On their weekend trip to visit Celine’s uncle and aunt, Angus felt odd man out. He first felt this way in the car when he discovered his mistaken belief that they were bound for the Laurentians. Yes, Celine told him minutes before they left, they were going into deep woods, but not that far east. The Monaghans lived in Gatineau Park, only an hour north from Ottawa. They did have a chalet near Val David in the Laurentians, but they had not been there for years, as they were too old for outdoor sports, and the place was rented out to skiers in winter and to hikers and hunters in other seasons. Sandwiched uncomfortably in the back seat of the Smails’ small station wagon between their daughter’s booster seat and the hard edges of the wagon’s door handle, Angus was effectively prevented from continuing his interrupted conversation with Celine, who was herself crushed between the other daughter, her own door and a large box of ‘provisions’ Simon Smail had insisted, despite his wife Sadie’s objections, on bringing with them to the cottage, or lodge as Celine said it should be called.
If we aren’t going to the Laurentians, why is there so much unnecessary luggage, wondered Angus. It was not far from the city. The lodge had a fully-equipped kitchen, and ‘Aunt Aggie’ was reputed to love to cook. They were only going for one night, so why all the clothes and suitcases in the trunk? And why, he wondered, was I invited? I am not family, I do not know the Monaghans, I barely know the Smails. Celine and Sadie, friends from high school days, had been often, but this had all been some time before Sadie became a wife and mother. The Monaghans were rich and childless. Perhaps, he thought charitably, they were also lonely…
As the drive wore on, Angus found himself becoming more and more irritated by Simon.
He patronized his wife, calling her ‘wifelet’ and ‘little one‘. He had an annoying habit of sucking his teeth. He was tactless (‘Omigosh, Celine, you’ve put on weight!’) and forgetful. He had no obvious empathy for anyone outside his family. He was smug and self-centred, and he prattled nonstop.
‘Look at the beaver lodge, children,’ he instructed them, slowing down suddenly, to the discomfiture of the driver following, who was forced to take evasive action and honked his exasperation as he passed. Simon was unfazed. ‘Same to you, with knobs on,’ he called. ‘The average beaver gnaws through 216 trees per year. He is a busy little fellow.
See that magnificent stand of white pine on the ridge over there. No, those are birch. Did you know that the Royal Navy took most of our white pine for masts? That’s why we have no tall trees left. We’re victims of colonial depredation, don’t-you-know. No, little one, I am not lost. Look, there’s a deer! Behind that… oh, never mind, he’s gone now, or she is. Can’t tell from a distance…’
