Happy Christmas, everyone! And Chanukah, and Kwanza, and Solstice.
The family Moreau was not a happy family. They were not a pleasant family, a functional family, or even a halfway decent family. Indeed, some might argue that they were not a family to begin with, and so they were not. M Pierre-Marcel Moreau and Janina Franck had never married. They never intended to, and had it not been for the child, they might never have seen one another again. Celestin Moreau was the reason why his father could not be a priest, and why his mother had never returned to Warsaw. They were the family Moreau because of him, and, because of him, they were miserable.
He used to sleep in bed with Maman and Papa. He remembered it still. Cold nights snuggled between them became warm. He dreamt of sunny beaches and blue water where John baptised the Holy Son, just as Maman read to him from the big book she called la Bible. He was safe in the dark, with Maman on the right and Papa on the left, their arms intertwined over his chest, and la Sacré-Coeur beaming at him from the wall. But then there was la Nuit Mal. Celestin remembered waking to Maman's whispers and prods, remembered the warmth and the smell – the putrid smell of a toilet that has yet to be cleaned – and Papa was shouting.
'Dégoûtant, la créature qui dégoût!'
He didn't know what wetting the bed was, but it was something filthy and disgusting. It made Papa twist his face into the ugly monster's face that pulled him from the bed and shook him by his sopping trousers. Maman whispered, Papa shouted, and Celestin cried. He kicked and screamed his way to the crawl space by the WC. He slapped Papa, but Papa slapped back. He begged and insulted in his own way, and when nothing happened, when Papa left him alone in the crawl space with a blanket and pillow, Celestin Moreau blamed himself. It was his fault he had wet the bed and upset Papa. It was his fault he was in the crawl space instead of the warm bed, curled up by himself with a blue blanket and anger and darkness that clawed at his soul until it broke in two.
Seraphin made Celestin a good boy again. Seraphin was the bad boy who broke plates and spilt Christmas soup, Celestin the angel who sat in front of the mirror and never made a sound.
'Celestin, give the blessing tonight,' said Papa. He wiped his eyes with tired hands, Maman's fingers brushing the creases from his trousers under the table.
'Cher Dieu,' the boy began. 'Cher Dieu, nous vous donnons nos gratitude pour cettes nourritures. Nous vous demandons qui vous nous pardonnez. Merci beaucoup, et Amen.'
They ate in silence, for the most part. Celestin listened to the scraping of forks on china plates and his father slurping tea from a cracked glass. Maman smiled at him, and he knew it was because of the chocolate. They – Maman and Papa – had both kept to themselves lately, but the now the New Year was past, and they could no longer pretend as though their son did not exist.
'Celestin, would you wash the dishes for me tonight? Je suis si fatiguée.'
And Papa said, 'Your maman needs rest, child, be a good boy and clean up for her.'
Celestin said nothing.
Later, when they had both gone to bed, the boy set down the heavy butcher's knife he had been washing and wandered to the mirror. He never made it. A fire crackled in the hearth, a dying fire, but it was enough to attract the attention of a little boy with white hair and red eyes that reflected the glow with a fire of their own. Papa and Maman were fast asleep by now. Surely no one could see him now….
Maman's red scarf would match perfectly with his eyes, and Papa's brown hat to cover the unmarked white of his hair. Rouge that had not been touched in years was dug out from beneath decades-old curlers, and now his cheeks were pink like any normal boy's. With a black pen he gave himself freckles, and Maman's shoes to add height to a seven year-old's miniature frame. The fire sparked; he danced.
'Je t'ai aime, mon cherie,
Nous dansions en Tunisie
Et tu as dis qui tu m'aimes
Je pense je t'aime, je pense je t'aime!'
He repeated the song, each time enunciating the final "aime" with a shake of his bum.
'Je t'ai aime, mon cherie.'
Maman and Papa used to hug him, when he was little and had a nightmare.
'Et tu as dis qui tu m'aimes.'
She read him stories from la Bible, and he wanted nothing more than to meet this Jésus and demand to be tan.
'Je pense je t'aime.'
The fire crackled, and Celestin blew kisses. Bonjour, Monsier! Bonjour, Mme Chaise, et M Lampe, et des Mlles Fenệtres. Bonjour, Bonjour, Bonjour! He blew them all the biggest, loudest kisses he could muster. Bonjour! Je pense je t'aime.
'Je pense je t'aime!'
The scarf unravelled; Papa's hat fell to the floor. Furiously, maniacally, Celestin scrubbed at his face. It hurt, he registered faintly. Maman's rouge was stubborn, but lye soap from the cupboard solved that. The face that grinned back from the mirror was flushed and stained with rouge and black ink. Celestin could not remember ever thinking he had looked as beautiful as he did just then, with splotched pink cheeks and black ink making tracks down his cheeks. He blew himself a kiss, turned off the light, and went back to the crawl space.