Peter crept to the bedroom door and looked in. God help him, part of him was jealous. Jealous of the hold Jane had over Clara. He wondered whether Clara would have been like this had he died. And he realised that, had he died in the woods, Clara would have had Jane to comfort her. And Jane would have known what to do. In that instant a door opened for Peter. For the first time in his life he asked what someone else would do. What would Jane do if she was here and he was dead? And he had his answer. Silently he lay down beside Clara and wrapped himself around her. And for the first time since getting the news, her heart and mind calmed. They settled, just for one blessed instant, on a place that held love, not loss.
FOUR
'Toast?' Peter ventured next morning to Clara's blubbering back.
'High doan whan doast,' she sobbed and slobbered, a fine thread of spittle descending to the floor to pool, glistening, at her feet. They were standing barefoot in the kitchen where they'd begun to make breakfast. Normally they'd have already showered and if not dressed at least put on slippers and a dressing gown over their flannel pajamas. But this morning wasn't normal. Peter simply hadn't appreciated how far from normal it was until this moment.
Lying all night, holding Clara, he'd dared to hope that the worst was over. That maybe the grief, while still there, would today allow some of his wife to be present. But the woman he knew and loved had been swallowed up. Like Jonah. Her white whale of sorrow and loss in an ocean of body fluid.
'Clara? We need to talk. Can we talk?' Peter yearned to crawl back into their warm bed with a pot of coffee, some toast and jam, and the latest Lee Valley catalogue. Instead, he stood barefoot in the middle of their cold kitchen floor wielding a baguette like a wand at Clara's back. He didn't like the wand image. Maybe a sword. But was that appropriate? To wield a sword at your wife? He gave it a couple of swishes through the air and the crisp bread broke. Just as well, he thought. The imagery was getting too confusing.
'We need to talk about Jane.' He remembered where he really. was, placed the tragically broken sword on the counter and put his hand on her shoulder. He felt the soft flannel for an instant before her shoulder jerked away from his hand. 'Remember when you and Jane would talk and I'd make some rude comment and leave?' Clara stared ahead, snorting every now and then as a fresh drip left her nose. 'I'd go into my studio to paint. But I left the door open. You didn't know that, did you?'
For the first time in twenty-four hours he saw a flicker of interest. She turned to face him, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Peter resisted the urge to get a Kleenex.
'Every week while you and Jane talked I'd listen and paint. For years, and years. Did my best work in there, listening to you two. It was a little like when I was a kid lying in bed, listening to Mom and Dad downstairs, talking. It was comforting. But it was more than that. You and Jane talked about everything. Gardening, books, relationships, cooking. And you talked about your beliefs. Remember?'
Clara looked down at her hands.
'You both believed in God. Clara, you have to figure out what you believe.'
'What do you mean? I know what I believe.'
'What? Tell me.'
'Screw off. Leave me alone!' Now she rounded on him. 'Where're your tears? Eh? You're more dead than she is. You can't even cry. And now what? You want me to stop? It hasn't even been a day yet, and you're what? Bored with it? Not the center of the universe anymore? You want everything to go back to the way it was, like that.' Clara snapped her fingers in his face. 'You disgust me.'
Peter leaned away from the assault, wounded, and wanting to say all the things he knew would hurt her the way she'd just hurt him.
'Go away!' she screamed through hiccups and gasps. And he wanted to. He'd wanted to go away since this time yesterday. But he'd stayed. And now, more than ever, he wanted to flee. Just for a little while. A walk around the Commons, a coffee with Ben. A shower. It sounded so reasonable, so justified. Instead, he leaned toward her again, and took her snot-smeared hands in his and kissed them. She tried to pull away, but he held on firmly.
'Clara, I love you. And I know you. You have to figure out what you believe, what you really, truly believe. All these years you've talked about God. You've written about your faith. You've done dancing angels, and yearning goddesses. Is God here, now, Clara? Is he in this room?'
Peter's kind voice calmed Clara. She began to listen.
'Is he here?' Peter slowly brought his forefinger to her chest, not quite touching. 'Is Jane with him?'
Peter pressed on. He knew where he had to go. And this time it wasn't somewhere else. 'All those questions you and Jane debated and laughed about and argued over, she has the answer to. She's met God.'
Clara's mouth dropped open and she stared straight ahead. There. There it was. Her mainland. That's where she could put her grief. Jane was dead. And she was now with God. Peter was right. She either believed in God, or she didn't. Either was OK. But she could no longer say she believed in God and act otherwise. She did believe in God. And she believed that Jane was with him. And suddenly her pain and grief became human and natural. And survivable. She had a place to put it, a place where Jane was with God.
It was such a relief. She looked at Peter, his face bent to her. Dark rings under his eyes. His gray wavy hair sticking out. She felt in her hair and found a duck clip buried in the chaos of her head. Taking it out, and with it some of her own hair, she placed her hand on the back of Peter's head. Silently she drew it toward her and with her other hand she smoothed a section of his unruly hair, and put her clip on it. And as she did so she whispered in his ear, 'Thank you. I'm sorry.'
And Peter started to cry. To his horror he felt his eyes sting and well up and there was a burning in the back of his throat. He couldn't control it any longer and it came bursting out. He cried like he'd cried as a child when, lying in bed listening to the comfort of his parents talking downstairs, he realised they were talking about divorce. He took Clara in his arms and held her to his chest and prayed he would never lose her.
The meeting at the Surete headquarters in Montreal didn't last long. The coroner hoped to have a preliminary report that afternoon and would bring it by Three Pines on her way home. Jean Guy Beauvoir reported his conversation with Robert Lemieux, of the Cowansville Surete, still eager to help.
'He says Yolande Fontaine herself is clean. Some vague suspicions of slippery practices as a real estate agent, but nothing against the law, yet. But her husband and son are quite popular with the police, both the local and the Surete. Her husband is Andre Malenfant, aged thirty-seven. Five counts of drunk and disorderly. Two of assault. Two of breaking and entering.'
'Has he done any jail time?' Gamache asked.
'Couple of stretches at Bordeaux and lots of single nights in the local lock-up.'
'And the son?'
'Bernard Malenfant. Age fourteen. Seems to be apprenticing to his father. Out of control. Lots of complaints from the school. Lots of complaints from parents.'
'Has the boy ever actually been charged with anything?'
'No. Just a couple of stern talkings to.' A few officers in the room snorted their cynicism. Gamache knew Jean Guy Beauvoir well enough to know he always kept the best for last. And his body language told Gamache there was more to come.
'But,' said Beauvoir, his eyes lit in triumph, 'Andre Malenfant is a hunter. Now with his convictions he isn't allowed a gun-hunting permit. But-'
Gamache enjoyed watching Beauvoir indulge his flamboyant side, and this was about as flamboyant as Beauvoir got. A dramatic pause.