Maxine (24 page)

Why aren't you telling me the truth?

Serge waits for some time before answering: Because I am embarrassed. I am afraid you will think I am one of those fanatics.

Serge. I think you're great. You'd better spit it out, though. If you call and ask me to, you know, harbour a fugitive or something, I have to know you won't do anything to harm other people, not at my place, not ever, or I'll turn you in just like that.

Harm other people?

I know some people feel there is justification, OK, and I agree there's a lot wrong with this society but you can't go around killing people for that.

Killing people. Serge speaks slowly and with difficulty. What do you take me for?

The expression on his face frightens Maxine, who starts backtracking: Well, all right, maiming. Well, I didn't say
you
killed anybody, did I? Or, um, maimed. No, I didn't. And anyway, what is it then, for Christ's sake?

For a few moments, half the café is staring at Maxine, but Serge pays no attention.

I ran as a Green in the municipal election. I lost. I'm sorry, I should have told you the first time you asked about the poster.

A Green.

I'm sorry, Maxine.

Greens don't believe in flying. They think ground transportation is more environmentally friendly.

Sometimes Greens make compromises to do the things they love.

Maxine digests this at some length.

Frigging eco-nutbar. Liar.

Serge now has a tiny smile pulling at one corner of his mouth: I am truly sorry. I had no idea what you might think about that poster. How can I make it up to you?

Maxine flops back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest.

You can take me to the Musée de Cluny to hear the songs of the troubadours. And then the Bois de Boulogne. And it better be good.

Oui, mademoiselle.

The room inside the museum is all white, with white columns around the edges, white busts on them.The mezzo is called Hélène somebody, and she has shoulder-length brown hair and looks beautiful in an earthy sort of way, as if her natural state were to be barefoot on dewy grass near a grazing deer. As it turns out, all the troubadours ever sang about was love. There are sad songs the woman sings for her lover on his way to sea, worrying songs while he's out there, and happy songs when he comes back. The guys, on the other hand, apparently favoured longing. Lots of the I-must-get-close-to-you, just-a-single-glance-or-I-will-die songs. These strikeMaxine as unutterably romantic. The worrying ones are very beautiful, but who needs songs about worry? Maxine knows all about worry. She's a connoisseur in the worry department. Longing is much more exciting than worry. The heady atmosphere of desire hangs over the room so tangibly you'd think it would register on the Humidex.

“Have you arrived?”

“Not yet. Soon. But my plans have changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The offer is withdrawn. I am giving my package to someone else.” A pause.

“And why is that?”

“It's an exchange. For the safe return of my friend.”

“You would not do anything so foolish. These people are not trustworthy.”

“I have no choice. But I will tell you when and where the exchange will take place, if you like.”

“You are playing a dangerous game. You're out of your depth.”

There's no
mon ami
now.

In the Bois they rent a boat and push off into the greenish water. You can tell it's not North America because none of the boaters is wearing a life jacket. You probably couldn't have a life jacket if you asked for one. A guy smoking a cigarette would shrug and say: It's not that deep. Maxine wonders if they've ever had a drowning here. The boat is easy to manoeuvre and they take an oar each, rowing in a lazy rhythm, leaning into each other. Every now and then one of them speaks a few words and the other laughs, or they have a quick kiss.

C'est dommage
, Serge says, that I can't take you up in the air.

Yeah, no. I'm fine with that. Every moment I'm in the air my muscles are bracing for a possible catastrophe.

Maxine, a possible catastrophe is not a catastrophe. Everything is a possible catastrophe. You have to assume that most of the time, things will be OK.

