Robaire Jules

By Sir Raymond Sylvestre

This is a story of a married man with six children whose wife no longer wanted him there and how he dealt with no longer having a family he wanted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662412318

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Robaire Jules

Sir Raymond Sylvestre

Copyright © 2020 Sir Raymond Sylvestre

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-6624-1230-1 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-1231-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

Robby met Doc in a butcher’s shop only a few months after he moved out of the house he shared with his wife and four children. The children ranged in age from fourteen to eighteen, and he adored them. His wife was another story. Since the time he caught her with a teenage boy in a situation that could only be considered sexual, their marriage had been troubled. Because of the children and partly the town they lived in, where everybody knew everybody else’s business, divorce was not seriously considered. Not until Robby’s wife became pregnant with twins by one of the neighborhood delinquents did Robby actually plan to move out and live alone.

Robby had never lived alone before, and he found life away from his children difficult. So unsatisfied was on makeup than he did anything else and preferred that everything around him be the color blue. None of this affected Robby. He was accustomed to people who were different.

It was raining when Robby went to the butcher’s shop. It had started at the beginning of the week and had not let up. Not for a second. So constant and demanding was the downpour that it was driving Robby nuts. This happened quite a lot during the rainy season when most of Maine was awash, creating a virtual boom in the plastic raincoat business. Whenever this occurred, like now when it was coming down like cats and dogs and with a Clark sky thrown in, Robby got horny. His current state would soon move a step further to insatiable. Every pore in his body reeked of sex, and he couldn’t think of anything else.

It was beyond his control. Robby entered the shop, which smelled of dry blood. The shop had not changed since the first time his mother took him there and told him how the butcher killed the chickens. The paint on the walls looked faded. Even the signs advertising the day’s special were the same. Just the prices were different. The butcher was waiting on a young woman wearing a long coat made of vinyl. Robby passed a cracked wall mirror and stepped back to take a look. He was forty, but he looked younger; the lines under his eyes had not yet deepened and spread to the rest of his face. His hair remained curly. His posture was stooped, and his shoulders seemed too round. He straightened when the butcher looked his way.

A couple of fillets, he ordered, turning to look at the rainfall bombarding the street. Someone was coming into the shop carrying an umbrella. It was Doc. To Robby, Doc looked like a young baseball player, hard and lean. He could picture him in uniform with the number 69 printed across his back.

You live in the neighborhood? Robby stared directly at Doc.

Just moved here, Doc replied, his eyes telling Robby that the answer was yes even though he hadn’t yet asked the question.

They went to the apartment Robby shared with Eddie. They didn’t talk much once they arrived. Usually, Robby would have offered a drink to a stranger and made some attempt at learning who he was. But it was the middle of the day in the middle of the week of a terribly rainy season, and all he wanted was sex.

Doc was everything Robby desired in a person, and the very last thing he expected him to say as they lay close together in the suspended hammock was that he wanted to open an expensive French restaurant. Robby laughed.

It’s my dream, Doc said. I’ve been a cook since I was ten, and I love it more than most other things. Robby watched the way Doc’s lips formed words, and he liked that Doc talked calmly, with no strain. I have to open a place soon. I’m almost thirty-five. If I don’t, I might as well be dead. Doc wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. He was just being honest. I want to open it right here in town, Doc went on, as if he’d thought about this for a long time.

Here? It was the only thing Robby could think of to say even though he’d already decided to go in on the venture. He could almost see the building.

I want it to be right here, in Sunset. I don’t mind that it’s a little conservative here. Robby kept quiet. He was sure nobody in their neck of the woods wanted to eat in a restaurant run by a couple of supersexual (he didn’t like the word queer). No one will even notice us, Doc assured him, reading the expression on his face. My cooking does it all. Robby smiled, and from the conviction in Doc’s voice, he believed him. They agreed to be partners.

You married or something? Doc asked, looking at the gold ring that would not come off Robby’s finger.

Something, Robby answered. Getting a divorce.

I know a soup mix that will get that off, Doc said. He was holding Robby’s hand to examine the thick band that hung on like cement. Your wife nice? Robby did not reply. His marriage and entire relationship with Teresa Croux, direct descendant of the great Sioux warrior Natovah, was something he did not talk about with strangers.

*****

The owner of the building they wanted on the highway out of Sunset didn’t show up for the appointment to lease the building. He sent instead his youngest daughter with a key and an envelope to take their first and last month’s rent.

