Chapter 64: Familiar Ghost in the Attic
Monique finally came home for good, or at least too long for me to remain there. She and some of her friends arrived past two in the morning and immediately started partying with loud music and drugs. It was a nightmare. Not only were they stoned beyond communication; but seemed oblivious to the presence of anyone else. After several unsuccessful attempts, I gave up trying to converse, returned to my nest in the loft, and tried to sleep by stuffing toilet tissue in my ears. Poor Stephan was awake, gravitating around his mother like any other groupie competing for her attention. I realized this was unsupportable behavior and that I would need to find other accommodations.
It was past noon the following day by the time Monique rose from the coffin of a drug induced slumber looking like a corpse from a walking dead movie. I understood the spiritual wantonness that trapped her soul in an illusion between light and shadow and wanted no part of it. I shared with her the testimony of when I was younger, before the Lord of Salvation released me from demonic influence.
"Think of your son, Monique. This can't be a good environment for him at such a young age."
Monique only looked soulfully at me through those beautiful blue eyes, a flutter of light trapped deep inside, something that wanted to be free from the darkness, but too weak to break the bonds alone. I asked her to pray with me. For a moment, I think she wanted to, but then the logic of her mind hardened her countenance. The next day, she left again, but returned a few hours later. I could tell by her countenance that Monique had come to a decision in reference to our relationship.
"I appreciate you taking care of Stephan these several weeks." She said without taking off her sunglasses. "I spoke to a friend of mine named Bridgette, whose family home is available to rent for fifty dollars a month. It is out in the country near St-Jerome. I think you would be more comfortable there for your writing."
I did not take this as a rejection, but rather as a reprieve. I had met Bridgette briefly the night Monique arrived with her friends. She was a cute girl with auburn hair, one of the jet set bodies that orbited the dark center of this nefarious queen of the northern lights. During this time I did not know the full depth of that world, nor Monique's true position within the evil web. Years later I would learn from another acquaintance that she was involved with the infamous Rizzuto Montreal Italian Mob family, which probably explained the Bentley and the Rose Royce. I was just glad in the moment to escape to a more peaceful environment free of spiritual affliction.
The tiny house with a single upstairs bedroom, located in the farming community of Bellefeuille, fifteen minutes west of St-Jerome city was less elegant than the modern A-Frame, but at least it was quiet. There was not another house for a mile around, no telephone, no TV--and no chance of anyone dropping in unexpectedly. However, there was a great sound system in the main living area, as I continued to listen daily to SHOM FM. I also continued to work on an ongoing novel titled the Frogs, based on the successful short story first began during my University days. I had expanded the story at least once, contracted it twice, and still could not fully comprehend where the fiction wanted to go. I knew it was more than a Viet Nam war story; more than just piece about coming of age. I felt in it an iceberg of meaning, illusive, glimmering ever so dimly beneath the veneer of my consciousness. I crouched over my new Olympia typewriter for hours on end, spitting out page after page. Why I could not do this in the warm Santa Anna Wind country of California is a mystery to me. I never liked the cold, and liked it even less now. It was like being stranded at the end of the world, with the frozen eye of a Laurentian Canadian winter creeping nearer with each passing day. By early December, it was raining snowballs. To watch the terrain fill with snow through the front Bay window for the first time remains a uniquely wondrous experience. I have seen it snow many times since, but never more beautiful as that first beginning of winter. Day and night the snowplows passed along the road in front of my residence. There seemed no end to the storm that engulfed the region. It was the making of a real Quebec wonderland.
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Distance Traveled: A Chronicle in TimeNon-Fiction
This is an autobiographical novel beginning in a small town in old south America. It records the life of a young man growing up in the shadow of the escalating Viet Nam war and eventually joining the United States Marine Corps to become a part of t...