A Fatal Grace

Now the hardcover lay heavy in her lap, feeling a little like David in her womb. She’d lain in this same bed, Gus beside her doing his crosswords and mumbling to himself. And her baby inside her.



And now she had only a book to keep her company. No, she roused herself. Not just a book. She had Bea and Kaye. They were with her too, and would be until the end.



Em saw the book, heavy with words, rise and fall on her stomach. She looked down at the bookmark. Halfway through. She was only halfway there. Émilie picked up the book again, this time holding it in both hands, and read some more, losing herself in the story. She hoped it would have a happy ending. That the woman would find love and happiness. Or maybe just herself. That would be enough.



The book closed again as Em’s eyes closed.



Mother Bea could see the future and it didn’t look good. It never had. Even in the best of times Mother had the gift of seeing the worst. It was a quality that hadn’t served her well. Living in the wreckage of her future sure took the joy out of the present. The only comfort was that almost none of her fears had come true. The planes had never crashed, the elevators never plummeted, the bridges had remained solid spans. All right, her husband had left her, but that wasn’t exactly a disaster. Some might even say it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. She’d forced him away. He’d always complained that there were too many in their relationship. Beatrice, him and God. One had to go.



It wasn’t much of a choice.



Now Mother Bea lay in bed, snug in her soft and warm flannel sheets, the duvet heavy around her plump body. She’d chosen God over her husband, but the truth was she’d have chosen a good eiderdown over him too.



This was her favorite place in the whole wide world. In bed in her home, safe and sound. So why couldn’t she sleep? Why couldn’t she meditate any more? Why couldn’t she even eat?



Kaye lay in bed issuing orders to the young and frightened infantrymen around her in the trench. Their flat, shallow helmets were askew and their faces dirty with muck and shit and the first flush of whiskers. The first and last, she knew, but chose not to tell them. Instead she gave them a rousing speech and assured them she’d be the first out of the trench when the time came, then led them in a heartfelt chorus of ‘Rule Britannia’.



They’d all die soon, she knew. And Kaye curled herself into the tightest ball, ashamed of the cowardice she’d carried all her life like a child in the womb, so much in contrast to her father’s obvious courage.



‘I’m sorry,’ said Peter, for the hundredth time.



‘It’s not that you got it from the dump, but that you lied about it,’ Clara lied. It was that he’d gotten the goddamned thing from the dump. Once again, he’d given her garbage for Christmas. It hadn’t mattered when they couldn’t afford anything else. She’d make him something, because she was good with her hands, and he’d dumpster dive, because he wasn’t, then they’d both pretend to like their gifts.



But this was different. They could afford it now, and still he’d chosen to shop at the dump.



‘I’m sorry,’ he said, knowing it wasn’t enough but not knowing what was.



‘Forget it,’ she said.



He was smart enough to know that wouldn’t be very smart.



Gamache sat beside Beauvoir. He’d made up another hot water bottle, though the fever had broken. Gamache could only find one hot water bottle and wondered what had happened to the other. Now he sat, sometimes watching Jean Guy and sometimes reading the heavy book in his lap.



He’d read Isaiah just to be sure then turned to the Psalms. He’d called their parish priest when he’d gotten back to the B. & B. and Father Néron had given him the reference.



‘It was good to see you Christmas Eve, Armand,’ Father Néron had said. Gamache waited for it. ‘And meet your granddaughter. She looks like Reine-Marie, lucky child.’ Gamache waited. ‘It’s so good to see a family together. Too bad you’ll be in Hell and won’t be able to spend eternity with them.’ Ta da.



‘Fortunately, mon père, they’ll be in Hell too.’



Père Néron had laughed. ‘Suppose I’m right and you’re endangering your mortal soul by not coming to church every week?’ he asked.



‘Then I’ll miss your cheerful company for eternity, Marcel.’



‘What can I do for you?’



Gamache had told him.



‘Not Isaiah. That’s Psalm 46. Not sure which verse. One of my favorites, actually, but not very popular with the bosses.’