Monday Mourning

Not as discouraging as Ménard, but the White Pages alone listed 227 Truongs. No Phan Loc. Two P’s.

Neither of the P’s listed was a Phan Loc. Neither knew a Phan Loc who had operated a nail salon.

I started working my way through the rest of the Truongs. Many spoke little English or French. Many had affiliations to nail salons, but none knew anything about the shop once located in Richard Cyr’s building.

I was dialing my twenty-ninth Truong when a voice interrupted me.

“Find anything?”

Anne was standing in the doorway. The room had gone dark without my noticing.

“A lot of ladies willing to do my nails.”

Discouraged, I turned off the computer.

Together Anne and I cooked steaks, potatoes, and asparagus. As we ate, I told her about my fruitless afternoon.

After dinner we watched two Inspector Clouseau movies while Birdie dozed between us. None of us laughed much. We all turned in early.

Around noon on Sunday I tried the Boucherie Lehaim again.

No go.

At two P.M. my call was answered.

“Shalom.” Voice like a baritone oboe.

I introduced myself.

The man said his name was Harry Cohen.

“Is this the same Boucherie Lehaim that was located on Ste-Catherine during the eighties?”

“It is. The shop belonged to my father then.”

“Abraham?”

“Yes. We moved in eighty-seven.”

“May I ask why?”

“We cater to a strictly kosher crowd. This neighborhood seemed a better fit.”

“I know this may sound like an odd question, Mr. Cohen, but can you remember anything about the basement of that building?”

“The cellar was accessed through our shop. We kept nothing there, and I don’t remember anyone ever entering or leaving it.”

“Might other tenants have used the basement for storage?”

“We would not have permitted that kind of use of our space, and the only way down was through a trapdoor in our bathroom. My father kept that door padlocked at all times.”"

"“Do you know his reason for doing that?”

“My father is extremely conscientious about security.”

“Why is that?”

“He was born Jewish in Ukraine in 1927.”

“Of course.”

I was grasping at straws. What to ask?

“Did you know the tenants that preceded or followed you?”

‘No.”

“You were in that location for almost six years. Did anything in particular trigger your move?”

“That neighborhood became”—Cohen hesitated—“unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?”

“We are Chabad-Lubavitch, Dr. Brennan. Ultra-Orthodox Jews. Even in Montreal we are not always understood.”

I thanked Cohen and disconnected.

A small spruce is rooted in a stone planter at courtyard central. Each December our caretaker strings the scraggly thing with lights. No tasteful Presbyterian-in-Connecticut-Christmas-white for Winston. It’s rainbow natty, or nothing at all.

My cat is especially appreciative. Birdie puts in hours curled by the fireplace, eyes shifting from the flames to Winston’s miracle in the snow.

Anne and I idled away Sunday afternoon following Birdie’s lead. We spent long stretches by the fire, heads pillowed, ankles crossed on the hearth. Over endless cups of coffee and tea, I whined about Claudel and Ryan. Anne whined about Tom. We laughed at our neediness. We were somber over our neediness.

Through the hours of talk and tide of words I came to understand the true depth of Anne’s unhappiness. The shopping and banter had been “game face.” Slap on the greasepaint and raise the curtain. The show must go on. Win one for the team. Do it for the kids. Do it for Tempe.

Anne had always been unflappable. I found her intense sadness deeply disturbing. I prayed it wasn’t a permanent sadness.

As we talked, I tried to think of encouraging things to say. Or comforting. Or at least distracting. But everything I came up with sounded clichéd and worn. In the end, I simply tried to show my support. But I feared for my friend.

Mostly, Anne and I shared memories. The night we swam naked at the lake. The party where Anne did a bunny-hop pratfall. The beach trip on which we misplaced two-year-old Stuart. The day I showed up drunk at Katy’s recital.

The year I showed up drunk at everything.

Between chats, we’d check our messages.

Many from Tom.

None from Ryan.

Though I dialed every few hours, Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent persisted in not answering. She was equally unswerving in not phoning again.

Now and then conversation veered to Claudel’s buttons. Monique Mousseau had ventured no opinion as to the age or meaning of the forgery. Anne and I cooked up countless scenarios. None made sense. Birdie offered little input.

Sunday evening I finally persuaded Anne to accept a call from Tom. Later she drank a great deal of wine. Quietly.

17

ANNE WAS STILL SLEEPING WHEN I LEFT FOR THE LAB MONDAY morning. I jotted a note asking her to phone when she woke. I didn’t expect a call before noon.

Exiting the garage, I was almost blinded.