On one of the nearby islands, a child in a sun hat and a diaper crests the hill, heading in the direction of Serge and Maxine. The child starts to run down a steep grassy bank toward the water, picking up speed like a runaway snowball in a cartoon, one that grows bigger and bigger, faster and faster, and you know it's headed for a splat. Maxine looks uncertainly at the child and then at Serge. She pulls in her oar and places both hands on the gunnel. A man pops over the top of the hill and bellows JULIE! He pounds down the hill after the toddler, who is bound for a grassy cliff where, if she continued in a straight line, she would run over the edge and drop about six feet into the lake. The man now looks like someone in a race photo from a sporting mag. His arms are pumping, his face contorted. He's gaining on the toddler but not by enough, and Maxine grabs her oar and Serge's and rows like a person possessed to the place the child would hit the water. She too is moving like someone who has trained for the gold and sees it within reach, she's hauling with speed and sheer force of will while the man pounds downhill, as if they had to meet each other or die trying, and sandwiched between them the toddler whose legs have gotten out of her control stumbles on the edge and pitches forward, head first, past the grass and toward the water, at which moment the man screams and Serge swings both arms to full extension, snatching her out of the air.

16

m
axine is waiting in the customs line-up but she can see Barb, Kyle, and Gail on the other side of the glass. They wave and Kyle makes faces up against the glass until Barb's mouth moves and she gestures, at which point he turns away and slouches off to the seating area. He reaches into a pocket and takes out an electronic game; he pulls up his hood and hunches over. Maxine feels a rush of emotion—she has missed him. She didn't know how much of him she understood until this moment. She knows he's annoyed with his mother, slightly embarrassed at being rebuked, not sure whether he'd been making a fool of himself with the faces and a little embarrassed about that too, but also a bit gleeful, wanting to see Maxine but bored with waiting—all that and more she sees in the slouch and she wants to sit down next to him—with the newspaper, so he doesn't feel too threatened by the obvious imminence of a conversation—and say lightly, Hi there, buddy, what's new?

Barb and Gail stand side by side—David and Goliath at a cocktail party—every now and then one turns and says something. Gail, it makes her smile just to see Gail, the explosion of blond curls pulled back in a funky green headband, the bright lipstick. She winks at Maxine through the glass. And Barb, yes, it is undeniably Barb, glancing over to see that Kyle's still where he was the last time she looked. At last she's through and they are surrounding her and her luggage cart. Hugs and snatches of news, small awkwardnesses, and then Gail tells Kyle she's testing a few new cookie recipes and she could use an experienced cookie guy.

I need the male perspective here, Gail says, pulling a small plastic bag out of her purse, and Kyle looks pleased to be the male perspective and off they go to the parking lot, Kyle shoving the cart ahead and bashing it into the corner of the information counter on the way out, accepting a cookie from Gail, and Barb falls back and touches Maxine's arm.

We're leaving in four days, Barb says. For a week. Things are looking good. I think it might be OK, but of course there are no guarantees. Kristina thinks he's in the clear. If you could come over tomorrow, if you're up for it, we could go over some things, just the activities and contact numbers and where to find his gear, and all that—

Sure, says Maxine. No problem, Barb.

Jerome stood under the Eiffel Tower at ten minutes to one. He had chosen it because it would surely be more difficult for them to kidnap people in broad daylight in such a crowded place. It was easy to blend in. It occurred to him now that he might have put innocent bystanders at risk and he regretted that, but it was too late and he could hardly be blamed for not understanding the rules of international espionage. He kept scanning the people, the faces, but without recognizing anyone. And then he heard his name, a North American male voice— “Jerome?! Jerome, it's you isn't it? I'm Chuck Blackmore, remember? Frédérique's colleague—what a coincidence! Are you on vacation? Hey, looks like you could use a Kleenex.” Chuck threw a friendly arm around his shoulders just as Jerome was thinking that he didn't recall ever meeting Charles Blackmore, so why would this man pick his face out of a crowd? But then Jerome felt funny and he didn't remember anything after that.

Barb is sitting at her dining-room table with Maxine and a few neat piles of paper. I think it's going to be OK, Barb is saying. I talked with Gail. Kristina thinks he did a few strange things but he didn't actually break any laws or violate company policy. He's been trying to sort this out with her for a long time. I thought they were sleeping together but I don't think that any more. He was just trying to convince her he was innocent. He was desperate. Anyway, if all he did was a few dumb things, well, we all do dumb things sometimes, don't we?

