Locust Lane(14)

Celia didn’t seem particularly mollified by the words.

“It just seems odd they would mislead us.”

“Not to me. The only time I told my parents the truth is when I said I hated them.”

Alice had intended the remark to lighten the situation. It didn’t.

“So you’re not bothered by this?” Celia asked.

“Not really.”

“Well, I suppose it’s different with you.”

Alice reared back.

“Different how? Because I’m not her mother?”

“I’m sorry,” Celia said. “That came out wrong.”

“Because, you know, I’m trying here.”

“I know. You’re wonderful with her. Strike that remark. It was a stupid thing to say.”

Alice let it drop, though it was hard to see how that could have been a slip of the tongue. It was clearly something Celia had been thinking. Their salads arrived. They chatted as they speared lettuce, although things had suddenly turned awkward. Now Alice was wondering what else Celia secretly thought about her. The woman had hidden depths, there was no doubt about that. Alice just wasn’t sure she necessarily wanted to navigate them.

And then Michel stepped through the swinging door to survey his kingdom and Alice wasn’t thinking about Celia’s depths anymore. He saw her but, after a momentary pause, made his way to another table, engaging the people there in that serious-but-friendly manner he had. Making you feel like you were the only diner in the place. Celia kept talking, now about some woman or other who’d done some thing or another. Alice picked distractedly at her vegetation. He stopped at another table and then another. Taking his merry old time. Finally, he arrived.

“So how are the salads?”

“Amazing, as always,” Celia said. “You hardly ever see actual fresh beets anymore.”

He looked at Alice’s plate.

“But you aren’t such a big fan.”

Really? Alice thought. Four days I hear nothing from you and now we’re talking about root vegetables?

“Oh, Michel, maybe you can clear something up for us,” Celia said. “Were the kids at your house last night?”

His polite smile disappeared.

“They weren’t with you?”

Celia shook her head.

“But Christopher said…”

Michel stopped himself from finishing the sentence. He seemed genuinely aggrieved by the news. Celia and Alice waited. But he said nothing more. And then the kitchen door opened and his beleaguered assistant was beckoning to him. He disappeared with a polite nod that was calibrated equally between Celia and Alice. They looked at each other in confusion.

“So where on earth were they?” Celia asked.





MICHEL


He did not like abandoning the two women so abruptly. Alice would certainly not be happy about it. Even Celia, always so proper and gracious, had been bewildered by his flight. But he needed to figure out what was happening with his son before he started discussing the situation with others. Better just to leave now and face the music later.

In the kitchen, he was immediately engrossed in work. The day’s specials were Salade de Betterave and Sole Véronique, but there were always plenty of à la carte orders. Usually, cooking was enough to drive away bad thoughts. The world would shrink to the size of the next plate. But not today. There was no escaping it: Christopher had lied to him. He’d said he was at Jack’s house when he was not at Jack’s house. Michel now wondered if this was his only deception. There had been other times recently when he’d been out late, supposedly at the homes of friends. Last Saturday he’d spent the night at Jack’s grandmother’s house. Had that been a lie as well?

He badly wanted to go straight home; he wanted to wake his son and force him to explain where he’d been, what had caused him to return so late and in such a state. But Wednesday was his busiest lunch, and leaving Jerome and Sofia to handle things courted disaster. So it would have to wait. But the moment he was free, he’d confront the boy. How many times had Michel told him? I need to know where you are. That was the first rule. Followed closely by rule number two: he was due home by midnight. Period. No exceptions, unless they’d made other arrangements.

Christopher had finally arrived at four in the morning, just as Michel was contemplating getting in touch with Jack’s parents, a prospect he did not relish. He looked tired and upset and unhappily surprised to find his father awake. His shirt’s collar was flipped up and he kept his jacket on throughout their conversation. Michel’s first reaction was relief, followed closely by confusion. No car had pulled up outside. Did this mean he’d walked the two miles back from Jack’s? Why hadn’t he called? When this first round of questions was met by silence, Michel—hardly believing the words were coming out of his mouth—asked if he’d been drinking or doing drugs. This was denied with a terse shake of the head. And so it went. Question after question was answered by silence or shrugs or muttered meaningless words. Michel could feel his anger rising. His son had never been like this. There might be occasional tears; every once in a while he might be sullen or talk back. But they always spoke.

“Do you even remember the last few hours of your life?” Michel finally asked. “Are you suffering from amnesia? Do you need to have your brain examined?”