Theory of Remainders (48 page)

Philip made other preparations, squaring the details of his return with Jonas and Linda back at the office. He placed another call to Melanie Patterson, now home under the fretful supervision of her mother. When he apologized for his delay, she replied with indifference. Her old shield was up, a force field designed to repel human interaction. The fragile bond they’d formed during the last call was barely holding. After hanging up, Philip sighed. Such was the measure of progress in his line of work: two steps forward, one step back—on a good day.

They held no service at Saint-Pierre. That ceremony had occurred fifteen years earlier, a grand performance where the main role had been played by an empty black casket. All they needed now was a simple observance at the cemetery to mark the arrival of Sophie’s remains, and to allow those few who still remembered her a chance to lower their eyes.

Philip had the clothes for it. After all, when he’d appeared in Yvetot nearly three weeks earlier it had been for Anne-Madeleine’s funeral. Although his coat sleeve missed a button, his shirts were dingy, and his glasses sagged with a blackened Band-Aid, he at least had an appropriately funereal necktie.

On the afternoon of the service, the sky was overcast, the clouds the same color as the stone of the cemetery. Cars rolled into the parking area at the base of the giant oak one by one. Philip arrived first. Then came Roger, in the same car as Élisabeth. They weren’t arm in arm, but at least they were together. While she fussed with the bouquet of flowers, Roger strode across the gravel parking area.

“I’m glad to see her here,” Philip said, nodding back at the car.

Roger shrugged. “Don’t make too much of it. We’ve been back together before. It’s a yo-yo relationship. Still, who knows? I’m going to give it a try.” He checked his watch. “Nearly time,” he said.

Élisabeth now joined them, the flowers in her arms. She kissed Philip on the cheek.

“Did you hear?” she said. “Évelyne’s not coming.”

“Really?”

“Says it’s too far. Says she’ll stop by the grave the next time she’s in Yvetot.”

Roger looked up at the clouds. “Old cow.”

Flora and Pierre arrived. Then came the green Mercedes. Hervé emerged first, going around to open the door for Yvonne. She steadied herself on his arm and glanced a greeting in Philip’s direction. Then from the back, out popped Margaux, slender in her sober dress, her black hair clenched in a tiny bun.

Philip kissed Yvonne on the cheek. Hervé extended his hand, and Philip took it.

“No hard feelings?” Hervé asked awkwardly.

“No hard feelings.”

Margaux stepped forward. “Hello, Uncle Philip,” she said, presenting her cheeks to be kissed.

Philip leaned forward and the two exchanged pecks. He found himself smiling. The touch of those light lips, they made everything worthwhile.

“It’s okay if I call you Uncle, isn’t it?”

“Certainly. Better than okay.”

“Because I had a big conversation with Mother about it. Since there isn’t a word for what you are, we decided I could just choose one.”

“Does that mean I get to call you my niece?”

Margaux’s smooth brow puckered for an instant. “We didn’t talk about that.” She brightened. “But I guess so.”

Hervé pushed open the gate to the cemetery and the group began to move forward. Margaux offered Philip her hand, and he walked with her up the gravel path.

“I think it’s a very good thing that you did,” Margaux said. “Even though it’s kind of creepy.”

“Creepy in what way?”

“Well, it’s odd having a sister—a half-sister—I never met. I didn’t like to think of her being dead, and especially lying somewhere we didn’t even know. But it’s also kind of weird to be glad to have found her. Do you know what I mean?”

“Oh yes. I know exactly what you mean.”

They’d made their way to the far end of Saint-Louis. Father Cabot waited behind the stone of the tomb. He had rubbed up against sepulchers and crosses on his way in, and was now slapping at the dusty smudges on his robe.

Sophie’s casket had been lowered into the vacant spot earlier that day, the granite lid already moved back into place. Aside from the wreath set on a metal stand, the tomb appeared the same as before: the same grave with the same stone serving the same purpose. The only difference was the invisible sensation of fullness.

Cabot opened up his Bible and took out a page of jotted notes, squinting at them, then rotating them right side up. The group of five had formed a semi-circle around the end of the slab, heads down, waiting for Cabot to begin.

Behind, in the distance, Philip heard footsteps. Coming up the gravel path was a beefy woman he didn’t know. Or rather, that he
did
know, although he wasn’t sure how. Her eyes gleamed, and suddenly he realized it was the
patronne
from the
Tord-boyaux
. She halted some twenty feet back from the family, standing with her hands clasped.