Here's his hospital card, I hope you won't be needing that. And here's the calendar. See, every day he has an activity, it's written in. But it just says, for example, piano. I put stickies on top with the information, so there's the time, where it is, the contact information. Every day in his lunch bag he has fruit or a fruit cup, a veggie pack, cheese or ham or turkey, and bread—or a tortilla or crackers, whatever. You can get groceries at Belbin's and put them on our account. Or anywhere else and just tell me how much it was. They can't take anything with nuts. Don't be shy about the groceries, get as much as you like. Here's the list of information— our itinerary and all the phone numbers.

When they've covered everything, Maxine picks up the papers. At the door, to Maxine's surprise, Barb grips her in a tight hug. Thank you, she says. Thank you for doing this.

Hey, Barb, it's OK, it's no problem. Don't worry, he'll be fine.

18

e
ven from the kitchenMaxine can tell it's police. A man and a woman in black at the screen door. When she sees them at the far end of the hall—light pouring through the doorway, streaming in around two figures standing dark and square as chess pieces—she knows it must be Kyle, something has happened at school. An accident. Let him be OK—she's sprinting along the hall from the kitchen, flinging open the screen door: Is he all right? Is Kyle OK? The officers look at each other. The woman speaks.

The boy, she says. Kyle is the son, yes he is all right. Can we come in?

He's OK, definitely? Will you have some tea, then, says Maxine, because although she doesn't know what this is about she can tell it's something, it's a big something. The conversation is happening under glass, everything thick and hard and too bright in the way of a badly lit TV drama. I'll put the kettle on, she says, But please tell me now, what this is about.

The car was on the highway. A transport truck. The truck driver came through without a scratch. Measuring the tire tracks on the road. Investigation. Tox report. Not totally clear. Unclear. Dazzled by headlights, distracted, tired. Need to rule out. Heavy rain at the time the most probable. It's all a bit overwhelming. She needs to be sure of the information. They are both dead, Maxine says. Not injured. Is that correct? Her words sound excessively formal, especially the word
correct
. Her right ear is ringing, a long, high, brassy tone.

There will be a social worker, they are explaining. Maxine has forgotten that some people have sugar, and they won't ask. They stand in the kitchen not drinking their tea until Maxine makes them take the two chairs. She excuses herself and retrieves a stool from her bedroom, pushes a few clothes off it, lifts it out. As soon as she appears in the hallway the policeman takes it from her and carries it into the kitchen. He sets it by the table and sits on it immediately, so Maxine will have a chair. It's awkward for him because of his height, his long legs. The school, he says. They didn't want to remove him from class without knowing. Shortage of foster—

He's with me, Maxine told them, They left him with me.

Mrs. Larsen had no siblings, unusual in rural families, but on the father's side—

He's staying here, Maxine says loudly. He's staying
here
with
me
.

We understand, they continue calmly, that Mr. Larsen does have some relatives and we are in the process—

He has a couple of brothers, says Maxine. But they're much older. They hardly know Kyle. I don't think Dave even spoke to them. Not suitable.

Of course, the officer continues, it's not for us to determine. Background checks. Criminal record. Maxine has realized about the sugar; she digs a bag out of the cupboard, produces spoons, and immediately they reach for the mugs.

I'll tell him, saysMaxine, Not the social worker. She checks her watch. It's recess, she says. Let him play until recess is over. I'll go then. The social worker didn't look too impressed with Maxine's apartment but clearly she'd seen a lot worse.

It would be a lot lighter, she'd said, if you painted the living room.

Yeah, Maxine responded, but I've been thinking about moving.

You have? said Gail.

He'll need his own room.

Apparently the fact that Barb and Dave had left Kyle in Maxine's care counted for a lot. And it was fortunate that Maxine didn't have a criminal record.