All Aboard Andi's Dream

© 2024 Duleigh Lawrence-Townshend. All rights reserved. The author asserts the right to be identified as the author of this story for all portions. All characters are original. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. This story or any part thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review or commentary.

All Aboard Andi's Dream

Chapter 10

American Angel

Memorial day kicks off summer in Western New York, and in Springville it starts with John, Macy, and Paul performing John's dramatic reading of the Sullivan Ballou letter in church. John and Macy first did that dramatic reading in church when he was initially hired, but word got out and Springville asked them to take part in "Spring In The Park". They did the dramatic reading in the park on Howard Avenue, and that became a Springville tradition. The park was across the street from Paul and Andi's beautiful six bedroom Victorian home.

Paul, John, and Macy would perform on the small bandstand-gazebo in the park and draw small crowds of admirers. There they would warm up playing songs from the revolutionary war and the civil war. Macy would bring her violin, Paul and John would bring their guitars. Paul would also play his harmonica and both played recorders, but John was much better with them than Paul. The recorder is a small woodwind that Paul and John learned to play in school and John stuck with it and became quite good. It filled in as the fife for the revolutionary war songs.

They played songs like John Brown's Body, Battle Cry of Freedom, and Tenting Tonight on the Old Campground. Then, as the day cooled, Macy played the sweet strains of Ashokan Farewell on her violin and John read the Sullivan Ballou letter. The letter was a letter written early in the civil war by Major Sullivan Ballou, and in the letter he prepared his wife for his eventual death. Paul joined Macy's violin playing, by strumming along on his guitar. Considered one of the most beautiful, haunting, and sorrowful letters ever written, John had been reading it at Springville Congregational Church on Memorial Day since the day he was hired there, and he read it to remind his flock of what the cost of their freedom is.

This was the first time Andi heard it. At church on Sunday, she was the teacher's assistant in Children's Church and she heard the strains of Asokan Farewell, but she's been hearing them practice for weeks so she didn't think about it. Now sitting in the park in the early evening, the girls playing nearby in the park's sandbox with several neighbors' children, and she heard the words of Major Sullivan Ballou trying to comfort his wife as he heads into battle. She was stunned. John has a beautiful singing voice but his speaking voice reached out, unamplified, touching their hearts.

Veronica von Köster, a friend who lived just two blocks away, sat next to Andi and, like Andi, she was in love with a veteran. They listened to the beautiful haunting words from over a century ago, and as the letter closed, Paul and Macy ended the music with a long pull of the bow and one final chord on the guitar. Then John said the words that neither Andi nor Veronica were ready for.

"One week later, Major Sullivan Ballou died at the First Battle of Bull Run."

Andi and Veronica wept for the widows of soldiers, Andi's mom and her own husband were widows, while Veronica wept realizing how close she came to never meeting Josh who nearly died in a shot up AC-130 gunship. Andi finally looked up and she and Veronica were surrounded by Paul, John, Macy and Josh, Veronica's boyfriend. "That's how we start summer in Springville," said John. "A reminder that freedom isn't free."

"It costs a hefty fucking fee," muttered Paul and Josh under their breath, then they fist bumped.

"

La fermer

!" (shut your mouth), hissed Macy.

Josh looked hurt and said, "

pardonnez-moi

." (Pardon me)

Macy rolled her eyes and repeated herself more politely, "

Excusez-moi, pourriez-vous s'il vous plaît fermer la bouche

?" (Excuse me, could you please be quiet?)

"

Oui, douce dame, je le ferai

." (Yes, sweet lady, I will.) said Josh.

"Nice!" said Paul as they started packing up Andi and Veronica's folding chairs. "Where'd you learn the French lingo?"

"Well, ah had ta pay attention to something in fuckin' high school... OW!" Macy let loose with a rapid fire string of French as she bopped Josh in the head with her violin case.

"Really classy, wing-nut," said Veronica. (Wing-nut is a derogatory word for Air Force people, especially fliers.)

"I had to lighten it up," whispered Josh. "You and Andi were looking suicidal."

"So what else do you do in the summer, besides watch the garden grow?" asked Andi.

"We cruise," grinned Paul.

