A Trick of the Light

“No.” Peter was out of bed now, backing up until he was against the wall. “You have to believe me.”

“Not anymore I don’t. You don’t love me. Love doesn’t do this.”

“Clara, no.”

And then the dizzying, disorienting, terrible plummet finally ended. And Peter hit the ground.

“It was your faith,” he shouted, and slumped to the floor. “It was your beliefs. Your hope,” he choked out, his voice a croak amid gasps. “It was far worse than your art. I wanted to be able to paint like you, but only because it would mean I’d see the world as you do. Oh, God, Clara. All I’ve ever envied you was your faith.”

He threw his arms around his legs and drew them violently to his chest, making himself as tiny as he could. A small globe. And he rocked himself.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

On the bed Clara stared. Silenced now not by rage, but by amazement.

*   *   *

Jean Guy Beauvoir picked up an armful of dirty laundry and threw it into a corner.

“There,” he smiled, “make yourself at home.”

“Merci,” said Gamache, sitting down. His knees immediately and alarmingly bounced up almost around his shoulders.

“Watch out for the sofa,” Beauvoir called from the kitchen. “I think the springs are gone.”

“That is possible,” said Gamache, trying to get comfortable. He wondered if this was what a Turkish prison felt like. While Beauvoir poured them each a drink, the Chief looked around the furnished efficiency apartment right in Montréal’s downtown core.

The only personal touches seemed to be the stack of laundry now in the corner, and a stuffed animal, a lion, just visible on the unmade bed. It looked odd, infantile even. He’d not have taken Jean Guy for a man with a stuffed toy.

They’d strolled the three blocks from the coffee shop to his apartment, comparing notes in the clear, cool night air.

“Did you believe her?” Beauvoir had asked.

“When Suzanne said she couldn’t remember Lillian’s secrets?” Gamache considered. The trees lining the downtown street were in leaf, just turning from bright, young green to a deeper more mature color. “Did you?”

“Not for a minute.”

“Neither did I,” said the Chief. “But the question is, did she lie to us intentionally, to hide something, or did she just need time to gather her thoughts?”

“I think it was intentional.”

“You always do.”

That was true. Inspector Beauvoir always thought the worst. It was safer that way.

Suzanne had explained that she had a number of sponsees, that each told her everything about their lives.

“It’s step five in the AA program,” she’d said, then quoted. “Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. I’m the ‘other human being.’”

She laughed again and made a face.

“You don’t enjoy it?” Gamache asked, interpreting the grimace.

“At first I did, with my first few sponsees. I was honestly kinda curious to find out what sort of shenanigans they’d gotten up to in their drinking careers and if they were at all like mine. It was exciting to have someone trust me like that. Hadn’t happened much when I was drinking, I’ll tell ya. You’d have had to be nuts to trust me then. But it actually gets boring after a while. Everyone thinks their secrets are so horrible, but they’re all pretty much the same.”

“Like what?” asked the Chief Inspector.

“Oh, affairs. Being a closeted gay. Stealing. Thinking horrible thoughts. Getting drunk and missing big family events. Letting down loved ones. Hurting loved ones. Sometimes it’s abuse. I’m not saying what they did was right. It’s clearly not. That’s why we buried it for so long. But it’s not unique. They’re not alone. You know the toughest part of step five?”

“‘Admitted to ourselves’?” asked Gamache.

Beauvoir was amazed the Chief had remembered the wording. It seemed just a big whine to him. A bunch of alcoholics feeling sorry for themselves and looking for instant forgiveness.

Beauvoir believed in forgiveness, but only after punishment.

Suzanne smiled. “That’s it. You’d think it’d be easy to admit these things to ourselves. After all, we were there when it happened. But of course, we couldn’t admit what we’d done was so bad. We’d spent years justifying and denying our behavior.”

Gamache had nodded, thinking.

“Are the secrets often as bad as Brian’s?”

“You mean killing a child? Sometimes.”

“Have any of your sponsees killed someone?”

“I’ve had some sponsees admit to killing,” she finally said. “Never intentionally. Never murder. But some accident. Mostly drunk driving.”

“Including Lillian?” Gamache asked quietly.

“I can’t remember.”

“I don’t believe you.” Gamache’s voice was so low it was hard to hear. Or perhaps it was the words Suzanne found so difficult to hear. “No one listens to a confession like that and forgets.”

“Believe what you want, Chief Inspector.”