Where’s the rental agreement? Robby asked the youngster who had too many pimples on her face. She held out a set of keys to the broken-down building that had been everything from a dry cleaner to a Chinese takeout restaurant.

My father says to make it a verbal agreement between gentlemen. Robby reluctantly handed her their money and took the keys from the daughter of the owner. The bargain had been struck, and within a short time, they moved everything they had into the dumpy building that was now looking like it had undergone a magical transformation.

When the review in the Sunset Chronicle came out proclaiming Le Pavillion the finest restaurant in the region, maybe in all of Maine, the lines formed. It was then that Mr. Woleshka, a Catholic Pole who’d been put into a concentration camp by mistake, showed up. He did not come to dine on the fine cuisine, a rarity in his neck of the woods. Nor did he come to offer his congratulations and good cheer. He had come to ask for more money.

My daughter made a terrible mistake, he explained while they were all in the pantry just before the eight-o’clock rush. She should have told you that the rent was three hundred more than what you gave to her. Doc turned and stared at Doc, whose hand was inching toward a butcher’s knife left carelessly on the counter.

Mr. Woleshka, I arranged the rent with you over the telephone, Robby said, remaining as calm as he could. "Don’t you remember?

You must have heard me incorrectly. I must have three hundred more, or you must get out.

We won’t pay it. Robby raised his voice.

Then I will get rid of you!

The following week the governor came to dinner. So did many politicians and most of the country club. It was also the night Mr. Woleshka decided to turn off the heat. A chill set in at seven when the early diners were finishing up their flaming desserts. By eight it was damn cold, and by nine, freezing. A snow had started to fall early in the day, and by the time Robby bought portable heaters from the discount store up the highway, the night was over. A disaster.

Nothing could be done to sway Woleshka. Nothing short of three hundred more a month. A few days later, the pipes froze. Installing the new plumbing kept them closed for a week. Next the water was mysteriously turned off. On and on. The wrath of Woleshka had set in like the hard ice surrounding them, and nothing could thaw him.

What will we do? Doc asked. He felt useless.

Can’t stay here under these conditions, Robby said.

"What are we going to do? Doc said again. His dream was vanishing.

Doc began a search for a new location to move the restaurant. If nothing else, looking kept away the constant feeling of despair. While he went out every day to look, Robby remained in the restaurant, alone.

With the exception of a humming sound, it was deadly quiet in the pantry part of the restaurant. The humming began usually in the afternoon, and Robby was not sure if it was due to the wall of refrigerators or just ghosts of restaurateurs of the past, come back to sing praises to him for turning the ailing place into a success. When he heard the ringing telephone in the dining room, he counted the seconds it took for the automatic answering machine to pick up. More reservations for the evening. The phone started to ring early in the day and did not stop until after they opened the doors at six. The early eaters always rushed the doors at six. It was like that since the first week they opened. The phone rang again.

Robby took a seat on a small love seat near the stove. The latest snowstorm had turned to rain, and he listened to it press against the windows. The sound overwhelmed him, and when he looked out, there was an army of pine trees. These rows were the town’s defender, cradling all within its borders. In the rainy season, the trees came to life, and in the summer, the air became intense; the scent of dark pine filled the air and intoxicated all who dared to breathe. The giant trees were a blessing for a community whose main concern was a cotton mill that ground out sheets and bedspreads day and night. The trees were a sanctuary for any factory worker or bored housewife who could get to a window tall enough to look out. In the winter when everything froze and became unlifelike, the giant pines of Sunset stood gallantly at attention, stronger looking than the Great Wall itself.

Robby stared at the trees for a long time until the drizzle settling against the window blocked everything from his sight except the mill. The dark ghostly mill with churning smokestacks flushed pillows of gray through the heavy rain. The telephone rang, startling Robby. He grabbed it before it could ring again.

Doc? There was silence from the other end and then the sound of a young girl’s stifled sobs. Dee Dee, is that you? The sobbing grew louder, and Robby knew it was his daughter. Dee Dee, talk to me. What’s wrong?

Daddy, I’m so mixed up, I can’t— She continued to cry.

Just catch your breath and tell me.

I came home and found Mom in bed with Bart! she blurted out. Sickened, Robby felt the pang that came every time Teresa did something that hurt them all.

Where are you?