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They gathered for a memorial day picnic at Paul and Andi's house. The twins laughed and squealed as they ran about playing while music from the high school band across the street in the park filled the air. Friends happily chatted with friends and the warm sun shined down on them all. "

Viens ici et assieds-toi mon amour

!" (Come here and sit down, my love) called John. He was sitting on a chaise lounge and was urging Macy to join him.

Children running about, laughter, music and the mouthwatering scent of chicken covered with Chiavetta's Marinade roasting on the grill. Josh and Veronica soon showed up with a large bowl of cold pasta salad and Macy waded in the cool, clear waters of the swimming pool with Andi.

Je viens

! (I'm coming!) Macy called to John, and she got out of the pool and dried off. She sat between John's legs as he reclined on a chaise lounge and leaned back against her man. Soon, Lucy and Gus arrived with a cooler full of refreshments. Paul handed Andi and Macy tall cool glasses of Arnold Palmer style Iced Tea, Macy's current favorite temptation.

"Here you go darling," said Paul as he handed Macy the drink. "If you ever tire of that short stick-in-the-mud that you married, you can come join Andi and I." He waggled his eyebrows at the tall, slim, Nubian beauty.

"Jean? I haven't tried to stick him in the mud. It may be fun? Will it not?"

"Let's try it at the cabin after it rains," said John as he wrapped his arm around Macy and held her close. He snuggled with her and nibbled her ear and whispered French obscenities in her ear, promises for later that night.

How did she get so lucky? As his arms, once hated, now desired, wrapped around her, she wondered how did it suddenly turn out so right? The sun was warm, and the breeze was perfect and Macy felt her mouthwatering from the scent of the Chiavetta's chicken. This was the day she always wanted: friends, children, and laughter. She snuggled back on John as the sun warmed her up.

Macy closed her eyes and dreamed of her youth for the first time in a very long time. They were the only black family in

Lac d'Eau Froide

, a tiny hamlet near

Blanc-Sablon, Quebec

, where young Marie Tremblay went to school.

Blanc Sablon

means white sand, but it wasn't white sand, it was snow. It was cold and ugly there. The highest temperature she could remember was 78° (25.5°C). It was always humid and cold. In the winter, the normal temperature was 2° (-16°C). And there wasn't a tree in sight. It was like living on a tundra or maybe on a high mountain slope.

And they were so isolated. Maria lived with her father Jacques Tremblay, and her older brothers Valentin and Roland on the very eastern edge of Quebec and there was no road west linking them up with the rest of Quebec. It was like Quebec didn't want them. There was a road west that went 69 km (43 miles) to the village of Old Fort, but after that, nothing. Beyond Old Fort was 425 km (264 miles) of wilderness. Their only way out of

Blanc-Sablon

to Montreal and the civilization it promised was a rutted road eastward that became the Trans-Labrador Highway. If you wanted to go to metropolitan Canada, you had to take a ferry across the St. Lawrence river to Newfoundland, then take a ferry across the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Nova Scotia, and then catch a bus for a full days ride westward to Montreal. Two full days of non-stop travel, if you don't miss a connection. Any missed connection would cost 12 hours of waiting for the next ferry or bus.

Marie's dad and her brothers were fishermen and spent their days fishing for cod and haddock. The joke among the townsfolk of Blanc-Sablon was

Sablon blanc, pêcheurs noirs

(White sand, black fishermen) In school she was ignored or hated by her classmates. She was taller and smarter than her classmates and much prettier, even though she ignored the few compliments she got. For a young girl, when you told you're ugly by 20 people and pretty by one, you discard that individual's opinion. Unfortunately, that individual opinion never came from her parents. The day that started Marie Tremblay's revolt was a day in her freshman year of high school.

"Basketball today girls," said Mister Gagnon, the gym teacher. "Emma and Maria you're our captains please come up here and pick your teams. Not you Marie, I said Maria. Learn to listen." Marie was mortified. She loved basketball. It was the only game she ever played with her older brothers. She's taller, faster, stronger and better than any of these girls. If not a captain, she should be picked first, but that didn't happen. Like always, she was ignored. When the two teams were picked, she stood alone as they went off and played. They had an even number of girls in the class. How could she be ignored?

