“That’s another mystery.”
Ryan winked.
My stomach tried a flip, landed on its backside.
I took a breath.
“What’s up with us, Andy?”
Ryan regarded me with eyes as blue as a Bahamian bay.
A debating team took their seats in my head. Pro: Confront him with Charbonneau’s prom queen sighting. Con: Keep it to myself.
Prize to the Con side. Wiser to hold back.
Wisdom also did a pratfall.
“Charbonneau mentioned an odd thing this morning.”
“If you’re talking about Saturday’s shooting, it was no big deal.”
“He saw you at the courthouse last August.”
“I’m a hardworking boy.” Boyish grin.
“The week you left Charlotte.”
The Bahamian bay showed nary a ripple.
“For a family crisis in Nova Scotia.”
Calm waters.
“You weren’t alone.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What
Ryan’s smile wavered, recovered. His fingertips brushed my cheek. Then he scooped the photos from the counter and handed me the envelope. For a long time his eyes held mine. Then, “I love you, you know.”
I looked at my shoes, emotions cannonballing in my chest.
I closed my eyes.
The anteroom door clicked, clicked again.
When I opened my eyes, Ryan was gone.
Nothing much happened for the next three days.
Then I caught my first break.
And my second.
And my third.
20
FOR BACK-TO-BACK DAYS NO PROVINCIAL DEAD REQUIRED A LOOK-SEE by the anthropologist. There were no boxcar decomps. No attic mummies. Not a single Popsicle body part.
Tuesday I tried calling a few more Menards and Truongs, then caught up on case reports, e-mail, and correspondence. Anne slept until two, then listlessly watched soaps and reruns. She initiated very little conversation even though I’d taken the afternoon off from the lab to be with her. At dinner she drank three quarters of a bottle of Lindemans, professed great fatigue, then dragged off to bed at ten. How tired can one get being up only eight hours and doing nothing? I wondered.
Each December, artisans from across the province gather to sell their wares at the Salon des metiers d’art du Quebec. On Wednesday I roused Anne at noon and suggested an arts and crafts Christmas-shopping blitz.
She declined.
I insisted.
Only a few million people were at place Bonaventure. I bought a ceramic bowl for Katy, a carved oak pipe stand for Pete, a lama wool scarf for Harry. Birdie and Boyd, Pete’s canine housemate in Charlotte, got spiffy suede collars. Apricot for the cat. Forest green for the chow.
A display featuring hand-painted silk jerked Ryan to mind. Necktie? No sale.
Anne dragged lethargically from booth to booth, showing the level of interest of a control group lab rat. I bought her fudge, tried on funny hats. Tried on the dog collar. She would attempt to show interest, then lapse into nonresponsiveness, almost as though I were not there. Nothing amused her. She made not a single purchase.
Anne’s depression had plunged to depths
All day, I gave her hugs and said soothing things. Otherwise, I had no idea what to do. She was not talkative, which for her is an unnatural state.
At dinner, Anne barely picked at her sushi, focused instead on more alcohol poisoning. Once home, she again pleaded weariness and withdrew to her room.
