“Oh,” Olympia says, sitting down.
“This is precisely what I did not want to have happen,” Tucker says, picking up one of the papers and slapping it with the back of his fingers. “The city is polarizing. The Francos are passionate about their own community and now will rally around the Bolducs. And the Yankees, threatened by
la Survivance,
will demonstrate the worst sort of prejudice, as only they are capable of. This has been simmering for years, it is always there, and occasionally there is an event, like this suit, that brings it to the fore. This is Sears’s doing, I know it is. He has nothing to lose from this, and everything to gain. Indeed, I suspect that is why he has taken the case. For the publicity. He certainly is not in it for the fees.”
But Olympia has another thought, one she voices to Tucker. “To me, this gesture has the imprint of Zachariah Cote all about it,” she says. “This is how he would repay you for having shredded him on the stand yesterday.”
Tucker looks at Olympia and then seems to see her face for the first time.
“Miss Biddeford,” he says, putting the paper down. “Here I have been ranting on about class warfare, when, of course, the hurt is to you.”
“You tried to warn me about this,” she says.
“Yes, but a warning is nothing compared to the shock of the reality. I know that.”
Tucker removes the newspapers from the table and puts them in his case. “Are you sure you wish to continue with this case?” he asks. “It is not too late to withdraw your petition.”
“I am glad my father was not here to see this,” Olympia says, standing and walking to the window. “What is this
la Survivance?
” she asks, looking down at the crowd. “I know it means
survival,
but in this context?”
“It is the rallying cry of the Franco-American community. To keep their culture and their language pure and uncorrupted by the influence of the Yankees. An effort, I might add, that history has shown to be doomed to failure, which I think makes the Francos all the more determined. Of course, you and I know that this suit is not about class or culture, but they will have it differently.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Are you so sure this is not about class or culture?”
“I have not thought so,” Tucker says. “But it shall become so now.”
• • •
In the small hearing chamber, the sounds of the growing crowd outside can be heard through the sole, shrouded window. Albertine looks frightened and clutches the hand of her husband. Judge Littlefield enters the chamber, and even he, Olympia notes, appears to be somewhat rattled.
“I had hoped to handle this affair privately behind closed doors,” Littlefield says at once when he is seated, “which is where it should remain. But occasionally, through no fault of the court, a legal affair is made public, and that public determines it has need to be witness to the facts of the case. This private dispute has found its way into the newspapers, and I hope I shall never discover that any of the parties present in this room has been responsible for this breach of confidentiality.” Littlefield glares pointedly at Sears, who, in turn, looks startled and bares his palms, as if to say: It was not I.
“When a case has been made public,” Littlefield continues, “and the public decides it is being denied access to it, it is possible that one or both parties may be injured. Therefore, it is with great reluctance and after much deliberation that I have made the decision to sit in public. We shall now adjourn to a larger chamber, and as I do not wish to expose any of us to personal injury from the crowd that has gathered outside, I shall ask the bailiff to escort you through the entrance behind me. The public shall be let into the chamber through another entrance. Bailiff?”
Tucker waits for Sears to show Albertine and Telesphore Bolduc through the door behind the judge before he leads Olympia to this exit. Taking her arm, they pass through the door into what seems like a dark warren of tiny chambers, and Olympia thinks of lambs being led to the slaughter. Because the way is murky and labyrinthine, Olympia instinctively draws closer to Tucker. For part of the way, there are no lights at all, and he puts his arm around her shoulder to guide her. It is odd to feel a man’s protective touch again. When they approach the entry to the assigned hearing room, Olympia can hear shouts of encouragement to Albertine and Telesphore. Tucker takes her hand.
“Mr. Tucker, I am more than a little apprehensive,” she says, looking down at their clasped hands.
“Miss Biddeford,” he says, “there is something I should like to say to you.”
In the twilight of the chambers, all that she can see is the suggestion of a face, his eyes.
“I know that this is a dreadful moment,” he says.
“Mr. Tucker,” she says.
“It is only that I wish to say how much I have admired your courage and that I have hope that one day we shall have occasion to be friends and not merely colleagues.”
Olympia withdraws her hand. “You have picked an exceedingly odd time to announce your admiration,” she says.
“Yes. Indeed. I have. But is there ever an opportune time and place for such pronouncements?”
“No, perhaps not.”
Olympia considers Tucker. “I should not like to quash hope in any person, having much need of it myself,” she says carefully. “And I should particularly not want to disappoint you, since I am already more grateful to you than I can say. But I cannot offer any person more than I can give.”
“I understand.”
“Please call me Olympia. It is absurd of us to stand on ceremony when we are surrounded by too much pomp and protocol already.”
“Thank you, Olympia,” he says.
“My God, Tucker,” says Judge Littlefield, emerging from the gloom and startling them both. “If I discover that it was Sears who has caused this pandemonium, I shall have him disbarred. Tell me it was not you.”
“No, sir,” says Tucker, more than slightly flustered to have been overheard in his private petition. “There is no advantage to me in having the courtroom packed with members of the Franco community.”
“No, quite.”
“And if I may say so, sir,” Tucker adds, “one cannot be certain that it was Sears either.”
“No, perhaps not. But who then?”
“A disgruntled witness perhaps?” Tucker suggests, looking at Olympia as he does so.
“Let me think on that,” Littlefield says. “And tell your father that he still owes me a barrel of apples.”
“Sir?”
“An old bet, Mr. Tucker. An old bet.”
