QUEBEC

I spent several summers with Iliana and the boys along the St. Lawrence in a small town between Montreal and Quebec. About 5,000 lived in this village brightened by summer flowers hanging in baskets from lampposts. We rented a chalet, little more than a wooden cabin located on a tributary that emptied into the St. Lawrence. The nights would dip down to almost freezing and I'd rise every morning and collect logs from outside to build a fire in the fireplace. Iliana and the boys would rise and we'd leave for a morning drive through small towns and past clear streams as Edith Piaf entertained us along the country roads. We'd find a restaurant and stop to eat. I'd choose bacon and eggs. I don't remember the rest of the family's orders, probably pancakes, but the breakfasts were second to none with verdant vistas stretching into the distance. We'd return to our chalet in St. Anne de la Perade and spend the rest of the day relaxing. It wasn't uncommon for me to prepare a late lunch. From the kitchen window I could watch the boys play along the shore with their summer friends. Nobody worships the summers like the Quebecois. While they make the most of their winters with ice-fishing and snowmobiling, summer is a season-long infatuation that keeps them awake 18 hours a day. They relish every shaft of light and every ray of sun. These days are fleeting before the cold reasserts itself. In the evenings we'd drive to Trois Riviere 30 miles from our chalet for dinner. We'd order pizza, the ingredients at the bottom with the cheese and sauce spread across the top. Iliana and I would share a bottle of wine before returning to our chalet with the night upon us and a chill in the air. These summers were our happiest, the four of us freed from the distractions of Brownsville. Iliana and I fucked every night with the wine setting the mood and the weather conducive for love-making. I don't remember much anymore about our time together except one time in Northern California we took a rowboat on Pinecreast Lake and screwed uncomfortably but excitedly on the boat's bottom. It was a fuck she liked to recall. The drives up and down both the east and west sides of the St. Lawrence were nothing less than spectacular with restaurants in the middle of nowhere and baseball fields dotting the serpentine roads. If we were driving with no destination, we'd stop at a soccer field and play two against two the length of the pitch. I suppose I'll reflect on the summer I spent with Fabiola and the kids in Montreal with the same nostalgic fondness, but there is too much bitterness in me to contemplate that vacation with the same longing that I feel for Iliana and the boys. I have maintained that heaven and hell are the final thoughts that we have prior to our last breath. Since nothingness follows death, our last thoughts are eternity. Will I remember Iliana before the lights dim sitting in a restaurant with a big smile on her face as I opened a bottle of wine or will I remember her trying to choke me as she raged against the injustice of my destroying our family after she had made every sacrifice and forgiven me time and time again in order to keep me in the fold?