Little Roger, an eleven-year-old boy growing up in northern Maine near the Canadian border, must write a history paper about his small town of Frenchville. As his mother is telling him about growing up in nearby New Brunswick, Canada, she tells him that "Where I'm from, a boy is not a man until he kills a deer". At that point Little Roger sets a new goal for himself, not only does he want to get an A on his history paper about Frenchville but now he also wants to kill a deer and become a man! He knows what he must do but it is something very new to him and he must find a way to reconcile the task with the outcome. With only a couple of days left in the hunting season, will Little Roger kill a deer and become a man?

The Boy Who Wanted to Be a Man

A NovellaBy Paul Bouchard

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Paul Bouchard
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-2658-5

Chapter One

Little Roger Nadeau was having dinner with his parents, Bob and Jeannette. It was a Thursday night in October of 1979, and the trio was at the dinner table in their home in Frenchville, Maine.

Bob, forty-two, was a forklift operator at Fraser Paper, a large paper mill in the adjacent town of Madawaska, while Jeannette, thirty-nine, was a seamstress at the non-union textile mill in nearby Fort Kent. Bob and Jeannette had three children: Bill, eighteen, who was in the Army and currently stationed in Panama; Lisa, thirteen, a member of the French Club and currently taking part in an 8th-grade class-sponsored trip to Quebec City, Canada; and Little Roger, eleven. Though Roger was of average height and weight for his age, "Little Roger" was his nickname nonetheless because the nickname "ti" was very common in French, and "ti" translated to "little" in English.

The Nadeaus were one of five hundred or so families who lived in Frenchville, a small town that hugged the St. John River-a river that in some parts served as the border between Maine and Canada. Nestled in the northernmost corner of the northernmost of the New England states, Frenchville was close to four hundred miles north of the port city of Portland, and some two hundred miles north of Bangor.

"And how was your day at school, Little Roger?" asked Jeannette as she took a bite of her steak.

"Good, Mommy," replied Little Roger. He took a quick sip from his glass of milk. "Pretty regular day-I've got homework and all. But I did get this interesting assignment from Mr. Morneau for our history class."

"Oh, what's that?" asked his mom, genuinely interested.

"Well, Mr. Morneau told our class that every student has to write a ten-page paper by Thanksgiving about a topic we covered in class."

"That sounds interesting," said Jeannette, a petite French Canadian brunette with rosy cheeks.

Bob, wearing his work clothes of blue jeans and a flannel shirt, chimed in with, "Yeah, sounds like you'll be busy with that assignment, Little Roger."

"Well see, Mom and Dad, that's not the half of it," Little Roger said in an excited tone. He took another quick sip of milk, and then he said, "See, after class, Mr. Morneau came up to me as I was leaving, and he said, 'Little Roger, I want your paper to be about Frenchville and the St. John Valley.' That's when I said, 'But Mr. Morneau, Frenchville and the Valley weren't covered in our history textbook,' and then he said, 'I know, Little Roger, but I'm making an exception with you. I liked your last book report about Mickey Mantle and Jackie Robinson, and I don't even like baseball. You write well about people, Little Roger. Write about the Valley, and you can also write about people and your parents."

"Well, that's a nice compliment Mr. Morneau gave you, eh, Little Roger," Bob said as he gently patted Little Roger on the shoulder. "Atta boy."

"Yes, Little Roger, congratulations," added Jeannette.

"Thank you. Thank you, Mom and Dad." Little Roger was all smiles. "But I need your help. I need help describing the Valley, and I'll need to know more about your families-my aunts and uncles."

The next fifteen minutes or so involved Little Roger asking numerous questions of his parents-questions whose answers would help him write his latest history assignment. At one point, Little Roger took a break from the Q and A because he was getting so much information, he needed to get a history-paper notebook to take notes and write it all down.

"Don't forget to mention that the Valley is basically French Canadian on both sides of the border," reminded Jeannette.

"Yes, but French is dying on the American side," added Bob, spreading margarine on a slice of white bread. "The kids still speak French, but it's dying a slow death."

Seconds later, Jeannette said, "Little Roger, I think you need to mention that Valley residents are almost all Catholics. Your dad is a Knight of Columbus, you know."

"Okay, Mommy." He wrote down Dad-K of C.

Suddenly, the phone rang.

"I'll get it," said Bob. He took a napkin, wiped his mouth, and went to the small foyer next to the kitchen where the phone was. "Hello."

"Mr. Nadeau?"

"Yes. Speaking."

"Mr. Nadeau, my name is Captain Richardson. I'm calling from Panama. I'm your son's company commander."

"Is there a problem?" Bob asked, genuinely concerned. He was still standing up, with the phone receiver hugging his ear.

"Well, I'm afraid your son is AWOL, sir."

Bob, not being a military man, was not following. He asked, "What does that mean, sir? What is this AWOL?"

"Stands for absent without leave, Mr. Nadeau. It means your son is absent. We haven't seen him or heard from him in over a week."

"Oh, I see," said Bob.

There was a pause and then, "Mr. Nadeau, I will keep you posted on any developments on our end, and if you learn of your son's whereabouts, please let us know."

"Yes, of course," answered Bob.

The captain gave Bob his contact information in Panama.

"Who was that?" asked Jeannette when Bob returned to the dinner table. Not one to sugarcoat things, Bob got right to the point: "That was one of Bill's military officers. He said they haven't heard from Bill in over a week."

"Is he in trouble?" asked Jeannette, her tone a worried one.

"I don't know. You know Bill-he's always been an independent sort. I'm sure he's okay."

"Maybe he's out hunting, Dad."

"Uh, I don't know, Little Roger. Sure, Bill likes to hunt, but Panama is not like here. Remember Bill's last letter? He said Panama is jungle. Not sure if there's a lot of hunting there."

The Nadeaus resumed eating. Bob, ever the optimist, always looked on the positive end of things, and though he was concerned about Bill, his concern was not overwhelming because in the end, Bill was independent and resourceful. Bill's probably hooked up with some GIs and they're out drinking and chasing girls, he thought. As for Jeannette, she was worried about Bill, but seeing that Bob had defused the matter some meant things couldn't be all that bad.

More passing of time at the dinner table ensued, and Bob at one point asked for seconds.

"Mommy, tell me, what was it like growing up in Clair?" Little Roger asked. His mother's hometown was in nearby New Brunswick, Canada.

"Well, Little Roger," she said, "you know I grew up on a small farm and that my father-your grandfather Long-also owned a small sawmill." Jeannette proceeded to talk about tending to large gardens in the spring and summer, shoveling snow in the winter with her siblings, helping her father with yet another side business that involved boiling maple sap in a small cabin to derive maple syrup, how Catholic Mass-when she was growing up-was all in Latin and no one knew Latin, and then, "Where I'm from, a boy is not considered a man until he kills a deer. Both my brothers-your Long uncles-killed deer before they were sixteen. Gerard killed one when he was thirteen; Maurice got his first when he was ten."

* * *

After dinner, Little Roger went to his bedroom to do his homework, but before he got started, he went to the small desk that occupied the north corner of his bedroom. He pulled open the desk's top drawer and removed an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch notebook that was green in color....