She stood on the sidelines at the mid court line, unpicked and angry. She had enough, and she was going to do something about it. As the play moved from her right to left, she dashed out on the court and stole the ball from Alice Roy, who was lollygagging along, then drove to the basket behind Alice for a perfect layup. Macy recovered the ball and waited under the basket, dribbling slowly, daring them to take the ball from her. All the girls realized what had happened. The game changed from six versus five to eleven versus one. Marie waited for them to cross the mid court line as they headed toward her. That's when she charged. She drove straight at them and anyone who stood in her way got knocked on their ass.

She made it to the mid court line then adjusted her steps and just as she planted her foot behind the three point line; she let fly and scored the first girl's three-point shot in her school's history. She continued running, and she recovered the ball as Mr. Gagnon shouted, "Marie Tremblay! You're not on the court, give the ball back!"

Marie dribbled off the court and into the girls' locker room, where she placed the ball on top of a locker. She changed quickly, not surprised at all that no one followed her. As she tied her sneakers, she noticed that Mr. Gagnon was standing next to her. "Where is the ball, Marie?"

"Touch me and I scream rape," said Marie, and she got up and walked away. "

Espèce de cochon raciste!

" (You racist pig!) she spat as she left. That was it. She was not putting up with it anymore and she walked out of school, hopefully forever.

She stopped at the convenience store on her way home. She was thinking of buying ​

la boisson non-alcoolisée

(soft drink) but instead started leafing through a Parisian fashion magazine. Such silly looking women. They were homely! Marie was sure that she could look better, especially if she had a good makeup artist.

"Marie, the library is a hundred kilometers that way," said Mr. Bouchard, the only person in the Blanc-Sablon area that could be considered her friend. By "one hundred kilometers that way" he was referring to Redbay, Labrador, the only nearby town large enough to have a full size library. It was actually closer to two hundred and seventy kilometers that way.

"You are not a lending library? No?" said Marie with an enormous grin, but she continued to scan the magazine. Then she saw it. An advertisement for models at a photography studio in Montreal. No experience needed! She took a notebook out of her book bag and wrote all the information from the ad in her notebook. Montreal isn't far, right? "How far is it to Montreal, Mister Bouchard?" she asked as she put the magazine back on the rack.

"Two thousand two hundred kilometers."

Marie frowned and said, "There's no way to get there from here."

Mister Bouchard tapped away at his laptop. "No, little tall one," his pet name for her. "A bus ticket would cost seventy eight dollars."

"Bus Ticket?"

"Oui, you take the ferry to St. Barbe in Newfoundland and the bus station is there at the ferry landing.

"Merci, Mister Bouchard!" and Marie ran all the way home. When she got there, no one was home. Her father and brothers were probably out on the boat. If not, they were at

La Palourde Heureuse

(The Happy Clam) a fisherman's bar. And her mother? Marie was never sure what her mother did or where she went. Her mother was rarely at home.

Marie called TransCanada bus lines and discovered that Mr. Bouchard was right, the bus left St. Barbie at 7:24 PM; she had plenty of time. But she had a 90-minute ferry ride on an old clunker first.

Marie packed her backpack with clothes and underwear and she counted her cash, almost three hundred dollars. It was all money from chores and working on the boat. There was nothing in Lac d'Eau Froide or Blanc-Sablon to spend the money on, so it accumulated. She made her bed, grabbed her ID card and wallet, and left. There would be no goodbyes, no note. It was clear to Marie that her birth without testicles was a major disappointment to her family. She couldn't remember the last kind words her mother told her. To be honest, she couldn't remember the last words her mother said to her at all.

The ferry from Blanc-Sablon to St. Barbe on the big island of Newfoundland was indeed on

une vieille péniche

. To be honest, it wasn't a barge, but it was quite old. The ride in her father's fishing boat was smoother and quieter. It took two hours to complete the ninety-minute crossing because the old clunker could barely make headway against the swell. The boat was filled with tourists and their cars, Newfies, and a few locals going to St. Barbe for groceries. At least there were a few whales and quite a few dolphins to look at, animals that her father calls his competition.

