Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

11

TWO HOURS LATER HARRY SHOOK ME AWAKE. SHE HAD FINISHED bathing, blow drying, and whatever else the repair process required. We bundled up and headed out, winding our way to rue Ste-Catherine. The snow had stopped, but a layer blanketed everything, slightly muffling the city clamor. Signs, trees, mailboxes, and parked cars wore fluffy caps of white.

The restaurant was not crowded and we were seated immediately. When we’d ordered, I asked about her workshop.

“It’s awesome. I’ve learned whole new ways of thinking and being. I don’t mean some kinda Eastern mysticism cow flop. And I’m not talking about potions or crystals or that astral projection shit. I mean I am learning how to take control of my life.”

“How?”

“How?”

“How.”

“I’m learning self-identity, I’m undergoing empowerment through spiritual awakening. I’m gaining internal peace through holistic health and healing.”

“Spiritual awakening?”

“Now don’t get me wrong, Tempe. This isn’t some rebirthing thing like the damn evangelists preach down home. There’s none of that repenting, and making a joyful noise unto the Lord, and the righteous walking through flames and all.”

“How is it different?”

“That all has to do with damnation, and guilt, and accepting your lot as a sinner, and turning yourself over to the Lord so He’ll take care of you. I didn’t buy that agenda from the nuns, and thirty-eight years of living haven’t changed my mind.”

Harry and I had spent our early days in Catholic schools.

“This has to do with me taking care of myself.” She stabbed a manicured finger at her chest.

“How?”

“Tempe, are you trying to ridicule me?”

“No. I’d like to know how one does this.”

“It’s a matter of interpreting your own mind and body, then purifying yourself.”

“Harry, you’re just giving me jargon. How do you do this?”

“Well, you eat right and you breathe right and—did you notice that I passed up the beer? That’s part of purifying.”

“Did you pay a lot of money for this seminar?”

“I told you. They waived my fees and they flat out gave me the plane ticket.”

“What about in Houston?”

“Well, yeah, of course I paid some fees. They have to charge something. These are very prominent people.”

Just then our food arrived. I’d ordered lamb khorma. Harry had vegetable curry and rice.

“See?” She pointed to her dish. “No more dead carcasses for me. I am getting clear.”

“Where did you find this course?”

“At the North Harris County Community College.”

That sounded legit.

“When do you start here?”

“Tomorrow. The seminar goes for five days. I’ll tell you all about, it, really I will. I’ll come home every night and fill you in on exactly what we did. It’s O.K. if I stay with you, isn’t it?”

“Of course. I truly am glad to see you, Harry. And I’m very curious about what you’re doing. But I’m leaving for Charlotte on Monday.” I rummaged in the back pocket of my purse for the emergency keys I keep there, and handed them to her. “You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you need the place.”

“No wild parties,” she said, leaning forward and pointing a stern finger at me. “I have a lady watching the house.”

“Yes, Mom,” I answered. The fictitious house watcher was perhaps our oldest family joke.

She gave me a brilliant Harry smile and slid the keys into her jeans pocket.

“Thanks. Now, enough about me, let me tell you what Kit’s up to.”

For the next half-hour we talked about my nephew’s latest scheme. Christopher “Kit” Howard had resulted from her second marriage. He’d just turned eighteen, and come into a sizable sum of money from his father. Kit had bought, and was renovating, a forty-eight-foot sailboat. Harry was unsure as to why.

“Tell me again how Howie got his name?” I knew the story, but loved to hear her tell it.

“Howie’s mama took off right after he was born, and his daddy had left well before then. She left Howie on the steps of an orphanage in Basic, Texas, with a note pinned to his blanket. It said she’d be back, and that the baby’s name was Howard. The folks at the orphanage weren’t sure if Mama meant his first name or his family name, so they took no chances. They baptized him Howard Howard.”

“What’s Howie doing now?”

“Still bringing in gushers and chasing every skirt in West Texas. But he’s generous to me and Kit.”

When we’d finished, the waiter cleared the dishes and I ordered coffee. Harry passed, because stimulants interfered with her purification process.

We sat in silence awhile, then,

“So where’s this cowboy want you to meet him?”

I stopped stirring, and my mind scanned for a connection. Cowboy?

“The cop with the great ass.”

“Ryan. He’s going to a place called Hurley’s. Today is St. Pat—”

“Hell, yes.” Her face went serious. “I feel we owe it to our heri-tage to join in the recognition of a truly great patron saint, in whatever small way we can.”

“Harry, I’ve had a long—”

“Tempe, but for St. Pat snakes would have eaten our ancestors and we would never have been.”

“I’m not suggesting—”

“And right now, at a time when the Irish people are in such turmoil—”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

“How far is Hurley’s from here?”

“A few blocks.”

“No-brainer.” She spread her hands, palms up. “We go over, we listen to a few songs, we leave. We’re not committing to a night at the opera.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“No. I promise. As soon as you’re ready, we’re outta there. Hey, I’ve got an early morning, too.”

That argument did not impress me. Harry is one of those people who can go days with no sleep.

“Tempe. You’ve got to make some effort at a social life.”

That argument did.

“All right. But—”

“Hee. Haw. May the saints preserve ye, ye rascal.”

As she waved for the check, I was already feeling the knot below my sternum. There was a time I loved Irish pubs. Pubs of any kind. I didn’t want to open that scrapbook, and had no intention of making new entries.

Lighten up, Brennan. What are you afraid of? You’ve been to Hurley’s and you didn’t drown yourself in beer. True. So why the trepidation?

Harry chatted amiably as we walked back up Ste-Catherine to Crescent. At nine-thirty the sidewalk crowd was already thick, the couples and cruisers mingling with the last of the shoppers and sightseers. Everyone wore heavy coats with hats and mufflers. People looked thick and bulky, like shrubbery wrapped and tied for winter.

The portion of Crescent above Ste-Catherine is the Anglo “Street of Dreams,” lined on both sides with singles bars and trendy restaurants. The Hard Rock Café. Thursdays. Sir Winston Churchill’s. In summer, the balconies are filled with spectators sipping drinks and watching the dance of romance below. In winter, the action moves inside.

Few but the Hurley’s regulars frequent Crescent below Ste-Catherine. Except on St. Patrick’s Day. When we arrived, the line from the entrance stretched up the steps and halfway to the corner.

“Oh hell, Harry. I don’t want to stand out here freezing my butt.” I didn’t want to mention Ryan’s offer.

“Don’t you know anyone who works here?”

“I’m not a regular.”

We joined the queue and stood in silence, shifting our feet to keep warm. The movement reminded me of the nuns at Lac Memphrémagog, which made me think of the unfinished Nicolet report. And the ledgers on my bedside table. And the report on the dead babies. And the classes I had to teach in Charlotte next week. And a paper I planned to present at the Physical Anthropology meeting. I felt my face grow numb from the cold. How did I let Harry talk me into these things?