The grate at the entrance of the cemetery screeched again, and another person began marching up the gravel path, a tall, balding man with a lanky build. It was Francis Boucher, the Brigadier. He gave Philip a two-fingered salute as he came up even with the
patronne
. Again the gate sounded, and two more entered in the distance, then three more after that, followed by a string of others. There were people of all shapes and sizes, men, women and children, old and young, dressed in everything from farm coveralls to their Sunday best. They congregated two and three rows back, keeping a respectful distance. Soon there were twenty or thirty people, and more were on their way. Men pulled their hats off as they approached. Women smoothed down the fronts of their blouses and clasped their hands. Philip recognized Guérin in the crowd. Monsieur Bécot. The greasy-haired mayor—the tweed driving cap removed, clutched in his hands. The whole crew from the bar. The butcher and his wife. The woman who served him at the bakery. The man from the hardware store. The farmer he’d crossed paths with at Le Mont de l’If. The boys he’d seen playing soccer, along with their parents. And scores of others he didn’t recognize, that he wasn’t sure he had ever even seen—the owners of all those pairs of eyes he had felt on his back every time he made a move in Yvetot, every time he turned around or took a step or sucked in a breath. They were all there.

Yvonne stood by his side.

Margaux’s hand squeezed his fingers.

And then Cabot began to speak, stumbling over the opening remarks and tripping over the names. Soon he moved into the safer territory of a reading, breaking open the book and flipping through the pages. As he warmed up, getting into the rhythm, the priest’s voice began to rise and fall in a lilt. It no longer mattered what he had to say. Philip tuned out Cabot’s words and listened only to the singsong tones, the voice, the accent, while he looked down at the red-brown slab before him, reviewing everything that had taken place, all the possible futures that had been lost. Behind him was the crowd from Yvetot, standing in silence, turned out for one of their own. And in Philip’s right hand lay the lightest of weights, the delicate and almost imperceptible pressure of a young girl’s fingers.

There were handshakes and easy conversation in the parking area. Philip worked his way through the crowd, exchanging remarks with Roger, embracing Élisabeth and Margaux, shaking hands with Francis Boucher, Monsieur Bécot, and all the regulars from the
Tord-boyaux
.

Through the crowd he made his way to Yvonne, who stood by the stone wall. He came before her, his hands driven into the pockets of his sport coat.

“Feel better now?” she asked.

“A little. Maybe.” He knew enough not to expect miracles. “It’s something,” he concluded. “What about you?”

“The same.”

They hunted for words.

“You need to hit the road, don’t you?”

She was right. His flight was at eight. “I’m afraid so.”

“Will you come back? To visit?”

He nodded.

A silence stretched between them. He leaned forward and kissed her cheeks. Then he drew his hand from his coat pocket and held out the black pen with the Rouen University logo, the one he’d borrowed the day at the notary. “You lost this,” he said.

She frowned at the pen in his hand, then, remembering, smiled. She closed his fingers around it, pushed it back. “A souvenir.”

The route to the airport led through Rouen, so he made one last stop in the center, strolling past the medieval half-timbered houses and along the edge of the Old Market. Yvetot could say all it wanted about the big city, but at least Rouen had a strong connection to centuries past. On those stones Henry V of England had walked. Here Joan of Arc had burned. There was the birthplace of Flaubert.

Soon Philip would be back in Boston, working with Jonas, helping Melanie, feeding Edith. Faruk89 would be waiting for his next move. But perhaps he’d add something. A simple tweak. Just a small one, at least to start with. Something new. Something manageable.

Before him rose the great cathedral, at one time the tallest building in the world, its cast-iron spire soaring into the sky. Once again, at the north portal, he found himself before the sculptured panels of the Last Judgment, crowded with demons, damned souls, spits and cauldrons. Mouths gaped in masks of pain, hands rose in protest, flames flickered. And at the bottom, out of view from the guardians of this inferno, the same desperate soul clawed his way upward, striving to clamber up over the edge of hell, tipping back toward the flames. For over five centuries this figure had been frozen in the same pose of imbalance, reaching up while falling back. Still trying.

Acknowledgments

My thanks, first and foremost, to Anne Maple, who believed in this book when I myself was riddled with doubt; then, to Michael Kidd, Greg Johnson, Uli Frick, Laura Goering, John & Kelly Wheaton, Martine Reid, Victoria Skurnick. Another serving of gratitude goes to my son, Paul Carpenter, for photographic help, many useful insights, and general camaraderie. Finally, thanks to Jessica Kristie and the rest of the crew at Winter Goose Publishing for their many contributions.

About the Author

Scott Dominic Carpenter teaches French literature and critical theory at Carleton College (MN), where he has written extensively on the representation of madness in the novel, political allegory, and literary hoaxes. His fiction has appeared in such journals as
Chamber Four, Ducts,
Midwestern Gothic
, 
The MacGuffin
,
Prime Number
and
Spilling Ink
. A Pushcart Prize nominee and a semi-finalist for the MVP competition at New Rivers Press, his first collection of short fiction,
This Jealous Earth
(MG Press) appeared in 2013.

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