Page 202 of The Grey Wolf
“Very dramatic,” said Gabri, with approval. “A great death scene, only you forgot to actually die.”
“I blame the writer,” said Armand. His voice was unnaturally loud. He was having difficulty modulating it over the shriek of the hundreds of cicadas still nesting in his head.
Even Reine-Marie joined the laughter. Though hers was less robust than the others’.
“Because of the coughing, I couldn’t hear whose name he said, but”—Jean-Guy lowered his voice to a confidential whisper—“I think his last words might’ve been, ‘Tell Ruth I love her.’”
That was met with a roar. Armand looked from one to the other, unsure what Jean-Guy had said.
Ruth nodded approval. “Not the first time.”
“Actually,” said Reine-Marie, taking her husband’s hand and looking at him directly, enunciating slowly and clearly, “I know what you probably said. ‘Tell Gabri I love his steak frites.’”
This time he joined their laughter.
As the friends continued to talk, Armand’s attention drifted. It was tiring, straining to follow conversations he couldn’t actually hear.
He sipped his scotch and reached for a slice of fresh baguette, smeared thick with Saint André cheese, and looked out the window to the village green. It was twilight. The sky was tinged with red, so there was little to distinguish the sky from the forest, the red of dusk from the red of the bright autumn maple leaves. All seemed one.
He felt the hand on his arm and turned to look at Reine-Marie.
“Shall we?” she mouthed.
He nodded.
Reine-Marie, Armand, and Jean-Guy kicked the dried leaves ahead of them as they crossed the village green.
That morning, while in his study, Armand had seen Billy Williams raking them into a large, neat pile. Ruth and Rosa were on the bench. “Their” bench, as Ruth called it. Clara was walking out her front gate, through the crisp morning air, over to the bookstore to chat with Myrna. Woodsmoke was coming from the bistro chimney, as people began gathering for coffee and croissants.
An hour later, when he looked up from his reading, the leaves were scattered everywhere, thanks to the village children who’d leaped into the pile, laughing and rolling and throwing great handfuls at each other.
Florence and Zora, Honoré, and even little Idola came home for lunch with rosy cheeks and red-and-yellow and bright orange leaves stuck to their sweaters. And hair. And into their boots.
Summer vacation was over. It was back to school and back to the city for the family. But they still came out on weekends.
Armand watched Reine-Marie kick the leaves ahead of her in the twilight, as though she were ten years old. He was doing it too. As was Jean-Guy. They were kids, playing together. He couldn’t hear the swish of the leaves, but he could remember it. And he could smell, more keenly than ever, their musky sweetness.
Fall had come early. The seasons were shifting, becoming unpredictable. The weather had become turbulent, unsettled. But as they walked through the dusk, past the three huge pine trees, to their home, all seemed right with the world. It might be an illusion, but Armand figured they could afford one, now and then.
When dinner was over, Armand and Reine-Marie bathed the grandchildren and read them a bedtime story.
It was difficult. The children didn’t understand what was wrong with Papa. Why he didn’t talk as much. Why he stared at them so intensely when they spoke. Why he didn’t seem to always understand. Why he sometimes raised his voice to them.
They didn’t understand why he was different.
It scared them, and he could see it. And it broke his heart. But each night he read them a story, glancing at Reine-Marie to make sure his voice wasn’t too loud. Then he hugged and kissed them, and let them know he loved them.
Armand and Reine-Marie took their mugs of tea to the chairs at the bottom of the garden.
In the light from the house, he could just see her lips move. Those lips that had formed so many wonderful words over the years. Beginning with the first time he’d heard her say, “I love you.”
While he’d become quite good at reading those lips, he missed hearing her voice. Missed terribly, and more and more each day, not being able to just chat. Missed the easy communication. The mundane observances.
And though she tried to hide it, Armand knew that Reine-Marie missed it too. Missed it terribly.
He still went to the bistro and to Clara and Myrna’s homes with the others, for drinks or dinner. They still had informal gatherings at their home. But he sat quietly. Trying to follow. For the first few minutes they’d speak directly to him, saying the words slowly and distinctly.
But after a while they naturally lapsed into normal conversation. And he lapsed into his own world.