Finally, they arrived at St. Barbe, and Marie stepped off the boat and dashed to the bus. She made it to the bus on time and stepped aboard a passenger bus for the very first time. The bus, commonly nicknamed the Newfie Express, was quite nice. It was new and was used to haul tourists across the island of Newfoundland. It even smelled nice. The high-backed seats were comfortable and inviting compared to the ancient bus her former school used. She found a seat near the back, stowed her backpack on the overhead rack, then sat down for the three-hour ride to Port aux Basques on the western edge of Newfoundland.

As the bus traveled, people would move about the bus, and the men would glare at her. It caused her to wonder, haven't they ever seen a teenager before? Finally, a man sat next to her, pulled a book out of his pocket and nodded to her. "Howdy," he said in English, leaving Marie to wonder what he meant. Then he opened his book and started reading. Was he a westerner? Was he from Alberta or Saskatchewan? She was warned about them. Marie was told they hated the French language and people who spoke it. Maybe he's an American! It couldn't be. She hasn't been raped yet.

Marie tried to get some sleep, but she couldn't. She had someone from the prairie provinces next to her, or possibly an American (but she hasn't been raped yet.) She couldn't sleep, she had to know! "Where are you from?" she asked in stilted English. She always scored high in English at school and loved to listen to audio books in English.

"I'm from a place you probably never heard of," he replied in horrible French. His accent screamed American.

"Tell me. Please?"

"Des Moines."

"Monks? You're a Monk?" she started laughing and showed the first American on earth the smile that she hoped would grace a million magazine covers.

The man thought about it, rolled his eyes upward and nodded. Des Moines means "monks" in English. "It is a town far south of Winnipeg." Actually, he was south of west Ontario, but there were no landmarks that he knew of on the western edge of Ontario.

An American who lives south of Manitoba. Marie realized she was right on both guesses. He's a westerner and an American, and she still hadn't been raped yet. They talked for a while, he in his painful sounding French, she in her stuttering English, but they were able to understand each other that way. She found out he was a sailor in the US Navy and just got out. He was touring places he dreamed of going before he returned home to his family. She made up a tale of being a young fashion model and was touring her old hometown before returning to Montreal for a grueling photoshoot.

He talked about what it was like to tour the world but only see rolling waves through a porthole. He was an engine mechanic on a "gator freighter" the USS New York, LPD-21 and spent most of his time below deck. The only land he saw was Mayport Naval Station. The sailor told her tales of Florida, a land she dreamed about. Warm and sunny, a tropical paradise. He knew using the term gator freighter was a mistake. It's hard to see the humor in a slang term like that because the French translation is 'cargo alligator' which is far from funny so he had to explain to her that gator was a slang term for marines, then he had to explain what marines were.

For Marie's part, she was just delighted that she met a 26 year-old man (double her age!) that's not treating her like a child. She told him she was 20, but he saw right through that. He guess she was 17, but he was four years off. The American sailor realized immediately how young she was and he realized she was going to be prey for some of the men on the bus, so he assigned himself to be her chaperone. Occasionally a man would look her over but a word from the American and he would move along.

"You really shouldn't travel alone," said the American.

"I do not worry. My brothers told me how to handle myself." They taught her that a well-placed knee will stop an attacker in his tracks, and she's found that to be the case several times. The bus rolled through Newfoundland and Marie reveled in finding someone to talk to. Her thirteen years of social isolation were finally at an end, and they talked quietly as they rolled westward.

It was late when they reached Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. She said goodbye to her American friend and was halfway to the ferry when she realized she had never got his name. Soon she was on the MV Blue Puttees and realized that she should have spent the extra $18 for reserved seating. The reserved seats were wide and comfortable looking. She ran her hands over the plush upholstery and was immediately warned that the seats were reserved even though, in the end, less than half would be filled.

MV Blue Puttees, a RO-PAX ferry (Roll-On Roll-Off Passenger Ferry) of the Marine Atlantic fleet, was named after the Royal Newfoundland Regiment, who showed up to World War One wearing blue leg bindings (Puttees) and got the nickname the Blue Puttees. The passenger area of the Blue Puttees was huge, 96 cabins with two and four-bed layouts, plus 500 reclining seats with headphone jacks USB ports. There was an upper deck with panoramic viewing, but this was a night crossing. It was cold and there wouldn't be anything to see.