In a phone booth down the street, she whispered. I walked in on them a few minutes ago. She began to sob again, remembering the sight of her seventeen-year-old boyfriend naked on the bed with her mother.

Now listen to me, I want you to come here, Robby said. There was silence from the other end. Dee Dee?

I want to walk around a while, she said, not crying anymore. I’ll be all right.

I love you, you know that.

Robby found himself pacing the pantry, his legs wobbly. How can the mother of my children do such a thing? he asked himself. How could the bitch Teresa do such a thing to her own child? Robby’s mouth was dry, and he had to breathe deeply in order to stop the sick and dizzy feeling. He had to stop thinking altogether.

*****

The car stalled several times before turning over. Robby drove slowly away from the restaurant. The downpour kept most everyone off the streets where the houses were old and large. He drove past neighborhoods. The force of the rain was soon pounding against the car to such a degree that he had to pull over and park. He turned the car off and listened.

When Robby turned to open his window, he saw that he was parked in front of the house that he grew up in. His mother still lived there, but he did not notice her car in the drive. Cold wet air flooding the car felt good, and when he smelled the cotton mill, it took him back to his childhood and the upstairs of his mother’s house. His earliest recollection of the world began in the upstairs of that house where he was born; and it all came out in French, not English. Most everyone living in Sunset had crossed illegally across the Canadian border. The street signs, the local newspaper, even high mass on Sunday were in French. It was in the upstairs hallway that Robby waited every morning for his father to leave for work. His father stood very tall, and Robby liked to pull at his dark-blond hair while he hugged him goodbye. The smell of the mill was on his father’s clothing and skin. His mother washed and cleaned daily, but nothing could rid the air of the stench.

On Sundays, the family went to church. To Robby’s parents, church was even more important than school.

I don’t want to sing, so don’t force me, Robby told his parents when they attempted to make him an altar boy.

Robby, do what your mother says, his father ordered. He was busy hanging up a giant crucifix on the wall next to Robby’s bed. Robby did not want it hanging on his wall. It was bad enough they all had to wear one around their necks.

I’m not learning Latin, Robby added. He had made up his mind, and before long, his parents were back to their adult world and he was out the window, sliding along the vine from the tree outside the window.

Robby’s first job was in the mill. It was his father’s idea to secure his son a job there as bobbin boy. It was at the mill that Robby met Carol. She worked as a weaver. Tall and slender, she looked much older than Robby. She wore tight sweaters that made her breasts seem larger than they really were, and most at the mill thought she was a tramp.

Carol lived in a dumpy apartment with her mother that was so close to the mill it seemed related, and like roommates, Carol and her mother shared everything.

She’s just afraid of getting old, Carol explained to Robby on the phone. She wants to be my age, so she’s made us roommates. I can come and go as I please. She thinks we should double date. Robby kept quiet. He did not know what to make of this.

Come to my place. It was Carol calling him late at night, as usual. She used her breathless voice, which usually got Robby hot.

What about your mother? Robby asked. He was almost asleep when the phone had rung.

Still working, so come on over. Robby got ready to go. He wasn’t horny, but the idea of sliding out the window and along the vine made an exit irresistible. He could hear his parents fighting downstairs.

I don’t want you working! his father hollered.

I have to. We need the money, his mother’s voice followed. Robby’s father was sick and out of work, and his mother was now baking pies in a restaurant.

I’m dying. You know that, don’t you? I’m dying, and you’ll be going out with others soon enough. His father’s voice was hoarse and filled with self-pity.

Who told you that? Who says you’re dying? It’s just the grippe.

I hate it here. I hate it here with you gone and just the sound of the kids to keep me busy. It became quiet, and Robby sat on the windowsill ready to take the slide. Nobody had told his father that he was dying, but he knew inside that he was. The mill and its deadly gray clouds had gotten his father, who would be just thirty-four.

It was an unusually hot night, and the rush of air felt good when Robby slid down the vine. As he walked to Carol’s, he tried to get aroused. But he could not. No matter how hard he tried, he did not feel sexy. Carol was already naked on her bed when he entered the little apartment a few feet from the mill.

Hi, he said, looking around. For the first time he wanted to do something else with Carol. Go for a walk. Go to a movie.

Hi to you, she said, getting up to kiss him hello. Robby did not respond, which annoyed her. What’s wrong?

Nothing.

