Free After by Francis Chalifour Page B

“You know, Francis, you can’t force somebody to be in love with you any more than you can be forced to love somebody.”
    “I love her, Maman. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt anything like this. I really thought she was the one for me.”
    “You’re so young. You’ll find somebody else.”
    That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. No, wait–it’s exactly what I wanted to hear if I needed a good excuse for murder.
    “Why are you so set on her?”
    “Because she knows what it’s like to have somebody die. Her mother died.”
    “You don’t need to be a chicken to recognize an egg.” I could hear the Gospel According to Aunt Sophie. “You’ll find somebody who understands you and loves you, even if they haven’t gone through the same experiences as you.”
    I plucked at the wormy green tufts of the rug.
    “I seem to lose everyone I love. What’s wrong with me?”
    She gave a little laugh. “I don’t understand a thing about love. All I know is that it’s so wonderful that it can make you happy or miserable or even furious. And there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just sad.”
    “I’m sick of being sad.” As I said the words, I realized they were true. I stayed on the floor with Maman’s arms wrapped around me, not wanting to move. Then I went up to bed.

    I had grown to dread the long, dark hours when I would lie awake and my thoughts would roar inside my head. Mr. Bergeron had told me that we’re programmed to beafraid in the night, so that we stay put in our caves and saber-toothed tigers can’t get at us. There were lots of nights when I would rather have faced any beast than the thought of Papa hanging from a rope. That night I dreamed about him, something I hadn’t done since he died. In my dream I was walking home when I saw him sitting on the porch waiting for me.
    “Papa? Is it you?” I called. “What are you doing here?”
    He smiled. “I’m waiting for you so that we can have a game of poker, son. The cards are on the table and I got here in time to clean up the kitchen so that your mother can play with us. It’s been a while.”
    He seemed so solid that I thought I could reach out and touch him.
    “Papa?”
    “Yes, son.”
    “I’ve been waiting for you, too. Did you hear me crying for you?”
    He ignored my question. “Hurry up, before the wind blows the cards away. It will be too late then.”
    As I reached the house, a gust of wind caught the cards and sent them flying up in the air. I grabbed at them, but the wind was too strong. Then, it lifted everything–the cards, the swing that hangs from the maple tree, the house, my father.
    I yelled, “Papa, come back! I beg you. You have to stay!”
    His voice came to me faintly. “I have to go. I have someone to see. Don’t worry, son. I love you.”
    He vanished and took everything with him, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. A few of the cards drifted down from the sky. There was no other trace of his passage.

    I woke up feeling comforted, as if I’d eaten hot chicken soup on a blustery day. I took my father’s chest out of the bottom drawer and reread the scrap of paper.
    You have to remember that everything that year had the surreal quality of a dream. It’s the only way I can explain what happened next. I was not what you’d call a world traveler: the only time I’d been away from Montréal by myself was the school trip to New York, and going with classmates and teachers is hardly what you’d call alone. That’ll give you an idea of how farfetched this sounds. I decided I was going to go to the poker reunion. All the while, the tiny part of my brain that was thinking clearly was asking questions:
How was I going to get to Toronto? What would I use for money? Where would I stay?
I ignored these. All the while I was making plans, I knew it was crazy, but deep down, I hoped that Papa would be there.

12 | C LEAN-UP
    “W hat’s up with your house?” Houston had his headphones on as we walked home from