Theory of Remainders (12 page)

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Jonas replied. “To Linda, maybe, since she has to talk to the patients. Me, I think you should take all the time you need.”

Philip promised to return by the weekend. He couldn’t afford to fall further behind. “The only one I’m really worried about is Melanie Patterson,” he told Jonas. “We were making progress.”

“Right,” Jonas drawled. “I remember the broken glass. I guess things were going pretty well.”

Philip asked him to have Linda schedule a phone session with Melanie. That way he could at least keep tabs on the girl.

There was a lull.

“How was it, seeing Yvonne?” Jonas began.

Philip winced. “I behaved rather badly. Let’s leave it at that.”

“You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

He looked out the window at the chestnut trees on the square, their leaves rustling faintly in the breeze. “It’s been uncanny, this return.”

“Remember what Freud said:
Love is homesickness
.”

“Don’t forget the phone session with Melanie,” he said. “Ideally in the next couple of days.”

“Time to redirect, is that it? You’ve always been the Artful Dodger. Yes, I’ll have Linda set things up.”

At the end of the day Philip drove north toward Fécamp to meet with Roger, motoring through the pastures and woodlands in a red Smart Car that was so cramped his hair brushed against the roof. He passed through grayish stone hamlets with enigmatic names like Ypreville and Le Buc, each one more deserted than the last. Then the villages began to grow again. A gas station appeared, along with cross streets. Soon there was enough traffic to warrant roundabouts and traffic lights. The road rose over the crest of a hill, revealing the vista of an actual downtown curled around a port. The ocean was gray-green and choppy, and the air carried a hint of salt.

After locating a parking spot near the Aubert real estate agency, Philip began extracting himself from the car, backing out the door and unfolding his lanky body as if in a breach birth. He knocked the crown of his head against the frame.

“Nice wheels,” said a voice behind him. It was Roger, leaning against the doorway of the agency, one hand in a pocket, a smirk on his face. “Style and power rolled into one. Though I would have gone with black, myself.”

“I didn’t have a reservation,” Philip said, rubbing his scalp. “So what do you expect? The woman at the rental counter saw how tall I was, and she hunted for her most uncomfortable vehicle.”

“It’s like they say. Everything’s smaller in France—from cars to food servings to the size of women’s breasts. I guess that’s what makes us quaint.” As Philip approached, Roger wrapped his arms around him and squeezed hard. “A bear hug,” he proclaimed. “One of the few useful things I learned in the States.”

“I’ve hardly been away twenty-four hours.”

“What can I say? You’re my brother-in-law.”

“
Ex
-brother-in-law.”

“Don’t drag me into that. You and Yvonne may have divorced, but
we
didn’t.” He clapped his hands together. “So much to talk about. Shall we go for dinner? It’s a touch early, but I know a place.”

“I don’t mean to pull you away from the office.”

Roger pushed out his lips and shrugged away the question of clients. Business was slow. He bemoaned the plight of the real estate market and the tightfistedness of the Fécampois. While Roger began to lock up the agency, a full-bodied woman with close-cropped hair appeared around the corner, striding in their direction. Philip was just beginning to recognize her gait and button nose when Roger jangled his keys and turned.

“Élisabeth,” he cried. “My dear, look what I’ve found. It’s Philip.”

But Élisabeth looked to be in no mood for chatting, and as Roger stepped forward to greet her, she raised her hand and administered a powerful slap. He staggered back, cupping his hand around his cheek.

“Ça,” she announced, “
C’est pour Joëlle
.”

Roger gestured but found himself at a loss for words. It was as good as a confession.

She halted in front of Philip, flicking her hair back. “Hello, Philip. I heard you were in town. I’m sorry you had to witness that.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

“Nice to see you, Élisabeth. Your right hook is in good form.”

She gave a wry smile. “You’ll excuse me for not staying to chat right now. I’m afraid I’m rather upset.”

“I understand. Or, at least, I’m beginning to.”

With a final dark look at Roger, she turned and marched away, her heels tapping sharply on the sidewalk.

Philip turned to his brother-in-law and folded his arms over his chest as he waited for an explanation.

Roger pressed his fingertips to his cheek and flinched. “She bruised more than my arrogance.”

“Care to tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s complicated,” he said. “Let’s just say that I probably had it coming.”

The restaurant was full of dark wood, mirrors, and ladder-back chairs. Roger had settled in on the other side of the linen-draped table. A huddle of glasses waited at each setting, along with more silverware than Philip knew what to do with.

He leaned across the table. “So what’s going on with you two? Are you divorced or not?”

“Oh, you know. Pretty much.”

“You can’t be
pretty much
divorced. It’s one or the other. And I take it Joëlle isn’t the first one Élisabeth has caught you with.” Roger was deep into the wine list, scrutinizing it like a gambler with a racing form. Finally he waved the waiter over and placed his bet.

“That’s another thing,” Philip started. “You were plastered last night.”

“What can I tell you? I like to have a good time. That shouldn’t come as news to anyone.”

“When a man can hardly stand up straight, it’s beyond enjoyment.”

