How the Light Gets In
He looked at the bedside clock and was shocked to see it was almost eight. He’d overslept. Hadn’t bothered to set the alarm, sure he’d wake up on his own at six in the morning, as he normally did. Or that Henri would nudge him awake.
But both had fallen into a deep sleep and would still be in bed if it weren’t for a sudden breakaway goal in the game below.
After a quick shower, Gamache took Henri downstairs, fed him, put the coffee on to perk, then clipped the leash on Henri for a walk around the village green. As they strolled they watched the hockey game, Henri straining, anxious to join the other kids.
“I’m glad you keep the dumb beast on a leash. He’s a menace.”
Gamache turned to see Ruth and Rosa closing in on them over the frozen road. Rosa wore little knitted boots and seemed to walk with a slight limp, like Ruth. And Ruth appeared to have developed a waddle, like Rosa.
If people really did morph into their pets, thought Gamache, any moment now he’d sprout huge ears and a playful, slightly vacant, expression.
But Rosa was more than a pet to Ruth, and Ruth was more than just another person to the duck.
“Henri is not a dumb beast, madame,” said Gamache.
“I know that,” snapped the poet. “I was talking to Henri.”
The shepherd and the duck eyed each other. Gamache, as a precaution, tightened his grip on the leash, but he needn’t have worried. Rosa thrust out her beak and Henri leapt back and cowered behind Gamache’s legs, looking up at him.
Gamache and Henri raised their brows at each other.
“Pass,” Ruth screamed at the hockey players. “Don’t hog the puck.”
Anyone listening would have heard the implied “dumbass” tacked to the end of that sentence.
A boy passed the puck, but too late. It disappeared into a snow bank. He looked over at Ruth and shrugged.
“That’s OK, Etienne,” said Ruth. “Next time keep your head up.”
“Oui, coach.”
“Fucking kids never listen,” said Ruth, and turned her back on them, but not before a few had seen her and Rosa and stopped play to wave.
“Coach?” asked Gamache, walking beside her.
“It’s French for asshole. Coach.”
Gamache laughed, a puff of humor. “Something else you taught them, then.”
Small puffs came from Ruth’s mouth and he presumed it was a chuckle. Or sulphur.
“Thank you for the coq au vin last night,” said the Chief. “It was delicious.”
“It was for you? Christ, I thought that librarian woman said it was for the people in Emilie’s home.”
“That’s me and my friends, as you very well know.”
Ruth picked up Rosa and walked in silence for a few paces.
“Are you any closer to finding out who killed Constance?” she asked.
“A little.”
Beside them the hockey game continued, with boys and girls chasing the puck, some skating forward, some wiggling backward. As though life depended on what happened to that piece of frozen rubber.
It might appear trivial, but Gamache knew that this was where so much was learned. Trust and teamwork. When to pass, when to advance and when to retreat. And to never lose sight of the goal, no matter the chaos and distractions around you.
“Why did you take that book by Dr. Bernard?” he asked.
“What book?”
“How many books by a Dr. Bernard do you have?” he asked. “The one on the Ouellet Quints. You took it from Myrna’s bookstore.”
“It’s a bookstore?” Ruth asked, looking over at the shop. “But it says ‘library.’”
“It says librairie,” said the Chief. “French for ‘you’re lying.’”
Ruth snorted with laughter.
“You know perfectly well librairie in French means bookstore,” he said.
“Fucking confusing language. Why not just be clear?”
Gamache looked at her with amazement. “A very good question, madame.”
He spoke without exasperation. He owed Ruth a great deal, not the least of which was patience.
“Yes, I took the book. As I said earlier, Constance told me who she was, so I wanted to read up on her. Morbid curiosity.”
Gamache knew that Ruth Zardo might be morbid but she wasn’t curious. That would demand an interest in others.
“And you figured you’d learn something from Dr. Bernard’s account?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to learn it from her, was I? It was the best I could do. Boring book. Talked mostly about himself. I hate self-centered people.”