with their batteries removed, and here you are, throat tight with emotion.
“Can I help you?”
It was her. Françoise. She looked older than fifty-two, her face saggy, her heavy body even more massive, and her short hair almost the colour of eggplant.
She squinted, then her brow furrowed as if she suddenly couldn’t see. “Romain?”
I can’t say how much time we stood there, watching each other, intimidated and disbelieving. Clearly she wasn’t very happy to see me — her tight smile was almost a grimace. I too was shocked to realize I still held a grudge. After a long hesitation, I said, “You look well,” a comment I realized she couldn’t return when I saw my reflection in one of her large lateral mirrors. She didn’t answer, watching me, her mouth dumbly slack, as if she was afraid of me, a man in a wrinkled suit, my face drawn, a three-day beard on my face; it all implied there was something wrong with me.
I turned my head and looked quickly around the shop: impeccably sorted displays, on the left side men’s clothing, on the right, women’s and children’s. Like when my mother ran the shop. I said matter-of-factly, “So you got the store?” An embarrassed look on her face. “You own the place, right?”
“Yes. I.…”
“The old man gave you a good price?”
The phone rang, and I saw relief in her eyes.
“Just give me a moment, okay?” She went into the back to grab the phone instead of picking up the receiver right next to us, on the counter.
I began wandering the aisles, forcing myself to look relaxed. Memories were coming back to me, not as unpleasant as I had feared. As if my mother were still alive, and I imagined her working between two displays — a good, nervous woman, with constant aches in her legs that made her suffer. She ran her store with a firm hand, without sentimentality; she was alone at the helm and happy about it, always ready to give us orders, boxes to move or shelves to stock. My father dragooned into building shelves, or repairing a broken floorboard. Her store. Her pride. Her woman’s pride, since there weren’t many women at the time who managed a store unless they were widows. My mother brought home more money than my father, maybe twice as much despite his work as a carpenter and the repairs he did around Métis Beach. But they never spoke about it; it was my father’s shame to bear.
I made my way into the men’s section, where I looked through the coats. A rather spare selection, outmoded fur-lined jackets and trench coats. Nothing that caught my eye until I moved into the “outdoorsman” section and I noticed a good-looking waxed jacket. I was about to try it on when Françoise reappeared, still with that embarrassed air, “No, that’s not what you need. Come, I’ve got something better.”
“I forgot how cold it was here.”
She forced a smile, almost mocking, “Yes, it’s been a while.” A long, uncomfortable silence followed.
She led me to the front of the store, near the windows, and presented a selection of down jackets I’d missed. I tried my hand at continuing the conversation, offering a smile I hoped was friendly, “You must be pretty happy to have the store. You used to say it’s what you wanted most in the world.”
“I’m fulfilled,” she replied dryly, “As you can see.” She grabbed a coat and took it off its hanger. “Try it. One hundred percent down. About your size. Black is okay?”
The jacket fit me well, and it was both light and warm. For some reason, I expected a compliment out of her, like Still so slim? Or Not a trace of grey in your hair yet? But Françoise said nothing. She checked the length of the sleeves. Her practised eye looked me over coldly, without desire, thank God. If she’d given me that old flirtatious attitude like back in the day, I wouldn’t have had any idea what to do. Those old meaningful, complicit looks she shared with my mother, enough to get me embarrassed or angry — women with their mad ideas about marriage. My mother even kept some worthless objects she won at bingo as marriage gifts for us.
“You haven’t asked me why I’m back, Françoise.”
No surprise to her, apparently, “You came for the referendum. To vote.” I burst out laughing at the thought of that idiot Harry Fluke who scared me that morning. She stiffened.
I said, more seriously, “No, to tell you the truth, I didn’t even know about the vote. Pretty embarrassing, right?”
She looked me over suspiciously, then turned her back and walked away. I heard her say, “Gail? Gail Egan?”
Who else?
“She died in the night between Monday and Tuesday. Cancer.” I waited a beat, “You’re not going to say anything?”
She took refuge behind the counter, seemingly absorbed by a carefully organized pile of papers. “What do you want me to say? That it’s sad? Of course it is. I’m not some cold hag, you know.”
“Did you hear anything about her? Did she still visit in the summer?”
“No, not Gail. Her father did, though. He’s so old. If you could see him. A nurse comes with him. Mrs. Egan died a long time ago. Cancer as well.” She came out from behind the counter, went to the display of men’s gloves, and picked up what looked like the warmest pair. “Need some of these as well?” The self-confidence of the sales clerk had returned, and I said yes and thanked her. “Did you still see each other? Gail and you, I mean?” she asked me, polite, though clearly not wanting an answer.
“No, it’s been years. You know, I have my life in the States now, and.…”
She cut me off brusquely, “Yes, everyone knows.”
I looked at her, stunned. Why so much anger? Wasn’t I being nice to her?
“If you want, Françoise, I’d like us to talk.”
“About what?”
“About what happened in the summer of 1962. I feel like there are fragments I lost. Can you help me find them?”
I would have thought she’d at least be curious, maybe even teasing, yes, of course, everyone knew about the baby except you, but that wasn’t the case, she seemed absolutely ashen instead.
“It was too long ago. I can’t remember.”
“You forgot that summer? With everything that happened?”
“I don’t know, Romain … I don’t have the time … I’m busy.”
“Busy?”
Her cheeks reddened. We were alone in the store and not even the shadow of a customer in the deserted streets of the village.
“Invite me over, tonight.”
“I don’t know … I’ll need to look at what’s in the fridge. I.…”
“You’ll find something. You were an excellent cook, as I remember. I’m sure you still are.”
The compliment pleased her, though she didn’t smile.
I said, “Six-thirty, okay?”
She