“Might I remind you that if I had difficulty remaining vertical, it was because my brother-in-law knocked me to the ground?”

Philip leaned back. “What’s going on with you?”

Roger gave him a hard look. “It’s really none of your business.”

The wine arrived and Roger went through the ritual of tasting. This sacrament complete, the sommelier began to pour. Too late Philip realized the first glass was his own, and he gestured for the server to stop.

“You can’t refuse that,” Roger said. “It’s a Volnay.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Roger eyed him darkly until the sommelier retreated, then leaned forward. “Is this a new bad habit of yours, not drinking?”

Under his beard, Philip felt his cheeks redden. “For nearly five years now.”

“You used to enjoy a good glass.”

“A bit too much. I finally took control. You might consider that yourself.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Good grief. What did you do? Go to meetings?
Hello, my name is Philip, and I’m an alcoholic?
”

He gritted his teeth. “Yes. Something like that.”

Roger sighed. “Hmm. That explains a few things. Well, let the unhappiness of the one cheer the other.” He emptied Philip’s glass into his own before sipping off a mouthful of the ruby liquid. He savored it with exaggerated pleasure.

At moments like this Philip understood why the Aubert siblings found Roger so exasperating. Histrionic personalities could be charming—as long as you didn’t mind the self-centeredness, the theatricality, the immaturity. Still, Philip partly envied him. Roger was willing to question assumptions and buck the trends. Even now, nearing fifty, he could still wriggle into the costume of the maverick.

“So,” Roger began. “Does Yvonne know you’re back in town? Or rather, that you failed to leave?”

“Not yet.”

“You can’t keep it a secret, you know. Not around here.”

“I’m afraid she’s going to ask me what I’m doing, and I haven’t figured out the answer to that question.” He gave Roger a knowing look. “One thing I’ve learned is to be prepared before speaking to Yvonne. Your sister isn’t always the easiest woman to deal with.”

“Doesn’t come as news to me. Still, try not to be too hard on her.” He planted his elbows on the table. “I’m not saying that because I’m her brother, you know. Far from it. But you don’t know all she went through. I don’t mean just Sophie. The divorce, too. If I had a cent for every time I had to hold Yvonne while she wept . . .”

The vision of Yvonne sobbing on Roger’s shoulder flashed through Philip’s mind, but it felt false, artificial—a Photoshopped image, one that clashed with the sleek and controlled woman he had seen at the party just the other night. “She seems to have gotten over it,” he stated. “She’s built herself a new life. One that doesn’t resemble the old one.”

Roger snorted. “You mean her marriage to Hervé? Yes, I’d say he’s pretty different.”

“It’s natural enough. She’d had her fill of foreigners, so this time she married a man from home.”

“Home?” Roger’s smile broadened. He glanced right and left as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned in. “I wouldn’t repeat that too loudly. Hervé may be a Norman, but he hails from Rouen, and in small towns like Yvetot and Fécamp, Rouen is considered the enemy.”

Philip stroked his beard. “So she wanted a place to live that was different from both Paris and Yvetot. Something that was home, and yet not home. Rouen must have seemed like a successful compromise.”

“Perhaps. In a way.”

“But then there were things she couldn’t control. Like Margaux. My guess is she was hoping for a boy. Anything to avoid reminders.”

“Can you blame her?”

Blame was not the name for the emotion Philip felt. “I don’t hold it against Yvonne that she wanted a new life. I just resent her for being so damn good at it.”

While they ate, Roger turned to the topic he’d brought up the other night: Olivier Morin. Just over three years ago the man had retired from his position as a press operator at a local printer. Not long after that, word got around that he had cancer.

“The pancreas,” Roger said. “As you can imagine, it didn’t take very long. But to be honest, I didn’t feel too sorry. He was an odd little fellow, and there’s no doubt that he’d had a hard time of it because of his son. I don’t think he actually minded dying. But afterward, I got to wondering about what his death would mean. He’d worked so hard to protect Édouard, barring all access to him. And suddenly that obstacle was gone.”

“So you made some inquiries.”

Roger nodded. “Not right away. But then I realized you’d be coming back for Mother’s funeral.”

“And what did you learn?”

Roger paused to fill his wineglass, taking another long sip, holding the fluid in his cheeks before swallowing. “As you probably know,” he began, “Édouard passed through a number of clinics. Turns out he’s back in the region, in the psychiatric hospital outside of Rouen. It took a while to get hold of the right doctor. But I finally got there. He’s under the care of a fellow named Suardet.”

Philip prompted him. “And you’ve spoken with him?”

“He was a bit reluctant at first, but, well, you know me.” Roger grinned. “I know how to stroke people the right way. In the end he agreed to look into it. He wasn’t sure offhand what the legal situation was—that is, whether there were any restrictions about who could see Édouard. And, of course, a meeting could only occur if Morin himself consented to it. Today, since you were coming back, I left another message for our good doctor—along with your number at the hotel. I don’t suppose he called yet?”

Philip shook his head.

“That boy, he must be thirty years old by now,” Roger said.