if I had knitted you. I could tell you each of your stitches, my boy.”
    She put her arm around my shoulder. The fire was crackling in the fireplace. The clean sharp smell of burning pine filled the room.
    “Mr. Deli offered me a job.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing. I said I would think about it. What do you think, Maman?”
    “Well, I think it could be a good idea. It would give you some money of your own. You know that with my salary there’s not much left over after I’ve paid for the groceries and such. We’ll have to fix the roof soon.”
    “Did you know that Mr. Deli used to be a sailor? He even worked with Papa.”
    “Sure. Papa liked him. I used to tell him that Mr. Deli is proof that there’s life after the sea, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
    I don’t know where the longing came from but all of a sudden I was desperate to hold a hand of cards with their ordered suits, and sit in the companionable silence of a good game with a good partner. “Maman, let’s play cards. Poker.”
    “My poor boy, I have been knitting all afternoon, and a good part of the evening because I want your feet to be cosy. My eyes hurt. Another time, okay darling?”

    I sat on my bed and groped for my guitar. As I did, I knocked my baby album from the shelf above it. I hadn’t opened it for years. I