Rodney Whitaker: The Main

“I never did.”

“You wouldn’t,” she says bitterly.

“You never call her Mother?”

She lays her hand on his shoulder and rests her cheek against her knuckles, letting him support her. “Never out loud. Never when I’m sober. You want to know something, Lieutenant? I hate you. I really hate you for not being… there.”

She feels him nod.

“Now, you’re sure…” She yawns deeply. “…you’re absolutely sure you don’t want to screw me?”

His eyes crinkle. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“That’s good. Because I’m really sleepy.” She takes her cheek from his shoulder and stands up. “I think I’ll go to bed. If you’ve finished with your questions, that is.”

LaPointe rises and collects his overcoat. “If I have more questions, I’ll come back.” He picks up the diary from the floor of the “conversation island,” and she accompanies him to the door.

“This memory trip back to the Main has been heavy, Lieutenant. Heavy and rough. I sure hope I never see you again.”

“For your sake, I hope it works out that way.”

“You still think I might have killed those men?”

He shrugs as he tugs on his overcoat.

“LaPointe? Will you kiss me good night? You don’t have to tuck me in.”

He kisses her on the forehead, their only contact his hands on her shoulders.

“Very chaste indeed,” she says. “And now you’re off. Quo vadis, pater?”

“What does that mean?”

“Just some of that phony Latin I told you about.”

“I see. Well, good night, Mlle. Montjean.”

“Good night, Lieutenant LaPointe.”

From horizon to horizon the sky is streaming southward over the city. The membrane of layer-inversion has ruptured, and the pig weather is rushing through the gap, wisps and flags of torn cloud scudding beneath the higher roiling mass, all swept before a persistent north wind down off the Laurentians. Children look up at the tide of yeasty froth and have the giddying sensation that the sky is still, and the earth is rushing north.

The wind has held through the night, and by evening there will be snow. Tomorrow, taut skies of ardent blue will scintillate over snow drifts in the parks. At last it is over, this pig weather.

LaPointe stands at the window of his office, watching the sky flee south. The door opens behind him and Guttmann’s head appears. “I got it, sir.”

“Good. Come in. What are you carrying there?”

“Sir? Oh, just a cup of coffee.”

“For me?”

“Ah… yes?”

“Good. Pass it over. Aren’t you having any?”

“I guess not, sir. I’ve been drinking too much coffee lately.”

“Hm-m. What did you find out?”

“I did what you told me; I checked with McGill and found that Mlle. Montjean attended on a full scholarship.”

“I see.” This is only part of the answer LaPointe is looking for. As he walked through back streets of the Main toward his apartment last night, he was pestered with the question of how a girl from the streets, a chippy’s daughter, managed to get the schooling that transformed her into a sophisticated, if bent and tormented, young woman. If she had been Jewish or Chinese, he would understand, but the French Canadian culture does not contain this instinctive awe for education. “How did she come by the scholarship?”

“Well, she was an intelligent student. Did well in entrance tests. Super IQ. And to a certain degree, the scholarship was a foregone conclusion.”

“How come?”

“She attended Ste. Catherine’s Academy. I remember the Ste. Kate girls from when I was in college. They’re prepped specifically for the entrance exams. Most of them get scholarships. Not that that’s any saving of money for their parents. It costs more to send a girl to Ste. Kate’s than to any university in the world.”

“I see.”

“You want me to check out Ste. Catherine’s?”

“No, I’ll do it.” LaPointe wads up the coffee cup and misses the wastebasket with it.

Guttmann pulls his old bentwood chair from the wall and sits on it backwards, his chin on his arms. “How did it go last night? Did it turn out to be true that she never met the American, MacHenry?”

“No. She met him.” LaPointe involuntarily lays his hand over the five-year diary he has been scanning with a feeling of reluctance, invasion.

“Then why did she deny it?”

“He gave her a phony name. She probably read about his death in the papers without knowing who it was.”

“How about that? She’s quite a… quite a woman, isn’t she?”

“In what way?”

“Well, you know. The way she’s got it all together. Her business, her life. All under control. I admire that. And the way she talks about sex—frank, healthy, not coy, not embarrassed. She’s got it all put together.”

“You’d make a great social worker, son; the way you can size people up at a glance.”

“We’ll have a chance to find out about that.” Guttmann rubs the tip of his nose with his thumb knuckle. “I’ve… ah… sent in my resignation, effective in two months.” He glances up to see what effect this news has on the Lieutenant None.

“Jeanne and I talked it over all last night. We’ve decided that I’m not cut out to be a cop.”

“Does that mean you’ve got too much of something? Or too little?”

“Both, I guess. If I’m going to help people, me, I want to do it from their side of the fence.”

LaPointe smiles at the “me, I” construction. His French was better when they met… but more bogus. “From the way you talk it sounds like you and your Jeanne are getting married.”

“You know, that’s a funny thing, sir. We’ve never actually talked about marriage. We’ve talked about how children should be brought up. We’ve talked about how when you design a house you should put the bathroom above the kitchen to save on plumbing. But never actually about marriage. And now it’s sort of too late to propose to her. We’ve sort of passed that moment and gone on to bigger things.” Guttmann smiles comfortably and shakes his head over the way their romance is going. People in love always imagine they’re interesting. He rises from his chair. “Well, sir. I’ve got to get going. I report this afternoon out at St. Jean de Dieu. I’ll be doing my last two months on the east side.”

“Be careful. It can be rough for a Roundhead out there.”

Guttmann tucks down the corners of his mouth and shrugs. “After being around you, maybe I can pass.” If the chair weren’t in the way, he might shake hands with the Lieutenant.

But the chair is in the way.

“Well, see you around, sir.”

LaPointe nods. “Yes, see you around.”

A few minutes after Guttmann leaves, it occurs to LaPointe that he never learned the kid’s first name.

“Lieutenant LaPointe?” Sister Marie-Thérèse enters the waiting room with a crisp rustle of her blue habit. She shakes hands firmly, realizing that uncertain pressures are vulnerable to interpretation. “You surprise me, Lieutenant. I expected an army officer.” She smiles at him interrogatively, with the poise that is the signature of Ste. Catherine girls.

“I’m police, Sister.”

“Ah.” Meaning nothing.

As LaPointe explains that he is interested in one of their ex-students, Sister Marie-Thérèse listens politely, her face a mask of bland benevolence framed by a wide-winged wimple of perfect whiteness.

“I see,” she says when he has finished. “Well, of course Ste. Catherine’s is always eager to be a good citizen of Montreal, but I am afraid. Lieutenant, that our rules forbid any disclosure of our students’ affairs. I am sure you understand.” Her manner is gentle, her intention adamant.