Are you going to get undressed or what?

What’s the rush? Robby sat in a chair that had a pillow in the shape of a frog on its seat.

I don’t believe this. What are you waiting for? Carol flopped on her bed, her breasts pressed against the pillows.

I told you, I’m not in the mood. Can’t we do anything but fuck? Carol’s face turned bright red, and she jumped off the bed and rushed to Robby, slapping him hard across the face. He reeled backward, stunned.

Take your clothes off and fuck me, goddamnit! She waited. I want you to fuck me! She was wild.

No.

She slapped him hard again. Shocked, Robby slapped her back, sending her across the room. Laughing, Carol rushed back and kissed him. Robby kissed back. He now had the hardest hard-on he’d ever had, and he pushed Carol back to the bed and got out of his clothes. She was smiling slyly as he began to bite her breasts, mounting her. She moaned.

You guys want something to eat? It was Carol’s three-hundred-pound mother, home from working late.

Later, Ma, Carol said between gasps of ecstasy.

You sure? We have chicken, the mother added, standing her ground.

Ma, get out of here! Carol ordered, never stopping her moaning, pumping, and grinding while Robby remained perfectly still. The huge woman who’d sold dozens of pairs of shoes that night turned like a horse commanded and went to the kitchen. Robby came with the next thrust; and as he lay in Carol’s arms, half listening to her whispers, he tried to believe that his life was as ordinary as the next person’s because life in Sunset, Maine, was plain apple pie.

Six months later Robby’s father condition deteriorated to the point where he could no longer walk or see. His body was so riddled with cancer he had to hold on to his brother Joey went the pain got bad. Robby’s mother had a kit from the doctor so she could inject his father with morphine when he could no longer take the illness and he cried out with gibberish or a story that everyone had heard thirty times before.

Robby’s uncle was five years younger than his father and very handsome. He took over Robby’s father’s job in the mill and slept in Robby’s room. Robby always watched his uncle when he walked around the room with nothing on but a pair of fancy leather cowboy boots. Uncle Joey loved the Old West and everything to do with it. He was a cowboy at heart, and only Robby seemed to understand.

*****

As the rain continued to pour down all around him, Robby closed his eyes and then opened them. He looked at the windshield, and with his eyes half closed, he could see the crystals of a crinkled glass doorknob. It was the doorknob in the bedroom he shared with his uncle all those years ago. He remembered the sound the rain made when it hit the slate roof. He would sit in bed listening to the rain hit the roof and then slide around and down the drainpipe to the ground below. The sounds of family downstairs always comforted him, and as he’d fall into the final stage of sleep, the door to the room would open. Even in his drowsiness, Robby knew that it was his uncle. He’d listen to his heavy breathing as his clothes came off and he slid carefully into the bed next to Robby. With his arms around Robby, cradling him close, the sound of the rushing water was all that Robby could concentrate on as his uncle held him, sliding his naked body back and forth until his moaning became loud and he had to bury his face against Robby’s neck when the explosion came. The rain would always remind Robby of his uncle in that bedroom. It was something he had no control over.

During the final month of his father’s illness, the entire family set up vigil, talking to him and watching life slip away. The pain had become so bad that the bars of his headboard were twisted beyond recognition from his pulling on them, and when he’d yell out, he’d bite down hard on the crucifix Robby’s mother placed in his mouth. The Christ body was chewed to bits; the cross, bent and disfigured. He died in the early morning after a terrible night; and when the last breath oozed from him, Robby’s mother opened the heavy curtains and let the light in. They had all suffered enough, she announced, and opened the windows after covering her husband’s shriveled-up body with a sheet. The doorbell sounded.

Who is it? his mother yelled from the open window.

Immigration. We’ve come for Romeo Duvrey! a voice yelled back. After sixteen years the Canadian Immigration Service had finally tracked down their man and were now there in full force to take him away. Robby’s mother stared for several moments at the uniformed police standing on her front porch. And then she did something that startled them all. She burst out laughing.

Robby’s father was taken to a local funeral home and then brought back looking like wax. A smile, which no one ever remembered seeing before, now appeared on his face; and when all the flowers were placed around the coffin, the house smelled fruity. All of Robby’s friends came to pay their respects: the boys dressed in black suits with stark-white starched shirts and black ties; the girls equally as sad in black skirts and white blouses. It was strange for Robby to see his father in a black