Littlefield advances toward the door and holds it open for them.
“This could be a circus,” Tucker says quietly to Olympia as he shepherds her toward the entryway. “And it almost certainly will be painful. From the sound of it, I think there are rather more Franco supporters than Yankee in there. Think only about your cause and remember, it is not the public who is making the decision.”
“No, I should hope not,” says Littlefield.
Inside the larger hearing room, it is as Tucker has forewarned: He and Olympia enter the chamber to a chorus of shouts of
“La Survivance!”
Olympia is aware only of scores of men in gray workshirts and cloth caps calling out and raising their fists.
Why are these men not at work?
she wonders. Judge Littlefield, by design, enters immediately after them and swiftly takes up the gavel. He pounds sharply and impatiently upon the table before him.
“Let you make no mistake about these proceedings,” he begins, addressing the crowd. “Such outbursts will not be tolerated in this courtroom, and anyone who so much as utters a word will be thrown out forthwith. Mr. Sears, let us proceed with dispatch.” And whether it is the tension of the proceedings or his refusal to believe that anyone but Sears could be responsible for the mayhem, Littlefield is harsher in his command to Sears than he might be.
“Counsel for the respondents calls Albertine Bolduc to the stand.”
To a hum of muffled murmurs, and a severe look from Littlefield, which momentarily silences the crowd, Albertine Bolduc walks to the witness box and steps inside. It is immediately obvious to Olympia that the woman is terrified, for her hands tremble visibly. She has on the same suit and blouse as she did the day before, and she has fashioned her hair, once again, into a high pompadour with fringe at the front.
“Your Honor,” says Mr. Sears, himself dressed in a pinstriped frock coat of dark navy, the diamonds on his fingers sparkling in the electric lights, “I wish to enter into the case several exhibits.”
“Yes, Mr. Sears, go ahead.”
The chamber is large, with many rows of benches and even a gallery, which appears to be packed. On the walls are portraits of grave men with somber expressions.
“I have here a document issued by the Orphanage of Saint Andre and another by the state of New Hampshire,” says Sears. “I also have several photographs.”
“Let these documents and photographs be marked as exhibits by the clerk of the court,” Littlefield requests.
Sears lets the documents be recorded and then takes them back. Holding them close to his breast, as if they were near and dear to him, he approaches Albertine Bolduc in the witness box.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bolduc.”
“Good morning.”
“I have some documents here that I should like you to take a look at and identify for me.”
Sears shows her the first one, placing it in her trembling hand. “Can you tell the court what this is?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice barely audible. “Is certificate of guardian from orphanage.”
“And this one?”
“Is certificate from state to being foster,” she says haltingly.
Sears takes the two papers from her and hands them to Judge Littlefield.
“And, Mrs. Bolduc, can you identify these two photographs?”
“Yes,” she says. “This one? Is of my little Pierre and me when he is five months. And this one here, this is Pierre in wagon with chicken. He is one year.”
“Who took these photographs?”
“Is overseer in the mill who is being friend to me and Telesphore.”
“Thank you,” says Sears quickly, delivering the photographs to the judge, who studies them for a moment. Oddly, Sears seems abrupt with Albertine on the stand, perhaps uneasy with her obvious lack of education, a fact seemingly heightened by her broken English.
“Your Honor,” says Tucker, “may we see these photographs?”
“Yes. Clerk, give these documents and photographs to counsel for the relator.”
And Olympia will later think:
There are some moments in life for which there can be no preparation.
The first photograph shows a seated woman holding aloft an infant in a long white dress. The woman’s arms are hidden inside the dress. Her face is wrinkled into a broad smile, a pretty smile, over even white teeth. She has on a blouse with a wide white collar and cuffs, and a skirt of a darker shade. The baby has what looks to be a necklace around his neck and tiny kid booties upon his feet. The baby, looking toward the camera, as the mother is, is also smiling broadly, a wide toothless grin. One can almost hear the baby’s laugh. The mother, though grinning, is looking at the photographer with sly delight, as if to say,
What do you think of my marvelous treasure?
In the second photograph, a boy is reaching forward to try to touch a large rooster that has been harnessed to a tiny wooden wagon in which the boy is seated. Around them are long grasses and leaves, suggesting a rural setting.
Olympia thinks:
He was such a beautiful infant, and I have lost all of those years already. No matter what happens here, I can never get them back.
Tucker, seeing Olympia’s reaction to the photographs, quickly summons the clerk to take them away.
“Mrs. Bolduc,” Sears says. “Tell us in your own words how it was you came to have the boy in your care.”
“My words?” she asks, confused. She glances up at the judge for help.
“In English, please,” says Littlefield, and there is some disgruntled muttering in the courtroom.
Albertine Bolduc squints into a ray of sunlight that has momentarily fallen onto the witness box. She moves her head to escape its glare. “I am married eight years and am not having any infants,” she begins. “And I am asking of the sisters about the orphanage. And they are telling me of how I will get a baby. For the doctor is telling me that I am not having any children of my own, which is big sorrow to me and Telesphore.”
“Yes,” says Sears. “Go on.”
“And in April of
1900
, I am getting a visit from Mère Marguerite, who says there is a baby.”
“This would be Mother Marguerite Pelletier?”
“Yes, she come on Sunday afternoon to me. And she tell me that there is baby for me if Telesphore and I want. And I am saying yes, no matter what we have to do, we do want. And then Telesphore and me, we do not go to shift in the morning and we get the baby.”